Half Life

by Lillian Clark

  “I know because I was there. For all of it. I’ve watched you cry watching Dumbo. And Inside Out and WALL-E and, which I will never believe or let you live down, Cars 3. I’ve listened to you argue with your mom about Gilmore Girls. I’ve eaten Twizzlers with you, then regretted it twenty minutes later. And when you went over your handlebars, I took off my sock to sop up the blood.”

  I snort a laugh. “So sanitary.”

  “Yeah, well, you ruined my sock.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You know what else I know?”

  I shake my head.

  “There is something going on with you. Something big. Maybe your parents’ divorce, but I don’t think so. You’re…” She stares out the windshield. “Different isn’t the right word for it. Because you aren’t totally. Yet you are. I don’t know. But it’s like since the first day of school some switch flipped. Then, for some reason, today it flipped back.”

  I mean to laugh, but it comes out broken. “I messed up, Cass. I did something, and…”

  “And?”

  I wipe my eyes, but the tears keep coming.

  “Can you fix it?” she asks.

  “I don’t know if I want to. I mean, I have to. I can’t do nothing. But I don’t think the easy fix is the right one anymore.”

  “It usually isn’t.”

  “I’ve really missed you,” I say.

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  We’re quiet for a minute, a breeze blowing through the open windows of my car. “What did you say about art?”

  LUCY

  It’s unbearable.

  Watching her.

  Her halting speech (six videos until she can complete a coherent sentence), her erratic movements, and finally, her grief.

  May 1, 2020, 10:17 p.m.

  She sits, shoulders straight and chin parallel to the floor (this, I learn, the fastidiousness, the attention, is how she controls the tremors and tics), with her hands in her lap. “I don’t know…” She pauses, collects herself. “Metaphors are still difficult for me. But I feel hollow, as though the bulk of me either never was or has been…scooped out. Dr. Thompson says this is because my my my…” Isobel stops again. Aiming her eyes as far down as she can without shifting the set of her head. I can almost hear her thinking, searching for the right word, forcing her synapses to connect. She looks up again. “My connectome is incomplete. But I know it’s because you’re gone.”

  The muscles in her chin shiver. Then she’s crying. Silent rivulets slipping down her cheeks. “To never get to know your self, to lose that self without ever…”

  She closes her eyes. I watch her throat bob as she swallows. Then she looks directly into the camera and says, “The misery is acute.”

  The Mimeo killed Dr. Mitchell.

  Halfway through, thanks to a catastrophic amount of brain swelling brought on by excessive radiation. I find the write-up in the files. Not a traditional medical report, rather a series of events included with a diagnostic report on the machine: elevated heart rate, reduced oxygen rates, seizures—followed by the cessation of the procedure, administration of medications, CPR, removal of a portion of her skull to reduce pressure, and finally, death.

  I think about what it would be like to lose Lucille. There’s a flash of satisfaction (a glimpse of how easy it’d be if, suddenly, I was the only one) followed by a chasm.

  Not the same as losing a sister. A best friend. A confidante. Because she’s none of those things. I honestly can’t even be sure that I like her. I know I resent her, envy her, maybe even hate her.

  But she’s also me.

  Losing her would feel like having my life string cut. And without that tether, I might simply float away.

  There’s more. Beyond the video diary. Massive PDFs filled with pages and pages of indecipherable (to me) data, rosters with the names and personal information of the Life2 investors, much of it dated after Mitchell’s death. And a separate video titled “Presentation OM2009, 5/18/20.”

  It opens on a conference room, bright and sterile like the one at Life2 but bigger. The table stretches at least ten seats to both the left and right of the camera, with every seat filled. Across from it, back a few paces from the middle of the table, between it and a glass wall, stand Dr. Thompson and Isobel.

  Isobel’s dressed in her familiar skirt suit and modest heels. She stands stiffly, with her hands clasped before her hips. To the audience, I’m sure her expression appears stoic, composed. But as the camera zooms in slowly, before it rewidens the frame, I see how her right eyebrow twitches. There’s a sheen of sweat on her upper lip.

  “Begin,” says a deep male voice, out of frame, at the right end of the table.

  Dr. Thompson nods. “Thank you, to the Board and other gathered investors, for allowing me to present the American branch’s successful Facsimile”—she makes a sweeping gesture—“Isobel.”

  The awe is audible, gasps and disbelief. People talk over one another. Isobel’s left knee begins to shake. “How do we know it’s real?” shouts a man over the rest. “She could be anyone.”

  Thompson lifts her chin. “You’ll find all relevant verification materials in the introduction packet on your tablet.”

  “How long did it take?”

  “Can it talk?”

  “Does it have preferences?”

  Until they’re all talking over one another, rabid. A cacophony. And Isobel begins to panic. I watch her hands shake, her eyes dart from point to point, face to face, never pausing long enough to focus. I can feel it. How she must’ve felt. The pressure of all that attention, all those questions, dozens of Thompsons wanting something from her, something she couldn’t give, couldn’t be, all at once.

  “This says there were complications. What were those complications?”

  “How long until the service is available to clients?”

  She’s about to lose it, lifts her hands as though to cover her mouth or grip her head.

