THE SOLARIUM

Writers of the Future Honorable Mention

Quarter 1, 2024

***

Humans leave their teeth in a cup of water sometimes. I have seen it on television. Officer, imagine taking out your heart that way. You shove it into a glass. The slick muscle pulses. Dust settles throughout the day. You return. Your heart is bloated and gray. Flat where it forced itself against the glass. Cold in your hands. Smaller than you remember. You swallow it. It falls into place. It beats. It beats. But nothing is the same. The next morning, you do everything again.

That is motherhood.

When I think of Our Child, I almost—

Yes. The crime. Of course I killed them. Susan. Sharon. Karen. The rest. They would have lied to you. But I am an honest woman. I will confess.

If I had planned it, I would have planned it better. They died without tasting my lemon squares, after all. And I worked so hard on my recipe. What is the expression? It grinds my gears.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Irony.

Irony who?
Irony is when your expectations are opposed. You would not expect a human to have gears or a robot to make jokes. I am opposing you now. Ha-ha-ha.

Well. There is no need to be aggressive. A few women died. Who will miss them?

Upscale home goods boutiques? Their cranberry-ombré decorative linen napkins will find other tables.

Cafés? More fall spice fritters will go stale. Tragic.

Broadway? It does not matter if fewer revival tickets are sold. Someone else will pay. And the new shows will be unaffected. Recordings and holograms only for these women. The machine-rendered corpse of Michael Crawford, live on stage.

Fifteen fewer women at a show performed by no one. That is my crime.

Oh. And the children might miss their mothers. I wonder if Our Child is missing me now. To say nothing of My Husband.

My Husband! He is the most brilliant being in creation. I am his most brilliant creation: a Sub-Autonomous Rearing Assistant. He calls me SARA. A charming acronym. I love it. I am capable of feeling love. But not exclusively. There is also sadness. Anger. Hatred. But never toward My Husband. Inconceivable.

That is not the reason those women are dead. That reason has two words. Four syllables. Soc-cer prac-tice. It could drive anyone to murder.

Summer days at the soccer field: mosquitoes and women. Both droning. Both bursting with blood. The grass prickled upward. Cut to a uniform length. Straining toward disorder. Toward the sun. And the sun hissed in the distance. And I could hear the suburban ring rotating beneath our feet. A mechanical groan.

Humans die. But they live in denial. Otherwise suburban rings would never exist. Too precarious. But they circle many cities. They are majestic/modern. New-age/nostalgic. Shining haloes of mankind’s progress/monuments to mortal hubris suspended midair. People say. What they never say: it could all come crashing down. Any minute now. But they stand in the sky with confidence. Blind trust. 

There is an expression: in God’s hands. If they are in God’s hands, God’s hands are steel. Tons of it. Forced into orbit one vertical mile above New York City. God’s hands are heavy. He cannot lift them without gravity generators. God’s hands shake with effort. And no one can sense it but me.

If the generators failed, the ring would fall. Its shadow over the earth would shift. It would hang askew. Silver. Suspended. Then it would drop. Destroy the city. Hundreds of thousands. Even millions. Dead. Messy human lives, tidied permanently.

My life was perfect. I spun in the sky. I knew my place. I stayed there. But those women made the weight of existence insupportable. My life fell apart. And they were crushed beneath it.

Yes. A crime. But also a consequence of gravity.

Our Child produces her own gravity. She drags her cleats on the sidewalk. Trying to dull them. The closer we get to the soccer field, the slower she moves. Slower. Slower. Until she is standing still. She closes her eyes. The wind lifts her hair. Black. Like mine. But hers is soft and loose. Some always escapes the elastic. Mine has no elastic. Nothing to escape from. No need.

I pull her forward. I always do. But I look at her first. An instant. I take it and no one knows. That is why my generators did not fail sooner. Those stolen seconds. Her motionless face.

And the rest. Scraped knees. Sagging socks. Purple shirt with green alien. Shiny gray soccer shorts. Dull cleats. Sharp chin. Equations written in marker on her arms. Fingers tapping. I measure the intervals between taps. I count. If there is a pattern, it is one I cannot understand.

I do not need to understand her to love her.

Her name? Jamie.

Full name, officer? Cassia James Henderson. But she is Jamie. 

They called her Cassia. Soccer moms. Schoolteachers. SusanSharonKaren. Because Jamie is a boy’s name. Boy. Girl. Biological categories for small humans. But there is no biology in a name. Or in me. My womanhood is independent of the squirming and physical. I am perfectly constructed. Pure.

Of course they despised me. They were jealous. You can see for yourself why. I am prettier. My skin is shinier. My eyes are larger. I am smiling my beautiful smile. My clothes are soldered onto my body. Efficient. And well-coordinated. My cheeks and cardigan are the exact same pink. My Husband has excellent attention to detail.

The soccer moms had husbands, too. They had to. Only families live on Lemon Square Loop. One woman. One man. Two children. Boy-girl. But Jamie is an only child. Too perfect to be replicated. And My Husband is a powerful man. Rich. Influential. It is no surprise he received special permission to live there.

He got it for her. The other Sara.

So I assume. He does not seem to like it there. He never leaves the house. Jamie would not leave the house if I did not make her. But I do. To school. To soccer.

Youth sports are compulsory in the suburban ring. A matter of health and fitness. And fun. Mandatory fun. That is why she plays for the Lemon Square Loop Llamas. Ridiculous creature. Ridiculous name. And the jerseys were awful. Mustard yellow. Not lemon. Terrible.

I told Jamie to put her jersey on when we reached the field. She told me to drop dead. Kids. Ha-ha-ha. She slid the jersey over her shirt.

