by John Gribbin
I have never thought of you as psychic, though. The word ‘psychic’ brings to mind images of tarot cards, staring into tea leaves, speaking in tongues, and swinging pendulums around. You didn’t do any of that. You just always had this mysterious knowingness about you. You weren’t showy with it. You carried it with you as naturally as breathing. You wore it with such a congenial grace that I never properly acknowledged it. It became so ingrained into my day-to-day life, I took it for granted.
There are many things about you that I took for granted.
“I guess she is... in a way,” I replied, turning back to the nurse. “Why?”
“Something similar happened to another patient we had once,” she said. “He was a medium; talked to ghosts and all of that stuff... when the tumours spread, strange things happened... he couldn’t speak to the spirits anymore, but he could do other things...”
“It’s just... your wife... it got me thinking...” she said. “Did you know that many people in her condition experience symptoms of synaesthesia... I–” she then blushed and turned her eyes to the floor self-consciously. “I’m sorry. I forgot myself. Please, forgive me... many of the doctors and other nurses think me silly... I didn’t mean to–”
“No,” I shook my head. “It’s okay... what you were saying was interesting. Please...”
“It’s just that I had this theory...” she mused. “If the five normal senses can be affected by synaesthesia, then maybe the extra ones that some people have can too... anyway, I should go now,” she said, gathering her things. “Please let us know if there is anything we can do.”
I nodded, and she left the room. Alica and I were alone again.
Did you hear that? I wondered, as I held her hand. That nurse... she thinks that you have some sort of psychic synaesthesia... Do you think that is why you can talk to me? I tried to explain to Dr Hammond but he wouldn’t listen. How can I get him to believe us?
“Why is it important for others believe?” she asked.
“Because this is a miracle!” I said it out loud as well as thought it. “We have to show people because... because....”
I trailed off, realising that I didn’t actually know why.
She twitched her head, weakly. “I am dying, Joshua. What difference does it make if people believe this? I don’t want fuss, or strangers in the room, or tests, or anything like that. I just want you. I want you to be here for me.”
I inhaled deeply. She was right – as usual. I had let myself get so swept away by the wonder of this phenomenon, that I drifted from the grim reality. It was just a distraction.
This was the wrong kind of miracle. It didn’t change the fact that she was dying.
“How is Flossy?” she asked.
I immediately drew my hands away, breaking the contact so she wouldn’t sense my guilty thoughts.
That damn cat. I got her the bloody thing because I read on some webpage that the comfort of an animal can help console people who are undergoing chemotherapy.
She fell in love with that kitten. She adored it. She held it in her arms throughout all of the nausea, the headaches, the pain, the loss of her hair. I thought it would help, but it broke her heart when she had to return to the hospital and the cat wasn’t allowed to come with her. ‘Too many germs’, they said.
Looking back, it was a stupid idea, but I was desperate. I felt so helpless.
Now that bloody creature was just a hindrance. Alica insisted that I go home at least twice a day to feed it. Every time I entered the house it plodded over to me and made a pathetic whining sound. I think it missed her, but I hated the damn thing. I hated that I had to keep wasting precious moments I should have been spending with Alica tending to it. I wished I could just get rid of it, but I knew that Alica would never have forgiven me if I had. I locked it in the conservatory most of the time, but, even then, it just made a terrible screeching sound and scratched at the door.
“Where have you gone?” Alica cried out. She clawed her hands around, blindly. “Joshua!”
“I’m here!” I said, taking her arm and stroking it. She calmed down then and pressed her cheek onto the back of my hand. I took her palm again. Traced the words.
I love you
I’m sorry Alica. I know it must be scary there when you are alone. I am here now. Think of nice things.
Think of when we bought that campervan and toured around Europe. All the things we saw. Calabria. The Tatra Mountains. That beach in Brittany we only meant to stop at overnight, but you fell in love with the place so we stayed there for a whole week. Or even that time we broke down in Poland and couldn’t get a signal and nobody spoke English. I was so stressed about it, but you were always calm. Remember that kind man who picked us up? He drove us to his home and let us stay there and eat with his family. They never let us pay them any money.
Remember the happiest day of my life: when we decided to get married. My mother was so pissed off that we didn’t go for a big wedding, but we weren’t bothered by that. We were just certain by then that we wanted to be together for the rest of our lives, and we didn’t have any savings left. We blew it all on that trip.
We were happy, weren’t we? I mean we were only together for three years, but it felt so much longer and we did so many things...
I’m sorry. I should only be thinking of happy things, shouldn’t I. I am trying. I am trying really hard, but I can’t help but to keep thinking about this.
Are you feeling better now, Alica?
Alica...
She didn’t say anything, but the machines were still ticking away with their usual noises. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was soft and steady. I guessed that she must have fallen asleep.
I kissed her on her forehead, and then I finally let myself cry. Unashamedly.
