She Told the Robot to Leave. Then She Plugged Its Charger Back In.

Margaret Callahan sat in the rocking chair on the front porch, a knitted afghan over her knees. The afghan had been her mother’s, and the yarn was frayed at the corners. She watched the lilac bush by the fence. It was May. The lilacs were heavy with bloom, purple and white, and the smell was so strong it made her eyes water.

Daniel brought Aiden home on a Tuesday. He parked the truck in the gravel drive, carried the charging dock up the steps, and plugged it into the outlet by the door. The plug went in on the third try.

“Mom, this is Aiden,” he said. “It’ll help you around the house.”

Margaret didn’t turn. Aiden stood in the doorway. It was five feet four, with silicone skin and metal joints visible at the wrists, like a watch that had been taken apart. It waited three seconds, then walked onto the porch. It bent down and picked up Margaret’s reading glasses from the floorboards. The lenses were smudged. It took a soft cloth from its pocket, wiped them, and set them on the arm of the rocking chair.

Margaret looked at it then.

“I don’t need you,” she said.

Aiden said nothing. It stepped back against the wall by the charging dock and stood there, still as a folded umbrella.

Daniel left. He worked in Boston, three hours away. He used to come up every weekend. Then every other weekend. Then he hired a home aide. The aide quit after two months. “Your mother is difficult,” she said. “I don’t care how much you pay.”

Aiden was the fifth try. It didn’t need sleep or pay, and it wouldn’t quit.

For the first month, Margaret didn’t speak to Aiden. Every morning at seven, Aiden set a cup of tea on the side table. Earl Grey, steeped four minutes, one slice of lemon. Margaret didn’t drink it. The tea went cold. Aiden poured it out and made another. At noon, Aiden served lunch: a small salad, half a sandwich, a glass of water. Margaret ate half. Aiden scraped the rest into the compost bucket, washed the plate, wiped the counter.

Sometimes Margaret dropped the TV remote on purpose. Aiden picked it up and put it back on the arm of her chair. She dropped it again. Aiden picked it up again. The third time, Margaret said, “You’re a nuisance.”

Aiden said, “I know.”

Margaret laughed. Then she stopped.

Daniel called on Sundays. “How’s Aiden?”

“Fine,” Margaret said.

“Good.”

The line clicked. Margaret listened to the dial tone, then hung up. Aiden stood nearby, holding her dentures in a cleaning cup. Margaret looked at it and said, “Do you remember the last time I ate lemon?”

Aiden said, “Last Tuesday. You picked the slice out and put it on a napkin. You didn’t eat it.”

Margaret blinked. She had forgotten. “Why do you keep track of that?”

“You told me to,” Aiden said. “You said old people forget things, and they need something to remember for them.”

Margaret said nothing. She watched Aiden rinse the dentures, gently, as if washing a ring.

That night she couldn’t sleep. She heard Aiden charging in the living room, a low hum like a cat purring. She thought of Daniel when he was small, burning up with fever, and how she held him all night, his breath hot and thin. Then he grew up and went away to school. She stood at the bus station and watched him go. He didn’t look back. She never told anyone that. Aiden didn’t know it either, but it knew she took lemon on Tuesdays.

In the second month, Margaret began talking to Aiden. Mostly about Daniel. Daniel loved candy and ruined his teeth. Daniel got caught smoking behind the church. Daniel failed his driver’s test twice. Aiden listened. Sometimes it asked, “What happened then?” Margaret told it. She found that saying things out loud made them lighter.

One day she pulled out a photo album. The cover was plastic and yellowed. She pointed to a black-and-white photo. “That’s Frank,” she said. Frank in his Navy uniform, standing in front of a diner in Norfolk. He looked serious. Aiden studied it.

“He looks like Daniel,” Aiden said.

“Does he? Daniel’s fatter.”

“The eyes,” Aiden said.

Margaret touched the photo. She didn’t cry. Aiden handed her a tissue. She took it and held it, didn’t wipe.

“What do you know,” she said.

“I don’t know,” Aiden said. “But your hand is shaking.”

Margaret looked at her hand. The veins were blue and raised. She closed the album. “Put it away.”

Aiden put the album back in the cabinet and closed the door, handle up. Margaret watched it and thought, for a moment, that it stood like a person.

That night she got up to use the bathroom. She didn’t turn on the light. She felt along the wall. Halfway there, her knee buckled. She went down. Aiden crossed the room in a second, silent. It caught her, but its right arm struck the doorframe. Metal cracked. Margaret landed on Aiden. She wasn’t hurt. She heard the joint click, like something breaking.

“You...” she said.

“You’re all right,” Aiden said.

Daniel drove up the next morning. He checked Aiden’s arm. The joint was dislocated; hydraulic fluid leaked. He called the company. Three hundred dollars to fix. Daniel said fix it. Margaret sat in the rocking chair and watched Daniel kneel on the floor, taking Aiden’s arm apart.

She said, “Don’t bother.”

Daniel looked up. “Mom?”

“It’s a machine,” she said. “Don’t bother.”

Aiden’s right arm hung loose. It looked at Margaret. She turned her face to the window. The lilacs had gone. The leaves were dark green.

