AMARA

by James Jandak Wood

Mendel Capek was lying on the couch reading when his middle-aged daughter Alicia stepped through the front door into the living room. Cold autumnal air swept in behind her. As she unwound a scarf from her neck, she said casually to Mendel, “Your wife’s been hit by a car.” 

Mendel closed his eyes and slowly exhaled. He placed his book on the coffee table, rose from the couch, stretched and shivered. Chunks of blackened wood and ash smothered the few remaining red embers from the fire he had lit early that morning. He picked up his cell phone from the coffee table and turned off the ‘do not disturb’ function. A flood of text and voicemail alerts raced across the screen. Alicia smiled and shook her head. She slipped out of her overcoat and dropped it onto a chair.

“Is there coffee dad?”

“Yep. Help yourself. I have to pee.” 

As Mendel walked to the bathroom, he recalled his wife’s complaints earlier that morning. She had said she felt ancient. Her body was eighteen years ago. Mendel had to admit that eighteen years was indeed a long time given the startling speed of technological evolution.

Mendel’s wife was an android. Mendel, as his aching bladder reminded him, was all too human.

When he returned to the living room, Alicia was sitting on the couch, both hands wrapped around a hot mug of coffee. She looked a lot like her mother, though older, human, imperfect. Wisps of white strands mixed with her thick brown hair and crow’s feet spread from the corners of her eyes. As her mother Amara had stood still in time always appearing to be in her early twenties, Alicia had aged. As had her brother Arthur. As had Mendel.

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