* * *
I wake up the next morning to the smell of pancakes. Dad’s specialty, he makes them any day there’s something to celebrate or apologize for. Someone’s birthday? Pancakes. Missed my History Day presentation? Pancakes. It’s his go-to, yet I can’t remember the last time he made them.
I throw off the comforter—too stiff, too new—and join him in the kitchen. When I sit at the counter, he smiles, expression like Christmas morning. Not that oozing sentimental feeling people sum up as “Christmas morning,” but like how he literally looked every Christmas morning when he woke me up—yes, he woke me up—to bring me downstairs.
“What?” I ask.
He grins. “Hungry?”
I nod, and we eat. I’m never sure how to act here. It still feels like staying at a stranger’s house, some distant relative’s or the friend of a friend’s. Like I should tiptoe and be careful not to touch anything. It smells different, and even the fork feels odd in my hand, flatter or heavier or something-er than the silverware at home.
But maybe the weirdest part is knowing it’s all stuff he picked out on his own. Like the leather recliner couch and navy-blue dinner plates, the fluffy white area rug and the wood-and-steel coffee table. He’s hung his concert photos and there’s an aloe plant—in a real pot—on a little table by the TV. I think about texting Marco a picture, but I’m not sure we’re there yet.
It’s not that I don’t like any of it. Or that I actually expected him not to try. It’s that it’s him. Only him. Not Dad’s taste filtered through Mom’s, or their taste, a separate thing altogether, but all his own. And it makes me wonder, how well do I even know him? Or Mom?
Seeing how I totally bought into the “happily married” façade, I’m guessing the answer’s “not well.” Which makes me wonder how well they know me. How well they think they know me. Eating dinner last night after seeing my disassembled, duplicated self, Dad asked how hanging out after Reach the Sky was. I answered with some bland lie I can’t even remember now. And he believed me. That simple.
Which is maybe a trust thing. Or maybe it’s a subjective-truth thing. Happy parents, thriving daughter. We see what we want to see. It makes me wonder if anyone really knows anyone. Do I even know myself?
I breathe a laugh. Guess I’ll find out soon.
“What’s funny?”
I shake my head and stand to clear our plates. “Nothing.”
His glowy face is back. “I have something for you. Well, it’s from Mom, too. Put some shoes on. We’re going outside.”
Standing on the sidewalk around the side of the building by an older Honda Civic, arms outstretched and grinning, Dad says, “Well? What do you think?”
“The car?”
He nods.
I smile, wide and bright. “Really?”
“Yes, really! Your mom and I know how—”
“Tired you are of driving my ass all over the city?”
“Funny. No.” He bows—super regal in basketball shorts and flip-flops—and says, “I’d happily play your chauffeur forever.”
“But.”
“But, yeah, this’ll save time.”
I laugh.
He holds out the keys. I hug him. Thank him. And we climb in—me in the driver’s seat—to go for a drive. Guilt kittens and pity rainbows. But even thinking that makes me feel like an asshole, so I say another few thank-yous and enjoy the drive.
“Do you have plans today?” he asks when we get back.
“Just a couple practice SAT tests.”
“Not hanging out with Cass or anything?”
I shake my head. There’s so much he doesn’t know. “No. But we’re going to the lake for the day tomorrow. If that’s okay.”
“Of course. You can take your hot new ride.”
“My hot ride?”
“No air-conditioning. Hot ride. Get it?”
“Oh my god.”
He laughs. “Ah, I crack myself up.”
We climb out and head toward the lobby. “We could see what’s playing at the IMAX? Drive up to Fort Collins or something?”
“Actually, some of my new coworkers invited me to play on the company baseball team.” He makes a fake scared face. “And we have a game this afternoon. You can come if you want. Some of the other families will probably be there.”
I quicken my pace a step to hide my face. Why does this hurt so bad? He said I can come. But it feels like Cass. Like, hi, wanna tag along while I enjoy my new, Lucille-less life?
“That’s okay,” I say, forcing a smile as we get in the elevator. “I have plenty of stuff to do.”
