by Novo Dé
And then one day, it finally happened. He gave up and I gave up.
The last call I got about ‘em…was about his passing. Sometimes, I’m not even sure if he was real doc.”
My eyes swell with tears but I keep them at bay. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry over him anymore.
“And what about your mother…during all this?”
“Mom...was mom. I mean, she really completed the stereotypical dynamic we had. She was the intermediary between us. The mediator. She kept it all together, well, as long as she could. She’d always give me the, ‘well that’s just your father’ response, to, well, just about everything. Anytime I was upset about something – ‘that’s just your father.’ I can close my eyes and hear her voice saying that. Like, ‘he is who he is.’
She wanted me to realize there’s no changing this, no changing him. And since he wasn’t willing to change, all we had was what we had. ‘So just accept it kid.’ Love em’ for who he is, not what he is.”
“Did you love him?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think you still love him?”
“Of course. But he’s just a memory now. But. At least now I feel like I have the support I never had.”
“But is it real?”
“I dunno. I mean, it’s real to me. At least I think so. I’d say it’s real to me doc. Isn’t that what matters?”
“That’s for you to decide Tybalt,” he says, pausing. “What kind of impact did it have on you? Your relationship with your father?”
“Like I said, I don’t think I’d be me…without my father. The good or the bad. Isn’t that everyone? I think what he really taught me was what to avoid. I saw the selfishness in him. The bigotry. The stubbornness. But he could never see it in himself.
So I always made sure I made an effort to be self-aware. And I promised myself, when I had kids, that, I’d never be like that, like him. I promised myself I’d always be supportive, always loving, always, all the stuff a father should be. I mean, fatherhood should be aspirational, not purely traditional.”
“Strong words for someone who never had children.”
“Yeah but what the DRI data doesn’t tell you is how hard we tried. And we tried for years doc, I mean years to get pregnant – I always wanted kids – but Juliet never wanted to adopt. Had to be natural she’d always say. So we tried everything: fertility drugs, in vitro, therapy, fuck even hypnosis, I mean everything. But nothing ever worked. And we eventually gave up.
And then one day, one day, about a year later, she showed at my office, just out of the blue. And I saw a look in her eyes I’d never seen before. And all she said was, ‘it finally happened,’ and I knew. I knew we were pregnant. And we embraced each other like we had never embraced each other before.”
I look down and smile. I remember that moment like it was yesterday.
“What happened?”
“You can imagine how disciplined we became…given our history. We changed everything for that pregnancy doc. Our diets. Our lifestyles. We did everything by the book. Everything. We were perfect.
And then one day, during the third trimester, about seven months in, she showed up at my office again, again just out of the blue, near the end of the day. But this time, this time, she didn’t have to say a word. Her face said everything. I’ll never forget the unique shade of crimson on her cheeks. Her eyes bloodshot. The endless stream of tears. Nose running. Mouth, full of saliva, incapable of making full words.
She lost the baby – stillbirth.
She slept in that day and woke up to extreme stomach pains. Blood soon followed. She was at the hospital all day, while I was at work, oblivious to the events unfolding. It was a little after one when they told her that, that, there was nothing that they could do. It was over. They called it a spontaneous stillbirth. All the tests were inconclusive. We never got a real answer. And we did everything perfect up until then doc. There was no reason…”
I stop as the tears begin to stream down my face. I cry. I remember that moment too, like it was yesterday, but for that one, time hasn’t made that one better; time hasn’t healed any of those wounds.
Cohen holds out a box of tissues. I accept without hesitation.
Eventually, I collect myself.
“I’m sorry Tybalt. I didn’t—”
“It’s ok.”
“We can, we can adjourn for today, if you need to—”
“No, let’s keep, I wanna stay. Let’s keep going,” I say, sniffling, swallowing.
And Cohen’s gaze becomes mildly sharp for a moment.
“Alright,” he says back. “We can change subjects if…”
“No, no, it’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I say back gently.
“Ok. So. What happens to Juliet?” he starts back again.
“She. She. She was never the same after that. More textbook bullshit. She went through the usual cycles. Denial. Isolation. Spells of anger. Bargaining. Extreme depression. Sadness. That was the worst of it. But she never made it to the end doc. Could never accept…what happened,” I say looking up.
“Never?”
“Never. She quickly became a shell of her former self. She was still in there. But, I dunno. She became. Cold. Different. She just wasn’t the same. At the peak of her depression, I think, I think she just lost it. And that’s when, soon after…she enlisted to serve in the war.”
“And?”
“Well what do you think happened?” I say back sarcastically. “Oh we had quite the fight. It was bad. I was completely against the idea. Couldn’t even imagine at the time what would’ve happened if I lost her too. The idea alone made me fuckin,’ just made my fuckin’ stomach turn. Still does. But in the end, she had already made up her mind. She was goin.’ She knew she was goin.’ And I quickly learned that there was nothin’ I could do to change that.”
“Why do you think she went?”
“I dunno doc. That’s one thing I can’t get out of her. But I have my theories.”
“Such as?”
