Robots through the Ages, page 40
I feel new emotions, new pain seeping into my empathy net. “Sometimes you wish you were more like her.”
“I don’t know what I wish.”
“But they wish you were more like her. That you wanted to go to medical school and change the world.”
“They . . . I never said that.”
“No. You felt it. And I knew.”
“Get out of my head!” She turns and faces the wall.
“I am sorry,” I say. “It is not something I control. I empathize. I can turn it off if you wish, but I cannot undo what I know. They compare you to Harriet, and that hurts you.”
Veronica shakes her head. “That’s Mom. Dad’s worse. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘You can’t be your sister, no one expects you to be. You can have a fine, ordinary life. You can . . . learn to put on makeup and dress pretty, and get the attention of a good young man. Someone who would be proud to take care of you.’”
Now resentment vibrates in my empathy net. “You feel . . . devalued. As if you only matter if you fit into roles they have chosen for you.” I can sense her overpowering sadness as if it were physical. “That is not right.”
“You can tell me that all night long, but it won’t change anything. That’s how they feel. And this . . .” Tears seeping from her eyes, she pulls up the sleeves of her sweatshirt, “. . . is how I feel.”
Without conscious thought I pull out the first aid kit embedded in my thigh and reach for her arms with their razor scars. “Get away!” Veronica says. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is a very big deal. Just because they hurt you is no reason for you to hurt yourself.”
“It’s not like that.”
Her empathy profile is exploding within me, adding dimension and depth. “No, it is not like that, it is worse. You cut yourself to feel something. A different sort of hurt, of your choosing.”
More tears roll down her cheeks. “I . . . No . . .”
I nod. “And even that is not working anymore. And that is why you think it might be time to end it.”
“No. I don’t . . .” But she cannot finish. She sobs again.
I feel the core of her pain now, and I understand. This is so overwhelming, all the pain from all the directions. A small piece of me deep inside understands doing whatever it takes to escape.
Nothing in my programming has prepared me for this moment, but I remember something that helped in the Owens family when they lost their grandmother Mildred: even an android can give a hug.
I sit down beside Veronica. She raises her hands in feeble protest, but I wrap my arms around her shoulders and pull her into me. I hold her close as I feel her body start to shake.
After a time she pulls away from me. “Thank you, Carey. You’re . . . kind.”
“I am programmed that way.”
She rises from the bed. “But it doesn’t make all this . . .” She waves her arms around. “It doesn’t make this any different. It doesn’t make the pain go away. You’re just—”
Then her eyes grow wide, and she puts a fist to her mouth.
“I am just a machine,” I say. “It is all right. I am what I am. You cannot hurt my feelings.”
“But I said such a hurtful thing.”
I shake my head. “You did not hurt me. You said a true thing. And you did not mean any harm by it, I can feel that.”
“But I always say the wrong thing!”
“What is the right thing?” I get up from the bed. “How does anyone know?”
“But I’m so stupid! Everyone criticizes what I say. It’s easier to say nothing.”
I shake my head. “Not everyone. I have seen you with Millie and your friends. They don’t criticize what you say.”
“I’m not important enough for them to bother.”
“You are very important to Millie. And she does not think you are stupid.”
“No, but . . . other people do.”
By other people, she means her family. I can feel that pain, but I do not address it. Instead I say, “I think you should listen to your friends more than to other people. They can see you better.”
She paces in the small patch of open carpet. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Carey, I . . . Thank you for trying, for caring. But I haven’t changed my mind. I want all of this to be over.”
I am running out of ideas. I still feel her desire for a final ending to her problems. Her pain, her confusion, these are so large, so overwhelming, that death feels small by comparison.
I do not know what to say to that. I have counseling algorithms for the aged and the infirm who are ready to pass, but they do not feel right for this young teen in the prime of her life. Those algorithms are for people who have lived full lives, and now have nothing but physical pain, weariness, the feeling of going on past their time. That I can somewhat understand. Is this what Veronica feels? How is that possible? Her experience is foreign to me.
I wish that I could reach her somehow, but I am not her. I am not a teenage girl with a teenage girl’s perspective.
But I realize that I can be one. The thought is distasteful to me. I have never wanted to be Millie. It seems wrong to be the person I care for. But perhaps Millie would understand Veronica better than I do. My privacy protocols will not let me share Veronica’s feelings with Millie, as a person. But I can share them with an emulation profile.
I shift my emulation network only slightly. I do not want Millie’s physical form, just her emotions. Though it is troubling, I let her profile take form in my emulation net. I am still myself; but there is little bit of Millie in me as well.
As Millie, I have no more answers than I did without her. But I have a desire. A hope, and an idea for how to make it happen. “Veronica, I do not want you to do this, but I recognize that I cannot stop you.”
“You could,” Veronica answers. “You’re stronger than me.”
“For a while. But that would hurt you just as much. Somebody else deciding your life.”
She says nothing, but she nods.
“But if you are going to do this, you should do it after a very good day.”
“What?” She stares at me, eyes narrowed.
“Veronica, let us have an excellent day. A good last memory for you, to ease your decision.”