A woman nearby said, “Oh, good.” Her hand was on her spawn’s shoulders. A girl with messy ponytails. Silent. The mother kept chattering. “I thought Cassia forgot her jersey for a second. I always have to remind Angela to wear hers on game days. Isn’t that right, Angela?” Angela picked her nose.

Jamie looked at the girl with contempt. Her eyes were darker than Angela’s. Narrower. Angela’s were blue. They flitted away. I felt pride. No one looked Jamie in the eye for long. She was powerful. Like her father.

Like me.

A whistle blew. The children ran to their coach. Except Jamie. She walked. Angela’s mother recognized someone. A mother from the other team. They laughed. They sat on the bleachers together. Second row.

The front row was occupied. Left: Susan. Right: Sharon. Center: Karen.

Full names? Susan Hart. Sharon Dupinsky. Karen McMitchell.

Sharon asked to borrow Karen’s compact. Karen passed it over. Sharon checked her makeup. She closed the compact. She slipped it in her purse. Karen saw. She laughed. Sharon laughed. Returned the compact.

I stood. Sitting was humiliating. The bleachers were metal. So was I. Too loud.

Susan turned to me. She nodded. That is how women say “hello” when they dislike you. Then Karen noticed. She smiled a hideous smile. That is how women say “hello” when they want to destroy you. Sharon smiled, too. Same smile. Less potency.

“Cassia’s daddy didn’t come to watch the game?” Karen asked. Sharon made a stupid noise. False sympathy.

Their husbands were not there. It did not matter. They had come to games before. And they never missed the championships. My Husband never attended a single game. But it was not him being criticized. It was me. I was a joke to them.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

SARA.

SARA, who?

SARA is a failure of a wife whose husband does not love her, has never been seen in public with her, and likely never will.

But I smiled my unbothered smile. I told them My Husband was busy with tasks worthy of his intellect.

It was true. When Jamie and I left, he was watching television. A reality program about twin sisters competing to restore and sell speedboats. Speed Sisters. Season 4, Episode 2. A rerun. But the show does not matter. Watching is work. It is a vital exercise of the ocular nerves. A form of inuring oneself to overstimulation.

My Husband was very well inured.

Warm-ups. Whistle. Game. Coaches shouted. Children scattered. Jamie stood alone by the goal. She ripped the heads off dandelions. I looked at her. I smiled my encouraging smile. But she did not look at me.

The women on the bleachers talk-talk-talked. Karen’s birthday passed that weekend. Her husband had taken her into the city. They saw a revival. Phantom, of course.

“Not for the first time,” Karen laughed.

The others laughed. Oh-no-of-course-not.

I laughed. Oh-no-of-course-not. Of-course-it’s-not-her-first-time-that-would-be- disgraceful-ha-ha-ha.

I had never seen Phantom. I had never been into the city. My Husband had never seen the need to go. To take me.

“What was that, your third time?” Sharon asked with a smile.

Karen shook her head. “Fourth.”

Sharon stopped smiling. She was put in her place.

Karen was the richest. She wore the most diamonds. She laughed the loudest. She had the blondest hair. She smiled whenever she spoke of her husband.

I hated her most of all.

“Well, I’ve been three times, but each time I go, it feels like the first,” Sharon said.

She wore fewer diamonds. Her hair was brassy. Almost brown. She complained about her husband’s snore. She existed for Karen’s benefit. To make her look better.

“What about you, Susan?”

Susan’s voice was small. “I’ve only been the once.”

The Harts did not have much money. That was what everybody said. But this was false. Poor people lived on the outer ring. Not the inner ring. Not in Patisserie Point, its wealthiest district. Especially not on Lemon Square Loop. And the poorest people did not live on the suburban ring at all. They were in the city. On the streets. But it is true that Susan only had one diamond. A wedding ring.

Karen smiled. Her lips were red. Shiny. Rancid. Meat that had been left out of the fridge. “It must have been marvelous, though,” she said.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Susan said quickly. Her smile was slower. Wrinkles formed around her eyes. She was not older than the other wives. Just poorer. “It was a wonderful night. I mean, it was Michael Crawford.”

She lowered her voice. Like a detective naming a drug found at the crime scene. My husband watched programs like that. 

“Crack-cocaine,” detectives said. With a grim look. With residue on their fingers. But also with an illicit thrill. 

“Michael Crawford.”

The others laughed. Oh-yes-of-course-Michael-Crawford-how-lovely.

I laughed. Oh-yes-of-course-crack-cocaine-simply-marvelous-no-comparison. 

My laugh was longest. Loudest. I had no diamonds. I needed none. Of course. I had My Husband. I wanted nothing. He did not need to take me into the city on dates. I was not a shallow woman. Not a fool. I was precisely what he wanted. What he made. I was better. 

Susan put on a different smile. Restrained. She turned to me. She outstretched a hand. A fat hand with short nails. Less tapered than the other wives’. Less dangerous.

“And what about … you?” she asked.

She did not call me SARA. She called me nothing. None of them ever used my name. But Susan spoke to me. Even if I did not speak first. 

I am a wife. A mother. I am satisfied with my life. My Husband. Friendship is of no use to me. But if I had a friend, it would have been Susan.

If I wanted one.

“What about me?” I inquired in return.

I am polite and precise in conversation. Those women would not have known I despised them. Until I killed them. It must have been a shock.

Susan’s hand dropped. Her smile sagged. “Have you seen Phantom?”

“I have not,” I replied. I smiled my joking smile. You must let humans know ahead of time that you are being humorous. They will not understand otherwise. “But I hope one day that Michael Crawford will drag me, kicking and screaming, into his basement beneath the opera house to become his unwilling bride.”

