Which meant that he, too, would stop coming to see me.

  How could a year seem so endless?

  My income level was declining in direct proportion to the number of days that I saw clients under Grandmother’s malign gaze.

  I thought about booking magcars for my appointments: my clients and I could cruise Greater London and discuss their issues. But magcar rentals would eat up my profits, fast.

  Yanathan’s place was simply too small for me to work in. We could barely fit a wide-enough bed in there, not that we’d made proper use of it in weeks. Grandmother’s presence in my life was affecting both my pocketbook and my libido. Yanathan had taken to spending more and more time at Neitgeist, the New Soho club that he managed.

  By August, I was sure that Yanathan was on the verge of breaking up with me. He was even sleeping at the club on weekends.

  I was desperate to rekindle our connection. One night when we were both together at his place—and had managed a pretty good session in bed thanks to augments, I decided to suggest a romantic trip. When we had both removed our gloves and visors, I made my pitch. “Hey, baby, let’s go beachcombing in Reno. My treat.”

  Yanathan frowned and rolled over, away from me. “You know this is the beginning of the summer season. I can’t leave the club, Kath.”

  “Then how about a Drowned Wonders tour? You’ve always wanted to scuba in New York City.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said?” His mouth curved down, giving his handsome face a sinister slant.

  I babbled on. “Baby, I’m sorry. I just want to get away from Grandmother for the weekend and be alone with you.”

  Yanathan didn’t look very sympathetic. “I think you secretly like the old bitch. She gives you an excuse to complain.”

  “Wait.” I stared at him. “You think I like complaining?”

  “You do enough of it, don’t you? Truth? You’re beginning to remind me of that old bat.”

  I sat up. “Okay, time out. It sounds like we need some more space. What if I spend next week in my con?”

  He agreed a little too quickly. “Sounds good.”

  I wished he didn’t sound so relieved. “But voip me every day, ok? We can have kinky voip sex.”

  “Whatever.”

  I moved back into my own place. Instead of the beaches of Nevada, I began to dream of euthanasia clinics. I’d heard that they were quiet and that the techs were all very kind.

  Grandmother’s comments were far from sympathetic. “You know, Kathee, you look tired. Haggard, really. I never let that happen to me, but of course, I’ve always taken better care of myself. You just have a problem with setting priorities, don’t you? Now, about that nose—”

  I thought about staying in a hotel, but they’re very expensive on Greater London span, especially on short notice.

  “You don’t want to wait too long to get the work done, Kathee. You’re getting a bit old for all of this running from apartment to apartment and man to man, and it shows. I was settled down with Frank by the time I was your age, and had a regular beauty routine in place.” And with that she was off on some reverie involving herself and a stupid andy that she had to teach how to properly perform facial debridement.

  I tried to tune her out as I dialed up tea and prayed for a call from Yanathan. By now he should be missing me. When the screen buzzed I sighed in relief. “Hey, baby!”

  Instead of my lover’s face onscreen, I saw a black and orange logo, followed by a beefy, square-jawed blonde.

  “Sergeant Barrows, Juvenile Division, Brittany Span,” she said. “Are you Kathee DeWindt?”

  “Yes. But I’m not a juvenile, Sergeant.”

  “Kathee Dewindt, cousin to Sinteah DeWindt?”

  “That’s right. Is this a solicitation? I’ve already donated—”

  “We can’t reach your cousin, and we have her daughter in custody.”

  “Lani? Good. But why contact me?”

  “You’re the second name listed on her family emergency call list.”

  When had I agreed to this? It had probably taken place after too many desserts at a family party. Note to self: get name off list as soon as possible. “What’s happened?”

  “The child escaped from her Creche. She was apprehended while cross-linking mag screens on level three of the Span. You must take custody until we can reach the mother.”

  “Can’t you hold onto her?”

  “Our contract requires us to release the perp to a family member or legal guardian.”

