A few days later, Deb says goodbye to her family and returns to the lab thinking of Charlotte and all the ways the adults in her life have tried to control her behavior, Deb notwithstanding. The girl is fearless and an absolute menace. She has broken numerous bones and received more stitches than any of the other children combined. When she was one, she’d grabbed her mother’s freshly-poured cup of tea and scalded her tiny hand so badly that a patch of skin beneath her thumb is still pink and shiny today. When she was three, an unanchored bookshelf fell on top of her after she tried climbing it for a book on the top shelf. Her doctor declared her concussed, and they had the hardest time getting her to sit still and rest for a few days, let alone a few hours. For the most part, she was only destructive to herself, though she was occasionally cruel to her siblings, out of boredom or as a twisted kind of experimentation, Deb couldn’t tell. The TAT cards, for example. Charlotte had hand-selected the scariest ones for Sunny because he was the most sensitive of the group of children. She knew it would frighten him.
Her parents bribe Charlotte with candy and books and toy trinkets for positive behavior. When she misbehaves, she is made to sit in timeout or eat soap or pick out a switch from the backyard to be used across the backs of her legs. No matter the stimuli, positive or negative, or the consequences of her behavior to self or to others, Charlotte knows what it means to be acutely and irrevocably herself.
In her research notebook, Deb writes COGNITION and circles it in big letters. She speaks with Peter about behavioral cognition, a cousin to both the personality research Deb had wanted to do before their move to Harvard and the behaviorism in rats that Peter is currently researching. She draws up sample experiments, including a more in-depth look at how the TAT cards can be used to build stories based on innate personality and external experiences.
Peter reacts without much enthusiasm. He promises to take a closer look when the rat experiments conclude. “We’re close to a breakthrough,” he tells Deb. “This is what it is to be a real scientist. To carry on even when the results are not working as you expected.”
She prickles when he says “real scientist.” As if she’s been playing at this whole thing for years of her life now. The definition of insanity, she wants to tell him, is to do something over and over and over again expecting a different result.
Instead, she continues running experiments, injecting rats with hallucinogenic chemicals and filling their food bowls with odorless, brown pellets. She takes notes dictated by Peter while he rambles about the latest troubling research numbers. She sorts the numbers, or attempts to, into research papers that Peter submits to his department with his name bolded at the top.
One day, Peter bursts into the laboratory. Deb is making her daily observation of the rats. One in particular, the biggest female white rat—if Deb were willing to admit it, her favorite—is concerning her. After cessation of treatment, the rat continues to show signs of irritation and hyperreactivity followed by long stints of isolation and motionlessness. She has stopped eating, both her food and the treats that Deb is attempting to bribe her with when Peter appears suddenly beside her.
“We’ve done it, Deb,” he says. He holds up a letter that looks as if it has been gnawed open, fingers hungry in anticipation.
“Done what, Peter?” she asks, probing the white rat with a halved grape.
“We got the grant.”
Deb drops the probe in astonishment. She turns to Peter, mouth hanging open, a smile already tugging at the corners. Money makes almost anything worth it. “We got the grant?”
“We got the grant!” He holds the paper out for Deb to read. At the top is an insignia of a bald eagle head erupting out of a silver shield. Central Intelligence Agency is written across the top.
“What is this?”
“The grant! Look at that number. That’s a lot of zeroes,” Peter says excitedly.
“I see that,” Deb says. It really is a lot of zeroes, a few more than she expected. So much money—her mind whirs, conjuring up the number of research assistants they could hire on. “But the CIA, Peter?”
“The CIA! Can you believe it? Our work is important enough that the damn Central Intelligence Agency wants to pay us!”
“I don’t understand.” This hadn’t been one of the grants they’d discussed applying for. She picks up the probe and spears a hunk of cheddar cheese, the favorite of the rats. She shoves it toward the female rat who shrieks and bats the cheese off the probe, then attacks the metal with her teeth. “Why would they be interested in our work?”
Peter leans in conspiratorially but has to shout to be heard over the frantic rat. “Rumor has it that our research is being used for some sort of Cold War initiative. Something to do with interrogation. I don’t know, Henry was vague. And this is apparently highly classified information. Even I’m not supposed to know, so you’re definitely not. Don’t say anything.”
Deb asks to see the letter and scans it. She sees phrases like “incredibly promising results” and “particularly interested in reactions under stress.” Then, there’s the funding timeline at the bottom.
“They’re funding us for two years?”
“Isn’t that amazing?” Peter is gleeful. He snatches the paper from Deb—his eyes dart from line to line, swallowing the information again and again, the kind of sustenance he’s craved for years.
“That’s a long time, Peter. What about our other work?”
“What other work?”
“The cognition work! You said months ago that you would consider it.”
“Why would we do anything else if this guarantees us work for the next twenty-four months? Do you know how rare that is?”
“Of course I do,” Deb snaps. “I know how hard it is to secure funding.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I—it’s…it’s the rats. And the mazes. It’s just—it’s not what I had in mind for my career. I’m not sure I would have ever said yes to these experiments if I knew it would lead here.”
Peter’s hand balls into a fist, crumpling the letter. “Our work is important. And you wouldn’t have a career if it wasn’t for this work,” he says coldly. “Honestly, Deb, don’t be such a fucking snob.”
Before Peter leaves, he tells Deb that the grant requires security clearances which will involve extensive background checks and rounds of interviews. Once she is cleared, she won’t be able to leave campus for the remainder of the grant. While he speaks, the female rat stills. She stares blankly at the probe, cheese forgotten beside her, breath coming in quick, sharp gasps.
Deb’s first interview will be in a few days. Don’t be late.
Interested in receiving the next chapter of the serial novel, Theories of Haunting? Be sure to subscribe and get a new chapter straight to your inbox every Thursday at noon.
Now I want to know how you research for your stories, Macey?