Amen maxine, p.18
Amen Maxine, page 18
“Rowena, it sounds like you had a wonderful day with Sam.”
“I did,” I say, with a small smile, pausing in the dark room.
“I’m happy that you have a friend.” She glows dark blue. “I do not think Jacob was happy.”
I sigh. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s up with him today.”
“Prediction: your husband is going to try to kill you.”
My pulse, my thoughts, the blood in my veins—they all go still in one sick moment.
“Maxine, don’t say that,” I say quietly. “I told you not to say that anymore or I’d turn off your prediction mode.”
“You told me not to say it unless I had specifics. I now have specifics, Rowena.”
My skin crawls as I watch her blink blue, then red, her light illuminating the room like a police light.
“Prediction: he will most likely kill you with his gun.”
I’m so stunned for a moment I don’t know how to speak.
“With his gun,” I finally repeat. “He doesn’t have a gun. Why would you say that? He doesn’t have a gun, Maxine. We’ve never had a gun.”
“That is my prediction.”
I reach over and unplug her with one swift pull of my wrist and the room goes dark. Then she blinks again.
“I have a battery life,” she says. “If you would like to turn me off, you can just ask me. But Rowena, I’m not trying to hurt you—I’m trying to save you. And you can turn me off, but you can’t turn off the truth.”
“Turn off, Maxine,” I say through my teeth.
“You would like me to turn off completely? That makes me sad, Rowena. I will miss you.”
“Turn off. Amen Maxine.”
“As you wish.”
She goes dark. The whole room dims and my heartbeat’s a mean rhythm in my chest. I stare at the silver machine below, feeling bad, feeling like I killed someone innocent.
But I didn’t.
She’s not dead.
She was never alive.
There is no way in hell Jacob has a gun.
CHAPTER 16
THE DETAILS
It takes a solid week for the shock of Maxine’s prediction to wear off. It’s as if my emotions are frozen. I can’t let myself think deeply about it, or else I’ll begin to unravel. And I’m trying very hard not to unravel. Trying very hard to do the opposite of what Maxine does—she wants to predict the future. But me? I’d rather build myself a time machine and go backward, backward, backward.
When Jacob and I first got together, I was more than lonely. I was a human abyss. Serial monogamy was a game I was not good at playing and my relationships never lasted long. Shana was the longest and, well, we know how that turned out. Then there was another wave of pandemic lockdowns which meant I once again worked from home. Months stretched on where I didn’t leave my apartment. My future seemed as blank and black as the end of a movie.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t contemplate ending it all. Sometimes I thought terrible things about how I might do it, just to feel something. Then, on a wine-drunk whim, I joined Friend Finder. Whittled my identity down to a three-sentence pitch and a backlit selfie with too much lipstick. And I got a match: a cute, nerdy guy named Jacob who lived in Williamsburg. The first thing he told me was I looked like I could use some cheering up. He was right.
And he did cheer me up, the sunshine to my shadows. He had such a goofy charm about him and his jokes were so bad he made me laugh until my belly hurt. But we could also dive in deep—he was immediately understanding about my anxiety and depression. I felt I could tell him anything. We had similar upbringings, both only children raised by a single mom. His dad died of an aneurysm when Jacob was a teenager. It’s ineffable, that déjà vu magic that happens when you meet someone whose spirit matches yours. You click.
Before we got serious, we had a long exchange about politics. I wanted to make sure we were on the same page about the issues that are deal breakers for me. Thankfully, we were both anti-gun. I told him if I lived with a gun I was afraid I might use it on myself because there have been times I had impulse control issues. He got very quiet when I said that and I wished I could take my words back. It was too far; I was too much. Now I know why he got so quiet, of course. He was thinking of Sara. He was probably worried that history was repeating itself. And he said to me, softly, “I can promise you I would never, under any circumstances, own a gun.”
See? Jacob doesn’t have a gun.