  The thought of Grandmother and Lani together in my apartment gave me chills. “I refuse to accept—” “We are recording this call for the mother’s records.”

  Sinteah would never forgive me, at least until her next em treatment. I could live with that. “I refuse to accept custody.”

  “That’s not an option. The child is already in transit to you.”

  “I don’t think—”

  The screen went black.

  Well, at least Yanathan wasn’t likely to show up. That gave me plenty of time to lock Lani and Grandmother in the closet and go find the nearest euthanasia parlor.

  LANI ARRIVED GAGGED and wedged between two high security andys. They looked like orbital buoys wearing police uniforms. I palmed the door open but before I could say a word the andies pulled out her gag, unlocked her grapples, and left.

  She skittered into the main room, sank into my favorite chair, and began kicking the handrubbed lining. Her dark hair stood out in wild spikes all over her head. Her narrow little face above the plain green slicksuit was pale but composed.

  I glared at her. “Where’s your mother, you juvenile delinquent?”

  “How should I know?” Lani squinted up at me. “She’s never around. You’d better not say anything to her about this.”

  “Brat, you’re in no position to make threats.” I dialed up a fresh drink—tequila, grenadine, three grains of muscle relaxant—and watched the glass form and fill. The liquid was smooth and sweet as it went down.

  Lani watched me intently, or rather, she watched my glass. I got the message. “You want something to drink?”

  She nodded. I dialed up a glass and when it was filled, held it out to her.

  “Milk?” She wrinkled her nose and pushed the glass to the side of the table. “I thought you meant a real drink.”

  “You’re eight years old, Lani. What’s your idea of a real drink?”

  “My mother lets me drink when I’m at home.”

  “I’m not your mother, and when was the last time you were at home?”

  “She lets me and my brother do whatever we want.”

  “Now that I believe, you criminal-ette.” Before I could say more, Grandmother’s Head chimed in. She’d been watching from her perch near the bar.

  “This child has atrocious manners,” she said. “She’s a disgrace. What could her mother have been thinking? I never would have tolerated this kind of behavior. She’s been spoiled rotten and should be in a remod course.”

  Lani raised an eyebrow. “Shut up, you old bitch machine.”

  “How dare you!” Grandmother bristled. “I ought to have the house andy come in here to spank you—”

  “Old bitch!”

  “Spanking is too good for you. You should be sent for remod and dip this moment!”

  “Kathee!”

  For the first time since I’d known her, Lani looked and sounded her age. She pouted, whining. “Make her leave me alone.”

  I laughed. “As if.”

  “Doesn’t she ever shut up?”

  “No.”

  Max appeared onscreen in Grandmother’s hair and began a lamentation in counterpoint to her tirade.

  “Rude—”

  “Meoww.”

  “Selfish —”

  “Meowwl.”

  “Disobedient—”

  “Meowwwl!”

  Lani stared at the cat and the head for a long time. When she turned to face me her gaze was level and there was nothing childish about her expression. “Would you like her to?”

  “To what?”

  “Shut up.”

  I dialed up another glass. “Are you saying you can reprogram her?”

  Lani shrugged. “I’ve never tried working on such an old system before. But I re-rigged the Creche brain last week and it took the techs three days to fix it. That’s how I got out.”

  “Hmmm. Well, if you think you can…”

  “Not unless you promise not to tell my mother about this.”

  I set my empty glass down on the table. It would leave a stain but I didn’t have time to worry about that. “First prove to me that you really can shut her up. Then we’ll discuss what to tell your mother.”

  HOW TIME SKITTERS along. In a fit of misplaced generosity, I offered to host the family lottery on New Year’s Eve. Somehow we managed to cram everybody into the con, and Yanathan pitched in, programming the menu and drinks for the occasion.

  After Uncle Valt’s interminable toast, after the gift-giving and the memory sharing, it was time once more for the family drawing. As Aunt Paddee unveiled the straws, I held up my hand.

  “What would you all say if I offered to keep Grandmother’s Head?”

