Lakewood - Megan Giddings Page 0,6

truly going to drink it.

It was better to be early, Lena decided, as she walked inside the office.

Inside, a white woman with a haircut that looked as if she had shown her stylist an image of a motorcycle helmet and said, “That’s the look,” was waiting.

“Your IDs.”

Lena fished her wallet out of her coat pocket. The woman was wearing a navy pantsuit with an American flag pinned on the lapel. There was a badge clipped to her waistband. Walking over to her, Lena bumped into a small table and knocked over a stack of magazines. When she bent to pick them up, the woman told her to just leave it. Her tone was as if Lena had spent hours knocking over the magazines and picking them up and straightening them, just to knock them over again, and she couldn’t take it anymore. Lena handed over the IDs.

“Looks good. Now we have some forms for you to fill out.” She led Lena into what might have been the grayest room in the world. Everything in it—chairs, desks, pens, flooring, wall tile, the fire extinguisher—elephant gray.

The strangeness of the room and the woman’s brusque attitude made Lena want to joke, to find a way of rescuing herself from her discomfort. Instead, she reminded herself that now was the time to be pleasant, blank. Don’t be weird. Don’t embarrass yourself. The woman gestured at Lena to have a seat, handing her a clipboard and a pen.

Page one asked for the basics: address, full legal name, place of birth, how she had found out about the study, email address, emergency contacts, have you ever been a participant in any other clinical studies? No, Lena wrote. Page two reminded her that to participate in the Lakewood Project was to consent to a necessary diminishment of her privacy. If you consent to this, provide all your passwords for social media, email addresses, phone passcode. Also provide any potential answers you can think of for standard security questions, such as the make of your first car, the name of your childhood pet, your mother’s maiden name.

Lena coughed. “May I have a glass of water?”

Page four was where the health questions began. Do you have any allergies? When was the last time you had vaginal intercourse? Anal? When was the last time, exact date if possible, that you vomited? Do you have a family health history of strokes, cancer, diabetes? Next to the paternal family heading, Lena wrote, Information not available. Her hands shook as she did it, assuming that when they saw that, it would make her ineligible. What’s the longest you’ve been consistently intoxicated for?

She cleared her throat again. “May I have a glass of water?”

“Please fill out the forms.”

Lena stared at the white paper, let the words go out of focus. The woman’s attitude, the questions, made a small voice in her own head say you are already feeling weird, get out of here. Her grandma had cleaned houses, pulled the hair and gunk out of tubs and sinks, catered on the weekends, babysat, took odd jobs. Worked for people who she said were proof God had a sense of humor. Your grandmother gave you everything. You’re the one in charge now.

She flipped the page. At the top, it said WELCOME in bold, underlined type. “Our most precious resources in this country are patriots like you, those who are willing to give of themselves to help this great nation. Your contribution will help end suffering and unhappiness.”

“So.” Lena put down her pen. “This is a government program?”

“Keep reading.”

“But in my letter it said this was for a survey company.”

The woman lifted her eyebrows in annoyance. “Read all of it, especially page nine.”

After rigorous evaluations of her mental, physical, and emotional health, the form explained, she might be invited to join the study. Once she signed, all interactions were private.

Lena flipped to page nine. It was an NDA. No questions about the studies and their true nature could be signed until she signed this page. There were $50,000 in penalties if she violated this agreement.

Deziree had texted her earlier this morning to say that the electricity had been shut off and she was going over to Miss Shaunté’s. They had paid the electricity with the only credit card that wasn’t maxed out. Potential jail time. She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. It tasted of bad coffee and mint toothpaste.

On their last day together, in retrospect, it seemed as if her grandmother had known somehow