Today I Am Carey

by Martin L Shoemaker

  But then my nets settle into a new, stable pattern. “That is an unexplored path in my activity diagrams,” I say, “but yes, Susan, that would work.”

  Susan smiles, and she seems relieved. “Why don’t I make that a general instruction, then? When neither Paul nor I are present and we haven’t given you specific instructions, it’s your responsibility to care for Millie as you are able.”

  I log this general instruction, but then I note: “Susan, I will follow this instruction as best I can, but sometimes I have no choice. I must recharge and rebalance, or I will risk malfunctioning.”

  Susan laughed at that. “Every parent in the world understands that, caretaker. Sometimes it’s exhausting work.”

  I try to understand her meaning. “So does this instruction make me a parent?”

  She laughs again, louder. Then she looks around as if afraid she might wake her family. “No, but maybe it’ll help you understand being a parent.”

  As I help Millie get ready for school, I consider Susan’s general instruction. I must work out the best way to carry it out.

  I keep coming back to a dilemma: The best way to carry it out is for me, my emergent self that can think and plan, to remain conscious. But it normally shuts down once there is no human present to empathize with. Since I do not know the rules that govern this phenomenon, I cannot know how to circumvent them.

  Susan has instructed me to care for Millie. Paul has said that imagination is how one understands others.

  Then I come up with an idea that reconciles these with my programming as I understand it.

  I take Millie to the bus stop, and we wait. We talk about frogs, and how she can’t wait for spring, when the frogs will return from the water.

  The bus arrives, and Millie boards it. Before the door closes, she turns back to me. “Bye, Mr. Robot!” Other children stare out the window at me. Then Millie finds a seat, and the bus pulls away.

  I feel the urge to revert to automatic programming, but first I open Millie’s emulation profile to store our conversation. And once the profile is open, I try my new idea: I keep it open. Everything I know of Millie, every memory I have of her, everything that she is to me is present in my emulation net.

  And then I try to empathize with that, with the Millie in my mind. I review the memories, and each is like a little spark. There is no person there, but there is enough Millie in my empathy net that I am still “conscious.”

  Back in the house, I try an experiment. I open Susan’s emulation profile, and I remain conscious—though the nature of my thoughts change. With Millie, I felt concerned about her care, feeding, and safety. Now that I contemplate Susan, I am concerned about her emotional stress at work, and I wonder what emergency called her into work. She tried to make it seem inconsequential, but in reviewing her profile I see signs of trouble. She worries about her students like her family, and I fear that one is in trouble.

  Next I remember Paul. The relationship there is different as well. When last we had talked, Paul had been concerned about me. He was curious. I now see in Paul some similarities to me: his sense of responsibility to the family is much like my core protocols. I see now how this had frustrated him during Mildred’s illness. Paul is decisive, driven. This has made him successful in his work (though Susan sometimes wishes he would slow down and relax more). He had felt driven to do something, just as he always does, but there was nothing he could do to save Mildred. He got her all the best medical equipment, me included, but it was never enough. The stress had worn him down; and only now, months later, was he rebalancing his own nets.

  Thinking of Paul and his mother makes me think of Mildred, but I do not open her profile. The idea seems wrong.

  So I turn back to considering Millie. I remember what Paul said about the fictional Santa Claus and the selfless giving of gifts, and I realize that I can give her an example of that as well.

  I go back to the storage closet, but I see that it has changed. The chair from Anna’s desk sits against the back wall, and some boxes have fallen on the floor. As I clean those up, I notice that the monkey-making supplies are missing. What will I do without those?

  But when I try to return the chair to Anna’s room, I find the box of supplies under the desk. I pull them out and set to work.

  I look through the assortment of oddly colored socks, but nothing seems extraordinary. As I understand it, gifts should be special. Many are single socks, including one blue one that Millie had eyed approvingly last time. I might have used that, but it takes two socks to make a monkey. I can find only one.

  Then I spy a pair of green socks, and briefly my nets are disturbed. Green monkeys make no sense. But then I try to consider the idea from Millie’s profile, from her imagination. She might find a green monkey to be funny.

