The Body Electric

Chapter 3

I watch Mom like a hawk, every nerve in my body strung out. How could I not have noticed her condition worsening before? She moves slower than normal. When I stare at her face, I notice that the skin just under her jaw is a little looser, as if she’s shriveling from the inside.

When the buzzer at the door sounds, I nearly fall out of my chair. I tap my fingers across the cuff at my wrist quickly. My cuffLINK is connected to our apartment, and my commands for the door are received immediately. It slides open noiselessly and Ms. White steps inside.

“How is everyone?” she asks cheerfully. Then, seeing my grim look, she asks again in a lower voice, “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Mom says, crossing the room. She picks up her brown purse from the bench by the door, but weighs it in her hand, as if the small bag was too heavy. She drops it back down; all her information is contained in her cuff, and she doesn’t really need anything in her purse, but I can’t help but think this is another sign that she’s growing weaker.

Ms. White’s eyes shoot to me for a more truthful answer about Mom’s condition. Ms. White is Mom’s best friend and my godmother, as well as manager of the Reverie Mental Spa—the business Mom developed before she got sick and where I intern. When I was younger, I tried calling her Aunt Jadis, even though we’re not related, but it was weird, like calling a teacher by her first name. She’s just always been Ms. White to me, even now, when she’s one of the few still standing beside me after Mom got so sick.

As I fill Ms. White in on this morning’s tomato episode, her mouth narrows to a thin line and her skin pales even more. Ms. White is originally from Germany, and her pale skin and platinum blond hair has always stood in contrast to Mom’s and my Mediterranean darkness. As Ms. White listens to me, I can’t help but compare her to Mom. In many ways, Ms. White looks like everything a responsible adult should be: she dresses in immaculate, designer linen suits, her hair is always razor-edge straight, and she just has the appearance of someone who gets things done. She looks exactly like what she is: a business manager. Beside her, Mom looks like an adult dressing up as a disheveled teenager, but it’s Mom who’s a literal genius and scientist.

“I’ll take her to Dr. Simpa, and let him know,” Ms. White tells me as we all head to the lift across from the apartment.

“I can do it,” I say immediately.

Ms. White smiles at me kindly. “Let me. It’s no trouble. And you look like you could use a break.”

The lift doors open to the lobby of the building. Mom bought this building specifically for the development of the Reverie Mental Spa—we only moved into the apartment upstairs after Dad died.

“Don’t you need me to work today?” I ask Ms. White as we move across the lobby floor.

Ms. White pauses. “I cancelled our appointments,” she says.

I stare at her, surprised. She didn’t know Mom was ill; how could she have known to clear the schedule?

“Something’s come up,” Ms. White says, lowering her voice. She drops back, letting Mom walk to the door on her own as she draws me to the side. “I’ll tell you more about it later, but we have a very special... er... client coming in tonight. You don’t have plans?”

I snort. I never have plans. All I do is work.

“We’ll meet back here, then. But for now—you should go out. Try not to worry.”

Ha. The only thing I do more than work is worry.

Ms. White leads Mom to the door, where she has a private transport waiting to whisk them to her doctor. I stand in the empty lobby, considering my options. With no clients, the spa is empty, and there’s really no point in my staying here.

The lobby is all glass and chrome, and immaculately appointed. The front wall is made entirely of glass, and is illuminated with our logo: a giant neon sheep. The sheep bounces over the letters of REVERIE, making them melt into our slogan: RELIVE your fondest memories with Reverie Mental Spa.

People from all over the world come here for Mom’s invention—a process that allows people to lucidly dream in a state of utter relaxation. It’s expensive, but worth it: Having a reverie is like reliving the best day of your life in perfect clarity.

I briefly consider ignoring Ms. White’s advice about going out. I could go to the basement level of the building, where Mom’s reverie chairs are set up. I could give myself a reverie and get lost in the past, forget about this morning, and Mom’s blood, and Mom’s disease, and everything else.

I could relive a day when Dad was still alive, and Mom wasn’t sick.

But then I remember the image of Dad’s flesh melting from his skin in my nightmare.

Maybe I should go out.