At three, Carl made the first call to tech support. He had called the wrong line, so he was redirected to Customer Support. Then he was redirected to Software Repair. Then he was informed that the expert for Carl’s specific problem was out that day with the flu, and that maybe someone in Hardware Repair could provide some assistance but Carl should definitely call back tomorrow when the specialist would be in. Then Carl called the number to Hardware Repair given to him, but by then it was five and the machine told him to call back during regular business hours. He had spent the last three days, and at least ten hours, navigating the bureaucracy at Trans-H: The World’s Largest Provider of After-Life Insurance, trying to make contact with the right person. Carl’s wife of fifty years had died of cancer, and he was trying fruitlessly to work with the afterlife insurance people to determine what would happen next. Carl did not even realize his wife had signed up for an after-life insurance program until he received a letter in the mail announcing that “Death was dead and technology was the victor. You Are Receiving This Letter Because You Have Purchased An After-Life Insurance Plan Through Trans-H™ as part of the life insurance policy under your wife’s name.” The policy promised that if Carl handed over his wife’s remains to the company—along with a portion of the life insurance—they would endow a “Thinking, Breathing, Living Computer” with her “E-Sence™.” They even offered the option of a Holographic Personality for Premium Members, which Carl appeared to be. Carl had been trying to get a Service Provider to come to his house for three days. Slowly rising from his chair, Carl shuffled off to make supper. His daughter was coming for dinner tonight, so he thought he’d make stew. He had never cooked before his wife died, and now that he was on his own, Carl realized he was lost in the kitchen. For the past few weeks he had made himself instant noodles every night, and pancakes for breakfast, since it was the only thing for which he knew the recipe. Since the recipe served six, and he was too unsure to adjust it, so his freezer was full of plastic bags of frozen pancakes. Carl had watched Ethel make this stew once a week for so many years he was sure he could figure out the steps. He pulled out an onion, and rocked the knife back over its center a few times before the knife finally crunched through the bottom. He had forgotten to peel it, so he leaned over the sink in the small kitchen fighting the tremor in his hands to remove the onion skin. An hour later, there was a knock, and Carl walked across the room. He moved his brown leather shoes, which he left in front of the door, and opened it with the chain still in place. Standing on the doorstep was Eleanor, tapping away on her phone. She was the youngest of the five children Carl and Ethel had raised, and it was her thirty second birthday today. He closed the door and slid the chain off and moved to the side to let his daughter in. She took off her heels and placed them next to her father’s shoes and hugged him. “Hi Dad, how are you?” “Oh, I’m just fine. Happy birthday, El. Why don’t you come in and sit. Dinner is just finishing up in the oven.” “I’ll be right in with you” Eleanor said. Carl did not move from the front hallway as his daughter worked through whatever it was she was always doing on those things. “I should never have bought her those things in the first place,” Carl thought when he finally turned and made his way to the kitchen. He pulled the stew out of the oven and, heaved it onto the stovetop. Eleanor walked into the room and took off her hat. “El, you cut off all your hair.” Carl said. At the funeral, Eleanor’s hair was almost to her waist. Now, her hair was so short, it barely touched her shoulders. “Thanks, I’m just trying something new.” Eleanor said. “It looks nice.” “Do you think it looks better like this, or back when it was long?” “I was partial to the long hair, but I think you look great.” “Have you been able to get mom’s after-life insurance policy working yet?” Eleanor asked. “Oh I can’t get these things figured out, you know. They keep bouncing me from person to person. Somebody will tell me to call another line, and then they tell me the last person was the right one. I think they are doing it on purpose to confuse old men like me so they get the money and don’t have to give us what we paid for,” said Carl as he ladled the carrots, meat and potatoes into bowls and set them on the table. Carl stared at Eleanor, assaulting her phone again with her thumbs, until she looked up at him. Point made, she put her phone down on the table and started to eat. “This is delicious” said Eleanor. “It tastes just like mom used to make.” “I was trying to remember how she made it,” Carl said. “Well, I think you nailed it,” Eleanor said. Carl took a spoonful of meat. He chewed it slowly, but something was missing. He looked through the bowl — onions, carrots and meat were all there — as far as he knew he put the right seasonings in. Carl concluded there must be some ingredient he