Chapter Text
Forty people sit in a classroom. The classroom is in a building at the University of Colorado, Denver, yet none of the people here are students—the profusion of attachés and business attire, if nothing else, gives them away: they are subjects, and this is an experiment.
A young woman with red hair and an insouciant manner enters the room. She is dressed far more casually than most of the classroom’s occupants are, and she looks as if she might be the young student they are not. Instead of taking a seat among them, however, she marches to the front of the room and begins to speak.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m Claudia Donovan, and I’m a research assistant in the Department of Health and Behavioral Studies here. First, a huge thanks to all of you for volunteering to participate in our study. As you know from the ad you answered—but as I’m obligated to inform you again—we’re following up on some earlier research regarding the development of close interpersonal relationships, and we wanted to look at a population that isn’t Intro Psych undergrads. Pause for laughter… okay, you’re not laughing, so never mind.
“The way this will work is that once you’ve signed the release forms and we do one last check to make sure you’re in the demographics we’re looking for, I’ll send you to a cubicle, where you’ll meet the person we’ve paired you with, based on the initial questionnaires you filled out online. We’ll have you affirm that you don’t already know your partner, and then we’ll give you an iPad with a series of questions that you’ll ask and answer together. There are three sets of questions, twelve in each set, thirty-six total, and you can figure out who asks and answers: alternate questions, or sets, or whatever you want. When you’ve answered the last question, swipe to the next page, and you’ll see a timer. Hit start when you’re ready, and then—this’ll sound crazy, but we want you and your partner to look into each other’s eyes until the timer dings. It’s only four minutes, but trust me, it’ll seem like an eternity. Just try to go with it. Once you’re done with that ordeal, come back in here to complete a brief post-interaction questionnaire, and that’s it! Sounds like a perfect way to spend a Thursday evening, right? Think of it as speed dating, but way slower, with only one person and no drinks or even coffee!” She stops speaking and offers a grin and a thumbs-up. Aside from a few weak chuckles, the room is silent. “Yeah, that was another pause for laughter. Tough crowd. Okeydokey. Let’s do those release forms. I’ll even hand out pens—but don’t steal my pens—and then you can get started on your… well, let’s just call ’em blind dates.”
As Claudia Donovan readies her documents and cheap ballpoints, the people in the room glance at each other. Their facial expressions are clearly legible: are you my partner? Are you? What about you—and what will we find ourselves saying to each other if you are?
****
The cubicles are small spaces: three and a half walls, with a desktop across one wall, and two chairs. A number is stapled on the exterior of each cubicle, next to the entry space, and a tall, dark-haired woman wearing a charcoal-gray suit over a somewhat incongruously bright purple shirt approaches the cubicle designated “13.” She carries a long wool coat and a well-traveled brown messenger bag, and upon entering the tiny space, she sets these items carefully in a corner. She takes a seat in a chair, clearly waiting for her partner, the matching “13,” to arrive. Voices begin to issue from the other cubicles, so some pairs are beginning their introductions, even their questions, already. The woman taps a boot-clad foot—her boots are stylish leather, rather than thick and snow proof, for it is early April, and the sidewalks are mostly clear. She drums her fingers very lightly on the desktop.
Her counterpart, also a dark-haired woman, similarly dark-suited and bright-shirted—blue in her case—but empty-handed, arrives nearly out of breath. “So sorry,” she says, a British accent shaping her enunciation. “I lingered over the paperwork.”
“That’s okay,” says the first woman. She stands and extends her right hand. “I’m Myka Bering.”
“Helena Wells,” her partner says.
They shake hands. They look down at the iPad on the desktop. “Three sets of questions,” Myka Bering says. “Want to flip a coin to see who goes first in the first set, then the other person can go first in the second set? Probably easier to keep track of things that way.”
“Then free-for-all in the third?” Helena Wells suggests, and Myka Bering responds, “Why not.”
As a result of the coin-flip, Myka Bering is to answer first.
****
SET I
Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?
MB: Octavia Butler. Or maybe Eleanor Roosevelt.
HW: Oscar Wilde. Or, since you picked a second, Katharine Hepburn. Then again, speaking of Eleanors, perhaps the actual Eleanor of Aquitaine.
Would you like to be famous? In what way?
MB: God no. Well, maybe as an author or, say, a philanthropist. But not one with a face.
