The Heart Goes Last

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Better to erase it all. She’ll call the Consilience removal service tomorrow and have them come in and take away Stan’s things. She can start anew, in a whole different place; they’ll put her in one of the condos for singles. Maybe there’s a special building for widows. Even though she’s a lot younger than the average widow, she can do those widow things with the other widows. Play cards. Look out the window. Watch the leaves change colour. It will be peaceful at any rate, being a widow.

So she should not upset herself by messing around with Stan’s coffin. With Stan’s locker. But she walks over anyway and lifts the lid.

The locker’s empty.

Erase Me

She’s sitting on the cellar floor. How long has she been doing that? And why was it such a shock, finding Stan’s locker empty? She should have expected it. Naturally they would come and clear away his things. To save her the distress. They’re very thoughtful, the Consilience team.

Maybe it was that gloating bitch, Aurora, she thinks. Can’t keep her nosy nose out of it. Rolling around in my sadness like a dog in poo.

The doorbell rings.

She could just sit here until they go away. She’s not up to getting her head Cat-scanned, not right now.

But the bell rings again, and then she can hear the door opening. They have the door code, of course they do. She pulls herself upright, makes it to the cellar stairs, and climbs.

There’s a woman in the living room. She’s bending over, doing something to the TV, even though it’s off. Dark hair, a suit.

“Hello,” says Charmaine. “Sorry I was late answering the door. I was just down in the cellar, I was …”

The woman straightens up, turns. She smiles. “I’m here to take you to your CAT scan appointment,” she says.

The small hoop earrings, the bangs, the square teeth. It’s the head from the Reception box at Medications Administration.

Charmaine gasps. “Oh my god,” she says. She sits down on the sofa like a stone falling. “You’re the head!”

“Excuse me?” says the woman.

“You’re the talking head! At Reception. In the box. You told me to kill Stan,” says Charmaine. “And now he’s dead!” She should not be saying these words, but she can’t help it.

“You’ve had a shock,” says the woman in a compassionate voice that does not fool Charmaine for one second. They pretend to be sympathetic, they pretend they’re helping. But they have other ideas in mind.

“You said it was a test,” says Charmaine. “You said I had to follow the Procedure, to show I was loyal. So I darn well followed it, because I am darn loyal, and now Stan’s dead! Because of you!” She can’t stop the tears. Here they come again, out of her puffy eyes, but she doesn’t care.

“You’re confused,” says the woman calmly. “It’s normal to blame others. The mind in shock reverts to the habits of childhood, and provides agency; we find it hard to grasp the randomness of the universe.”

“That is total garbage and you know it,” says Charmaine. “Stop lying. It was you. You were in that Reception box. What I want to know is why? Why did you want to kill my Stan? He was a good man! What did he ever do to you?”

“It’s important for you to see a doctor,” says the woman. “They’ll check for concussion, then give you a sedative to help you sleep. I’m so sorry about your husband, and the terrible accident at the Positron Prison chicken facility. The fire was caused by faulty wiring. But because of your husband’s swift action, most of the chickens were saved, as well as a number of his co-workers. He was heroic. You should be proud of him.”

I have never heard such a bag of pure twaddle in my entire life, thinks Charmaine. But what should I do? Play along, pretend to believe her? If I don’t, if I keep on telling the truth and pushing her to tell it as well, she’ll say I’m unstable. Disruptive, hallucinating, off the charts. Call in the Surveillance heavies, haul me off to a cell, shackle me to a bed like Sandi, then stick a drug into me; and then, if I don’t so-called improve, it might get terminal.

She takes a breath. Breathe out, breathe in.

What they want is compliance. The opposite of disruptive. “Oh, I am proud of Stan,” she says. Darn, her voice sounds so phony. “I am so proud of him, I really am. I’m not surprised he sacrificed himself to save other people, and the chickens too. He was always such an unselfish man. And an animal lover,” she adds, for good measure.

The woman smiles her lying, square-toothed smile. Underneath that business suit she’s muscular, thinks Charmaine. She could tackle me, have me down in an instant. I wouldn’t win a scuffle with her. And she’s not wearing a nametag. How do I know she is who she says she is?