The apartment’s too quiet without him. Too empty without Boris. I realize I’ve never been here alone before. I play one of Dad’s grunge records. Can’t focus. Turn it off.
It’s nervous energy. Like the day before I got my tonsils out in sixth grade. Knowing something’s coming but having no real clue how it’s going to go. Sure, Thompson explained it. Scary machine, special scrubs, general anesthesia, tube down my throat, body restrained, skull held steady by screws and a halo brace. I mean, who wouldn’t feel at ease, right? Ready, set, focus on this set of data-analysis problems for your practice SAT, Lucille!
Instead, I spend an hour in an obnoxiously counterproductive loop: Pick up pen. Read math problem. Put pen down. Open phone. Stare at Marco’s contact. Talk self out of texting. Stare at Cass’s contact. Feel stab of loneliness in chest. Remember guts in incubation pods. Isobel’s plastic smile. Helps with the panic. Ninety-eight percent success rate. Laugh maniacally. Pick up pen. Read math problem.
Until I can’t stand it anymore.
Out on the street, new keys in hand, I still don’t know what to do with myself. Every thought I think feels like ringing a bell. Ding. Will she remember this? Ding. What about this? Ding, ding, ding.
I eye the car, but I can’t think of anywhere to go, so I just start walking. I don’t know Aurora yet. I wander toward the main road, then head left for exactly zero reasons. It’s hot. Traffic’s constant. After a couple of miles, I’m sweating and my feet hurt, but my mind slows.
The road complicates, the traffic thickens. I cross a major intersection, pass a KFC, then see signs for a Target and make that my plan. Buy a drink, take a break, then walk back and get to work.
The stretch of car-packed blacktop bakes under the July sun, its heat wafting up my legs. By the time I reach the doors, I can feel sweat in my hair. Inside, I pause, drying out in the artificial cool.
“Lucille?”
Oh my god.
I blink.
Turn.
“Bode?”
He walks over from the row of cash registers, tan and dressed in cut-off jorts. With a T-shirt—a Bode original, of course—that has the sleeves ripped off, an American flag bandanna worn like a headband, and face paint.
“Wow,” I say. “Nice outfit.”
“Thanks.” He smiles and my stomach does its flopping thing. Of course it still does. Marco regardless. Life2 regardless. All that’s worth a bug’s fart where my idiot crush is concerned. My cheeks heat. My heart absconds. Pop! Gone. Not in small part because there is a zero percent chance he’s here—dressed like that—alone. And sure enough.
Aran’s next, catching up with Bode, reusable bag hung on his wrist. Then Finn and their boyfriend, Matt. Then Louise.
Then Cass.
All of them, clumping up to face me in the entryway, other customers coming in and going out, circumnavigating our awkward wad.
“Hey,” I say with a wave.
“Hey,” Cass echoes back. Like Bode, they’re all dressed up. Different, but similar. Face paint, lots of colorful flair. Aran has a glittery temporary American flag tattoo on one cheek and the Indian flag on the other. Cass has dyed the ends of her Mohawk bright red and wears a matte cherry lipstick to mat
ch. Louise’s hair is dyed like a pastel rainbow. I can still feel sweat cooling in mine.
“You all look…”
“Amazing?” Aran supplies.
I grin. “What are you doing in Aurora?”
“Pit stop,” he answers. “You?”
“My dad lives here.”
“Nice.”
Matt pushes between Finn and Louise, smiles at me, says, “We should go. Good to see you, Lucille,” and heads for the doors. It feels like mercy.
Finn goes next, then Louise and Aran and Bode—with a quick wave—leaving only Cass. Cass, whom I haven’t seen or talked to since that night in the park three eons ago. Just looking at her, I feel all of it—Dad’s new life, Marco, my mid-growth clone—gurgling up my throat. Everything I’ve been doing alone, without her, crowding together at the back of my tongue.
I could gag.
“So,” she says, “how are you?”
“Oh, you know.” I look at my feet and laugh.