My mother came to visit her the next day, which was surprising. It took me a while to explain to her that Alica could only hear what you were saying if you were holding her hand.
They wanted some time alone, so I left the room for a while. Eventually my mother came back out with tears streaming from her eyes.
Alica never told me exactly how their conversation went, but I sensed that a lot of the bad tension between them had been lifted. My mother rang me every day from then, and the first thing she would say when I answered was; ‘How is Alica?’ It had never been ‘Alica’ before, it had always been ‘her’, or ‘she’, or ‘your wife’.
Even my father came to visit, a few days later. It was the first time I had seen him since he left, and I was still very angry with him for what he did, but I held it all back. Him leaving my mother had once been the most devastating event of my life, but now it seemed like such a small affair. Alica was surprisingly pleasant to him. He cried when he left as well, and the two of us even shared a stiff embrace.
That nurse – it turned out her name was Naomi – became a frequent visitor and friend. She came to see us every day, either at the beginning or end of her shift, but she never stayed for too long, and I think it was because she guessed that I wanted Alica to myself most of the time. Always very understanding, was Naomi.
Many other friends came, too, and some of the more inquisitive ones noticed that there was something peculiar about the way Alica was still able to communicate with us. I tried to play it down as much as I could because I didn’t want them to make a fuss, and eventually they all dropped the subject. They were all very supportive.
Throughout all of it Alica was brave. She never broke down in front of the others. Only occasionally when she knew it was only me there. She got thinner each day. Her voice got weaker. So did her coughing.
One evening, when I had just popped home to feed the cat and have a shower I received a phone call. It was from Naomi.
“Hello, Joshua,” she said, sombrely. “It’s Alica. She’s almost...”
“Okay,” I said, shocked by how calm and controlled my voice was. I reached for my coat and went to the car.
When I entered the room Naomi was le
aning over the bed, holding Alica’s hand. She turned around as soon as she heard the door open.
“I best leave,” she said, getting up. “I’m actually on duty.... if I stay here too long I might...” her voice trailed off as she brushed the side of her eye. “I will leave you with her...”
I stared at the bed for a few moments. I knew that something must have happened since I was away because the assortment of machines behind her bed had been rearranged. I sat beside her and took her hand.
“Alica?” I said, while tracing I love you onto her palm. Despite the fact that she could hear my thoughts, I had never gotten out of that habit.
I didn’t get any response from her at first, but eventually she stirred and her eyes opened. They were unfocussed, staring into nothing, but it meant that she was at least awake.
“Josh,” she said, smiling weakly. “I’m glad you made it.”
Yes, I’m here now Alica. I... I...
I staggered even for thoughts. I didn’t know what to think that would help her through this.
I don’t want you to die.
I don’t want you to go.
How would thoughts like that help her through this moment? What could I do to help her?
“Just hold my hand, Joshua,” she said. “That is all I want you to do. I don’t want to be alone.”
I held her hand and traced I love you. Again and again.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said. “The pain is all gone. I don’t know if it is because the doctors gave me drugs, or just my body is... I don’t know. But I am actually feeling quite good, now. Everything was dark before, but now I can see lights. They are getting closer. Joshua!” her eyes widened. “It’s just like–”
She trailed off, and one of the machines started beeping. I just carried on running my finger over her palm.
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I didn’t cry. Not when she died. Nor when the doctors finally noticed and ran into the room. Eventually one of them coaxed me away from her. In the movies when someone interferes like that, the newly bereaved man goes into a rage and has to be restrained – but I didn’t do that. I just silently got up, and left.
I didn’t cry when I was in the car, either. When I reached my house I pushed my keys into the lock and swung the door open. I went straight into the living room and sat on the couch.
The cat wandered in. I didn’t know if it was because it somehow knew what had just happened or it could just sense something about me, but the creature was especially pathetic that day. It let out a small wail, and approached me, cautiously.
I tried to ignore her, but she jumped onto my lap and nuzzled my neck.
I looked down at her furry face and those large green eyes with blackened ovals in the centre. She meowed, again, and I suddenly felt this heavy feeling in my chest. I put my hand on her head, and ran my fingers through her fur.
“It’s just me and you now, Flossy,” I said.
She settled onto my lap, and I held her against me as the tears finally came.
The Copy
by
Dave Weaver
Ever since, as a boy, Dave Weaver first watched invading Daleks trundle across London Bridge in grainy BBC monochrome, thrilled to Professor Quatermass’ discovery of Martian corpses buried deep in the London Underground and read about mankind’s tenuous grip on existence being almost wiped out by marauding Triffids, he has loved science fiction, particularly the British variety.
A graphic designer by day, Dave has been writing by night for over a decade. With numerous short stories published in anthologies and webzines, he has had three novels published by Elsewhen Press. Although much of his writing hovers on the shifting borders between fantasy and reality, science fiction has never been far away. After years of creating his own future-scapes of flawed space exploration, dystopian visions and time-warped analogies, Dave has his own tales to tell of future worlds and fantastic revelations. He firmly believes that the seeds of the future are all around us; it’s not as far away or different as we might like to think.
