Today I Am Carey

by Martin L Shoemaker

  While I watch the video, I do not notice Paul moving up beside me. I only realize that he is there when he speaks again. “Unique, your lordship. Show me another android who could do that, be exactly who we needed on that terrible night. Carey’s not a killer. Carey is . . . family.”

  The magistrate stares at me, and then back at the last image from the projection. Finally he says, “So this is why you asked for the upgrades. You felt bad, because your patient died.”

  I pause, considering the magistrate’s words. I had been an emotional infant then. I understand myself so much better now, thanks to my family, and to my work with Wayne. And I see the truth that I did not see then. “I felt guilty. Because I failed.”

  “Guilty?” The magistrate looks at Colonel Rejón, raising an eyebrow. “I think that mechanical soldiers who feel guilt would be an improvement, don’t you, Colonel?”

  “Your lordship—”

  The magistrate interrupts before the colonel can continue. “I think that a machine with a conscience is not a machine at all. Carey Owens, I am not sure what you are; but you are not a mechanical soldier.” He turns to Rejón. “There is nothing to fear here, old friend.”

  I turn to the colonel. My memories of Mildred’s passing have overpowered my anger. Now that I have the capability, I pity him. I wish that I could ease his fears.

  Then the magistrate says to one of Rejón’s aides, “Remove the chains.” The magistrate turns to Hendricks. “Ambassador?” Hendricks’s mouth is a thin-drawn line. She knows not to upset matters, so she says nothing. The magistrate continues, “I rule that this unit, formally designated BRKCX-01932-217JH-98662, is not a dangerous device, not an automated soldier. It may freely travel within the nation of Belize, and I expect Ambassador Hendricks to arrange a passport for it immediately, in the name of Carey Owens. I so record.” He taps at his comp. “Blast it! Colonel, turn off the jammers.”

  The colonel walks up to me, almost face to face. He is conflicted: surprised by what he has seen, but still worried for his people. Still afraid, but maybe a little less so. He whispers, “You are . . . different, mechanical.” Then he leaves the room.

  Soon the magistrate’s comp beeps, and he continues. “I so record and push to the national records. This hearing is adjourned.”

  26. Today Our Nest Is Empty

  When we return home from Belize, the home feels unbalanced, like when my networks have been operating too long with no chance to reset. But my networks themselves are fine. It is the Owens family that is different. Millie’s absence has changed the home in ways that I have difficulty analyzing.

  But more than that, Paul has changed as well. He is relaxed as I have never seen him before. And I realize for the first time that there’s a tension that has been in him since his mother’s illness. It has been so much a part of him that I had not realized it was not his natural state.

  It could not have been the result of Mildred’s illness, or at least not that alone, because it has persisted for eighteen years since her death. I speculate that it is his work, because his attitude toward that has changed. Now when he brings work home, I find that he puts it away more quickly and says under his breath, “Slow down.”

  Susan’s change is more obvious, and more clearly due to Millie’s moving out. With school not in session and only occasional televisit meetings required, she has much free time. She sits around the house or the garden, sometimes working, sometimes playing music or singing. I still have no appreciation for music, but I analyze that her voice is of good quality. She sings songs that comfort her, but they can only do so much.

  On our fifth day back, after Paul has left for work and I serve up breakfast, I ask, “Susan, is there anything I can do for you?”

  She looks up at me with a half smile, “I’m all right, Carey. I’m just getting used to the empty nest syndrome.”

  “Empty nest?”

  “Like birds. They build a nest to lay their eggs and raise the chicks and feed them. The nest gets so crowded and full of happy, cheerful noises. And then one day, the young birds stretch their wings and fly away, and the parents are left with a nest that’s much too big for them and much too quiet. Their lives have changed, and much of their purpose in building the nest has been fulfilled. It’s done, and now it’s gone.”

  “I see,” I say. “And what do the birds do?”

  “Well, birds turn around and do it again the next year. They start all over with another batch of eggs.”

  “I see.” I pour her some more juice. “So, are you and Paul going to start over?” At that, Susan laughs out loud. “I am sorry. Did I say something funny?”

  “Oh, Carey, I just forget how large the gaps are in your experience. No, we’re too old to have another child. Frankly, people thought it was odd we had Millie so long after Anna. No, our nest is empty and it’s going to stay empty, just the two of us bumping around this large house. And you, of course.”

  “You could move to a smaller house,” I say.

  At that, Susan laughs again, but not so strongly. “Never happen,” she says. “This is where Paul grew up. He loves the place too much. I love it too. So many memories here. But his memories go back twenty years farther than mine. No, as long as we’re able to keep this place up, we’ll stay here.”

  “And I will stay here to help you keep it up.”

  “Thank you, Carey.” She pats my hand. “I guess with you, our nest will always be a little less empty.”

  I pause, contemplating what I have learned, and then I ask, “So I must return to my original question. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Susan finishes the last of her juice. “You know, there might be,” she says. “One of the most reliable ways to deal with that empty nest is to change it up.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Remodeling. Give everything a new look. Don’t throw out the old memories, but it’ll make it easier to make some new ones, because we repurpose the house for our golden years.”