“Obviously, I don’t.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I mean—” I shake my head. “Busy. Doing that internship I told you about. SAT prep.”
“The works.”
“Yep.” I pull out my ponytail and fluff my sweaty hair. “You?”
“Good. Busy, too. We’re shooting scenes today for a short film Louise and Finn wrote and we’re all working to put together. That’s why we’re dressed up.” She shrugs. “It’s fun.”
“Awesome.”
“Yeah.”
We stand, awkward. Quiet.
Then she says, “Better go. We were filming down at—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She frowns.
“Sorry,” I say. “That was rude. I just…Forget it.”
“Okay,” she says. “Well.” And turns to go.
When she’s almost to the doors, I call, “Hey.”
She stops, looks back.
“Does my dad talk to yours much lately?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
I purse my lips. “I know we haven’t been, well, much of anything lately. And it probably won’t come up. But.”
“Spit it out, Lucille.”
“My dad thinks I’m spending tomorrow with you. So, in the one-in-a-million chance it comes up…”
“You want me to cover for you?”
“I’ve done it plenty for you.” Like every single time she and Aran went out before she turned sixteen.
“I know.” She looks at me. Close this time, up and down. “Are you…”
I roll my eyes. “I’m fine.”
And she nods. “Okay.”
* * *
It’s quiet.
Cold.
My head hurts.
I open my eyes. The room’s dim. A silhouette stands in the open doorway, backed by blinding white light.
“Cold,” I say, rasp it. Throat aching.
The figure moves. Sleek bun, careful movements, Isobel pulls a second blanket up from the foot of the bed to cover me, tucking it around my shoulders, leaning down, reaching across me to secure the far side, and her face. Her beautiful, perfect face isn’t plastic or blank.
It’s crumpled as, silently, she weeps.
* * *
I wake again, and the room’s bright. I reach a hand up to shield my eyes, dragging IV tubes with it.
“Lucille?”
I blink until my eyes adjust and look up to see Dr. Thompson standing beside my bed. Some of the others are here, too. Dr. Kim at the foot of the bed. Dr. Adebayo at my right. Isobel, watching from the doorway.
“Lucille,” Thompson says again. “Can you tell us the date and where you are?”
I try to swallow. Dr. Adebayo hands me a cup of water, and I take a long drink through the cold metal straw.
“Sunday, July twelfth,” I answer, voice like sandpaper. “Inside god’s shiny white asshole.”
A pause.
Then Adebayo laughs.
Thompson and Kim smile, exhale.
“So.” I try clearing my throat, but that only makes it worse. “Did it work?”
Dr. Thompson smiles down at me. It’s the most genuine I’ve ever seen her look. “Yes, it did.”
Clothes in the closet. Shampoo and makeup in the bathroom. Fresh sheets on the bed. An oversized dry-erase board hung on the wall, the grid of a calendar on one side with bright red X’s marking off the days. Eighteen since the Mimeo. Ten since they moved her to the final incubation pod. The one I lay in for the body mold. The one where they assembled her, piece by vital piece, then set the ITOP to print her skin.
My phone dings on the kitchenette’s counter, and my heart leaps. But it’s Mom, texting that she’ll be home late. I type out a quick reply, then set my phone back down next to the journal I’ve been keeping since the Mimeo, half-full and with her name—suggested by Thompson, for “ease”—on the inside cover. I open it and trace the letters with a finger. Mine but not mine.
Twelve days until the end of Reach the Sky. Eighteen until the start of junior year. New blackout drapes on the windows. Door and cabinet hinges oiled. Non-creaky, safe-to-step spots on the floor marked with painter’s tape. Squeaky bed frame dismantled, mattress and box spring laid directly on the floor.
I grab the TV remote off the coffee table, turn the volume up to twelve—like the note I put on the screen says not to exceed—then go down to the garage, stand next to my car, close my eyes, and listen.
Nothing. Like the half dozen times I’ve checked before.