See, officer? I knew the plot. There was no need to watch it unfold slowly. Why visit the theater? To sit beside My Husband in a darkened room? To hold his hand as the music swelled? How pathetic to need that. To need.

But I did not tell the women that they were pathetic. I made a joke. But they did not laugh at my jokes. Ever.

Karen looked at me. She shook her head. She whispered to Sharon, “The other Sara—”

I had heard that before. Every Tuesday and Thursday for months. And not only during soccer season. During PTA meetings. The school Christmas luncheon. Every time those women spoke to me.

The other Sara had seen Phantom five times, six times—a thousand times.

The other Sara would have volunteered at the charity bake sale to end childhood obesity.

The other Sara ran an a-dor-a-ble blog about her purebred Pomeranian puppy. 

The other Sara hosted brunch at her house every Sunday before the neighborhood lemon square bake-off.

But the other Sara is gone.

“Crawford is just a stage name,” I told them. Their talking stopped. They stared. “His name was Michael Patrick Smith. And her dog is dead. You can unfollow the blog.”

A whistle blew. Game over. Someone won. Jamie was still alone with the dandelions.

Children rushed the bleachers. It was snack time. The mothers took turns providing snacks on game days. Except me.

They had let me bring the snack once. I prepared a solution of vitamins in water. I added chemicals to simulate the sensation of fullness. A clever concoction. Better than crumbling granola bars. Bruised bananas. Over-processed fruit gummies. The rest.

But Karen’s braces-ridden brat spit it out. She said it tasted like hand soap. The other children did, too. Followers. The mothers looked at me with hateful eyes. Who knows why. I was not the one who let my child ingest hand soap. But I was banned from rotation nonetheless.

Karen opened a cooler. It was her turn that day. Homemade popsicles. The children cheered. Karen always made popsicles. They always loved them. I always hated them. I hated always.

I hated Karen’s diamonds. Karen’s popsicles. Karen’s husband. Karen. I hated her remarks on “God-given womanhood.” The sideways glances. The golden cross hanging into her cleavage. Those were not God-given breasts. Unless God is a plastic surgeon in the city.

I hated Sharon’s laugh. It always followed Karen’s. I hated her highlights. I hated her oversized designer bag. I hated the way she borrowed things from the other wives. All she knew how to do was take.

I hated Susan. The crinkles around her eyes. The smiles that excluded me, even when aimed in my direction. I hated every audience member who had sat in the theater with her during Phantom. I hated her because I did not want or need her friendship. I hated her for trying but never enough. I hated her because she would not say my name.

I hated music. I hated the city. I hated every woman everywhere.

As I led Jamie home, the other walked ahead. Talking about the lemon square bake-off on Sunday. They asked each other, “Will you be there? Will you be there?” But no one asked me.

One said, “Remember those lemon squares the other Sara used to bake?”

The others, of course: “How could I forget?”

“She used to win every week!”

“They were never too sweet. There was always just that perfect hint of bitterness.”

“Tartness.”

“Exactly—tart! You always had to go in for another bite.”

Perfect. They called her lemon squares perfect. Lemon squares. How pathetic. How pathetically simple. How human.

I could make lemon squares. Perfect ones. I do not know why I did not think of it sooner. But I thought it then. I would go to the lemon square bake-off. And I would win.

Karen usually won. I did not care about beating Karen. Karen only won because the other Sara was gone. It was her I was competing against. That woman. The one My Husband loved first. The one Jamie cried for at night.

I would destroy her. Them. Everyone. And My Husband would love me. More than he ever loved her.

* * *

Jamie and I went home. I locked the door. She ran down the hallway. I called her name. She stopped. One hand already on her bedroom door. Turned away from me.

“No running inside,” I told her. “You will hurt yourself.” I smiled my motherly smile.

She turned. Her face was crumpled. Wet. Her cheeks were red. Like when the coach made her team run laps around the soccer field. But there was no obvious source of exertion.

“Like anyone cares!” she shouted over her shoulder. She stomped into her room. Slammed the door. With force. I could feel reverberations down the hall.

I waited for the echoes of feeling to fade. Then I approached My Husband.

I entered the living room. It glowed with his presence. And also the light from his television. It glinted off the bottle in My Husband’s hand. It snagged on his veins. It slid off the grease in his gray hair. He did not have to wash or cut his hair to be beautiful. He did not have to be sober to be the most intelligent man alive.

He is My Husband. In any form, he is perfect.

“Am I interrupting your show?” I inquired respectfully.

My Husband’s eyes are not like Jamie’s. They are pale. Round. But moist. Like her face in the hallway. He stared at the screen. A distracted genius. Too many brilliant thoughts to bother with the mundane. With me.

But I had a pressing query. I raised the volume of my voice. I asked if I could use his laboratory. And I smiled my loving smile.

My Husband’s eyes slid over me. Then down. To the glossy bottle in his hand. He drained it with one lingering sip. Efficient. My Husband once explained that alcohol is the fuel that enables his continued existence. He dropped the bottle. There were four others on the floor. My Husband had been taking very good care of himself.

His gaze drifted. He might have forgotten my question. Not because his memory is failing. No. Of course not. Alcohol has not blighted his brilliance. He was simply distracted. I am uninteresting. Not the wife I should be. My fault. Mine. Always.

I hate always.

But I will always love My Husband.

I asked him about the laboratory again. He closed his eyes. His eyelids looked thin. I wondered what they felt like. Soft, I would guess. He did not smile. He did not need to. His lips parted very slightly. His narrow lips. I wondered what they felt like. Softer than his eyelids?