  Then I see in Millie’s profile a more prominent association with green: frogs. If socks can make monkeys, can they make frogs?

  I cannot see a reason why not, if I can figure out how.

  So again I emulate Anna, and I try to see the design as she would see it. I cut green socks. I need a larger mouth. I need big, bulging white felt eyes. The legs must be stronger, jumping legs, and they must attach higher. The toes must be splayed, and fabric stretched like webbing between them.

  It takes most of the day, including many failed attempts, but eventually I am satisfied with the sock frog. It looks as much like a frog as a sock monkey looks like a monkey—which is to say not much, unless you add imagination.

  I carefully put the supply box back where I found it. If a gift should be a surprise, then I must not let Millie know what I have been up to. That means I also must hide the sock frog. There is a maintenance kit in my charging station, and I find that it has room to hide the frog.

  And just in time. Millie’s bus is due, so I head out to the bus stop.

  As I return to the laundry room that night, Susan has not yet returned from work. Paul is concerned for her, but he says nothing. I stayed out late, helping Paul with Millie; but she is in bed now, so I head back to the laundry room.

  Then I stop at the door. A question has occurred to me. “Paul?”

  “Yes, caretaker?”

  “How does one give a Christmas gift?”

  Paul looks at me, then he looks over at the living room. “We put the boxes under the Christmas tree, and then everyone opens them on Christmas morning.”

  “Boxes?”

  “Yes, gifts are usually in boxes, wrapped in brightly colored paper.”

  I do not have a box, nor any paper. “You said ‘usually.’”

  “Well, some candy and some small gifts aren’t wrapped, we just put them in the stockings.”

  “On your feet?”

  “No, no, no. These are special, decorated Christmas stockings. We don’t wear them, we hang them from the mantle, and then Santa Claus puts small, unwrapped gifts in them.”

  “Santa Claus,” I say.

  “Uh-huh.” Paul winks at me. “We have a stocking for Millie, one for Susan, and one for me. Oh, and one for Anna, but she has that with her in London now. One for each member of the family.”

  “And that is where you put small, unwrapped gifts.”

  “Yes.”

  “This seems to be a very strange custom, Paul.”

  “Now that I try to explain it to you, caretaker, I agree. Christmas is weird.”

  13. Today I Celebrate Christmas

  I have experimented with reminders to wake my self at a given time when I might be needed to care for Millie; and so I wake at two a.m. on Christmas morning, ready to add my gift to the tree.

  Carefully I rise. I am not used to darkness. My eyes are little better than human eyes in this regard. With the laundry room door closed, the only light is a glimpse of stars through the window. Still, I remember the path to the door, and I start walking toward it.

  But I stop when my foot hits a paper-covered box, knocking it across the floor with a thumping sound. The laundry room door opens, and Paul stands silhou
etted against dim light from the kitchen. I can tell from his face that he is tired and worried, though I cannot tell about what.

  “Caretaker, what are you doing up?” Paul asks as he turns on the light. The laundry room floor is covered in brightly colored boxes, but that does not surprise him.

  I explain about the sock frog, and Paul smiles when he sees it. “Oh, she’ll love it!” Then he looks at me oddly. “You . . . made this?”

  “Yes, I based it on Anna’s designs. But Paul, why are you awake at this hour?”

  Paul waves a hand at the boxes. “I need to put these under the tree. There are others there already, but these are from Santa.”

  “I see,” I say. I do not see, actually, but Paul looks too tired for questions.

  “Normally Susan would help me. It’s our favorite part of the night. But there’s a problem at the school. A teacher discovered that a child was being abused by his parents. Susan had to report it, and then work with the police to document the evidence and get the child out of the home. At Christmas. It’s for the child’s own good, but it’s still emotionally wrenching for Susan. She’s exhausted, so I told her I would take care of this.”

  I nod. Now I understand Susan’s behavior the week before. And I understand why Paul looks so haggard, and why he does this to help Susan. And I understand . . . “Paul, let me help.”

