Robert Sawyer - Mindscan

He looked at me, trying to decide, I guess, whether to accept this olive branch. Finally, he shrugged. “All sorts of things. The Scopes Trial. The Great Depression. WWII. JFK. The Cuban Missile Crisis. Vietnam. Apollo . Watergate. Iran-Contra.”

Apollo had gone to the moon, and WWII and Vietnam were wars—but I didn’t have a clue what the others were. Jesus Christ, the twentieth century. Karen’s century.

“I’ll get you to tell me about those some day,” I said, still trying to ingratiate myself. “It all sounds fascinating.”

He looked at me. “You must remember some of them,” he said. “I mean, I know you’ve chosen to look young now, but…”

Karen glanced at me, and I shrugged a little. It had to come out at some point. “This new face is only a little bit more youthful-looking than my original.” I paused. “I’m forty-four.”

Tyler blinked. “Forty-four? God, you’re younger than I am!”

“Yup. I was born in 2001—on the first of January, as a matter of fact. I was the—”

“You’re younger than I am,” repeated Tyler, “and you’re dating my mother.”

“Tyler, please,” said Karen. She took the seat next to me on the couch.

His eyes drilled into her, emerald lasers. “Well, that’s what you said on the phone—you wanted me to meet the man you’re dating. Mother, you’re eighty-five, and he’s barely half that.”

“But I don’t feel eighty-five,” said Karen. “And I don’t look it anymore.”

“It’s all fake,” said Tyler.

“No, it’s not,” replied Karen firmly. “It’s real. I’m real, and I’m human, and I’m alive—more alive than I’ve been in years. And Jake is my friend, and being with him makes me happy. You do want me to be happy, don’t you, Tyler?”

“Yes, but…” He looked at his mother. “But, for God’s sake…”

Karen frowned, something she rarely did. There was a strange bunching of her plastiskin between her lower lip and her chin when she did so; she’d have to get Dr. Porter to fix that. “ ‘For God’s sake,’ ” repeated Karen, and she shook her head. “You want me to be dating someone my own age—someone who’s about to die? Or would you rather I wasn’t dating at all?”

“Pop would—”

“You know I loved your father—I loved Ryan Horowitz totally and completely. This has nothing to do with him.”

“He’s only been dead two years,” said Tyler.

“It’ll be three in November,” said Karen. “And besides…”

“Yes?” said Tyler, as if daring her to elaborate. I knew what Karen wasn’t saying: that Ryan had had Alzheimer’s for years before his body had finally given up, that Karen had essentially been alone for much longer than just since he’d died. But Karen wasn’t about to be sucked into that trap. Instead, as was her wont, her gift, her raison d’etre , she told a story.

“When I was nineteen, Tyler, I fell in love with Daron Bessarian, a nice non-Jewish boy. Now, you barely remember your grandfather, I’m sure, but he was a Holocaust survivor, and he didn’t want me dating somebody who wasn’t a Jew. He kept saying to me, ‘If they come for us again, this boy—he would hide you? When they try to take your home, he would stand up for you?’ And I said, ‘Of course he would. Daron would do anything for me.’ But my father didn’t believe it, and when Daron and I got married, he refused to come to the wedding. Now, yes, Daron and I eventually divorced, but that was for our own reasons. But I didn’t let my father dictate who I should be with back then, and I’m not going to let my son dictate it now. So, mind your manners, Tyler, have a seat, and enjoy the evening.”

Tyler took a deep breath and let it out noisily. “All right.” He looked around, found the chair furthest from me, and plopped himself in it. “When do we eat?”

I dropped my gaze to the floor.

“Oh, right,” said Tyler. “When do I eat?”

“Whenever you want to, my dear,” said Karen. “I thought we’d order you a pizza. You…”

I was sure she’d been about to say something like, “You always liked pizza,” but had presumably thought better of it. Too much like an elderly mother lamenting that her little boy was all grown up now.

Tyler nodded after a moment. “Pizza is fine. Do you have a good local place? A mom-and-pop?”

I thought I could build on this. “You don’t like big chains, either?”

Tyler regarded me. He seemed almost offended that I was trying to find a common ground between us. But, after a moment, he said, “Yeah. I hate them. Did your folks run a small business?”

“Well, it was s family business…” I said.

Tyler narrowed his green eyes suspiciously. “Meaning what?”

“They’re in the beer business.”

“How so? Some little microbrewery?”

This had to come out at some point, too. “No. Not a microbrewery,” I said. “My last name is Sullivan, and—”

“Sullivan?” snapped Tyler. “As in Sullivan’s Select?”

“Yes. My father was a vice-president, and—”

Tyler nodded as if I’d just handed down an indictment. “Nepotism,” he said. “Rich old fat cat.”

I was going to let it go, but Karen had had enough. “Actually, Jake’s father suffered severe brain damage when he was thirty-nine. He’s been in a vegetative state for getting on thirty years now.”

“Oh,” replied Tyler, softly. “Urn, I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“So … ah.” Tyler was perhaps thinking of all the chronological absurdities here. Him older than me, my father incapacitated at an age around our own, a man in his forties dating a woman in her eighties, a woman who grew up in the last millennium with a man who grew up in this one.

“Look,” I said, “I know this is awkward. But the fact of the matter is that Karen and I are together. And it really would make both of us happy if you and I could get along.”

“Who said anything about not getting along?” replied Tyler, sounding quite defensive.

“Well, no one, but…” I stopped, tried another tack. “Let’s start over, shall we?” I got up, walked over to where he was now sitting, and stuck out my hand again. “I’m Jake Sullivan. Pleased to meet you.”

Tyler looked as though he was contemplating whether to go along with this rebooting of things. But, after a moment, he took my hand and shook it. But he wouldn’t go so far with the charade as to introduce himself again.

“Now,” said Karen, “why don’t you order that pizza? Try Pappa Luigi’s. I couldn’t eat pizza these last few years, but people said they were good.”

“Phone,” Tyler said, into the air, “call Papa Luigi’s.”

The phone did so, and Tyler placed his order.

I sat down again, this time taking a straight-back wooden chair that I would have found uncomfortable had my body been subject to fatigue. We all talked awkwardly for a while. Tyler had lots of questions about the Mindscan process, and Karen answered them.

The pizza was supposed to be here in thirty minutes or it would be free; I’d have paid a lot to get it here even faster than that to put an end to the strained conversation, but at last the doorbell rang again. Karen insisted on paying, over Tyler’s protests. ("You’re not going to have any, after all.” “But I did invite you for dinner.") She carried the box into the kitchen, and set it on top of the stove. She then got Tyler a plate, and he helped himself to a steaming slice. The cheese pulled away in strings that he had to sever with his fingers. The toppings—pepperoni, onions, and bacon—looked perfectly decadent: the disks of pepperoni curling up at the edges, creating little artificial lakes of oil; the crisp bacon strips crisscrossing the flat Earth of cheese; the onions concentric semicircles darkened almost to black at their tips.