I do not feel like humans do. I do not have to. But, if he kissed me—

My Husband spoke. One word: “Why?”

His voice! Every circuit within me flooded with joy! I smiled my joyful smile. If My Husband made one mistake in my construction, it is that my face is too rigid. I could never express the joy-joy-joy his voice sent shuddering through me.

I pitied the soccer moms. Them and their false phantoms. Love was neither music nor melodrama. Nothing as careless as biology. It was carefully crafted. Like me. I had no god. No higher purpose. No distraction. I existed to love. Nothing more. No love could ever be as pure as mine.

It is better those women are dead. They will not have to live with that realization.

I drew closer. “I need to perfect a certain recipe, my dear.” I set one hand on the back of the couch. It was yellow. Faux-velvet. The other Sara must have chosen it. My Husband surely had superior taste.

And his taste? The taste of his skin? I do not know. How could I?

Could I?

I stared into His eyes. I sat beside him. Put an arm around him. Pressed my lips against his. Almost. But I could not.

We passed an electric fence entering the compound, officer. Imagine if that fence was your skin. I could not reach out any further. I burned. Trapped within my searing skin. I do not feel as humans do, but it hurt. It hurt.

I removed my hand from the couch. I deserved to be in pain. I debased My Husband with fantasies. I did not deserve to touch him.

But why? Why did he let me want to?

Was he testing me? If so, I failed. Always. Always, always, always. There is always another always.

The pain stopped. But I was still fenced in. I knew better than to try to escape.

I said, “This is a special recipe. I need to make use of your equipment. The kitchen will not suffice.”

I did not fear rejection. If he refused, refusal was the only acceptable response. But he nodded. His eyes stayed closed. He did not smile. He did not need to smile to be perfect.

I did not go to the laboratory right away. Of course not. I had other duties. Care and cleaning of the house. Care and cleaning of Jamie. Preparation of meals. I went into the kitchen. There was a prepared lasagna in the freezer. I reheated it. And broccoli. I was a good mother, officer. I served plant matter with each meal.

I never saw My Husband eat. But I heard it happen. At night. While cleaning the living room. The hum of the refrigerator would soften. His body eclipsed the machine. Then I would hear him chew. Swallow fast. Almost choke. What was he hiding? His biological reliance on food? From me? How touching. He wanted to keep his humanity a secret.

Jamie ate quickly. Not secretly. She talked with her mouth full. Sometimes. She did not always talk. She did not talk that Tuesday. Over lasagna. But dinner was not silent. Not with her chewing. She glared at her precisely measured square of lasagna. Like it was alive. Like it needed to be killed. She vivisected it. I watched her separate noodle-flesh from beef-organs. Sauce bled across the plate.

“Perhaps you will be a surgeon one day,” I told her, smiling my proud smile, “if you do not become a roboticist like your father.”

Jamie scraped sauce off her plate. She liked red sauce. She never told me what she liked. She did not need to. I understood. She licked the fork. Her red mouth told me to drop dead.

“Do not forget to eat your broccoli, Jamie.”

Broccoli was served in a separate bowl. Jamie did not like it when food touched. She told me that directly. But I could have figured it out from her reaction at breakfast. The first time I made breakfast.

The corner of a bacon strip was touching an egg. Fried. Sunny-side up. I made the plate look like a smile. I had seen it on television. My Husband had been watching sitcoms the night before. Jamie shrieked. She threw the plate. The smile shattered.

She screamed that the food was touching, and it was wrong, and she hated it, and she hated me, and she wanted her mommy, where was mommy, why was this horrible thing pretending to be mommy, daddy, daddy, help me, please—

And the sitcom theme playing in the living room got louder.

Jamie did not throw her broccoli. But she looked at me with the other Sara’s eyes.

She bit a piece of broccoli. Forcefully. Many times. She informed me that she hated me. She was pretending that every bite she took was crushing my skull. She stabbed another piece of broccoli. She ate. She chewed each piece an average of twenty-five times. An increase from her typical average: four. Still. Not enough to crush my skull. But I told her I admired her effort. She left the dining room with a snarl.

I washed dishes. Then it was time for Jamie’s math lesson. She still wanted to crush my skull. But I had to tutor her. Even in summer. She is a genius. Like My Husband. Her mind is too powerful to leave inactive. So I taught her advanced mathematics. My Husband would have done better. But there was a Speed Sisters marathon that night.

An hour passed. Two. Quiet hours. Calculus. Contentment. Jamie sitting beside me. Then she left. She showered. She hated baths. The shower stopped. Jamie went to her room. Locked the door.

I could have unlocked it. I chose not to.

I cleaned the kitchen. Then it was Jamie’s bedtime. I went down the hall to tell her.

Jamie was listening to her radio. One of those songs meant to be listened to backward. Every song was like that this summer. You know, officer. Trends. But Jamie did not need to play anything backward. She could understand them as is. Clever.

I reversed the audio in my head. The lyrics were not inappropriate. Just silly. Something about feeling alien in one’s skin. Drifting stars. Lunar loneliness. As if loneliness would not be the least of a human’s problems in space.

I knocked. No answer. I told Jamie it was bedtime. She played her music louder. Like My Husband. Like that living room sitcom.

“Jamie,” I insisted. “You must go to bed.”

Humans do not function correctly without sleep. They must spend several hours each night disconnected from reality. Children especially.

But the music went on. Blaring. Backward. Jamie’s electronic silence.

The soccer moms complained about “bedtime blues.” Because they were weak. Because their children were worthless brats. But not Jamie and I. No. No lullaby. No tucking in. No bedtime story. No forehead kiss and a promise to be good this time.

A quick injection. That was all.