HW: Only if it is the result of a real accomplishment. And in that case, in whatever way that results from what one has accomplished.
Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?
MB: All the time. Because otherwise I might get sidetracked.
HW: Rarely. Because I might mire myself in a boring script.
What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?
MB: Reading whatever I want, with no goal or agenda or pressure. And then maybe cooking dinner, something different. New. With weird ingredients, maybe.
HW: For yourself, or for… someone?
MB: Aren’t you supposed to answer? Instead of asking more questions?
HW: Fine. Perfect day. Fulfilling some plan that I’d had for some time. Finally bringing something to fruition.
MB: Does it matter what?
HW: I suppose it could matter. But for now let’s say it doesn’t. And I believe you are now guilty of asking additional questions.
MB: Okay, okay.
When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?
MB: In the shower this morning. Did I really just admit to that? I don’t think I’ve ever sung to someone else. Except if you count church, when I was little.
HW: I hum to myself on occasion. Rather, I catch myself humming on occasion. I don’t sing.
MB: Ever?
HW: Ever. I can’t sing, and I don’t enjoy doing things at which I’m incompetent.
If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?
MB: Body. I wouldn’t want to go back to my thirty-year-old mind.
HW: Hm… well, given your answer, I’ll have to take “body” as well.
MB: Why?
HW: Suppose we do develop a… what was it, what was it… close interpersonal relationship. What good would it do us, then, if your body remained thirty and mine aged?
MB: It’s a hypothetical!
HW: Yes. Hypothetically, if this experiment has the predicted result, then if your body remained thirty and mine aged, it would do us no good at all.
MB: How close do you think this interpersonal relationship we’re hypothetically developing is going to be, anyway?
HW: I couldn’t begin to guess. I’m just imagining a best-case scenario. Unless of course the idea is troubling to you?
MB: What? No, it’s not troubling to me; I just didn’t necessarily… I mean… let’s do the next question, okay?
Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?
MB: No.
HW: Yes.
MB: What is it?
HW: That wasn’t the question.
Name three things you and your partner seem to have in common.
MB: We’re both white.
HW: How boring.
MB: We’ve both got dark hair.
HW: Still boring.
MB: We both want to have dinner with dead people.
HW: Far more interesting. My turn: we’re both intelligent.
MB: That’s also a little boring. Good, but boring.
HW: Hm. We both went to church as children.
MB: Nice attention to detail.
HW: Thank you. And finally, we’re both screamers.
MB: Wait, what? How could you possibly know that about me? You don’t know that! Don’t say that!
HW: The question was, “seem to have in common.” I’m inferring.
MB: Based on what?
HW: At the moment, how upset you seem to have become at my having said it out loud.
MB: Are you doing this on purpose?
HW: Doing what?
MB: Never mind.
For what in your life do you feel most grateful?
MB: My health.
HW: My daughter.
MB: You have a daughter?
HW: Yes.
MB: How old is she?
HW: Nine.
MB: Wow.
HW: Yes, that’s generally my feeling in the matter.
MB: Seriously.
HW: Indeed, seriously.
If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?
MB: I… I guess I’d want my father to have acted a little less disappointed that I’m a girl.
HW: Disappointed? That is appalling.
MB: Well. I can’t change it, can I?
HW: No. That makes it no less appalling, but no.
MB: What about you?
HW: I suppose I’d change… honestly I don’t know. I think my parents did as well as they could with me. I was terribly difficult. I seemed to have felt a desperate need to run around, to keep moving and never stop. Through it all, my parents were very understanding. I might have wished them to be less so; I could have stood a sterner hand. I lived so… wildly.
MB: It’s good, though, that you feel like they understood you. That’s what I think I wanted from my father.
HW: More fool he.
MB: How does your daughter’s father feel about it? I mean, about her being a girl?
HW: I’ve no idea. He isn’t involved. Had he been, however, that would have come to an abrupt end with any expression of disappointment.
MB: I like that. It’s hardline, but good.
Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.
MB: Why do I have to go first? This is too hard.
HW: I’m going first in the next round, remember?
MB: Fine. Fine. I was born in Colorado Springs; I grew up there. My dad owned—owns—a bookstore, and I worked there all through school. My sister hates books because of the store, but I love them, so I majored in literature, that and political science, at CU-Boulder, and then because I talked to a really persuasive recruiter at a job fair, I ended up in the Secret Service. And then I left, because I made a mistake, and then I wanted to… um. Atone for that. So I stayed in law enforcement. I was a uniform for a while, then a detective, and now I’m in Investigations, in campus security, here. Started six months ago… no, seven now. That’s it.
