Becoming

“Look at her. Isn’t she perfect? She’s 99 per cent Amelie and a pinch of a dream.”

The woman before us is not as loquacious as Maker: “Great.”

Hers is a staccato heartbeat, tapping dissonance in Morse code.

“Fabulous, Sarah, just fabulous,” Maker claps his hands. Maker is the best at this: manufactured joy. He produces it with as much care and attention as he did me. I can no longer hear what the woman’s heart is trying to say.

“Do you ladies need a ride home?”

“It’s quite a ways. We’ll take the bus.”

Maker reaches for me and squeezes my shoulder. Since our journey together began, he has looked at me in many ways: clinically, critically, proudly. Now, I register: affection. “Bye, Amelie.”

“Goodbye, Maker.”

Often, when we walk around the laboratory, Maker will give me clear instructions, or he will take my hand and guide me. But when I offer my hand to Sarah, she only stares at it. I read her features. 

My programming connects the corners of her downturned lips and the narrow space between her brows. I compare it with the data points available to me, tube-fed in my incubation period.

All signals suggest disgust. 

Before I have a chance to withdraw, Sarah grabs my fingers—not tenderly, as Maker would have, but roughly, and she pulls me so hard I stumble.

Sarah drops my hand as soon as the shop door closes behind us. She was waiting til Maker couldn’t see us, I realise. “Shall I follow?” She has already charged a few paces ahead of me, rushing towards a bus stand. 

“Yes,” Sarah says over her shoulder. I register: annoyance.

We stand side by side at the terminal. I am not alarmed by the city’s clatter: horns and screeching tires and irate beggars and teenagers who swear. Maker would take me out sometimes on walks to acclimatise to my environment. I have always enjoyed forays into the world outside the lab. I think that I like weather (conceptually), small dogs (so long as they’re quiet), and women’s handbags (for their combined functional and aesthetic purpose). I have already been privy to the sight of roads and taxi cabs. I even know about Uber.

“I have never been on a bus before,” I think aloud.

Sarah doesn’t answer.

As the bus hums along the road, I sway where I stand. She gestures brusquely, “For balance,” and I wrap my hand around the silver pole. It’s cool, and I like the strange, sticky feeling of metal. It is familiar; this is surely how a human feels when it finds a bone. I flex my fingers around the post, test its pressure with my palm.

“Stop it. You look like a pervert.”

“I’m sorry,” I don’t know what to do. She is holding the pole, and I am not allowed? I mimic her grip: still, white-knuckled. “I don’t know about pervert.”

Sarah closes her eyes. I register: I have made a terrible mistake. “It’s rude.”

“I will aspire to better manners.”

Some of my lessons have been very quick, but often it is short lessons that are most foundational. Through memory sticks and quick typing, I am veined with little lines of code, which together create my psyche and abilities. These are essential, but I prefer to be an active participant in my learning, such as when Maker and the others at the shop speak circularly of the same three things that interest them: their families, cars, and the alignment of my fluid cavities. 

I see now that my programmed vocabulary does not account for context. I will need to be more careful.

We take this bus, and then another. Along the ride, people look at me curiously. All of them are organic. I register: novelty. 

Finally, Sarah says, “This is us.”

On my walks with Maker, I have never seen sky like this. Always, it is blocked by buildings. But here, the sky yawns over the earth, the whole of it blue with a shimmering haze. Sarah breathes deeply.

“Does Sarah enjoy fresh air?”

I register: disbelief.

“It isn’t fresh,” she scowls. “It’s smoky. Because the bush is burning. And people are losing their homes. And their lives.”

“Oh dear,” I am very curious about the bush. “That sounds sad,” I say, because I am programmed to understand that humans cherish life deeply, even if they do not enjoy it. “How do fires start?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I take this data into my system.

Sarah is difficult to keep up with on foot; when I match her stride, she quickens the pace, and I must hurry to match her again. I am so distracted trying to keep up that I do not have a chance to take in much of her suburb. I can tell little more than that the houses are alike in vintage and style, and many have grassy lawns, browned in the dry heat. 

She unlocks the door of #244, and I follow her lead, removing my shoes just as she does.

Sarah’s home is full of orderly clutter. In this way, it reminds me of Maker’s workbench, where everything has a place, but that place is shared. In Maker’s case, this meant soldering irons with small forceps. In Sarah’s case, it appears to be framed photographs with small ceramic statues of winged babies.

I look away from the statues to see that Sarah is now sitting on a grey linen couch. Loose threads dangle from the corners, as if something has scratched them out. Sarah’s face is covered with her hands, and I can hear her ragged breathing.

“Does Sarah need anything?”

“Just—let me think.”

I hold my hands in front of me and let her think.

After a long minute, I note that her hunched back is trembling, and she is making a new, wet noise behind her fingers.