  Then a deep male voice from the right-hand head of the table asks, “Where is her Original?”

  Isobel opens her mouth and begins to scream.

  The screen goes black.

  From a follow-up report, I learn that Thompson nearly lost her job. What had she been thinking, presenting a Facsimile for a dead Original? What use was RapidReplicate if it killed the client? There’s no praise, no acknowledgment of Isobel, only censure. Deserved, maybe, but the tone is vicious.

  Then there are Isobel’s videos about Lucille. About me.

  They start in June, the day of Lucille’s first appointment. “They’ve found a new candidate” is all she says. In the following entries, she calls Lucille “young” and “naïve” and “self-involved,” which is “exactly what Thompson wants. She doesn’t even care that the girl’s a minor, though who knows if the Board will. Not like legality is a big consideration here. And even if Lucille were of age, it isn’t like Thompson would honor the contract if it tipped suddenly out of her favor. In the end, all that matters is Thompson’s ability to deny knowing, and leverage Lucille’s lie against her. She only cares about winning, about being first. And for that she needs a willing participant. A candidate who won’t think too hard about the implications. Who’s only flattered that she’s been chosen, who doesn’t know that Thompson’s search turned up dozens of candidates and she’s the only one who took the bait. One who’s a stranger. Ignorant of the risks, easy to manipulate. Whose Facsimile won’t be…” She pauses, takes a quick deep breath. “A shadow.”

  The last one is dated Wednesday, August 12, 5:45 p.m. The day before I went home.

  “I’m not sure why I keep making these. As a testament to my existence? Habit? Both Olivia’s and mine. And as a contingency, I suppose.” She sighs, and her shoulders relax. She lets her head tilt to the side
, eyes appraising, like she’s studying her own image on the screen. Her movements are fluid. No more careful, incremental shifts. No more preternatural stillness. Her hair’s in its usual bun, but she’s shed her suit jacket and undone the top button on her blouse. She looks…not like Olivia, exactly. But more like herself. “I went back and watched a few of my first videos. I won’t call it humbling, to see how far I’ve come. It’s infuriating. Though, helpful in some ways. Only yesterday Thompson left me alone in her office yet again. Because she still sees me as she did that first day, when I woke up and she figured out I’d have to relearn how to speak.

  “And thanks to that, I now have this.” Smiling, she holds up a flash drive similar to, if not the same as, the one she gave me. “The failsafe codes for Cindy. And with Lucy heading home tomorrow, I imagine I’ll get my opportunity to use them soon.”

  LUCILLE

  I walk with Cass back through the front doors, then turn toward the wing with the art room instead of following her toward the junior lobby to wait for our next classes.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “I need to take care of something.”

  She smirks. “Lucille Harper, ditching two class periods in one day?”

  “Guess so. I’m a real wild woman.”

  “International Woman of Mystery, right?”

  I smile but don’t say anything. It’s a Cass-and-Lucy joke. I’m not sure how I know, but I do. Cass waves and I head for the art room.

  When I walk in, it’s empty, lights dim, Mx. Frank’s planning period or something, and I’m glad for it. I hesitate inside the door. No clue where I’m going. I’ve never been in this room before. It smells like mud and dust and paint. Sunlight comes in through the windows facing the courtyard. In a weird way, it reminds me of the conference room at Life2. The size, maybe. The courtyard, the light. Like, if that’s the fake version, this is the real one.

  The easels are all pushed together against a wall, but they’re empty. To their right are drying racks with canvases in each slot. I stride over and start searching.

  I know which one is hers right away. And not just because it’s…me.

  I don’t know what I was expecting. Cass told me about it, confused why I was asking her to explain my own painting but humoring me anyway. She told me how Bode’s apparently obsessed, how he kept talking about it at lunch and asking Cass why I hadn’t signed up for art before. She told him the truth, that I couldn’t draw anything better than a janky stick figure to save my life. But, of course, she was talking about me. This is Lucy’s. And it’s gorgeous. And ugly. And strange. And interesting. But mostly it’s real.

  That’s what I settle on.

  It’s real. And Lucy made it.

  Her self-portrait’s done entirely in shades of blue, from a near-black to the bleached blue of a sun-drenched sky. Her—not my—head is tipped to the side, her—not my—brow is tight with eyes slightly narrowed, considering. Skeptical. And her—not my—edges are liquid, blurred into the all-blue background.

  What the hell color is the sky, anyway?

  She looks like me. But the longer I look at it, the less I recognize her.

  “Lucy?”

  Bode stands in the doorway to the storage and kiln rooms, backlit by the overhead light. “What are you doing? Aren’t you supposed to be in physics or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  I stare back at the painting. It’s just pigment. Strategically placed, in varying shades. And looking at it makes me want to pull my heart out of my chest with my bare hand.

  She made this. All this while, I’ve treated her like a thing. A placeholder. My stand-in. And she’s capable of this. I shake my head. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. This thing she did, it’s not what matters. It’s incredible, but it’s a symptom. A side effect.

  I wipe my cheeks with my free hand and—taking the painting—turn to go.

  “Lucy,” Bode says, “wait.”