HW: That isn’t detailed at all. You have at least half your time left, and you’ve omitted your entire romantic history.
MB: I don’t have much of one.
HW: But surely something.
MB: I was involved with a guy.
HW: Really.
MB: It was a mistake, for a lot of reasons. And then I was involved with a woman.
HW: Better. From a certain perspective.
MB: Well. I didn’t do any better with her. That was a mistake too. Oh, speaking of mistakes, I got shot twice.
HW: Now that your time is up, we get to the salient details. Shot twice. We’ll revisit this.
MB: Or not. Your turn.
HW: I was born in London, and I grew up there. My mother was an economist, my father a neuroscientist. You can imagine the arguments… the nature of rationality, the role of brain chemistry, from whence do our decisions arise, et cetera. I was intended to follow in someone’s—either’s—footsteps, but I unfortunately reached a certain academic point and then rebelled; I continued the aforementioned running around, for years. In spite of it, I did quite well in business for a while—behavioral consulting—but finally realized, after the birth of the also-aforementioned daughter, that a fresh start might do me good. Thus I finally chose to follow in the academic footsteps, and now I am on the faculty here. I started seven months ago as well.
MB: You’ve got at least half your time left too. What about your romantic past?
HW: I told you: I lived wildly.
MB: That doesn’t sound very romantic.
HW: Then perhaps I have no romantic past.
MB: That is quite frankly unbelievable.
HW: These days, I find that a child tends to make most people turn their attentions elsewhere.
MB: Maybe you need to do more of this slow speed dating type of thing.
HW: Perhaps I do.
If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?
MB: Ooh, I like this one. It’s something I’ve actually thought about. I want way better manual dexterity.
HW: What? Why?
MB: I have an eidetic memory. I could take in so much more material if I could turn pages faster, or click a mouse faster, or swipe a tablet or a phone faster.
HW: That is… unexpected.
MB: Yeah, I know, it’s weird. But it’s just that there’s so much out there, and I could have so much more of it! Wait, you’re looking at me funny. What is it?
HW: Nothing. Just thinking about manual dexterity.
MB: Oh, please. Just… just answer the question.
HW: Well, those who know me would say humility would be a good start.
MB: I don’t doubt that for a minute. But I bet that isn’t anything you want. What do you want?
HW: Well… I might actually like to be able to sing. As referenced earlier.
MB: That’s also unexpected. And really kind of sweet.
HW: It isn’t. It’s vain.
MB: Mine’s pretty vain too. I mean I basically said I want to be the ultimate know-it-all. Come to think of it, I should’ve just skipped the dexterity step.
HW: Oh, no. Please don’t skip that; I’m still thinking about that.
MB: Are you like this all the time?
HW: Like what?
MB: Never mind. What’s the next question? Oh thank god, we’re on the second set. Your turn to go first.
SET II
If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?
HW: Yes, my turn to go first. What a question to start with… well, obviously, I’d want to know for certain whether you’re a screamer—
MB: So you are like this all the time.
HW: Not all the time. Honestly, I might like to know my daughter’s future more than mine. What will happen to her once I’m gone, once I’ll no longer know.
MB: Thank you. And that makes complete sense. I guess I’d like to know when I’m going to die, so I could do things.
HW: What things?
MB: See the pyramids. The Great Wall.
HW: Bucket-list activities… skydiving?
MB: I don’t think I want to do that. I’ve never waterskied, though, and I’ve always wondered if it’s like real skiing. Maybe that.
Is there something you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?
HW: So all right, why haven’t you seen the pyramids or the Great Wall? Or waterskied?
MB: You’re supposed to answer first in this set!
HW: Fine. I’ve dreamed of hearing a beautiful woman—who is a screamer, though she doesn’t like it said out loud—explain to me why she’s never waterskied.
MB: That’s just—
HW: Tell me! I’ll answer after you tell me.
MB: I basically did tell you. I’m in law enforcement. And I’ve made mistakes. The woman who was a mistake, we were actually going to go to Egypt, but then I couldn’t because of something that was happening in an investigation, and that’s when it all went wrong. Is that enough for you?
