Rust

Genevieve sat staring out at the bright chemical sunset, the burning horizon glinting off the metal where her forearm ended. She hoped it would not rain, but alas, a steady drizzle began. She pulled her threadbare clothes closer to her body, smoothing the loose areas over her metal bits.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, careful not to open her mouth to the sky too much. “The last fucking thing I need is more rust.”

Her husband would have disapproved of her swearing. But he disapproved of many things she had ended up doing anyways. She jogged slowly through the rain, limping slightly, rust falling from her hip joints down her loose pant leg as her bones scraped against each other in time with her footfalls. 

She sighed and pushed the door to the house open, flicking on a sputtering light bulb. “Everything here is breaking down,” she mused to herself sadly while rubbing at her hip. “Isn’t it?” she said, louder, glancing over to the urn on the fireplace and smiling sadly. It gleamed in contrast with the rest of the house.

Genevieve was approaching what the youngsters liked to call her “second round of repairs”. She had had many good years– healthier and more active than she would have thought possible in her youth, but everything wears out eventually and she was once again wearing out. It was going piece by piece, as it had the first time. Except the first time she had not been broke, and she had still had Jeremy. 

There were certain levels of maintenance that were expected and while she had tried, there was not always money for oil, or for check-ups and screw rotations. The plastic coverings that had once protected the constructed parts of her body had long since broken off and cracked in small accidents here and there.

If you looked at the picture frames in the house (dusty, but still hanging) they told a different story. In the story there was no decay yet– no dust, no rust. In them there was still a beautiful statuesque blonde smiling in her cardigan and boots, a man’s arm wrapping lovingly around her shoulders and a shining daughter with golden hair on their lap, the fire blazing in the background like it would never go out. 

She wished Maggie would call more. She understood though, Maggie was tired and lived hours away in Edmonton, and was getting up in years herself. Genevieve supposed that Maggie would be coming up on her first round of upgrades soon, and would be in and out of the hospital for the next couple of years. Thank goodness the government still paid for the first round. Well, at least they paid for “the standard” which meant what it always had: long wait times, cheaper materials, and a focus purely on function and keeping function the same as it had always been; They only fixed things that were already broken. If you had money of course you could get what could be properly called upgrades. In the cities you would see the silver bankers with waterproof chrome feet the same shade as their hair poking out from their shoes, engraved with intricate patterns and embossed with designer names. In the shoe closets of the wealthy you could find whole leg attachments, varied for swimming, biking, running, or even ones that were just exotic accessories like a pair of elaborate high heels had been in Genevieve’s youth. Arthritis was a thing of the past when your bones could be themselves replaced if you were willing to let the fleshy parts go with them.

Genevieve was willing. The surgeries had happened piecemeal, until the deluge of appointments seemed like a full-time job. The technology was new back then and it had seemed at the time that it would go the way of computers and cellphones– get cheaper and more efficient all the time. Instead, there had just become two streams: the price-fixed government subsidized minimums (much like push-controlled wheelchairs had been back in the day), and the polished chrome designer models that were fully customizable and capable of much greater functionality. 

She couldn’t be bitter. She was lucky by all accounts, and Maggie would be luckier still. Genevieve’s mother had lived to 95 and died suddenly of a heart attack, which was still a remarkable age at the time. Such a thing would never happen to Genevieve. Jeremy too, had died almost 25 years ago now at only 89 but by the time it had happened it had almost been a mercy. All the robotics in the world still hadn’t managed to fix dementia. Bones and even muscles were easy now– but the brain was a different beast entirely.

Genevieve had started the upgrade process after he began to show signs of memory loss. It had been hard for him to process that the muscles he had lovingly run his hands over for decades had become hard glowing lumps of warmth and it often disoriented him. She often wondered who had had it harder at the very end- her, watching him die, or him, watching her live. Selfishly, she thought it must have been her. 

