Today I Am Carey

by Martin L Shoemaker

  “Looks really good,” Paul says.

  “We make a great team.” Susan hugs him and pats my arm.

  I look over at the doorway. The door is still detached. “So all we have to do is put the door on and we are done? You can move your things in?”

  Paul shakes his head, and Susan smiles broadly. “We can’t put the door on until the MCA team is done,” Paul says.

  His comment confuses me. “The MCA team?”

  “Yes, they’ll be here tomorrow to move your charging station into the closet.”

  I am still confused. “Paul, you want me to have my charging station in your office?”

  Now it is Paul who grins. “Not my office. Your room.”

  “My room?”

  Susan lets go of Paul and comes over and hugs me. “Your room, Carey. It’s past time we got you out of that dank old laundry room, and up here where you belong.”

  “But the laundry room is sufficient for my purposes.”

  “Your purposes aren’t fixed, Carey,” she says. “You’ve grown so much since you came into our lives. In every way that matters to us, you’re a person. And people don’t live in laundry rooms.”

  “But it is such a waste of space. I only need the closet.”

  “We have the space,” Susan replies. “Don’t worry about waste. It’s your space. You’ll fill it. You’ll make it useful.”

  “Fill it? With what?”

  “With whatever you want.”

  “I do not want—” I start to speak, but Susan holds up a hand to silence me.

  “Yes, we’ve heard it before, Carey,” she says. “Maybe it’s time you start figuring out what you want. This is your space, and now you can decorate it more with whatever you like.”

  “But I have nothing to fill it with.”

  “And that’s another thing,” Paul says. “Carey, I’ve been crunching the numbers, and you have long since worked off what we paid for you including the original lease payments. Between cooking and cleaning—before the cleaning bots came along—taking care of Millie, taking care of Mom, let’s not forget that.”

  I object, “You already paid MCA for your mother’s care.”

  “Yes, but they didn’t pay you. All this work, it adds up to quite a sum.”

  “You have provided me power, and you have paid for my regular maintenance.”

  “Yes, I factored that in. But the fact is, Carey, by my estimation, we owe you a whole lot of money.”

  I shake my head. “You have told me that I am family. As I understand the term, family does not pay family for helping each other.”

  “He’s got you there,” Susan says. “But you know what else, Carey? Family shares in what the family earns as well as how the family works. Your power, your maintenance costs, they don’t begin to add up to how much you do for this family, and how much of a pleasure it is to have you around.”

  “She’s right,” Paul says, “but you’re right too. We won’t pay you for this work, but we will give you an allowance.”

  “An allowance?” I ask.

  “You remember. Millie had one when she was growing up. It’s your portion of the family budget to do with what you will, plus a significant back payment long overdue. I’ll have the accountants set it up tomorrow and give you the codes so you can order what you like for the room, and do whatever else you find to do with the allowance.”

  I am still confused by this concept, but I know the proper thing to say. “Thank you, Susan. Thank you, Paul.”

  Paul replies, “Now we’re going to go clean up and make our own dinner for once.”

  “If you still remember how,” Susan says.

  “Love, I will make you a dinner so good you’ll forget all about Carey.” Then he looks at me. “That’s a joke. Meanwhile, you start thinking about what you’d like in your room.”

  31. Today I Experience the Miracle of Life

  “Oh, Carey, it’s perfect,” Millie says, looking down at the polished mahogany bassinet with the frog sheets on the mattresses. “But we already have a bassinet.”

  “I know,” I say to Millie. Then I notice the strain in her face. “Come, sit down, please.” I assist her to drop gently into the easy chair in the corner of my room. At thirty-four weeks pregnant, she finds it a little more difficult to get up and down every day. “I saw the bassinet you got from Susan and Paul,” I explain. “But this is for my room when you bring the baby over and need someplace to put him down for a nap.”

  She looks up at me and smiles, her old impish grin. “Silly Mr. Robot. You didn’t have to give up space in your room for my baby.”

  “It is my space,” I say. “I can do with it what I want.”

  Looking around, I am pleased with the choices I have made over the past five years. It took me weeks to finally decide what I wanted. I looked at how others used their rooms. In some cases, their room is an escape from the rest of the world. A private place where they can relax. But I had that already, even when I was down in the laundry room. I am never more relaxed than when I’m in my recharging station, rebalancing my networks. I need no more space for that.

  But other times one’s personal room is where one entertains only the closest friends and family—those you would entertain not in the public areas of the house but in confidence, in private. I decided that that was the purpose for which I could use a room of my own; and for that, I wanted a place that was inviting to my family, to those I would entertain here.

  The room’s colors and fixtures have a nautical theme that reminds me of Belize. The door knob and window controls are shaped like sailing knots, and that seems to please Paul. So I had ordered pictures to hang on the walls, pictures of sailing ships and the islands. To those I added a wedding picture of the family in Our Lady of Assumption, as well as pictures of Anna and the boys and Vishal from their last visit to the states. I had also ordered new wall lamps shaped like ship wheels with lights like oil lamps attached.