HW: Fine. I’ve dreamed of… this will sound silly.
MB: Sillier than “Sorry, the pyramids will have to wait, because my lieutenant says too many cars are being jacked in Belcaro”?
HW: All right. I’ve dreamed of taking my daughter to Disneyland.
MB: That doesn’t sound silly. That sounds pretty normal.
HW: So inanely normal. Awful, isn’t it?
MB: No. Sweet. Like your wanting to be able to sing. So why haven’t you done it?
HW: The same answer as yours: time and circumstance. I thought we might go a few years ago, but plans change.
What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?
HW: The aforementioned daughter. You?
MB: I don’t know.
HW: You must have a greatest accomplishment.
MB: I get out of bed every day? No, that’s stupid, that’s not it. I’ve run towards the gunshots? That’s better, but it was still my job. All I’ve ever really done is my job.
HW: That seems quite great.
MB: Do you mean that?
HW: Of course I do.
MB: Thanks.
What do you value most in a friendship?
HW: I have very few friends.
MB: That wasn’t the question.
HW: Yes, I know. I suppose I value honesty. Sounds trite.
MB: No. Not at all. I value… somebody having my back.
HW: That makes perfect sense, given your profession.
MB: Yeah. My deputy in my section, Pete, I guess he’s my best friend. We were on the force together too, and I don’t ever doubt he’s there.
What is your most treasured memory?
HW: Oh, this is easy. I’ll continue to sound like every mother, focused on her child, but: Christina’s first word.
MB: What was it?
HW: Music.
MB: It was like music, or her first word was actually “music”?
HW: Actually “music.” A reasonable facsimile, at any rate. She wanted the volume turned up, I eventually determined.
MB: Clearly she’s a prodigy. My first word was something boring like “mama.”
HW: She didn’t say that for ages. I thought she hated me.
MB: For taking your sweet time turning up the music?
HW: She’s always been demanding.
MB: Seems to take after somebody.
HW: Well. Treasured memory. Your turn.
MB: I won a spelling bee.
HW: A national spelling bee?
MB: No, just a school one. But I hadn’t even known it was happening; I hadn’t prepped. I just went in cold and won. I know it sounds pointless, but I was on top of the world.
HW: You treasure the memory. That isn’t pointless.
MB: It isn’t my child’s first word.
HW: No, but it does involve words. So we have that in common as well.
What is your most terrible memory?
HW: Just as easy as the previous question. Awful yet easy. My mother’s death. Very sudden. Aneurism.
MB: I’m sorry.
HW: Three years ago. I won’t ever be over it. Hm. And yours?
MB: My sister was in a car accident. She’s fine now, but I was the one they called when it happened, because my parents were away. Seeing her in the hospital, all banged up and bruised, that was bad, but then I had to go deal with her car. And you don’t think about steel being… fragile. But I looked at that and thought “she must be dead.” That doesn’t make any sense, because I’d just seen her and I knew she was going to recover, but it’s what I thought, that the hospital had been a dream, and she must be dead.
HW: Now I’m sorry.
MB: No, she’s fine. Your mom… I really am sorry.
HW: She knew Christina for some years. That was important.
If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?
HW: Ha! You would take a vacation and visit the pyramids. You might quit your job in fact.
MB: I didn’t realize we were supposed to answer for each other. I bet you’d quit your job too, and spend all your time with Christina.
HW: I might. I might take you waterskiing.
MB: You should take me and Christina to Disneyland. I’ve never been either.
HW: That is something to think about.
MB: I think we need the next question.
What does friendship mean to you?
HW: Didn’t we have a friendship question already?
MB: Probably. Doesn’t matter. You keep trying to dodge, now that you’re going first.
HW: All right, fine. Friendship means… I don’t know. I suppose it means not disappearing, really.
MB: Do people disappear on you?
HW: No. I disappear on them. Well. I did.
MB: Do you do that now?
HW: I told you, I have very few friends. But I’m trying to do better. You?
MB: It means… I don’t know either. Not disappearing, that’s pretty good. But I think it also means something like, not being afraid to witness a collapse. Or to suffer a collapse. That’s maybe the same thing as not disappearing.
HW: It may be. That’s certainly when I would have disappeared. In the past.
MB: And now?
HW: I’m trying to do better.
MB: Are you going to disappear on me?
HW: What?