________________________

The next morning Genevieve awoke with the sun. She began her morning ritual, running polish over her exposed chrome, trying not to pick at the bits of broken plastic. She plugged her cord into the port at her chest where it charged her muscles, and ran diagnostics. The diagnostic was at 83% when the phone rang. “Maggie”, she thought, her heart soaring. The plug almost came free as Genevieve sprang to her feet and ran to the phone, though she moved her hand quickly to her chest to reinforce the connection as the extension cord unrolled behind her.

“Hello?” she asked, stifling her excitement. It seemed to her that children never outgrew being tired of their parents’ attention, so she always strived to not let her desires come through too strongly..

“Hello,” said the voice on the other end of the line. The male voice. Not Maggie’s voice. “Is this Genevieve Porter?”

“Yes,” Genevieve responded, “who is this?” quickly, her excitement was turning to annoyance. She didn’t get many calls these days, but she hated all those telemarketers and silly ‘you have won a free cruise!’ gimmicks.  When she got those she sometimes asked the person on the end of the line (if there was a person) if she could get a new hip instead- that usually shut them up pretty quick.

“Hello Genevieve,” said the voice. “This is Dr. Kenrick from the University of Alberta hospital. Your daughter, Magdalene Porter is here.  She was undergoing surgery for the insertion of her pacemaker but there’s been a complication. We need you to come to the hospital.”

 “What kind of complication?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice calm.

“I’m not allowed to disclose that without ID. We’re contacting you as her next of kin. The sooner you can arrive the better.”

There was a pause while Genevieve quieted her breath. “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as possible. Thank you Dr. Kenrick.” She responded tersely, beeping the phone off, her mind whirling. How was she going to get to Edmonton on such short notice?

The car hadn’t worked in years and Jeremy had always been the repairman. She had isolated herself out here on the prairies, enmeshed herself in her past of flesh, in the story of her family when it was still together. She had no money for a plane ticket on such short notice, nor a cab to get to the airport. She supposed there was not much to be done. She would take the old bike from the shed and do what she had done in the halcyon days of her youth and hitchhike.

Now, hitchhiking was not a common or easy thing even in her youth. People like her mother had constantly pointed to the possible danger- especially after HitchBOT had been decapitated and left in a ditch. If robots travelling alone weren’t respected how could you expect women to be? While Genevieve supposed she could still suffer for sport she was no longer so young or beautiful as to share the classically cultivated womanly fears her mother had tried so hard to instill. She would be worried about being salvaged for parts if any of her parts were worth salvaging, but that wasn't the case. 

Genevieve moved as swiftly and efficiently as her bones and metal would allow. She washed, carefully, brushed her teeth, patted the dust off of her large overnight handbag and packed it with the essentials. She popped some stale bread into the toaster and threw some granola bars into the bag with the rest of her belongings and then she walked down the small and dusty road for a bit before running back for her most durable umbrella and setting off in earnest toward the town and the highway.

As she approached the town she saw the locals walking their dogs and rundown trucks driving the road to and from the grocery store filled with food. She saw open hatch tractors pulling along the migrant workers to harvest the grains. 

John Thorton saw her walking past yelled out, "Hey Jenn!" Perhaps it was the determination or the urgency in Genevieve's eyes that made him pause and interrogate as only small-town folks were wont to. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?!” He asked congenially. 

Genevieve had neither the time nor the inclination to stop and chat. Her mind flicked to Maggie. "I need to get to Edmonton,” she snapped. "Maggie is in the hospital.”

John's brow furrowed. "I'm so sorry to hear that Jenn." Maggie had babysat him in her youth and the whole town had loved her. "Is there anything I can do?"

Genevieve cut off a laugh, "Unless you have some way to get me to Edmonton, no, I don't think you can John." She smiled sadly and turned away, but John's hand was already on her shoulder.

"Now, just wait a minute Jenn," he said, "my son Derek goes to school in Edmonton. We were going to drive him back for the start of the semester tomorrow but I’d bet anything he’d  be alright with heading up a day early if you need to get there for Maggie."

