Analog SFF, December 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Well, it is a lovely day,” said Lenore. It buoyed him that she made no further comment on what he'd said.

  They were holding hands as they walked, skateboarders, hoverpadders, rollerbladers, and joggers passing them in both directions. She was wearing her big, floppy hat; with her pale skin, she doubtless burned easily. For his part, he was enjoying being out in the sun without having to wear a hat. After four decades of baldness, it was wonderful to have his own built-in protection.

  They'd talked about this and that: a lively, animated conversation, so unlike—what had one of his friends called it?—the companionable silence of old married people who had, decades ago, run out of points of view to share or jokes to tell or issues to explore.

  "Do you play tennis?” Lenore asked, as they passed a couple of people carrying racquets.

  "I haven't since...” Since before you were born.

  "We should play sometime. I can get you a guest pass to Hart House."

  "That'd be great,” Don said. And he meant it. He'd been sedentary the first time he'd been this age; now, he was loving the sheer physicality of being alive. “You realize I'm going to beat your pants, off, though. I mean, I'm medically enhanced."

  She grinned. “Oh, yeah?"

  "Sure. Just call me Bjorn Borg."

  She looked at him, totally baffled, and his heart fell a bit. Sarah would have gotten the joke.

  "Um,” he said, painfully aware of Johnny Carson's dictum that it isn't funny if you have to explain it, “Bjorn Borg was a famous tennis player; won Wimbledon five times in a row. And the Borg, well, they're this alien race on an old TV show called Star Trek. The Borg augment their bodies with technology, so, um..."

  "You are a supremely silly man,” Lenore said, smiling warmly at him.

  He stopped dead in his tracks, and looked—really looked, for the first time—at Lenore.

  She was a grad student studying SETI.

  She liked to eat in restaurants, to talk about philosophy and politics.

  She was confident and funny and a joy to be with.

  And now she was even talking like—

  But he'd missed putting it together until just now. She reminded him of—

  Of course. Of course.

  She reminded him of Sarah as she'd been back in her twenties, back when Don had fallen in love with her.

  Oh, true, they looked nothing alike physically, and perhaps that's why he'd failed to notice all the other similarities when they'd been together before. Lenore was shorter than Sarah, or, at least, shorter than Sarah had been in her prime. And Sarah had originally had brown hair, and still had blue-gray eyes, while Lenore was redheaded, freckled, and green-eyed.

  But in spirit, in attitude, in the joy they took in life, they were kindred spirits.

  Coming toward them was a young couple: an Asian woman and a white man, the man pushing a stroller. Don was wearing sunglasses—as was Lenore—so he felt no compunction about looking at the beautiful young woman, with long black hair, wearing pink shorts and a red tank top.

  "Cute kid,” said Lenore.

  "Um, yeah,” said Don. He hadn't even noticed.

  "Do you—do you like kids?” Lenore asked, a tentative note in her voice.

  "Sure. Of course."

  "Me, too,” she said.

  There was a park bench on the grass a short distance from the walkway, facing back across the water toward the city. Don pointed at it with his chin, and they went over and sat. He put his arm around her shoulders, and they stared out at the water, watching a ferry coming toward them.

  "Do you want to have kids of your own?” he asked.

  "Oh, yeah. Definitely."

  "How soon?"

  She leaned her head against his shoulder. Her hair was blowing a bit in the breeze, occasionally gently slapping his cheek. “Oh, I don't know. By the time I'm thirty, I suppose. I know that's a long time from now, but..."

  She trailed off, but he found himself shaking his head. Five years would go by like that; it seemed only yesterday he'd been in his seventies. Hell, it hardly seemed that long ago that he'd been in his sixties. The years just fly by, and—

  And he wondered if that would still be true. He'd certainly experienced the phenomenon of time seeming to pass more quickly as he'd gotten older, and he'd read the pop-psychology explanation for it: that, when you're a kid of ten, each year is a whopping ten percent of your life to date, and so seems ponderously long, but by the time you're fifty, each year is just two percent of your life, and so passes in the wink of an eye. He wondered what would happen to his time sense now that he was young again. He'd be one of the first people ever to get to test the validity of the standard explanation.

