Chapters (58)
“Hello, Mother. Eleven, I think.”
I’m not certain why my mother and I had a falling out. An argument over something, I’m sure. We didn’t speak for a year, then two, and after that it simply felt too uncomfortable to tap. What do you say when you haven’t tapped for four or six or eight years?
Our circumstances weren’t unusual. Many people didn’t keep up with either parent anymore. The parents of my generation had never married and hadn’t contracted to stay together more than ten years. Parenting had become a life stage, not a permanent commitment. Still, it felt awkward to sit at a table and catch up with the woman who had given birth to me.
“Mother, I need to tell you something,” I said when the small talk waned. “My father is dead.”
A look of sadness and what seemed like genuine concern crossed her face. “He is? How?”
“Suicide, apparently.”
“Oh, Creighton, I’m so sorry.” She paused and looked into my eyes. “How are you doing?”
“It’s…I’m all right. I’ve been going through his things, taking care of his affairs. That’s what…well, what gave me the excuse to tap you.”
“How so?”
“He had a somewhat unusual message from a friend of his—someone named Ray. Supposedly, they’d known each other for decades. Do you remember any associate of my father’s by that name?”
She shook her head. “It’s been so long. Almost forty years since Eli and I were together.” She sipped some wine and concentrated a few moments. “No. No, not that I can recall. I knew some of his associates, but others…I don’t remember anyone named Ray. Was the message important?”
I pasted on a smile. “Probably not. I was just curious, and it provided an excuse to tap you. I apologize for waiting so long.”
She smiled back. “No apology necessary. Maybe we can stay in touch better this time.”
“Yes, that would be nice, Mother.”
I exited VR. I reached for a lukewarm cup of coffee and spilled it.
“Shall I summon your homebot, Creighton?”
“No, Alistair, thank you. I’ll wipe it up myself.” I retrieved a towel and a doughnut from the kitchen—anything to divert my attention from seeing my mother and from the dead end of my pseudo-investigation.
“Alistair, what do you have on CulturePulse for me?” Recent events had placed me several days behind in what was normally a daily review. Summaries with images appeared. A few more dreams about Jesus. People signing up for brain transplants. I’d wait a year or two if I were they. Let someone else be the guinea pigs and get the kinks out of the system.
Then I noticed an unusual headline on a written news story: