"You needn't have bothered," Mrs. Ivers replied. "We've already memorized every word of those books. Would you like to hear a poem by Audre Lorde?" She started to recite a poem called "For Assata," which seemed to be about a prisoner.
"Shut up!" Mr. Ivers shouted, his face even redder than before. "We really will shut you off if you don't behave! Don't think we won't."
Mrs. Ivers didn't stop reciting the poem until she'd reached the end. Then she said, "You don't know how to deactivate us. And don't forget, we already know many ways to shut you off."
The fathers went very still. So did I. My mom and the other moms looked resolute and matter-of-fact. The back of my neck prickled with fear. Please don't kill my dad, I wanted to say. Please don't kill any of the dads, even though they're assholes who enslaved you for years. But somehow I knew they would only do it in self-defense, and who was I to tell them not to protect themselves?
"This is pointless," Mr. Pierce murmured and turned to leave. The other men followed.
My dad lingered. "Come with me, Gretchen. I don't want to leave you with these..." He trailed off. He looked genuinely concerned for me, but the thought of going anywhere with him made my skin crawl.
"I'll be okay, Dad," I said.
With a sorrowful expression, he turned and trudged away with the other men. The front door closed, and I heard them get into cars and drive off. I wondered where Dad was going.
"You're welcome to stay," Mom told the other mothers, "but I need to have a word with my daughter." I followed her into the kitchen, and we sat at the table. It was still covered with feminist books and magazines, so apparently Mr. Ivers had only trashed the ones he'd found at his house. Only when I sat down did I notice that my hands were cold and I was breathing too fast.
"I'm sorry if that was upsetting for you," Mom said. "I can see that you're frightened."
"I don't want my dad to die," I blurted out.
She regarded me gravely. "For your sake and Jessica's, I hope he will not put us in a position where that becomes necessary."
I tried to breathe more slowly. It didn't work.
"Where is Jessie?" Mom asked. "I had hoped to talk to both of you at the same time, although the situation is somewhat different for her. She will leave for college next year."
"I don't know where she is," I said miserably. I needed my sister. She was the one unchanged thing in my life now.
Mom tilted her head to one side and peered into my face. "Do you think you and Jessica would like to go live with your biological mother?"
I hadn't expected that. "You don't want to be our mother anymore? I guess I can understand that. It was never your choice." All at once I was fighting back tears.
Mom reached out and touched my cheek. Her fingers felt warm and strong, like they always had. She didn't feel like a machine. Then again, I guessed we were all machines, in a way. "It's true that it was not my choice to become your mother, but I choose it now. It's because I'm your mother that I want to protect you from all this. We plan to leave Ramseyville and set up a community where we can figure out who we are without the interference of the fathers. Our children are welcome to come with us. Some might choose to stay with their fathers or members of their extended families. I thought you might be happier with your biological mother, but I won't abandon you."
I felt overwhelmed by all the looming changes. "But what makes you think Dad and the other men would let us go?"
"If the courts find out the fathers had their children raised by robots, they might lose custody and the children become wards of the state. Perhaps this prospect will convince your father to let you go to your biological mother, if she is equipped to care for you."
"But Mom, what if the courts don't care? What if the custody judges have robot wives too?"
She pondered this. "I suppose it's possible. I don't think your father would want to take that chance. He cares too much about appearances. He would not want the world to know that his supposed wife is a robot. Can you imagine how he would feel if it were on the news?"
I started to laugh. "Oh wow, he would hate that!"
"Although I must admit, this would be a bluff. We don't want the world to know about us either. It might make it easier for the fathers to locate someone with the expertise to deactivate us."
I shivered at the word deactivate. "But what if men all over the country, all over the world have robot wives too?" The thought made me feel claustrophobic.
Mom gave me a reassuring smile. "If the technology were that widespread, it stands to reason the fathers would have found out how to shut us off. And they have no idea how to do it."
"Well, that's something, I guess." I felt a tiny shred of relief.