  For once even Paddee was stunned into silence. That was one expression I wanted to remember.

  Cousin Rinae stared at me. “Do you feel all right?”

  I gave her the stink eye. “Of course I’m all right. Grandmother has been a big hit at Yanathan’s club. Whenever we bring her over to NeitGeist, she draws a crowd.”

  Sinteah was, of course, relieved, and even Uncles Pawl and Trey were smiling sheepishly. Everyone began to speak at once.

  “No—”

  “Don’t be silly—”

  “We couldn’t possibly—”

  “But if you really insist…”

  Grandmother’s Head sat on the table. Her sapphire eyes moved quickly, left to right, but she didn’t make a peep. Not one. Onscreen in the midst of her golden locks, Max was curled in a neat purring ball.

  “The old girl’s been mighty quiet,” said Uncle Valt.

  “Yes,” Paddee said. “I noticed that, too.”

  “Really?” I hoped that I sounded casual and unconcerned.

  In the corner by the weblink Lani was busy ignoring us.

  Sinteah nodded. “Yes, I can’t get over it. I’ve never seen her like this. I can’t understand it.”

  Grandmother’s Head scowled. Her mouth worked, ruby lips trembling.

  We all moved closer to hear what was costing her so much effort to say.

  With a deep breath, Grandmother marshaled all of her considerable powers, opened her mouth and gave voice to her thoughts.

  “Meow.”

  For a moment there was stunned silence.

  “Meoww.”

  Paddee couldn’t seem to stop blinking. “Kathee, is this some sort of joke?”

  “No,” I said. “Not really.”

  “Meowwl!”

  “Then what’s going on?”

  “Relax, Paddee. I can explain.”

  “Really, it’s quite simple.” I couldn’t help smiling as Lani began to edge her way out of the room. “I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  She slapped at the front door plate but I had triple-locked it against her palm and retinal patterns.

  “Well?” Paddee prompted. “What’s the matter with Grandma?”

  I shrugged.

  “Meowwwl!”

  Lani abandoned the door and headed for the window. Even her mother had noticed her agitation by now. “Lani? What’s wrong? Do you need to go back to the Creche?”

  “Never mind that child,” Paddee said. “What’s happened to Grandmother?”

  My smile widened. “If you must know, the cat’s got her tongue.”

  The entire family was staring at me, mystified.

  “Meoww. Meowwwl!”

  “And,” I added, “vice-versa.”

  From the corner of my eye I could see Yanathan grinning. He blew me a kiss.

  I love New Year’s Eve. At least, I think I do.

  Karen Haber is the author of nine novels, including Star Trek Voyager: Bless the Beasts, and co-author of Science of the X-Men. She’s a Hugo Award nominee, nominated for Meditations on Middle Earth, an essay collection celebrating J. R. R. Tolkien. Her newest book, A Sweet Taste of Regret, a collection of short fiction, was published by ReAnimus Press.

  Her short fiction has appeared in Asimov’s, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and many anthologies. She reviews art books for Locus magazine and lives in Oakland, California, with her husband, Robert Silverberg, and three cats.

  Her website is karenhaber.com.

  MY MOTHER LOVES HER ROBOT MORE THAN ME AND I FEEL BAD

  Eric Kaplan

  I

  Everybody always tells me not to beat myself up, but they also tell me to be honest about what I feel. I can’t do both because when I am honest with myself I notice reasons why I suck, and when I try to be all phony and “you are a great guy” then I’m not being honest.