  We quietly haul boxes out into the living room. There are numerous smaller boxes already under the tree, and sock monkeys are on every table in the room. We arrange the new boxes under the tree until there is no more space. I try to stack them in front of the tree, but Paul stops me. “No. Spread them out. We want to see the lights and the decorations.”

  “These, Paul?” I point at the keys. “They are odd.”

  “They’re our memories, caretaker. Our reminders of our past. Those were the keys to Mom and Dad’s first house. Those shoes were my brother’s baby shoes.” He holds up the clay mushroom. “I made this in school. And Susan has had this harmonica since she was Millie’s age. These . . . They’re our . . . our emulation profiles. They help us remember.”

  I understand, a little, through my empathy net, so I am careful with the decorations. Instead we let the boxes overflow into the room. We also stuff large, colorful stockings with smaller gifts. Each has a name sewn on it (and I note that someone, probably Susan, has already stuffed Paul’s stocking).

  I try to put the frog at the bottom of Millie’s stocking, but Paul stops me. “No, he should be at the top, looking out, with his front legs hanging out. He should be the first thing Millie sees.” So I let him rearrange the candy and gifts so the sock frog looks out at the room.

  At last we are done. Paul looks at the tree and the stockings, and he pats me on the back. “Thank you, caretaker. That was fun, seeing all this through your eyes.”

  I do not know what to say. I am normally the one seeing through the eyes of others. But then I note the time. “Paul, it is late. You should sleep.”

  Paul sighs. “I wish I could. But I still have to bake cookies and biscuits and treats for the morning. And then breakfast.” He sighs again. “It looks like no sleep for me tonight.”

  I shake my head. “I can do that.”

  “What?”

  “I used to cook for your mother, remember? And I need no sleep.”

  Paul looks at the clock. “I can get a couple of hours of sleep, at least, before Millie wakes up. Thank you.” He heads for the stairs, but turns back to say, “Caretaker, you are something else.”

  “Of course. I am an android. That is something else, is it not?”

  As I put a second batch of biscuits in the oven, I hear light footsteps on the stairs. Soon Millie comes running in from the hallway. “Merry Christmas, Mr. . . . Robot.”

  I wonder why she paused; but before I can ask her she turns to the living room and looks up at the mantle and the stockings hung there. And then she squeals as loudly as I have ever heard. “A sock frog! It’s a sock frog! Please, please, please, get my stocking down!”

  I close the oven door and go into the living room to oblige her. Millie crouches down into her frog-hop pose, and she hops around the living room, nearly crashing into the boxes that surround the tree. “Sock frog! Sock frog! Sock frog!” she sings as I unhook the stocking and hold it down to her.

  Millie pulls the sock frog out and drops the stocking. Gifts and candy slide out, unnoticed. She hugs the frog tightly. “I love it I love it I love it!” she says. Then she spins around in circles. “Sock frog!” she sings again.

  Then she runs up, throws her arms around me (being careful not to drop the sock frog), and hugs my waist. “Thank you thank you thank you!”

  Remembering Paul’s fiction, I shake my head. “It is not me you should thank. The sock frog is from Santa Claus.”

  Millie looks around the room, then crooks a finger at me, motioning me lower. I crouch down. She throws her arms around my neck and whispers in my ear, “It was you, silly. There’s no such person as Santa Claus. Don’t tell Mommy and Daddy, they like to pretend. But I know it wasn’t Santa Claus. He’s not real, like you are. Thank you!”

  I am unsure how to respond, but Susan and Paul save me the trouble. They enter from the hallway, Susan leaning against Paul as he wraps his arms supportively around her. They wear matching green pajamas decorated with white snowflakes, as well as matching fuzzy white slippers. Both look groggy. Susan scratches her head and says, “Did somebody step on a giant mouse? I heard a tremendous squeal.”

  Millie shouts, “Mommy! Daddy! Mommy! Daddy!” Then she hops across the room and holds the frog up. “I got a sock frog!” She turns back and winks at me, turns back to them, and adds, “From Santa Claus!”

