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“I offered to create a companion for her. She wasn’t interested.”

“She wants the real thing. Her emotions are real, she feels real to herself and she doesn’t want a synthetic love. Would you?”

“If I couldn’t tell the difference, I wouldn’t mind. When I’m in the Museum, it feels almost real to me. It’s getting very close to reality.”

“Hmm. As Celia keeps saying, there’s enough reality. Why make more?”

Alba and Clare and I have had this conversation a million times, so I don’t try to answer. “Why Carl, of all people? She’s never even met Carl. Has she?” Alba gets up, carries her coffee cup to the kitchen and asks me if I want any coffee. “Yes, please. Has Isadora ever met Carl?”

“Not exactly,” Alba says, almost inaudibly. She fills the cups, brings them back to the table, reseats herself. “She’s seen him. They didn’t meet each other. He doesn’t know about her. He came over on a Saturday, after Lucinda left, and we’d forgotten to lock up and he went downstairs. I saw the green light was on, but the screen was dark and Isadora didn’t say anything and I made him go back upstairs.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I still don’t understand why she’s lost her tiny mind over him.”

Alba gives me a funny look. “A lot of people fall in love for no reason. Isn’t that kind of the whole point?”

“I’m not sure I would call what she’s experiencing love. It’s all 0s and 1s; does that add up to love?”

“When we love, it’s all chemicals and electricity. Isn’t that real?”

I feel like going back to bed. “They shouldn’t call it computer science. Computer alchemy is more like it.” Alba is about to reply, but we hear footsteps coming up the basement steps. Other Alba knocks on the door and I open it, let her through and close it after her. “Well?”

“Detente. Isadora will behave herself.”

“What have you promised her in return?”

“I have not promised her anything. I told her what will happen in the future, and she knows when it will happen, and that it depends on the two of you working together and her not being an ingrate. But you should be more tender toward her, Beck. She’s lonely.”

“I can do that.”

“Okay. Good. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Where are you going?” present Alba asks her other self.

“I thought I’d go sit in the garden. It’s a beautiful day. Do you want to come?” They gather up shoes, jackets and a blanket, and soon they are sitting under the tree, talking earnestly. I always wonder what they say to each other, Alba’s randomly juxtaposed selves. I suddenly feel ashamed of myself for being so harsh with Isadora. I can hear Clare stirring upstairs, but instead of waiting for her I go downstairs to make amends to my lonely monster-daughter.

The Last Evening of the Old Normal

Friday, February 7, 2020 (Alba is 18, Clare is 48, Beck is 43)

Clare: Beck and I are eating dinner and watching the news. It’s depressing, but we feel as though we have a duty to pay attention, even though we can’t change anything or save anyone whose troubles we are witnessing. We watch because someone has to remember, later. Beck and I have different ways of coping with the evil garbage spewing from the mouths of the criminals masquerading as our government officials. I like to yell at the screen and suggest possible afterlives for each miscreant. Beck likes to make armchair psychiatric diagnoses. Tonight we are eating spaghetti and watching the president of the United States gloat about his acquittal by the Senate.

“How is it possible to feel more depressed every day?” Beck wonders.

“Well, he’s still impeached,” I say. “They can’t un-impeach him, they can only pretend he’s innocent.”

“Let’s keep impeaching him until it sticks,” Beck says.

“I just want it to be November right this minute so we can have the satisfaction of voting him out of office.” I hear the front door open and close. “Alba?”

“Hey, Mama,” she calls. “Hey, Beck.” Beck mutes the television. I hear the twin thuds of Alba’s heavy boots hitting the floor as she removes them, the muffled sounds of layers of wool being shed. She’s been over at her boyfriend’s house all afternoon. I call to her again, and Alba hesitates, then reluctantly walks down the hall to stand not quite in the doorway. To my relief she’s wearing the same clothes she left our house in, but she looks as though she’s been crying or vomiting and her voice is soft and unsteady.

“Do you want some dinner?” I offer.

“No, thanks. I might just take a bath and go to bed. I’m not feeling all that great . . .” For weeks Alba has been subdued and distracted. She hasn’t been eating much, and I wonder if she’s been sleeping; I hear her wandering the house in the middle of the night. During the day she’s spending a lot of time in her room with the door closed.

Beck and I exchange glances. “Come and sit with us,” Beck says. “I’ll make you a Boston cooler.” Beck is convinced that Vernors Ginger Soda and vanilla ice cream can cure anything from a hangover to cancer. This is because her mother says so and because Beck is from Detroit. “Can I have one, too?” I ask.

“You haven’t cleaned your plate,” Beck replies, mock-stern. I pop the last forkful of spaghetti into my mouth and we stand and start to clear the table. Alba lingers in the hall, obviously yearning for the refuge of her bedroom but tempted by the promise of sugar. “Come on, Alba,” Beck says. “Nothing so bad Vernors can’t at least take it off your mind for a few minutes.”