MB: This close interpersonal relationship we’re developing.
HW: I see. Well, as I said, I’m trying to do better. Not to mention…
MB: Not to mention what?
HW: Well. Give me a few more questions. Or a drink or two.
MB: Okay.
What roles do love and affection play in your life?
HW: Funny, to follow that with this. I suppose love and affection center mainly, and obviously, around my daughter. I do have research assistants of whom I’ve become quite fond, in a very short time. Also I love my father and my brother, but long-distance.
MB: I guess I would say… not really day-to-day roles. I love my family, but it’s like your father and your brother, more long-distance. And affection… there are people I like. I don’t really feel a lot of affection. Maybe for Pete. The one who’s, you know, got my back. I guess that’s affection.
HW: So not major roles.
MB: No. Is that pathetic?
HW: No. Not if it’s honest.
Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.
HW: Five items. All right, my first item: you do seem terribly honest. Even when you believe it might be to your detriment.
MB: My first item: You seem to really really love your daughter.
HW: You’re devastatingly beautiful.
MB: You’re ridiculous.
HW: I don’t think you consider that one of my positive characteristics.
MB: You don’t know. Maybe I do.
HW: You respond very poorly to flirting.
MB: Also not positive.
HW: Now you don’t know. Perhaps it’s what I like in a woman.
MB: You mean obliviousness?
HW: No, you’re not oblivious at all. To put it positively: you seem very much aware of just about everything. You know you’re being flirted with; you just don’t know how to respond. Or you put up a façade of not knowing how to respond. Perhaps that’s how you flirt. If so, it’s charming. And quite a positive characteristic.
MB: It’s not a façade. I really don’t know how to flirt back.
HW: You see? Honest, even if to your detriment.
MB: I’ll say that you seem oddly patient.
HW: I can be. Under the right circumstances. Not to seem impatient now, but you owe me two more. If I’m counting correctly.
MB: It’s three if you don’t count my saying you’re ridiculous.
HW: I’ll accept that as a positive characteristic. Two more.
MB: You seem pretty honest too. You didn’t know how I’d respond to the idea of your wild past.
HW: I still don’t know, not really.
MB: People do what they do. I’ve seen a lot of people do a lot of things.
HW: And what is your philosophy regarding what people should do?
MB: If they don’t break the law, it’s pretty much their business.
HW: And if they do break the law?
MB: They shouldn’t do it where I can see them. Or find out about it.
HW: That’s a bright line.
MB: I like bright lines. And I owe you one more… so: you didn’t go back to the screamer thing. Which I hope means you know how to eventually let things go, because I’d definitely consider that a positive characteristic.
HW: I thought you might.
How close and warm is your family? Do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people’s?
HW: I suppose it was as happy as anyone’s. We were reasonably close, reasonably warm. I believe. Not overly so.
MB: I guess my childhood was probably—a little less happy than other people’s. I’m not complaining; I know some people have it really bad, and I didn’t. But I wish I’d been less of a disappointment. My family might have been warmer then. Or I’d want to be closer. I don’t know. Can we go to the next question?
HW: Of course.
How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?
HW: I feel bereft of it. I feel that she cannot be gone, and yet she is, but how can that be so.
MB: I’m ashamed to give my answer after that.
HW: What is your answer?
MB: I feel fine about my relationship with my mother. That’s how I feel: fine. And there you are, bereft.
HW: It certainly isn’t your fault.
MB: Still. That you feel that way… and I get to sit here feeling fine.
HW: If it’s any consolation, we did disagree about many, many things. She would tell me what I was doing wrong with Christina, and that made smoke emerge from my ears.
MB: She must have loved you so much.
HW: I believe she did. All of us—Christina of course, but also my brother and me, and most of all my father. Most of all my father, and he her. They would have had much more to say than you or I about the role of love and affection in their lives.
MB: Is it bad that I’m envying your parents now?
HW: No, I envy, or envied, them as well. So difficult to have as an ideal. Nearly impossible to live up to. They weren’t perfect, but they did so clearly love each other.
MB: But at least you know what you’re looking for, right?
HW: Perhaps, but will I recognize it when I see it?
MB: I hope so.
HW: I hope so too.
MB: Next question?
HW: Next question. Oh, it’s the third set. Should we alternate answering these? Will we be able to keep track?
MB: I guess we’ll see.
TBC