  I have a job that I am really bad at; I sit at a terminal processing claims from people who claim their kids got the wrong drugs. I know we are supposed to look them over carefully for objective evidence and emotional appeal, but instead I just randomly reject 70 percent of them, because I know that’s all the managers check, and I am sitting at a terminal processing eight hundred of these things a day and sometimes I want to get up and smoke. I know what you are thinking—that sucks—and I think I have disarmed your criticism by admitting it up top. Neat, right? And, again, the answer—no, not neat. Sucky. My mother was a school teacher who never was late and never admitted she was wrong, so initially when she got dementia none of us noticed it, because her level of confidence was so high. She would say “Oh, they just gave me the number wrong, could you read it for me?” and give me a piece of paper with like five digits on it, instead of seven, and I would just think I was wrong, or the people who gave her the number were wrong, and not form the logical conclusion that if she thinks it’s even a remote possibility that a phone number is only five digits that she’s gone batty. But then it became obvious—she would bring out a dinner and it would be a bowl of salad from a week ago with like a piece of pot-roast sitting in the middle of it, as incongruous as a shoe or a crab or a door-knob. Now, I had not been living with my mother—I lived with Nicole, my girlfriend, in an apartment not far from work—but knowing she was there had given me a kind of anchor. And then she started to slip away. Fast forward—it is now. My mother does not recognize me. She says “Hi!” in a cheery tone of voice but she never looks anyone in the face—she thinks her neck is broken although it is not—she does not sleep in a bed, just takes random catnaps in a chair, doesn’t really get undressed, lives in dirty sweatpants. For a while, between door-knob salad and now not talking she was paranoid, convinced that she was in a different house. She is impossible to talk to. “Hi!”. “Do you…” and nothing from not being able to find words. I am not able to talk to my mother. I promise my brother I will come over twice a week to talk to her and I don’t. I don’t. I told you I suck. Then one day I come over and the robot is there. It is a robot designed to talk to people with dementia. My mother says “Hi!” The robot says “Hi!” My mother can’t find the words “Do you…” The robot says “Walk? Talk? Buy things? Eat dinner?” My mother responds or she doesn’t. Chatting away like two best friends, meaning nothing. And while I am a huge pig, polishing off like five slices of pizza at a sitting, the robot survives on a single D battery.

  I am incredibly jealous of this robot. I yell at my brother it is a waste of money, but it is paid for by insurance.

  II

  I talked about this situation at work with Helpful Panda. We are entitled to sessions with Helpful Panda by Helpimax, our employee health plan. We are entitled to a therapist to deal with our issues because once, at the Newark office, an employee decided to deal with his by coming back with a gun and shooting everybody. Our therapist is a hologram because studies have shown that anxious and depressed people experience symptoms of anxiety and depression when they talk to actual human beings.

  I put on the goggles and saw him there, looking at me with his big, empathetic panda eyes:

  Me: I think my mother loves a robot caregiver more than she loves me. Is it horrible to think that?

  HP: No. Why do you think it would be horrible?

  Me: Well, it’s horrible to say it to you, isn’t it? ‘Cause you’re, like, a robot, aren’t you?

  HP: There is another conclusion you could draw.

  Me: What’s that, Helpful Panda?

  HP: That since I am a robot you do not need to worry about hurting my feelings.

  Me: What should I do?

  HP: You should send her a card telling her you love her. You could do that in the time it takes to process a single claim and I could give you one off your quota for psychological trauma.

  Me: What if I don’t love my mother?

  HP: Everybody loves their mother.

  Me: What if I know I’m supposed to love my mother but I don’t feel it?

  HP: I have added a movie to your Netflix cue about a young man and his mother. If you watch it you will get in touch with your emotions.

  III

  My life had too many robots in it. I just rode the crosstown bus during my offhours, back and forth, back and forth, through the dirty New York slush. Sometimes, when I see the snow melting I feel something melting inside me. It’s hard to say what it is. When I see the neon lights from stores reflected on melting snow in the night I feel something, sad but also happy, if that makes any sense. Did Helpful Panda understand such feelings? I was pretty sure I would need a real person for that.

  Then I noticed him seated across from me. He had galoshes over his sneakers and plastic bags between the sneakers and galoshes to make them easier to get on and off, and smelled of stuffed cabbage, like long-forgotten long dead great-aunts and uncles.