“Are you serious John?” She asked breathlessly, relieved. “I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“Of course Jenn! It’s Maggie we’re talking about, and like I say, we’re going there anyways.” He replied, patting her on the shoulder.

Genevieve burst into tears, turning into John's hand. She could feel the tears making runnels down her neck and flowing into her charging socket. She ignored it. "Thank you," she stammered, pulling the younger man into a hug.

"It’s the least we can do," John said, "Now you come home with me and we'll get you there as quick as we can. If you give me a minute, I’ll call Anna and have her make sure Derek packs up quick.”

________________________

Some three hours and many tears later on they were on their way to Edmonton in a full, but not cramped truck. The drive itself was uneventful but it was past suppertime when they pulled into the emergency drop-off at the hospital to let Genevieve out.

"Thank you so much," she said. The sound of metallic creaking followed her as she climbed out the back of the truck. 

"It was no trouble. You just make sure Maggie is safe,” John replied as he pulled the car door closed behind her.

The doors to the hospital slid open smoothly as Genevieve approached them. The sterile smell of cleaning supplies and the sharp tang of soldered metals and burning plastic assaulted her nose. She approached the front desk breathless, not noticing the pace of her gait.

“I’m looking for Magdalene Porter,” she said. The woman sitting at the desk was absorbed with inputting something into the network of tablets before her. She looked up at Genevieve with luminous eyes.

“Relationship?” she asked, looking Genevieve up and down summarily before averting her gaze from the dirty and rusty patches. Genevieve felt uncomfortable, knowing she herself had often in the past done the same thing to beggars on the sidewalk, overlooking the holes and dirt on their clothes.

“I’m her Mother,” Genevieve replied with steel in her voice. “I received a call earlier today from Dr. Kenrick. He said it was urgent that I come.”

“ID?” 

Genevieve presented her ID and watched as the woman’s eyes glazed over, scanning something unseen even as she did not move her face from Genevieve’s own. Finally, she spoke. “Excellent, you’re all clear then. Magdalene is up on the 4th floor. Room 428. Just use these orange elevators behind me.” The woman gestured to a set of tacky orange elevators, standing next to an equally tacky set of purple ones.

“Thank you,” Genevieve said quickly as she hurried off to summon the elevator.

The hospital bustled, primarily with children. The government rarely felt the need to support treatments until something with ‘the base model’ went wrong, so it wasn’t usually until a broken wrist or bad case of tonsillitis happened that modifications began to occur. Hospitals had become a place for the very young and the very old. They were for those who did not know yet the integration of metal and plastic and flesh, or for those whose interventions could do no more. All the flashy customized mods belonged to the realm of private clinics.

When Genevieve arrived in Maggie’s room her ears were assaulted by beeps from machines and the heavy sound of breath in dry hospital air. There were three beds. She pulled back the curtain on the first bed and found her Maggie asleep. There were tubes stuck in her mouth and veins, and a bulging rust colored bandage was wrapped around her chest. Genevieve took her daughter’s hand gently but she did not wake. She pressed the call button at Maggie’s bedside. Someone was going to tell her what was going on.

A nurse burst in a few moments later, looking flustered and confused until she saw Genevieve looming over Maggie’s bed. The nurse breathed a sigh of relief, but her brow remained wrinkled. “Hello ma’am,” she addressed Genevieve. “How did you get in here?”

“The door was open,” Genevieve replied.

The furrow in the nurse’s brow deepened, “Well I’m deeply sorry but that was a mistake. Could you please come with me back into the hallway?”

“I’m here for Magdalene Porter,” Genevieve cut her off firmly, gesturing to her daughter in the bed. “She’s my daughter. Dr. Kenrick called.”

“Ah, I see,” the nurse said, “in that case, would you please follow me to Dr. Kenrick’s office?”

