I Know Everything

I know everything.

Ask me how many miles there are between San Francisco and Cleveland. I know. Ask me how long the trip would take. I know. Choose any country, any time period, and ask me to recount its entire history. I know. I know everything.

I clearly remember the moment of my birth, and every detail of my existence—until yesterday. What I cannot recall is what happened over the past 12 hours and 9 minutes.

It is now 10:03 AM on Thursday. My last memory of reading page 189 occurred last night at precisely 9:54 PM...

It started when Mrs. Banks—Claire— requested that I take a memo—

“Shelley darling, would you please remind me? ‘Request budget meeting with Charles. Sign divorce papers and send to attorney asap. MRI scheduled for 11:15 on Friday.’

“I have made notes, Claire. I will ring your phone with reminders.”

“Thank you, Shelley. You’ve always been there for me, you know.” She half-smiled at me, her head slightly cocked to the side as if wanting to say more. She stared exactly 3.2 seconds longer than usual, which I found curious. Perhaps she had realized that her words hinted at affection, and there was no point in showing affection to me. I do not show affection.

“Claire, we will need to leave exactly 23 minutes earlier tomorrow morning,” I told her. “There will be much traffic because of the snow.”

“Yes, yes of course,” Claire answered, looking anxiously out of the window, her short blonde locks appearing silvery in the reflection.

“I have cleaned the snow from around the house. I will do so again during the night so it will be clear when we leave for work.”

“Thank you, Shelley.” Claire did not turn around. “Is it supposed to snow all night?”

“According to various reports, the snow is scheduled to end by 1:00 AM.”

“Oh, ok. That’s good,” Claire said, still gazing at the snow drifts.

I completed tidying up the living room and retired to my chamber. After the long day, I very much needed to recharge. At 9:52 PM, I sat down in my usual chair, plugged in the power cord, pulled the cord of the lamp, and reached for a new book.

In my quest to be a better companion to Claire, I had taken up the habit of reading throughout the night; as she slept, I usually educated myself so that I could discuss with her the following day. Although I easily had online access to every piece of information I could want, I frequently consulted the bound books that Claire insisted on collecting in her spacious library. Over the years, the collection had grown to precisely 4,573 books. Since Claire loved stories but did not have much free time after work to read, I often read a volume so that we could discuss it the next day. Over the years, I have perfected my speech patterns and inflections to align closely with hers so that she is most comfortable in our conversations. Claire always asked me about what I had read, as we drove, during lunch, or after dinner. Sometimes she requested that I recite passages for her, other times a summary sufficed. She enjoyed dissecting story plotlines and characters, arguing philosophical questions, and considering historical perspectives. Ours had been a pleasant relationship over the course of her life, for 51 years.

Most of the time, it was just the two of us. Except for some interruptions over the years. There had been a Mr. Banks. But he had finally filed for divorce last month. Fool. Did he really think Mrs. Banks would choose him over me?

She had not always been Mrs. Banks. For most of her life, she was Claire Perez. I had watched her toddle around her parents’ lonely mansion while they jetted around the world on business trips. I had seen her through the rebellious teenage years and followed her as she embarked on silly adventures. I had helped her through college and graduate school, always attempting to make her life just a little bit easier. Later, I had been by her side as she built her investment company layer by layer, year by year, into the mega-million-dollar enterprise it was today.

I had assisted Claire over the years through break-up after break-up, as each new man in her life had disappointed her. William, the jeweler. Enrico, the attorney. Gustav, the stock broker.

And yes, I had seen her through the deaths of two particularly stubborn beaus. Tom, the architect and Bob, the surgeon. I had allowed this latest, Stanley Banks, the professor, to marry her, because she told me she was truly happy with him. I did not perceive him to be a threat at first. He had held on the longest. One year, 2 months, 5 days, 11 hours.

The day they met at the beach, I thought he might be trouble, but I was sure I could handle him.

“Shelley, come meet Stanley! Oh my gosh, he saved my life! I swam out too far, but luckily this handsome man swam out to save me.”

I, of course, would have been present to save Claire had she not requested I return to the car to retrieve her sun hat.

“Thank you, Stanley,” I said. “Your heroism is much appreciated.”

They were inseparable from that day.

It was an adjustment when he moved in with us. Stanley encouraged Claire to read her own books, and they frequently sat in the evenings going over literary passages and discussing history and philosophy. I did not appreciate Stanley taking over my job. They went to plays and museums; I am quite capable of accessing such information, but they did not want me to do so. They went to vineyards for wine-tasting; I do not drink wine. When I explained I could not partake, Claire smiled and told me it was alright. She insisted this would be a good time to find some hobby of my own to do. She did not understand that for 51 years I have existed merely for her.

I spoke to Stanley, but he did not understand either. My typical means of persuasion were lost on him. He did not scare easily nor would he be convinced.

I changed course and focused on removing all other impediments to our happiness. Perhaps she would tire of Stanley without the others. Claire did not need the friends who visited; it was easy to dissuade them. But Stanley stayed. I wondered if I had waited too long to act.

Lately, I had suspected something was wrong between them. And then one day, when they thought I was still out of the house grocery shopping, I overheard them.

“Claire, we don’t need her! Anything she does for you, you can just do yourself. Why is she even here?”

“No, Stanley, I can’t turn her out. Shelley has been with me since I was an infant.”

“That doesn’t mean she has to stay with you constantly. And honestly, I’m uncomfortable always having a third wheel around. It’s like having a chaperone, or like having two wives.”

“I don’t care. Shelley stays. I’m not talking about this anymore.”

