‘A rock did this?’
‘It had a sharp edge to it.’
‘Oh.’ I am not sure he believes me, but then again, I am not sure how much to believe of what he says either. I guess that makes us even. He swabs the now-stapled cut with gel and begins wrapping it with gauze. We sit at the kitchen table. Claire, too. She is still in the clothes she had on yesterday, rumpled now. Her usually neat hair is uncombed. She is tired, her face looking numb, like she has no energy to express anything, but still I can tell she is restraining herself from talking; she is letting Father do most of it. He holds nothing back, and I see Claire wince at some of the information.
‘If I only have ten percent of my original brain, what is the rest?’
‘It’s not exactly correct that you don’t have your brain. You do. You just don’t have the same material it was housed in. Now it’s in the Bio Gel.’
‘Then explain Bio Gel.’ I ask my questions flatly. Not committing to emotion. Not angry. Not sad. Not committing to acceptance or forgiveness. I can’t give them that.
‘Bio Gel is an artificial neural network built on a biological model. It’s a condensed, oxygenated gel that is filled with neural chips. These chips are as small as human neurons, and the wonderful thing is, they communicate and pass messages in the same way human neurons do, through chemical neurotransmitters. The typical human brain, Jenna, is composed of a hundred billion neurons. You have five times that. Every inch of you is packed with Bio Gel.’
I sense that Father thinks I should be impressed. Maybe even grateful. But what about my missing heart? My liver? I don’t want five hundred billion neural chips. I want guts.
He continues to describe his handiwork. ‘We uploaded all the information from your brain to a central sphere around your saved brain tissue—the pons—or the butterfly as it’s sometimes called. But eventually all the information will be shared with the whole network.’
‘If it’s all there, why am I having a hard time remembering?’ I don’t share that there are some things I am remembering that I shouldn’t. Like my baptism at two weeks old. I want to believe that Father has it all under control, but memories like these tell me he may be as lost as I am. He’s tampered with the unknown. What door has he opened? Will he change his mind and want to close it?
‘Your memory lapses aren’t unlike someone who’s had a stroke and is slowly recovering,’ he says. ‘The brain has to find new pathways to access and store information. That’s what you’re doing now. The neural chips are building pathways.’
‘Are you sure it’s all there?’
Mother and Father share a quick glance. Do they think I am blind?
‘Reasonably sure,’ Father says.
Reasonably. Like that is enough.
Father is done with my hand and I stand. ‘So if this is all so groundbreaking and wonderful, why are we here?’ I know the answer, but I want to push them—like a child on a playground shoving at someone’s shoulder. It feels good. I answer my own question before they can put their spin on it. ‘I’m illegal, aren’t I? That’s why we live here. We’re hiding out.’
Mother stands, coming around the table toward me. ‘Jenna, the laws will change—’
Father jumps in. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. What we’ve done is illegal. So, yes, that’s one of the reasons we’re here.’
Mother is about to reach me, and I put my hand out like a stop sign to halt her. ‘One of the reasons?’ I ask.
Father hesitates. Another shared glance between him and Mother. ‘The Bio Gel has its limitations. We know the shelf life—the oxygenation—is reduced with extreme temperature changes, especially cold. This location was chosen because it has the most constant temperate climate in the country.’
I begin laughing. Shelf life? My God, I have a shelf life!
‘It’s not that unusual—’
‘Stop! I have a shelf life, for God’s sake! That is unusual!’
‘Call it whatever you want, but what living thing doesn’t have a shelf life of some sort? We all do. You’re twisting this out of—’
‘I can’t believe this!’ I circle around, my arms flailing over my head, but just as quickly I’m disgusted that I’m mimicking Claire’s nervous gestures. I stop cold and face Father. ‘How long does it last?’
‘In this environment, we think it may have a good two hundred years. The problem is, there is no data yet—’
‘And if I were to go to a cold climate? Boston?’
‘Again, we don’t have definitive data, but it could be reduced to just a couple of years or maybe even less.’
