Bionic

by Suzanne Weyn

  I smile. “He always says that.”

  “He was very enthused and wants us to come in today, if we can. I’ll get Karen to cover the first half of my shift at the diner. I’ll have them hold Zack at the After-School Center till I get there. Hurry and get ready.”

  “How long is this going to take?” I ask, leaning on my crutch as I stand.

  “He said you’ll be there overnight.”

  “And then lots and lots of training classes,” I add.

  “It will be worth it.”

  “It sounds worth it,” I say. Thanks, happy pills, for the positive attitude. I’m glad to have it right now.

  I leave Dr. Tim’s office curling and uncurling the mechanical fingers of my new arm. Unlike my foot, it’s covered in fake skin. My new fingers come complete with molded fingernails. If a person saw me with a short-sleeved shirt, about two inches of the rod would be visible. Other than that, no one would be able to tell it was fake, at least not unless the person was right next to me studying my hand.

  Mom arrives back from the ladies’ room. “It looks great. Let’s try to shake hands.”

  It’s startling when my hand juts forward and spreads its fingers wide to shake. I don’t think I told it to do that—but I must have.

  When I close my hand around Mom’s to shake, she goes pale. Quickly I release her. “That’s some grip you’ve got!” she says breathlessly.

  “I’m so sorry, Mom!” When we look, I’ve left a red thumb mark on the back of her hand. I’d better be careful with the fist bumps and high fives. I might break someone’s wrist.

  “Dr. Tim emailed the school giving permission for me to go back. Here’s a copy of it,” I say, handing the paper to her with my left hand.

  But Mom refuses it. “Try it with the right.”

  I’m sick of everything being a production. But I switch the letter to the other hand. It falls on the floor between us. “This is going to take some getting used to,” I say.

  My afternoon of fake-arm training goes very well. It doesn’t take long before I have the correct grip down. Apparently my brain does that calculation automatically and once I get used to it the computer in the arm starts remembering. The only downside is a humming, whirring sound when my arm moves. It’s not too bad, though.

  I get a text from Niles. We’re rehearsing tonight. Come by?

  I miss seeing the guys, and all of a sudden I really miss hearing music, even though I haven’t played it on my phone or in the car since the accident. And having the fake arm makes me feel good, so I agree. Maybe I am slowly getting better.

  The band is all set up when I get to Matt’s house for their rehearsal, and it’s strange to go in after all this time. Months ago, I was walking in to quit. A few days later, we were on our way to a gig. A few hours later, my life changed for good. It takes me a few minutes and a couple of deep breaths, but I finally head inside.

  Matt’s nose is now crooked where he broke it. He has a little scarring from the burns. Tom looks fine.

  Niles’s cast is gone, but he’s limping even with his cane. “Why are you still using that?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. My leg is just fine but my hip is weak for some reason,” he says. “They think it’s just a matter of regaining muscle mass, so we’ll see.”

  “Are you getting PT then?” I ask.

  “Yep. Twice a week.”

  “Good,” I say. “Hopefully that’ll help.”

  “You didn’t bring your guitar?” Niles says. I sense he wants to change the subject.

  “Give me a break! I just got this right arm today,” I say. The guys cluster around, admiring it.

  “Is it super strong?” Tom asks.

  “It kind of is,” I say.

  “Want to arm wrestle?” Tom asks, joking.

  “You’d lose,” I warn him.

  Matt circles me, staring at my arm. “That is so freaky cool,” he says. “How does it feel?”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. In every way. You’re almost a robot.”

  “Don’t be such a jerk,” Niles tells him harshly. “She’s not even a little like a robot.”

  “Maybe a little,” I allow.

  “Yeah, but robots are mechanical. They don’t have feelings,” Niles says. He looks pointedly at Matt. “Feelings that can be hurt.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean any offense,” Matt tells me.

  “It’s okay,” I say, waving it away with my left hand. “I’ll look less robotic when I get a better leg, one that’s more like my arm.”

