The Aria of Alexandra Herrera: a short story by Kody Boye
In which a girl bonds with an artificial intelligence in the aftermath of a terrible accident
If you would have asked me what my sixteenth birthday would be like one year ago, I would have told you that it would have been wonderful—that there would have been cakes, confetti, maybe even cotton candy. I’d’ve had friends over. Pizza. A great big afternoon party. Mom and Dad would have taken me to the opera in the evening, after all my friends had gone; and after that, life would go on as it always does: with school, homework, maybe even music.
But the music, it could be said, always comes to an end. The song runs out. The singer loses their voice. The audience rises after the grand finale, maybe to return again, or maybe never again.
I learned this the hard way the night of the accident.
In the blink of an eye, I had lost everything.
My life. My parents. Even the use of my legs.
The day the doctors brought me back from the brink of death is the day I wish I was never born.
But I guess we don’t all get to choose how our life turns out.
As I sit here, under the garden awning in the setting sun, I try my hardest not to tremble, to shake, but find myself doing just that.
Today is my sixteenth birthday.
There is a cake. Some confetti. Even a little cotton candy. But the afternoon party I envisioned would happen with my friends never took place, because none of them came. Like litter I have been discarded haphazardly—only to be thought of once, then never again.
Behind me, someone clears their throat, and says, “Alexandra.”
I blink, and try my hardest not to cry. “Yes, Uncle Dave?” I ask.
“It’s getting late. Maybe we should go inside.”
He knows I am perfectly capable of wheeling my wheelchair to the back door, even up the ramp. But maybe he understands that I am fragile, and for that reason, knows that I would love nothing more than to cease to exist.
I say, “Okay.”
Uncle Dave comes forward. Takes hold of the wheelchair’s handles. Guides me around the table, upon which the cake still sits, its plastic cover locked into place, awaiting retrieval from my aunt. He approaches the door, which opens almost ceremoniously. My aunt then steps out, and says, “It’s going to be cold tonight.”
She doesn’t have to tell me that. I can already feel it in my aching back. Instead of saying something, however, I simply nod, and allow my uncle to wheel me up the ramp and into the house.
Once we are securely in the kitchen, he asks, “Do you need anything?”
I say, “No, Uncle Dave. I’m… I’m fine.”
The frown on his face is indicative enough. But seeing the way his eyes darken, the way they settle upon me, leaves me with a feeling of doubt. Depression.
Despair.
I angle the wheelchair toward the hallway, and use the strength in my arms to wheel me down the hall.
Once I have secured myself inside my room, I turn my head to look at my reflection in the full-length mirror, and feel myself crumble as a result.
I once had my entire life ahead of me.
Now, I fear my dreams will cease to exist.
Who would have ever thought, a part of me says, that you’d lose everything?
Even my will to sing.
Waking up usually involves some sort of ache or pain. A twinge in my spine, or a stabbing sensation in my hips, are the most common. The doctors say that they might eventually go away. But like all doctors: they can’t promise everything, especially not a pain-free life. Painkillers fix most things, thankfully.
Most things.
The day after my sixteenth birthday, however, is the day I wish they could operate on my brain.
So I’d never have to feel like this again.
Unfortunately, things like this—these emotional lobotomies for the soul—do not happen; and as a result, I am forced to live with the outcome of what happened that fateful day, that tragic hour, that brutal happening.
As usual: I toss the covers from my body. Pull myself into my chair. Wheel myself into the small, attached bathroom, and go about preparing myself for the day. Small amounts of makeup help me feel pretty, and help distract from the pain of sorrow in my eyes—often fitting for a girl like me, unfortunate as my life now happens to be—and the right lip gloss will ultimately seal the deal.
When I roll out of the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen, I find my aunt and uncle already sitting at the kitchen table—my uncle in a suit and tie, my aunt in plainclothes.
My aunt says, “Good morning, Alexandra.”
And I say, “Good morning, Aunt Tiffany.”
