Absence of Mind

by H. C. H. Ritz

  I look at him, dismayed, and he walks away.

  “That man is unlikeable,” I announce to the table.

  “He’s just being rational,” Mila says.

  I look at her and take in her presence. Just the fact that she is sitting there next to me is such a comfort to me. I find myself reaching out for her hand again, and again she takes it. We look at each other for a moment. Her hand is delicate compared to mine, but warm, and it feels lovely.

  I find myself in a state of suspended disbelief, postponing until later the questions about why we would be holding hands and what it might mean. As far as I can tell, she does the same.

  “What do we do now?” I ask. “We’re under arrest for cyberterrorism, framed, out on bail, Jamie and all those thousands of people still under assault by their Navis… and whoever’s behind it all tried to kill me. And you saved my life, didn’t you, Mila?” This last thought has been slow in dawning on me. Embarrassingly slow.

  Mila looks down.

  “I would have been lost in all this without you,” I say.

  A faint blush rises up her face, and she keeps her eyes down. She’s adorably modest. I admire her for a moment. Without distractions from my Navi, I can enjoy her with my full attention. I wonder at myself. I have never been so entranced with a woman before.

  She lets out a slow breath and then says, “Actually, what we need to do right now is call your mom.”

  Sure, that makes sense¬—they’re probably worried sick about me if they’ve been trying to reach me—but there’s something puzzling about the way she says it.

  “What do you mean? And… why did you ask for my mom’s phone number when the FBI was arresting us?”

  “Um,” she says and looks away. “I… have something I need to explain. Which is going to sound strange.”

  “Oh? This is going to be good. What is it?”

  She stands up, and we both head toward the elevator. Mila seems to be composing her thoughts. After she presses the button, she says, “I… sent my mother to your house. I made it sound like you had requested it.”

  I stare blankly at the granite walls of the hallway and then turn to face her. “Your senile mother? You sent her to my house? Why would your mother need to go somewhere? And why my house?”

  “I normally help take care of my mom, you know? When I realized that I was being taken away by the FBI, I… I guess I panicked. I wanted to make sure she would be okay. So I had her sent to your house.”

  I blink a few more times, trying—and failing—to come to terms with this. “You have got to be kidding me. Who decides that sending her senile mother to a stranger’s house in another state is a good idea? So that means my parents have been stuck trying to take care of a crazy woman all this time, thinking it was my idea? They’re going to kill me.”

  The elevator finally arrives, and we both get in, though all of that is background to my building outrage.

  “You said they were loving and cared a great deal about family and community,” Mila says. “You said your mother would do anything to help anyone.”

  “Yes, they do, and they are, and she would, but… my community is insular. They don’t like outsiders. They’re not going to be happy at all. My dad is going to be pissed.”

  I realize that Mila’s eyes are brimming with tears, and sympathy wars with anger and frustration.

  “I’m sorry,” Mila says. “I had a matter of minutes to solve this problem before they took away my laptop. I did the only thing I could think of. I didn’t have anywhere else to send her or anyone else who could help me.”

  The raw confession makes sympathy the victor. That… and the fact that Mila just loaned me twenty thousand dollars to get me out of jail… plus enough to handle my brother’s guardianship hearing. That kind of makes up for a lot.

  As the elevator doors open, I sigh heavily. “All right,” I mumble as I hold open the doors.

  “Can we call now and make sure she made it there?” Mila asks with a desperate tone in her voice.

  More sympathy sweeps over me. She’s been worrying about her mom all this time.

  “Of course,” I say. “I’ll tell them it was my idea, like you said. I’ll explain it for you the way you did. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

  Mila nods, still looking down, and leads the way off the elevator. I follow her out to the lobby, and we find the same security guard and the same phone. I take a deep breath and brace myself as I dial.

  “Dad? It’s Phoebe.” Mila hovers at my shoulder, trying to listen in.

  “Phoebe, what in the world has been going on? I haven’t been able to reach you in days. And what is the story with this Mrs. Bremer you sent here? Do you know the trouble you’ve caused us?”

  “Do they have her?” Mila mouths at me. I nod, and her eyes close and her face relaxes.

  “Dad, can I talk to Mom, please?”

  “This is not a matter for your mother. This is my house that you have brought this on. My. House.”

  “It’s also my mother’s house,” I say through tight lips. Legally, it isn’t. Women don’t own anything in my community. But I don’t give a crap whose name is on the mortgage. “Put her on the phone.”

  I hear his angry voice in the room on the other side, then a pause, and then my mom’s voice on the phone. “Yes, Phebe? What is the story with Mrs. Bremer? Why did you send her to stay with us? Do you know the”—her voice drops to an emphatic whisper—“the trouble it has been? And that Jerry person—Armstrong? Armistead?—he wouldn’t explain a thing.”

  I turn to Mila. “Who’s Jerry Arm-something?”

  Mila’s mouth opens as she tries and fails to articulate an answer. Finally, she says, “Armstead. Long story.”

  “Okay, so I’m sorry, but my friend Mila needed her to have somewhere to go. Because we… we…”

  “Yes, Phebe? What is it?”