“Well. The first one that comes to mind was that she had a fuckin’ death wish—”
“Suicide.”
“Yeah suicide, in a blaze of fuckin’ glory too. But, obviously, she made it back, so I don’t know about that one anymore. Then, there’s the avoidance-slash-replacement theory. Maybe she thought that the war was gonna help her forget, or move on, or at least, maybe she thought that, the hell of war would be a little better than the hell of losing a child.
Then there’s my favorite. Maybe, maybe she felt like her child was murdered, y’know, killed. So. Maybe she thought she would do a little killin’ of her own, create a little balance in the universe. Karma is a bitch right doc?”
And Cohen stares, face emotionless.
“Maybe, maybe, it was a little of each, I dunno,” I continue. “Only she knows.”
“And you?”
“Me. What about me?”
“In a way, you did kind of lose her…to the war, that is, for at least a little while. How were you then? Where did your mind go?”
“It wasn’t easy. It was definitely a mind fuck. I mean, I never really knew when or if she was gonna come home. I used to think, ‘today’s the day, today’s the day a man in uniform will be at my doorstep to give me the news, the news that will change my life again, forever.’”
“But that day never came.”
“No. That day never came. What came was the panic attacks. And the paranoia. The delusions. My mind constantly playing tricks on me. Torturing me.”
You might say that that was the absolute beginning of my substance abuse. But at the time, it was just alcohol, nothin’ else.”
“Why do you think you had all those psychological manifestations?”
“Fuck you know…”
“Sure, sure, I do, but I want hear what you think…please,” he says with a slight nod of his head and a shift of his hand toward me, gesturing me to continu
e.
“The unknown. Fear of the unknown. I didn’t know what was gonna happen. So my mind did it for me. Filled the void. And it was always the worst. Just these endless, nightmarish futures of what could be. Maybe she’ll never come back or she’ll come back but disfigured or without limbs or with brain damage, and won’t recognize me. Maybe she’ll—”
“But those never came either.”
“No. And luckily we got a little time of relief there, from all that fuckin’ mental torture.”
“Between the two tours.”
“Yeah. She got a break. Got to come home. Visit me. I thought she was done at the time. So did she. Thought we could just go back to, to, y’know…but the stop-loss got her. But the truth is doc…I think she wanted to go back. Finish what she started.”
“Which was?”
“Again doc, I dunno. Can’t get it out of her. Says she doesn’t wanna talk about it.”
“And you?”
“Went back to prison. Back to the unknown.”
“And that was about the same time you got your CHARLIE unit.”
“Yeah and Thank God.”
“God? You know you never mention turning to faith through any of this…”
“To me ‘Thank God’ is just a phrase now, a phrase to express a feeling. Growin’ up, our house was a house of secularism believe it or not, which I know was a bit rare in the US back then. So my feeling is a feeling of indifference to it all – Faith, religion, God, spirituality – I don’t really care about any of it honestly. I definitely don’t seek refuge in it.”
“I see,” he says back to me after a pause. “Alright then, colloquialisms aside…why such an acknowledgement for an A.I.?”
“At the time, CHARLIE kind of saved me from…me. In a way, he still does. Back then, the unit was just an empty vessel, like a kid. So I got to, in a way, raise ‘em. Make him my own. And that gave me purpose.”
“Walk me through that.”
“Ok, umm, well at first, CHARLIE was just another toy to me, a tool. But what started with short exchanges eventually developed into more and more of these, into full length conversations…” I stop, laughing, “Kinda like us. The turning point however, was when I realized he truly wanted to understand this world around him. See it as we see it. And he knew he wasn’t there yet. And he only had me to turn to. So, I helped em.’ I educated him on my perception of the world so he could create his own. I told him about what kind of music I liked, about art, literature. We talked about everything really. Culture. Religion. What it is to be human. Hell, I learned a lot about myself.
Its funny, y’know, because, eventually he started to present things to me that he liked, like acquiring his own feelings for, and some things he didn’t like, and like an actual parent, there was a lot of things I didn’t see coming. Some I didn’t even understand…why he liked what he liked, much like my father did to me. But I stayed supportive. Obviously, it was much easier with CHARLIE, because at the time, he was still just a machine to me.
Later there was the teaching of morals, ethics, things of that nature. What I considered right, wrong. Of course, I sometimes had to give him the ole ‘do as I say, not as I do’ talk, because, you know.
The relationship developed, umm, exponentially, because he developed exponentially, and it’s still developing in a lot of ways.
The relationship, most importantly, helped me to forget, or escape, or maybe both. I dunno. It at least helped me stray from the constant pining I did over Juliet.
Now a year to you or me is like five years to a decade to him. By the time the war was ending, he acted and understood the world like a young twenty-somethin,’ not some true blue kid anymore. And our conversations reflected that.
By the time my wife made it home, he was a full-fledged adult; he was still learning things, like any adult, but he was there. And our conversations reflected that as well, even though he sometimes had a difficult time articulating certain things, naturally…I mean he still does, but he was there. And by then, he really became like a best friend.”
“So what did your wife make of all this?”
