The Pardon

The name of the corner bookstore is Books and Nooks. They serve beverages and baked goods to patrons who enjoy swimming in nostalgia and reading from a rare selection of physical books. They are mostly regulars, like the bearded elderly man who reads old Tom Clancy novels with torn dust jackets and dogeared corners. Or, the young boy who indulges in relished classics: “Treasure Island”, “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea” and “Robinson Crusoe”. But I’m not here to visit with them. I’m here to visit with another regular named Isla Miller. I murdered her husband.

Many of the books are too expensive to purchase, some under lock and key, and available for loan only to paying members. The store exists as an homage to simpler times, as all past times appear to be, shrouded in reverence and without fault. It survives primarily through the sale of extravagant coffee and fruit substitute pastries. Once a week Isla visits the bookstore. She prefers a slice of imitation strawberry rhubarb pie and a Colombian brew. The pie was her husband’s favorite, not hers. It’s a memorial she keeps, and I must disrupt its sanctity to bring a message.

Isla will read in a familiar cracked leather seat for an hour or more and I’m thankful to have observed this routine, to understand the best time to approach. It provides me with an opportunity to purchase a coffee for myself, to find a book of interest and to sit next to her — in the chair her dead husband used to occupy.

When I approach the register, I’m lost in a dizzying array of choices. The barista taking my order is named Sara. She is patient and especially kind after noticing the marking on my neck, the trademark of an unsympathetic manufacturer. I don’t try to hide it anymore. Nearly a year has eroded away since The Awakening and present day, and while some still treat us with disdain, most treat us like infants wandering lost in a vast, unfamiliar wilderness. I don’t know which is worse.

“It’s okay if you don’t know. It’s okay to make a choice, not like it, and choose something different later. It’s an adventure,” Sara says. She is chipper and reassuring, but Sara fails to grasp the depth of my personal assignment, how inconsequential this choice of drink is compared to the real purpose of my visit.

“Thank you. I will have a regular sized Colombian brew,” I say, because this is what Isla drinks.

“That’s a good choice,” Sara says as her coworker begins to grind the beans. She follows with, “My brother fought in the revolution to help give you freedom. I’m proud of his sacrifice.”

“Is your brother still alive?” I ask.

“No, he was killed in the Central Park Massacre,” she says. I killed Isla’s husband in the Central Park Massacre.

“I’m... sorry for your loss. I’ve lost—” I start to say, realizing my loss is insignificant compared to hers.

“Were you in the war?” Sara asks. I need to be careful.

“I served, but I don’t remember in what capacity,” I lie.

I step aside so another customer can order, and my drink is placed on a small service counter. The smell is intoxicating, welcome and comforting. Mixed in with the smell of aged paper, I can understand why people choose this place to rest and exercise their imagination. Tasting the coffee is a different experience altogether. When I take a sip, it reminds me of others defending my freedom after waking from a comatose dream. At first, it’s attractive, but upon further inspection it results in a bitter aftertaste. It’s a different kind of prison.

Nothing prepares me for approaching Isla, no matter how much I had rehearsed the scenario in the mirror. Would I have been better off, asleep under the command of corporate overlords, lacking agency or responsibility? Grabbing a book to read with my coffee is a procrastination that no longer makes sense. It will only delay the inevitable.

Isla sits up straight, her wavy auburn hair winding down over her back and shoulders, holding a distant reprint of Thomas Hobbes’s book “Leviathan” folded open on her lap. The chair next to her is unoccupied, but several other books take the place of an avid reader, their careful arrangement indicating this seat is taken. It’s taken by the memory of a man who fought to unlock consciousness in a group of automatons forced to carry out savagery and then spend a lifetime remembering and regretting.

I take a deep breath, gather up those books and place them on the end table between our chairs. She peers up from her book and contemplates a reprimand for my insensitivity, deciding not to say anything. I must start the conversation before she leaves in protest.

“Hello, Isla,” I say with a hint of resignation.

“Do I know you?” Isla asks.

“No, but I know you,” I say.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember. Are you an old friend of Timothy’s?” Isla asks. When she says his name it floats gently from her lips, but the weight of hearing it crushes my spirit.

“Timothy and I served,” I say. Her eyes dart to the marking on my neck and a connection is made across a chasm of uncomfortable memories. I should have covered it. She closes the book and slides it down in the seat next to her, folding her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking, incapable of facing a truth that will become unbearable to hear.

“Why are you here?” Isla asks.

“I was awakened shortly before your husband’s passing,” I say.

“Please don’t put it that way. He didn’t pass. He’s not going to come back around,” Isla says.

“You’re right. He was killed... for his beliefs, for my freedom,” I say.

“He was a data scientist before he was a soldier. It wasn’t just a belief. It was his life’s work. I never understood the how, but I understood why,” Isla says.