“Can I help Sarah?”

“Oh, God,” she groans into her palms. I consult my database and gather Sarah is speaking to a higher power, her Maker. “What am I doing?”

“Sarah is sitting on a couch and crying.” I’m glad to be able to assist.

“Oh, God!” she cries out again, louder this time. Her shoulders shake harder.

“What would help Sarah?”

She looks up from the couch, and her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. Her skin is blotchy. “Silence would help Sarah,” she snarls.

I register: danger.

When Sarah is done with the crying, she collapses into the back of the couch, baring her chest to the ceiling. She opens her arms as if waiting to catch something very heavy. Her eyes are still closed. Her cheeks are still damp.

“What am I doing?” she asks upward. This time, I don’t respond, because Sarah has requested silence.

We stay like this for a long time: Sarah, splayed to the stucco, and me with my hands folded before me.

Finally, she sits upright. “You don’t need to wear that.”

I look down at the clothes Maker gave me this morning. Compared to Sarah’s floral blouse and her chinos, my white tee shirt and track pants are very casual. Maker had advised me my role might involve carnal services, but before I can tug up my shirt, she speaks again.

“I’ll show you your things.” When she gets off the couch, she moves as if her body is wearied by hundreds of years.

She leads me down a hallway to a small room with a large bed. The bed is tidy, with orderly pinstripes hugging the mattress and four pillows arranged against the wall. This composition satisfies me. There is a large wooden dresser against the wall, and Sarah opens it to show me rows of shirts, pants, and dresses hanging within.

“You can wear any of this. It’s yours.”

I register: not carnal.

“Sarah is very kind.”

She flinches.

I register: ???

On the inside of the door, there is a small mirror. I study our reflection. Side-by-side, I observe we both have square features and hollowed-out cheeks. Her skin is fractionally darker than mine. Under our hazel eyes, we have puffy skin and crescent moon wrinkles. We both have thin brown hair framing our faces in a wavy bob. Hers has a touch of grey at the roots. We both have thick eyebrows with a narrow gap between them.

“I look like Sarah.”

She sighs. I register: I do not want to talk about this any more than I wish to talk about the bush.

Sarah closes the dresser, snatching my face away and leaving me only with hers. I look at her and ask, “What kind of person does Sarah need me to be?”

Maker told me once that we are brought into being for many reasons. Most of us are answers to problems: dependence, loneliness, expectation, celibacy.

The question seems to weary Sarah, and she sits on the edge of the mattress like her bones have given out. She looks at the floor when she answers. “I just need you to stay here for a while.”

“I will stay here,” I echo.

Eventually, Sarah stands again, and this time she moves towards the door. I do not follow, since she has asked me to stay here. She pauses with the door half-shut behind her, “You can move around the room, if you want.” I take a step to the side to demonstrate that I understand. As she closes the door, I hear her mumble my name, “Amelie.”

—

Sarah writes:

I am

half flood

half drought

half starlight 

half black hole

half reckless 

half consequence 

half the branch

half the burning

—

The file I have built around Sarah says this:

• She is a guest lecturer at the University of Sydney, and she fulfils this task exclusively from her home office.
• She is a poet of middling acclaim and makes jokes I register as self-deprecating when she is on video calls with young people.
• She is not religious, but she swears a lot to and about and at God.
• She sustains herself mostly on tomato soup, vegetable crackers, and a brand of cookie with coconut cream inside.
• She once had a cat, which destroyed much of her furniture. The cat is now dead.
• She does not have company over.
• She does not want me to go outside.
• She does not want to talk about the fires.
• She does not want to talk about our face.

—

Sarah writes:

Of the two of us, 

she 

is the one who gives.

I 

am the one who takes.

—

“I need you to stay in your room tonight.”

Sarah has allowed me to explore the house, as long as I do not disturb her when she is in her office. I spend some days registering the cherubs’ moods: elation, glee, pride, smugness. I read some of Sarah’s photographs: Sarah with an elderly white couple; Sarah with a lanky man her age; an infant wearing six hats and a chain of plastic links. I spend the rest in the backyard, where I watch the sky. These are my favourite times. Smoke modulates the blue’s temper; some days, it is lively and bright, others faded and dull. 

Though I cannot see past Sarah’s fence, I listen and register: dogs barking, cars starting, children playing, and, once, when one skimmed over the yard, frisbees.

While I wander, Sarah goes about her business, but, when our paths intersect, she is quiet. I register: not ready yet. 

“Whatever Sarah requires.”

“I’ll have people over. Don’t come down, no matter what.”

I nod, then dare to ask, “What purpose do they fulfil?” I think: dependence, loneliness, expectation, celibacy.

Sarah stares at me. I stare back. 

“They’re my book club.”

I register: loneliness and recall the book Sarah skims while she eats. “The people with whom Sarah reads erotica.”