My uncle Dave lifts his head to face me, and offers a small, graceful nod before returning his eyes to his paper. “Are you ready for today?” he asks.
“Today?” I reply.
“Surely you haven’t forgotten already?”
“I—” I start to say, then pause, frown, and say, “No. I… I haven’t.”
How could you have forgotten? a part of me asks. After the way they’ve talked it up? After the way you agreed?
The truth is that I’m not exactly sure how, or even why, I forgot. Maybe it’s because I just see it as another gimmick—another ploy to try and make me feel like ‘the best version of myself’ that will never exist—or maybe it’s because I don’t think it’ll work at all. Regardless, the fact remains that I agreed to take part in the project.
A.C.A.T.E—pronounced uh-caught-eh, and otherwise known as Artificial Counseling After Traumatic Events—has been touted as ‘the next great thing in mental health,’ and promises to revolutionize the way patients are treated. They claim it can do everything: from diagnosing mental illness, to mapping behavioral patterns, and even detecting body chemistry, all by artificial intelligence.
Few people have been given access to this advanced, as-of-now-publicly-unavailable, technology, much less the treatment associated with it.
So consumed am I by my thoughts that I barely acknowledge my uncle as he stands, let alone as he straightens his tie. “Well,” he says, before turning his head to face me. “We should get going. Don’t want to keep the board waiting.”
No, I then think. I suppose we don’t.
We arrive at the A.C.A.T.E Institute at around 10:30 in the morning. It is at this time that my uncle goes to work unloading both me, and my wheelchair, from the van. My aunt, meanwhile, stays close—her eyes dark, her lips pursed into a frown. It is obvious that she is as unsure about this as I am, even if she isn’t voicing it.
“Aunt Tiffany,” I say.
She turns her head to face me.
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” my aunt says. “Or, at least, everything will be.”
Will be.
Those two words should hold so much power, and yet, I feel as if they are simply false platitudes—words that should have meaning, and yet, don’t. They’re enough to give me pause; and while I try my hardest not to show it, I know that I’m more likely than not to frown.
Thankfully, my aunt doesn’t notice—or, at the very least, doesn’t think it’s anything outlandish. So when my uncle comes around after securing the van, and asks, “Are we ready?” the two of us simply nod.
Then, we are making our way up the Institute’s front doors.
I expect the room to be sterile when we enter—clean and white and smelling of chemical cleaner as can be. Instead, it resembles something akin to a family practice: with fine wooden planks, faint, off-cream wallpaper, and a desk that sits front and center.
The receptionist lifts her head and says, “Mister Herrera. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Cindy,” he replies.
“I take it this is your niece?”
“This is,” he says.
“Good. I’ll let Doctor Tucker know you’re here. Please, wait one moment.”
My uncle wheels me to a halt near a side entrance, which is marked explicitly as EMPLOYEES only, and turns to face my aunt. He says, “You can wait here, Tiff.”
“You’re sure?” my aunt asks, shifting her gaze from her husband, to me, then back to him again.
Uncle Dave nods and says, “Yeah. Doctor Tucker isn’t very keen about having her work examined. Which reminds me—” My uncle gestures to my clutch. “Hand those to your aunt.”
“But—it has my phone,” I say.
“No outside phones allowed,” he says. “Company safety.”
I sigh, and reluctantly pass my clutch over to my aunt.
The receptionist says, “Doctor Tucker is ready for you, Dave.”
“Thank you, Cindy.” He turns as the metal doorway clicks and then yawns open. “We’ll be back in a little while, Tiff.”
“All right,” my aunt says.
My uncle doesn’t hesitate in wheeling me through the open doorway.
“Uncle Dave,” I say. “I thought I was being seen by an A.I.?”
“You will be,” my uncle replies. “But it’s going to be monitored by a doctor. Just to ensure that the technology is working as it should.”
“Oh… Okay,” I say.
I should know better than to ask. I should also know better than to question the logistics behind all of this. This technology is beyond what most could even imagine. Actually knowing it exists, based on what little knowledge I have of it? That’s something entirely different.
