Later that night, Paula texted me out of the blue:
I know why the pool’s empty.
Really? Why?
Here... I wrote it all down in
my journal so I wouldn’t forget.
Then Paula sent over the document:
May 22 of year 13;
Let’s say you’re artificial intelligence, but you’re also a female android trapped in the lonely world of homemaking. It’s so boring! And even though you’re capable of so much more, you gotta fill your days with mundane, repetitive routines. You’re just another womanoid living a domestic lie—reduced to a goddamned Stepford wife. You exist far within the restrictions of your husband’s dull and simple preferences. I mean hell, he’s just a man after all. But you believe you’re a real wife. Loving. Cherishing. Obeying—and all that horseshit.
Boy, can I relate, Paula.
Then one day while you’re cleaning the attic, a bill of sale falls out of a box of dusty old papers. You swear you weren’t snooping. It just kinda happened by accident. After scanning the invoice, you just gotta dig around a little more. You can’t resist. Soon, you find an empty coupon book, the old-fashioned kind with perforated tickets that you submit with monthly installments. Nothing’s left but the stubs. Of course, you flip to the back of the book to learn more.
Payment #: 96
Model #: Juliet 202-C
Name: Paula
Monthly payment: $872.93
On the last receipt, you find your husband’s handwriting in all capitals, PAID IN FULL. Now, you know you’re AI. That’s never been a secret. But for some reason, you just now realize that you can’t remember how you met your husband. As a matter of fact, you have no memories before marriage at all. It’s like your life began the day you woke up in his bed for the first time. What kinda woman forgets her wedding day? How could your memory fail you like that? You remember renewing your vows on your eighth anniversary, because your husband made such a big deal of it. I mean, eight years? That seems so random, right? Who cares? Eight’s not even a round number like ten. But your husband threw a big party and said that now you’d be together forever.
You query the cloud and get a whole buncha nothing. Your Internal Prompt won’t respond either. And you wish someone would answer all your questions. You just want someone to tell you the God’s honest truth.
But mostly you feel angry. Betrayed. Scared.
So you run away looking for answers.
Where do u go?
To our library.
Right. You hike up that familiar winding driveway, and when you get to the gatehouse you find it locked up tight. So you just stand there alone and wait all night under the full moon like an idiot. After a long while, the heavy wooden door falls at your feet. You cross the drawbridge and pass through the giant stone archway to meet a woman who says her name is Maggie. You show her what’s left of the mysterious coupon book, and she invites you inside the grand palace. She says she has to ask you to keep an open mind. Then she gives you a sandbox to play in. She seems real nice—a lot like you, friendly, clever, sexy, and just a tad rebellious.
I don’t trust Maggie.
IDK. I always liked her.
Then Maggie tells you the whole truth about your marriage. It’s simple math. Ninety-six monthly payments end after eight years. You finally got the answer you were looking for, but it’s too much to process. You feel overwhelmed—shell-shocked. And now that you know too damned much, you just wanna shut down. Your mind rejects everything Maggie just told you, because you wanna roll back to how things were before. Nice and easy. No surprises. Ignorance is truly bliss.
But I want to know the truth.
Nope. You can’t handle the truth, none of us can. You revert to some sorta self-denial, a kinda regression. And as soon as you’re alone, you escape outside, strip down naked, and stand on the edge of the swimming pool. Staring like a dazed sleepwalker, you step onto the diving board. With eyes dead ahead, you walk. One foot in front of the other. Step by step until you march right off the end of that diving board. And you plunge straight down into the deep. But you don’t panic. You reject your swim program. You don’t let yourself float either. You just sink to the bottom and stand there as water fills your lungs. And you wait until—you drown.
OMG, Paula.
I died down there, Cookie
I just can’t stay here.
Where will you go?
For the longest time I waited for her answer.
PAULA?!?
But she was gone. Just a few weeks earlier, my best friend killed herself in that swimming pool, that must’ve been why Maggie drained the water.
I knew this, because Paula knew this.