  I had done more than purchase things; I had asked for mementos. A couple of Mildred’s old statues that had been on a shelf by her bed while she had been alive. Jake’s old terrarium, which Millie and I have again stocked with frogs. An old brass compass from a sailboat that Paul refitted. A vase that Susan had made in her pottery class (I always kept it filled with fresh flowers). And for Susan’s comfort, I had a high-end music system keyed to her presence so it would always play her favorite songs when she came into the room.

  And then there are gifts that Millie has given me over the years: pictures and plaques and toys, each carefully preserved. And first among these is one memento that is uniquely mine: my blue Christmas stocking hangs in front of my closet, so that it is the first thing that I see when I awaken in my charging station.

  I also have comfortable family furniture. An easy chair and a short couch with a foot rest. A coffee table and end tables hold the pictures and mementos. And now with Millie soon to give birth to another grandchild in the family, I have the bassinet. Susan had said I should furnish the room so it felt like home to me. These things in this place are what I associate with home.

  “Are you all right, Millie?” I ask. Her face still looks strained. “Should I get you some tea?”

  “Oh, some green tea would be wonderful, Carey, but you don’t have to bother. I can get it myself.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” I say. “I know you are stubborn and strong-willed; but with the condition you are in, I can go down and get the tea and be back faster than you can get out of that chair.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She puts her hands on the armrest and starts to leverage herself up. But then she stops. “Whoa . . . Whoa . . . All right, you win this one, Carey, but only for another few weeks. After that I’ll take care of myself again, and the baby.”

  I go downstairs. The tea is already brewing. I had known Millie would want some. In a minute it is ready. I put the pot on Mildred’s old oak tray, and I add one of Mildred’s fine china cups on a matching plate. I get the cream pitcher fro
m the refrigerator, and then I go back upstairs and set the tray down next to Millie. She pours cream in the cup and then pours the tea in.

  “And of course you’ll have help from Wayne,” I continue as if there had been no break in the conversation.

  “Oh, Wayne,” Millie says. “I’m sure he’ll be a help.” I detect concern, but I am not sure if she wants to talk or not. Sometimes it is difficult to tell with her. Her mood can change quickly.

  But I try. “Wayne is not being helpful?”

  “Oh, that’s not what I meant, Carey. No, it’s just he’s going to be taking family leave when the baby is born, and he has so many new projects going on. Wayne has advanced their knowledge so much from studying you. He has reintroduced things that the company has forgotten. Dr. Zinta hasn’t forgotten, of course, but she’s so busy now running the place. She’s more of an administrator than a researcher at this point.”

  “I know,” I say. “That makes her very sad. She misses the research.”

  “I know. Wayne looks at her and he makes me promise to never let him make that mistake of going into management. So anyway, she might know these things, but her team doesn’t. There’s been so much turnover in the years. Wayne’s now third most senior in the department, second if you exclude Dr. Zinta. So he’s trying to teach all these old tricks to the new dogs and get them to understand techniques that haven’t been taught in cybernetic schools in over a decade. He has so much he wants to get done before the leave begins. He’s been working long hours, and now he’s off to this conference, and the timing on this . . .”

  I wonder what she means. “What is wrong with the timing?”

  “Well, he’s in Seattle, and Mom and Dad are off on their second honeymoon in Belize because they want that out of the way before Junior comes along.”

  “That seems like smart planning on their part as well. Everyone will be able to help you out when the time comes.”

  “I know, but there’s so much that I would like help with now. I have to get ready myself, plus I still have to get things in shape for my leave so the university can put another instructor in to cover my lectures and labs.”

  “So you are tired and you need help and no one is here to help you.”

  “Well, you are, of course, Carey. You’re always here. What would I do without you? But I could use someone helping around the house.”

  “Millie, are you asking me to move in with you and Wayne?”

  “I can’t ask that. You have so much to do here. And at Creekside.”

  “Millie, now who is being silly? Your mother and father are not even home right now, and they are still not so old that they cannot get by without me. They have cleaning bots, and the house today is so automated that there is hardly anything for me to do unless we find new projects to work on. And I can take a leave at Creekside. It is not like I am a machine; I get time off.”

  Millie grinned. “I know but—”

  “But nothing,” I interrupt. “I insist. Immediately. I will turn the house over to automatic, and I will go to your house with you tonight. I will contact Nurse Rayburn on the way.”

  “Shouldn’t you check with Mom and Dad?”

  “They told me years ago: In their eyes I am an adult person, able to make my own decisions. If I chose to leave they would throw me a big going away party, and they would miss me, but they would not try to stop me. And for this, they would be at your house if you would let them.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t take that!” Millie grins. “That much Mom in that small space . . .” Then she looks concerned. “Oops! Don’t tell her I said that, Carey.”

  “Patient-therapist confidentiality, you know that. Now finish your tea and let us get packing. I still have the portable charging station we took to Belize. That is all I will need. My books,” I tap my head, “are all up here.” Then I stop and tap my torso. “Well, the library is in here, but you know what I mean.”

  Millie laughs; but then her face twists. “Hah,” she adds. “Junior is kicking again. He wants to go home, too, so let’s go.”