I stare at them both. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, it does. I have a life expectancy between two and two hundred years. What’s next? I back toward the door. ‘How could you do this to me?’
‘We did what any parent would do. We saved you.’
‘Saved what? I’m a freak! You saved an uploaded artificial freak!’
Mother steps closer and in an instant her hand shoots up ready to slam across my face, but she catches herself, her hand frozen in midair. She deliberately lowers it to her side. Even in her rage, she cannot harm one cell on her treasured Jenna’s face. ‘Don’t you dare call yourself that! And don’t you dare judge us! Until you’ve been in our shoes, you’ll never understand!’ She turns abruptly and leaves the room.
Father and I stare at each other. Her exit leaves a hole, an imbalance to our already teetering triangle.
‘It’s been very difficult for her, Jenna,’ he finally says, his voice soft and uneven. Is he unraveling, too? They’re both disintegrating before my eyes. I need to get out. Get away, Jenna. I open the kitchen door to the backyard and step halfway out—like it hasn’t been hard for me? I turn and look at Father again.
‘I’m illegal. No matter how you play with the words … I’m illegal. I don’t even know if I’m human.’
Father collapses into a chair. He leans forward, his fingers digging across his face and scalp. ‘I do know. You are one hundred percent human.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I’m a doctor, Jenna. And a scientist.’
‘Does that make you an authority on everything? What about a soul, Father? When you were so busy implanting all your neural chips, did you think about that? Did you snip my soul from my old body, too? Where did you put it? Show me! Where? Where in all this groundbreaking technology did you insert my soul?’
I turn and leave before I can hear his answer. If he had one.
Lily
I was always bright. I always got As. But I wasn’t smart like Kara and Locke. They were truly brilliant. More than just book smart. It wouldn’t have taken them this long to catch on.
I sit on the large flat rock that just yesterday Ethan and I kissed on. Yesterday when I was only a girl with a shaky memory. Yesterday is a world away now.
I was going to run into the woods, out of view, but I know they would panic. Maybe even follow me. What might happen to their precious Jenna? They’re probably watching me now. From a window. Wondering. Ready to pounce. Second-guessing every thought I might have. Wondering if they could have done something differently. Wondering what they should do next. I can almost feel their eyes on my back. I whip around, but all I see is a cold, silent house. Bricks sit in pallets, waiting to repair the veranda. Scaffolding for painters stands empty. All workers have been turned away today. Restoration is on hold.
I haven’t seen Lily at all. We all need space.
I stare at the pond. It is mostly still. A coot hen on Mr Bender’s side disturbs the water every few minutes, diving for something on the bottom. The ripples don’t even reach our side of the pond. They disappear somewhere in the middle. I concentrate on that short expanse, where something becomes nothing. Exactly when does it disappear? And where does it go?
I pull my sneaker off and throw it as far as I can. It splashes into the middle of the pond, and the coot hen is startled into the reeds. Ripples fan out. They reach both shores, but withi
n a minute the surface is glass again, the sneaker’s splashy entrance forgotten, and I am minus a shoe. It is the least of my worries, and now I am back to that. Me. Or whatever I am.
My own question to Father has caught me by surprise. There is no going back. Where did the question come from? Were my artificial neural chips begging me to recognize what was left behind? Was it? It burrows into me, like a foxtail inching into flesh.
My soul.
I pull my sock from my sneakerless foot. It looks like real flesh. Real toes. Ally’s prosthetics are well made, but they are clearly not like this. These are real. They feel. I skim my foot out along the rock, feeling the cold surface, the uneven granite. Bits of grit.
I stare at the once again glassy surface of the pond. I curl my toes against the rock. I listen to my toenails scratching the stone. Digging. Chipping. The questions circle back. Is there such a thing? Was mine left behind?
I look at my hand curled in my lap, the bandage now covering the secret. The sick feeling of when I first saw it returns. In one moment, one brief glance, reality can flip. Whatever we believe can vanish. Believing in something doesn’t make it so.
