“Is that you in the photographs, Ellen?” it asked, pulling the shift up above her waist and beginning to wipe her clean.
“Yeah,” she said, her face still turned away, staring at bare wall. “That was me.”
“It appears you were a performer of some kind.”
“Dancer—I was a dancer,” she said irritably. “Not that you’d ever know it by looking at me now.”
“That is very interesting. How did you become a dancer?”
“I just liked to dance, that’s all.”
“In the black and white photograph, the one where you are surrounded by other dancers, you look very young.”
Ellen turned her face, angling to look up at the photo. “That’s when I was on American Bandstand, an old TV show. I was just a kid.”
“Were you a professional dancer?”
“Later I was—when I moved to New York.” She chuckled at some private recollection. “For a time I was what they called a ‘go-go dancer.’ I worked at some real dives to put myself through dance school. Places like Rocky’s and The Gull’s Inn … those were the days.”
It observed the conversation was indeed distracting her from its ministrations, so it pursued the topic.
“I did not realize they had schools for dancing.”
“Sure they do. I studied for a long time with Hanya Holm. Talk about an old biddy. After that, I joined Erick Hawkins’ Modern Dance Company. We traveled all over. Of course, that was before my first marriage—before I had my son.” For a moment she looked wistful, as if sorting through fond memories. “I didn’t dance anymore after Edward was born. At least not professionally.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Just the one. I’ve got a grandson now, and two great grandkids—can you believe it?”
“Certainly.”
“That’s their picture over there, with their father and mother.”
“They appear to be very healthy,” it said, not certain how to respond.
It tended to a few final details and pulled down her shift. “I am finished now, Ellen. Do you require anything before I go?”
“No.”
“All right. I will check on you later.”
She turned her face away again.
It couldn’t tell if she was looking at the photos on the wall or if she’d closed her eyes.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Ellen.”
“Hmmph. What have I got to be thankful for? You tell me, Owen.”
Patient-resident Ellen Reiner had addressed it as “Owen” for such an extended period that it had begun to think of itself in that manner.
“I understand your Thanksgiving meal will be a special treat,” Owen stated, checking the medic monitor and recording the data output.
“Not likely. The food in this place tastes like mush. It’s no wonder, seeing as how it’s made by tasteless machines.”
“It is true the automated kitchen workers have no sense of taste, but I am certain they prepare your meals to the exact dietary specifications provided.”
“Yeah, specifically bland.”
“There are currently 5,397 patient-residents quartered within Repository Carehouse 319, and the food must be prepared in a manner to accommodate everyone.”
“Yeah, well, a little spice now and then would do them good.”
“I have no doubt the sustenance provided complies with all nutritional guidelines, Ellen. If you would like, I can—”
“Piss on nutrition! I want something that’s sweet or sour or puts a fire in my belly. Hell, I got nothing else to look forward to. You’d think I could get a decent meal every once in a while.”
Owen straightened the bed coverings, tucking in the length where necessary, and removed the bag from the bedside commode.
Ellen reached across the bed and fumbled with something.
“I can’t work the remote anymore,” she said with exasperation. “My damn hands are too deformed. There’s an old movie I wanted to watch, but I can’t change the channel.”
“I can do that for you. What channel would you like me to select?”
“It’s Singing in the Rain with Gene Kelly. I think it’s channel 98.”
Owen activated the channel selector. “Is this correct?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Oh, it’s already half over.”
She stared at the screen for some time as Owen completed its duties, and then spoke as if her attention were elsewhere. “I’ve had some great Thanksgiving dinners, you know. Garlic mashed potatoes, stuffing made with celery and onion and pine nuts, golden brown turkey—cooked just right so it was still moist, you understand—candied yams, cranberry sauce. … ” Her voice trailed off as if she were still reminiscing but not verbalizing.
“Can I get you anything, Ellen?”
“No.” Then, reconsidering, she gestured toward the remote with her gnarled fingers and said, “You could turn the volume up for me.”
Owen complied. On the video screen, as the title suggested, a man was singing and dancing through a rainstorm. Despite the meteorological situation and his saturated condition, he was smiling. Nothing in Owen’s programming derived any logic from it. It was the way humans were.
“I will go and let you watch your movie now.”
It was on its way out when it heard Ellen say softly, “Thanks, Owen.”
Owen’s internal alarm sounded. The medic monitor in room 1928 was summoning it: it must disregard normal routine and check on the patient-resident’s condition immediately.
Upon entering the room, it initially failed to locate patient-resident Ellen Reiner. It did, however, note the medic monitor was emitting its warning beep and recognized the patient-resident’s vital signs were fluctuating dangerously. It activated its exigency video record option and located the patient-resident on the floor next to the bed. Owen bent down next to her.
“Ellen, what happened?”
“I was trying, uhh … to see out the window,” she said weakly.
Owen evaluated her response and reactions. She was apparently in a tremendous amount of pain. “Damn legs don’t work anymore. They just collapsed right out from under me.”
“You should have called for me to help you.”
“I didn’t want to … bother you.”