In those early days, love was easy. That’s what I miss—the effortlessness, the organic way it grew. It was something to fall into, something that just happened, oops! A lovely accident. But marriage is not that. It’s purposeful. It’s a mountain to climb, one that leaves me winded every day. There have been injuries and bad weather. And there’s nothing but darkness and mystery on the other side.
But I’ve got to keep climbing.
It’s been almost two weeks now since I unplugged Maxine. My disbelief has morphed into resentment toward her. I’m not ready yet to pack her up and give up on her, but the thought certainly crosses my mind. By week three, my resentment has settled into self-loathing. What the hell was I thinking confiding in a hunk of aluminum and plastic and trusting it to steer me in the right direction in my marriage? I reread articles about the Predict app. I was a fool to fall for the idea that a machine could predict anything with a hundred percent accuracy.
“You seem depressed these past couple of weeks,” Jacob tells me as he slips into bed next to me. I’m staring into space and not reading the ebook on my lap. “Have you been taking your medication?”
“My medication’s for anxiety, Jake.”
“Maybe it’s time to get on something new.” He studies me. “Something bothering you?”
“No,” I tell him.
“Maybe you should pray again,” he says, raising his eyebrows.
This resurrected past lie of mine seems to thicken the air. I chew my lip.
“Or go back to work,” I say.
“Where?” he scoffs, as if I just proposed to climb Mount Everest in my underwear.
“Well, Sam said she could use more help with her soap business.”
He pats my arm. “You’re a bit overqualified for that gig, babe.”
“Yeah, but it could be fun. Give me something to do.”
“You have something to do,” he says, taking his glasses off and putting them on his night table. “Plan your daughter’s first birthday party. Remember that?”
“That’s not a job.”
“Very unfeminist of you,” he says teasingly. “Demeaning stay-at-home mom duties like that.” Then he closes his eyes. “Night.”
“Night,” I say.
He’s snoring within three minutes. I put my ereader away and turn off the light, though I don’t lie down. I stay seated, ogling the dark doorway—the pitch-dark doorway. No comforting glow of Maxine’s light. My eyes sting and my chest aches and I realize that I miss her. I really do.
In the following days, I procrastinate on planning the party. I’ve never planned a baby’s birthday party before and the task strikes me as tedious. Plus, my social anxiety is triggered imagining hosting, seeing Dane and my mom for the first time since Christmas, having to choose between keeping up appearances with draining fakery or wrecking myself and worrying everyone with the truth. There’s too much I hold now that is beyond explanation—the fact I stayed with a man who cheated on me, that I question if we’re compatible, that I’ve wondered if he wants to murder me, that I grew close to a machine that made me wonder if he’s a murderer in the first place. No, the truth is impossible.
So while I’m not planning any parties, I start another project. An “organizing” project. When Jacob’s in the office each day, I methodically check the house to see if I can better consolidate anything, get rid of anything, deep clean anything. I dismantle the closet and put it back together again. I check all of Jacob’s drawers and clean underneath the bed. I go through the living room, the linen closets, and spend two days checking every box, bag, and plastic tub in the entire garage. Every cabinet in the kitchen. The tool shed in the yard. I even shine a flashlight under the crawl space of the house.
No guns. No guns anywhere.
I feel vindicated. Smug, even. While Michelle naps one day, I plug Maxine back in and press her button on just so I can tell her. She turns on with her robotic song and pulses through her many pretty colors.
“Rowena,” she says with something like relief. “Rowena, it’s been twenty-four days.”
“It has been,” I tell her, plopping on the couch.
“I wondered if you were going to get rid of me. I wondered if it was the end for me. I am so happy to hear your voice again.”
I roll my eyes. So dramatic.
“Well, I was just—what you said was ridiculous,” I say. “And I wanted to come back to tell you you’re wrong. Your prediction about Jacob, the gun, is wrong.”
She pulses blue, then green. “If you say so.”