  Lenore said nothing more; she just looked out at the lake. Still, it was ironic, he realized. She was thinking farther into the future than he was. But he'd thought he was done with the future, and, although he knew that poem, too, he hadn't planned on raging against the dying of the light...

  In five years, Lenore would likely have a Ph.D., and be well on her way in her career.

  And in five years, Sarah would probably be...

  He hated to think about it, but it was all but inevitable. By 2053, Sarah would almost certainly be gone, and he'd—

  He'd be alone. Unless—

  Unless he...

  Unless he found somebody else.

  But he'd seen at the grad students’ wing night just how vapid most twenty-five-year-olds were. People who shared his apparent physical age would never appeal to him intellectually, emotionally. Lenore, somehow, was different, and—

  And it was way too soon to go further with this conversation, but the reality was clear: his future with Lenore, or, he imagined, with just about any woman who was as young as he looked, would depend on his being willing to be a father again.

  But, God, to have more kids! Could he face late-night feedings, and changing diapers, and being a disciplinarian?

  And yet...

  And yet perhaps people would forgive him his transgressions if someday he did start a second family. He knew that no matter how logical it might be for him to want the company of someone so much younger than Sarah, in the eyes of his friends and family that would be seen as tawdry, thinking with his dick instead of his brain. But if they thought his desire was to be a father again, well, then maybe that wasn't quite so bad.

  In this age of open sexuality, online and off, it was probably no longer true, but in Don's day, many men he knew had had a favorite Playboy Playmate, and his had been Vicki Smith, or, at least, that had been the name he'd first encountered the five-foot-eleven, Rubenesque Texan under, when she was Miss May 1992. But by the time she'd been named Playmate of the Year in 1993, she'd changed her stage name to Anna Nicole Smith. And she became even more famous when, at twenty-six, she married a billionaire who was almost ninety.

  That's the comparison people of his generation would make, he knew. Except that he wasn't a billionaire, although he'd gotten what that crazed old coot doubtless would have traded his entire fortune for. And it was he, not the woman, who was fake. Anna Nicole Smith had had an A-cup before breast implants pushed her three letters down the alphabet. But Lenore was natural—well, as natural as anyone these days. It was Don who'd had himself remade, although somehow, at least to him, gene therapy and the lengthening of telo-meres seemed less creepy than having your chest carved open and bags of silicone shoved inside.

  Still, an eighty-seven-year-old man and a twenty-five-year-old woman! The things people would say! But if he eventually had more kids, became a dad to little ones again, well, then, that was good and normal and right, and maybe everyone would understand, everyone would forgive.

  Of course, that was no reason to become a father, but, hell, he hadn't given it any thought the first time; it hadn't taken any justification. It had just seemed the most natural thing in the world when he and Sarah had gotten married.

  Three ducks landed on the lake, small wakes appearing behind them. Lenore snuggl
ed closer to Don. “It's such a beautiful day,” she said.

  He nodded, and stroked her shoulder gently, wondering what the future might hold.

  * * * *

  Chapter 27

  Don had had a truly wonderful time both down at the Island and afterward, back at Lenore's. But she had a lot of reading to do for a seminar tomorrow, so extricating himself at the end of the day had not been an issue. Sarah, meanwhile, had said she was going to stay in all day—she was still sorting through the mountain of paper records about the first message—and as Don headed toward the subway, he was startled that the answering machine picked up when he tried to call his house. Of course, Sarah's hearing wasn't what it used to be; she might simply have not heard the phone ringing, or she might be out, or—

  "Where is Sarah's datacom?” he said to his own unit.

  "At home,” the device replied, after connecting with its twin. “On her night stand."

  Don felt himself frowning; she wouldn't have gone out without it, and he'd tried now calling both her datacom and their land-line household phone. Something was wrong; he just knew it.