  “I am unfamiliar with home remodeling.”

  “That’s okay,” Susan says. “My dad and mom were both expert carpenters. They built and remodeled three homes when I was growing up. I can teach you.”

  “Teach me?”

  “Yeah, I think this is a project we should do together while I’ve got so much free time this summer. Oh, this is going to be fun! Let me call Paul, and then we’ll start planning. This is just the summer change we need.”

  Susan tells me that we are going to convert Millie’s room into another office. I try to imagine such a conversion, but she says she will do the design work. First, however, we must get everything out of the room. All of Millie’s possessions must be boxed up and put into storage in the rear of the laundry room where my charging station is. I am very efficient at boxing and carrying, so I agree to do that work while Susan works on her design.

  I remember after Mildred passed away, and Paul and Susan began cleaning up the undamaged parts of the home for the contractors. That involved much packing of Mildred’s belongings. It was a sad occasion then, and I had offered at the time to do the work for them much as I was doing now. But Paul and Susan had insisted: As sad as the work was, it was their obligation to Mildred’s memory to go through each item individually, remember what it meant to her and to them, and decide what to do with it.

  This occasion I understand to be less sad. It is still a departure, part of the empty nest syndrome that Susan described, but Millie is still with us. When she comes home from Belize and she and Wayne find a new place of their own, much of this material can go with her. Still, I am struck by how some of these items resonate within my empathy net, as if with each item boxed, a little bit of Millie is leaving.

  There is her small collection of paper books, rare things today, but still common when she had been a child. Science books, especially frogs and amphibians, but also storybooks. She had been very fond of Peter Pan, and I remember reading that to her over and over. She had been capable of reading
it herself, but she had always insisted that I read it better. I had emulated the different characters and voices from the information in the text, and she had giggled in childish glee at my performances.

  In her desk, I find papers that she wrote back in junior high, another vestige of an older time. I find her jewelry box, almost empty: Millie finds jewelry to be impractical with all the time she spends outside. The box contains only items that were special, gifts from relatives and friends: a gold necklace with a blue crystal pendant, an old-fashioned watch that had once been Mildred’s, and the ring that she had worn at Anna’s wedding. Last is a cheap plastic charm bracelet filled with animal charms, including a frog charm that is worn practically smooth and featureless from her years of fondling it.

  In her closet, I find shoes, most worn out but never thrown away, some far too small for her to ever wear again. And of course there is her wardrobe. It falls into two categories: casual, comfortable, and durable, for trips to the woods in search of specimens; and equally practical, but more fashionable for when she goes to class. On a shelf in the closet, I find the terrarium where once she had kept her first frog, Jake. He is long gone. She had many more frogs follow, but now she has all she can do to keep up with the ones in her lab. Two years ago, she finally gave up on keeping the terrarium clean and frogs inside it. All the equipment is still here, and I carefully box it up. Perhaps she’ll find it useful again someday.

  At last, all that is left in the room is the furniture. Susan says those pieces should go in the garage. So I haul down the dresser, the nightstand, the chair, and the dressing table. When Paul gets home from work that night, we disassemble the bed, and then we haul the mattress and box spring downstairs and out to the garage.

  When we are done, I look around the room. I understand now: My nest is empty. I must find a way to fill it.

  27. Today I Am Bo

  As I prepare breakfast, I decide I must speak to Paul and Susan now. There is no reason to wait.

  When they come downstairs, I pour coffee for each of them. Then I begin. “Susan, Paul, I have something to discuss.”

  They both stare at me. This is out of character for me, as they understand my character. Finally Susan says, “We’re listening, Carey.”

  I have planned my introduction all night, but I am ready to change course if I upset them. “You miss Millie around the house, but you have outside interests to keep you busy. You both have busy lives with responsible jobs that take much of your time. You are both in good health; and thanks to the advances of medical science, you should be for many years to come.”

  Paul laughs, “I think we’ve got a few good years ahead of us, yes.”

  “So although I can help with the cleaning and the cooking around here, there is little for me to do.”

  “Well, you’re helping with the remodeling, too,” Susan says, glancing at Paul.

  I sense some secret shared between them, but that does not concern me at the moment. “Yes,” I reply, “but that is a thing we do together. It is a shared activity, and I welcome that; but I am also learning that I am not ready to do such work alone.”

  “You’ll learn,” Paul says.

  “Of course,” I answer. “But I still want something to do with my day, something useful.”

  “I understand, Carey,” Susan says. “What do you have in mind?”

  “With your permission, I would like to get a job.”

  They both shake their heads. “You know better than that, Carey,” Paul says. “You don’t need our permission. But if you want our support, I think it’s a great idea.”

  Susan nods. “Absolutely.” But then she frowns. “If you can find someplace that will take you. Many places have all the help they need, human and robot.”

  “And some . . .” Paul shakes his head. “Some won’t take androids. It’s just the way things are.”

  I already know this from perusing job advertisements on the local boards. I had quickly realized that there were android agencies, for the few androids still in service. But many job listings specifically said: No agency placements. “I understand,” I say. “But even looking for work will give me something to do.”

