"She's flourishing," said Maryse.
"She's grown," I said.
"Lem seems like a good boy."
"He has a good heart."
"He's a little odd, though," said Maryse. "Is he on drugs?"
"Usually," I said.
"I guess people can change."
"Have I?"
"Have you what?"
"Changed."
"I see an arc," said Maryse. "A trajectory."
"Really?"
"Maybe not," said Maryse. "But sometimes it's about how you transform the people around you. Sometimes someone has to be the messenger."
"Is that me?"
"No," said Maryse.
"Who am I, then?"
"You're Steve."
"I refuse that," I said. "Even as life refuses me."
"Maybe it's not a refusal, Steve," said Maryse. "Maybe there is a higher power and he or she or it has plans for you."
"Do you believe that?"
"No," said Maryse.
"Van Winkie," said Lem, from the doorway.
"The Wrist," I said.
Lem sat down, chucked me under the chin.
"I just want to say that whatever happens, I'll take care of Fiona. I don't want you to worry about her."
"We know what's going to happen."
"Either way," said Lem.
"Okay," I said. "Either way."
"Do you want some morphine?"
"I'm fine."
"Do you mind if I have some?" said Lem. "You know, the stress. My girlfriend's dad is dying."
"Okay," I said. "Do me, too."
The Philosopher and the Mechanic dropped by for occasional visits. Transition maintenance, I heard the Mechanic call it.
Departure management, the Philosopher said.
It'd been nearly two years since my checkup.
"Do you remember when we first diagnosed you?" said the Philosopher.
"Sure."
"The salad days."
It was a time for testimonials, recollections, goodbyes, Godspeeds.
William the Fulfiller wanted absolution.
"What happened with me and Maryse, I know how much pain we caused you. It's tragic the way happiness hurts others."
"It's okay."
"We're happy," he said.
"I know."
"But it hurt you."
"Yes, it did."
"Exactly," he said. "I just wanted to be sure."
The Philosopher and the Mechanic said it could be any day. There was no way to calculate. By their calculations there could be no calculations. Me, I was on the uptick, the pain on slow fade, a new feeling in my veins, a deep living slither. People would be disappointed. I began to flutter my eyelids a bit, affect a weak grip, mutter cryptic phrases tinged with tiny history, a Dutch Schultz delirium of baby talk and birch nest slaughter.
"Cudahy," I said, "don't burn them, they're butterflies!"
"Who's the navigator? I'm the navigator. I'm the snack-giver. I'm your mommy in snacks."
"Some companies make powerful computers. We make powerful people."
"Perhaps the most prevalent trope in fire safety literature is the notion of the regrouping area. The family gathers at a point distant enough from the conflagration to prevent a singeing or charring of the ideation of domesticity."
"Vast gulfs may be received on vast gulf days. One radio equals one radio nation. I heard the tittering of Velcro. Naperton's grapefruit brain, my pupilage. True puny. Renee, Renee, my rivulet."
"Can't be long now," said the Mechanic.
"Is this all some kind of gag?"
Fiona sang to me, softly, our aardvark song:
Aardvark
Lovely aardvark
I have only the vaguest sense
Of what you look like
I know there's a nose
That works like a hose
Beyond that
I just have certain cultural associations
It was really more of a spoken-word piece.
"Daddy?" said Fiona.
"Yes, darling?"
"Do you remember when I was really sick and you ran through the streets with me in your arms?"
"My doll-daughter."
"What?"
"I remember."
"Do you think I suffered any brain damage from the fever?"
"What?"
"Sometimes I feel like I'm not as smart as I should be."
"You're almost a genius, Fiona."
"And I have to live with that almost every day of my life."
"I'm sorry, baby. But I think you're just fine."
"Daddy, when you're dead, I'm going to be so fucking pissed at you. Do you know that? It's a grief mechanism, or whatever, but I'm really going to hate your fucking guts for a while. It'll take a long time to work it all through. I've already warned Lem. He's okay with it. Lem is amazing, Daddy. Thank you for bringing him to me. He's like some kind of inner astronaut. He drifts along in the deep space of his consciousness like no one I've ever been with before. Daddy, do you know what I mean when I say 'been with'? I mean, of course you know. But that's the thing about euphemisms. Most of them are true. Ha! That's pretty funny. But what I really mean, Daddy, is have you ever pictured me being with someone? I know fathers and daughters are supposed to have this bond, I mean, I know they do, even when I was at my most disaffected and had to be boarded at the School for it, even then I felt it, Daddy, and I think we're all adult enough to allow that there's got to be some sexual element inherent in this bond, Daddy, but people tend to leave off right there, don't they? For good reason, I guess. But really, have you ever really pictured it? Like have you ever pictured me being pussy-licked, say? Or maybe titty-tugged? Butt-banged? Clit-bit? Have you, Daddy? Did any of those particular pictures ever light up your inner astronaut viewing screen? Me on my knobby knees, cooz up in the air like a hairy flower, some big cock, some huge anonymous fuck stick jabbing into my tight, wet, almost-genius-caliber twat, me moaning and bucking, moaning and bucking-"
I took her hand, tenderly.
"Ow."
"Not really," I said.
"I'm going to hate you when you're dead, Daddy. It's a fact. Are you going to be all right with that?"
"Fiona," I said.
"I hate you now. Why did you have to be such a bad father?"
"I wasn't so bad."
"You were less than bad, which is worse. I'm fifteen fucking years old. What am I going to do without my fucked-up Daddy?"
She reached for me under the bedsheet.
"You watch," she said, "when you're dead I'm going to cut it off and put it in my ballerina box."
"Fiona!" I said. "Stop!"
Lem burst into the room.
"What's going on?" he said.
"Lem," said Fiona, "have you seen my ballerina box?"
Now the PERPS were popping up. People With PREXIS, all over the news. A rash of them in Wichita, in Wilmington, in Bakersfield, Dubuque. But this was not the crisis predicted, the plague ordained. They weren't dying. They were suing. Class action of the Infortunate.
"We're going after the charlatans," a federal prosecutor announced on the evening news. "This disease is nothing but a marketing ploy. Show me one death from PREXIS! Just one! It's time to close this shop down and show the world who the real perps are!"
The Mechanic came to see me.
"We're counting on you," he said. "Don't fuck it up."
"If you tell me not to fuck it up," I said, "I'll fuck it up."
"Then hang in there, dammit."
"What if I'm not dying?" I said.
"We've been through this before," said the Mechanic. "You're absolutely dying. But the ball's in your court."
That night Maryse wheeled me out to the dining room. The good linen was on the table, the good silver, the good silver napkin rings. There were bottles of burgundy, roses in a cut-glass vase, a rare roast garnished with parsley. I dipped my thumb in the gravy boat, licked it, swooned. Even the twine that bound the meat was beautiful.