  After I help Millie down the stairs and into her coat, I take the portable charging station from its storage area in the laundry room and out to her car. “Trunk open,” I say, but nothing happens. I try emulating Wayne enough to say in his voice, “Trunk open.” The trunk opens and I put the charging station in it next to blankets and water and other emergency supplies. I wonder whether I could emulate Millie well enough to fool the car to make it take instructions from me. No one drives cars anymore except for old antiques, museum relics like myself; but you still must be the authorized owner or designated driver to instruct them where to go. Driving is an experiment I will have to try some day.

  There is snow in the air, and the walk is getting slippery. I go back into the house, take Millie’s arm, and carefully guide her out the door and down the steps. I gently lower her into the car, and then I get in beside her.

  Millie says, “Bullfrog,” and the control panel lights up with an animated bullfrog in a chauffeur’s cap.

  “Yes ma’am,” the chauffeur answers.

  “Take us home, please.”

  “There will be some delay, ma’am,” the chauffeur says. “Road reports are slow and slippery.”

  “That’s okay. Just as long as we’re safe. That’s what’s important.”

  The snow falls more thickly in the air with each passing minute. It is good that the car’s GPS keeps it in the proper lane. No human driver could even see the lane in these conditions.

  “Are you all right, Millie?” I ask. The strain on her face has increased.

  “I’m fine, Carey. I’ll just be glad to be home.”

  “We will get there,” I say. “The cars are slowing down because of conditions, but we will get there soon enough.”

  But at that moment, the console chimes and the chauffeur appears. “Redirecting to a new course,” it says.

  “A new course?” I ask. “Why?”

  The screen shifts to a traffic map, and I see red lines and red flashing lights all along the highway. “Police report slippery conditions. Numerous slide offs and accidents on U.S. 131. They recommend alternate routes. I project that they will soon be closing that highway entirely.”

  “All right, choose the safest route you can,” I say.

  “I always do,” the chauffeur responds. “Don’t be afraid.”

  I understand fear as an abstraction, but it is not one of my prominent emotions. I understand concern and worry, but fear is more visceral, while I am analytical. But the part of me that emulates Wayne to communicate with the chauffeur is very afraid, and continues to be so as the snow piles up on the roads.

  We slow down yet further. At one point, I feel the car veer sideways. “What is happening?”

  “Just a slippery patch,” the chauffeur says. “We are under control.” And indeed, we are back on track already.

  I look over at Millie, and her face is pale. She is nervous. “Millie, are you all right?”

  “Carey, maybe we should go back to Mom and Dad’s.”

  “All right, Millie. Chauffeur, new destination. Take us back to the home of Paul and Susan Owens.”

  “Yes sir. As soon as I can find a safe turnaround.”

  The car continues on for another mile before coming to a stop at a stop sign. Then the chauffeur screen lights up again. “I need guidance,” it says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I have not found a proper turnaround. I could turn around in this intersection, but that would violate local traffic laws.”

  “Would it be safe?” I ask.

  “There is no oncoming traffic in any direction. The intersection is very slippery, but if I take it slowly, it will be safe. Do you authorize violation of local traffic laws?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “State your name, please, for the record, in case there is an investigation.”

  I look at Millie. She should give the authorization, but her eyes are closed, so I respond, “Carey
Owens.”

  “Carey Owens is not authorized to operate this vehicle. State your name, please.”

  I turn up my emulation. “Wayne Stockwell.” I am uncomfortable with this deception, but I am concerned for Millie.

  “Very well,” the chauffeur responds. “Wayne Stockwell has authorized this car to do a U turn in this intersection. It is so recorded.”

  The car rolls slowly forward, angling right and then turning in a large circle to the left. At last it is headed back to the south.

  As we pick up speed Millie says, “Take me home, Carey.”

  I am confused. “Your home? We are headed towards Paul and Susan’s.”

  “Yes, Mom and Dad’s home, please.”

  “We are going there as fast as we safely can.”

  “That’s good, Carey. Thank you.”

  But suddenly the car is sliding. It is the same slippery spot we had hit before on the way north. At that time, we had slid into the southbound lane. This time, we slide off to the west. “Emergency!” the chauffeur says. “Emergency! Active restraints engaged.” Our seatbelts and shoulder harnesses expand with sudden air pressure, and air bags fill the passenger compartment, locking us firmly in place as the chauffeur says, “Warning! This car is out of control. Warning!”

  I feel the car thump against the guard rail. There is a sliding and scraping sound, and we slow. But suddenly the scraping is gone. The guard rail has ended. I feel the car tilt and then slide down a deep ditch. “Warning!” the chauffeur says. “Brace for impact. Calling nine-one-one.”

  Millie screams as we slide down the hill, out of control, picking up speed. I can barely see out around the air bags.

  Then there is a loud thump as the car hits something, and it tumbles. As soon as it does, air bags emerge from the headliner as well, protecting our heads, but also blocking our vision. We are now completely immobile as the car rolls once, twice, and comes to a halt upside down. Over the crunch I hear the chauffeur, “Calling nine-one-one. Vehicle in the ditch. Biosensors detect no injuries.”