Author: Kelleigh Cram
I told my daughter I didn’t want the dang thing but you know kids; they understand technology and we are just senile.
The robot folds my clothes, which I must admit is nice. The shirts are stacked so precisely I just take whichever one is on top, not wanting to mess up the robot’s hard work. Being a housewife for thirty-two years, I can appreciate the effort that goes into chores. Jenna worried so much when her father died, hence the robot. She always acted like he was the stronger one of us, just because he used to work and knew how to send an email. If that’s the case how come he’s gone and I am still here? To punish me, I assume.
The robot reminds me to take my medicine.
“Martha, it is time to take your medication,” the robot says, its computerized voice even more condescending than Jenna’s.
“Fine, I. Will. Take. My. Medication,” I say, one word at a time to mimic its tone.
The robot turns its head, the gears in its neck making a sound that must be the robotic equivalent of a sigh. The robot watches me swallow the pill and I open my mouth wide to prove I did as instructed before sticking my tongue out.
The robot cooks my meals. Today, lunch consists of chicken nuggets and corn. The food is bland, rubbery, forcing me to spit it back out onto the plate.
“Eat. Doctor’s orders,” the robot says when I try to excuse myself.
You mean Jenna’s orders, I want to say. I manage to force it down before going back to the living room.
“Can you make some tea?” I ask as the robot washes my dishes.
The robot sets the kettle on the stove, just standing there waiting for it to boil, something we humans know never happens. But it must have, because a few minutes later the robot sets a mug on the coffee table in front of me. I reach for the handle, but the robot grabs my wrist.
“Too hot,” the robot says.
I wait, watching the news, something about the decline of education since the introduction of simulated classrooms. Figuring the tea must have cooled off by now, I try again.
The robot stops me, its grip a little firmer.
“Too hot,” the robot repeats.
This time I give it so long the drink would be lukewarm at best, if not downright cold. I snatch the cup with as much speed as my frail arm can muster. I take a triumphant sip, spitting the liquid right back up. The inside of my mouth is scalding, the shock of it making me cough so hard I struggle to catch my breath. A heat retentive mug, it has to be. These were recalled after too many lawsuits, people burning themselves. I try to go to the kitchen, maybe get a glass of ice water to cool my throat. As soon as I stand the room starts to spin and I fall in a heap on the floor.
“Robot?” I call out.
“Robot, get help.”
“Robot, call 911.”
“Robot, call Jenna.”
I try different commands, hoping one of them will summon the robot to rescue me.
Finally, the robot comes into view, sitting above me on the couch. The robot crosses its legs and takes a delicate sip of my tea before setting it back down on the coaster.
“Too hot,” the robot says.