Mary & Mary &

You can hear Leonardo pacing around his nursery, murmuring to himself. You stare, unblinking, because you cannot blink, at the speckled ceiling above and pretend that you can trace his footsteps by sound alone.

The bed he made you might be soft or hard. You cannot tell. The hole he carved in the center of the mattress dips inward when you exhale. It’s the perfect size for the golden crank in your back; without it, you'd be puckered up and curved like a hill. That husband of yours is so innovative.

You wish you could shift or lie for just one night on your side. You wish you could get up and walk about the house when you pleased. But you cannot move without the crank being turned first. And though you've tried, you cannot reach it.

He has finished his work in the nursery. He is clapping now, triumphant and eager to reveal his latest creation: the third wife. Leo snaps off his sticky rubber gloves, then you listen as the water from his sink rushes down the pipes. He skips down the stairs and flings open your door.

“Good morning, Darling,” he whispers as if disturbing your sleep. But you do not sleep. That is how he designed you.

He sits on your bed. The top waves of his salt-and-pepper hair come into view as he lifts your dead weight up. You slump against his shoulder and chest as he takes his hand and turns your golden crank. Your body pops, creaks, and shivers with artificial life until you can finally twitch your limbs.

When your body feels alert, you lean away from your husband and stretch. He watches you with mixed emotions. You know what he’s thinking. He is impressed by his design. The first wife was controlled with wires and ropes. She was nothing more than a puppet. But you, you could move, speak, and think.

 “How did you sleep, my little wind-up doll?” he asks.

“I don’t sleep.”

He pulls you up. “Let’s have our breakfast. Then I’ll let you have a peek at the newest Mary.”

You thought you’d have more time together. But as your husband told you on the day of your birth, he is looking for perfection. And no one finds perfection on the second go.

“Is she finished already?” you ask.

“Nearly there. We only need to add her beautiful, brilliant brain.”

He pats your head, then slides his thumb along the surgical scars that run from behind your ears and across your patched skull. You move away, pretending the touch tickles. Your husband likes when you do that.

He reaches behind you one more time and gives your crank a few good twists to get you through breakfast. Then he holds your hand and guides your stiff legs to the kitchen. He serves you the same breakfast you always have, eggs and beans. You spend a long time chasing the rolling vegetables around your plate, as you struggle to keep the spoon firm in your cramped hands. It’s not easy for you, considering your fingers are from three separate individuals. You can tell by the coloring.

Your husband cleans up when you’re done. He has long given up on trying to force you to do chores. Your slow body wasn’t built for manual labor.

You watch his back as he scrubs the dishes. He feels you staring and turns. His eyes sparkle with something familiar. Something heavy. A lump you cannot swallow settles into your throat. Is it an image, or a memory? You cannot be sure. You bite your lip in frustration, and your husband’s playful eyes grow wide with dread. He turns from you, shuts off the tap, and takes three long, staggering breaths.

“It’s time,” he whispers, still turned away from you. “Let’s go up to the nursery.”

You panic. “B-but darling. You promised to teach me to dance.”

That promise was made long before you understood the limitations of your body. You’ve never achieved anything grander than a waddle. Perhaps out of obligation alone, your husband lets out a smoother breath and leads you to the living room.

“Very well then," he says, "One last dance with my blushing bride. Then off to the nursery.”

He puts you on the sofa. Your limbs begin to buckle. He’ll need to turn your crank soon.

Soft jazz crackles around the room. It’s sunny outside, and though the windows are boarded up, flecks of white and blue create a powdery lift in the air. You smile, happy to take in such a view. Your husband pulls you up from the sofa, and you fall into his chest. He guides your feet on top of his, and he spins you around the room. When your knees stiffen, he pulls you even closer and turns your crank. You notice, though, that he does not give you very many. You bite your lip, annoyed. Was he deliberately trying to keep you immobile? He sees your lips and trembles.

“Stop doing that!” he shouts.

You pull away from him, appalled at his outburst. That strange memory shifts forward again. There was a car, a punishing black wall, and your husband’s screams.

His eyes narrow at your lips. You can hear his pulse quickening. You shake away the confusing scene and attempt to calm him.

“Darling? How will you do it? Your miraculous procedure?”

The music, in one last push of life, wails louder. Horns and pounding drums crowd into the room. Your husband finishes his shaking breaths, leans into your cauliflower ear, and kisses the puckering lobe.

“First, I’ll make an incision from here.” He traces the surgical scars on your forehead around to the back where your hair grows in clumps. “To here.”

As he touches your head, you wish you could feel the sensation. But you cannot. You’ve never been able to feel.

 “Next,” he continues. “I will cut all the veins and the spinal cord that connect this body to the brain. Then, it’ll be over. Quite painless, really. I will remove the brain, and the newest Mary will take over. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Your husband often shivers. He often has red ears and a matching nose. The house is kept cold for you, so that your flesh doesn’t stink like unwashed leather. But he’s sweating now, and the beads of water travel sideways along his wrinkles. You catch yourself wondering why he looks so old.

The memory returns, this time into a longer picture show. A rotating wheel of images flickers black to white in your mind. A car barreling down a country road, the black wall of a barn, and your husband’s screams form words.

“Stop doing that!”

“What?” you ask, unsure if he spoke here or in your daydream.

Leo pushes you off his foot. You realize you’re biting your lip again and try to tuck it inside your mouth, but the damage is already done. He drags you by the arm and lugs you up the stairs. At his age, he cannot bridal carry you anymore. He lugs you up the steps like an overstuffed suitcase.

Then, he drops you on the floor of the nursery. It was once your husband’s bedroom. But the high ceilings and wooden floors made for the perfect surgical room. He’s stuffed old medical supplies in each corner. There were far too many operating tables, soiled smocks, and the lingering smell of iron.

Leo walks over to the center of the room, where his third wife’s body waits underneath a stained sheet. His shoulders rise to his ears, and his body continues to vibrate.

“You’re starting to remember me, aren’t you?” he asks.

“What?”

He turns to you.

And just like that, from the evil glare and twisted smile on your husband’s face, the memories slam into you. You replay the years spent in this house, your love and loss of love for this man, your begging, your leaving. You see yourself running through the woods, only to be dragged back home again. You see him place you in the car and drive like mad down the road. You see the black barn spring to life in the distance. You see your husband’s twisted face, and you him smashing into the wall. You see yourself, severed and grasping onto life. And the final image, the last one so clear, your husband once again, dragging you back home.

You want to run, want to call for help. But the crank slows to a stop. A tear leaves your unblinking eye as you freeze in place, and the man who will always need to be yours takes you in his arms and lays you upon a surgical table. He slices open your head, and removes your brain.

You don’t feel a thing, and the world, for the third time, goes dark before your eyes. Leo put your brain into the new body and sews the seams tight.

He covers the old Mary, with eyes still open, and her stomach curved upward from the crank, with the stained sheet. He’ll bury her in the garden beside the other Marys tomorrow. He’ll order a bouquet of violets and set them upon her grave. He’ll even find time to buy a headstone in the next few weeks, after you, the newest Mary, settles in.

He gazes down at his work, snaps off his sticky surgical gloves, and flips the switch.

No crank this time. Pure electricity and metal plates pulsate you awake. Your eyes flutter open at the charge.

“Good morning, Darling. How did you sleep?”