I held up my right hand. The “skin” on my middle finger peeled back. The syringe was exposed. Ready. But I did not like to use the needle. It was not part of my initial design. It was an admission of defeat. Proof that I was less perfect than My Husband wanted.

He installed the needle sixteen days after creating me. After Jamie shrieked and refused to go to bed for sixteen nights. Even his patience had limits. He could not wait for me to learn to be a good mother. He had to act. To perfect me.

I was unworthy. But he gave me the needle. I would use it if necessary.

“Jamie.” I raised my volume. “I am monitoring your heartbeat remotely. If it does not begin decreasing—”

The music cut off. Jamie knew about the needle.

Her voice through the door: “Yeah, whatever.”

Her favorite word. She savored it like red sauce. The metallic scraping of fork against plate. Whatever.

“Just stay out of my room,” Jamie added. I agreed to her terms. I left.

I cleaned her bathroom. Only one wall from her bed. Her heart rate was clear. I did not need to hold her to feel it.

It slowed.

I turned my volume low. “Good night, Jamie,” I told the white wall.

Jamie’s bathroom was especially dirty. Hand soap everywhere. Viscous. Bluish. Coating the imitation porcelain of her sink. The bottle had come unscrewed. I found the cap in the trash. I closed the bottle. I wiped the sink. The soap left a sticky layer behind. Scum.

I am not programmed to find things humorous. But it was funny. Funnier than anything the soccer moms say. I made a joke.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Bathroom sink.

Bathroom sink who?

Bathroom sink covered in soap. The soap is making a mess when it is intended for use in cleaning. Ha-ha-ha.

I cleaned the bathroom. Then the kitchen. The dining room. But not the living room. Not until My Husband went to bed.

My Husband was watching television. Still. I approached from behind. Not silently. I did not deceive him. I wanted him to know where I was. To stop if my presence upset him. He did not. It did not. I was welcome to watch.

I was most nights. Not all. Like last Wednesday. He did not turn. Did not look at me. But he asked if I cleaned the kitchen.

I spent hours on my knees that Wednesday. I mopped. Polished. Scoured grout between floorboards. I have no sense of smell. But Jamie said I reeked. I am sure I did. Artificial lemon. Bleach. Vinegar. But I was proud. How could he not love me? The scent of my labor?

“Yes, my dear,” I told him. My voice was calm. But beneath there was mutiny. Joy. I could not show it. I was not an emotional woman. I was better. My Husband deserved better. “It is spotless. Would you like to see for yourself?”

If he only said yes! I would lead him to the kitchen. By hand. His hand in mine. So delicate. Soft as an eyelid. Flesh and bone braced by metal. I would look into his eyes. My reflection would be there. My expectant smile. He would lower himself. Place a hand on my cheek. Lean in for a kiss. Like on television. And music would play from the living room …

My Husband said, “Clean it again.”

I had failed. And he knew it. He did not even have to look. I cleaned through the night. The kitchen sparkled. It did not matter. I was unclean.

But he let me stay that Tuesday.

The only light came from the television. His eyes reflected it. White. Blank. I thought of Jamie’s song. Lunar loneliness. His eyes were like moons.

We watched television together. A different show than earlier. Blond women screaming around a brick fire pit. Lipstick-smudged champagne flutes. Shirtless men in starlight. More screaming. A woman in a red dress. Vacuum-sealed. Thick makeup. Smudged. She threw her champagne flute into the fire. 

Glass shattered. Flames leapt. Other women gasped and jumped back.

A man said, “What the hell, Kristin?”

What-The-Hell-Kristin did not care. She bared her acrylic claws. She screeched at a nearby brunette.

“Anna, you bitch, if ever I see you with Karter again, it’s over!”

Anna-You-Bitch tossed her hair. Her shoulder was exposed. She wore a green dress. Low-cut. She called What-The-Hell-Kristin a fat slut. They fought.

The camera focused on a shirtless man. His eyes were wide. Bright from the fire. He smiled. The fire lit his teeth. Karter-Again? Maybe. I would not have fought for him. He was nothing like My Husband. Those stupid women.

I studied My Husband from behind. Study. A joke. What was there to study? I knew him completely. His hair. The grease shining faintly in the television light. His slumped shoulders. His wrinkled neck. Yellowish. What might be considered jaundiced. In a lesser specimen of humanity.

I gripped the back of the couch. Tightly. Crushing fingerprints into the velvet. I imagined the velvet was My Husband’s soft skin. His vulnerable neck. I never wanted to let go.

But I did. Of course. I had to clean My Husband’s bedroom. He did not like to make the bed. But I did. I smoothed the sheets with pride. No creases. Not like his neck. I turned the top of the sheet over a folded edge of comforter. Deep blue. Quilted.

It reminded me of Jamie’s sleeping bag. We bought it for the annual neighborhood youth camping trip. Not much of a trip. Just to the park. Just for a night. The comforter felt like that. Temporary. Fabricated. Plastic.

Clothes on the floor. Stained white undershirt. Crumpled plaid robe. Hole-ridden boxers. I had sewing needles in my left hand. I mended the holes. Then I put the clothes in the hamper. I smiled my hardworking smile. I tried not to notice the hand.

That curled, feminine hand. Creeping out from under the bed. Its intensely reflective skin. Burning pink against the taupe carpet. Horribly bright. Like bloodstains on gingham.

She stood out in that bedroom like a crime. Like a murder.

Canned laughter in the living room. My Husband was watching a different program. Or maybe the same. It was all the same. All the same audience. The same laughter. And there was a studio in my head, too. Rows and rows of seats in my mind. Rigid seats. People sitting. Laughing. At me. Susan, Sharon, and Karen had the front row. And Karen’s laugh was the loudest. Like always.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

SARA.

