Random Aggregate Memory
Hannah eyed her husband from the other end of the couch and felt the smile overtake her face. He looked casual, reading his book like he always did. She saw his eyes turn toward her without his head moving. Her thing was to stare at him until he laughed, and his thing was to pretend he didn’t notice. He’d always been terrible at his thing.
“Whatcha reading?” She turned sideways on the couch and tucked in her arms.
“Dorian Gray again,” he answered. Monotone voice, his other thing. Jon finally looked at her. Those green eyes looked more alive than ever.
He smiled.
“Sounds super interesting.” The perfect amount of sarcasm. It was her art.
He shut the book and tossed it onto the couch-side table. “Oh you’ve no idea.”
“I think I have a pretty good idea,” she teased.
Saturday mornings had always been theirs. It’d been a long time since they’d been able to spend one together. It felt good. It felt normal. Hannah missed mornings like this with him.
“What do you want for brunch?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. I’ve narrowed it down to three places.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Six places.”
“What about that place on 4th? Remember the first time we went?”
How could Hannah forget? The restaurant was only three weeks old, and they waited two hours just to get inside. All the tables were packed, so they had to sit outside. That scenario wouldn’t sound terrible to most people, and it wasn’t terrible at all... until a dog belonging to a nearby patron peed on Jon’s favorite pants.
“I'm just saying I've never had a dalmatian look at me normally,” he said.
She'd already laughed herself to tears a dozen times about this story. Hannah couldn't drum up that laugh today. “I told you I could clean those pants.”
“Even without a stain, I’d just always know, ya know? Like they would always feel clingy in that spot, or I'd get a phantom whiff. No-go for me.”
Hannah rolled her eyes and stretched her legs, sliding onto her back. She’d always thought the light fixture above the couch looked like an exposed breast from a classic art piece. She reminded Jon every time she looked up at the ceiling. One time, visiting the Met in NYC for the first time, she couldn't stop herself from exclaiming that one of the exposed breasts from a classic art piece looked just like their ceiling light fixture. People stared. Jon laughed. Good times.
Jon interlocked his fingers and rested his hands on his chest. “Okay, so the place on 4th is a no, out of respect for those Levi’s. I know that place on main is a finalist.”
Hannah closed her eyes. “Of course it is. That’s where we started my birthday four years ago. One of my favorite birthdays.”
“Just one of? Not the best?”
“No birthday will ever be as good as my twenty-fourth birthday.”
He was quiet for a second, and then she heard it click. “Wait, that was…two years before we met?”
“Mmm," she affirmed, remembering how far back that felt. "That was the year I treated myself to a day. Start to finish, I did everything I wanted. It was the day of saying yes. Nobody knows me like me -- if you know what I mean.”
She listened to his laugh. That laugh always sounded alive, made her feel alive. It sounded good. Felt good. Normal.
Jon cleared his throat dramatically as if preparing an announcement. “My final selection would have to be--”
“Rod’s Pastries, right around the corner.”
They said it at the same time.
“You know me so well,” he said. Hannah heard the smile in his voice.
Her throat felt sore. She felt the tremble overtake her face and rolled onto her side again. When she opened her eyes, she was facing the bookshelf on the other side of the living room. Jon’s bookshelf.
“It’s your favorite,” she said, voice cracking. “The one you always choose.”
Hannah heard him start to talk about his favorite dishes, but his voice faded to the back of her mind. One particular book stared back at her from the shelf. The Picture of Dorian Gray. The book Jon was supposed to be reading. Reality began to set in, a reality she’d been fighting off for minutes, hours, days, months.
She sat up straight, the room now blurred. The sound of Jon continued to drone on, and Hannah both loved and hated it. She looked at him, her friend, the love of her life, her husband. Her Jon. He looked at her, smiling and quiet now. Waiting for her to steer a new conversation.
Hannah quietly reached for a small remote from the end table beside her. She wiped both her cheeks.
“I love you,” she said.
She pressed the button at the top of the remote and sat alone in her living room once again.
<><><>
Two Days Ago
“Mrs. Davenport?”
Hannah apologized, refocusing on the woman sitting on the other side of the desk. A small device and a companion remote sat between them, nearer to Hannah. Her stomach felt tight. Looking at the device squeezed the knots tighter.
“No need to apologize, dear. I understand this is a hard thing for you.”
“I thought I’d be more excited. Every time I talked to the doctor the last six weeks, I felt excited.”
The woman gave a reassuring nod. “You can be excited but still unsure. That’s understandable.”
Hannah nodded. She’d intended to say something, but nothing would come.
“How long as it been?”
“He's been gone fifteen months.”
The woman apologized, tried to sound comforting. Hannah just wrapped her arms more tightly around herself against the shivering.
“As stated in your consultation, this will use our comprehensive memory analysis and recreation to make interactions as lifelike as possible.”
“That sounds nice.” Hannah’s hands hurt from clenching them so hard.
The woman gave her a look. Not quite a smile, but it felt empathetic. “If it makes you feel better, the feedback we’ve been getting is overwhelmingly positive. Our clients say it helps.”
Hannah felt the first tears of the day welling in her eyes. She thanked the woman and quickly dropped the devices into their box. Hannah had to get out of that room.
“I do hope it helps you find peace,” the woman said.
Standing, Hannah nodded her thanks. Box in hand, she left the doctor’s office. Her chest felt heavy. The device she carried felt unnatural. Her stomach felt like a twisted wet towel.
Her new normal.
