“Whatever does it mean?” Lindsay watched a lump of margarine melt away to glistening nothingness before taking a bite. What nonsense. Besides, the large window on the second floor was locked too tightly to open. She’d checked it this morning while Marta had been sleeping and her shoulders still ached from the effort.
“I have no idea. Should I be worried you might take your own life, Mother?” Marta was biting her lip. She must have been holding that in for awhile.
“Marta, dear, you know I’m a stubborn old coot. I intend to hang on as long as I can to this mortal coil, like a, a, a starfish clinging to a rock.” As the tide recedes into the distance, finishing the thought in her head. How could the starfish be certain that the tide would ever return?
“I know you’ve mentioned before that a person has to have a certain quality of life or it’s not worth living. And, in case you don’t recall, you made a non-resuscitate order years ago,” Marta said stiffly, not giving up on the subject. Her head had the same stubborn tilt that Lindsay sometimes saw in the mirror. “And when you had that other trouble last month, making cookies, you might have concluded...” Marta’s voice trailed off.
It took a minute for the memory to come back. Lindsay had accidently set her kitchen 3D printer to make 2,000 cookies, instead of the two she intended, and then taken a nap. The printer had used up a year’s supply of flour that day but it wasn’t like she’d endangered anybody—although her home had smelled of ozone and an alarm had been ringing when Marta had barged in the front door. Without even knocking. No sense of privacy, that girl.
That was when Marta had insisted she move in with her, into the tiny spare bedroom at the end of the hall, leaving behind her bookcases, her tools, and, yes, a good deal of her quality of life. She stared down at the toast’s message until it blurred.
Cain beeped and blinked red in an unfamiliar pattern. Marta hastily put down her cup and squatted beside her, peering at the tiny screen, blocking Lindsay’s view.
“It’s Cain’s new minder function. Your heart rate is way up and you’re highly stressed. Oh, Mother.” Marta leaned closer and held her gently, as if she might break.
“I should rename the damn thing ‘Judas’,” Lindsay said and allowed her daughter’s arms to comfort her.
Sunlight streamed across the living room, warming her lap and her always-cold hands. Marta loomed over her. What did the dear girl want now?
“Mother? Are you awake now? I said I have to go out. Will it be okay to leave you alone? I won’t be too long, a couple of hours maybe, including the bus ride. I received a rather odd message that something’s come up at the office that I can’t do from here. Okay?” Marta was the picture of guilt, wringing her hands, biting her lip, scrunching up her face. And, Lindsay squinted, the girl was getting a few gray hairs of her own. Maybe Lindsay should suggest a vacation. But she wasn’t one to interfere—her philosophy was always to leave well enough alone and let things sort themselves out. She wasn’t like other people with their constant meddling.
“I’ll be fine. I survived decades without you hovering, you know.” Lindsay regretted the words instantly. What if those were the last words they ever spoke to each other?But Marta wasn’t even listening, involved in putting on her coat and gathering up essentials.
“Well, I guess you’ll be all right. You’ve got Cain. He’ll take care of you.” She hesitated by the door, looking back.
He? That was silly. Cain was an ‘it’. Just a machine carrying out commands. Lindsay started to call that out to Marta but she was already gone, the front door closing silently behind her.
Lindsay groped for Cain and prepared herself to stand. Marta’s management job—what was it again?—meant she mostly telecommuted, making these opportunities rare. Opportunity for what? She shook her head. The thought had already fled.
Cain blinked up at her, a red eye and a message that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Good old Cain, she’d had the thing forever, and totally revamped its programming as a retirement hobby. Coding it had been a nice break from updating her will, fine-tuning her personal financial and medical directives, naming Marta as enduring power of attorney—all those disheartening tasks one has to do. She didn’t want Marta forced into making a “pull the plug” decision on her mother someday, like Lindsay had had to do for her own dear old Ma. She shuddered, not wanting to remember. If you took matters into your own hands, there was no guilt for the ones left behind. Well, less guilt.