  The words “we’ve been in jail” just will not come out of my mouth. But I also can’t come up with an adequate lie in time. I take my cue from Mila. “It’s a long story. Very long. But basically, Mila and I have been working together on trying to help Jamie, and Mila normally takes care of her mom, and she couldn’t while she was helping me, and…”

  Mila is holding out her hand for the phone. I stare blankly at her and then hand it over. It seems like a terrible idea for her to talk to them, but even she probably can’t do much worse than I’m doing.

  “Mrs. Bernhart, thank you for taking care of my mother,” Mila says in her usual blunt way. “I know it has disrupted your normal routines and caused you stress. I’m sorry about that. We wouldn’t have done it to you if we could have thought of a better way to handle it, but sometimes, things like this happen. And I know you want an explanation, but I can’t give you one right now, except to say that it’s about your family—about Jamie and Phoebe—and we need you to take care of my mother so that we can focus on our work here.”

  I would kill to hear what my mother is saying in response, but I can only make out the sound of her voice.

  “Phoebe loves you, and she doesn’t want to worry you when she can take care of things herself,” Mila says in response to a question. “But this time, she can’t do it alone, and that’s why we had to send my mother to you. We knew you would have the compassion and skill necessary to take care of her. Not everyone would.”

  As I listen, I realize that Mila’s bluntness is a perfect match for the plain speech my community and family prefers. Perhaps that’s why I find Mila alternately infuriating and comforting. I hadn’t even thought about it until now, but I’ve grown up around people like her.

  My mother says something. I can hear the questioning lilt at the end of the sentence.

  “It’s too early to speculate on what the results might be, but we’ve had a breakthrough with Jamie.”

  I hear the sigh from my mother all the way from here. She says something longer. I hear “Jesus” and “serve him.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bernhart. And you don’t
have to worry about Phoebe. She can be sensible when she needs to be.”

  I roll my eyes while my mother chuckles and asks another question.

  “Mila.”

  Another pause.

  “We will. Goodbye.” Mila hangs up the phone.

  “Okay, I’m impressed,” I say. “You handled that better than I would have.”

  “Your people like the truth, don’t they?” she asked.

  “Technically, you left out a whole lot of the truth.”

  “Well, they like what sounds like the truth.”

  I give her a look. For an instant, I wonder whether she has used—or would use—that same kind of selectivity in what she tells me.

  “Thank you,” I say to the security guard, who nods and puts the phone away.

  We move out past the security checkpoint, out in front of the building where traffic and pedestrians go past. We both take a few aimless steps and then stop and turn toward each other.

  I find myself caressing her arm and shoulder and then gently touching her face. And then Mila steps to me and buries her head in my shoulder and wraps her arms around me. “I miss my cat,” she says, her voice cracking.

  I start chuckling and can’t stop. It feels so damn good to touch another warm, living human being. I never want to let her go. Finally, though, I do.

  “Well, then, let’s go see your cat,” I say. “We might as well have somewhere to go while we’re trying to figure all this out.”

  A few minutes later, we’re back outside the courthouse after using the same phone again, this time to call an automated cab to take us to Mila’s house.

  And that’s when I get the message on my Navi.

  !!! A warrant has been issued for your arrest. !!!

  !!! Please turn yourself in to the nearest police station at your earliest convenience. !!!

  “What the hell?” I demand.

  Mila looks at me, her eyebrows up.

  “I got a notification that there’s a warrant out for my arrest and I’m supposed to go turn myself in.” I stare at her in disbelief.

  “Could it be a delayed notification from the earlier charges?” she offers.

  “Maybe. God, I hope so. We’d better call Mr. Pataky.”

  A few minutes later, we’re back inside, calling him from the same phone. He answers the call immediately. “Phoebe, I’m glad you called. Bad news. You have a warrant out. There are new charges against you both.”

  Mila is saying something. I wave at her to tell her to wait a minute, but I speak out loud so she can at least hear my half of the conversation.

  “I got the notification. What the hell is going on? What do you mean, ‘new charges’?”

  “They’ve added fourteen additional char—”

  “Fourteen additional charges?”

  “Fourteen—and five counts of cyberterrorism.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  “The FBI brought new evidence to the attorney general’s office that your Ms. Bremer introduced the Hyper-Aggression malware into the Navis of those five people.”

  As Mr. Pataky talks, I look over at Mila, uncomprehending. This isn’t happening.

  “The bail is going to impossible to meet this time. I can guarantee, with five counts of cyberterrorism, they’re going to ask for maybe two million dollars for each of you.”

  I swallow. How are we going to prove our innocence from a jail cell? All my hopes are evaporating.

  Mr. Pataky will get the Navi uninstalled from Jamie. I grasp onto that idea. Even if we’re in jail waiting for our trial, Mr. Pataky will take care of Jamie.

  “—waiting more than a few hours before you go turn yourselves in. Maybe three hours. Are you still at the courthouse? You can turn yourselves in there right now.”

  “No,” I lie instinctively.

  “Is she there with you now?” he asks.

  Mila is looking at me intently as if she’s trying to discern what’s going on by reading my facial expressions. There’s no hint of guilt on her face. No fear.