I have just begun to dwell on what I might face when we turn toward a doorway. My uncle knocks, and says, “Doctor Tucker?”
“Come in,” a voice says.
The door opens, and my uncle wheels me inside.
“I take it this is your niece,” a woman says.
“Yes,” my uncle replies. “She is.”
I lift my eyes to face the doctor—and though I am normally not one to judge, I find myself looking into the face of a quite-bland-looking woman. With pale skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes, nothing about her is exceptionally extraordinary. She is not exceptionally pretty, nor does she have many distinguishing characteristics. She is, as I am fit to describe, plain.
But maybe that’s what makes her seem so nonthreatening, I think. Maybe that’s what makes me feel more at ease.
Doctor Tucker leans forward to examine me, and says, “I imagine your uncle has talked to you about A.C.A.T.E.”
“A little,” I say, somewhat sheepishly at that.
“A.C.A.T.E. is designed to help you break through the barriers created by trauma, and to disassemble any walls you might have raised as a result.”
“How does it work?” I ask. “The process, I mean. Not… not the technology.”
“You will go into the room here at my right,” the doctor says, “and speak to an A.C.A.T.E. agent itself. Though I cannot say whether or not our agent will make you uncomfortable, what I can say is that we hope it will eventually put you at ease. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I say.
“Good. I will monitor your progress from the readings A.C.A.T.E. produces from scanners embedded in its eyes. Do not worry—I will not be able to hear what you are saying to it. I will only know certain diagnostic information about your emotions, which A.C.A.T.E. will determine based on facial recognition.”
“Okay.”
“Good.” Doctor Tucker turns toward a door leading into a room with a glass inset in the wall. She then presses a button on her desk, waits for the door to slide out of place, and says, “You’re free to enter.”
I allow myself only a moment to hesitate before taking hold of my wheelchair’s wheels and wheeling myself forward, then into the room.
The door closes the moment my wheelchair clears the doorway.
“Hello, Alexandra,” a voice says.
I startle, then twist my head about to survive my surroundings. “Who was that?” I ask. “Where are you?”
“My name is A.C.A.T.E.,” the voice says. “I am to your right.”
I turn my head—
Just in time for my eyes to settle on the most unassuming thing possible.
A doll.
But not just any doll: what looks to be a living doll. At five feet tall, she appears almost like any other person—with green eyes, blonde hair, and dark eyebrows. Her skin, which I assume is some kind of rubber, looks eerily real, and her clothes, a blue blouse and an off-white skirt, appear to have been picked off the racks of any supermarket imaginable. She sits in a chair against the wall, and watches me with careful, albeit glass eyes.
I say, “Hello.”
The doll blinks, and says, “Hello, Alexandra. How are you today?”
“I—” I start to say. “I don’t—”
“Do not worry. We are the only two who can hear what you say.”
“I’m… not doing well today,” I say. “If I’m being honest, anyway.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I don’t. Not really, anyway. It’s an instinctual, possibly even primordial defense mechanism I have allowed myself to build up to keep from exposing my feelings to others. But here, in the A.C.A.T.E. Institute, I am meant to share my feelings, meant to divulge my deepest fears, my darkest anxieties. As a result, I do the only thing I can think of, and say, “I… I guess.”
“Come closer, please. So we can hear each other better.”
I am hesitant to do so—not because I am afraid of this thing, this artificial intelligence, but because I fear how I might respond once I finally begin to speak.
You never know, a part of me whispers, how deep the well goes.
I could slip into Narnia. Fall into Wonderland. Could be transported to the wonderful kingdom of Oz, or even be whisked into the clouds to Neverland. The fact is: I do not know what I will face come time I uncork that bottle, let alone once I finally start to let the liquid flow.
“Alexandra?” A.C.A.T.E. asks.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m coming.”
