by Suzanne Weyn
I feel horrible and need to talk to him, to explain that he shouldn’t feel badly. It’s not his fault that he’s not built like me—that he’s not bionic.
Am I saying that it’s not his fault that he’s not as fast, sharp-sighted, and strong as I am—that I’m braver because I have all these enhancements?
Why shouldn’t I say it? After all, it’s true. It doesn’t make him less than me. Most people are not bionic, at least not as thoroughly as I am. Is it possible that if Niles and I talk we can straighten this out?
Nice idea, I tell myself. But clearly, it’s not happening.
Wanting to forget about Niles, I strap my leg to my stump and decide to stroll around the hospital.
In a lot of the rooms, doors are open and people watch TV. Every few feet or so, I hear my named mentioned on some news channel.
It seems I’m trending.
A young man in an army uniform waves to me. “The group is meeting in the day room,” he says, gently taking hold of my elbow to lead me forward.
“What group?” I ask.
“The usual group,” he replies. He’s made a mistake about who I am, but before I can explain he pulls open the glass door to the day room. Inside are ten or more young men and women, not too much older than I am. Most of them are wearing a prosthetic of some sort, either an arm or a leg. A legless young man sits in a wheelchair. His arm is artificial.
The army man leaves my side to approach the center of the room. A pretty young woman with her hair in a ponytail looks up at me from a couch. Both her legs are prosthetics. “What branch are you?” she asks.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Army, Marines, Air Force?” she says. “We were all injured fighting in the Middle East.”
“I’m not in the service. It was a car accident.”
“Oh.”
She reaches to shake my hand. “I’m Amy.”
“Mira.”
“This group is really for vets, but as you can see, you have something in common with the rest of us, Mira. You should stay. It helps to hear how everyone copes in his or her own way.”
“What part of the military are you in?” I ask.
“Army. Car bomb in Afghanistan.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Sorry about your accident.” Her eyes light with recognition. “Aren’t you the guitarist champion swimmer girl?” I nod. “I’ve read about you. You have all the bionic stuff—the cable yarn muscles and the superchip in your head.”
“That’s me,” I reply.
“You’re so lucky,” she says. “I’d love to have all that stuff. We all would.”
I suddenly feel guilty for not being more grateful for all the advantages this science gives me. I have been lucky. “It’s a lot to get used to, though,” I tell her. “Some days I’m not even sure who I am anymore. I’m so different from who I was.”
Amy reaches for my left hand and squeezes. “I get that. It’s a big change.”
The man who walked me in addresses the group. He talks about feeling different because you look different with a prosthesis. He speaks of the many challenges of dealing with an artificial limb. He talks about the problems it can cause with intimate moments between a couple. Then he asks for questions.
“Aren’t you the girl who saved that kid?” a young guy, a soldier with a shaved head, asks me. When I say I am, he calls me a hero.
“You guys are the heroes,” I say.
When the meeting breaks up, I’m equal parts sad and relieved. It was nice to be part of a group again. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed it. But at the same time, I felt so caught in the spotlight, when it wasn’t even something I’d chosen. Part of me wishes I could pull off my arm and give it to one of the soldiers—don’t they deserve it more than I do?
Against my better instincts, I call Niles again. This is Niles. Not answering calls right now. No worries. Just need some space.
Mom invites Emma’s family over for Thanksgiving. Mom is friendly with Mrs. Schwartz, who is a short, cheery woman. Mr. Schwartz is her opposite, tall and quiet. Emma is their only child, so it’s only the six of us.
Before we eat, Mom wants us to go around the table and say what we’re thankful for. Mr. Schwartz is thankful that he wasn’t laid off in the last round of firings at his company. Mrs. Schwartz is glad Emma got a scholarship to the state university at Binghamton.
Emma is grateful she got in, since it was her first choice. “I’ve decided to go straight through to get my master’s in social work,” she reveals.
“But what about your art?” I ask. “You said that artists didn’t necessarily need college, and you’ve signed on for six years?”
