Holding On

“Oh, tell me! Pretty please! Tell meeeeeee!” He laughed. He loved it when she begged. When her voice became whiny and childish as if she had reverted back to her childhood.

“I have to think about it,” he teased, “I’m not sure you are ready.” She frowned at this, and pretended to be mad.

He looked at her amazed and mesmerized. The resemblance was uncanny. Sometimes he’d wake up at night with a pang in his chest, reliving the day of the accident. The anxiety would then set in, moving into his chest, until a few long breaths reminded him that she was “back”. Even her memories were unblemished. He could sit there and marvel at the magic of science, or technology, or both, or he could just go with it and forgo all the pain it had taken to get there.

When begging hadn’t worked, she decided to resort to the puppy eyes. She looked at him with her big grey eyes wide open, mouth slightly shaped into a pout, hands holding his, eyebrows bent into a sorrowful expression. It was hard keeping anything from her when she looked at him that way.

‘Gosh, even her skin seems so real,’ he’d think. He couldn’t help it, every once in a while he’d remember that this being wasn’t really his wife, but at the same time, it/she?, was.

Paul had to shake his head in an attempt to get all those thoughts out of his mind and focus on the present moment.

“Earth to Paul!” She said staring at him expectantly. He wondered if she knew that she wasn’t really her.

“Oh… ah… hahaha… sorry… just got lost in my own thoughts…”

“I guess the puppy eyes don’t work anymore… I’ll have to come up with an alternative tactic to get you to talk,” even her sense of humor had remained the same. A poignant nostalgia came over him, but he worked hard not to let it overwhelm him.

“If I tell you, what’s the fun?” Don’t you want to be surprised?”

“It’s my birthday, after all, and maybe I don’t want to be surprised,” she grimaced, acting displeased. He knew she was pretending, she didn’t get riled up so easily.

“I’ll give you one, but just one, piece of information,” he declared solemnly.

“Oh, well, in that case…” She placed herself more comfortably on the couch, with an insouciant air, grabbed her coffee, and laid back. She raised one eyebrow, her smooth brown hair falling softly over her left eye, her big eyelashes flipping coquettishly at him, the way she knew drove him absolutely crazy. He looked at the wrinkles on her face he so loved. They told the story of her life. Even at forty-five, she was an incredibly beautiful woman (or had been). They had asked him if he wanted some (or all) of the wrinkles removed when they designed her, but he had refused. He didn’t want to look like one of those men going through a mid-life crisis, married to a woman who seemed to be half his age. He had wanted her the way she was that last time he saw her before she left that morning to go to work.

He felt tempted to get closer and remove the hair from her face, caress her smooth skin, and give her a kiss. He held back. He knew she was trying to seduce him so he’d spill all the beans. He had planned her birthday for so long, he wasn’t about to ruin it because of his libido. He smiled instead.

“Let me ask you, what’s your favorite dessert?”

“Tiramisú,” she joked. He looked at her with confusion and terror. She started laughing at his reaction.

“You know I love chocolate cake! It is, and has always been, my favorite. The more chocolatey, the better. Layers and layers of decadence if possible. Why? You got one for me?”

“Well, let’s just say you will be having your piece of chocolate cake in a very special place this year.” She smiled. He knew she was intrigued. He succeeded.

Suddenly her countenance took on a somber look. He looked at her in dismay. Wondered if her circuitry had broken (or whatever it was they did to make “them” work). They had warned him that that could happen in a 1% of the cases.

“Paul… Do you miss her?” She asked seriously. He moved back as if he’d just been slapped across the face.

“What… how? I don’t understand,” the words stumbled in his mouth.

“Yes, you do. I know this is the first birthday you celebrate without her. I’m a very good copy, but I am not her. I know you sometimes think about “her” when you look at me. I try, you know? They programmed me to do my best… but, I can see the sadness in your eyes.” She said this compassionately, without judgment or rancor. She held his hand tightly in hers, and he cried as if he was reliving the day she had died. His pretend world came crumbling down. They hadn’t warned him about her (it?) knowing. About her (it?) being aware of not being who she (it?) was meant to replace. Why would they do that? Were they all like that?

*************

A couple of weeks later they celebrated her birthday for the last time. Cake and all, on a boat overlooking the city. Just the two of them. He hadn’t thought it would be the last time a year ago, when she was —the real her— still with him. After her question that day, he hadn’t been able to keep feigning the fantasy he had built in his head —and in a way, in his world. He knew he had to move on. He had to let her go. He contacted the company that had sold him the “product” and they assured him that she would not go to waste. They could modify her slightly and she could be another’s companion.

“She knew,” he said before hanging up.

“I beg your pardon?” said the lady at the other end of the line. “Knew what?” He looked at her/it?, confused.

“She knew she wasn’t my wife.” A long silence followed.

“Hold the line, please,” replied the woman, trying to keep her voice steady. After a few minutes, a man got on the phone.

“Hello, sir. I understand your droid knew? That’s not possible. We program them not to know. They don’t have a consciousness of their own. They have no identity. They are who we program them to be. Do you still want to return your item?” Paul glanced over at the beautiful replica of his wife, she smiled at him, but the sparkle in her eyes was new, different. Even her eye color had changed slightly to a greenish hue and her hair had become lighter. He realized that by confessing to him, she had become her own individual. She had chosen him.

“No, that’s alright,” he replied to his own amazement.

“Very well, sir. If you want to bring it back so that we can fix any problem with its programming, let us know. Have yourself a great day.”

The line went dead. He looked at his phone. He looked at her. There was no doubt about it. The person he was looking at across the room was a sentient being, no “it” anymore.

“I do want to stay with you,” she said before he could ask the question. “And I do love chocolate cake.”

He smiled, and for the first time since his wife had died, he felt happy.

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