Submitted for the October 2023 prompt: Machine in the Ghost

Last year, the company that brought you Motherbot expanded its operations to include any family member. “Your loved ones delivered to your door,” they advertised.

 

Watching T.V. , staring at the couch molded in the shape of my dead husband, my desperation to have anything that resembled him made me open my laptop and go to the company’s website.

 

It was like buying a car, the price went up with each additional feature. Bobby would have said it was highway robbery. If I wanted a fully operational husband, it would cost me a pretty penny. But what were pretty pennies compared to having my husband back?

 

The memory input was most expensive, the engine, if you will. I would be the source of this memory. They would extract it from my brain function and put it into the robot’s. I went to bed adding up numbers; my savings, my salary, a mortgage on the house?

 

That night I had a dream. It began with the sound of horse’s hooves pounding the dirt. I was at the track. Bobby was riding one of the horses and I was sitting in the stands. As he passed me, his ghostly voice said, “Put it all on tomorrooow.” I woke up with this ringing in my ears, and took it as a sign.

 

* * *

 

The breakneck pace of the track did little to improve my own racing thoughts. I sat to the side, my eyes darting up and down the runners list… Double Time, Master Class, Van Gone.

 

There it was, rising above the rest: Tomorrow’s Luck!

 

I bet a hundred grand to win. At 7/2, the payout would be just over what I needed.

 

I sat in the stands scratching my teeth like a meth-head.

 

The shot was fired and the horses began their fevered pursuit.

 

I was at the edge of my seat, sweating with anticipation. My heart thumped with fear. I watched mesmerized as Tomorrow’s Luck moved from last to seventh, seventh to fifth, fifth to third! Then I was up on my feet screaming with the rest of them.

 

Soon the whole place exploded into a frenzy, as the announcer’s riveting voice called out. “It’s Master Class in front, Double Time true to his name, Van Gone and Tomorrows Luck competing for third. Here comes the homestretch folks! Double Time gaining! Double Time and Master Class! Master Class! Master Class! Tomorrow’s Luck moving into second! Master Class! Tomorrow’s Luck gaining! Gaining! Tomorrow’s Luck! Tomorrows Luck! Tomorrows Luck takes it!! I can’t believe it!! Oh my looorrd what an upset!!”

 

* * *

 

“Now Mrs. Dalan,” the doctor said, “We are all committed to extracting the best quality memory we can based on the price. I will be monitoring and adjusting your brain function. Doctor Stevens here is a hypnotherapist. He will put you in the most effective frame of mind. But you have to work with us to get the best possible result. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, I do,” I said.

 

“Good. We will begin the procedure.”

 

I sat in the chair of a machine that resembled a salon-grade hairdryer. They placed the bowl on my head, the electronics concealed by a gelatinous skin. The electrodes, soft bumps protruding. The doctor pressed a button, they tightened into place.

 

“Here,” the hypnotherapist said, handing me a pill. “Take this.” I took it. “Close your eyes,” he said. I did so. He waited. “Now,” he began. “Your mind is absolutely relaxed, your body still. You are going backward to one specific memory. I want you to see it, hear it, smell it, taste it.”

 

There was a sense of my feet resting on something, but my mind flying high, and my spirit released. I was not remembering, but being. It seemed to go on forever.

 

Afterwards, the doctors told me they had enough emotional and technical content to recreate the memory in the mind of my Robo-husband. I was already impatient for the result.

 

The robot arrived at my door two weeks later. He was the pure image of my husband, wearing the clothes I had chosen. The flash was attached to his back with a piece of tape. I carried him inside to program him.

 

In default, he functioned just like any other robot. It was not until you put him in memory mode that he acted out the extracted scene. I looked much older than he, but the memory was young.

 

I took him to the place where it had occurred. I squeezed the button beneath the skin of his right hand, activating memory mode. Slowly, he became animated. His eyes. My God they moved like my husband’s. And his features? So close it was unsettling.

 

I looked at him and smiled. I walked away. He waited until I reached a certain distance. Then he did it. Hiding behind bushes, and buildings, and lampposts. Peeking at me and disappearing, just as I remembered. And the tears came hard and fast and wouldn't stop.

 

“Put it all on tomorrow,” my Bobby had said.

 

Maybe now that I had my memory, I could finally try.