“I can do art on the side,” Emma says. “You were the one who convinced me to go college, Mira. Don’t you remember telling me to take art classes that day when we were looking through the illustrated version of The Tempest?”
“I do remember, now that you mention it.” It seems so long ago.
“It’s great that Emma’s on her way to college and a career she wants,” my mom says, a little pointedly.
“It is,” I agree. “You’re allowed to change your mind. Life is full of changes, as I well know.”
Emma giggles. “I think the number fifty-six is hanging over your head again. Change, remember?”
We smile at each other, happy to be friends.
When it comes to Zack, he shakes his head. He’s not good at sharing his feelings.
“Are you grateful for butterflies and beetles?” I prompt him.
He nods his head vigorously.
“That’s lovely,” Mrs. Schwartz says.
Mom’s eyes mist before she even speaks. “I’m so grateful that Mira is … Mira is …”
“Me, too, Mom,” I say when it’s clear she’s too choked with emotion to speak. “I’m grateful to be alive.”
I write a song called “Why Can’t I Cry Over You?” The lyrics are filled with heartbreak and betrayal. They also ask a real question that’s been on my mind. Usually I can’t even see strangers cry without misting up. Lately, though, I just don’t feel any urge to cry.
Maybe I never cared about Niles as much as I thought I did? I don’t believe that’s it, though.
I was more upset when Jason and I broke up—and he and I were together more out of habit than anything else.
Could it be that I’m more angry at Niles than sad?
DECEMBER
Sylvia Marcus phones me from out of the blue to tell me that she’s left Snap Girl to open her own talent agency. She wants to be my personal agent. She also hopes Electric Storm will come on board. “I wanted to keep you all along,” she says. “My boss has such old-fashioned ideas, though. It’s why I absolutely had to leave the company. When I saw you again on the news, and read so much social media on your band, I was reminded of how truly fabulous you are. I think we could really achieve something wonderful together.”
I run it past Matt and Tom and they agree. Our parents sign some papers giving permission, and she’s our agent. It turns out that she’s a great agent. Before the week is out, she’s booked Electric Storm at Terminal 5 in Manhattan. We’re not just the openers, either. We headline! All the Internet buzz, combined with TV coverage shoots us into the number one spot.
We are so trending.
“I want you to try this,” Matt says at our next rehearsal. He holds up a guitar. “It’s my brother’s. But he won’t care. He never plays it anymore.” He hands it to me, smiling. “I’m a genius. I know.”
I’m confused. “Why are you a genius?”
“It’s a left-handed guitar,” he tells me.
“I still don’t get it. I’m right-handed.” Actually, this isn’t absolutely true anymore. One of the recent developments is that I now do a lot of things with both hands.
“That’s a great idea!” Tom says as though he suddenly understands what Matt has in mind.
“Tell me!” I say. “What’s going on?”
“
Normally you would hold the guitar and play the chords with your left hand, correct?” I nod. “But maybe if you played chords and riffs with your bionic right hand, you could be amazing. It would be as if a machine was playing the chords.”
“I’m not a machine,” I say quickly.
“Don’t be mad,” Matt says. “You know what I mean.”
“It could be really great, Mira,” Tom says. “Try it.”
Strapping on the guitar, I play a few riffs. With my new hand, I feel the strings. It’s strange to play this way. “I don’t want to change the way I play when we’re so close to the show.”
“Let’s do it for today and see how it goes,” Matt insists.
With a reluctant sigh I agree. It’s not too long before I’m used to playing chords with my right and strumming with my left. It’s sort of exciting, in a way.
That night I sit in my room and continue to practice until Mom tells me to stop because it’s late. “I’m sorry to stop you when you’re playing so well,” she says, standing in my bedroom door.
“Really?” I ask.
“Really,” she says. “I thought you had the radio on.”
The thing is, I believe her. And it fits somehow—my machine hand, a backward guitar, and me.