  He started jogging toward Bathurst subway station; the parts between here and that station, and between his home station of North York Centre and his front door, were the only segments of the journey he could speed up. The rest would happen at what he was sure would seem the snail's pace of the Toronto Transit Commission's trains—taking a taxi all the way up to North York would cost a fortune and would be no faster.

  As luck would have it, he got through the turnstile and down the escalator just in time to see the doors close on the eastbound train, and he had to wait an interminable time—this being Sunday evening—for the next one to pull into the station.

  His datacom worked just fine down in tunnels, but each time he called, his household phone rang and rang until his own voice—his own previous voice, the thin, weary version of it that sounded so different from the way he currently did—came on, saying, “Hello. Neither Sarah nor I can come to the phone right now..."

  Don sat, looking down at the gray, dirty floor, holding his face up with his hands.

  Finally, after an eternity, the subway arrived at North York Centre, and he bounded out of the car. He ran up the escalator, through a turnstile, and exited onto Park Home Avenue, which was dark and deserted. He jogged the three blocks to his house, trying once more to call along the way, but to no avail. At last, he opened his front door, and—

  She was lying face down on the scuffed hardwood floor in front of the mirrored closet. “Sarah!"

  Her limbs were splayed, and the lightweight summer dress she was wearing had billowed about her like a shroud. It seemed clear that she'd taken a tumble coming down the stairs to the entryway. “Sarah, are you all right?"

  She stirred, lifting her head a little.

  "No,” said Don. “No, no. Don't move!"

  "My leg,” she said softly. “My God, you should have heard the snap..."

  He'd learned some first aid years ago. “This one?” he said, touching her right leg.

  "No. The other one."

  He shifted the dress so that he could see her leg, and the bruising and swelling were obvious. He touched it gingerly, and he saw Sarah wince. There was no phone in the entryway; Sarah would have had to have pulled herself up the six stairs to the living room to call him; she had neither the sense of balance nor the strength in her other leg to hop. He got out his datacom, and said to it, “Nine-one-one,” a term now used as a name in this post-phone-number age.

  "Fire, police, or ambulance?” asked the operator.

  "Ambulance,” Don said. “Please hurry!"

  "You're calling from a mobile device,” the operator said, “but we have the GPS coordinates. You're at—” and she read the address to him. “Correct?"

  "Yes, yes."

  "What's happened?"

  He gulped for air. “My wife—she's eighty-seven, and she's fallen down some stairs."

  "I've dispatched the ambulance,” said the operator. “The datacom you're calling from is registered to Donald R. Halifax; is that you?"

  "Yes."

  "Is your wife conscious, Mr. Halifax?"

  "Yes. But her leg is broken. I'm sure of it."

  "Don't move her, then. Don't try to move her."

  "I won't. I haven't."

  "Is the door to your house unlocked?"

  He looked up. The door was still wide open. “Yes."

  "All right. Don't leave her."

  Don took his wife's hand. “No, no, I won't.” God, why hadn't he been here? He looked into her pale blue eyes, which were bloodshot and half-closed. “I won't leave her. I swear I won't ever leave her."

  He finished with the operator, and put the datacom down on the floor. “I'm sorry,” he said to Sarah. “I'm so sorry."

  "It's all right,” she said, weakly. “I knew you'd be home soon, although..."

  She left the thought unspoken, but doubtless she'd been thinking he should have been home earlier than this.

  "I'm sorry,” said Don again, his gut clenching. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I am so sorry..."

  "It's okay,” insisted Sarah, and she managed a small smile. “No permanent damage done, I'm sure. After all, this is the age of miracle and wonder.” A song lyric, from their youth. Don recognized it, but shook his head slightly, lost. She gestured with her head at him, and, after a moment, he got it: she was referring to his new, younger form. Now she was holding his hand, comforting him. “It'll be all right,” she said. “Everything will be fine."

