Mida's Touch

The autumn years: the time you’ve worked and waited for. To settle back, finally for more than a snatched half hour, on that comfy sofa you spent the best part of one career year saving for, sinking with a loud sigh into those plump cushions. No lego bricks digging into your back or model cars skidding beneath your feet. Just space to stretch luxuriously out, a glass of red wine in one hand, each sip a taste of the south; a book in the other, any yarn will do, you’re old enough to read what you like now after all. That’s the dream isn’t it when you slip into retirement, loosening up with comfy pants, going with the flow. 

Well, it was certainly my dream when I hung up the work suits, pushing the skimpy smalls to the back of the drawer, stocking up on the loungewear. Yes, I planned to live a double life: one half Zen panda, the other sanguine sloth. To my mind that totalled a slow slide into the golden years, glowing like the warm October sun streaming through the window. I planned to just pull the cork from my favourite claret, recline, read and repeat. 

That was the retirement plan and it wasn’t ‘till I embarked upon it that I realised how drastically different it was to Richard’s, my husband. One scene will suffice to fill you in with more than enough details. 

We were sitting down to breakfast, sorting through the normal assortment of little colourful pills we need to pop to slow the flow of old age, when I noticed a new addition to his pick ‘n’ mix collection: a bright blue one which I’d never seen before. Normally it’s a morning chore persuading him to take his meds, but that day he bolted them down with his orange juice like a kid in a candy store. Small mercies I concluded and gave it no more thought, turning instead to my latest paperback and bowl of steaming porridge. I was eating and turning the pages contentedly when I noticed him standing beside me with a very odd expression on his face. At first I thought it might be indigestion and I was going to ask him if he needed a flatulence pill. Only when I followed his beaming gaze downwards to waist height did I realise that wasn’t the issue. My heart started beating so fast I fumbled around for the beta blocker bottle before he could give me a coronary.

“You’ll be needing more than that when I’ve finished with you!” he winked and chuckled in a most alarming manner.

“And who needs a racy novel when you’ve a dashing hero, right at home!” He said, plucking the book from my hand and tossing it across the table. 

Keeping my eyes trained above the waterline, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry or choke on my cereal; the situation seemed to warrant all three.

“Richard, dear,” I started.

“Dick,” he growled through his dentures, “call me Dick, darling, like you used to.”

I had always hated that ridiculous nickname of his, but now didn’t seem like the moment to remind him. 

“What has got into you, Richard! We’re hardly in our first flush of youth; carrying on like this might be the death of us!”

“What a way to die!” He exclaimed with more fervour than I’d seen for forty years. 

I decided to abandon my breakfast and stood up ready to flee.

“That’s the spirit Amy, mon amour!” He crooned, pulling me towards him, but I yelped and ducked under his arm, grabbing my paperback as I made for the door.

While I waited in the bathroom, door locked, for the first flush of passion to die down, I couldn’t help thinking he’d been reading one too many of my bodice rippers. And his new meds! I made a mental note to call his doctor as soon as I could make my escape and find my mobile; yes, Richard was having some rather nasty and completely unwanted side effects from those little blue pills. 

Looking back now, I realise how naive I was. Unwanted side effects: well certainly not for Richard whose days seemed to be maturing in a way entirely to his satisfaction. Well, perhaps not entirely; no doubt he hoped I’d pop the female equivalent of his little diamond blue pill and join him for a fumble under the sheets. But I had no desire for any of that. Days turned into weeks where my home became just a series of hiding places. I’d cloister myself anywhere to escape the Lothario who seemed to have swallowed my husband whole, taking myself for long walks, longing for the Richard I’d once known, the man who’d hold my hand, swinging arms in rhythm with our stride as we strolled through the woods on a Sunday, kicking up the golden autumn leaves. 

The suggestiveness turned to sulks of course, at least that’s what I called them; Richard huffing and puffing about the house like the wolf who wanted to blow it all down. And I felt like one of those little pigs: hoping it was strong enough to stand, my life of straw and sticks, feeling like it was going to fly away at any moment. What was holding it together? Not much, just the knowledge that the two of us didn’t have another life to run to. 

