Edie, What’s My Name?

You open up your drawer to find it empty. You could’ve sworn that this was where you kept the batteries. Instead, it’s just scrap sheets of paper, scribbled with once-important dates and passwords. You haven’t written anything down in years. You call out, “Edie, where did I put the batteries again?” A thin woman glides into the study, a gracefulness to her step that would almost be dancer-like if it weren’t mechanical. 

“I moved them into the living room. The third drawer from the left, down two rows.” 

You stutter slightly at this, “The living room? Why do I need batteries in the living room?” She moves closer now; you can see the intricacies of her facial structure. Tan silicone, speckled with artificial freckles and pores. Filled with nothing but colored dyes. 

“Seventy three percent of the time, you need batteries for your remote control television.” You can’t remember why you still have one of those clanky TV sets. The newest model is sharper and thinner. And if you need to change the channel, you can just ask Edie. You walk to the kitchen, it’s clean, white, and smooth. Just how you like it. A gray plate sits on the counter, neatly set with two over-medium eggs, sourdough toast, sliced honeydew, and a glass of perfectly vermillion orange juice. 

Breakfasts like this were the kind of treat Bethy used to cook for you. On lazy Sundays with partially cloudy skies, she’d wake up early, sneaking downstairs into the kitchen to quietly clang at pots and pans. She had even tried to bring it back up once, on your first Valentines day after getting married. The yolks had broken, leaving the runny dandelion colored goo to seep into the now soggy toast, mingling with the juice of the honeydew. You nearly dropped the plate on yourself laughing, watching her scramble when the coffee she’d brought up spilled all over the bed. You can still see the comforter when you close your eyes.

“Did I forget something? No bacon today, your blood pressure is already high.” Edie says. That slight unevenness to her voice reminds you of autotune sometimes. Her face is contemplative, posture hunched slightly as if she feels shameful.

“No, no. It’s perfect. I was just lost in thought.” You reassure her, sitting down and starting to pick at the eggs with your fork and knife. The seats are so cold.

“What did you need the batteries for?” she asks. Batteries, that’s right. You’d completely forgotten about the batteries. What would you do without Edie?

“It was—” Your mind blanks. “I forget.” She laughs, the same laugh you’ve heard nearly 100 times since you’d gotten her.

“I am sure you will remember soon.” Her body floats again, into the living room to sit perfectly erect on the couch. Facing the black screen of the shut off television. Where did Bethy sit again? You want to say it was square in the middle of the sofa; she liked to have the best view in the house. A cinephile and all that. You remember when she showed you Modern Times, the Chaplin flick. You were never into old movies, but she thought they were interesting. Liked to learn behind-the-scenes facts and analyze the storytelling. You always told her she would’ve made a beautiful movie star. Edie speaks up, “Your grocery delivery is here.” 

You stand up, taking a minute as you feel the pain bounce through your joints. You aren’t built the same anymore. 

“I can get it.” She affirms, standing up to glide through the hallway to the front door. The walls are empty, easier for Edie to clean that way. There used to be a painting or something by the front, but you can’t seem to recall what it looked like, or when it had vanished. You glance down the hallway, watching as the drones unceremoniously drop off the grocery order and fly up and into the misty sky. Edie effortlessly grabs a couple grocery bags, filled perfectly and efficiently. 

You suddenly realize that you can’t recall the last time you picked up groceries. The last time you even stepped foot outside of your door to grab them. Edie always does it for you. It’s because of your weak joints. She rushes over and gets to putting the groceries away. You don’t even know where everything goes anymore. 

You remember the days of the kids, when you and Bethy would take them to the grocery store. Inevitably sneaking candy and checkout lane toys into the cart when you weren’t looking. When they’d get away with it, you’d get on their asses about it. Put them in time out, hide the toys on a shelf much too high for them to reach. 

The kids. Oh my god, the kids. Why can’t you remember their names? In your head, their faces are blurry. You can’t even goddamn remember their hair color. There must be a picture of them somewhere, anywhere.

“Edie—” you start. Do you really need to ask your robot what the names of your children are? To ask what they look like?

“Yes?” She responds promptly, head tilted, awaiting further instructions. You stare blankly at her. “What is it?” 

The batteries.

Without another word, you bold to the third drawer from the left, down two rows in the living room. Feel the almost non-existent weight of the coin cell batteries as you bee-line somewhere. Your mind isn’t sharp enough to connect where your body is taking you. 

It’s when you get upstairs that you realize what it is. The digital picture-frame. Old and outdated by now, covered in dust on your bedroom shelf. Way up at the top. Wrinkled, sun-damaged hands reach towards it, just long enough to knock it off the shelf. As it tumbles to the floor, you hear a sharp snap.

You scramble to your knees, “No, no.” you repeat quietly, not wanting Edie to hear you. It’s not broken, you don’t think. Just cracked. And as your fingers run across the sharp split of glass, reminiscent of a spiderweb, you hope that the batteries work. That the faces of your children aren’t obstructed.