Chapter 3
CHAPTER
A WAVE OF MELANCHOLY descends. I never had the chance to finish compiling the data, prove my thesis.
But I’ve gone back to it over the years, picked it up now and then.
It’s a touchstone that reminds me of a time when I was finally turning into the person I wanted to be.
For the past six months, I’ve been focused on developing a framework for growing the program.
The idea is to make it not only able to detect lies, but eventually capable of giving advice.
I have no idea how to do this, but I’m sifting through the options.
Bruce would say it’s a rabbit hole and I’m Alice, chasing a white bunny.
He’s probably right. I mean, my doctoral ship sailed almost fifteen years ago.
I’m so far behind the newest advances it’s laughable.
I do wonder, though, what Dr. Edmunds would say if he knew my current plan.
He’d probably ask me to consider the AI implications, but he’d also want to know, why a program that gives advice, too?
The answer is embarrassing. Over the years, my confidence has deteriorated.
It makes no sense—Girl Scout leader, PTA member, computer whiz, and consummate corporate wife …
All true. But the world I inhabit is sometimes so foreign to me, even now, it’s like living on a different planet.
I’ve heard it can take a lifetime abroad to master a new culture and language.
That even when you’re fluent, it’s still difficult to fit in.
I want a safeguard in order to avoid missteps.
A guaranteed way to be the best wife (lately it feels like I’m somehow failing, though I can’t pinpoint how), mother (a constant minefield, more so as the years go by), and friend (I can never lose Val and Kiki, who are both best friends and guides).
Pushing the past aside, I pull up the recording made of Bruce this morning, load it.
My old thesis is far from done. I still have reams of data to parse.
Basically, I need to teach my program how to most accurately detect lies and understand the social nuances of infinite situations.
A few months ago, I finally began phase one, testing a skeletal program that uses previous recordings.
For fun, I’m now adding Bruce to that mix.
If he knew I’d taped him this morning, he’d be annoyed.
Not because he has anything to hide. Bruce would just think it was a colossal waste of energy.
If it doesn’t have a bottom line, can’t be monetized, my husband isn’t interested.
When you grow up like him, feeling like you’re behind in the race to succeed, you don’t want to waste a moment.
Bruce can’t possibly understand that when you’re raised the way I was, always afraid of losing what little you have, unsure who to trust and how to navigate the world, the need for truth and advice is ever-present.
Once my husband’s voice has downloaded, the icon I created—an image of a woman in a white off-the-shoulder gown, with wide blue eyes and long blond hair topped with a crown of roses—spins as the program does its thing. It took me weeks to make that likeness, but it adds a flare.
My body tenses. What am I worried about? Lately a sense of unease has permeated through me, like a low-level chronic illness. Maybe it’s my age—is thirty-eight too early for a midlife crisis? Am I regretting past decisions, or wishing for the road not taken? That’s silly. Circe is my world.
My thoughts drift back to breakfast. Bruce’s patience with me has been decreasing in direct proportion to his success.
Other things have declined, too. We’ve been married fifteen years.
Familiarity can sometimes breed disinterest, but that doesn’t mean our commitment to each other has changed.
Still, sex used to be so important to us. Is that why things are feeling off?
As I wait for my program to tell me whether Bruce was lying, my stomach seesaws. I hope he was, and that he’s planned a special night. Fifteen is a big number. It seems wrong to complain, though. All I ever wished for was love and stability, and I got so much more.
Finally, the icon slows, then stops. Her hair settles back on polished shoulders. A message appears.
Can’t tonight. Work meeting. New office in Chicago.
That is a lie.
Relief rains down and I release the breath stacked like sandbags in my lungs.
Disaster averted. Midlife crisis ten years off.
Bruce has been distracted lately; who wouldn’t be, running a huge company with offices in San Francisco, LA, Portland, and Seattle, and another one about to open in Chicago? But he didn’t forget.
Of course, I could’ve told him or taken it upon myself to surprise Bruce. I have done that in the past. But come on! No matter how long you’ve been married, sometimes you just need your man to, well, sweep you off your feet.
The icon spins again, a glitch. They abound at this early stage of a program. It revolves two, three, four more times, then abruptly stops.
I don’t mind.
That is a lie.
I must’ve forgotten to stop recording. “Of course it’s a lie,” I say with a laugh. “What woman wouldn’t mind?” I wish my program could already respond, tell me I’m normal, then drop the perfect morsel to see me through and settle nerves that are still twitching.
Again, the icon resumes spinning. Her blond hair whips sideways as she turns in tight circles, then comes to a halt.
’Tis always the season for scams.
That is a lie.
The icon remains still. Her eyes, the color of the Pacific Ocean, the darkest of blues, regard me. It doesn’t mean anything, just another error in the code I’ve written. So why do I imagine sharks lurking beneath the calm of her irises?
An old-fashioned ringtone cuts through the quiet.
It’s Bruce’s. He left for work fifteen minutes ago.
If he doesn’t realize he forgot his phone before he gets to the office, I’ll drive the half hour and drop it off for him.
Now I search for his iPhone and find it under the San Francisco Times.
The screen says Potential Spam. I hesitate—Bruce doesn’t like me to engage with spammers—then pick up anyway.
“Hello … Hello?” The line is silent, but I hear someone breathing …