Living with the wolf, keeping him at bay, was the life I resigned myself to, until a day dawned which I couldn’t have imagined, not even in my wildest of dreams. I tended to bring him a cup of tea mid morning when the fervour, shall we call it, had lost its shine, and I’d find him hunched over his laptop, tap, tapping away furiously as if he’d unlock the answers to all our problems just from pressing those keys. His research seemed to engross him entirely and I’d try not to think too much about what was causing him to emit those little grunts and groans. On that memorable day I’d delivered the tea and was reclining on the sofa, snuggling in and reminding myself that this was the retirement plan, back on track, when I felt his shadow fall over me and I thought oh no, here we go again. 

He was jangling his keys and seemed in the grip of a new purpose rather than passion. 

“I’m off out, Amy,” he said, much to my relief, “ I’ve finally found it, the solution to our,” he fumbled for words, “our situation.” He settled on. 

“That’s wonderful Richard.” I beamed, at a complete loss as to what he was referring to, wondering if perhaps the car was out of petrol or the rubbish needed taking to the dump. He ploughed on.

“Yes, it’s taken some time but I’ve got it fixed. We need a companion, and I’m going to pick one up now.”

It was my turn to be lost for words as he strode to the door, tossing and catching the keys confidently. 

“A companion?” I called to his back and he turned briefly.

“Yes, the latest model. It’s just what we both need, I’m sure.” 

With a last toss and catch of the keys, he shut the door. Seconds later I heard the beep of the car unlocking, the familiar resigned splutter of our old sedan as it trembled to life, the wheels crunching on gravel, and then silence. He was gone. But where and what for?

I flung the book on the coffee table. A companion? Did he mean a pet? I must admit, my heart gave a leap at the thought that he’d be back in an hour with a puppy, the breed wouldn’t matter, all bounding energy, skidding on the floor, bowling through the leaves on those Sunday walks we’d take once more. My heart was racing, but my mind still had a firm hold on the reins. Have you ever heard of a puppy referred to as a model, Amy?

The blood seemed to sweep through my veins in an icy flow; all I could think was, Oh Richard, no. Please, no. I thought we’d cleared the mid-life crisis years with only a few minor stumbles, but now with that one word, model, I could almost hear the skid of wheels and squeal of brakes as the car crash I thought we’d avoided careered towards us. I could picture him waving from a sleek red ferrari, revving the engine, roosting birds taking to the sky in a shock of wings. Or, hell’s bells, even worse, Richard with a full-grown biker’s beard; a huge Harley Davidson thrumming on the drive, rattling the window panes, making my legs weak at the knees. I could see him slapping the pinion: Climb aboard Amy for the ride of your life!

Please, a puppy, I prayed. Or a kitten, a sweet fluff ball to chase these fears into the corner and pounce on them. And when the familiar rumble of our family sedan broke the silence outside, I felt like falling to my knees and giving thanks. This was a safe sound, no hungry call of the wild. I threw myself back on to the sofa, burying my nose in the book, picturing Richard’s face when he surprised me with our new companion, our little pet. I was pondering whether a cat would be better, curled up on my chest like a cosy muff, or a pooch who’d lay his head in my lap, wagging his tail, when the engine died; there was my husband’s familiar tread and then the door opened wide. 

No dog bounded in; no fluff ball was peering wide-eyed from Richard’s arms. Instead, he was walking in with a young, impossibly young woman, her arm looped through his like they’d just taken vows and were strolling back down the aisle. If he had walked in with Marilyn Monroe I couldn’t have been more surprised, but to tell the truth, she was so stunning with her flawless skin and wavy cascades of blonde hair that she could have been that bombshell, just waiting to detonate in my front room. Next to her effortless swish and sashay, Richard seemed to blunder, a heavy-footed elephant, with just as many wrinkles. If I hadn’t been lying down I might have fainted with surprise. Instead I grabbed one of my snuggle cushions and stifled a scream. 

“Hi Amy,” said the vision of loveliness in a measured voice, giving me goosebumps for the first time in years.

“I’m so pleased to meet you. Richard has told me all about you on the car drive. I’m so happy you chose me to be your new family companion!”

“Chose you.” I managed to croak, managing to heave myself into a sitting position, and then louder as her words punched home. “I chose you! I’ve no idea who or what you are, least of all what you are doing in our home. Richard?” I pleaded, “explain.”

“No need to get up, dear,” he said, gesturing for me to stay seated with one hand and leading the blonde intruder further into the room. “This is Mida, well actually the specification has her down as MAIda, but it’s not a name that exactly trips off the tongue.” 

I was conscious of my mouth opening and shutting, going through the motions of speech, but it seemed I was malfunctioning because absolutely no sound came out. 

