Persephone

                …

                She skimmed, took a half-second look at the fine print, and signed.

                “In order for you to participate in this clinical trial, we’re going to have to ask you a series of questions, as you probably on the handout. Some of the questions will be personal in nature. But we take your privacy seriously and all of your answers will remain confidential.”

                “Okay,” she said.

                “We will also be video-recording your sessions with the proctor, who will be me today. Before we get started, can I collect your waiver? You signed, right?”

                “Yes.”

                “Great. That’s all we need. You want any water before the study starts? The coffee room-slash-kitchen is down the hall. I’ll lead you.”

                “Yeah, that sounds good.”

                She noticed a scuff on his otherwise shiny leather Oxfords. Persephone wanted to rub it.

                They sat down.

                “Your name? Last name, first, please.”

                Peter’s voice had turned scruffy, like there was something stuck in his throat.

                “Wan, Persephone.”

                “Origin?”

                “Pardon me?”

                “Err… I mean… where were you born?”

                “Well, I grew up in New Jersey but I was actually born in Guangzhou, China. I…”

                “That’s good enough.”

                “Okay…”

                “What do you remember of your mother?”

                “Oh, hmm. That’s a strange way to phrase the question. My mother’s actually dead, so you’re right that all I have are memories of her.”

                Peter gave her a look of silence.

                “Well, here goes. All I remember is that she was a stern kind of person. I think I saw her smile only a handful of times. Her idea of a good time was watching Maury and Family Feud—that’s the kind of person she was. She was the kind of person who yells at the wheel during Wheel of Fortune and even louder at people who weren’t so good at turning the wheel in Price of Right. She liked sitting on the couch.”

                “Mmm,” came Peter’s response.

                “I mean, of course, she was raised in China. Who knows what kind of life she had there. But really, I never found out as we’d never get to ask her questions. Dad really filled in the details, and it didn’t even seem that he knew too much about her at all.”

                Peter was furiously scribbling.

                “You know in all of those family sitcoms or whatever the kids come home after school on the bus, fling open the door, and mom’s there eagerly waiting to ask that dreaded question, ‘How was your day,’ or ‘How was school?’”

                “Yes? I am aware.”

                Her eyes began to wander. Under the dim lighting of the room she could see Peter’s undershirt through his dress shirt.

                “She never—and this I’m pretty sure of—she never, ever asked my brother and I that question. It was really uncanny, and I didn’t realize this in elementary school until I started watching TV. We—my brother and I—would walk in and there she’d be, watching Jerry Springer almost silently. She’d be this mound on the couch that would never leave.”

                “All right, that’s enough.”

                “Oh, I’m really sorry. You asked a simple question and I went off on a tangent. What was the question again?”

                “What you remember of your mom.”

                “Oh, right. Yeah, sorry. It was an interesting question, not what you generally hear from a psychoanalytic therapist. Generally you’re asked about your father, if you happen to be a female. This is what it is, right? A clinical trial comparing CBT to psychoanalytic therapy?”

                “…”

                Peter stopped scribbling. She could feel a kind of concentrated stare emanating from his side of the table.

                “I’m right.” She gave a small smirk.

                “I’m sorry, but I think that you are mistaken. Yes, this is a psychological study, but I do not believe it is what you described. Unfortunately, due to experimental protocol, we are not able to disclose the purpose of the study. That’d go against the parameters I’ve been given.”

                “Parameters?”

                She’d said it aloud. ‘The fuck is this,’ Persephone thought. ‘I thought this was some control group. Oh well. 15 an hour ain’t so bad.’

                “But you are clever, no? I see you are well-acquainted with psychological research.”

                “When are we going to get to the hard-hitting stuff?”

                She sounded challenging.

                “Soon. As I said, you seem adjusted to this kind of clinical study. When we checked your file we did see you’ve been a test subject here before.”

                “Yup. Helps pay my rent.”

                “How nice.”

                I’ll take your dose of sarcasm with a bit of sincerity, fucker.

                “But no, we are not doing a kind of armchair psychology with me probing your unconscious for latent… how do you say… Electra complex? My advisor would not have me deal in old and untested hypotheses. We are concerned with what you could describe as having striking correlations. With an R-squared of greater than 90%. Statistically significant up to a p=.001 confidence interval. Cause and affect, to sum up. Emotional response. We show you a series of blinking words, so on and so forth.”

                “Interesting enough.”

                Persephone settled in her seat.

                “Unfortunately, we are out of time. And ah, you need to be compensated for your efforts. Come here. I owe you 15. Please come back next week. Teresa will schedule a longer appointment of two to three hours for your first experience. We’ll keep in touch.”