Robot

When my parents asked me what I want for my birthday, I don’t think a micro-computer was exactly what they had in mind. I know because they pulled a weird face and asked me if that’s really what I wanted — but Mom could tell that’s what I wanted, because I saw Dad googling it at dinner the next day. So, when I saw a little wrapped box in a little bag, I knew what it was. I got the festivities over with first; I blew the candles and cut the cake and we ate, but then my parents excused me because they noticed how my eyes would keep darting to the bag, the invisible energy tingling at the tips of my fingers. I thanked them, grabbed the bag, and ran up to my room.

I’d gotten everything ready for it. I researched exactly how it worked, what types of software had to be used, everything. So when I finally opened up my birthday present, I wasn’t going to wait much longer to use it. Because I knew exactly I wanted to do.

I was going to create a robot.

Not just any robot, but a robot clone of myself. Perhaps not exactly a clone, but very close to it. It would likely not look like me at all, and it certainly wouldn’t think or act like me, but it would know just enough about me. Just enough so that, when I die, my mother and father would still have some remnants of their daughter left with them. And robots last much longer than people, so maybe one day far in the future, someone would dig up my house and find this extraordinary robot that this extraordinary girl made.

I logged onto my computer and got to work. I set the small, brittle micro-computer aside gingerly and attached the wires to it. For a long time, I recorded myself saying random words. Robot had to be able to say everything like I would. She had to pronounce onomatopoeia wrong like I did. Then, all I had to do was write the code I had memorized word for word. I guess that’s what happens when your heart doesn’t work very well — you train your brain to work better. Maybe that’s not how it works, but I made it work like that.

I typed away the entire night. Every line of my code got me a little closer to Robot. Of course, I didn’t finish overnight, though. Everyday, I waited for the school bell to ring in dismissal, and I would come back home and stay in my room. I had to make Robot’s limbs from flimsy stuff, because real steel parts would cost a fortune and the flimsy limbs were easier to work with anyway. And slowly, I could see Robot come to life; stick arms and stick legs, tin hat perched jauntily on her big cylindrical face, and cloth from old t-shirts glued together for a stiff little dress.

Finally, I was done with Robot’s inside, too. She now knew (nearly) everything about me. My fingers were shaking as I turned Robot on for the very first time.

Nothing happened.

Robot’s big eyes looked at me emptily. I flicked the side of her head lightly, and suddenly a little pink light under her right eye flickered on.

‘Hello,’ Robot said in my voice, though naturally it sounded mechanical.

‘Hello, Robot,’ I laughed quietly. ‘Hey, Robot — what’s my favourite flavour of ice-cream?’

Robot hesitated a moment, and I heard a light whirring inside her, then she replied. ‘Butterscotch, but only if the caramel is gooey.’

‘That’s right! Well, what do I do when I’m nervous?’

‘You bake,’ Robot answered.

‘What do I bake?’

Whir, click. ‘Cookies.’

‘What kind?’

‘Chocolate.’

Smiling, I reached forward and turned Robot off. I wasn’t sure how long her batteries would last, so it was no good wasting them just to bask in accomplishment. I set Robot on the topmost shelf of my bookshelf, then went over to my desk and got a sticky note. I wrote in my realest handwriting: For Mom and Dad. I stuck it on Robot lightly and lay down my bed, pulling the duvet up to my chin.

For the first time since that day in the hospital, I felt that, if I died that very night — the possibility of which was not very far off — I wouldn’t really regret it. I wouldn’t be upset or feel like I was missing something, or that I had missed something.

Because in Robot, I was alive.