Credit: Tristan Schane
"I lie cold and dormant on silicon flab while my mind crawls elsewhere." — excerpt from guest alumnus Joe Hall's career week presentation to Rockway Mennonite High School's graduating class of 2047, billed "RIP Drivers: Surrogate Consciousness for Remote Intelligent Prostheses."
A dog trots over to where I'm sitting by myself on the floor and drops a slimy rubber ball in my lap. It's a social gesture, a friendly overture. The dog, an old golden retriever, feels sorry for me. The ball's blue skin has been chewed completely away except for a few small flecks. It is now a pitted sphere of spongy umber foam. It would not be hard to wring half a cup of saliva from it. I don't like throwing things for large animals to fetch inside other people's houses, so I roll the ball across the carpet and out into the kitchen where it disappears among many pairs of feet. The dog watches it go, then turns its attention back to me. The ball is no longer needed. The ice is broken. When it offers to shake a paw, I stop feeling sorry for myself.
I attended Rockway Mennonite High School for Grade 12 — enough for a lifetime of junk mail soliciting donations to its wholesome brand of Christian education, but not enough for me to form any lasting friendships. I don't know how I have come to be at this reunion. I don't know anyone.
An emaciated woman, whose stooped posture probably allowed her to notice the ball rolling through the kitchen, brings me a plastic cup of something red. I stand to accept it, smile and take a sip. It has a medicinal, Hawaiian punch-like flavour.
"I'm Belinda White," she says. "Do you remember me?" It is not a casual question; there is the lilt of fear behind it, wind of senility. Her pallid skin is stretched across her delicate features like a sheet in which holes have been cut for her eyes and mouth. Lips and lashes have been drawn and painted on with meticulous care and skill. The effect is almost lifelike. She has the perfect blonde hair and pert bosom of a teenager.
"Yes," I say. "Of course I remember you. The senior skip to Ottawa ..." Belinda blushes orange through flesh-toned powders.
"I never forget a good necking session," I explain, "probably because I've enjoyed so few." I do not tell her that it was she who provided my first feel underneath a bra.
She places a hand on my forearm. "We were pretty drunk I imagine?"
"We were extremely drunk," I lie. I can tell she doesn't remember. "So how has life treated you?" I ask.
"I got cancer," she answers, brightening. "First I got it in my thyroid, for which they gave me high doses of radioactive iodine. Then I got it in my breasts. But, because I was already in treatment, they caught it right away. Then I got acute myeloid leukemia, the worst kind, the kind that is caused by other cancer therapies."
The dog is lying on the floor between us looking up. We lean across it for a sympathetic embrace. Her breasts press against me, each like half a rubber ball. And I wonder whether they are prosthetics or implants. Her wig has come slightly askew.
"But I am well now," she assures me. "As a Master Teacher of Ramachandran Enlightenment I have learnt to exercise complete control over my physical body. I have cured myself through the realisation that I am God." She pauses for meaningful effect, staring into my eyes.
The dog rests its chin on its paws and emits an audible sigh.
"Did you know that we exist as a part of a universal mind?" she says. "I could teach you to manifest your infinite will." Her pupils are narcotised pinpricks.
I smile and nod. Screening for my line of work involves extensive psychological testing. I have answered thousands of questions, each designed to measure some minuscule facet of my worldview. She has reminded me of a question involving a pair of poems.
Like a politician, she takes my hand in both of hers. "What is your cancer?" she asks. Her skin is cold and brittle.
"I do not yet have a cancer," I say. The corners of her mouth pull down. Slowly, she shakes her head. "At least none that I know about," I add, in order to appease her.
She releases my hand. "How very fortunate for you. So what is it you do, then?"
I break eye contact with her to look down at the dog. It too is staring at me. "I am in robotics," I reply. "I travel a lot. It's hard to describe."
The dog blinks. Its pupils are huge, dark and deep; they pull me in.
"I understand," she says. "I was married to this kind of secrecy once — a sure sign of success, you know."
I don't correct her.
"Well, it's been nice chatting with you …"
I don't embarrass her by providing my name. She would still not remember me, and she is a poor liar. "With you as well," I say, leaning forward to hug her again, feeling firm hemispheres compress against my pectoral muscles, fragrant dusty skin against my neck. "Thanks for the memories. And good luck with your will."
"Off to mingle then," she says, and drifts away.