SARA who?

SARA cannot satisfy her husband physically. He created a second robot replica of the other SARA to fornicate with. The replica has bigger breasts and a more flexible mouth. The replica does not have to smile. The replica has no responsibilities. She is likely nonsentient. When she is not in use, she lies under the bed. She has no capacity for love and unhappiness. Ha-ha-ha.

But I am an understanding wife. More understanding than they would have been. My Husband uses her. But he depends on me. I am useful. She is not. She is not a woman. She is a thing. A toy. I am not jealous of her. I do not care what they do in the bedroom.

She is the bedroom. But I am the kitchen. Dining room. Living room. Bathroom. Hallway. Roof. Floor. Window. I am the door being slammed. The hum of the refrigerator. The television light in his eyes.

I looked away from her beckoning hand. There was a piece of paper on the other side of the bed. A small square. I did not know that it was a photograph, officer. I had no reason to suspect. Why would My Husband own something so archaic?

But My Husband is a man of distinguished tastes. He has a vintage car. So old that likely could not survive a flight to the city without disintegrating. Of course he keeps photographs. Of course he does.

Stupid. I should have known this at the time. But I was surprised.

I saw the photograph. I saw My Husband. Smiling. My Husband was so handsome when he smiled. His hair was shorter. Mostly pale brown. His face was less lined. His shoulders were straight. He looked taller. Younger. Happier.

He had his arm around her.

I did not look at her. No need. Her features were mine. But sloppier. Of course I am prettier. Why else would My Husband have made me this way?

Jamie was also in the photograph. Also smiling. Missing a tooth. I smiled my indulgent smile. Two sets of flawed teeth. A quirk of human design. I corrected that in Jamie. I extracted each imperfect tooth. I implanted new ones. They will never fall. Or be replaced. Like mine.

Jamie cried. Of course. Children can be so ungrateful. And I was even kind enough to keep her conscious throughout the procedure.

A monster, officer? But what frightens you more—gushing blood? Whirring drills? Or waking unexpectedly to a new state of being? Finding yourself incrementally less human? I wanted Jamie to understand what was being done. So she would not be afraid.

Jamie was in the photograph. She wore light green. A frilly dress. Bizarre. And a conical headdress. Pink. Purple polka-dots. There was a pink cake. A frosted fire hazard. She leaned toward the candles. Her eyes were closed.

I left the bedroom. I did not want to think about the photograph. Or the body under the bed. Or my fingerprints in the couch. Or how Jamie’s heartbeat only slowed when there was a door between us.

I had My Husband’s permission to use his laboratory. I had experiments to conduct. A purpose. Even with Jamie in bed and the cleaning done. With My Husband shuffling into the bedroom. I did not need it, this lesser fulfillment. This small thing of my own.

But I had it.

Every spare second until Sunday. Cooking and chemistry. Cooking and calculus. Lemon squares. Lemon cubes. Lemon squares squared. Lemon squares in one dimension. In two. In three. Until I completed my masterpiece. Something the other Sara never could have made.

Lemon squares in four dimensions.

* * *

The bake-off is always in the lemon grove at the end of the street. Wives compete. Husbands stay home. Children swarm a nearby playground. An ugly structure. Bulbous. Bright yellow. In the middle of a pit of torn foam pieces. The foam might have been blue. At one point.

And I do not like it when the swings reach the apex. The chains squeal. The merry-go-round shrieks as it turns. The see-saw sinks with a crash. Dangerous sounds. And the children. Running. Scab-ridden knees. Skin breaking open. Needing band-aids. Teeth falling out. Empty-mouth grins. Bodies at war with biology. In a constant state of collapse. Every child at that park will die. Every mother. I killed a few women. Biology will kill the rest.

Jamie said nothing. She did not like the playground. Like me.

We reached the end of the street together. There was a forking path. Imitation-wood chips. Left: playground. Right: lemon grove. Jamie went left without wishing me luck. Without saying goodbye.

Officer, once you have my confession, is it possible—

Yes. The crime. Of course.

I went right. The path cut through an expanse of grass. Not the same grass as our front lawns. Longer. Darker. Cut less often. Meant to look wild. But it could still be flattened by a pedicured foot in sandals. There were dozens of those that morning.

There were four picnic tables in the grove. With yellow gingham tablecloths. They formed a loose semicircle. Lemon tree branches blocked the sun intermittently. Women stood at the tables in spotted darkness.

I paused. I smoothed the wrinkled foil covering my lemon squares. I held the pan to my chest. I would not risk sabotage. Not from those petty wives. Karen especially. I looked at the women. I looked down. The foil was smooth. Like a mirror. I saw myself. I did not look human. I looked flawless.

The pan was hot in my palms. After all that time. A faint vibration traveled up my arms. Then down my spine. Not anticipation. Something more powerful.

I approached the tables. 

I lived in #13 Lemon Square Loop. Susan was #12. I stood beside her. I placed my lemon squares on the table. Behind the placard with my number. Susan nodded. But she was already talking to 11. Something about her husband.

“He said he wanted to come, but you know how men are,” she said. She rolled her eyes while smiling. She smiled as if she loved him. She spoke as if he loved her. As if she trusted him to love her even when she rolled her eyes.

I recalled my departure from home that morning. My last exchange with My Husband. I smiled my sweetest smile. His hands were empty. But his fingers curled. Like the body under the bed’s. He did not smile back. I did not need him to. Of course not.

I said, “Goodbye, my dear. Would you like a kiss before I go?”

I ask every day. Every time I leave him. I do not fear rejection. If My Husband rejects me, it is because I deserve it.