“Regardless, that window is too high for you. Do you not remember?”
“I guess I forgot.”
“Do not be alarmed; I have alerted an emergency medical team. They will be here momentarily.”
“No!” she exclaimed so vehemently her body convulsed and she gasped in obvious pain. “I don’t want them,” she managed to whisper. “I don’t want to be saved. Just let me go. Let me be done with it.”
Owen was trying to formulate an appropriate response when the EMT, consisting of two humans and an automated assistant, rushed in. Owen moved aside as they took their places around the patient-resident. She began crying as soon as she saw them.
“No,” she wept, “no, no.”
Owen stood there, its ceramic ocular arrays focused intently on patient-resident Ellen Reiner. There was nothing it could do. It wasn’t programmed for medical emergency procedures.
“Looks like a broken hip,” one of the humans said. “Blood pressure’s dropping dangerously low. We’ve got to get her to surgery.”
The automated assistant distended the compact gurney it carried, and they transferred Ellen onto it as gently as they could. Still she cried out—whether in pain or protest, Owen could not be certain. All it could do was watch as they pushed her out, and listen as her tearful cries down the corridor.
When its audio receptors could no longer discern her voice, it replayed the incident video. Had it failed somehow in its duties? Could it have acted differently to prevent the injury from occurring? It listened to her words, then listened again … trying to understand.
“I don’t want them. I don’t want to be saved. Just let me go. Let me be done with it.”
It didn’t matter how many times Owen replay
ed the recording, or how it attempted to dissect the phraseology, it still didn’t comprehend.
Three weeks and two days had passed since Owen had last gone into room 1928. There had been no reason to. Then it received notification that patient-resident Ellen Reiner had been returned to her room. It found the notification to be welcome and accompanied by an indefinable inclination to care for her once again. However, upon seeing Owen, Ellen acted less than pleased. Her reaction was, it seemed, more akin to acrimony.
“I am glad to see you have returned, Ellen. I hope your stay in the hospital facility was pleasant.”
She failed to respond, so Owen went about its duties but continued its attempts to engage her.
“I understand you are still recovering from your injuries and must not attempt to stand or walk again. Please inform me if you need to get out of bed, and I will provide a wheelchair.”
There was still no response, and Owen discovered her silence to be a source of agitation it could not define or locate within its systems.
“It will be Christmas soon. I am pleased you were able to return before the holiday. I understand members of your family will be visiting on the 24th of the month. I am certain you look forward to that.”
More silence. Then, as Owen attempted to formulate a new line of conversation, Ellen spoke up, her tone harsh and unforgiving.
“Why didn’t you just let me die?”
“What do you mean, Ellen?”
“You heard me. Why didn’t you let me die? I asked you to. I begged you.”
“You are in my charge, Ellen. I am programmed to care for you. I cannot do anything to harm you.”
“Nobody asked you to. I just asked you to leave me alone—let me be.”
“Not calling for medical assistance when you were so seriously injured would be the equivalent of harming you, Ellen.”
Her eyes bore into Owen with what it determined was an angry stare. A dewy film glazed over them, and her tone altered. It was more pleading than demanding, and several times the cadence of her voice broke with emotion.
“You should have let me die, Owen. That’s what I wanted. I’m not really alive anyway. What kind of life is this? I’m just waiting around … waiting to die. That’s all anyone in this place is doing. This is just death’s waiting room, don’t you know that?”
She sobbed once and then seemed to physically gather herself, reining in her emotions.
“Hell, they shoot horses don’t they?”
“Shoot horses?”
“Animals—they treat animals more humanely than they do people.”
Owen didn’t respond. It was occupied, trying to comprehend what she had said. The word “humanely” was not incorporated into its vocabulary, but its root contained the word human. Did it mean to be treated as a human? If so, why would horses be treated more human than humans?
“It’s the bureaucrats and the moralists. That’s who’s keeping me alive. Them and those who own this carehouse—who own you, Owen. All they really care about is collecting their compensation. I’m just a source of income—a husk defined by profit motive. They’ve taken the choice away from me. But it’s my choice,” she said, pockets of moisture now evident under her eyes, “not theirs.”
Ceasing its work, Owen stood listening, trying to reconcile its programming with what she was saying.
“I am sorry, Ellen. I am sorry you are so unhappy.”
“It’s not your fault, Owen. It’s not your fault.”
Despite her words, Owen detected an irregularity in its systems that might indicate a fault. It would need to perform a self-diagnostic before continuing with its duties.
Owen didn’t realize Ellen’s visitors had arrived until it had already walked in on them.
“I am sorry, Ellen,” it said, stopping short. “I was unaware your guests had arrived. I will come back later.”
“No, it’s okay, Owen. Stay. Do what you need to do. They don’t care.”
“Gee, Great Grandma, is that your robot?” asked the older of the two young boys standing next to her bed.
“That’s Owen. He takes care of me. He’s a … what are you again, Owen?”
“An automated caregiver.”
“Yeah, right.” She turned to the other side of her bed to address the man standing there. “So where’s Alisha?”