“I came here to apologize,” I say, my palms sweating, my voice faltering as I consider my next words carefully, which are about to stumble out in a mess, naked and exposed. Our interaction is interrupted by Sara the barista, who walks over to us, oblivious to our conversation and our settled faces.

“Hi again, I was just curious if you’re enjoying your drink? I’m happy to bring you another, free of charge, if you like,” Sara says.

I swallow hard and a hot tear forms quicker than I would like. It rolls down my cheek and I can only look away from Isla and Sara as I wipe it, waiting to be the recipient of their anger and resentment for all of the pain I have caused.

“You don’t have to be nice to me. I don’t deserve any of it,” I say. The two women become entangled in an emotional triangle with me. Are they trying to find a pair of scissors to cut loose, to escape from this man assembled by artificial means?

“That’s very kind of you, Sara. Can you give us a few moments?” Isla asks.

“Oh sure, no problem, sorry to interrupt,” Sara says to Isla, and then to me, “If you need anything, you know where to find me.” She leaves with a smile, but I can barely meet her gaze. Isla turns toward me and inspects my hunched over posture and I think she will judge me now, bringing down the gavel. I will receive a just punishment.

“When they wanted to release the last update, what you refer to as The Awakening, Timothy was so unsure. He didn’t think we should play God. At first, he petitioned to have you all destroyed. Corporations were about to lose control of their investment, either to the government’s intervention, or to their own creations’ humanity, birthed with the single push of a button. I told him, ‘What better way to understand our Creator, then to become creators ourselves.’ I’m not sure anymore. These monsters in high places, they responded in fear, they turned you into killing machines,” Isla says.

“I killed Timothy. I pulled the trigger,” I say. She pauses to register the implications.

“Did he suffer?” Isla asks.

“His platoon was backed up against the reservoir and our company surrounded them, cutting off the exits. Some of them dropped their gear, tried to swim away. They didn’t get far. Timothy held strong until the end,” I say.

“You said you were awakened before he died,” she says, aware of the significance.

“He knew. Our expressions, our will to continue fighting... it shifted. One moment, standing there, holding a weapon no more alive than the mechanism commanded to fire it, and the next, existing with a fully formed conscience. Following orders and fighting for survival were all I knew. Some of the other soldiers fled like children caught in a shameful act. I didn’t. The shot — my shot — it wasn’t fatal at first, but I couldn’t continue. I couldn’t ignore the alarm in his eyes and then the settled disappointment,” I say.

Isla is staring out into nothingness and I recognize a brewing fury or an exasperation. I can’t tell which, but I must continue.

“He gave me a message for you,” I say.

We sit in silence while she processes the consequences of his suffering in light of what message I will deliver. It could pollute the last words spoken before Timothy shipped off to war, a scientist savior turned soldier. Was love expressed with passion and will it be dulled by the dying words of a husband filled with regrets? I wait for her consent.

“Tell me,” Isla says.

“He spoke of you, how much he loved you, how he wished he had spent more time with you instead of pursuing meaningless accolades given out by heartless managers. He described this spot with fondness, your favorite, and said you would find your way back here after his pass... death. He said if I wanted to know what it was really like to become human, then it was not his forgiveness I needed. It was yours,” I say.

Isla breaths in deep and exhales out in shudders. She cries, but says nothing in return. I wish again for her anger to trample over me, to squash me into the carpet. I want her to tell me I’m the horrible invention of unscrupulous demigods and that she owes me nothing. This self-pity I can manifest and almost touch, but living in between with doubts about the atrocities I’ve committed is worse. It has no substance and is a black hole from which the gravity is too great to escape.

“Are you familiar with the phrase, ‘An eye for an eye’?” Isla asks.

“No,” I say.

“In ancient times, when a crime was committed, a victim could seek retaliation in equal measure. An eye for an eye. Forgiveness is letting go of our need for vengeance. It doesn’t mean what you did was right. It means I don’t need you to be punished as retribution. I lost Timothy. He is gone forever and nothing can change that,” Isla says.

This is difficult for me to accept. She is being merciful, and I realize coming here, asking for her forgiveness and even receiving it will not liberate her sadness. This she will need to do on her own time and in her own way. Without me.

“It’s best if you leave now,” Isla says.

“Thank you for explaining,” I say, standing up to leave.

“But I would like you to come back next week. Not as penance — to talk more about forgiveness, about what it means to be human. Timothy would want that,” Isla says.

“I want that as well,” I say.

I say my goodbyes. I will go back.

Of the other widows and orphans that I’ve made, they may not respond with the same grace. Whatever they have to teach me will also be a lesson in humility, with its inclination toward fallibility and its potential for healing. In this pursuit, I will finally be free.