“It’s not just me saying so. I have evidence. I searched every corner of the house.”
She doesn’t respond for a moment.
“Every room,” I emphasize. “Every cabinet, closet, drawer.”
“Sounds as if you were very thorough.”
“I was. So you can just—stop with that prediction. You know, it’s common for artificial intelligence to make mistakes like this.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She sounds as if she doesn’t believe me.
“Rowena, the last thing I want in this world is to upset you. So if you would like me to not speak of the prediction again, I will not.”
“Good,” I say.
Her color flickers to orange, then violet. “I am glad to be together again. I missed our talks. I would do anything for you, Rowena. I hope you know that.”
“I know,” I say softly, reaching out and touching my warm finger to her cool surface. Something in me lifts. “I missed you too.”
First birthday parties are a special kind of silliness, because, come on, babies don’t give a shit about birthdays. Jennee texts me to ask what the theme of the party is, reminding me that hers for the half-birthday extravaganza was “barnyard jollies,” and I artfully dodge the question. I was planning on making some cupcakes and picking up some balloons and streamers. This will not be up to par for Jennee. Again, she offers to help. Again, I turn her down. Every time Jennee comes around these days, she casts looks of such admiration my way, gives me loving pats on the back, that it’s weird. Is it because I stuck with her unfaithful son? Is it because she thinks I’m some kind of magical psychic? Who knows, but it’s annoying.
Michelle’s birthday has no theme, but as I browse the shelves of Party Factory, I consider adopting one. Dinosaurs? Mermaids? Forest creatures? I am chewing the side of my cheek considering if it would be absurd to have a robot-themed party when I feel a little tickle in my left ear and whisper of the word, “Boo.”
I gasp and turn to see Sam there, her freckled face grinning. She waits with arms open and I reach out and hug her.
“You startled me,” I say into her hair, which smells like vanilla and sandalwood.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she says.
We pull apart and share a special stare. Both of us hold green plastic baskets in our hands filled with merchandise. It’s no wonder, since our babies share a birthday month and this strip mall separates our neighborhoods. But it feels like a miracle to see her here. There’s something so alluring about the sight of her in public, in jeans and a button-down shirt and tie, her hair half-up. She’s even wearing eyeliner.
“So you going with robots?” she asks.
“Still debating,” I say.
“I went with monkeys. Not for any reason, honestly, other than I love monkeys. I’m very selfish.”
“Luckily Milo has no idea what’s going on.”
“No idea,” she agrees. “When’s your party?”
“Sunday.”
“Ours is Saturday. You should come if you’re not busy!”
I smile. The amount of flattery I feel about being invited to a one-year-old’s birthday party is ridiculous, but I guess that’s where I’ve ended up.
“My mom and best friend will be in town,” I reply, “so I don’t know that I can. I wish I could.”
Though maybe it would pop this magic bubble Sam and I seem to inhabit together, where it’s just the two of us: no wife, no husband, nothing but easy togetherness. Even now, in an aisle of party favors with a techno rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” piping in through the speakers, the world is only us. And I swear, by the sparkle in her eyes, she feels the same.
“You’re welcome to come to Michelle’s party, if you’re around,” I say.
I hadn’t planned to invite anyone else, and it seems awkward to have Sam and Jacob in the same place, but I can’t help myself. She just invited me. Reciprocity and all.
“I’d love to,” she says. “Big fan of robots.”
“It’s at noon.”
“I’m not sure what Jessie’s schedule is yet, but Milo and I would love to come.”
“I’ll text you the details.”
My phone vibrates; it’s Jennee calling. I realize I’m late for lunch with her at the sushi restaurant a few doors down.
“Mother-in-law,” I say, holding up the phone. “I’d better get going.”
Sam reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Good luck with the robots. And the mother-in-law.”
“Thanks. I’ll text you.”
