Written by Terese Robison
Content Warning: Mention of childhood molestation
There’s this bizarro technique my doctor’s urging. It’s got a bunch of scientific terms that
just sound to me like whatever whatever and no fucking way this is going to help me. It’s called
(with letters and a number) a hedonic transplant. It gets my bad feelings replaced with high
baseline happiness from another person. It’s like the good witch of the north or a good genie will
flow through a vein while bad memories will be drawn out through a different vein. Some
research guy or woman will study my case history and the sample of my blood. The researcher
will look for bio-this and that, but big deal, what’s the mystery? Nine years old, and Fucking
Grandpa thinks I’m “shaping up as a woman” and wants to prove it and Grandma doesn’t stop
him, she doesn’t believe me? He does it more till I show my teachers where he hurt me. Now I’m
seventeen and still in a mosh pit fighting memories like razors.
I’ve been Googling this treatment the doctor’s bugging me about. The woman who came
up with the idea was studying her cat, all relaxed, “blinking with contentment” on the sofa next
to her. Protected. Secure, paws tucked under, and the woman finds a syringe and takes blood
from her cat. Then she and her research buddies experiment with the cat’s blood. They inject it
into an abandoned kitty that’s acted all feral and crazy. You can guess what happens; everyone
can pet the kitten now, which rubs against them even when they give it shocks. Different
protocols don’t work at all on similar cats (nor on me). So they keep transfusing the happy
cocktail which helps some mistreated animals. But humans haven’t been tested that much.
I could expect, during the procedure, to see images the transplanter loves (I call her that
rather than a donor, it makes me think of a garden). I might see her favorite trees and flowers.
Faces. Surfing waves, a blue glacier? Some images of my own may start, of places I could go
to—mountains with mists dancing over them, sparkling lakes, a beach miles long. I might
remember animals of the past, my sea horse and Husky and the Black Stallion. I could picture
those that like to play, an octopus or raven. Or some that protect and heal each other, like
elephants. I wouldn’t see trapped animals that bite off body parts to escape.
I wonder if after the transplant, I could have a social life, and parties; I won’t feel icky
around boys?
Next Tuesday I go to the hospital for their experiment. I’m scared it won’t work. Several
physicians will be there, and my brother too. Maybe he’d get the treatment if it erases a memory
and its feelings. “Good luck, Ariane,” the nurse swabbing my vein might tell me. No, not the
nurse. It’ll be me. My doctor will smile, from a high baseline, probably, then he’ll say, “Ready?”
First Published in Litro Magazine
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Terese Robison has lived in Mexico and several states in the U.S. She’s been a book editor, interpreter, and mentor for youth on probation and now tutors academic writing at community colleges. Her work has appeared in Hiram Poetry Review, West Texas Literary Review, Tahoma Literary Review, BULL, Pithead Chapel, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Litro, Permafrost and other journals, as well as in several anthologies compiled from awards.