  I sigh and recall the conversation I had with Raelene earlier today during PT. Once we finished with the new arm and hand, we did some walking exercises. Once again, as I tried to let go of the parallel bars and walk on my own, I came crashing down on my right knee, the one with the plastic kneecap replacement.

  I’ll still need the crutch even though I’d love to be done with it. The falling happens all the time and it’s discouraging. I just haven’t seen much improvement, and I don’t know what else to do.

  “Raelene, my physical therapist, thinks I’d be doing better with the fake leg and foot if the muscles of my other leg were supporting me the way they should.”

  “What do you do about that?” Niles asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Personally,” Tom says, “I would love to be a cyborg.”

  “You would?” I ask doubtfully.

  “Oh, yeah!” Tom’s face lights with enthusiasm. “It’s the future, man! We’re all heading in that direction—have been for years. It’s just that nowadays it’s really possible.”

  Matt folds his arms thoughtfully. “I was watching this thing on the History Channel where they suggested that maybe humans are creatures created by alien cyborgs and have been intended to become cyborgs all along. We’ll live hundreds of years as cyborgs with replaceable parts.”

  “Think about it, Mira,” Tom says. “You’re like the first of the new breed of human beings.”

  “Shut up, you geeks,” Niles says. “Let’s play!”

  They begin and it isn’t long before I’m bopping in my seat and getting the strong urge to sing along.

  When they’re done, Niles sits beside me. “Want to join in the next set?”

  “No guitar,” I remind him,

  “Not a problem about the guitar. You can still sing, can’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I reply. Except remembering that sad little croak that came out of these vocal cords a couple weeks ago—I’m pretty sure I can’t.

  He hands me a tambourine. “Give it a try.”

  “Who’s been doing the vocals?” I ask.

  “Me,” Matt says glumly, “and it’s not great.” This is exactly what I want to hear. They haven’t replaced me and no one has done it better. They’ve missed me! Yay!

  “Let’s do ‘Urban Creep,’” he suggests.

  The guys begin playing, and I nod along to the intro. “Urban creep, from down deep, I see you even in my sleep …”

  The guys look at each other warily. I’m not meant to catch their sideways glances, but I do. This isn’t good.

  My voice shakes. The tambourine beats are off. But I continue. Then I stop. I can’t remember the words. I’ve sung this song hundreds of times, but suddenly I’m blank. “Sorry, guys,” I say as they stop playing. “This has been happening since the accident. Yesterday I couldn’t remember my address.”

  “Your brains got scrambled, huh,” Tom remarks.

  Niles shoots him a look.

  My stuff is in a corner and I start gathering it up to leave, keeping my head down so that no one else sees how red my face is, or the tears I’m trying to blink away.

  “Where are you going?” Niles asks.

  There’s no denying that I’m embarrassed. Mortified, actually. “I have to get home,” I lie.

  “All right,” says Matt, shooting a look at Niles. “But we’ll see you next time, Mira.”

  “You just need some time to ge
t back into things,” Niles says. “Maybe it’s just too soon.”

  “Maybe,” I agree halfheartedly. But it might always be too soon. If this is the new normal, I’m not exactly liking it.

  Sitting by the living room window, I notice the patterns in everyone’s days. The same people come and go at the same times. Old Jim next door walks his dog, Rusty, every morning at eight, then again at five. A day-camp bus drops the same two small kids off at four every afternoon. The mail carrier drops the mail in our box at two every day. In just two days I’ve got their routines nailed. Even the birds and squirrels show up at more or less the same time. I’ve never before realized how much of life is lived from habit.

  These days I refuse my happy pills. After that disastrous rehearsal, I don’t want to be happy, or even feel better. What’s the point if I’m never going to be able to live the way I used to? If I’m never going to do all the things other people my age are planning for?