“But I’ll be gone. I won’t remember anything.”
I nod. “But I will remember it for you. In your emulation profile, in my heart, that is how I will remember you: your one fine day.”
We walk through Draper’s Department Store, looking at spring hats and summer dresses. I let a little more of Millie into my emulation net so that I can appreciate the fashions. Or laugh at them, in some cases. Veronica points to a green dress and says, “Can you imagine anyone wearing that in public?”
I manage a smile. “I can imagine many things, but that would be a stretch.”
“I know. Who do they think will buy that? Some old lady? It’s so last year!”
“Some old lady . . .” I answer. “I know, Mrs. Wegner, the librarian.”
Veronica laughs. “Yes! That’s the sort of thing she wears. Can you imagine?”
“Imagining is what I do, Veronica. I could show you.”
Her eyes grow bright. “You mean . . .”
And that is how I find myself in the ladies changing room, putting on Mrs. Wegner’s face as well as the green dress. When I come out, I say in the librarian’s voice, “Children, be quiet. This is the library. This is no place for talking.”
“Oh!” Veronica says with a smile. “You need a hat! You need . . .” She finds a wide-brimmed, lime-green hat. “You need this!”
I put the hat on, and I pose in front of the mirror. “Why yes, young lady! The hat makes it perfect.”
“We should get you some boots.”
“No, not boots. This is a summer dress. Flats.”
“Yes, flats are what you need. Let’s find you—”
But then we notice a store clerk watching us with raised eyebrows. Veronica laughs, and the Millie in me chuckles.
We walk through the park, Veronica pulling ahead in the bright summer sun. “That look on her face! Like she’s never seen two girls trying on dresses.”
“Well, she has not seen one like me.”
“I know! But she was just so . . . hilarious.” She shakes the bag in her hand. “Besides, we bought the dress. Why should she complain?”
“I do not know why we bought it,” I answer. “You said it was hideous.”
“It is, but it looks good on you. On Mrs. Wegner you. I think you should wear it for . . .”
But she does not finish the thought. She doesn’t mention the occasion when I might wear a dress for her sake. And I regret the turn the conversation has taken.
But then I see a familiar square ahead, a big area where the bricks are soaking wet. As if oblivious, I wander in that direction.
“Carey,” Veronica says, “where are you going?”
I turn to face her, walking backward. “I am just out enjoying the—”
Before I can finish, a jet of water flies up from the metal nozzle between my feet, splashing my face with a cool spray.
Veronica laughs, and I look around. This park was one of Millie’s favorite places growing up, so I knew what to expect. But I emulate surprise for Veronica’s sake. “That was—” I step back and sideways, just in time to get splashed from another nozzle.
Veronica gasps from laughter. “Carey, you’re soaked!”
“That is all right, I am an—” Another spray hits me.
Veronica runs over and grabs my arms just in time for another jet of water. She laughs, and I let out Millie’s laughter. We dance around in the spray from the dozen nozzles, joined by six children who run around, jumping on the nozzles, leaning over them to get splashed in the face, and chasing each other through the spray.
The bag with my new dress gets thoroughly soaked, but Veronica does not mind.
We walk through the entrance to John Ball Park Zoo. Veronica looks back, grinning. “They didn’t know what to make of you.”
“I am used to it. Am I equipment? Am I a person? Do I pay child rates, or nothing at all?”
“I say you’re a person, and you have an admittance ticket to prove it. It’s a great day to see the animals.” She pauses, and in a lower voice adds, “A great day . . .”
I try to follow the map, but Veronica is not interested. She runs from one attraction to another as they catch her attention.
We go through the Van Andel Living Shores Aquarium, full of local aquatic life as well as specimens from around the world. At the end of the aquarium we find ourselves in the penguin house. Veronica is enraptured by the birds. She laughs at them as they waddle around on the ice; but she stares in awe when they get into their element, the water. They swim like other birds fly in the air, and I can sense a little of their joy of being in their place. Then I sense something else from Veronica: she is briefly at peace.
Finally, she pulls me out of the penguin exhibit, and we wander through other parts of the zoo. We go to Bissell’s Lions of Lake Manyara. Veronica looks at a large lion sunning himself, as well as two cubs rolling across the ground, pouncing upon each other. “Cats,” she says. “They’re all the same, no matter how big.”
“You like cats?”
Veronica smiles. “Harriet used to have one. When she went off to med school, she took Muffy with her. Mom and Dad were relieved. They hated the mess and the smell of the litter box, even though I always cleaned it. We never got another cat.”
Next we wander to Mokomboso Valley, the monkey habitat. There a collection of chimpanzees, spider monkeys, and other simians roam through a miniature jungle. They have trees, playsets, and toys. We watch them, and Veronica laughs at their antics.
She watches one small spider monkey scale a net and grab a ball from a platform. A large chimpanzee swings over, screeches at the spider monkey, and watches it flee without the ball.
I look at Veronica’s face, wondering how she will react. But she is entranced as the spider monkey again makes its way across the net. Again it grabs the ball, and again it is chased away.