She closes her eyes. I register at the same time as she says it: Jesus fucking Christ.

While the book club discusses a book I have not heard of, in a genre my database identifies as Harlequin, I catch snippets through the walls: 

“This looks beautiful, babes! What a spread.”

“I thought his speech was unoriginal, going on and on about forever.”

“And her, with that ‘craving’ nonsense!”

“You don’t really think they’d do it in that position? The physics are all off.”

“She looks exhausted, doesn’t she?”

“You’re one to talk.”

“How’re you holding up, Sarah?”

“Sarah, oh darling, it’s alright.”

—

Sarah writes:

Yoko Ono’s Cut Piece

— Shear everything that holds me 

And keep it like it’s yours.

—

Sarah is spreading marmalade on toast. She is drinking tea cloudy with milk. There is a book beside her, the cover a shirtless man and a woman in a nightgown.

“I believe that Sarah is keeping something from me that makes it difficult for me to meet Sarah’s needs.”

Her hands pause. I register: fear.

“I am not trying to upset Sarah, but I understand that Sarah has spent quite a lot of money on me, so I would not like for it to go to waste.”

When Sarah’s eyes meet mine, I register: fire. I do not know how or why. My database says that isn’t a feeling. Still, I read heat, I read consuming, I read—

“Get out.” Her voice, low. I register: warning. “Get out,” she says again, and as I am turning, she throws her knife at me, and then her toast, and then her plate. Porcelain shatters to my right; the knife clatters to my left. 

I am afraid. It is marvellous to have a feeling of my own.

“Get out!” she screams, so I do.

—

Sarah writes:

The sordid black smell of burning

eucalyptus trees, shedded snakeskin, lost feathers, 

houses dissolved to ash, and 

bone dust.

—

Sarah peeks into the room she calls mine.

“What are you doing?” she asks. I register: apology.

“I am standing at the window, looking at the view.”

“I see that. Anything good over there?”

“It is the same view as ever.”

“May I come in?” I am always interested in Sarah, but I am especially interested now. Sarah is not usually deferent. 

“Of course. This is Sarah’s house.”

Sarah sits on the edge of my bed, just as she did on the day I arrived here. This time, she pats the space beside her. I register: join me.

I join her.

“I’m very sorry for earlier,” she says. Her gaze touches everything but my eyes.

“I upset Sarah. I am sorry. I aspired to better manners, but I am still learning.”

“No, Amelie,” she sighs, and she pins her hands between her knees. She appears very small to me like this. “I made a mistake, bringing you here. I thought it was wrong, but I didn’t know how to stop it once I’d started. You were right—it was so much money, just about all I’ve got.”

“I do not know if Sarah can return me. Maker did not say.”

“No returns, not as long as you’re working,” she smiles, but I can register: sadness. “You’re a custom build.”

I do not want to overstep, but I must ask, “Am I Sarah?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, and her smile is—pained. I register: aching.

“I have been observing Sarah, and I wonder if Sarah is dying and wishes for me to take her place. I would be honoured to be Sarah, if Sarah would tell me how.”

She laughs, a short noise like one of the neighbourhood’s barking dogs. She frees a hand and claps it over my knee. “Amelie, no. You’re not me. You’re you.”

—

Sarah writes:

Am I breathing her in? With the smell of flowers? With perfume and cologne? Is she in hairspray and in fog? Am I lining my lungs with what I’ve lost?

—

“You asked how fires start. It’s hot here, and it’s windy. We built on land that wasn’t ours, and land we didn’t understand, and the trees, the bush, and even the birds told us so. When fire spreads, it’s fast and burns big, and the grass can’t run, the houses can’t run, and, sometimes, people aren’t fast enough. If they are, the smoke’ll get them anyway.

“My sister fell in love with a man,” Sarah’s hand still caps my knee. “She loved him for being a nomad, enough that she forgave him for being a fucking idiot.”

I register: loathing.

“Her home was here, and he took her away. But they couldn’t run fast enough.”

“Sarah’s sister is dead.”

I register: God, I will fuck you up—no, she doesn’t know better. 

She shuts her eyes. “Yes. Sorry, I’m so fucking sick of crying about it.”

“Sarah’s sister is Amelie?”

She nods. I register: 99 parts Amelie and a pinch of a dream.

“Sarah must teach me about Amelie so I can perform my role of sister to the maximum capacity.”

“No, Amelie, this was a mistake.” She squeezes my knee. I register: not your fault. “This isn’t right for either of us, darling. You don’t need to spend your days keeping a biddy like me company. I loved my sister, but the next part of loving her needs to be missing her. You should be Amelie: go out, learn the world, see the sky.”

I register: I am setting you free.

—

Sarah writes:

Living and Dying are twins

but in their likeness

and yet neither

Becoming