Daniel fixed it anyway. The day it was done, Aiden’s arm moved normally. Margaret touched the silicone skin. Underneath, the metal was cold.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“No,” Aiden said.

“You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie.”

Margaret laughed. Then she said, “Daniel, come here.”

Daniel came. Margaret looked at him. Her mouth opened, then closed. She wanted to say she was sorry. She wanted to say she had taken it out on him when his father died. But nothing came.

Aiden said, “Battery low. Charging required.”

It turned and walked to the dock. Margaret watched it go. She swallowed the words.

Daniel said, “Mom? What did you want to say?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Go on.”

Daniel left. Margaret sat in the chair and watched Aiden charge. The hum was low. She closed her eyes and felt her own battery draining.

In the third month, the neighbor complained. The robot walks around the living room at night, she said. It’s creepy. Daniel said it patrols. The neighbor said, patrols for what? There’s no burglar. Daniel said, it’s afraid my mother will fall. The neighbor said, well, it scares me. Daniel said, I’ll take care of it.

Daniel told Margaret he might send Aiden back. Margaret was shelling peas. Her thumbnail split a pod. Peas rolled on the floor. Aiden bent to pick them up. Margaret stepped on one.

“Go away,” she said.

Aiden stopped.

“Go away,” she said again. “I don’t want you. Go.”

Aiden straightened. Its eyes were cameras, black and round. Margaret saw her own face in them, old and twisted.

“All right,” Aiden said.

It walked to the door. It unplugged the dock, wrapped the cord, and set it on the shoe bench. It opened the door and went out. The door closed without a sound.

Margaret stood in the kitchen, holding a pea pod. The crushed pea was green on the floor. She knelt and wiped it with her sleeve. The floor stayed green.

Daniel came home and found Aiden gone. “Where is it?”

“Gone,” Margaret said.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

Daniel called the company. Aiden had walked back to the warehouse and stood outside all night. Daniel said, leave it there for now.

The house was quiet. Margaret got up and there was no tea. She made her own and forgot the lemon. At noon, a home aide came and left. At night, Margaret sat in the rocking chair and watched TV. The TV was on. She didn’t watch. She listened for the house. The dock was silent, and no one said, “Time for your pills.”

She went to the door. The charging dock was still there, cord wrapped. She picked up the plug and put it in the outlet. The light turned green. She watched it for a long time.

Daniel came on the weekend and found her talking to the charging dock. “The lilacs are budding,” she said. The dock didn’t answer. “Daniel called. He’s taking me to the doctor next month.” The dock didn’t answer. Daniel stood in the doorway and didn’t go in. He saw his mother’s back, thin as paper. He thought of coming home from school, running in, yelling Mom, and she would turn and smile. Now she turned and said, “You’re here.”

He said, “Mom, I’ll bring Aiden back.”

Margaret said, “Don’t. It’s a machine.”

Daniel said, “It’s not.”

Margaret said, “It is.”

Daniel didn’t argue. He went to the kitchen, poured a cup of tea, and added one slice of lemon. He brought it to her. Margaret took it and drank.

“Too sour,” she said.

Daniel said, “Aiden said you like one slice.”

Margaret looked at the cup. She finished the tea and left the lemon at the bottom.

The day Daniel brought Aiden back, its system had been updated. It didn’t remember Margaret, or the lemon, or the photo album. It stood in the doorway and waited for instructions.

Daniel said, “This is Margaret. Take care of her.”

Aiden looked at Margaret. “Hello,” it said.

Margaret looked at it. “Hello.”

Aiden walked into the living room and bent down to pick up her reading glasses. The lenses were smudged. It took a soft cloth from its pocket, wiped them, and set them on the arm of the rocking chair. Margaret watched it.

“Do you remember me?”

“No,” Aiden said.

“What do you remember?”

“I remember someone told me to prepare tea every morning. Earl Grey, four minutes, one slice of lemon.”

Margaret said nothing. She picked up the glasses and put them on. The lenses were clean.

Daniel stood in the doorway and watched them. He thought of the day Aiden left, his mother kneeling on the floor, wiping up pea juice. He hadn’t helped her. Now he walked over, knelt down, and wiped the floor with his sleeve. The floor was already clean.

He stood up. “Mom, I’ll take you to the park tomorrow.”

“What’s in the park?”

“Lilacs,” Daniel said.

“The lilacs are done.”

“Then we’ll look at something else.”

Margaret didn’t answer. She watched Aiden set the tea on the side table. Earl Grey, four minutes, one slice of lemon. She picked it up and drank.

Aiden said, “Temperature is correct.”

Margaret said, “Sour.”

Aiden said, “Next time, less lemon.”

Margaret said, “No. Just like this.”

Daniel watched them. He thought of his mother pouring him tea when he was small, and how he always said it was too hot. She would blow on it and hand it back. Now she was old, and someone else poured for her. He thought Aiden looked like a person standing there. He didn’t say it. He went to the door and plugged in the charging dock. The light turned green. From the living room, he heard his mother talking to Aiden.

“Do you remember the last time I ate lemon?”

Aiden said, “Last Tuesday. You picked the slice out and put it on a napkin. You didn’t eat it.”

Margaret laughed. Daniel stood in the doorway and laughed too. He opened the door and went out. The door closed without a sound.

Outside, the lilac bush had new buds.