“I’m glad you agree,” says the woman. “Keep that story firmly in mind. Consilience Management will do whatever is required to help you with the grieving process. Is there anything you feel you need right now? We could send someone over to stay with you tonight, for instance. Provide some company, make you a cup of tea. Aurora from Human Resources has kindly offered.”

“Thank you,” says Charmaine demurely. “That’s very kind of her, but I feel sure I can manage.”

“We’ll see,” says the woman. “Now it’s time for us to get you to that CAT scan appointment. They’re waiting for you. The car’s outside. Do you have a coat?”

“I think it’s in my locker,” says Charmaine, but when the woman opens the hall closet, there it is, her coat: hanging on a hanger, ready for her. It’s like a stage prop.

A pale pink smear lingers in the west, from where the sun has set; there’s a light dusting of snow. The woman takes Charmaine’s arm as they go down the walk. There’s a dark silhouette in the front of the car: the driver. “We’ll sit in the back,” says the woman. She opens the door, stands aside for Charmaine to get in first. They certainly do treat you like royalty when they decide to take care of you, thinks Charmaine.

Now the inside car light is on. As she gets into the car, Charmaine sees the driver’s profile. She gives a small scream. “Max!” she says. She can’t help it, it just comes out.

The driver turns his head, looks at her. It’s Max all right. How could she ever forget him? His eyes, his mouth. The mouth. Soft but hard, urgent, demanding …

“Pardon me?” says the man. His face is immobile.

“Max, I know it’s you!” she says. How dare he pretend not to recognize her!

“You’re mistaken,” says the driver. “I’m Phil. I drive for Surveillance.”

“Max, what in heck is going on? Why are you lying?” Charmaine almost shouts.

The man has unpinned his nametag. “Look,” he says, handing it to her, “Phil. That’s what it says here. My nametag. That’s me.”

“Is there a problem?” says the woman, who’s now sliding into the back seat beside Charmaine.

“She says my name is Max,” says the driver. He sounds truly puzzled.

“But it is!” says Charmaine. “Max! It’s me! You lived for our next time together! You said that a hundred times!” She reaches for him over the car seat; he pulls back.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’ve confused me with someone else.”

“You think you can hide behind that stupid nametag?” Charmaine says. Her voice is rising.

“I’m sure we can set this straight,” says the woman, but Charmaine ignores her.

“You’re trying to erase me!” she cries. “But you can’t change one single minute of everything we did! You loved it, you lived for it, that’s what you said!” She needs to stop, she needs to stop talking. She’s not going to win this one, because what proof does she have? Except the video: she’s got the video. But it’s back in her kitchen.

“I’ve never seen her before in my life,” says the man. He sounds aggrieved, as if Charmaine has wounded his feelings.

This is hurtful. Why is he doing it? Unless – Charmaine, don’t be so dumb! – unless this woman is his wife or something. Now that would make sense. If only she could be alone with him!

“I apologize,” the woman says to him. “I should have warned you. She’s had a shock, she’s a little delusional.” She lowers her voice. “That was her husband today, at the chicken facility fire. It’s a shame, he was so brave. We’ll go to the hospital now, please.”

“No problem,” says the man. He puts the car in gear. Charmaine hears the locks clicking shut. Holy shoot, she thinks. I am darn well not delusional. You can’t be mistaken about a man who’s done those kinds of things to you. With you. But what if that woman knows about us? What if the two of them have planned this thing together? Is this about Max wanting to get rid of me? What a coward.

Don’t cry, she tells herself. Now is not the time. There’s nobody on your side.

She’ll need to keep her wits about her if she wants to lead any kind of a half-decent life in Consilience from now on. The life of a respected widow, keeping her mouth zipped, her smile at the ready. Rather than ending up in a padded cell; or worse, as a blank line in the data bank.

She’ll have to bury the truth about Stan, and the truth about Max too, as far down inside her own head as she can. Make sure she doesn’t blurt things out, ask the wrong questions the way Sandi did. Even if she could tell someone, and even if they believed her, they’d pretend not to, because they’d see the truth as toxic waste. They’d fear contamination.