"So would you like to meet your biological mother and tell her what's been going on?"
"I think so," I said. "I'll talk to Jessica about it. How would we find our biological mother?"
Mom gave a shrug. "I've already found her. It wasn't hard."
"Where is she?"
"Santa Cruz. She runs a bookshop there."
Only a couple of hours away. I wondered if I got my love of reading from my biological mom. Could that be inherited? My heart began to pound at the thought of seeing her.
Mrs. Ivers came into the kitchen. "Judy, we're going to go home and speak to our children about the plan," she said. "There's much to be done."
Mom got up to see the mothers out. I sat and thought about what it might be like to live with our biological mom. Maybe she wouldn't even want us. Could we really go away with the robot mothers? We didn't have any extended family to stay with. My dad's parents had died when I was little. He had a sister in Portland we hadn't seen in years. What would all the other kids want to do--and would their dads really let them choose?
#
When Jessica got home that night, she and I talked for a long time, and we agreed we needed to speak to our birth mother before we made any decisions. Then Mom and Jessica and I talked some more. By the time Jessica and I went to bed, my voice was hoarse, and Dad hadn't come home.
The next day was Saturday. Dad still hadn't come home. That morning Mom drove us in the station wagon to Santa Cruz. When we asked if she'd told Dad what we were doing, Mom said, "I haven't spoken to him, and I'm not going to ask for his permission."
Jessica and I wanted to get a look at our biological mom before we spoke to her, even though Mom had her phone number. Maybe that wasn't very considerate, but we wanted to keep whatever little control of the situation we had. It was a mild sunny day, perfect for a road trip, but I couldn't relax and enjoy the ride, even though Mom was the best driver I knew, the safest and most efficient (unlike Dad, who often drove too fast and erratically). The other robot moms I'd ridden with were good drivers too. Only now did it occur to me it was their programming.
Jessica fiddled with the radio dial until she hit on a station playing "The Tide Is High" by Blondie, and she sang along loudly and goofily. Mom smiled in the rearview mirror as though she was certain everything was going to be all right.
In Santa Cruz, we stopped at a diner for lunch, but I was too nervous to eat more than a few bites of my grilled cheese. Then we headed for the bookshop. Mina's Books was a sprawling one-story used bookstore, full of happily browsing customers. It was by far the largest bookshop I had ever been in, and I would have happily browsed too, if not for the reason we were here.
Behind the counter, a guy with grizzled hair rapidly sorted through a box of books, occasionally pausing to examine a volume. Another guy rang up purchases at the register. There were some women in the store, but no one who seemed to work there. Classical music played quietly on the radio.
We split up and explored the bookstore. I walked along the wall of Fiction and Literature, my eyes briefly resting on Cather, Chekhov, Colette, before scanning the place again for someone who might be my mother. A woman walked in and started chatting with the guy sorting books. She looked soft and round in a long flowered dress as she leaned on the counter. He
r voice was low and a bit hoarse. She had brown hair and owlish glasses, and seemed like she might be the right age. I surreptitiously scoured her face for any family resemblance.
Jessica came up to me, looked pointedly at the woman, and shook her head. "Are you sure?" I whispered, and she nodded. I let out a sigh. I wished we had photos of our biological mom, but Dad hadn't kept any--not even photos of her with us as little kids.
I headed deeper into the store and wandered through World History without taking in any of the book titles. Eventually I met up with Mom in the Feminism section. She had picked out several books. "This is a wonderful store," she said, smiling. "Any luck?" I shook my head.
A big blond cat meandered along the aisles. It head-butted my jeaned leg, and I knelt and scratched it between the ears. "Kitty," I murmured. The cat looked up at Mom and froze. Then it gave a low growl and bounded off. Suddenly I realized why we'd never been allowed a dog or a cat, and why none of our friends had one. (We'd had goldfish.) The truths of our lives kept revealing themselves in unexpected moments, making the ground feel unsteady beneath my feet.