“You need a whole new wardrobe,” Sylvia tells me a day before the show. We’re sitting in the theater, on break from a rehearsal. “It wouldn’t hurt if you did something courageous with your superstrength, too.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Leave it to me. I’ll come up with something.”
A man I’d seen working in the lobby comes to sit next to us. Sylvia introduces him to me as Stuart who runs the box office. “Pleased to meet you,” Stuart says, shaking my hand. “I’m a fan. Love the last song you released on YouTube. Very moving yet hummable.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s up, Stuart?” Sylvia asks him.
“Here’s what I came to tell you. We just sold the last ticket. We’re officially sold out.”
Sylvia gives two thumbs up as she beams. “Electric Storm is on its way, baby!” she sings out.
“Mira!” Tom calls me to the stage. “Quit fooling around down there. Let’s get this done.”
Before he barked at me, I was about to tell them we were sold out. Now, though, I’m annoyed at his scolding, impatient tone, so I take my time getting up and I stroll onto the stage. “It took you long enough,” Matt comments when I join them.
“I’m here now, aren’t I?” I snap, annoyed.
“Sorry to bug you, your cyborg majesty,” Tom comes back at me.
“What did you call me?!”
“You heard me,” he says aggressively. Of course I heard him. (I hear everything.)
“What’s your problem?” I challenge.
He mumbles in a tone so low that even I can’t hear it clearly, but I catch some unflattering stuff, plus mutant and cyborg. Swear words are mixed in.
“Hang on a minute,” I say. “We’re headlining this show because of me. I’m the one with the fame. It’s the cyborg who got us here.”
“It was me who got you to play the left-handed guitar,” Matt says angrily. “You were never that great a guitarist before that. Your robot hand does all the playing for you. Without it you’re nothing.”
“Yeah, well, without my robot hand you’re nothing.”
“Maybe we should all bow down to you,” Matt says. “Is that what you want?”
A voice fills the theater. It’s the sound guy sitting at the back with his equipment. “I can hear everything you’re saying back here. You should all bow down to me. Quit bickering and let’s get this done. I want to go home.”
It takes another hour, but finally we have all the sound levels right. The guys head out to the van. “Are you coming?” Tom asks.
“I guess so,” I say sulkily. I’m in no mood for them at the moment.
Sylvia approaches me. “Can we talk a moment before you leave?”
“Sure,” I say heading toward her.
“Hey, we want to get going,” Matt says. “Are you coming or not?”
“Let them go,” Sylvia tells. “I’ll give you a lift home.”
I tell them to go ahead without me.
Sylvia says she needs to go over some paperwork with me, so I follow her up the theater aisle to the box office, where she says she’s left the contract. When we get there, though, smoke fills the lobby. It’s billowing out from under the door of the box office.
“Stuart!” Sylvia cries pulling on the knob. “It won’t open. It’s stuck or locked.”
With my bionic arm, I yank at the doorknob, only managing to pull out the knob. “Call the fire department,” I tell Sylvia, as I race around to the entry vestibule at the front of the lobby. The entire box office is filled with smoke. Through it I can see a figure slumped over the desk. Stuart’s stuck inside.
Racing back to the door, I use my bionic elbow to smash a hole in the door. Reaching through it, I can unlock the door. The next second, I have Stuart under his arms and am dragging him toward the outside sidewalk.
What’s taking the fire department so long? Shouldn’t I be hearing sirens by now? Where’s Sylvia?
I’m about to dash back inside to get her when she emerges from the theater holding her telephone up, using it as a video camera. Stuart sits up, suddenly seeming just fine.
It’s then I realize that I don’t smell smoke.
Sylvia sees me sniffing and smiles. “Dry ice machine,” she explains. “Stuart remembered that they had one in the prop department.”
I should be furious. They fooled me.
“Don’t put that on social media,” I say to Sylvia.
“Why not?”
“It’s not honest,” I tell her. “There was no real fire.”
“You didn’t know that.”
