Continually Connected

“So is it real?”

“Yes of course.”

“But I mean, is it really her?”

“Well of course, who else would it be?”

“Oh I don’t know! Let’s see… A.I? An actor using a voice altering device? A student who’s taken a suspicious job on minimum wage to simultaneously deceive, yet somehow comfort, grieving families?”

“We can confirm that the voice that you hear is the voice of your Mother.”

“Yes, but is it real?” I say, feeling somewhat exasperated now.

“Like is it actually her talking right now, live, real-time? How do I know it’s not all just recordings? Clippings of previous conversations, all squished back together in new combinations? And how can it even be possible anyway? Is it her spirit? Her mind? Have you got her brain locked up in that big warehouse of yours with all wires and probes connected to it? It just doesn't make sense!” I finished my rant, gasping into the phone slightly.

There is a pause, the dim crackling of static on the telephone line. Eventually Mr Graves resumes.

“Miss Shore, it is probably for the best if you try not to think about this too deeply. Our aim at ‘Continual Connections Ltd’ is to bring comfort and closure to those left behind. As your ‘Connectivity Companion’ it is my job to ensure that you are satisfied with our service and to support you with any technical issues. Has your device been working adequately so far?"

“Yes… but, –”

“Excellent. Is there anything else I can assist you with today?”

This was pointless. “No, thank you.”

“Excellent. Thank you for your call Miss Shore, we hope you 'continue to stay connected’.”

The line goes dead. I remain motionless in the same position, lying on the sofa, phone still firmly pressed to my ear. I listen to the empty tone, staring at the ceiling, until reluctantly I replace the phone back into its cradle. With an enormous effort, I roll over and lift the company brochure off of the coffee table. I’m surprised by its weight; thick, quality, matte paper. I give it a cautious sniff. Maybe this is why the subscription is so expensive.

I flick through the pages randomly. Beautifully shot photography, models in white woolen jumpers, wrinkled smiles, hands being held. I roll my eyes to the empty room. I flick through again and stop at the terms and conditions. I scan the page:

• The Customer [Miss A. Shore] agrees to pay the charges associated with the selected service plan detailed in the billing statement [Basic Connecter]
• The Customer confirms that they are the account holder and current bill payer. All other users must have the bill payers permission before making a connection
• The Company [Continual Connections] will make reasonable efforts to ensure the availability and reliability of the chosen service plan. However the Customer acknowledges that service interruptions may occur
• The Company may collect and use customer data as necessary for providing the service
• The Company may terminate the service for violation of these terms and conditions. 

I think back to a couple of days ago, to the day I had the device installed. It feels so long ago. I’m becoming increasingly aware of the feeling of having a loose grip on the concept of time; and the lack of sleep and eerie stillness is not particularly helping with my diminishing feeling of control. 

I remember the conversation with the counselor, Sarah, that I had in this very room, sipping on the luke-warm tea that she had made. I thought it was strange at first, that there should be a counselor present during the installation appointment. But now, having made my first few connections, I completely understood why this was necessary. 

“We recommend that you set yourself a limit to begin with, just for the first couple of days, maybe the first week. Most of our users with the ‘Basic Connector’ package opt for one Connection a day.”

“Why’s that? I thought I could make as many calls as I wanted, as long as I pay for them, I was told I can use it as much as I want.”

“That’s right. You can. We just advise that to begin with you stick to a schedule. Some users try to mimic a routine that they would usually have with their selected Connectee. Such as, making a call on your way home from work, or before bed. Something that feels…natural.”

At this I scoffed. Natural? There was certainly nothing at all natural about this. 

“So you mean ring Mum - I mean, my selected ‘Connectee’, at a time that I would usually call her, when she, when she was, erm…”

Sarah simply smiled, her placid face nodding slowly. 

“Argh. Shit. Sorry!" I take a ragged breath. "I can’t say it.”

“It’s okay." Sarah resumes. "But yes, we recommend that you call your Connectee at a time that you usually would, when they were,” she paused briefly, “alive.”

I try to smile back, but fail miserably and try to hide it by taking another sip of the dishwater masquerading as tea. 

I open my mouth but nothing comes out so I abruptly close it again. How can I even put this into words? What I want to say is how can I possibly limit myself to just one call a day? I want to ask her whether she actually knows how this feels? Has she ever lost someone so close to her? I wonder briefly if it's a requirement for the job, to have experienced loss. But then I look at her smiling placid face again and think otherwise. Does she understand what it’s like? To have lost the Sun that you orbit around. 

I want to explain to this woman, that Mum was the anchor that kept me from drifting away. I want this woman, with her sickening smile, to understand that I used to be constantly in contact with Mum. 

That new T.V show is starting - ring Mum. On the way to the supermarket - ring Mum. Shitty day at work - ring Mum. Saw a cute dog - ring Mum. In the bath - ring Mum. Feeling happy, feeling sad, feeling brave, feeling scared, ring Mum, ring Mum, ring Mum.

I swallow down the lump wedged in my throat.

“One call a day. Got it.”