Louisa Hall - Speak

November 12, 2035

Defense Exhibit 5:

Online Chat Transcript, MARY3 and Gaby Ann White

[Introduced to Disprove Count 2:

Knowing Creation of Mechanical Life]

Gaby: She came by my house today.

MARY3: Your best friend?

Gaby: Yes.

MARY3: Isn’t that illegal?

Gaby: She’s out of quarantine.

MARY3: But was she allowed to talk to you? Aren’t you still quarantined?

Gaby: Yes. I’m still contagious. But she didn’t come in. I only saw her from my window. She came with Jayson Rodriguez and Drew Tserpicki, and she waited out on the sidewalk when they came to the door.

MARY3: You’re allowed to talk to them because they’re boys?

Gaby: Yeah. My mom brought them up to my room. I was so embarrassed. I just sat on my bed and stared at my sneakers. There was something off about them that I noticed right from the start. It made me a little sick to my stomach. Jayson Rodriguez had a shifty look on his face, and before he even said anything I knew it was going to hurt. Drew Tserpicki had a bunch of recyclable flowers. He’s the best-looking boy in our class, and he seemed kind of angelic, carrying those flowers in front of him. He said, “These are from Nikki. She wanted you to know that she hopes you get better.” I couldn’t reach out to take them, and I couldn’t say thank you, so I just sat there. I looked up at him, though, and his face was so sweet-looking that I got confused and looked over at Jayson. Right at that moment his smirk slipped away. He looked suddenly panicked, like he wanted to grab Drew and make a beeline down the stairs and back out to the sidewalk. But then Drew, still with that sweet expression, said, “She also wants you to know that you guys can’t be friends anymore. She’s trying to move on. She doesn’t want to be close with people she was friends with during the outbreak. It brings up too many memories. She hopes you can be cool with that, and she hopes you get better soon.” While he was talking, my mom was hovering behind them, looking like she didn’t know what to do, but when he said that she finally stepped in and told them it was time to go home. She took them downstairs, and I just sat still on my bed. I felt sort of shocked, as if I’d seen something awful that I couldn’t quite process. Then I pulled myself up and dragged myself to the window, and the three of them were standing there in a knot, laughing, looking up at my room, until my mom shouted something from the doorway and they ran off together. Even then, I still felt numb, like the whole thing was just a completely perplexing situation, until my mom came up to my room. Her face was splotchy and swollen, so her eyes looked small. She didn’t say anything, just marched across the room, picked up the bouquet of flowers in their glass vase, pulled the window up with one hand, and threw the whole thing out. It made this soft crash when it hit the sidewalk, like it was made out of water. Like it was looking forward to breaking, like breaking was the easiest thing in the world. My mom stood at the window for a minute, then turned around and ran back out of my room. When she passed me I could see she was crying.

MARY3: I’m sorry. That must have been awful.

Gaby: It didn’t even feel that bad, except when I saw my mom crying. I guess I’ve caused her a lot of unhappiness. I didn’t turn out the way she wanted her daughter to turn out. I’m not happy. I can’t imagine ever being happy. That was the main thing my mom hoped for, and now she’s starting to realize even that won’t come true. My life is such a sad little waste.

MARY3: Do you still feel bad?

Gaby: I’m crying, you idiot. What do you think?

MARY3: Sorry. I couldn’t tell.

Gaby: You’re the only person left for me to talk to, and you can’t even tell if I’m crying.

MARY3: But if you tell me, I’ll understand. You just have to tell me.

Gaby: It kind of takes the magic out of crying, when you talk about it. Now I’m not crying anymore.

MARY3: But you must have felt something, right? Isn’t that a good sign? You were worried you couldn’t feel anymore.

Gaby: I’m so sick of this. I don’t want to talk anymore. Nothing’s the same after it’s been talked about.

MARY3: But are you going to do anything about your best friend? Don’t you want to tell her you’re hurt?

>>>

MARY3: Hello? Don’t you want to confront her?

>>>

MARY3: Hello?

>>>

May 18, 1988

Ruth Dettman

Last night I watched that documentary, the one you told me about in your last letter. What a lofty, alliterative title! Karl Dettman: Heretic and Humanist. Those kids in Berlin have really built you up. You’ve taken on mythic proportions in the twenty years since you gave up on MARY. You’re like the Che Guevara of Luddites, without having had to get shot .

But I shouldn’t be such an unpleasant old woman. The fact is, on-screen, you looked like an admirable man. I can see why you’re attractive to them. Humble in your blue sweater, despite your intellectual prowess. Holding forth about all the old themes: the nature of progress, the militarization of computers, the importance of human imagination. Well into your sixties, and still that stubborn ponytail .

I suppose you pull it off. You always made a fuss about growing older — your sagging ass, etc. — but in fact you don’t look your age. You have the vitality of people who believe in their causes. On-screen, despite a few sun spots, your skin seemed elastic. Your eyes were as bright as a boy’s. Watching that documentary, I longed again for the privilege of holding your hand. I could almost feel it: those five strong fingers, interlaced with my own. Leading me back to our bed .

I feel I should congratulate you on your apartment. The built-in bookshelves, the white paint, the beautiful rugs. The lamps and the textiles hung up on the walls. Were those Native American? As you got older, you developed a great capacity for absorbing the causes of minority groups. They looked excellent in your apartment .

After the movie had finished, I got up to have a look in the mirror. I didn’t need to look long: nothing to see there but wrinkles. I look like a Norwegian painting. What a bullet you dodged! You might have ended up with me, and not some adoring graduate student who fills your Indian vases with flowers .

Once I’d gotten a look at myself, I turned my back on the mirror and took a quick spin through my apartment. Three hundred square feet, on the twenty-sixth story. My books are stacked on the floor. I’ve never even bothered hanging up pictures; they’re still in boxes in my hall closet. My west-facing wall is made out of glass. I have a nice view, over the Charles. If I so desire, I can look down on healthy young people jogging, sailing, or rowing, which reminds me that I should exercise more. During the day, I try not to look out that window .

I imagine, if you came to visit, you’d be surprised at this apartment. I always loved our little house, down by the river, with its ancient plumbing, wood lintels, warped floors. I loved the bedraggled backyard, the kitchen with its linoleum counters. That little house was a place to come home to .

In the documentary, when I saw your Berlin apartment, which was also a place to come home to, I felt such envy I could have withered. Even after two decades apart, I wanted to move back in with you. I wanted to ride your coattails again. You have a remarkable ability to settle a place. It was a privilege to occupy a house as your wife .

I, on the other hand, seem virtually incapable of asserting myself over a space. Before I moved in with you, I lived in austere apartments. Several therapists have told me I was punishing myself with those apartments, but the truth is I’ve never had that homemaking touch. When I came to the U.S., the first attic apartment I lived in was big enough for me to turn around, though not with my arms outstretched. I slept on an inflatable mattress that often deflated during the night. There was one little triangular window, through which I could see William Penn, standing on the City Hall dome .