There were so many things Mother and Father always wanted me to be. But wanting didn’t make it so, either. Now they want me to be just who I was before. I’m not. No matter how much they want it, or how much I want it, I can’t make that happen. The feeling of failure is familiar. I always tried so hard to be everything they wanted. Everything three babies could be. Their miracle child. Me. Now I am a different kind of miracle. The artificial freak kind.
‘The world has sure changed, hasn’t it?’
I startle and turn around. It is Lily. I didn’t hear her come up behind me. I turn back without answering.
‘Mind if I sit down?’
I stare out at the pond, silent, and hug my knees to my chest. She sits down, uninvited.
The rock is large. The distance between us small. I feel every inch of it. The lack of conversation doesn’t seem to bother her. It suffocates me. She is here for a reason. What is she waiting for? She finally breaches the wall of quiet between us. ‘I’ll be honest. I don’t really know what to make of you.’
I smirk. It is close to a laugh. She never lets up. But somehow I can accept her bluntness more easily than lying. ‘You don’t tiptoe, do you?’
‘What would be the point?’
‘Right,’ I say, still staring straight ahead. ‘Why spare any feelings when the feelings belong to a freak?’
‘Your words. Not mine.’
‘Some things don’t have to be said out loud.’
‘Eighteen months ago, I let go of my granddaughter,’ she says. ‘I said good-bye. I grieved. Then a few hours later, your parents told me what they had done.’
‘And you thought it was wrong?’
‘I’m not like your parents. I think there are worse things than dying.’
I think of the dark place, where I was nowhere at all. Trapped, dead, but alive. I hug my knees tighter and turn my face to look into Lily’s eyes that have been watching me all along. ‘And that’s what you think Jenna did? Died?’
She shakes her head. ‘There you go again. Putting words in my mouth. You were always good at putting—’ She stops abruptly, like she has caught herself admitting to something. ‘Like I said before, I didn’t know what to make of you. That’s all.’
‘Didn’t. Don’t. Which is it?’
‘What?’
‘Two different things. First time you said you don’t know what to make of me. Just now you said didn’t. Past tense. Big difference. You’ve come to a decision?’
She laughs. ‘God, you sound like Jenna. You look like Jenna. You can even be so damn precise and picky and aggravating like Jenna.’
She begins to reach out like she is going to touch my knee, but then she pulls back and returns her hand to her lap. ‘I just don’t know if you’re a perfect replica of my Jenna, or—’
‘Or the miracle you prayed for?’
She nods, her lips tight. My nana. I lay my head down on my scrunched-up knees and close my eyes, even though I loathe the darkness.
‘I don’t know either,’ I say. I speak the words into the dark, crowded angles of my folded arms and legs. I’m not even sure she can hear me. Or if anyone can. It’s a familiar feeling I never wanted to return to.
Species
Human n. 1. A member of the species Homo sapiens. adj. 2. Representative of the sympathies and frailties of human nature. 3. Sympathetic, humane. 4. Having human form or attributes.
Where do I go from here?
How many hours can one person spend locked in a bathroom, looking at skin, hair, eyes. Feeling fingers. Toes. And the absurdity of a belly button?
How many definitions for human can one person find? And how do you know which one is correct?
How many hours can you spend shivering? And holding.
And wondering.
Details
We sit in the living room. Father builds a fire, even though Mother warns that the top of the chimney is still missing. He doesn’t care. He wants a fire. If the house burns down, he’ll build another. She doesn’t argue.
His time here is limited. He will be missed in Boston. Questions will be asked, and the others can’t cover for him for long. So in this unplanned visit he tries to tell me more of what I need to know. At dinnertime I learned more about the new and improved Jenna. Even though Bio Gel is self-sufficient, I actually do have a primitive digestive system, mostly for ‘psychological reasons’. No stomach, but an intestine of sorts. It explains my infrequent trips to the restroom and unusual constitution. And the system does utilize the nutrients for my skin. At some point, I may be able to eat some table foods. I tell Father I have already indulged in mustard and he frowns, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s like he can’t take any more drama. Even if it may derail everything he and Mother have worked toward for so long. Mustard. Irrelevant.