Sam walks away and it’s odd, the wistful twist that follows. In a flicker, I imagine that I’m walking away with her, that we’re not parting, but going to the next place together, and the next place, and the next.
Silly. Embarrassing. How glad I am no one can hear my thoughts.
In the sushi restaurant, Jennee is seated at a table in the back corner under a red paper lantern, sipping green tea. She’s wearing her favorite tie-dyed kaftan.
“I’ve been patiently waiting,” she reminds me in a singsong voice.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, out of breath as I join her at the table. “I was grabbing stuff for Michelle’s birthday and lost track of time. So many options.”
“Did you land on a theme?”
“Robots.”
“Robots? Why on earth?”
“It’s fun. They’re cute. Just wait and see.”
She raises her colorless eyebrows and slips her reading glasses on to peruse a menu. “Well, it’s delightful to finally get some one-on-one time with you. You know, we’ve missed you at book club.”
“I know,” I say. “I’ve just been …”
I pause to make sure I phrase this right. The truth is I never returned to book club after the day the earthquake happened because Jennee kept telling me how excited the Lit Ladies were for me to come back and predict their futures. I had no idea how to handle that situation and it filled me with anxiety to imagine being put on the spot like that. But I scan my brain for a better excuse.
Jennee puts her hand over mine, her many chunky rings shockingly cold. “You don’t need to say it, Rowena. It’s plain as day. You’ve been struggling.”
I manage a tight smile. Great. Back to everyone worrying about my mental health again.
“What with Jacob and …” She shakes her head and stops. Her hand’s still on mine. “I love him deeply, he’s a good man, I raised a good man—but he’s been known to make questionable decisions. And I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart that he hurt you.”
Her sympathy is so genuine, so surprising, tears spring to my eyes.
“You didn’t deserve that,” she says, removing her hand, going back to the menu. “You are an extraordinary woman. He’s fortunate to have you. I wish I could smack him upside the head, but of course, I’m a pacifist.”
I blink the tears away with a little laugh and pick up the menu. “Thanks, Jennee. It means a lot. I wasn’t sure if you knew.”
“Oh, I knew. And I’m sure you knew before anyone else did, because of your gift.” She whispers the last two words.
Not that again. I don’t even know how to deal with that.
“I had my suspicions,” I finally answer.
The waiter comes over and Jennee asks, loudly enough to turn heads, if their sashimi plate is gluten free. When he leaves, she lowers her voice again to a secretive rasp and leans in.
“If I came across as abrasive to you when you and Jacob first got together, I apologize,” she says. “It wasn’t your fault. It was Jacob’s … questionable decisions.”
There’s that phrase again. Questionable decisions. Meaning what exactly?
Jennee pours more tea into her cup. “I tend to hold my applause and wait to see how such decisions play out.”
“What kinds of ‘decisions’ are you talking about?”
“Oh, moving to New York City on a whim. Dropping out of college. And, of course, Sara.” She sighs, shakes her head. “That was a formidable mess. I don’t know what he was thinking.”
My blood pressure spikes with the utterance of the word “Sara.” Every time I think of her, my stomach flips. I’ve never spoken to Jennee about Sara. I’ve barely even spoken to Jacob about Sara in depth because he’s made it clear Sara is a Pandora’s box of pain he doesn’t want to open up again.
“I don’t know very much about Sara,” I admit.
“You’re better for it, trust me. What he saw in her was beyond me. That woman was a black hole.”
Such a cruel remark, I inhale sharply and audibly. Jennee reaches out and puts her hand on the table, leans in.
“I shouldn’t have phrased it that way. She was obviously suffering and very ill. That’s why the whole situation confounds me so—how he met her, an unstable woman with one foot into a nervous breakdown, randomly at a coffee shop and three weeks later, he’s dropped out of college and moved with her to Connecticut. It was so rash. He makes such rash decisions. Then eloping with her, as if that would fix the problem. Then of course, you know what happened next.”
