LUCY
“How many today?” Lucille asks.
“Six news crews, twelve abomination picketers, eight miracles, and that guy who sells sandwiches.”
She joins me at the window of the former guest room, now my new bedroom. We look through the half-closed blinds, her re-dyed brown head beside my pink one. “We should put out chairs and sell tickets.”
“Put on a show?”
“Recite Hamlet or something.”
“Like you didn’t forget every syllable of that monologue the second after you performed it in lit last year.”
“True.” She nudges my arm. “Come on. Everybody’s downstairs.”
I hesitate. Three and a half weeks, and the daily crowd’s finally starting to wane. Week one, we had to enlist the Lakewood Police Department for help managing it all. They were clogging up the whole street. Lucille and I couldn’t leave the house for days. Mom and Dad talked about moving. The second week we spent at Dad’s, because at least there we had the cushion of the lobby, like a moat. But then reporters and a few fanatics slipped through, made it all the way upstairs, and scared the absolute shit out of us by banging on the door one day while Dad was still at work. So, we’re back here. And now Mom and Dad take turns staying with us while a police cruiser camps out at the curb.
I won’t say it’s easy. We’ve all had to change our numbers at least four times each. There are extra locks on all the doors now, and a state-of-the-art security system on top of that. Lucille and I finally gave in and did a morning show last week, hoping it’d calm some of the fervor. The camera crew set up in the living room and we did the whole Look, she’s a living, breathing, feeling person thing. But I’m not sure if it made it better or worse. They asked some fluffy stuff, some funny stuff, then some stuff that made my skin crawl, and finally made Mom shout that they could “shut the fuck up and get out.” The clip of her went super viral within the day.
It’s like because I was made as a commodity, I should expect to be one still. Everyone thinks they’re owed a peek under the hood. Nothing’s off-limits. And, well…I guess I still struggle sometimes to remember I’m more than parts.
It’s not all bad. Like, before my Life2 phone quit working, about a week after all the shit hit all the fans, I got a text from a blocked number, and when I opened it found a picture of Isobel with her brother. In it they both look so damn happy I immediately started to cry.
I also think it’s pretty great that Thompson ended up being wrong. Not about all of it (she nailed the devil, miracle, protests, and debates stuff), but there’s no line at Life2 because there’s no door. Isobel and her brother’s bug ended up doxxing the whole lot of them, and with nowhere to hide, the Board and the president, an old white guy (of course), are having to answer a shitload of questions about a whole mess of dubious ethics and legit crimes. They immediately threw Thompson under the bus, which was unnecessary, since she was arrested for kidnapping at the scene, but it looks like she’ll end up with plenty of company. Plus, most of the doctors have flipped and are assisting the investigation—first Adebayo and Kim, then the rest. But it’s hard to say what will stick, since the laws are unclear or nonexistent.
News crews have been all over the Life2 facility, so Lucille and I got to see the aftermath of the doomsday failsafe, which was, honestly, pretty rad. Whatever switch Isobel managed to flip caused Cindy to self-destruct, most likely with fire, as evidenced by the burn patterns on the walls, then a sprinkler system coated the whole thing in a kind of expanding foam that dried as hard as concrete. Isobel made it to the Mimeo machine, too. That was harder to watch, because Lucille and I could both imagine how she must’ve felt while she smashed as much of it as she could to pieces.
There’s something comforting about knowing it’s all gone. And something unsettling knowing there are other branches out there, undiscovered, maybe under different names, with their own Thompsons and teams still pushing forward. Then a feeling of flat confusion in the middle, which is where I sit most of the time. I can’t regret my life, but do I think they should make more of us?
The short answer is no.
The longer answer is that I hope they’ll use all they’ve learned for actual good. But none of us think that’ll be the end.
“Luce!” Lucille calls up the stairs.
“Coming!” I turn away from the window and head downstairs, pausing in the kitchen. I can hear them down in the basement. Cass, Bode, Marco, Lucille. They’re laughing.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Mom says from the counter, where she sits with a book and cup of tea. I cross over to her. She opens her arms to pull me in for a hug.
“Love you,” I say into her hair.
“Love you, too.”
And I think, It’s worth it. All of it. Every mess. And the good stuff, too. This feeling, laughter downstairs and the press of my mom’s love.
I’m worth it. We both are.