didn’t remember, or even know about. “You know, if you want dad,” said Eleanor, taking a moment to swallow her bite, “I can set up the insurance for mom.” “Oh, I don’t want to cause you any trouble. The system is just so complicated, I hardly know where to begin.” “It’s nothing dad,” said Eleanor, waiving her spoon to dismiss her father’s objections. “I can handle it tomorrow, then the service people should be out by Wednesday.” Carl smiled at his daughter and she put her hand on his and held it. When they had finished eating, Carl brought out a miniature pecan pie that he had bought at the supermarket. He lit one candle, and pushed it into the pie for Eleanor, and they made wishes on the candle, and she blew it out. Later, Carl saw his daughter out, then prepared for bed. He rolled the nightshirt up, and pulled it over his head, letting it fall to his feet. He sat down on the bed, and slid into it, sleeping on the left side, facing the darkness, he thought of a memory from when he was young, and played it over in his head as he drifted off to sleep. On a bright summer day, he had borrowed his father’s car, and drove to pick up Ethel. He pulled up in front of her house and beeped the horn. She came running out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind her, with a picnic basket in her arms. She had on a sky-blue dress that pressed to her legs and whipped behind her as she ran and jumped into the car. She planted a kiss on Carl’s cheek. “Where are we going today, Love,” Ethel asked as Carl pulled away from the curb. “You’ll see, sweetheart,” Carl said. “I have a spot in the woods picked out.” He had thought he knew right where it was, but after twenty minutes of driving, he wasn’t sure anymore. The car was not built for dirt forest roads, and they could feel the car lurch and sway every time they came across a small hill or a large rock. Ethel looked out the window, and spotted a small stream, running through the woods. “There!” she pointed. “Let’s go sit on the bank.” Carl pulled the car off to the side of the road. They spread out the blanket on the bank, and they lay down. Ethel took off her shoes and let the cool water trickle over her toes. They lay there all afternoon, occasionally taking bites of food, but mostly they just lay, hand in hand, and slept. They lay there so long that Carl thought the vines by the stream would grow around them. The sun scattered through the leaves and warmed their faces. Carl smiled. He woke up shivering. The technicians needed to set up a server room. “Somewhere out of the way, in a cellar or storage room,” they said. Carl showed them to Ethel’s sewing room, and watched silently as sledge-hammers, drills, and cables invaded the space. Workers ran cables out from the server, through the walls, under the floor, through the ceiling. They ran like arteries, pumping power to the server in the basement. Tracks planted on the ceiling let the projector have free rein within the house. When Carl started asking questions about the process, and how it worked, the technician handed Carl a booklet titled “Hey, Grandma’s Back: A Complete Guide to Your Trans-H™ After-life System.” The book had a number for the IT Desk in case your loved one catches a virus, a guide on how to unstick the track if it ever gets caught (use a broom handle), and some handy ice breakers to use if you are having trouble talking to your deceased family member. The technicians left after telling Carl how to manually start the system. Carl made his way to the basement, and into the sewing room. He sat on his wife’s chair, staring at the server. The lights blinking on and off made Carl think of Christmas. He walked over to the machine and turned it on. From upstairs he heard the projector racing along the track to the basement. A black disc the size of a pie tin raced down the stairs and stopped at the edge of the door. A small stream of light from the disc hit the floor and filled the space in front of Carl. Ethel’s image appeared in the light, which flickered before coming together to form one image. They stared at each other for a while. “Hi Carl,” Ethel said, with a small warm smile. The shimmering from the projector made her look like a shadow. Carl stood there. He reached out one trembling hand to his wife. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll be able to touch me. I’m not much more than some light and a little air.” When Ethel spoke, she sounded wound up, like a kid’s toy where you crank the key to get it to run. Carl drew back his hand and stared. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. He wasn’t sure what to say. “You’re getting pale. You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ethel chuckled at her joke. Carl started to stammer. “I’ve missed you,” was all he was able to get out. “I knew you would, but that’s why I took out this policy without telling you. Please forgive me.” Carl nodded, and said there was nothing to forgive. Ethel smiled. She looked like there was a veil pulled over her face. “You look pale, have you eaten today? Let’s go make you something to eat.” Carl realized he hadn’t eaten all day and was hungry. Carl started up the stairs, and Ethel disappeared as the projector shot up to the top of the stairs. Carl looked around frantically. He did not know where she was, and he called out “Ethel, where did you go?” She reappeared at the top of the stairs. “I just took the fast way up. I’ll be in the kitchen.” Carl gripped the banister with white knuckles, stopping halfway up to catch his breath. He arrived at the kitchen to see Ethel sitting at the table. “It didn’t occur to me that I couldn’t cook anymore. That’s going to be inconvenient.” “That’s all right,” Carl said, “Just walk me through what I need to do. Why don’t we prepare some stew? I always loved the way you made it.” “Oh that sounds lovely.” “We’ll need to make plenty. I invited Eleanor over for dinner tonight. She’ll be overjoyed to see you again.” “Yes. I can’t wait to see my children again. How have they been?” They talked as he cooked, following Ethel’s instructions. Carl told Ethel about her funeral, and how her children were. Eleanor was going to be here tonight, and next week the other four would fly in. Ethel joked about how much can happen when you “step out for a little while.” Carl laughed and told her funny things that happened during that month without her. “You need to let it bake in the oven for a while, Carl” she said. He turned on the oven, and put in the food. The doorbell rang, and went to answer it, swinging his arms with joy as he walked, and flung open to door to his daughter standing on the front porch, tapping away at her phone. She put it away and stepped inside. “Hey Dad, how are you?” she said. Carl hugged her, and Ethel stepped into the hallway, her glowing figure the only light available in the dim hallway. Eleanor put her hands over her mouth and cried when she saw her mother. She ran up and tried to wrap her arms around Ethel, but her arms just passed through. They started to laugh, as tears staining Eleanor’s face. “Oh, my Eleanor,” Ethel said, with drops of light falling down her face. After their reunion, they went into the kitchen to eat. Carl pulled three bowls from the cupboard, and then put one back when he remembered Ethel wouldn’t be eating. He ladled out two bowls of stew and put one in front of his daughter. “Your mother helped me make this. She can’t cook anymore, but she knows the recipe, and walked me through step by step.” “You know mom, dad made this for me once last week, and he already had it pretty much down.” “Well I’m glad to hear that he was eating something good while I was away.” They started to eat. Carl took a bite, then used his spoon to sift through the bowl. It still wasn’t right. He put his spoon down, and stared at the projection in the chair next to him. Through her he could see the refrigerator. He noticed a photograph of Ethel when they had taken a trip to Mexico after they both retired and before she got sick. They had gone horseback riding in the desert, and he had taken a picture of her on a horse. She had thrown her arms up in the air, and was smiling from ear to ear, her long hair loose in the wind. She looked alive. Carl looked back at the image in front of him. “Why aren’t you eating? You haven’t eaten all day; get some food in you,” Ethel said. Carl picked up his spoon, and finished his stew, concentrating with each bite. Trying to determine what should be there. That night, after Eleanor left, Carl lay cornered off on the left side of the bed. Ethel’s computer was sent into sleep mode and didn’t join him. Carl turned over, facing the empty spot in bed where his wife had slept every night of their fifty years together. He stared and thought about the machine in his basement. He did not like it. Something was missing there. Suddenly, he wanted that imitation removed from his home. This week. No. Sooner than that. Tomorrow he would call the technicians to have the imposter evicted. Then he thought about his children. He thought about his month alone. He thought about eating pancakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day. He thought of the loneliness. Then he began to cry. He let the tears roll off his face and soak his pillow. He hadn’t cried in years, not even at the funeral. He could not face having to pull that trigger. The machine would have to stay. That night, Carl thought again of the day by the river. On the way back from the picnic, a tire blew. Carl drove cautiously into a clearing, and got out to fix the tire. It was late. The sun was setting, and crickets and cicadas sang from the tall grass surrounding them. “How are you going to explain this to your dad?” Ethel asked from the back seat where she lay as he fixed the tire. “I’m not sure, probably just tell the truth. I’ve made this bed, and now I have to lie in it.” Ethel smoothed her dress against her legs. She crossed her arms and closed her eyes in the cool backseat and slept. When Carl was finished, he looked at her in the back seat, closed off from him. He smiled, and looked at the sun, gently setting over the trees, and he got in the car, quietly so as not to wake her, and drove home.