by Delaney, JP
“Okay. I get that. But if you need…If there are times when it gets too much…” You stop, not quite believing you’re actually saying these words out loud, that it’s come to this. “Just be discreet, all right? Don’t do it so I’ll know.”
“You’re what I need, Abbie. I love you just the way you are.”
But you notice he stops short of saying he’ll never need more.
30
Soon after, Tim goes up to bed. Before you follow him, you check the news channels to see how the interview went down. It isn’t good. The slap might have happened during the commercial break, but the cameras were still recording. The cropping is slightly off—you’re both standing, your heads out of shot—but you can clearly see your arm whip up and Judy Hersch recoiling, especially when they play it in slow motion. AGGRESSIVE ROBOT ASSAULTS REPORTER, the caption says. You turn to another channel, but the same words are scrolling along the bottom of the screen.
And suddenly there’s Lisa, your sister, talking to a journalist’s microphone. You turn the sound up.
“…Nothing will bring Abbie back, but this is making an already painful situation even more difficult,” she’s saying. “We will be challenging Tim Scott to prove he gained my sister’s specific consent to have her data and personality used in this way.” The crawl at the bottom now reads CULLEN FAMILY: WE’LL FIGHT “COBOT.”
You feel sick. Somehow this has all gone hopelessly wrong. You turn the TV off and toss the remote onto the sofa. It’s a fair bet the news vans will be back outside the house tomorrow.
You go upstairs and lie down, but there are too many thoughts churning through your head to relax. Judy Hersch’s words come back to you. How do you feel about replacing the real Abbie Cullen-Scott?
But I haven’t, you think miserably. Nobody treats you the way they did before. And despite what Tim says, how can this be a real marriage if you can’t make love? You get that he doesn’t want people to look at him and think he’s having sex with a machine, but why hasn’t he considered your emotional needs in all this?
Something else occurs to you. Tim effectively said Sian came onto him last night. But if that was the case, wouldn’t she have gone to his room? When you heard the two of them, they were in hers.
Meaning it was much more likely that he went to her.
Even Tim, you think, for all that he keeps saying he adores you—is it really you he loves? Or is it the idea of you—his creation, this amazing achievement? This extraordinary monument to his pure, enduring love?
If you were better off dead, would he let you go?
And you shiver in the darkness, because you’re fairly sure the answer to that is No.
TEN
Of course, we were all eager to find out how the date at Mavericks had gone. “I am agog,” Alexis declared, first thing Monday morning. “I am literally agog,” and she was not alone.
In the end it was one of the girls who asked Abbie, then reported back to us. “Oh, it was nice,” Abbie had replied. “But it wasn’t really a date. We just hung out and watched the surfing with my friends, then we all went to Jersey Joe’s for some beers.
“Where we had this, like, massive disagreement,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Someone was talking about how homeopathy had cured their dermatitis, and Tim was kind of dismissive, so—just so my friends didn’t think I was with a total dickhead—I said, ‘But there’s got to be something in it, right?’ ” She sighed. “And then Tim started listing all these scientific studies that proved homeopathy was a waste of time. And I told him he was being boring.”
Our admiration for Abbie—which, if we were honest, had taken a knock when she asked Tim out on a date: It seemed a bit obvious somehow, a bit conventional, that she too should be so smitten with our charismatic leader—was instantly restored. She had told him he was boring! She was fearless as well as cool!
No one dared ask Tim for his side of the story, of course. But Tim spoke to Mike, and Mike spoke to Jenny, who reported back that Tim had had a great time.
“She’s amazing,” he’d told Mike, apparently. “Smart, stimulating, and she likes to debate. She won’t let me get away with anything. And she’s drop-dead gorgeous, too. What’s not to like?”
“He’s asked me to go skydiving with him next week,” Abbie told us later. “I’ve always wanted to skydive.”
Someone remembered that, a few years back, one of the psychology journals had published the results of a study into dating: what kind of activity you should schedule for a second and third date and so on. Something physically dangerous is ideal for a second date, apparently, because adrenaline boosts feelings of sexual attraction. The third date should be something like a salsa class—getting close and physical in a nonthreatening environment. The fourth should be something intimate and nurturing, like feeding baby animals at the children’s zoo. That was the best time for the relationship to become sexual, the study suggested—when both parties still had the excitement of novelty, but had acquired the safety of the familiar.
Yes, Tim had researched optimal dating methodology with the same rigor he applied to every other aspect of his life.
He didn’t merely take Abbie skydiving for their next date, we discovered later. He booked a private flight with the Zero-G Corporation on their specially converted Boeing. During the three-hour flight he and Abbie did fifteen parabolas out of the earth’s atmosphere, experiencing weightlessness each time. Pictures on Abbie’s Facebook page showed them turning head over heels in the cabin, catching globules of champagne in their mouths. Then, when the plane was on its way back to base, they stepped out the door for a parachute descent to earth.
Chartering the entire jumbo for a private trip like that cost around two hundred thousand dollars, we noted on Zero-G’s website.
