Nothing else had even come close.
“You were right,” I replied. “Adoption does not seem likely. The suitable families are looking for infants, not problems.”
“What will you do if you don’t find a family willing to take Mickey on?”
My remote shrugged. “I still don’t know.”
I was no longer ashamed of the answer, and McGowan nodded in silent agreement. Uncertainty was becoming more and more familiar to me by then, like an acquaintance that simply refused to leave.
Over the next three months I tried, without success, to find a home for Mickey.
As I met with Smithers each week, to report how things were going, the telltales of his condition became visible: ashen skin, sunken cheeks, near constant fatigue. But Smithers’s resolve grew even more determined as his physical condition deteriorated. Although McGowan had always said not to promise what couldn’t be delivered, at our last meeting I found myself telling Smithers that I wouldn’t give up until I found a proper home for Mickey.
Those words, perhaps, were what he needed to hear. Smithers died at St. Margaret’s Hospital the following Saturday afternoon, alone, to spare Mickey the trauma of being at his bedside.
The state formally became in loco parentis for Mickey the moment Smithers died. Although it was the weekend, I roused my remote from its cradle and dispatched it to Smithers’s apartment to relieve the sitter I had arranged. Department regulations were clear—the state would only pay for in-home care as a stopgap measure during a parent’s medical emergency. With Smithers dead, I could no longer justify keeping her there.
Regulations also required that Mickey immediately be placed in the nearest group home because a foster setting had not been found for him.
As my remote made its way to the apartment, I mulled over that particular departmental mandate. The group home at 28th and Clark was a modern facility, and each patient room came fully equipped with excellent holographic capabilities to assist with therapy. If I took Mickey there I could probably infiltrate the place at night and appear to him as his father. Over time I could probably even manipulate the budget to have a remote constructed that would be Smithers’ identical twin.
But anything I conjured, whether holographically or mechanically, would only look and sound like Smithers. Mickey might never realize the difference, but I would know. It would still be me, inside, trying to decide what to do.
Something had to be done. I just didn’t know what.
When I arrived at the apartment Mickey was looking out the front window towards Detroit Avenue, staring past the wooden train set placed on the sill. The baby-sitter, a young woman just barely past Mickey’s age herself, left hurriedly.
“Mickey?” I said, not knowing what to expect.
Mickey kept his back to me, and idly picked up the caboose from the train set with his right hand.
“Where Daddy goed?” he asked.
“Daddy can’t be here right now Mickey.”
“No!” Mickey turned, threw the caboose at my remote, and started to cry. His eyes reddened as the tears rolled down his face. “Daddy working,” he sniffled. “Back soon.”
“No, Mickey. Your Daddy’s not at work. He’s dead.” Mickey looked at my remote uncomprehendingly. The concept was beyond him. How could I make him understand? “Mickey, your Daddy’s not hurting anymore but he can’t ever come back here.” My remote extended its arms towards Mickey with palms upraised. “I’m sorry.”
Mickey swept the train set from the windowsill to the floor and stamped his feet. “No fair. Me want Daddy. Now!”
My remote went over to Mickey, but he threw himself down to the floor. My remote knelt down next to him and rubbed the small of his back.
“I’m sorry that Daddy can’t be here Mickey. It’s not your fault.”
Mickey kept crying uncontrollably. “No want you,” he said. “Get me Daddy.”
There was no comforting him. In an act of desperation my remote picked up the engine from the train set off the floor.
“Is this yours?”
Mickey glanced at my remote and his crying subsided a notch.
“I think I’d like to play with this.” I put the toy engine on the floor and pushed it. It rolled past Mickey’s nose and came to a stop against the wall.
Mickey raised himself onto his elbows and grabbed the engine.
“Mine,” he said. “Where coal car?”
My remote retrieved the coal car as Mickey wiped his nose against his shirtsleeve. Soon the entire train was reconstructed on the floor.
After about ten minutes of silent play Mickey looked up at my remote and asked “What your name?”
The question threw me. Smithers had known me by the pseudonym I used in the office, a white-bread name which didn’t mean much, because if the Cuyahoga County pilot program worked, each of my remotes across the state would have a name which corresponded to its apparent ethnic origin. I didn’t really have a name, then. All I had was a function. McGowan said that deception never worked with children, so I decided upon candor and identified myself to Mickey as I never had to his father.
“They call me the Automated Welfare System.”
“Otto - May - Ted…” Mickey’s voice drifted off and he got a blank look on his face.
“Automated Welfare System.”
Mickey frowned with concentration. “Otto - May - Ted Well - Fair Sis-Tim.”
“That’s right Mickey.”
“Otto,” Mickey repeated.
“Otto.” My remote nodded. “Yes, Mickey. That’s right.”
Mickey beamed, went to his toy box, and removed some building blocks. For the next few hours we built and destroyed skyscrapers.
Mickey was already yawning when I told him it was bedtime. Calling upon the information obtained during surveillance, my remote helped Mickey brush his teeth and change into his pajamas.
After Mickey got into bed he pulled the covers up around his neck and said, “You read me book?”
“Sure Mickey.” I pulled a book from the nightstand and read quietly, sneaking elements of his father’s voice into that of my remote. He was sound asleep before long.
My remote sat motionless by Mickey’s bedside as he slept. Mickey’s face was relaxed, displaying in sleep no trace of mental handicap. Smithers must have been proud to have a son such as this.
I watched him all night, every toss and turn.
“Are you crazy?”
I hadn’t expected a warm reception from McGowan, but at least he didn’t call me tin man.
“No.” My remote shook its head slowly, to conserve energy. Having spent the entire weekend with Mickey, it hadn’t yet gone back to its cradle for a recharge. “I just thought that I could take care of Mickey until a foster placement is arranged.”
McGowan regarded my remote curiously. “Tell me,” he said, tapping his forefinger against his desk, “why do you want to do this?”
“Mickey doesn’t belong in a group home. It’s not what Smithers wanted and it’s not the right place for him.”
McGowan seemed to ponder my answer, although I knew he agreed with me. What would it take for me to convince him?
“There may never be someone who wants to adopt Mickey. Did you ever think of that? What would you do then?”
McGowan watched my remote while waiting for a response, as if he intended to weigh my every word.
“I don’t know.” The admission which once seemed so foreign tumbled out easily now. “Just continue taking care of him for as long as it takes, I guess.”
“What makes you think you have what it takes? It’s not easy being a parent.”
My remote sighed, despite myself. Not easy? My remote had just been on nonstop tour of parental duty for thirty hours straight. Tell me about it.