  “Is she there now?” he asks again.

  “Yes. Yes, she’s here.”

  “Tell her everything I’ve told you. Do it now, out loud, so that I can hear it and have it on record.”

  My throat is dry, but I swallow hard and get out the words somehow. “There’s a warrant out for each of us. The FBI brought in new evidence that you… caused HAD with those five patients. We have to turn ourselves in within a few hours.”

  “Three hours,” Mr. Pataky corrects.

  “Within three hours. Bail will probably be set for two million dollars each, maybe more.”

  Mila looks away, out through the front windows of the lobby. “What time is it now?”

  I glance at the clock at the top right of my vision. “Two thirty.”

  She nods.

  I stare at her. I wish she weren’t so damn difficult to read. I wish I had any sense at all that I understood her.

  “Ask her if she has any ready defense for these charges,” Mr. Pataky is saying.

  Tentatively, trying to make it sound offhand, I say, “He’s asking if you have a ready defense for these charges.” My heart is in my throat. I want her to say yes.

  She doesn’t even think about it. “No,” she says. “Nothing.”

  “All right,” Mr. Pataky says. “I’ll contact you after the guardianship hearing. It’s at three.” He hangs up without waiting for my response.

  Mr. Pataky’s words echo through my mind. Ask her if she has a ready defense. Suddenly, I realize that I don’t know this woman at all. She is almost entirely a stranger to me.

  Until a moment ago, I would never even have considered the possibility that Mila had done anything wrong. I asked her to help me, after all. She’s been helping me. Why would she help me if she were involved?

  Maybe she only offered to help so she could tell me what she wanted me to hear. It’s not like I understand anything she’s doing with her laptop.

  Mila turns and looks directly at me. I feel pierced by her gaze.

  “You’re wondering whether the charges are true. Whether I did something to those people.”

  I open my mouth to answer, but I can’t think of what to say.

  “The charges aren’t true,” she says. “I didn’t do anything to them. I am trying to help.”

  I close my mouth.

  I think back over everything that’s happened. Mila came to help me of her own accord, yes. But she also saved my life when I had that seizure.

  Saved. My. Life.

  My ears burn.

  We walk silently out to the curb and wait for another automated cab. As if by silent agreement, we continue our plan to go to Mila’s house, even given all that’s happened.

  I find myself wanting to take her hand again as we ride together in the passenger compartment, but I’ve offended her. Anyway, wanting to hold her hand is an urge that I shouldn’t be having, and that leads me down a line of thought I’m not ready to go down.

  Instead, I replay the whole strange series of events in my mind—everything that has happened in a couple of weeks. I feel like I’m coping pretty darn well, all things considered, and I wonder if I’m in a state of shock. Maybe I’ll feel functional only for now and then have some kind of PTSD afterward. At least we have good drugs for PTSD now. Even some promising Navi treatments.

  I break into a cynical laugh at the thought of using a Navi for mental health, now that I know everything I know, and Mila looks over at me in surprise. “Nothing,” I say. “Kind of overwhelmed by it all.”

  When we arrive at her apartment, before Mila can even unlock the door, we hear piteous mewing from the other side. Mila gets the door open, and her legs are immediately assaulted by a beautiful gray cat who does her utmost to trip her. Mila steps inside and then kneels to smother her with attention.

  I glance around. I’ve been curious to know how Mila lives, and I’m somewhat surprised to find that it’s artfully decorated and cozy, though somewhat
minimalistic. I’m immediately enchanted by the presence of physical books on bookshelves and a physical upright piano against the wall in the dining room. It makes sense, though. She can’t call up a Navi keyboard or read books on her Navi, though she could use an ebook reader. I’m reasonably sure they still have those.

  “Person-Phoebe, meet cat-Phoebe,” Mila says from the floor.

  I kneel on the floor. “It’s nice to meet you,” I assure cat-Phoebe, who answers by delicately sniffing my hand and knee and then throwing herself on her side and purring vigorously.

  “Her purr is so loud,” I remark.

  “Yes,” Mila said, and I note the second smile I’ve ever seen from the blonde woman. “It’s one of my favorite things about her.”

  We’re both in a daze, I think. We sit there on the floor and pet the cat, not talking. I soon realize that there’s nothing to do here other than play the piano and read the books, neither of which we make any move to do. There’s no TV, no radio, no computer. Unlike at the hospital or at the jail, there’s no local database of movies and music for me to pull up on my Navi, either. It’s so quiet.

  But the message refuses to leave my display:

  !!! A warrant has been issued for your arrest. !!!

  I’m not allowed to forget about it for even a moment. Even with all other communications disabled, I still get this message burned into my brain.

  “Two and a half hours of freedom remaining,” I tell Mila. “I feel like there’s something important we ought to be doing with this time, but I can’t think of what it ought to be.”

  She nods. “It’s like I’m…”

  “Paralyzed.” We say it at the same time and then grin wanly at each other.

  Her phone rings. She gets up and answers it, a land line in her kitchen. I hear a few quiet words, and then she hands the phone to me. “It’s Mr. Pataky again.”