  The doctors have patched me up as best as they can, but it’s not good enough. I look hideous, I won’t ever play lacrosse again, I can barely walk, my singing voice is gone, and my brain is a soggy, leaky paper towel. I’ve stopped reading because I can no longer remember what happened in the story before I put it down last.

  If I just sit in bed, I won’t have to struggle to remember things I’ve always known, or why I came into a particular room.

  I’m drowning in pitiful looks and whispers. It’s everywhere I go—the poor girl. What could have happened to her? People try not to stare, but it’s hard not to. I can’t blame them. I’m pathetic.

  I even see it in Mom’s eyes. Poor Mira! But today, her pity has shifted to worry. (I’ve become very good at telling the difference.)

  I hear her in the kitchen quietly talking to someone. “I know it’s for the best, but I wonder if she needs a rest from all this. I’ll think about it. All right. I’ll speak with her. Thanks. I’ll call you. Bye.”

  “Who was that?” I ask from the living room after she hangs up. She comes in looking somber.

  “I was speaking to Dr. Hector,” she says. “He thinks you’re doing well enough that—”

  “He thinks I’m doing well? He’s got to be kidding.”

  Mom sits beside me. “He is of the opinion that your physical recovery is proceeding faster than they’d expected.”

  “They must not have expected much.”

  “He wants to perform some more operations.”

  My head drops into my left hand. “No! Mom, please.”

  Stroking my hair lightly, Mom leans in to speak softly. “Listen to me, Mira. I know this sounds stupid, given how you feel right now, but you’re a very fortunate girl. It’s simple good luck that they happened to be looking for a candidate for these tests after your accident. You’re being a given an opportunity to receive the most cutting-edge medical help in the world. And I want the world for you. I think that if we don’t take a chance on some of these procedures, we’ll ultimately regret it. I can’t have that. We have to try. Can you try?”

  What choice do I have? It means so much to Mom. How can I let her down?

  “If you do this you’ll miss a lot of school,” Mom reminds me, “but it should bring some really major improvements.”

  How badly do I want to return to school? I definitely want to graduate on time. Hopefully I’ll be able to catch up. I wouldn’t mind some major improvements in my condition.

  I look at Mom and nod my head. “Okay, Mom, you’re right. I want to try.”

  SEPTEMBER

  This is a new place. It looks like a small private hospital. I think it’s in Connecticut somewhere. Dr. Hector is the only familiar face. He wipes his hand over his gleaming skull. “Still got the cool hairdo going, kiddo,” he says, smiling at me. I’m completely bald. Almost the first thing they did when I arrived was shave my head again.

  They’re implanting some kind of copper chip in my brain. They call it a neurotrophic electrode.

  When I was a kid, I had a game called Operation. It’s all I can think of as they wheel me to the operating room: the clown patient with the glowing nose that lights up and buzzes every time the player accidentally hits the side of the cavity containing his organs while trying to remove them. I’m so drugged up that I can’t stay awake. I dream I’m lying on an operating table wearing a red nose. Dr. Hector is there holding a chain saw.

  Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

  I hope they know what they’re doing.

  Another day, another operation. Today, cable yarn replaces my damaged muscles. It will be many times stronger than regular human muscle and will support my prosthetics more easily. If I become a superhero, am I responsible for saving the world? I hope not. I can barely save myself.

  New knee day … Dr. Tim says that in combination with my cable yarn muscle, it will support me perfectly.

  And get this … it’s created by a 3-D printer using real cartilage and plastic. I text Niles to tell him. Awesome, he texts back.

  He sends a picture of himself posing in front of the 3-D printers at his school. If you ever need a spare part let me know.

  You make me sound like a junky old car, I reply.

  Definitely not junky, he replies.

  Thanks a lot.

  JK! Good luck.

  The area around my knee is swollen to twice the size it should be. It’s hard to believe it will ever be as great as Dr. Hector says. “Give it time,” Raelene tells me, and we work on bending and flexing my leg. Easy for her to say.