But it is a determined little monkey. It climbs the net one more time, under the watchful eye of the chimpanzee. It veers to the left of the platform, climbing up onto a rope bridge. It looks like it has given up.
Then, fearlessly, the spider monkey leaps down from the bridge and tumbles onto the platform so fast the chimpanzee cannot react. It lands upon the ball, wraps its arms around it, and continues tumbling down the net and all the way to the pond at the bottom. It rises up on his hind legs and holds up the ball, chattering in triumph.
This is my first zoo visit without Millie in my charge. For the first time, I can really see the animals as themselves, not just as Millie reacts to them. In my empathy net is a little bit of the spider monkey’s feelings. Fear. Exhilaration. Triumph.
I try an experiment. I emulate the little monkey. I drop down into a crouch, stretch my arms to the limit, and hop up onto the enclosure wall. I make chattering noises like the monkey, and I raise my hands overhead in triumph.
Veronica looks at me, and she bursts out in laughter. “Come on, monkey man,” she says. “This has been a perfect day. Let’s go home.”
We stand in Veronica’s living room. I am out of ideas, and I made a promise. There is only one thing more I can do. “Veronica, do you want me to stay with you so you are not alone?”
She looks straight into my face. “I’m not alone. You were with me all day. You care.”
I nod. “But I did not know if you wanted company as you leave.”
She purses her mouth and her eyes narrow. “I’m not . . . leaving.”
I sense something new in her emotions, but I cannot identify it. It is not hope, but something near it. “You are not?”
“Carey, we had a good day. I had forgotten what those were like. Forgotten that I can have them. So today I am not going to end it.”
I feel a spark of lightness in my empathy net. “Not today?”
“And not tomorrow. Tomorrow might be a good day, too.”
“But I cannot promise to be here tomorrow. I have my duties.”
“Oh, Carey . . .” She reaches up and rubs my cheek with her hand. “I couldn’t ask that of you. You did a great thing. It was a perfect day. But I can’t expect you to take over my life. If I’m going to have more good days, I have to learn to make my own.”
“I can be here sometimes.”
“Thank you, Carey. You’re always welcome. And . . . sometimes I may need to call. Just talk to someone who understands.”
I nod. “I understand.” And I do, a little.
“Carey, you won’t believe it!”
I am serving dinner to the Owens family, but carrying on a private conversation with Veronica through my internal comm. “What did I miss?”
“I saw Mrs. Wegner in town. Carey, guess what she was wearing!”
“I’m sorry, Carey. I know you’re going to go to the zoo, but Mom . . .” Veronica stands in the living room of her house, and she glances over her shoulder. “She grounded me.”
“I am sorry, Veronica.”
“No, it was different this time. I . . . spoke up for myself. She didn’t like it, so she grounded me. But Carey, I spoke up for myself!”
“I wish I were human. That deserves a smile.”
“You’re smiling more than you realize. But I feel bad. We were supposed to go to the zoo.”
“Then we must bring the zoo to us,” I answer. I drop down to a crouch, and I become the spider monkey, hopping around between the furniture. Veronica laughs, curls up on the couch in a feline pose, and starts licking her forepaws.
“I am proud of you, Veronica.” We stand in the milling crowd of students in their caps and gowns. “You did it.”
“I did it, Carey! And I brought my grade point up so high. Not as high as Harriet’s, but I proved I could do it.”
“You do not have to compare yourself to her. Are your parents proud?”
She laughs. “They’re still telling me I have more potential. They tell me if I apply myself, I can get into a good premed program.”
“Did you tell them?”
“I finally did last night, Carey. I told them I was entering an engine repair program at Ferris, and it wasn’t their decision. It was mine.”
“And how did they take that?”
“I don’t care. I’ve already enrolled, and they’ll just have to learn to live with their daughter, the diesel tech!”
“Carey, I—”
Her voice on my internal circuit is pained, uncertain. “Take it easy, Veronica. Just breathe. I can wait. Take your time.” She chokes, and I add, “Are you all right? Should I call someone?”
“No, I . . . Carey, it’s not that. I’m not going to hurt myself. I just needed to talk to someone who will listen, not tell me I’m wrong.”
“I shall always listen. Should I come up there?”
“No, this . . . this is good. I just . . . I failed my midterm on diesel theory.”
“I see.” And I did. When Veronica’s parents learned this, they would pressure her to quit. And she did not need that stress. “You know that material.”
“I do! I just . . . had a bad day.” Before I could respond, she added, “Not that bad! But I couldn’t concentrate. I just ran out of time.”
“You should explain that to your instructor. He may give you a make-up exam.”
“He’s so strict, Carey! He’ll never agree to that.”
“Then you can retake the class, Veronica. You can do this. This was just a bad day. You will have more good days.”
I climb up into the passenger door of the sleek diesel tractor. “Are you sure this is permitted?”
Veronica smiles as she fastens her safety harness. “I’m licensed to test-drive the rig so I can verify my repairs. I’m not allowed to carry passengers, but—”
“I am not a passenger; I am just a machine.”
