Chapter 31
“We have a no-return policy,” Luca tells Rebecca and Mark over Zoom.
Their officious Experience Facilitator is, as always, impeccably made up, smoky eyes and bloody lipstick.
A black turtleneck furls beneath that clearly defined jawbone.
Her hair is drawn back sharply enough to trace the perfectly smooth curve of her skull.
In the superb lighting, her cheekbones are contoured. She is devastatingly beautiful.
If she is real.
For not the first time, Rebecca wonders if her daughter is the one who is autistic or if in fact the ones actually on the spectrum are all the so-called normal girls with their Snapchat streaks and numb expressions and social-hierarchy dominance games.
“What does that mean?” Mark says, “precisely?”
“Your payment is nonrefundable.”
“That’s fine.” Rebecca keeps her voice low, even though Mr. Man has gone back into his prism to recharge for the night. “Can you just . . . take him?”
“He is highly customized. He was grown from you. There is no other use for him.”
“I don’t care,” Mark says. “That’s not our problem.”
“We’re uncomfortable with him now,” Rebecca adds, her tone can’t we all just get along conciliatory.
“Because he went to look for your necklace?”
“That’s what he said he did. But as I explained, there was a—an accident. With our neighbor . . .”
“What are you suggesting?”
“He killed our rabbit,” Mark says. “Skinned him for a meal.”
Rebecca pats the air for him to quiet, her anxious gaze on Maddy, but Maddy continues constructing the scorpion’s tail, her headphones snug. “Bao-Bao” is beside her on the mat, velvet ears poking up, nose quivering as he nibbles on a braided rope made of compressed timothy hay.
“Then you must have instructed him to do so,” Luca says. “He is entirely an extension of you. Remember: You are in charge.”
“I did not instruct him to do that,” Rebecca says.
“You have explained that. You have explained that it was a misunderstanding. As we explained in the onboarding process, you must be clear about what you are asking and what you want.”
“I was clear,” Rebecca says. “Just please. Can you take him?” She hates that she sounds like she is pleading. She hates that she is pleading.
Mark addresses Luca or the Luca bot: “Are you saying you will not pick him back up?”
“That is not part of our legally binding contract.”
“I can’t imagine there will be good press on this,” Mark says. “An unhappy family . . .” He lets the words hang.
Luca stares at them for a time, blinking at too-regular intervals, that perfect jaw set. “Are you threatening this corporation, Mr. Higgins?”
“No,” Mark says, though of course he is trying to. “I’m saying that this isn’t a great customer-service look for a new company.”
More evenly spaced blinks as Luca processes. “I remind you that we have access to all your family’s information.”
Mark goes rigid on the mattress next to her. Even sitting beside him, Rebecca can feel his body temperature rise. Or maybe that’s just hers.
“Are you threatening us?” Mark asks.
“Of course not. I am merely reminding you that this corporation and your family’s interests are organically and digitally intertwined.”
“I understand that,” Rebecca says, still trying for amity. “But after what happened to our neighbor . . . What if he harmed him?”
“He did not harm anyone,” Luca says. “Unless you wanted him to.”
“I didn’t want him to,” Rebecca insists. “I don’t want him to.”
“Communicate with him clearly.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Yes. It is. You are doing it. Right now.”
“What does that mean?”
There is a suspended moment. And then Rebecca sees Mark’s eyes drop to regard his cell phone leerily.
Rebecca follows his stare as it next pulls to the teddy bear nanny cam.
She feels her own iPhone in her pocket, pressed into her thigh, its camera and microphone ever present.
And she remembers that—of course—Mr. Man can hear and see all, even when his eyes are closed, even when he is locked in his electronic casket recharging. Her hand has crept over to find Mark’s.
“He has access,” Luca says, “to everything.”
Horripilation creeps across Rebecca’s flesh, tightening the skin at the small of her back, her nape, her hairline.
She senses heat like pressure on the side of her face. Even before she drags her gaze up, she knows with terrible certainty that something is watching her.
A man’s backlit form stands in the open doorway of Maddy’s bedroom.
Rebecca tries to scream but the sound is stifled in her throat. Her hand jerks in Mark’s, and his knees jump, knocking the laptop from his lap. It bounces on Maddy’s bed, snapping shut, terminating their chat.
She blinks, and Mr. Man is gone.
“What?” Mark is saying, but she can barely hear him over the thundering rush in her head. “What?”
