Small slips these are, memories they wouldn’t expect from a two-year-old, but my memories don’t differentiate—two days, two years, or ten—they are all the same weight and intensity.
‘I just found the house for him. I owed him that,’ he says. ‘I don’t know as much as you may think. Your father told me very little.’
‘To spare you, probably. The less you know, the less guilty, right?’
He doesn’t reply.
‘So you kept in touch with him all these years?’
‘Not at first, but after a few years I needed that connection. I needed someone who knew me before. So that the rest of my life wasn’t invalid. It’s more painful to leave your identity behind than most people imagine. Essentially, you’ve been erased. It doesn’t really make sense, I know, but when I finally contacted your dad, he listened and he understood. He was always there for me, from giving me his car when I needed to get away to being there when I needed to talk.’
‘You talk often?’
‘Maybe once every year or so. Not often. And then we have to be careful. He called me when you were hurt. He was wild with grief. And then he called me again a few days later. He babbled mostly. Thinking out loud. I thought he was drunk at first. Really talking more to himself than me, but I guess he just needed me there to listen. He said he knew he was going to lose you unless he did something … drastic. He didn’t tell me what. He just hung up, and I didn’t hear from him again until he called about needing a house that was out of the way.’
‘So that was your role. Long-distance Realtor.’ A slight tilt of his head, and a hesitant nod, makes me remember what Lily said. ‘Oh, and you were also the other half of the whisking team,’ I add.
‘Whisking?’
‘Getting me out of Dodge.’
He smiles. ‘Right. I’m part of the emergency drill. Your father said he’d rather keep you here since he can easily get medical support if something goes wrong, but if the authorities should find out, your grandmother is to bring you to my house. From there I take both of you to an airstrip not far from here. It’s only a short flight over the border into Mexico to another airstrip. And from there you’d fly to Italy. Italy has more liberal laws regarding transplants.’
‘And brain uploads? The Italians can’t count?’
He is silent.
‘Or to make matters simpler, and save you some time, my parents could just pop my backup in the mail instead. Parcel post could take me to Italy, probably for a lot less expense and worry. Or if they really want to splurge, they could overnight me with Air Express. Or they could—’
The rising delirium in my voice makes me stop my rant.
‘Come,’ Mr Bender says. ‘Let’s sit and talk for a bit.’
I nod and follow him up the slope to his house and we sit in two chairs on his back porch looking out at the pond and my own house on the other side.
‘What’s wrong with Dane, Mr Bender?’ I ask. ‘My friend Allys says he’s missing something.’
‘I don’t know exactly, Jenna, but I think your friend might be right. All I know for sure is that he’s trouble.’
‘But at least he’s legal.’
Mr Bender jogs his chair toward me and leans forward. ‘Listen to me, Jenna. There are different kinds of laws. Some are written in books, and some are written in here.’ He taps his chest. ‘Dane may have the paper kind of legal, but he has none of the kind that’s planted inside.’
But how does it get there?
I look at him, his hand still resting against his chest. How does the ‘legal’ kind get inside? Can it be sewn in by a surgeon with careful stitches?
‘What do you see, Mr Bender, when you look at me?’
I watch his eyes, taking in my skin, my face, my eyes. I see him consider every twitch, every blink of my eyes. I can see his every misstep, every considered lie, every return to truth. It’s a line he crosses often, and sometimes lies and truth melt into something else. His tongue runs across his lips. He blinks.
Truth. Lie. Truth. The something else. Confusion at what I am?
‘Please,’ I say.
‘I see a lot of complicated things when I look at you, Jenna. A horrible unexpected turn, a second chance, hope—’
I stand. ‘Hope for what, Mr Bender? A life where I can never be what I was, and can’t even be what I am now without hiding? This is all too hard.’