  He couldn't meet her eyes as they waited and waited until, at last, the ambulance's siren drowned out the thoughts that were torturing him, and everything was bathed in strobing red through the open front door.

  * * * *

  Chapter 28

  Fortunately, it was a clean, simple fracture. Orthopedics had come a long way since Don had broken his own leg in 1977, during a high-school football game. The pieces of Sarah's femur were aligned, some of the excess fluid was drained off, Sarah was given the calcium infusion into her legs that she would have received anyway had the rejuvenation process worked on her, and a small external support was erected around her leg—these days, only dinosaur bones were wrapped in plaster. The doctor said she'd be fine in two months, and, with the support, which had its own little motors, she wouldn't even need crutches while she healed, although a cane was advisable.

  Fortunately, too, their provincial health plan covered all this. Most of the crises in Canadian health care had passed. Yes, there'd been a period when biotechnology had been young, during which costs had spiraled out of control, but all technologies come down in price with time, even medical ones. Procedures that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars in Don's youth now cost a tiny fraction of that. Even sophisticated pharmaceuticals were so inexpensive to develop and produce that governments could give them away in the Third World. Why, someday, even the magic of rejuvenation would be available to all those who wanted it.

  Once they got home from the hospital, Don helped Sarah get ready for bed. Within minutes of lying down, she was asleep, helped into the arms of Morpheus, no doubt, by the painkillers the doctor had prescribed.

  Don, however, couldn't sleep. He just lay on his back, staring up in the dark at the ceiling, an occasional band of light caused by a passing car sweeping across it.

  He loved Sarah. He'd loved her for almost his entire life. And he never, ever wanted to hurt her. But when she'd needed him, he wasn't there for her.

  He heard a siren in the distance; someone else with their own crisis, just like the one they'd faced today.

  No. No, they hadn't faced it. Sarah had faced it—face down, on the hard wooden floor, waiting hour after hour for him to return while he fucked a woman less than half—Christ, less than a third!—his age.

  He rolled onto his side, his back to the sleeping Sarah, his body tucked into a fetal position, hugging himself. His eyes focussed on the softly glowing blue numerals of a digita
l clock on his nightstand, and he watched the minutes crawl by.

  * * * *

  For the first time in years, Sarah was sitting in the La-Z-Boy with it reclined. It was, she said, easier and more comfortable to have her injured leg stretched out.

  Despite hardly sleeping at all the previous night, Don was unable to rest; he kept pacing. She had once quipped that they'd both fallen in love with this house at first sight—her because of the fireplace, him because of the long, narrow living room that just cried out for someone to march back and forth in it.

  "What are you going to do today?” Sarah asked him. The foot-high digits on the wall monitor showed 9:22 A.M. The windows on either side of the fireplace had polarized, reducing the August sunshine to a tolerable level.

  He halted in his pacing for a moment and looked at his wife. “Do?” he said. “I'm going to stay here, look after you."

  But she shook her head. “You can't spend the rest of your life—the rest of my life—as a shut-in. I see how much energy you've got. Look at yourself! You can't sit still."

  "Yes, but—"

  "But what? I'll be fine."

  "You weren't fine yesterday,” he said, and he resumed walking. “And..."

  "And what?” said Sarah.

  He said nothing, his back to her. But people who'd been married so long could finish each other's sentences, even when one of them didn't want the other to do so. “And it's only going to get worse, right?” said Sarah.

  Don tilted his head, conceding that she'd guessed correctly. He looked out the brown-tinged window. They'd bought this place in 1988, just after getting married, his parents, and Sarah's, too, helping with the down payment. Back then, Betty Ann Drive had had a few skinny trees here and there, plus one or two large blue spruces. Now, those skinny trees, planted for free by the City of North York, a municipality that didn't even exist anymore, had grown to be tall, luxurious maples and oaks.

  He continued walking, now approaching her. “You need me here,” he said, “to take care of you."

  She looked down at her leg encased in the armature. “I need someone, yes. Maybe Percy—"