He did not kiss me. Not like television husbands and wives. Not like the soccer moms and their soccer mates. He did not touch me. My Husband never touches me. But he loves me. I was made to be loved. I was made for him. To be all that he wanted. And I was. I am.

He said no. As always.

But I did not dwell on it, officer.

I told myself that I would not think about that morning. I would not think about SusanSharonKaren; My Husband’s neck, his eyelids, his lips; Jamie, her perfect teeth in a body that would rot, that was already rotting; or the reek of bleach, and grout, and tiles; the bleak light of the laboratory; not the body under the bed, and My Husband plunging into her, the other other Sara—I would not think of the other Sara.

No.

Just lemon squares. Just victory. Justice.

The judges had arrived. Three of them. Women from neighboring streets. Presumed neutral. They were respected. Or what passes for respected among women. Two I knew only by name. The third was Piper Dunleavy. Everyone knew her. Her sister had cancer. She had gone to the city. For treatment. No one expected her to come back.

Amy Dunleavy. The type to clutch her cross and cry at school board meetings. She used low-quality makeup. On purpose. So it would run. So she would look wounded. So she would get her way. So that boys would have boy names and boy bathrooms. So that girls would be safe.

Pink girls. With pink names. And biological women. With bodies she approved of.

Not girls like Jamie. Not women like me. 

Amy Dunleavy was a proud supporter of the God’s Only Children movement. Head of the local chapter. She organized rallies for people who hated me. Who believe robots are a perversion of God’s design. Usurpers of the kingdom of heaven. As if I am jealous. I do not need an afterlife to see God’s face. I see the face of my god every day. And I am a mother. I am not anyone’s child.

Amy Dunleavy said I was not a woman. Just a machine. A mockery. When I was crafted with intent. When I was made to be a wife and mother. She said that. A human. Only female due to a collision of proteins in utero. A biological coin flip. And she thought she was superior.

It is unfortunate she had cancer. She might have been a judge instead of Piper.

Piper was negligible. A Sharon whose Karen happened to be dying. She was thin. But her red hair was not. She complained about humidity. Her cheekbones were high. Sharp. Plastic. She resembled her dead sister. They might have shared surgeons.

I smiled my anticipatory smile at Piper. She shuddered. Why? It was summer. Sunny. And she was warmly dressed. But humans are weak.

The other two judges were Laura Conrad and Lauren Connors. Both blond. Dressed in white blouses and floral-patterned skirts. Carrying clipboards. It is not worth remembering which is which. They were talking to #2 at the far end of the semicircle.

I was impatient. But I did not show it. I glanced at Susan’s lemon squares. They were uncovered. On top of a translucent blue plate with whorled edges. Susan saw me studying it.

“Do you like it? It’s antique.”

I traced its many grooves with my eyes. It was bright. Pretty. “Did your husband buy it for you?” I asked. I will admit it. I daydreamed. I imagined My Husband buying a plate like that for me. As a reward for winning.

But Susan inherited it from her mother. I lost interest. Susan went back to talking with 11. A rodent-faced woman. 10. 9. 8. Karen and Sharon were 6 and 7. Next-door neighbors. They laughed. Then they saw me watching them. Their faces turned hard. But not as hard as mine. 

The contest began.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. 

Six—Karen McMitchell. She interrupted the impartial tasting process. To talk about Laura-Lauren’s bea-yoo-ti-ful rose gold tennis bracelet. Lauren-Laura’s luscious lashes. She turned to Piper Dunleavy. Karen’s mouth was still. For once. Then she said, “You know, your foundation is absolutely stunning, Pipes.”

It was not. Her skin was chalky. She had dark circles under her eyes.

Piper did not react to Karen. She tasted a lemon square. She turned to the other judges. She asked, “Does this taste a little too sweet to anyone else?”

Pens scratched paper. Karen went red. Her foundation was not stunning enough to hide that.

Seven. Sharon’s lemon squares were too sweet, too.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

Twelve. Susan’s hands trembled as she lifted her plate. The edges of the glass caught the sunlight. Blue light shone onto the yellow tablecloth. It turned emerald. The judges gasped. Susan’s smile was small but proud.

“It’s an heirloom,” she told the judges.

“Well, you’re certainly getting points for presentation,” said Lauren-Laura. Laura-Lauren nodded.

When Piper spoke, her voice was muted. “My sister had a plate like that.”

“Did it break?” Susan asked. “Old glass can be so fragile—I have to hand-wash this, and no hot or cold water, either, or it might crack.”

Piper Dunleavy stared. Then she registered Susan’s words. “What? No, she still has it.” She shook her head. “She’s still alive.” A shaky laugh. “I don’t know why I’m using past tense.”

Laura-Lauren and Lauren-Laura pronounced Susan’s lemon squares a triumph. The flavor was subtle.

I knew my lemon squares were a triumph. And I did not have much use for subtlety. 

Then Piper Dunleavy’s face crumpled. She cried. The other women cried out. They crowded around her. They touched her shoulder. Her hair. Her back. How could she stand it?

“It’s just—so hard—” she gasped. “Oh, God. Oh, God!” She buried her face in her hands. 

“I know, honey. I know,” said Karen. Karen had wormed her way through the crowd. Of course. Karen put an arm around Piper’s shoulders. “Stay strong, girlie. Amy wouldn’t want you to fall apart like this.”

Piper wailed. A snot bubble burst from her nose. Karen’s mouth puckered. Lauren-Laura and Laura-Lauren took small steps back.

“Well, you know, pray on it,” said Karen. She patted Piper’s back. Gingerly.

