Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [41]
—God, I hope you didn’t tell Allison that.
He appears to think this over.
—It’s not as if she doesn’t know.
—Who programs you? I ask.
—We welcome all inquiries.
—Okay, okay.
It’s easy to get caught up, I guess, thinking something, someone is other than it, than they appear. And when I stop to think about it, I have no idea about his inner workings. How he swallows that food and where it goes. In all the Living visitations, I’ve never seen any of them use the bathroom or get sick to their stomachs, nor have I seen the food enter the mouth only to drop through them like an object down a transparent elevator shaft. I know that having a solid take on physics would probably be an aid to understanding this particular form of virtual reality, and I admit my limitations on that subject. I’ve always been better at history.
I get to my feet, the headache worse at the higher altitude. Again he starts to reach out, as if he might offer me assistance, but he pulls back. I see that the designers have executed all of his external features perfectly, down to the way he slouches. He even has that slightly turned front tooth.
—I can provide you with an interactive brochure, he says.
—Just assure me that Allison hasn’t seen you since you died and became a salesman.
—What do you mean I died? I died?
—Yes.
—It’s possible my obituary pages are down. Funny, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if I’m dead. Usually the equipment corrects once I’m reinstalled.
I straighten out my train yet again, trying not to trip.
—Did I get in a car accident? One of those big pileups?
Tommy never enjoyed driving. I feel an impulse to place a palm against his chest, to check for a rapid heartbeat, to calm him down. But I know, despite recognizing the familiar mannerisms, the diction, the chapped lips, my hand would go all the way through him and touch the baseboards of the sink.
—I’ll tell you another time. Until I can turn the Living machine off, we should find a place for you.
—But I’m starving.
—Okay, well, take your plate out to the baths.
—If you have any knives that need sharpening, you could put me to good use. I can handle any size blade, any thickness.
—Go around the hedge so no one sees you.
—Sure thing. And Lyn?
I stop and look at that face again, the eyes, the scar dividing one cheek, and I’m aware that this will probably be our last meeting, and that it really shouldn’t hurt like this.
—I’ve missed you, he says.
—Don’t say things like that.
Once he’s on his way, chocolate-covered strawberries roll off the edge of his paper plate and drop onto the flagstones. I take a deep breath and go back through the swinging door.
CHAPTER
15
I pause for a moment to look at myself in the hall mirror. It’s funny how you can forget just how bald you really are, how vulnerable. I need to go upstairs and lie down. I need to drift away from the episodic life. But first, I have to get Uber straightened out. As I approach the living room, I call out, —I’ll go up and tell Allison we’re done.
But Uber is no longer sitting in the easy chair. He’s moved over to the piano, his face obscured by the lid. He’s turned off the camera and the monitor.
—I was just saying, I’ll let Allison know we’ve concluded our visit.
Uber stands to his full height, walks over to the box with my gift, takes the crown and places it squarely on his head. Then he pulls this down, maybe in an effort to make it fit snugly. The few remaining thorns snap off, a ring of them spill onto the white carpet. A trickle of blood runs down his forehead from the sharp wire holding the crown together. It trails just past the corner of one eye, and down his cheek.
In the quiet, I notice the sounds of the paparazzi outside.
—I’ll never be able to forgive myself, he says.
—I’ll get the first-aid kit, I say.
And I can’t help but think that if he isn’t flat-out crazy, maybe he really did have some attachment to Tommy.
—Wait! he says.
Uber lunges in an effort to grab my arm. Tripping over my dress, I sail forward and land stomach first.
I begin to think