Rather than a salsa class, the up-close-and-physical date was at House of Air, the giant trampoline center near Golden Gate Park. Again, Tim rented out the whole place.
We waited with bated breath for the fourth date. It wasn’t long in coming—just two weeks after that first outing to Mavericks. The next day we scrutinized their faces for any signs as to how the sex had gone.
Nothing.
Tim had taken her to feed the ducks at Stow Lake, Abbie reported. He’d pulled out a loaf of bread and started tearing it into small pellets when she’d stopped him.
“You do know that’ll kill them, right?”
He’d blinked, astonished. “But everyone feeds bread to ducks.”
“Everyone except smart people.”
She explained that, to wild ducks, bread was like junk food—it made their organs engorged and fatty, causing them to die of malnutrition or heart disease. It also made them too weak and bloated to take part in normal migrations.
“Domestic ducks, though, can’t fly in the first place. So sometimes people release them into parks thinking that’ll be a good environment for them. But quite apart from the fact they’ve got no protection against predators, they’ll die of digestive complications if they’re fed on bread. And if there’s so much bread they don’t eat it, that’s even worse. Bread left in water spreads salmonella and botulism, not to mention enteritis and a parasite called swimmer’s itch.”
“Wow,” Tim said, considering. He put the bread away. “You know, sometimes you remind me a little bit of me,” he added.
So would it be the fifth date when things finally turned intimate? we wondered. It seemed not. The fifth date was a cooking class at a high-end restaurant. But there was no indication the next day of the two of them having consummated the relationship.
Eventually someone made a comment to Abbie, who was quite open about it.
“I guess we’re taking things kind of slow. Slow and steady.” She paused. “My last relationship was a bit wild. Too wild, actually. It’s nice to be with a guy who respects me.”
It was a
t least six weeks before someone summoned to Tim’s office to discuss a new proposal that, just yesterday, had been judged astounding but was now terrible, idiotic, the dumbest idea ever, noticed a hand-painted mouse pad on Tim’s otherwise fastidiously bare desk. It was a colorful piece of graffiti framing the words ENGINEERS DO IT BETTER! We recognized Abbie’s street-art style.
Of course, we didn’t tell her that it was ten years since anyone in our line of work last used a mouse pad.
But it was sweet to see Abbie and Tim reaching for each other’s hands as they passed each other by the coffee machine, lacing their fingers together briefly when they thought no one was looking.
31
You wake up feeling more positive. It’s a gorgeous day and everything looks better in the sunlight, even the TV vans parked beyond the gates. Of course your relationship can survive without sex. You had a marriage, with all that entails. The physical side was nice, but you were so much more than that.
You feel almost ashamed for doubting it, when Tim so clearly doesn’t. Somehow, together, you’ll make this work.
Tim’s cheerful, too. Mike called first thing to tell him that John Renton, Scott Robotics’ biggest investor, saw the TV interview and wants you to come along to the meeting Tim’s arranged with him.
“Mike said he sounded impressed,” Tim reports over breakfast. “That’s good.”
“Where’s the meeting?”
“We haven’t set that yet.”
“What about having it here? I could cook.” Tim frowns, but you forestall him. “I know, I know—I don’t have to. But I like cooking, remember? And we have all this great equipment.” An idea occurs to you. “I’ll make a bouillabaisse, like I used to before. I’ll call Sea Forager and get everything delivered.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” He gets up from the table. “I’ll go see how Danny’s doing with dressing.”
Danny has an idiosyncratic approach to breakfast. Even on a good day, the only thing he’ll usually eat is dry Cheerios without milk, and even then he’s as likely to comb his fingers through the bowl, transfixed, as eat them. Toast is a no-no, unless cut into precise one-inch squares. And on a bad day, you’re happy if you can get him to eat a few red M&M’s.
Today you’re trying something you read about on an ABA website: Instead of asking what he wants, you offer Danny a picture menu. The theory is that if you say “Apples or grapes?” the person with autism will generally repeat “grapes,” even though he doesn’t actually want them. By letting Danny point, you’re giving him time to process the information.
Sure enough, Danny points to fish fingers, then jelly. The fish fingers, you know, will also have to be cut up into one-inch squares before having the jelly smeared over them. But that’s okay—the main thing is, he made a choice, and one you’d never have thought to offer him yourself. There’ll be time for improving the healthiness of his choices later.
After Danny and Tim have left the house, for school and the office respectively, you organize the shopping for tonight’s dinner. Your voice is now almost indistinguishable from your old one: The man who takes the order clearly has no idea you’re not just another customer. It’ll be delivered by lunchtime, he promises. Persuading him to give you spare fish bones for the stock is trickier. He only agrees to throw some in when he decides you want them for a cat.
* * *
—
Capitalizing on your good mood, you decide to change your hair. From cornrows to French braids, in honor of your menu tonight. You go upstairs to look for some hair ties. Tim said he kept all your things, so they must be here somewhere. But where?