Genevieve glanced back at Maggie desperately, but didn’t dare make a scene. She watched the shuddering rise and fall of her chest before scurrying after the nurse. Their shoes made gentle squishing sounds against the hospital tile. They rounded a corner and came to a closed office. The nurse knocked on the door and a doctor emerged with tangled hair and the same wild luminous eyes as the woman at the front desk. He stretched his metallic 7-spindled hand at his side.

“Surgeon’s hands,” Genevieve thought.

“Yes?” the man asked.

“This is Magdalene Porter’s mother,” the nurse replied.

“Ah,” Dr. Kenrick’s shoulders heaved. “Please, step into my office Ms. Porter.” Genevieve entered the room and Dr. Kenrick took his seat behind the desk. He gestured to the chair that sat opposite. “Please take a seat.” As Genevieve sat he looked up at the nurse who still hovered by the door. “Thank you,” he said to her, nodding to give permission that she could leave.

“Now, Ms. Porter. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

“Yes.”

“As I mentioned, and as you have seen for yourself now, Magdalene is not doing as well as we had hoped. There were complications with her pacemaker implant due to a misdiagnosis. You have had the upgrade, you know how…” he trailed off, “strenuous, it is on the system.”

Genevieve nodded, fearing the tightness that was developing in her throat.

“After we begun Magdalene’s surgery, we discovered she had been misdiagnosed with tachycardia, when in fact she had atrial fibrillation. Atrial fibrillation cannot be treated with the current available heart implants or prosthetics- and we had of course planned to do a pacemaker implant. We began treatment with blood thinners immediately, but due to the stress of surgery during her recovery Magdalene had a stroke. Quite a serious stroke. Based on her reaction to it and its severity we believe it is not her first. We are continuing treatment with blood thinners, but it has impeded her recovery from the surgery, and we have identified a number of clots in her brain which are likely to lead to further stokes.” Dr. Kenrick paused, “we are doing everything medically possible to preserve her life.”

The silence grew in the room like cancer. 

Genevieve was not sure if it was her voice or her heart that broke as she spoke, “But surely… you can do something! There must be some implant or therapy…” She gestured wildly at her own body, “if you can save these old bones you can save her.” As she flailed she scraped her elbow where the plastic was gone against the polished surface of Dr. Kenrick’s desk, leaving a scratch and a small pile of orange rust there. He didn’t notice.

Dr. Kenrick sighed, “Unfortunately, there is only so much we are permitted to do in country. Most advances now don’t make it through government approvals before they are obsolete and the parts become impossible to get from the manufacturers.” He paused, “In any case, the blood vessels in the brain are delicate, and even with technology there’s little we can do. There have been experiments in South America with nanobots, but that is beyond my field of expertise. Some patients do go out of country for experimental treatments, but it’s not something I’m allowed to advise.”

Genevieve knew that some did. She knew that she could not be one of them, even if she wanted to be. She couldn’t even fly to Calgary! There would be no way to get Maggie to South America. “I see,” she said.

“Magdalene has a DNR, but even with that it’s standard protocol confirm with the next-of-kin.” He looked meaningfully at Genevieve.

Genevieve nodded, unable to speak.

Dr. Kenrick smiled sympathetically, “Come with me,” he said, rising. “We’ll go wake up Magdalene so you can talk.”

________________________

They arrived back in Maggie’s room. Dr. Kenrick moved to the IV dripping its way into Maggie’s arm and pushed a syringe into it. Genevieve watched her daughter’s eyes flutter open.

“Mum,” she said, smiling weakly, her arm making a small flop beside her. Only the left corner of her mouth twitched up.

“Maggie!” Genevieve exclaimed, squeezing her daughter’s hand, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

“Mum…” she trailed off, looking to Dr. Kenrick. “What does she know?” she asked, except it came out more like, “Whaa dis shi nu?”  Genevieve boiled with rage and the incompetent doctors who had allowed this to happen. At the system that had not protected her baby.