“You know, it being Christmas Eve and all … she had a lot to do.”
“Is that right?” Ellen replied caustically.
“Well, you know how this place upsets her so, Grandma.”
“It doesn’t exactly make me feel like a princess.”
Her grandson shifted his feet uncomfortably, looking at a loss for words.
“I hope you like the cookies we made for you, Great Grandma,” the older boy said.
“I’m sure I will, Matthew.”
“Well, we’d better go now and let your great grandma rest. Give her a hug goodbye and wish her a merry Christmas.”
The older boy reached over and hugged her. “Merry Christmas, Great Grandma.”
The younger boy kept his hands at his sides and edged back a few inches.
“Go on, Todd, hug your great grandma.”
“He’s scared of me,” Ellen said. “Don’t force him. It’s all right. Great Grandma Ellen isn’t a very pretty sight these days.”
Her grandson bent down and kissed her forehead. “Merry Christmas, Grandma. I wish … I wish I could—”
“Get along now,” she said sharply, cutting him off. “Santa will be here soon, and these boys need to get to bed so they don’t miss out.”
“Okay, boys, wave goodbye to your great grandma.”
The older boy waved and said, “Goodbye, Great Grandma.” The younger one hesitated, waved quickly in her direction, and then hurried to catch up with his father and brother.
When they were gone, Owen spoke up. “It must be nice to have family members come and visit. Will your son be coming too?”
“My son died a long time ago. Car accident.”
Owen picked up her dinner tray and swept a few loose crumbs onto it. “Well then, it was nice that your grandson could visit.”
“I’d just as soon he didn’t. I feel like a hunk of scrap metal weighing him down. I don’t like being a burden.”
“You are not a burden, Ellen.”
“Maybe not to you, Owen, but to family … well, I guess you wouldn’t understand that.”
“No, Ellen, I would not understand that.”
“Owen, is that you?”
Sounding only partially awake, Ellen rolled over and opened her eyes.
“Yes, Ellen.”
“I was just lying here, listening to the rain. Can you hear it?”
“Yes, I can. Would you like me to turn on the sound screen so it does not bother you?”
“No, no … I like listening to it. It’s soothing, don’t you think?”
“Soothing? I do not know what soothing is, Ellen.”
“I’ve always liked the sound of rain. I don’t know why exactly—I just do.”
“They are holding Easter Sunday services in the community room this morning. Would you like to attend? I have brought your wheelchair.”
“Is it Easter already?”
“Yes, it is. Would you like to join the worshipers?”
“To worship what? God? God deserted me a long time ago. He’s not getting any more from me.”
“I am sorry. My records must be incorrect. Your file designates you as a Christian of the Lutheran denomination. Accordingly, I thought you might wish to take part in the ritual.”
“I am a Christian—was my whole life. I believed, I had faith, I worshiped God—then He did this to me. Do you think I should worship Him for this?” She held up a twisted, disfigured hand, but could only extend her arm a few inches from her body. “Do you think my faith should be stronger because He turned me into this thing?”
“I cannot say, Ellen. I am not programmed to respond to philosophical questions concerning faith
or religion. I do not comprehend the concepts involved.”
“There was a time I would have pitied you for that, Owen. I would even have thought less of you.”
Owen waited to see what else Ellen would say, but the only sound was the patter of rain against the window.
“All right, Ellen. I will return your wheelchair to the storage unit.”
“Yeah, take it back, Owen. I don’t need it. What I have to say to God I can say right here.”
Inside the staff maintenance bay, surrounded by several other diligent caregivers, Owen completed its routine self-diagnostic and filed its monthly patient-resident assessments. It didn’t speak to any of its co-workers. That only occurred when its duties required such interaction. Its programming necessitated only that it converse with the patient-residents under its charge, and even then, only with those who were coherent enough to carry on conversations. So, as it exited the maintenance bay, Owen didn’t acknowledge any of its peers. It simply traversed the familiar corridor, crossed the homogeneous tile mosaic, and began its evening duty cycle.
Then, a notion occurred to it. It was an unusual notion, though not inordinate. It would break from routine. Instead of beginning with the nearest cubicle, it would go first to room 1928, to see Ellen.
It discovered her dinner tray was still full. Except for some minor spillage, the meal appeared to be untouched. Ellen ignored Owen’s presence, seemingly intent on the video screen.
“Ellen, why have you not eaten any of your dinner? Are you not feeling well?”
“It’s crap! It all tastes like crap. Take it away—I don’t want it.”
“You must eat, Ellen. If you refuse to eat, I must nourish you intravenously. I know you would not like that.”
“You’re damn right I wouldn’t.”
“Please, then, try to eat some of your dinner.”
“I can’t! I can’t, okay? My hands don’t work anymore,” she blurted out, her distress evident in the cracking of her voice. “Look at them. Look at how deformed they are. I can’t even pick up a spoon anymore. I’m helpless. I’m useless. I can’t even feed myself.”
Owen could see she was angry and struggling to hold back the tears welling up in her eyes.
Therefore I Am - Digital Science Fiction Anthology 2 Page 5