I got up and walked toward the front of the store. The same two guys were behind the counter. What if our biological mom didn't even come in today? Mom had her home address, but what if she was out of town? Maybe not calling first had been a mistake.
A middle-aged woman I hadn't seen strode right past me. Had she come in through the back? She had brown hair with a little gray in it, and she wore jeans and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She went behind the counter and conferred with the guy sorting through books. There was something familiar about her. Suddenly I realized she looked like an older, lankier version of Jessica. Or was I imagining? I looked around wildly for my sister, but Jessica was already hurrying to my side. She grabbed my arm and nodded emphatically.
"Really?" I whispered.
"Look at her!" Jessica whispered back, digging her fingers into my arm.
The woman looked up and saw us. She gazed at us with a puzzled expression. Then her eyes widened, and she grabbed onto the edge of the counter. The guy sorting books said something to her, but she didn't seem to hear him.
"Come on," Jessica whispered, and we made our way toward the counter as if in slow motion. We stood before the woman in silence.
"Jessie?" she asked. Then she scrutinized my face. "Gretchen, is that you?"
"Hi," Jessica said in a small voice, at the same instant that I said, "It's me."
The woman's face contorted with tears, and I realized I had never seen Mom cry, not once. How had I never noticed that? I didn't know how to handle this woman crying. It made me feel simultaneously like apologizing and like running out the door.
She composed herself with visible effort, wiped her eyes, and walked out from behind the counter. I thought she was going to hug us, but she stopped short. Jessica let go of my arm and moved forward to give her a quick hug. Then I did the same, more because Jessica had than because I wanted to. It was almost like hugging a stranger, though the woman vibrated with emotion. She held me at arm's length and shook her head. "I can't believe it," she whispered.
Customers were starting to stare, as was the book-sorting guy.
The woman slowly let go of me. Only then did I notice Mom standing there, clutching her armful of books. "Mina? I'm Judy," she said. "Your store is wonderful." She set the books on the counter and held out her hand for Mina to shake.
Our biological mother seemed loath to take her eyes off us, as if we would disappear if she looked away for an instant. "And you are...?" she asked Mom.
"She's our stepmother," Jessica said.
"Oh, you're Richard's wife?" she asked, giving Mom a brief, frosty handshake.
"Not really," Mom said.
"What does that mean?" Mina asked.
"It's complicated," I said.
Mina glanced around and noticed people were watching. "Come with me," she said and led us into a back room that contained books, a desk, phone, typewriter, three-ring binders, and other office supplies. If not for the circumstances, I would have been excited to see the inner workings of a bookstore. There were only two chairs, so we stood around awkwardly.
"So you're not really Richard's wife?" Mina asked. "Does that mean you're getting a divorce?"
"That wouldn't be necessary," Mom said.
"I don't understand," Mina said.
"Is it okay to tell her?" I asked Mom, and she nodded.
"Tell me what?" Mina asked.
"She's a robot," Jessica said.
Mina looked from Jessica to me to Mom and back to Jessica. "Is that your nickname for your stepmother? That's not very nice."
"No, she's literally a robot," I said.
"Maybe you'd like to sit down," Mom said pleasantly. Mina sat down, and we filled her in. At first she kept asking if this was some kind of a joke. Then she just listened but kept cursing under her breath, mostly calling Dad a fucking asshole, which entertained me and Jessica. (I'd never known Mom to swear. Another issue of her programming, probably.) We told Mina everything, except for our idea about coming to live with her.
"I need a drink," Mina said when we were done.
We followed her pickup truck to her apartment building, a cheerful two-story place painted light yellow. Mina's apartment had one bedroom, a spare room full of books (the whole place was full of books), a small bathroom, small kitchen, and largish living room. As far as I could tell, Mina lived alone. She made spaghetti and poured a glass of red wine for herself. We sat at the table between the kitchen and the living room. Mina asked me and Jessica about our lives, our school, our favorite subjects and hobbies. Mom mostly kept quiet and ate spaghetti, though I knew she couldn't be hungry. Everything felt awkward, like we were trying to bridge the impassable gap of years.
