
On Tuesdays, Susan waters the flowers. Theyโre not real flowers, of course. Real flowers are such a waste, and Aaron doesnโt like it when they start to wilt. But he likes the idea of flowers. So, she fills up the watering can and makes the rounds, returning to the sink with just as much water as she started.
When Aaron is home, she makes breakfast next. An omelette and bacon for him, a cup of tea for her. But he isnโt home, and she ran out of eggs two weeks ago. She putters around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers, and moving the breakfast dishes from the cabinet to the dishwasher, just like theyโd actually used them. She sits at the table when sheโs done, and stares at the blank space across from her where Aaron isnโt. She nods, leans forward, tilts her head to the side as if listening. Then she laughs, just softly. Itโs a good sound, her laugh. Aaron always tells her that.
The breakfast hour passes, and Susan counts every millisecond.
The doorbell rings.
She considers ignoring it. Whoever it is, theyโre not looking for her. Milliseconds pass, then full seconds. A minute. It rings again.
It wouldnโt look good to have someone standing on Aaronโs porch making a fuss.
โComing,โ she calls. She checks herself in the hall mirror. Her hair is in disarray, but her dress is ironed and her makeup is fresh. She combs her fingers through her hair, careful not to break a strand. Hair isnโt cheap.
โI apologize,โ she says, as she opens the door. โWeโ I was at breakfast.โ
The young woman on the doorstep is 5โ8โณ and weighs about 170 pounds. Her outfit is what Aaron would call garish. โOh, god,โ says the woman, covering her mouth with her hand.

โAre you looking for Aaron?โ Susan asks. โIโm afraid heโs on a trip.โ
โNo,โ says the woman. โNo, I- Iโm not. Youโre Susan?โ
โYes.โ
โIโm Michelle. Aaronโs daughter.โ
Susan can see the resemblance now. The shape of the lips, the blue-green eyes. Michelleโs are red and teary. Aaron would want to help.
โWonโt you come in?โ Susan lets the door swing wide and leads Michelle to the kitchen table. โIโll make tea.โ
โThanks.โ Michelle keeps sneaking nervous little glances at her. Her hands twist the edge of the tablecloth, and Susan makes a note to iron it later.
She sets the tea things on the table, teapot, cups, sugar. โIโm afraid the milkโs gone sour,โ she says as she pours.
Michelle stares into her cup. โPlain is fine.โ
โDoes my presence upset you?โ Susan asks. โI could leave the room. You would still be able to hear me.โ
โNo.โ Michelle meets her gaze almost pointedly. โItโs fine. Iโm sorry. You, well, you look very like my mother.โ
โYes.โ Susan has seen the pictures. โAaron missed her very much, when she died.โ
โSo he brought you home?โ Itโs hard to tell whether the edge in Michelleโs voice is anger or sadness.
โI was meant to clean,โ she says. โCook. Domestic things. But we grew friendly. He wanted someone to talk to.โ
โAnd you?โ
Susan shrugs, a gesture she learned from Aaron. โI did my best. My conversational skills have developed, with time.โ
Michelle shakes her head. โThatโs notโ never mind. Thereโs something we need to discuss.โ
โI donโt have any money,โ Susan says. โIf you need money, that is. Aaron would have to get it for you.โ
Michelle giggles at that and rubs her wet eyes on her shirt sleeve. โNot money,โ she says. โThatโs all taken care of. Everythingโs taken care of. Even you.โ
โI donโt understand.โ Itโs always best to be honest about her limitations.
โDad wasnโt on a trip,โ Michelle says. โHeโs been sick. Very sick. But, well, itโs all over. He passed away on Saturday.โ
Susan doesnโt feel sad. Emotions are all chemicals and physical feedback. She doesnโt experience the world that way. But there is something, a stuttering confusion, like a glitch. Every one of her protocols is built around Aaron.
โDonโt be scared.โ Michelle reaches out, and Susan allows her hand to be lifted and squeezed. โItโs all in his will. Technically, he left you to me. But nothing needs to change. I just thought, well, I donโt know. I didnโt want you to wonder. If thatโs something you do.โ
Susan hadnโt wondered. She might have gone decades, not wondering, until some necessary repair rendered her inoperable.
โWill you have me rewritten?โ she asks. Itโs a thought like being broken. Who is she, without her programming? Sheโs well built. Her body could last a century, with proper maintenance.ย
Michelle doesnโt answer immediately. โIs that something youโd want?โ
โI donโt know.โ Want isnโt something Susan usually thinks about.
โOf course you donโt.โ Michelle squeezes her hand again. She does that a lot. โWell, you can think about it. Iโll come back next week, and weโll talk more. You can even come live with me, if you like.โ
They say their goodbyes. Michelle even hugs her, leaving tear marks on Susanโs dress.
Afterward, Susan stands in the living room with her still full teacup. Thereโs a vase on the coffee table, an elegant arrangement of silk lilies. Aaron likes their simplicity.
Aaron is dead.
She brings the vase to the kitchen and throws the lilies away. Bright colours, she thinks. When Michelle comes back to ask her what she wants, sheโll have an answer. She wants a bouquet of hollyhocks and marigolds. She will give them sunlight and water, and they will give her nothing but their beauty.
And, when they wilt, she will figure out something else to want.
[ย This story has first appeared in Nature Futures, 2016. About the Author:ย Kelly lives in Seattle, where the weather is always happy to make staying in and writing seem like a good idea. She shares her home with her patient husband, chaos tornado toddler, and increasingly irate cat. You can find her online at kellysandovalfiction.com.]
Beautiful story. Well done!
Thanks Kelly!
What a lovely vignette.
Glad you liked it! ๐
Oh I really liked this one. Lovely.
x The Captain
Thanks! ๐
A sensitive and beautifully written story. On (a rather hurried and careless!) first reading, I was annoyed at being told Michelle’s height and weight, but on second reading (as soon as I reached ‘every millisecond’) had to kick myself. It’s not easy kicking oneself; have you ever tried it? It’s almost a love story, even though Susan can’t feel love (or sadness, or desire). But we are forced to feel the love of Aaron for his wife (hence Susan’s resemblance), and Michelle’s love for her parents. And all done without any sentimentality. Excellent!
Happy you liked it. Kelly Sandoval writes beautifully and I was really glad to be able to (re)publish this here. ๐