Stuart climbs up, wiping his outstretched palm in a semicircle. “Bionic Lead Singer Saves Theater from Destruction!” He imagines the headline.
“Saves Box Office Manager from Death,” Sylvia adds.
“Good-looking box office manager,” Stuart amends.
“Sorry, guys, it was a hoax and I don’t want any part of it,” I insist.
“Too late,” Sylvia tells me. “The video is all over Twitter and Facebook.”
“Can’t you take it down?” I ask.
“I could, but why? There’s no harm done,” Sylvia says. “If there had been smoke in the box office, you would have saved Stuart. It’s not actually dishonest.”
“I suppose so,” I relent. Just the same, I don’t feel right about it. “Is this why you offered to drive me home?” I ask Sylvia.
She nods, a bit embarrassed. “It was part of the whole … setup. Would you mind taking a train? I’ll give you cab fare from the station.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, which is true. At the moment the idea of sitting on the train alone without having to speak to anyone sounds good.
“Don’t feel bad, Mira,” Stuart says as I get into my coat. “It’s only a publicity stunt. All big stars do it.”
They seem so casual about everything, and I decide it’s not worth getting mad about. I feel used and stupid, but I’m not seething with anger or anything. The only emotion I’m aware of is an emptiness, a lack of emotion.
At Grand Central there’s a train to my town pulling out in fifteen minutes, so I buy a ticket from the vending machine and race-walk across the high-domed, grand lobby toward the track.
A cluster of young women point in my direction. They quickly obstruct my path. “Are you Mira Rains?” Their voices are bright, filled with excitement.
I want to say, “Calm down. It’s only me.”
“How does it feel to be bionic?” someone shouts from the back of the crowd, which is growing larger by the moment.
“Strong!” I reply. That I’m strong is about the only thing I know for sure. I don’t think anyone wants to hear that I’m confused, lonely, alienated from the life I used
to have.
One of them wants me to sign her hand, which I do. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to catch my train,” I say. That’s not actually true. I don’t have to catch it.
“You saved that man today,” one of them says. “You must be exhausted. Wait! Do cyborgs get tired?”
That word, cyborg, is really starting to bug me. Am I some kind of freak? Do they think I’m a robot—a nonhuman? “I get tired like anybody else,” I tell her, trying to break from the circle and continue to my train. That I get tired isn’t exactly true, either. Ever since the last operation I only need about two hours of sleep. “I’m going to miss my train. Sorry,” I say, sprinting toward the track tunnel.
“Look at her go on that leg,” one of them says as I make space between us.
“I read that the other knee is bionic, too,” another says, her voice fading behind me.
From the front of the train, I see the engineer watching, wide-eyed at the sight of me speeding down the ramp. I slow to a fast jog and am not even breathless when I slip into the second car. It’s full of commuters with bent heads, engrossed in their newspapers, laptops, books, and reading devices. No one notices me and I’m grateful for that.
I’m headed for an untaken seat when I stop short. There’s another vacant spot on the aisle even closer. I don’t know if I should take it, though.
The passenger sitting beside the empty place, staring out the window onto the busy train platform, is Niles.
Passengers need to pass me and I’m blocking them. There’s a chance he won’t turn, allowing me to hurry by, head down, unnoticed. But as soon as I step forward, he looks straight up at me.
My smile of recognition is more of a tight, nervous lip twitch.
With his eyes riveted on me, Niles lifts his backpack from the seat beside him, silently offering it. Honestly, I’m happy for the unspoken invitation. I’ve tried so hard not to think of Niles, but it’s been hard. Seeing him there, I realize all over again how much I’ve missed him.
“I’m surprised to see you. Why were you in Manhattan?” he asks. He’s casual, as though there’s never been any trouble, no harsh words, between us. This throws me because I’m not like that. Actually, I’m the complete opposite. I’m ready to resume our argument right from where we left off. (And I know exactly where that is, since I’ve rehashed the conversation in my head a million times.) Clearly, that’s not going to happen, though.