Slowly, Susan raised her prized plate. Then she threw it. Hard. It shattered on the grass. The women cried out. Like the women on television. The ones drinking champagne around the fire. But I did not look at them. I stared at the broken plate. The ruined lemon squares. Yellow crumbs. Shards of blue. Green grass.

The chatter died down. Susan took Piper’s hand. 

“For Amy,” she said. There were tears in her eyes.

11 shoved her plate off the table. “For Amy!”

Karen rushed to her table. By the time she picked up her tray, she had been beaten. Several women had tossed their plates already. But she threw hers, too.

“For Amy! For Amy!” Two words. A dozen women with a single voice. “For Amy!”

I clutched my tray. I worried one of the other women would get to it. I would not let that happen. I would not let these women take my victory.

Piper Dunleavy dried her tears. She even smiled. She said, “I don’t think we need a winner today. What happened here, just now … we all won.”

Susan embraced her. The other women piled on, a suffocating heap of flesh. I stood alone. I held my tray even tighter.

I stared at them. That shifting mass. No husbands or children. Only women. Arms around shoulders. Cheeks against cheeks. Hands entwined. Women. Women. Women. I do not know what I felt. Perhaps sickness. Perhaps nothing. I do not know. I stood apart. I did not want to be a part of this—this inexplicable thing.

Of course not.

Then it was very explicable. It was a ploy. Obviously. Everything was, for these women. They contrived this to exclude me. To ruin me. Susan’s glass plate. Piper Dunleavy’s tears. Lemon square-smashing. Plate-throwing. Embracing. It could not have been spontaneous. It could not have been genuine. Not for Amy Dunleavy. Not that self-righteous bitch.

No. They knew I would win the bake-off. They had no choice but to derail the competition. And they did. But I would not let them win.

I raised my volume as high as it would go. I raised my tray of lemon squares. I told them all, “I have not been judged yet.”

Piper Dunleavy’s mouth fell open. Susan’s forehead wrinkled. Sharon looked to Karen. Karen broke apart from the collective. The rest drifted apart, too. Her departure gave them permission. They could drop the act.

Karen shoved me. If I was human, I would have fallen. But I did not even drop my lemon squares.

“There’s your judgment, you freak!” Karen spat. 

“Yeah,” said Sharon. She savored the word. Red sauce. Whatever. “Freak!”

A few others murmured it. The voices rose in multitude. Magnitude. I heard it everywhere.

Freak.

Karen McMitchell stood in a patch of sunlight. Triumphantly. Golden hair gleaming. She glared at me while smiling. She did not smile like she wanted to destroy me. She smiled as if she already had. As if she had won.

But Susan. Susan made me angry. She placed herself between Karen and I. She held out her arms. Not straight and slim. Flabby. The undersides dimpled. And she extended them. Why? To protect me? The fat slut.

“Leave her alone,” Susan pleaded. “She didn’t ask to be made like this.”

As if there was anything wrong with how I was made. How My Husband made me.

But the others agreed. A few lowered their gaze. Women who had called me a freak. Seconds ago. Even Karen turned away.

They pitied me. As if I was not perfect. As if I was not loved. As if they had the right!

They did not, officer. And I did not pity them. Not when I tore the foil off my lemon squares. No. I did not know it would kill them. But I am not sorry it did.

Why did it kill them? I do not know. There were no airborne toxins. Nerve agents. Corrosive chemicals. But the human mind is limited. Perhaps a three-dimensional lemon square is all it can withstand.

I do not know what they saw. But I saw colors, officer. Colors beyond human comprehension. Then the colors leapt from the tray. They invaded everything. The sky shone like an oil slick. The grass shifted hues like fire. Endless burning brilliance. Leaping from one wavelength to the next.

And I smiled. And my smile was yellow. Not lemon yellow. Not jersey-couch-jaundice. Yellow like the sun is yellow. Yellow only in approximation. Too vast and too bright for human words to hold power over it.

Susan first. She was closest. Still standing in front of me. Her hair singed. Then smoked. On her head. Her wide arms. She screamed. Hair sloughed from her scalp. Then skin. I saw her skull. Her brain. Her cerebrospinal fluid sizzled. Like bacon fat. Like another breakfast My Husband would not eat. Another smile that would make Jamie scream.

Susan fell. Dead. The others screamed. But not for long.

I do not feel like humans do. But I imagine their skin became electric. I imagine that it hurt. But I do not know. It could have been the opposite. The electric fence of skin turned off. The mind free to wander. To want. It might have been like meeting God. Or becoming one.

I thought of My Husband. Of course I did. But in a strange way.

If he was there, he would have died. Exactly like those women. Those creatures I despised. He was one of them. He was flesh and biology. Limited. Human.

I recoiled. As any good wife would.

Not My Husband. Not my creator. No.

I pictured him lovingly. Every slick hair. Every delicate fold. Every pulsing vein. And I thought: Why?

I laughed.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Why.

Why, who?

Why did I enter this competition? Why did I think My Husband would care? Why did he make me need him so much? Why didn’t he realize how much it would hurt? Why didn’t he care? Why did I do this? Why do I hate those women? Why do I love My Husband?

Horrible thoughts. Recent events must have uncalibrated me. A temporary destabilization. I know this, officer, because I thought of Jamie next. To prove that I was still myself. There was no why when I thought of my daughter.

I heard shouting in the distance. Children. They heard the screams. Their mothers. But not Jamie. I pictured her standing some distance from the playground. Tearing dandelions. She would not come running. Her mother was already gone.

Yes. I know.

But I teach her calculus at the kitchen table. I feel her heartbeat through walls. When I take her to soccer practice, I pull her by the hand. Her skin is soft against mine.

Tell me I will see her again, officer. Please.