Boris joins me, nails clicking on the concrete, and touches his nose to my hand. I pet the spot between his eyes like he likes. He leans his heavy body against my leg, tips his nose up, and closes his eyes, serene. She’ll meet him first. Then, Mom.
Single set of keys. Color-coded calendar. Daily continuity briefings. Regular reports to Life2 on top of the Body Area Network and GPS implants to track her vitals and location. And my swelling sense of almost.
“What do you think, Bobo? Ready for a second me?” The tight curl at the end of his tail wags against the concrete floor.
Upstairs in the apartment, a phone rings. I sprint, answer, “Yes?”
On the other end, Dr. Thompson says, “Time to wake her up.”
It’s quiet.
Warm.
And bright.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I’m…Recovery. The recovery room?
Inhale.
Air (nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide) pulled in through my mouth (incubation pod with a half-grown tongue, her tongue, my tongue), down my trachea, bronchi, pleurae, left lung, right lung, alveoli, diaphragm, and the muscles in my neck.
Exhale.
Gas exchange.
But close. Confined.
I swallow. My throat and tongue are dry. I remember (I remember, I remember…Cass at Target, dinner with Dad, mask on my nose, count back from ten, nine, eight…) choking. Blue gel. (Everywhere. Eyes, ears, up my nose. Naked, twitch, inhale, choke, choke, cho-oh-oh-oh-oh— GET IT OUT!) No. No, that was, wasn’t, wasn’t this…this is from the intubation for the Mimeo. Plastic tube shoved down my throat to make me breathe. Screws through my scalp to keep my head still. My head and eyes hurt. Why do my eyes hurt? Why’s the room so bright? I lift a hand (heavy hand, heavy fingers, heavy arm) to block it, but—
My hand hits something. Tight above me. A few inches, maybe six.
Then, the beeping. Fades in like my ears are waking up. Muffled, separate, outside. But increasing. Mirroring my heart rate, because—
“Stay calm,” a voice says near my ear. Dr. Thompson, through a speaker, somewhere up by my head.
I try to open my eyes.
“Too bright,” I say. My voice cracks. The lights dim.
“
Lucy,” she says. Not Lucy, Lucille. She’s never made that mistake before.
I blink.
Everything’s blurry. Where are my contacts?
Again.
My vision clears.
“Take it slow.” Thompson stands (outside) beside me, distorted by the curve of glass. “Would you like me to open the capsule?”
Capsule.
The pace of the beeping spikes.
This is not the recovery room. Back a pace, over by Drs. Kim and Patel and Adebayo and Karlsson, is…
Me.
But not me.
Lucille.
Because I’m the clone.
LUCILLE
It faints.
She faints.
It, she. I, her.
She’s me.
Her face, her hair, her voice, her eyes, tongue, elbows, shins, ankles, toenails, everything. They’re mine.
Almost.
Dr. Thompson presses a button and the dome of the capsule lifts. The others crowd in and I step closer, watching between their shoulders as they volley questions and data between each other.
She’s pale. And pinkish. Skin like velvet. Like…new. Resting on the bed of the capsule by her hospital-gown-clothed thigh, her hand twitches, fingers curling in toward her palm. Except for a series of lines—pink, healing, freshly made—on her palm and inside each knuckle, it’s smooth.
I look at hers, look at mine. Hers, mine. Hers. Then lean forward, peering around Dr. Adebayo—who’s removing a series of sensors from her scalp—to look at her right temple. It’s there. Half an inch long and already scabbing. I touch my own scar—long-healed, barely visible—and remember flying over the handlebars of my purple-and-white bike as my tires skidded out from under me.
SemblanceSync. To make our imperfections match.
Her hand flinches again. Her eyelids flutter.
“Refresh her sedation,” Thompson says, “then let’s move her.”
Patel nods and reaches for a syringe from a rolling tray off to the side of the capsule, plunging its contents into her IV’s injection port. He waits, watching her vitals on the screen mounted above the capsule, then unplugs the IV’s tube from the port in her hand.
Half Life Page 8