Mother has been mostly quiet. Before dinner she apologized for raising her hand to me. She stumbled over her words. I don’t recall her ever hitting me, but even the possibility seems to shake her. Now she sits in the wingback chair near the fire, her head back, her eyes staring at something I can’t see. The past? Is she retracing every moment, wondering what she should have done differently? Always chatty and in control, she is now the opposite, like someone has pulled her plug. Father fills the space she leaves by adding logs in the fireplace and refilling both their brandy glasses. I have never before seen Mother drink anything stronger than cranberry juice.
Father doesn’t address the question I threw at him before I ran out the kitchen door this afternoon. Perhaps, like mustard, it is irrelevant to him. I don’t think it is irrelevant to Lily. She had been conspicuously absent all evening. She helped make dinner but didn’t join Mother and Father in eating it, instead excusing herself and going to her room. ‘You need some time alone together,’ she said.
As he pokes at the fire, Father explains in detail more than I really want to know the tedious process of saving bits of my skin and growing it in the lab and combining it with other specimens until the required amount was achieved. He moves on to the technology of brain scans, what he and his team have learned just from my experience and the implications for future patients facing similar problems. As long as he is in doctor-scientist mode, he is talkative and in charge. When he veers into father mode, he stumbles and looks in many ways like a mirror image of Mother. He ages. Who is this Jenna Fox who has so much power over them? I feel like a weak, unsure ghost of her. Maybe a replica. I search for some portion of her strength.
Father leans back in a chair opposite Mother and talks of the challenges of uploading. I am poised on the middle of the sofa between their chairs. The scientific complexities don’t matter to me as much as the human ones do. When will we talk about that?
I cut into his safe, doctor mode.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I ask. ‘The minute I woke up? Didn’t I deserve
to know?’
His head drops momentarily. His chest rises. Mother’s eyes close. ‘Maybe we should have, Jenna,’ he says. He stands and paces near the hearth. ‘I’m not saying we did everything right. Damn, it’s not like there’s a manual for this sort of situation. We’re groping our way through this. It’s a first for us, too, just like it is for you. We’re—’
He stops his pacing and looks at me. ‘We’re just doing the best we can.’ I hear the catch in his voice, and it knifes through me.
Mother opens her eyes and the lioness returns. They are a tag team. When one is spent, the other takes up the fight. ‘We know this is hard on you, Jenna. It’s hard on us, too. Someday you’ll understand. Someday, when you have a child of your own, you’ll finally understand what a parent will do to save their child.’
‘Look at me! I can never have a child!’
She softens. ‘We saved an ovary, darling. It’s preserved at an organ bank. And a surrogate mother won’t be a problem—’
God! Bits of me have landed everywhere. It would be funny if it wasn’t so horrifying. I stand abruptly, judging whether to leave or stick it out. ‘Please, can we stay with one issue at a time? I asked a simple question,’ I say. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? You didn’t forget. I remember that much about both of you. Details don’t escape you. I’ve lived with details for years.’ I look directly at Claire. ‘I won’t even bring up the fact that I am two inches shorter now—acceptable ballerina height—another detail I know wasn’t an oversight. So let’s just go back to my original question. What took you so long?’
‘Listen very carefully,’ she says. Her face and voice are hard. ‘Every ounce of our breath was sucked out of us. For days we didn’t breathe. Literally, that’s what it felt like. And every time I looked at you, I was afraid to look away again, like my eyes were the only thing anchoring you to this earth. It was unbearable every time I looked at you, but I couldn’t look away either. So, if we didn’t do everything just right, understand it’s not just you who’s been through hell.’
The Adoration of Jenna Fox Page 10