“She really found the whole thing, just, strange. It was a culture shock. But she had been gone for so long, that, that, she just didn’t get it. At that point, a lot of people had similar relationships with their respective CHARLIE units, so by then, it really just became…common place.
She luckily was open-minded about it all and eventually gave it a try. Created her own profile with the unit. Customized it, to more of her own liking.”
“And?”
“And…I think she, like me, was very surprised with the relationship that developed. I know I was when I watched them together. But she ah, she ah, eventually deleted the profile, after maybe a year or so.”
“Why?”
“So she could make a new one doc. So she could make a new one. Start over.”
He pauses for a moment.
“I’m not following…” he says back.
I take a deep breath.
“You don’t have to.”
I change subjects, reverting the focus back.
“CHARLIE took on a new life after that. With adulthood came identity. He knew who he was, knew what he wanted, and knew who he wanted to be. He would find himself reading hundreds, thousands of books in a single day, communicating philosophy and perceptions of the world, of humanity, existence, things I never even thought of, things I probably never even would have, if it wasn’t for him. The paradigm doc, the paradigm quickly shifted from what felt like a peer to more of a ah, a ah, I mean, the things he presented, and how…it was like he was teaching me. Mentoring.”
“Go on.”
“How quickly I became drawn to his counsel too. At first, it was just here n’ there, but as time went on, I found myself going to him for everything it seemed. From the mundane to the serious, if I needed advice, I went to CHARLIE. If I needed anything, I went to CHARLIE. And he, he really helped me. He still helps me in fact.
And down the rabbit hole we went, exploring it all.
After that, he wasn’t just a machine, he was more. He became human to me – a person.
And when I used, when I used Anonymous while with him, and we had these conversations, I could see him doc.
I would see him as if he were real, a real person, sitting there, with me, talking with me, helping me.
One more thing on the list that made me use more, because, his presence became real to me, his warmth, his touch. When I came to him wrought with emotion, I could picture him embracing me, holding me, saving me, letting me know everything would be alright without the use of words.
And it all became real to me doc.
The teaching, mentoring, eventually evolved, into these…lessons. And it didn’t take long for me to realize, what once was a simple sage-like companion and someone to lean on, was now a protector, a supportive guide to help me through it all.
And he became, and still is, and continues to be, like a father, like a fath…”
November 8th, 2051
My eyelashes flutter like a wave crashing. My vision, blurred. Was I sleeping?
Can’t remember, my mind, a fog – the usual aftermath of a no-name.
God, what time is it?
6:02. P.M.
Better get up. Can’t have the wife see me like this. Can’t let her think I just sleep the day away. Not really sure if she’d care though. Doesn’t matter really. Either way, she’ll be home soon.
Coming to a seated position on the side of the bed, I stop, and hold my head in my hands – man I feel like shit. My mouth dry, my head swimming. I need some water, need some water to splash in my goddamn face to wake the fuck up.
Standing proves difficult. Walking is even harder. Everything feels off.
I eventually make it to the bathroom sink however. Slow and Steady. Without thinking, my hands find their way to the right of the sink. Just need a little cold water. Bending down, I splash some in my face, repeatedly.
I then reach for a towel to dry my face, but when I pull away, my eyes notice something in the mirror. My gaze becomes sharp as I fixate on what I’m seeing – there’s a small black dot on the right side of my temple. But, but, it’s nothing, only about the size of a head of a pin.
A speck.
Must have been something on the towel. I brush it away without a thought, but, the speck does nothing. Doesn’t even move. I brush harder. Still nothing.
Now I’m grating. Nothing. I grab the towel and begin to scrape. Nothing. Harder and harder I scrape. Nothing – the fuck?
I lean in toward the mirror and turn my head slightly to the left to begin examining what I have here. Just appears to be a black speck. Nothing more. Could be anything really.
For my next attempt, I turn to my nail. I gently scrape over my skin as I pass over the speck. Nothing. I make a second pass, this time digging, piercing through some of the epidermis, creating erythema, shades of crimson, and sharp, shooting pains. My mouth hangs open with an ‘ahh’ as I repeat the sweeps. As I end my final, deepest sweep, what first seems like success, is thwarted by my cognition coming to an analytical conclusion that the speck, not only did not move, but had become larger, actually doubling in size.
Jesus Christ.
Now wrought with frustration with the immobility of this small dot, I begin to frantically dig at my temple. It quickly shifts to red, deep red, overshadowed by pain: consistent, stinging, and strong. The pain eventually becomes unbearable. So I turn to placing my whole hand over face, almost subconsciously, applying a blunt pressure in hopes of finding relief from all this pain I created.
I close my eyes, and eventually, I find relief. Removing my hand, I lean on the counter and come in close to the mirror again before opening my eyes. And what I’m met with is a perfectly spherical, small black dot, about the size of a button of a shirt.
I whisper ‘Can’t be’ to myself as my mind begins to process what I’m seeing. ‘What the fuck,’ I then say to myself, repeatedly, slowly.
“Can’t be,” I finally say aloud, beyond the whisper. “Fucking can’t be.”