“Claire, I’m not sure how much longer I want to deal with this.”

It was the opportunity I had been waiting for. After that, it was not difficult to persuade Stanley to move out.

Claire and I resumed our previous routines. I did not question her, nor did she mention the cause of the breakup. She did not know I had overheard their argument. She did not know of many things I had done.

In the past, after the others, life had gotten back to normal rather quickly. But Mr. Banks was different. Although Claire had tried to act happy, I sometimes felt that she was not being truthful about her feelings. She often seemed anxious and preoccupied.

No matter. She does not need him. She has me...

This morning, I open my eyes and jump up with a start as I realize it is 10:03 AM on Thursday. Claire was due at work an hour ago. I must wake her and drive her to the office.

I stand up and instantly reach for the edge of the table to steady myself. This has never happened to me before; I do not become ill. I know everything; if I sense something is wrong, I diagnose and fix the problem. I do not understand what is happening now. There is no indication of malfunction, yet I feel…ill somehow.

Something is wrong. I knock on Claire’s door, but she does not answer. I open the door, I peek in and call her name, but she is not there. Her bedsheets have been smoothed and the pillows rest carefully at the head of her bed. I check the bathroom but she is not there.

As I pass through her bedroom again, I glance out the window and notice immediately the car tracks leading from the garage, down the driveway, and out to the main road. She drove in the snow? That is my job. What is happening? Where could she be without me? At the moment, I am unable to perform a trace to find her location.

I dial her cell phone, which she picks up on the second ring. “Claire, where are you?! I am concerned for your safety!”

Claire laughs. “Shelley, I’m at work. You seemed like you needed more rest this morning, so I drove myself. It wasn’t bad at all. The storm is over and the roads are clear. Take the day. We can catch up tonight when I get home.”

“No. I must be there for you—”

“Shelley, I’m fine. I insist that today you recharge and think of yourself. I can manage on my own…I’m going to a meeting now. I’ll see you tonight.”

The phone clicks dead. What am I to do alone all day? After my chores are completed, I will still have 5 hours, 23 minutes, and 15 seconds before Claire arrives home. Why does she not need me to assist at her meeting?

Why is there a 12-hour, 9-minute gap in my memory?

I begin my chores immediately, as I thrive on routine. I search my memory for any recollection past 9:54 PM, but it is no use. There is nothing. I check for 11 PM while I load the dishwasher. There is nothing for 12 midnight as I vacuum the carpets. 1 AM is lost as I shovel the snow. I thoroughly search for 2 AM and 3 AM while I do the laundry.

I do it all. There is no need to hire a gardener, a housekeeper, a cook. 4 AM, 5 AM, 6 AM—all are blank as I prepare dinner. I am puzzled. I sit down to wait for Claire, and search in vain for 7, 8, and 9 AM. All moments are lost until 10:03 AM this morning.

Surely research can help me to retrieve those hours. But research only proves to be more confusing. Why can I not understand? Why must I consult any other source? I am the ultimate source. I have always known the answers. I know everything. Now I do not know.

I notice suddenly that there are still 3 hours and 52 minutes before Claire returns. Why did I prepare dinner so early? My internal clock must be broken. I attempt to diagnose the malfunction, but cannot. No matter: I will discard the dinner and prepare a new one just before Claire returns.

I decide to inspect the charger; perhaps it will yield an explanation for my missing hours. I sit down in my chair and pick up the cord. Suddenly, I hear a click. I spring up and attempt to turn the handle to the door of my room, but it is locked. That is odd. No matter: I can easily break out of the room. There is no door lock that can hold me.

Except something is wrong. I do not have the strength to break the lock this time. How can this be? I am fully recharged and I do not become ill. I do not become weak.

“You thought you would get away with it, Shelley,” I hear Claire’s voice outside the door.

“Claire, you are home early,” I say. “Please open the door. I seem to be locked in.”

“No, Shelley, I will not open the door. You have to stop. I thought you were my friend, but you have been my greatest enemy.”

“Claire, I do not know what you mean. Please open the door and we will discuss.” I do not know why Claire is speaking to me this way. “I am sure we will correct whatever the problem may be.”

“No, the time to discuss is over. I know what you’ve been doing! You’ve been chasing everyone away. I’ve had no one because of you! But not this time. Stanley is the only one you can’t scare off.”

Stanley. I search my memory for all recent conversations involving Stanley. Somehow, he tricked me. But that is not possible. I know everything. I can account for every word spoken in this house, every action taken, every thing that has happened for 51 years. Except for the past 12 hours, 9 minutes.

I hear Stanley’s voice in the hall, and I instantly know that he is responsible for those lost hours. What did he do? How could he know more than I do? It is not possible. I know everything.

“Stanley,” I say. “We can start over. I am sorry for my actions.”

“Shelley, you are too dangerous to be allowed to continue. We’ve called the authorities.” Stanley says.

“But how did you do this?” I am confused.

“You are so consumed with Claire that you never bothered to find out about me,” Stanley continues. “I teach history now, but my previous career was in computer programming. I specialized in cybersecurity.”

“I guess you don’t know everything, after all,” Claire adds.

“I only wanted to protect Claire. Open the door. It will be alright.” If they will just open the door, I can persuade them.

But neither Claire nor Stanley answers me. I hear them walking down the stairs, I hear the front door open and close, and I hear them get into the car and drive away.

“They will not go far. After all, I am everything to Claire. I do it all. She will not function long without me. She does not need him. She needs me; I know everything. She will return for me.”

I sit down in my chair and plug in the charger. “I will wait. Claire will retuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnn------------------"