In the drawers beside your bed, you guess.
At the door to the master bedroom—Tim’s bedroom, now—you hesitate. You haven’t been in here since that first day. Your self-portrait stares down at you from the wall, an imperious, commanding presence, making you feel like an intruder.
Which is ridiculous. That portrait is of you. And this was your room, too.
You crouch down by what used to be your side of the bed and pull open the bottom drawer of the nightstand. It sticks a little, and you have to ease it upward to get it open. Inside are a jumble of old creams and bottles. And, at the bottom, some hair ties.
As you scrabble for them, your fingers encounter something else. Batteries. They’re very old, leaking now. You take them out to throw away.
Another flash of memory. A glimpse—an organic one, like when you remembered swimming in the pool. You, standing in this very room. And Tim, something in his hand.
Your vibrator. He’s holding it at arm’s length, distastefully, the way someone might hold an empty vodka bottle they’d just found hidden under a pile of laundry.
“I’m not threatened,” he’s saying. “I’m disappointed, that’s all.” He unscrews the end and shakes the batteries out, like someone shaking bullets out of a gun.
You blink, and the memory’s gone.
Strange, you think. But without more context, it could mean almost anything.
* * *
—
Your iPhone, charging on the kitchen counter, has a new message. You pick it up, thinking it’ll be from Tim.
It’s not. It’s from Friend. And the message is the same as before:
This phone isn’t safe.
You relax. The fact that the message is identical proves, surely, that you were right last time, and it’s just some kind of automated spam. Nothing to get worked up about.
Then a second message appears.
Buy another.
Followed, in swift succession, by:
A burner.
When you have it, reply with a blank message.
And finally:
TIM LIES.
You stare at it. It seems certain from the use of Tim’s name that it’s not spam, after all.
Quickly you type a reply.
Who is this? Lies about what? What do you want?
There’s no response.
32
“I have good news and I have bad news,” phone shop guy says.
“What’s the good news?”
“I can get some of the wiped data on the iPad back.”
“So what’s the bad news?”
“It’s heavily corrupted. I’ll have to unscramble it.”
“That doesn’t sound so terrible. If you can fix it, I mean.”
“No, but it’s time-consuming. The question is, why would I fix it? Given how long it’ll take me?” He tips his stool back and looks at you steadily. Something about the way he does it unnerves you.
“I’ll pay you, obviously.” You’ve brought cash with you anyway, to buy a burner phone. Not that you don’t believe what Tim’s told you, but you can’t help being curious about Friend’s mysterious message.
The young man shakes his head. “I don’t want your money.”
“What, then?”
He smiles hungrily. “After you left the other day, I realized who you were. And I saw you on the news.” He nods at the disassembled laptop on the counter. “I don’t only fix these as a job, you know. Technology is my passion.”
“Terrific,” you say unenthusiastically. “Good for you.”
“What Tim Scott’s achieved with you is amazing. Like, incredible.” He leans forward and gestures at your stomach. “I want to take a look. Inside. At your code.”
You recoil. “No way. Tim would never allow it. And even if he did, I wouldn’t.”
“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” the young man says. “I started to ask myself, where did she get that iPad? I mean, it clearly isn’t yours. And then I thought: Why didn’t she just give it to Tim’s people to deal with? That’s when I thought, Ah. As in Ah, maybe it’s actually Tim’s, and she wants to see what’s on it without him knowing.” He smiles again.
You can’t be bothered to exp
lain that the iPad has nothing to do with Tim. “What are you suggesting, exactly?” you ask, although you suspect you already know.
“A trade. I’ll give you the contents of the iPad as I unscramble them. In return, you let me peek at your coding.”
You shake your head. “That isn’t going to happen.”
He holds up an Ethernet cable. “You won’t even notice I’m in there.”
The idea is faintly gross. “No,” you repeat firmly.
He tosses the cable onto a shelf. “Your choice. Too bad.”
You hold out your hand. “Give me the iPad. I’ll take it somewhere else.”
He folds his arms. “Uh-uh. No deal, no iPad. In case you hadn’t noticed, nothing gets nothing in this world.”
“You’re pathetic, you know that?” you snap.
“I just want to see how you work,” he says plaintively. “It’s no different from a gearhead looking at an engine.”
“Excuse me,” you say sarcastically. “From my perspective, it’s really not very similar at all.”
He shrugs. “Come back when you’re ready to make a deal.”
“That iPad isn’t yours. I’ll go to the police.”
“Yeah, right. Be my guest.”
“Prick.”
“See you soon,” he says as you march furiously to the shop door. “I’m Nathan, by the way.”
ELEVEN
A couple of days after the mouse pad appeared, Tim asked Abbie to join him in his office. Naturally, we all kept an eye on what was going on in there.
On one wall there was a big flat-screen computer monitor—if you wanted to show Tim something, you’d hook your laptop up to it and present that way. It looked as if he was showing Abbie a presentation on it now.