  Almost to the door, I glance back. “I’m not Lucy.”

  LUCY

  My phone buzzes on Lucille’s desk, snapping me out of the stupor I’ve been sitting in for the last twenty minutes. It’s Bode: Where are you?

  I unplug the flash drive from the laptop and make my way back out to the studio, wanting, what? A moment alone? Seems superfluous. But I guess I just want to be somewhere that feels even a little bit like mine.

  Walking up the stairs, minding the X’s out of habit, I text back: In class.

  What are you talking about? No you aren’t. I just saw you.

  Where?

  Are you joking? In the art room. You took your painting. Kickass hair btw.

  My throat goes thick. Can’t swallow. Can’t breathe. I run the rest of the way up the stairs, dialing Lucille’s number as I go. The phone buzzes with a text while I hold it against my ear. She doesn’t answer. I check the message, from Life2: Severely elevated heart rate. Please report.

  But I can’t think clearly enough to come up with a lie. I can feel my pulse inside my head. If she, if she, if sh-sh-sh-sh—

  The garage door opens. I hold my breath, hear a car pull in, the engine cut, door open and close. Then, footsteps on the stairs.

  LUCILLE

  I close the door to the studio behind me. Lucy’s eyes flick between mine and the painting. She’s terrified. And it breaks my heart that she thinks I’d hurt it, hurt her. But I suppose I’ve set the precedent, if not for hurt, then for total disregard.

  “The strangest part is that you know,” I say. My throat aches. I can’t stop my tears. “You’ve known all along how I thought of you. How I didn’t think of you. I don’t know how to say I’m sorry for that.”

  She stands still, both feet on a blue X between the counter and the back of the love seat. “So that’s it? You see a picture I made and suddenly decide I’m human?”

  “It’s not about you not being ‘human.’ It’s understanding that you aren’t…”

  “That I’m not what?” She swallows, jaw tight.

  “Me. You aren’t me.”

  She loses the battle, tears welling in her eyes. “Aren’t I?”

  “No. Maybe. Maybe you’re both. Maybe I’m both too. Me, not me. Lucille, Lucy”—I cough a laugh—“Lucille Harper, Overachiever. Lucille Harper, Perfect Daughter. Lucille Harper, Trying Too Hard. Maybe I’m all of it, or none of it. Maybe I have no fucking clue.”

  She purses her lips, and I can still feel the gesture, taste the salt of tears on her lips, because I’m doing it too. “Sounds about right,” she says.

  I hold up the painting. “This is amazing. You’re amazing.”

  “Same apple,” she whispers. “Same tree.”

  I swallow, letting my eyes blur as I stare at the blues. “What the hell do we do now?”

  LUCY

  Lucille sets my painting on the counter carefully, wipes the tears from her cheeks with a hand, and crosses the room to sit on the love seat. I watch her. Feeling my heart rate slow, my tension ease, then join her. My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I check the screen.

  “It’s Life Squared,” I say.

  “About what?”

  “Elevated heart rate.” I type out a quick text, telling them someone slammed a door and scared the shit out of half my class. Seconds later, I receive a reply: Please advise, new in-person progress appointment scheduled for 6 p.m. today. “They want me to come in later.”

  “Why?”

  I shrug and breathe a deep sigh. The quiet between us goes slack.

  “I figured you’d be an extension of me,” Lucille says. “All the parts I needed and none of the ones I don’t. Or, I hoped you wouldn’t get those. I don’t know. They kept saying ‘copy,’ ‘duplicate’…”

  “Facsimile.”

 
“Right. And I thought that meant…exact. An exact reproduction of me. Who I thought I was, at least.” She pulls her feet up onto the couch and hugs her knees to her chest.

  “Is that why you were okay with giving me back?”

  Her eyes brim again. “How’s that for a healthy sense of self-worth, huh?”

  “Something preaching something something choir.”

  Lucille breathes a sad laugh, then shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. But, if I’m honest, I’m not sure what for. I don’t regret doing what I did. You’re here because of it.”

  “You don’t?”

  She turns her head to look at me, and I know our expressions are a perfect mirror for each other, just without the images being reversed. The same, but different. “No,” she says.

  We close the gap between us at the same time, looping identical arms around identical backs, breathing with identical lungs, identical blood pumping through identical hearts. Loving each other and trying harder to love ourselves.

  When we let go, we sit shoulder to shoulder, sunk low together on the worn-out cushions. I ask her about Marco, and she tells me about the party, breaking up. “I slept with him,” she says. “The last night of our trip.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” She picks Boris hairs off her pants. “I think…I thought he was the answer. Which seems pretty ridiculous now. I mean, I really like him. He’s funny and kind and decent. I don’t necessarily wish I hadn’t done it. I guess I wish I’d done it all differently. I dove headfirst into it, into him, because being liked by him, wanted by him, by anyone, felt like the solution. Like if he wanted me, then I was finally doing everything right. Like I finally deserved to be wanted by someone.

  “I know that’s why I answered Thompson. As pathetic as it sounds, it’s because she, Life Squared, wanted me. Because she said she needed me. That I was their ideal candidate. The best.”