  “If you’re sure,” Susan says.

  “I am,” I reply.

  “Then go for it,” Paul says.

  “Good luck,” Susan agrees. “We’re pulling for you.”

  I walk in to Allegan, the nearest town. It is a short walk away. The local boards show one business advertising for help: DeBruyn’s Market, our local grocery store. This is a place that knows me well. I come here often with Susan or Paul.

  I walk up to the service desk and Kathryn, the service manager, greets me. “Hello, Carey,” she says. “Shopping today?”

  “No, Kathryn,” I answer. “I wish to apply for a job.”

  Her eyes show surprise. “A job?”

  “Yes, I have read your advertisement.” I push the reference to her comm. “You are looking for someone to work on your receiving dock.”

  “Yes, I am Carey, but . . .”

  The way that she trails off makes me reply, “But not an android.”

  “Carey, please, I didn’t say that.”

  “No, but you are thinking that. I am sorry to have troubled you.” I turn away.

  “Carey, wait.” She grabs my hand. “You know we like you here. It’s just . . .”

  “You are afraid I would upset the customers? I come here often. The locals are used to me.”

  “No, I’m fine with that, but . . . Come back into my office.” I follow Kathryn into a back room. She closes the door behind us. “Look, Carey, I really need a high school kid for this job. Or maybe some young person starting a family, someone who really needs the work.”

  That stops me. “And I do not need the work. I only want it.”

  “That’s right,” she says. “This is entry level work. With this sort of job, sometimes I count myself lucky if the worker’s worth what I pay.”

  “I can work very hard,” I say.

  “I know you can, but it’s about helping people grow into a better worker. At a bigger store, I wouldn’t even be hiring. I would already have an android leased for this position. But I started on that receiving dock. Half our crew did, that or other starter jobs.”

  “And I do not need to grow.”

  “No,” she answers. “To be honest, you’re too good for this job. If you were human with your skills and experience, I would expect that two months after hiring you, you’d find something you’re better suited for.”

  “I am best suited for care of patients with mental impairment, particularly the elderly,” I reply. “But I have been decertified for medical upgrades.”

  Kathryn furrows her brow. “But you can still do that work?”

  “Yes.”

  Kathryn taps her comm. “Hey, Lex,” she says, “I’m taking an early lunch.” Then she turns back to me. “Come on, Carey, let’s find you a job.”

  We pull into a driveway. It is a wide, shallow U, bordered by neatly trimmed green lawns inside and around the arms of the U. The sign at the entrance proclaims, Creekside Home, a A Long-Term Care Facility. The long, flat base of the U is a parking lot, four rows with twenty spaces each; but almost all of the spaces are empty. Beyond the parking lot is a long low building, with two wings and a long corridor between them.

  “A nursing home?” I ask.

  “Not just a nursing home,” Kathryn answers. “It’s not on the sign—they don’t want to disturb the neighbors—but they specialize in rehabilitation and therapy for mental and memory disorders.”

  “Is it closed?” I ask. “There are almost no cars here.”

  “I know. It’s sad. This lot is always empty.” Kathryn sighs. “Except the staff, of course. My friend Vera works here. Let me talk to her. She’s always saying they need more help than they can get. Stay here and let me talk to her.”

  Kathryn leaves the car and heads into the east wing. I look around. There is a large lawn west of the west
wing. A gazebo sits in the middle of the lawn. It looks freshly painted. I see four older people heading out to it. One is in a wheelchair. She wears a bright purple jumpsuit. Two others are walking with assist suits: a man in brown pants and green shirt, and a woman in jeans and a white blouse. The fourth person is younger and walks without assistance, a young man in jeans and sloppy shirt. His head is shaved bald.

  Others are already in the gazebo. My empathy nets cannot pick up much from such a short exposure and at such a distance; but from the way that they move, I think that these residents are happy to be outside on such a good day.

  Then I am startled by a tapping at my window. I turn and see an older man in a colorful tight blue shirt spangled with red and white stars. He wears matching blue pants. He has tapped the window with a small red ball about the size of a grapefruit.

  I lower the window. “Can I help you?”

  “Are you coming, Bo, or not?” he asks.

  “I am sorry,” I say. “My name is not Bo.”

  There is a puzzled look on his face, and I realize this disturbs him. So today I am Bo. “I’m sorry,” I say. With no clue who Bo is or how he might behave in this situation, I simply assume a pleasant, cheerful demeanor. “I’m just kidding. I am Bo, and you are . . . ?”

  “I’m Luke, you rube. I thought I was the one that conked his head.”

  So he has had a head injury, and it has affected his memory, but not so much that he is unaware of it. I find myself naturally sliding into diagnostic mode. It feels satisfying. I have not exercised this capability in so long. It is good to be able to analyze and maybe help.

  I adjust my appearance to a generic male of approximately Luke’s age. I have no clue for skin color, hair color, or eye color, so I aim for demographic average for this area: a deep tan with light brown eyes. I decide rather than try to get the hair right, it is simpler to retract my follicles and be bald.