“He was there.” Rebecca’s voice sounds strangled. “Watching us.”
Mark slides off the bed, trying to let go of her hand, but she holds on, rising with him.
Maddy continues on with her scorpion, oblivious beneath the pink headphones. When she is focused, her concentration is unbreakable.
Mark leads out of the bedroom and down the hall.
The nursery door is open.
The lights are off.
The lid of the prism is raised.
Mr. Man waits in the darkness, standing by the closet.
He raises his arms wide above his head, a predatory display.
Rebecca yelps, jumping behind Mark. They tense, bracing for attack.
But it is not a show of aggression.
Mr. Man is stretching.
Next he does deep knee bends, the movement brisk, muscular. He is loosening his body up from his time in the prism.
“Maybe you should go back in.” Mark’s voice is dry, feeble. “Keep recharging.”
They wait for a response until it becomes clear that no response is forthcoming.
Mr. Man laces his fingers together and twist-thrusts his hands outward. There is a cracking of joints or whatever it is that Mr. Man has. The precision of his motions betrays just how powerful he is.
For the first time, Rebecca fully comprehends what they have done, that they have invited something with full-grown-man strength to live under their roof.
Mr. Man takes a high grip on the bathroom doorjamb and wings his arm back, opening his shoulder and chest on one side and then the other, each flicker of movement uncannily precise.
Mark and Rebecca steal a look at each other. What the hell are they supposed to do?
Rebecca steps out from behind Mark. “Look, I know you overheard our conversation with Luca . . .”
Mr. Man’s head swivels over to her. In the darkness of the bedroom, his features are not visible. There is only a black oval where his face should be. He is still stretching, pulling his shoulder blades back, together, but his head remains completely motionless, the effect deeply unsettling.
Her voice wobbles, almost fails: “I think we’d do well to take a break. Wouldn’t you like to take a break too?”
“No.” Mr. Man arches backward, flexing his lumbar. “I would not.”
“We’d like you to get back into the prism,” Mark says. His tone is tough, but Rebecca can sense the fear beneath it, and she knows that Mr. Man can as well.
Mr. Man stops stretching, statue still. He seems like something carved from wood, a totem pole.
Rebecca’s muscles are tight enough to cramp.
Her calves, hip flexors, the side of her neck—everything aches.
She feels coiled, ready to flee if Mr. Man springs at them, which it seems he will at any moment.
Menace rolls off him, tangible enough to choke on.
She cannot find enough oxygen, can’t manage to draw in a full breath.
When Mr. Man speaks, his voice comes as a lifeless monotone: “I have more to take care of for you.”
A scream shatters the silence—Maddy. A deep, pained cry of anguish.
Rebecca’s body moves before her brain catches up. She is running up the hall, bare feet pounding the tiles, Mark behind her.
She bursts into Maddy’s bedroom and sees Maddy backed all the way to the toy bin rack, her finger shoved in her mouth. She stares wild-eyed at “Bao-Bao,” who sits in the middle of the foam play area, marble eyed and innocent. The Lego giraffe lies in pieces, trampled.
“He bit me,” Maddy shrieks. “He bit my finger.”
The cries shuddering out of her are unadulterated, pure sorrow. She cannot comprehend that this has happened to her.
Rebecca moves to her, arms spread, but Maddy closes her eyes and stamps her feet; touch will send her further into the abyss. Her headphones have fallen around her neck.
On her knees, Rebecca makes soothing noises, and finally Maddy relents and tumbles into her, arms thrown weakly around her neck, hot face pressed to her cheek.
“I don’t know why he bit me,” she says. “I don’t know what I did.”
“You didn’t do anything, Maddysaurus. You didn’t do anything at all.”
Maddy pulls away, points at the rabbit. “Get him out of here,” she says angrily. “Get him gone.”
Rebecca scoops up the bunny. Mark is still in the doorway, breathing hard. He steps backward, peers down the hall.
Mr. Man. They have forgotten about Mr. Man.
“We’ll take care of Bao-Bao,” Rebecca tells Maddy. “You put Mr. Giraffe back together.”
Maddy screws a fist into her eye socket like a much younger child than she is. She nods.
Holding not-Bao-Bao tight to her chest, Rebecca hurries down the hall with Mark.
In the nursery, the prism lid is lifted.
The casket is empty.
And Mr. Man is nowhere to be seen.