It doesn’t mean I’m a mind reader.” Something makes you add, “Tim…those articles I read earlier. Were you checking my emails?”
“Of course not,” he says, clearly offended. “Why would I want to? We never had secrets from each other.”
You lie down in a bedroom and he hooks you up to a laptop. “It might take a while,” he warns. “The cable speeds out here are terrible.”
“That’s all right…And Tim?”
“Yes?”
“Would you kiss me before you go?”
“Of course.” He bends down and, tenderly, plants a kiss on your forehead. “Good night, my love. Enjoy the upload.”
“ ’Night.”
You close your eyes and let the elixir of memory flood your system, like an addict’s fix of heroin.
23
You dream it, and you don’t dream it. These uploaded memories are more vivid, and more painful, than any dream. For a few precious minutes you’re yourself again—seeing the world through your own eyes, thinking with your own mind. Complete, once more.
Your wedding was beautiful, but somewhat unconventional. That was one of the things you loved about Tim—he never did things a certain way just because everyone else did. This house, for example. It’s extraordinary—not just the location, but the building itself, surrounded by wild grass and rock in every direction, and screened from the highway by a gentle bluff. You could hardly believe it was his wedding gift to you.
For the day itself, the architects had built a wooden deck between the house and the edge of the cliff, and erected an open-sided marquee on it. Tim had let you plan everything except the venue. The tent was decorated with sprigs of wildflowers mixed with eagle feathers, and the guests sat on hay bales instead of chairs. Your dress was white and simple, like a Roman toga. Instead of a veil, you wore a diamond head-circlet from India, another gift from Tim, along with a crown of braided cornflowers. The whole ceremony was presided over by a humanist priestess.
Your vows. I give myself to you for all eternity…Yes, you really had said those words to each other. You hadn’t meant them literally, of course.
But even in the dream, you realize Tim did. That’s why you’re here.
And finally, reading Sonnet 116 together:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom…
That was doom in the old sense of the word, you remember telling Tim the first time you read the poem to him. Judgment Day. Eternity. Not the moment in a horror movie when someone meets the baddie.
In your dream you can even smell everything. The rich, savory aroma of warm hay. The sweet drifting scent of the patchouli sticks you’d placed on the tables. The salty tang of the ocean. The occasional whiff of weed from behind the house, where some of your artist friends had slipped away for a spliff—
Then, abruptly, you’re going back; back to a few days before the wedding, and your last-minute jitters. The more you thought about it—really thought about it—the more you loathed the whole idea of marriage. What a brilliant way, historically, of controlling women! The woman gave herself to the man—or was given by her father—as his personal property. Her rights and feelings remained subservient to his, while at the same time power over reproduction—the only thing naturally controlled by her—got transferred to her husband as well. That’s the reason they called it wedlock! How could any woman who called herself a feminist agree to such a Neanderthal setup?
You phoned Tim at work and spilled your worries. He waited patiently until you were done, then said, “Fine. Let’s not get married then, Abs. Let’s just make our vows to each other someplace quiet, and go on as we are.”
“I don’t think I want that, either.”
“Well, whatever you do want is fine by me. Give me a minute,” you heard him say to someone at the other end.
“It’s just marriage itself, I think—the whole institution. I feel better now we’ve talked it through. I know our marriage isn’t going to be like that.”
“Good. Speaking of which, how’s my wedding gift coming along?”
“Nearly finished. How’s mine?”
He laughed. “Also nearly finished.”
“When are you going to tell me what it is?” He’d been teasing you with this gift for months.
“When you see it on our wedding day.”
“Will I get to unwrap it?”
“Hmm—might be a bit large for that. Gotta go now, Abs. There are people standing outside my office.”
“Let them stand.”
“I already did. You wouldn’t want me to be a tyrannical boss,