“I’ve been doing some research and I think Mida is the AI answer to our little family problem.”

“Family problem!” I gasped, indignation sparking my voice to life. “You mean your problem with those blue pills!” 

“Well, Mida is the latest model of intelligent companions; she’s here to help both of us, whatever our needs: a friend for you and a, “ he squirmed on the spot a bit, “well a friend for me too!”

“A friend!” I yelped, “well, that’s a new spin on something you might not so long ago have kept in a box under the bed with an air pump to hand! Mida indeed. She’s nothing more than a doll, a -” but as the impossibly perfect young woman eased herself down onto the sofa, words failed me once more and I managed only a high-pitched scream. 

“Amy,” she soothed, fixing her unblinking, glass-green eyes on mine, “your blood pressure is 140/ 95, your pulse 30 beats too fast and I detect a drop in blood sugars. Would you like me to fix you a cup of tea and a biscuit, or help you with some breathing exercises?” 

I wanted to shout no, I bloody didn’t. To back off and back out: back to the car and back to the shop or wherever it was you went to pick up an AI dolly, but my breath was coming in tottering gasps, weak legs which wouldn’t hold a single word. 

“Amy, your CO2 levels are dropping drastically, if you don’t steady your breathing I am afraid that you are very likely to-”

But what I was likely to do I never heard, as I’d fainted clean away. 

When I came to, I was lying stretched out like road kill on the sofa. I felt like a Mida-shaped truck had driven straight over me, crushing my chest, flattening my heart. Keeping my eyes clamped shut I tried to focus on my breath, just the act of breathing, forcing everything else to the perimeter of my mind where I hoped it would teeter on the edge and fall away, although into what, I hardly knew. 

And then, simultaneously, I realised two things. The first was that my breathing was actually calm: no longer a ragged huffing and puffing but a slow, measured in and exhale. Fingertips, steady and rhythmic, were stroking my palm, tracing circles of touch. Over the callouses, skimming the lines of my life; I inhaled deeply and opened my eyes.

Mida was sitting next to me, her hand soothing mine. Mirroring me, her eyes were closed and her breath seemed to come likewise in long peaceful pulls. A memory surfaced unbidden: our courting days when Richard had sculled me across the lake; fluid and strong with each pull on the oars, like a water skater we’d skimmed the surface, effortlessly. Her voice broke my reverie.

“Your skin contains more than 1,000 nerve endings sensing touch, pain, temperature and pressure.” Her fingers felt like butterflies fluttering in my palm. “My silicon responds to your data but I am insensitive to what might be meant by a touch.”

I shuffled back against the cushions to a seated position, her hand, if that was what it was, still in mine. Not a metal hook, or a robotic claw but a hand, warm and soft to the touch; but while mine bulged with veins, the knuckles and joints of each like knots, hers were impossibly smooth, like a sculpture sanded clean of all the marks of mortality. 

“Can you feel this?” I laced my fingers through hers and squeezed, marvelling at how her AI skin seemed to give at the pressure from mine. 

“Your hand is exerting 83.3 Newtons of force. But what you mean by this, I cannot easily deduce, although I can learn with your help.” 

I looked at our hands, so similar, so utterly different, quietly resting on my knees. Increasing the pressure, I hooked my nails and pulled hard on her hand; my joints clicked and fingers locked with the effort, but Mida did nothing but look back into my eyes. 

“183 Newtons,” she said simply, and I wasn’t sure if her perfectly measured voice wavered slightly. “Data tells me that humans touch hands for many reasons. To shake hands as a greeting, to offer comfort when in distress, or as a sign of companionship; while this amount of pressure is normally a sign of threat.” 

The warm amber light spilled through the window pane turning her blonde hair to honey and I released the pressure. Model, AI bot, companion: I didn’t know who Mida was, or what she meant for our lives; but grasping her hand, I reached tentatively for something I’d somehow forgotten: the wonder of touch. 

A clomping sound broke my reverie and I looked up to see Richard, my wizened elephant, stomping into the room with his walking boots on, holding my faithful worn-out pair. He smiled briefly at us both, seated side by side on the sofa, before giving a resolute knock on the floor with the walking stick he whittled for me years ago. Opening the door wide, the golden autumn light streamed in, bathing us in its brilliance. 

“Come on Amy, mon amour, I think it’s a perfect day for a walk in the woods.”