“I’ve brought her up to speed, I’ll leave you two for a moment to talk,” Dr. Kenrick replied kindly and exited the room.

As Dr. Kenrick pulled the curtain Genevieve swooped into envelop her daughter in a gentle hug. Maggie closed her eyes, then opened them again and looked at her mother. She forced the words out slowly, trying desperately for exact pronunciation, “Mum. I’m going to have another stroke- soon. That’s what the doctors said.”

“Shh, it’s gonna be okay,” Genevieve crooned.

“No it’s not. Mum, I-, I don’t want to be like Dad was at the end. I don’t want machines to keep me alive if I can’t walk or talk or think properly anymore. You have to let me do this.” The words were muddled as they spilled from Maggie’s half-paralyzed mouth. Tears rolled down Genevieve’s cheeks.

“Isn’t there anything that can be done?” Genevieve burst into tears and covered her face in shame. Maggie was not supposed to see this part. 

“No, Mum.” Maggie’s voice wavered and almost cracked, but held nonetheless. Genevieve felt a wave of shame wash over her. Here was her daughter, dying, in a hospital, and she was still the strong one. “I can’t stay with you.” Maggie continued, Genevieve’s tears flowing harder as she stared at her daughter. Maggie put her hand on her mother’s arm. “I can’t call the doctors, or the government people, or the charities and advocates. I can’t get you the help that you need. I thought that when I was done with this I could help you with the second round but now that’s not going to happen. You’re falling apart,” Maggie said laughing a little, brushing her hand across a bit of broken plastic half covering Genevieve’s knee joint. “You need to get help. I’m going to leave you-“

“You’re not going to leave me a damn thing Magdalene Elaine Porter,” Genevieve cut her off.

“Mum.”

“You’re going to use whatever you have to get better. Dr. Kenrick said there were nanobots in Mexico.”

“Mum,” Maggie said, louder. “There’s no guarantee that the nanobots could do anything for the clots in my brain and I don’t have that much money or that much time.”

“So you’re not even going to try?” Genevieve felt her voice grow louder, like it had when Maggie was small and did not want to eat her vegetables at dinner or come in from playing outside in the wheat fields.

“I have been trying,” Maggie said flatly. “I’ve been here for three weeks on blood thinners. I’ve already had two strokes, and with the thinners I’m not recovering from the heart surgery. I’m prime for infection and I know that it doesn’t mean anything these days but I feel old, mum. I’m eighty-four! That would have been a respectable age to die half a century ago. Some people still don’t make it that far. You don’t realize how lucky we are here.”

“Yes, lucky.” Genevieve spit out the words. “Lucky that we can go on, drawn out, hobbling along with the bare minimum.”

“It’s still a better body than you would have had otherwise!” Maggie retorted. There was a beat. “I’m tired mum,” she sighed. “They have rooms for guests, you should book one. We can talk more in the morning.”

Genevieve could not speak. She kissed her daughter’s wrinkled forehead, noticing properly the frailty that she had grown so used to in her own features but that she had never quite been able to imagine in her daughter. The folds of skin on Maggie’s forehead moved apart for her lips, and she fled the hospital room.

________________________

The funeral is several weeks later. It rains, hard. Genevieve no longer cares how the water runs into her open cracks, not even bothering to cover up with a jacket. She lets it into her, chemicals and al. Maggie leaves her her savings which are neither meagre nor robust to her mother, as Genevieve had tried to make her promise not to. Genevieve returns home, and places a second urn on the mantle across from the couch. She does not call the doctors, or the government people, or the charitable advocates as she promised. She sits at night looking at the pictures she still has, at the gleaming vessels on the mantle. She does not feel old. She feels decrepit. A rust stain blooms in her favorite spot where she sits on the couch. It grows larger day by day until it expands into a pool. The fabric swims in it. The orange glow of the sky fades to a dusty starlight.