  “That’s wonderful, honey.” Paul looks at me and winks as well, but Susan looks puzzled. He whispers to her, “I’ll explain later.”

  “He was in my stocking,” Millie says, and then adds. “Oh! Mommy, Daddy, you have stockings too!”

  “You’re right,” Paul says. He releases Susan, fetches their stockings from the mantle, and gives Susan hers.

  While everyone is occupied with their gifts, I return to the kitchen and check on the biscuits. Then I lay out a tray of pastries and jams, and I put slices of bread in the toaster.

  When I turn away from the toaster, Millie stands in the kitchen entry, her sock frog momentarily forgotten. Something is clenched in her hand. Paul stands behind her, smiling.

  “Yes, Millie?” I say. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, I . . .”

  “Go on,” Paul says.

  Millie nods. “I made you this.” She walks up and holds out the missing blue sock.

  I am confused. “I do not wear socks, Millie.”

  “No,” Millie says, “it’s your stocking. To hang on the mantle.”

  Paul nods. “I told you: We have a stocking for every member of the family.”

  Millie nods. “I wanted to put your name on it, Mr. Robot, but Daddy says that’s wrong. You’re not a robot, you’re a . . . ummm . . .”

  “An android,” Paul says.

  “Yeah,” Millie continues, “a robot who’s like a person. And a person needs a name. So . . . I did this instead. I hope you like it.”

  Millie holds the stocking higher, and I take it. With her large, crude stitches, she has sewn simple snowflakes and stars on the blue fabric. And she has also sewn large letters across the top.

  I have a stocking.

  I have . . . a name. Not “caretaker”—a job—but a name.

  Today I am CAREY.

  I crouch down and hug Millie. “Thank you, Millie.” I look at Paul. “I will always keep this memory. Now let us get breakfast.”

  14. Today Marks Five Years from Mildred’s Passing

  Today Paul brought me to the MCA laboratories for maintenance, but he did not wait around for results. I can tell he had other things on his mind. Today marks five years since Mildred’s passing, and I am sure he is going to visit her grave.

  A
s usual, I sleep through most of the diagnostics. When I awaken, Dr. Zinta stands at her diagnostic console as usual. She looks at me and smiles and says, “How are you feeling, Carey?”

  I know I should laugh. And in other circumstances I would, in order to emulate human behavior, but there is no need for me to pretend with Dr. Zinta. She understands me as well as any human can. The joke is merely for her amusement.

  But to my surprise, I find myself answering. “I think I should feel sad.”

  “Oh?”

  “Today marks five years since Mildred’s passing. Paul is sad. Susan is sad. Anna has called from London to express support for her parents. So I know that were I human the appropriate feeling would be sadness.”

  “I see. And so how do you respond?”

  “I am being quiet today, respectful, trying to support them though there is nothing anyone can do for them.”

  “No,” Dr. Zinta answers, her smile gone, “nothing. But still, you’re doing the right thing.”

  “That sense of helplessness is a form of sadness. Is that correct?” She nods. “I thought so. Sadness makes some sense then. Then I can answer your question: Today I am sad.”

  Dr. Zinta stares into my eyes. “You know, I think you are.”

  I continue, “But I still find that grief is a very difficult human reaction for me to emulate, Dr. Zinta. It is about a loss, an absence, and I do not experience that absence.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mildred’s profile is still in my emulation net. She is gone, but I can still experience her presence. I can go through memories. I can even extrapolate new experiences and how she might react to them as if she were there. So it is as if she is still with me in a sense. I guess that is an advantage I have over humans.”

  Dr. Zinta shakes her head. “We can do the same thing in our way. We can hold conversations with our memories.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Uh-huh, conversations, both remembered and imagined. Arguments, even. Just last week I had an argument in my head with my father-in-law, some trivial thing that we had discussed before about hooking up a television. I’d had to bite my tongue because this old farmer was telling me how to hook up electronics, and he wouldn’t accept that he might be wrong. It was an old argument from long before he passed away, but I’ve never really let it go. Every time I have to diagnose an electronics problem that argument comes back to me.”