She’d been with the host family for almost the full week. They had to give her a week by law, the whole seven days. Some gave slightly more, most didn’t. It was better for all concerned to stick to the Government guidelines. No false hopes or misunderstandings.
The company told her the rules on day one; two hours after she awoke in the growth pod, an hour after they told her she wasn’t who she thought she was. Wasn’t anything like in fact; she was a Copy.
“No, you’re wrong, you’re crazy... let me out of here...call my parents, I want to go home, now!”
When the screaming and crying and swearing and frustrated anger had finally died down (all these violent new emotions that had come out of nowhere) they showed her the proof; the charts and x-rays, the pictures of her rapid growth in the pod, pictures of the host family watching as the fluids pumped into the tiny body did their work. That had been six months ago, they’d told her; today was her birth-day, today she was ready for them to start the procedure. But first she had one week.
While she sat shaking, staring into her incredibly finite future, the role was carefully, explicitly, explained to her. ‘Time is of the essence now, if you agree’, they told her. ‘We must have your agreement by law’. The alternative of course was... well basically there wasn’t one. Once she finally understood that, she listened.
Rule one: Don’t talk to your host family unless they initiate the discussion.
Rule two: Don’t go out on your own, or in fact anywhere from the home area unless accompanied by one or both host parents.
Rule three: Don’t make personal contact with the Recipient unless a host parent is present.
Rule four: Even though you will share duplicate memories, even though you are a carbon copy of your Recipient please remember that your position is ephemeral; you are merely borrowing these traits for a short period of time. Any emotions felt, however fleetingly, will be yours and yours alone; this is how you will be paid for your co-operation, for your… usage.
Rule five: Don’t try to reason, plead with or threaten your host family.
Rule six: Don’t try to escape. There is a chip already implanted in your brain that will kill you if we deem you to be a ‘runaway’. Don’t make us do that to you; it will be far more painful than your decommissioning.
Rule seven: The most important rule of all: do not attempt to make an ally of your Recipient. They are in a physically and emotionally vulnerable state that can only be worsened by pressure from you. This is undesirable for all concerned.
If you are caught attempting to break any of these rules termination will occur immediately, despite the cost to the company, despite the upset for the host family, despite the valuable loss of time in the procedure. In summary, any discrepancy between your contractual agreement and performance thereof will not be tolerated.
You are being given one week of sentient life under these, and only these, conditions. Good luck and thank-you for agreeing to take part in this programme.
Please sign here. And state chosen name for this period.
She didn’t care about that of course; she signed, and chose Anna. For ‘analogue’ you see, like a machine; a sense of humour must have survived along with the memories. Was that what they called irony?
One or other of the host family had taken her on sightseeing trips around their local neighbourhood. It was the accepted thing to do for your Copy; the experience of some kind of life, however brief, was inherent in the agreement.
The Recipient, their daughter, didn’t come with them on their little jaunts to the park, or the zoo, or the swimming pool. Her condition forbade physical exertion but it was more than that. To be seen in public, side-by-side would have been awkward, embarrassing even, for both the daughter and the host parents. The girl white-faced and shaky, the Copy strong and gl
owing with health; nobody wanted to see that spectacle. That frightening glimpse of their own mortality...
So Anna had done all these things that week, the one precious week allotted to her, and in a way been grateful. It couldn’t have been easy for them; to silently, guiltily, take her to these places, the ones their own child’s memory had reminded Anna they’d all visited together before. She could still see herself at nine riding on the donkey at the petting zoo, her parents proudly filming her wide grin as she hung on tight. But of course it wasn’t her grin, her memory, or her parents; they belonged to the girl in the bed back at the house. Soon the needle would be pushed into Anna’s healthy skin, the drug that would still her brain but keep her young heart pumping for a while would be administered and all this, whatever ‘this’ was, would be over. The daughter would grow well again while she would be discarded and forgotten, become nothing more than an unpleasant family memory. An unfortunate but unavoidable ‘procedure’...
So she made as much of it as she could; eating an ice cream they’d bought for her, the heat of the sun on her face, the breeze gently ruffling her hair, the water in the pool coolly caressing her skin with phantom fingertips, the carefree laughter of the children playing in the park, the smell and the touch of the animals at the zoo. She picked up a purring cat and felt another, wilder, heart beating next to her own; a heart that would beat on long after hers was eventually stilled in the hospital’s cold antiseptic chamber of dismemberment and brain-death. Would she dream? she wondered. The company doctor had said no. Her brainwaves would virtually cease right after that one decisive injection of fluid into her bloodstream. She would no longer be aware, be sentient. This brief time was all she would ever have, these smells and sounds; that touch, this taste…