She’d always thought it would be time to make a graceful exit whenever her short-term memory started to go. Maybe she’d luck out and get hit by lightning here alone at the house. That wasn’t such a graceful result for Marta, though, with a burned-down house and a messy corpse. And therein lay the problem. What was a clean way to do it?
Jump out a window? No point in almost killing yourself and becoming a vegetable. She rolled her shoulders when they twinged.
Poison?
Sleeping pills?
Slit her wrists with a kitchen knife? She wouldn’t want Marta to have to clean up blood or feel bad about leaving dangerous objects around. Besides, with food printers, who owned a knife anymore?
Best to die at the hospital so they could cleanly dispose of your body. But that had its own problems: they were obligated to keep you alive to the bitter end. She’d checked all the hospitals in the province and they all had the same silly policies.
But how could you arrive at the hospital, already fatally wounded or dead?
It was a real challenge when you thought about it.
And she probably had thought about it, many times before. Too bad whatever conclusions she’d come to hadn’t seemed to stick in her slip-sliding memory.
Cain was blinking.
“Marta won’t be distracted by the false message for more than a few hours. Go to the car out front. Speak to no one,” Cain’s screen said. She wasn’t sure what the first bit meant but the gadget was always reliable. She must have an appointment she’d forgotten about. She placed her hands on the chair arms. Standing would be such an effort. It would be nice just to sit here in the sun but duty called.
It always did.
The front door opened for her. It would lock behind her and she had Cain. Did she need anything else? She stood uncertainly on the sill until Cain flashed again, a red arrow pointing at Marta’s car, parked by the rose bush. Well, she couldn’t drive herself, could she? She’d better wait for Marta. Cain vibrated in her hand. That was an escalated warning, she recalled. Funny how brains worked—she knew the urgent signal but she didn’t know what she’d had for lunch. She chuckled and headed for the car.
Now, how to get in? The car’s door lock only responded to Marta’s fingerprint or retinal scan. She tapped the pad experimentally and it gave a visual warning. If she touched it again, it would probably start screeching.
“What now, Cain?” she spoke aloud, then realized how foolish that was. Its audio function hadn’t been used in years.
One of the several compartments in Cain’s handle slid out, displaying a tiny remote control: the manual override key for Marta’s car. How had that gotten in there? Lindsay stooped, leaning on the hood for balance, and fished it out. A firm press with her thumb and the car unlocked. Marta should be more careful with such things. Most people would keep such seldom-used items in their home wall safe. This house safe’s pass code would take a long time for anyone to crack, even a software whiz like herself.
She got in on the driver’s side, although she supposed it didn’t really matter which side since there was, jarringly, no steering wheel.
“Trigger audio,” said Cain’s glowing letters. She obediently opened the stiff flap below Cain’s handle and pressed the command override sequence on the entry pad. She hadn’t done that in a very long time but that was one alphanumeric she always could recall—derived from the date of her own mother’s death.
“Car, go to Mercy General Hospital via Country Road Seven right now,” Cain said, in a perfect imitation of Marta’s voice.
“I don’t need the hospital. I’m fine. Cancel that!” Silly Cain. Maybe its programming had finally corrupted. That wasn’t even the shortest route.
The car ignored her command and rolled out into traffic. Her voice wasn’t part of its command structure, that was obvious. Oh well. Maybe she could get a nice hot cup of coffee at the hospital cafeteria, although they likely didn’t have real cream.
The suburbs gave way to a small fringe of trees, then farmland. A nice day for a drive. Hardly any other vehicles. Lindsay wondered where she was headed and where Marta had gotten to. Warm and comfortable, she snuggled down in her seat.
When the car pulled into a tiny side road, she was thrown forward a bit against her seatbelt. Maybe the car had a flat tire? Or it was out of gas? No, no, those things didn’t happen anymore, what with hybrid engines and back-up solar panels on the roof.
Cain was blinking again.
