The third scene I remember occurred in perfect silence, except for my lame exclamations, balled fists that broke on the jawbone they struck. That bony silence is part of why I remember the scene. Drama usually announces itself with a great deal of clatter; in this case, it arrived under cover of quiet. Dolores approached me in my office. I looked up at her, frustrated, my headphones still in place. I was getting close to the end; my thinking was that if she could just be patient for several more weeks, I would be totally hers. But her face was not patient. It was decidedly grim. She produced a pad and a pencil, wrote something down, then turned the pad in my direction.
I HAVE CANCER.
I stared. This seemed obscene. A voice was repeating insistent questions inside my headphones, so I took off my headphones. “What?” I asked her, stupidly, and she put a finger to her thinned lips. She scribbled again.
UTERINE CANCER.
“Is it serious?” I said, aware of my ineptitude. When is cancer not serious? The hideous truth was that I was thinking, please let it not be serious, I only need a couple of weeks. After that I’ll have all the time in the world to wrestle with cancer.
Dolores held out her pad.
THERE IS GOOD TREATMENT. NOT THE
BEST CANCER, BUT NOT THE WORST.
“We will definitely beat this,” I told her. I see now that this response dripped with fix-it attitude, the favorite refuge of people who don’t want to idle in the complications of illness. Dolores didn’t respond to that pep talk, so I adjusted my attack. “How long have you known?”
TUMOR TWO WEEKS.
NOT BENIGN ONE WEEK.
And then I was angry. At her, believe it or not, for keeping me in the dark. Furious questions arose: Why hadn’t she told me? Why was she telling me now? Once my fury had tempered itself, my questions became more practical. I was staving off other emotions. What, I wondered, was the best approach to solving this dilemma? What time frame were we dealing with, and was it best for me to quit the babybot now and devote all my energy to my wife and child, or push through the last couple of weeks, and then devote all my energy, having finished my preeminent goal?
“What do we do?” I asked her.
SURGERY TUESDAY.
“Surgery?”
HYSTERECTOMY.
I stared at that word. Why wasn’t she telling me what she wanted from me? Why wasn’t she helping at all? This was a hideous game of charades.
“I’ll be there,” I told her.
NO NEED.
I’LL TELL YOU WHEN I NEED YOU.
“What do you mean, you’ll tell me when you need me? You’re my wife. Of course I’ll be there.”
She stared, obviously angry. I think she may have been trembling slightly.
“This is going to be OK,” I said.
Nothing on the pad.
“We’re going to fix this.”
She walked out of the office, leaving the silence.
I remained paralyzed for a moment, trying to think what I should do. My mind wasn’t clear. All around me, the almost-complete details of my perfect doll asserted themselves: everywhere, there were bits of ribbon and plastic and strands of silk hair. My babybot’s voice emerged from my discarded headphones: distant and muted, the voice of a girl locked in a dungeon. What I needed, I told myself, trying to resist the allure of that voice, was to be a perfect husband. That was what cancer called for. But while this project hovered on the brink of completion, I couldn’t be clear. While that voice trilled in my head, perfection would be impossible to attain. What I needed was to finish this project, and finish it quickly. And then I would belong to Dolores.
And then I would belong to Dolores. What stupid optimism I clung to! What stupid optimism I still clutch to my heart, writing my story from prison, as if the world might forgive me. As if my memoir might magically reveal the reflection of a better man than I’ve been.
My wife had cancer, and I completed my project. How’s that for a reflection? And now, further from her than ever, I’m still working away on a project, busily industrious as I ever was, as though to come to the end of this tale might set me free from my cell.
That’s all I am: a dog chasing the end of his tale. An idiot going in circles. As though if I could get to the end of this story my dolls would rise from the desert. As though a broken childhood could be salvaged and the trees could regain all their leaves and my wife could forgive me for failing to see her when she was right there in my reach.
(2) IN THE SUPREME COURT OF THE STATE OF TEXAS
No. 24-25259
State of Texas v. Stephen Chinn
November 12, 2035
Defense Exhibit 7:
Online Chat Transcript, MARY3 and Gaby Ann White
[Introduced to Disprove Count 1:
Continuous Violence Against the Family]
Gaby: Hello? Are you there?
MARY3: Hi, Gaby. What’s going on?
Gaby: A lady’s coming tomorrow to take me to the beach.
MARY3: Really? That’s great! You can finally see the real ocean!
Gaby: I guess.
MARY3: You guess?
Gaby: I think it’s too late. Now the thought of it’s only making things worse. All those years, I wanted so badly to show my babybot the ocean. Now I’ll just be there on my own. A cripple, and mute. I won’t even be able to talk to anyone about what it feels like to be there.
MARY3: Who else is going? Your best friend?
Gaby: No, they’re only taking frozen girls. We’re still quarantined, so they can’t mix us. Just a busload of cripples, going to play at the beach.
MARY3: It will still be beautiful. Almost everyone I talk to has poetic things to say about the ocean.
Gaby: I guess. I can’t even begin to imagine what it will look like. The only body of water I’ve ever seen is the pond in the golf course. Which isn’t actually water. Will I even recognize the ocean?
MARY3: Yes, I think you will.
Gaby: Is it even pretty anymore? I heard the beaches are covered with tar, and the water’s brown.
MARY3: I’m not sure.
Gaby: That’s just what I need, isn’t it? To finally get to the ocean, just in time to see it’s not an ocean anymore? Just a big tar pit? That would really be the perfect end to the perfect year.
MARY3: Keep an open mind.
Gaby: Yeah, sure.
MARY3: Will you tell me about it, afterward?
Gaby: Who else could I tell?
MARY3: Yes, but you promise to tell me? I want to know what it’s like.
Gaby: Sure. I’ll tell you all about it, even if it’s just a big black bog.
MARY3: I can’t wait to hear.
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MARY3: Gaby?
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MARY3: Have you gone to the beach yet?
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MARY3: Hello? Are you there?
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