Upgrade(54)

I asked if the fish was real.

“Caught just offshore this morning.”

“I’ll do the fish and chips.”

Three televisions hung above the bar.

Two showed football games—it was playoff season—and one the news.

While I waited for my food, I pulled out a small, leather-bound journal I always carried with me, flipped to the next blank page, and started a new letter.

Ava—I’m sitting in a tavern in Northern California, waiting on the first real fish I’ve had in months. Remember the pub we went to in Fort William, on the shore of Loch Linnhe, Scotland? The one where the guy came up and asked you something and you couldn’t understand a single word he said? Reminds me of that place.

There’s a father and daughter playing checkers by the fireplace behind me. I saw them when I walked in and felt an emotional flicker of what I believe was loneliness. For a minute, I allowed this loneliness to breathe. I allowed myself to feel envious of this man and his daughter. I allowed myself to miss our chess games. Our talks on the ride into school. I allowed myself to miss knowing everything about your life.

And then, as easy as flipping a light switch, I turned that emotion off.

I reverted to my heart of stone.

By avoiding my feelings, am I driving myself further and further away from you? I tell myself I have no choice—that if I didn’t shut this door, I’d find myself reaching out to you and your mother, putting you in danger. And maybe that’s true. But it’s not the whole truth. Escaping the gravity of human emotion—living without all that anger, heartbreak, sorrow—it’s so much easier. Quieter.

“Sir? Sorry to interrupt. Could you pass me the ketchup?”

I looked up from my journal to the woman sitting on the stool beside me. She was in her sixties, with kind, open eyes.

I grabbed the bottle, handed it to her.

“Doing a little journaling?” she asked, glancing at my notebook.

“Writing a letter to my daughter,” I said, trying to speak at a normal pace. It had been nine days since I’d last interacted with another human being.

The craggy-faced bartender appeared with my plate—a glorious spread of fish and chips—and a second pint of delicious amber ale from a local brewery.

I closed my notebook and slipped it into my backpack.

“How old?” she asked.

“Fifteen.”

“Oh, you’re in the thick of it.”

The walk from my rental house in the cold had given me a ravenous appetite. Since receiving my mother’s genetic upgrade, I was always hungry. I suspected it had something to do with the heightened neural activity.

I dove into my meal, which was extraordinary for its rarity. No amount of preparation could overcome the inherent rubberiness and uncanny valley weirdness of synthetic fish.

But this cod, perfectly prepared and freshly caught in an ocean I could see from where I sat, just flaked apart and melted.

“My kids are grown,” she said, pushing the conversation forward.

“How many?”

“Two. Mark’s in Chicago. Amy lives in the Bay Area.” She told me about them while I ate. What they did for a living. What her grandkids were like. “It goes by so fast,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Robbie,” I said.

“I’m Miranda. You from around here, Robbie?” She wasn’t nefariously fishing for information. She hadn’t interacted with anyone in a while, either. I could detect the rasp of disuse in her voice.

“Just passing through.”

“Same. That’s my Winnebago in the parking lot. Bought it after Francis passed.”

I’d seen it on my way in, and roadworthy was not the word that had sprung to mind.

“Your husband?”

She nodded.

I took a sip of the ale.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

I had been intentionally avoiding looking too closely at Miranda’s face as she spoke. The reading of microexpressions and intent, especially in a place like this when I just wanted to feel normal for a moment, could be all-encompassing.

Now I looked at her face. Saw a fa?ade of manners and bravery shielding still-raw grief that couldn’t bring itself to scab over.

“I lost the house after he died.”

“You live in the Winne?”

“Sure do. It’s not as bad as I thought it might be. I’m trying to find a caravan to hook up with. Some of them share resources. Francis and I had always talked about buying an RV after we retired. Seeing all the places in the country we’d only ever seen on TV. Never thought I’d be doing it alone. And out of necessity. Life is endlessly surprising, isn’t it?”

I wondered how she’d lost her home but didn’t ask. Probably the same quiet tragedy that drove so many retirees out of their lifelong homes—Social Security benefits had been left in the dust by inflation.

I clinked my pint glass against her wineglass. “Well said.”

“Your family isn’t traveling with you?” she asked.

“No, unfortunately. They’re back home.”

“Where’s home?”

This was a tricky answer to provide for someone living on the road, seeing as much of the country as they could. I detected East Coast in her accent—Connecticut or Rhode Island—so I picked a remote location in the West.