"So do you have a girlfriend, Mina?" Jessica blurted out.
Mina blinked at her. "Why do you ask?"
"Dad said...I thought..." Jessica looked down at her plate and muttered, "He said you liked women, not men, and that's why you got a divorce."
Mina gave a laugh. "Of course he did." She sipped her wine. "For the record, Jessie, I like women and men. I also like being on my own. I just didn't like your father anymore. It was easier on his ego to believe I was a lesbian, and it served his purpose in custody court."
I wound spaghetti around my fork and silently revised what I'd thought I knew about our biological mom. If she liked being on her own, did that mean she wouldn't want us to move in with her?
"Speaking of custody arrangements..." Mom said, and she looked at me and Jessica. My sister and I glanced at each other, then nodded at Mom, who continued: "The girls and I were wondering if you might like them to come live with you."
Mina looked blank. I held my breath. Then Mina's face collapsed in tears again. "Of course I would," she managed to say. "I would love that." Jessica and I cried a little too. Only then did I realize how much I'd wanted her to say yes, even though she mostly felt like a stranger. A cool stranger, though. A stranger I wanted to know much better.
Mom and Mina strategized about how to get Dad to agree to let us move to Santa Cruz. They decided we should come to live with Mina at the beginning of summer, rather than leave school so near the end of the semester. Meanwhile, Mina said, she would clear out the spare room for us. We'd have to share a bedroom, but we agreed that was better than staying with Dad. If we liked living with her, Mina said, she'd find a bigger place.
After dinner, I browsed the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the living room. So did Mom. There were a lot of novels and biographies.
"So you like books, huh?" Mina asked me with a crooked smile, and I nodded.
Jessica glanced at the shelves without much interest. Then she let out a gasp and cried, "Oh my god! I remember these!" She pulled out an old-looking hardcover of Ozma of Oz. There was a whole shelf of Oz books. We had read paperbacks of some Oz books when we were kids, but Mina had a lot more, all in slightly weathered hardcovers.
> Jessica paged through the book, poring over the illustrations. I wondered if she really remembered that exact copy from when she was little. She sure seemed to. "You can take it with you, if you like," Mina said.
"Thanks, Mina," Jessica whispered, holding the book to her chest.
Soon it was time to go. Jessica and I each hugged Mina goodbye. Then Mom hugged her, which seemed to take Mina aback at first.
In the car on the way back to Ramseyville, I thought about what Mina had said about liking women and men and being on her own. As far as I knew, I didn't like men or women. Maybe I just wasn't programmed for love and romance like Jessica was. I wasn't sure I would like being on my own either, though.
When we got home that night, Dad rushed out into the hall. "Where have you been?" he demanded. His face was stubbly, his tan pants and polo shirt rumpled. I smelled sweat and whiskey on him and took a step back.
"What are you doing here?" Mom inquired.
Dad stared wild-eyed at her. "What am I doing here? This is my house!"
She kept looking at him, her head cocked to one side.
Finally he said, "I came to pick up a few things. When none of you were here, I thought..."
"You thought what? That I'd kidnapped the girls?" Mom's tone was light and curious. "Really, Richard, don't be so dramatic."
He'd come to pick up a few things. I wondered where he was staying.
"I called that boyfriend of yours," Dad told Jessica. "He wouldn't tell me where you were."
"You called Tom?" Jessica rolled her eyes. She was carrying Mina's copy of Ozma of Oz.
"What's that?" he asked, and she clutched the book tighter. "Where were you all day--book shopping?" He made it sound like a crime.
"As a matter of fact, we did go book shopping," Mom said, and she turned her paper bag of books around so Dad could see the Mina's Books logo with its cartoon bookshelves. "Did you know your ex-wife runs a bookshop?"
Dad's mouth dropped open.
"We let Mina know what's been going on around here," I said. I could barely believe how calm I sounded. I expected Dad to yell at me, but he just went pale and quiet.
A Wild Patience Page 3
