Sheila mostly just cleaned. She tried to drink enough to develop a problem but wasn’t very good at it. After she gave up on that, she’d sometimes go sit by the lake that their daughter used to hang out at, drinking and crushing PBR cans with her friends. In fact, that’s what they did that night. In fact, that is why it happened.
She would be twenty-four now, but she made it to only eighteen. For Sheila, the clock stopped right when they saw how slowly the paramedics were walking to the car. She remembered thinking: They should at least fake running around, moving quickly. We shouldn’t have to know before someone tells us who’s a professional at telling people.
This year, though. Almost regularly, with everyone from acquaintances to relatives, The Thing arose. Last weekend it did at Sheila’s book club. They were discussing Jodi Picoult, after Sheila was warned that it was a “triggering” book, and a friend of a friend named Gabrielle had too much pinot grigio.
“This is probably inappropriate,” slurred Gabrielle. “It’s definitely inappropriate, actually, but you’ve just been so . . . it’s been, you know, bad for a really long time.” Gabrielle took a deep breath. “I’m not trying to say this way is the best way, but your husband could probably get a good deal on—”
“Do not.”
So Sheila wasn’t in the mood when Steve said, out of nowhere, even though they both knew exactly what he was talking about, “Sheil, I’m not saying we have one custom-made.”
“‘Made’? Jesus, do you hear yourse—”
“Look. There’s a surplus right now of about ten thousand, and a lot of them are in need of a good home.”
“In need? Steve, they’re like . . . blenders.”
“Well . . . they’re . . . we went a little too far on this one with the ‘human qualities.’” He purposely did not say “I,” even though it was utterly his fault and he’d probably get canned any day now.
“So what are you saying? There are ten thousand silicone orphans now?”
“Listen to me. Okay? Please, please list—”
“No. Steve? No. Absolutely not. You really think it’d be better if some random . . . robot came in here and slept in her bed and wore her clothes?”
“Nothing else has worked! We’re not in a good place! We haven’t been for years, Sheil. It’s been . . . just, no talking, no intimacy. Nothing.”
Her face fell in horror.
“Oh my God, are you using this to try to get a teenage sex robot into our house?”
How could he explain it to her? Why he—vice president of the company, in charge of this new and highly scrutinized product development—irresponsibly tossed out valuable market research results and data and survey feedback on Miss Ordinarias from eighteen-to-twenty-four-year-old men left and right. Why he recklessly deleted notes from the server like “pushiness didn’t score well” and “no crude language unless prompted” because all he could hear was his daughter’s unique snort-laugh after she told a “your mom” joke, and all he could see were her freckles and the weird way she drank through a straw, sticking it between her index and ring finger and sipping on it. He’d never get his daughter back, so he made her again, in small ways, by the thousands. Sheila would never forgive him.
He dropped his fork with a clatter and put his head in his hands.
Sheila’s voice was measured when she asked, “What?”
“Nothing,” he said.
*
What Steve didn’t know was that there was not actually that big of a surplus. Parents had started purchasing the wiped, refurbished Miss Ordinarias—not for their sons but for their friendless daughters. The blinding-white Miss Ordinaria rental places had become as accessible as any Apple Store, and it was unexpectedly lucrative. (There were rentals for one day, one week, one prom date, one school year, one four-year college roommate, one wedding. . . . )
If you were a middle-class seventeen-year-old girl who was weird or different or had health issues, or even were just flat-out unlikable, it was highly likely your parents rented a robot slumber party friend for you that year. If you were upper-middle-class, maybe you kept one through high school. If you were rich, you got yourself a lifetime friendship.
*
Scarlett learned this when her father rented her one. His visit was an unexpected surprise. He lived pretty far away, with a whole new family. But as soon as she saw the large white box on the lawn, she knew.
“I just wanted you to see how different you are from—that.” He looked encouragingly at Scarlett, and she winced inside thinking about her Ordinaria mom. “Just for a day! And then, if you like it, maybe I can swing a four-year college roommate rental for a graduation gift.”
Scarlett looked down, her face burning with humiliation.
“Besides,” he asked, “it’ll be nice to spend time with someone your own age, won’t it?”
“Technically,” she said, trying not to let her voice waver, “she is, at the oldest, six.”