  My eyes blink open again after my fifth surgery. Sixth? It feels like I’ve been unconscious for a long time—my throat is dry, and all my muscles are stiff. The pain in my right shoulder is especially intense.

  An arm! There’s what looks like a real arm there. No rod shows. It is attached to my shoulder as naturally as my original flesh-and-blood arm.

  Despite being groggy, I sit up. It doesn’t appear as human as my last prosthesis did. It’s clearly mechanical, with visible cable yarn muscles bound together in a metal casing, and part of me wishes I could go back to the old one, which at least needed a second glance before anyone could see it wasn’t my real arm.

  I think about holding on to the rails of my hospital bed. My fingers wrap effortlessly around the metal, without sliding off or clutching too tightly. But here’s the amazing thing: I can feel the rails. They’re cool. I touch my hospital blanket. It’s soft. The skin on my right arm is smooth.

  My robotic arm goes to my mouth as I gasp with emotion. My breath is warm on my palm.

  “Be careful with that thing,” Dr. Hector says, coming into my room. “It’s a lethal weapon.”

  “What?”

  “We have to calibrate it. Right now it’s extremely strong, much stronger than the last one. Wiggle your fingers.”

  They’re just like real fingers.

  “We implanted an electronic copper chip in your brain and it’s transmitting signals from your brain right to your nerves. It’s an implanted computer.”

  “So now I’ve got a robot brain?” I say.

  “Your brain is still your brain,” Dr. Hector says, “but, Mira, kiddo, let’s talk. That copper chip in your head is also helping your heart pump more strongly. We’ve implanted a few other internal devices to help you manage all this new stuff in your body. This will all take some getting used to.”

  “Like how?”

  Dr. Hector draws a thoughtful breath as though deciding how to answer. “The truth is, we don’t really know. We’re counting on you to report to us how you’re feeling, and we’ll be taking baseline tests at regular intervals. We’ll all be talking a lot, and making sure everything’s working smoothly. These experiments are of major importance to a lot of people, returning veterans in particular, but also anyone who has ever lost a limb.”

  “What if I become a psycho killer now?” I ask, only half joking.

  Dr. Hector smiles. “We’re not anticipating that as a possible outcome.”

  “Good,” I say warily. “Tell t
hat to the police when they come for me.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Dr. Hector says. “But seriously, have you noticed any strange or worrisome symptoms after all these operations?”

  I shake my head. “Am I getting a new, improved leg and foot, also?” I ask.

  Dr. Tim comes into the room. “Soon,” he says, “As soon as you’ve adapted to your new arm and hand.” I remember that Dr. Tim rock climbs with his prosthetic feet. “Will I ever be able to play sports again?” I ask.

  “You can get fake feet fitted for running and a different one with webbed toes for swimming,” Dr. Tim says. “We even have one with built-in cleats—are those allowed in lacrosse?”

  “I would guess so.”

  “Think about it,” he says. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

  “Okay.”

  “And we won’t have the same hairdo anymore,” Dr. Hector adds. “Now that we’re done with electrodes and such, you can let your hair grow back.”

  “Yay,” I say with a little clap.

  Dr. Tim says good-bye. When he’s gone, Dr. Hector looks at me seriously. “How’s your mood been?” he asks. “I know they gave you something for depression.”

  “I stopped taking it.”

  “Why?”

  I’m not sure exactly. I was feeling better with it. “I think part of me wanted to be depressed. But then, gradually, I began feeling better on my own.”

  “You were getting stronger, healing,” Dr. Hector says. “Fatigue can be a factor in depression. But if you feel yourself sliding downward, give me a call. You’re dealing with a lot here, both mentally, physically, and emotionally. A lot of this is experimental, so we don’t really know all the possible side effects. Keep in touch.”

  “I will,” I say.

  It’s great to be home recovering in my own room. (There were no bathtubs in the hospital and I’ve missed it.) School has started, but I still don’t have an okay from the doctors to begin. The one I had from Dr. Tim has been voided by the new operations.