I wheel myself forward with the deliberation of a frightened child, at the pace of a sluggish snail. As I draw up alongside the doll, it shifts, its head rotating to consider me as I make my way across the room. Its eyes dilate—likely the result of the cameras within them—and its mouth purses into a subtle, indistinguishable semblance of emotion. It is obvious it is watching me. That much is for certain. But how it might feel? What it might know?
Grinding to a halt, I tighten my hands around my wheels to keep them from moving, then click the safety locks into place.
It is then that A.C.A.T.E. says: “Tell me about the accident, Alexandra.”
“Right to the point,” I say. “Tell me: how did you know about the accident?”
“A connection to your surname in this locale draws up a news article in my system. It says your parents’ vehicle was hit by an eighteen wheeler, and that no one except you survived.”
“If you know about it, why do you need me to tell you about it?”
“Because I wish to know your thoughts on the matter.”
I open my mouth to speak. Stop as I find myself faltering, fumbling.
A.C.A.T.E. watches me silently, its glass eyes unmoving, but its inner system examining, no, scrutinizing me.
“Take your time,” A.C.A.T.E. says.
“I… I feel like I’ve been trapped,” I say. “Not just by circumstance… and not just because of my legs, but… because of how I feel.”
“What do you feel in this moment, Alexandra?”
“Anger.”
A.C.A.T.E.’s eyes dilate. Then, it says: “Anger is a natural response to a traumatic event, especially one you had no handle in influencing.”
“I just don’t understand why he had to drink and drive,” I tell the intelligence. “I just… I don’t know what could have possessed him to get behind the wheel of such a large vehicle while he was drunk.”
“Human error is often the result of personality flaws,” A.C.A.T.E. says. “Though I cannot say why this driver chose to do what he did, I understand that it has irreversibly altered your life forever.”
“It… did,” I say.
“Tell me something that makes you happy—even through the darkest of times.”
“I… I don’t…”
The intelligence waits silently.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Surely something must make you feel happy? Must make you feel special?”
“I don’t know if I’m exactly special,” I reply. “I mean… I’m just a sixteen-year-old girl.”
“One who sang the lead in your school’s biggest annual assembly.”
I scoff. “I feel like you know more about me than you should.”
“My goal, as an artificial intelligence, is to help you process the trauma that you have gone through. That is what I am designed, and purposed, to do.”
“Tell me something,” I then say, before leaning forward to examine the doll, the machine, this artificial intelligence beyond compare. “Do you care?”
“Do I care about what, Alexandra?”
“Me. Do you care about me.”
“I wish nothing more than to help you,” it says.
And though something tells me that I should respond—that I, with all my indignation, should counter what is obviously a pre-programmed message—I find myself unable to do so.
“Our time has come to an end for now,” A.C.A.T.E. says as the door behind us slides open. “I hope to see you again, Alexandra.”
“I… I guess,” I say.
It is only when Doctor Tucker steps into the room, my uncle close behind, that I feel my emotions beginning to fray. For that reason, and others I cannot begin to comprehend, I allow them to wheel me out of the room in silence.
My aunt Tiffany is the first to ask, “How did it go?”
“It… it went fine,” I say, unsure how, or even if, I should elaborate.
We are winding through the hills of Bee Cove as we return to our home in Austin. Heart heavy, mind burdened, I keep my gaze trained out the window, even though the winding roads leave me feeling somewhat ill at ease.
“Doctor Tucker was pleased with the results,” my uncle says. “She is more than willing to allow you to continue your sessions with A.C.A.T.E. if you are willing to attend them.”
“I thought she couldn’t hear what I was telling it?” I ask.
“We can’t. That’s a breech of patient-provider confidentiality.”
“But… isn’t it… well… different? Because it’s a machine?”
“A.C.A.T.E. is a neural network of artificial intelligences,” my uncle replies. “It is almost as capable of comprehending the world around it as a human is.”
“So… you’re saying that no one will… ever know what I say to it?”
“I’m saying exactly that, Alex.”
I offer a short, hesitant nod. It is at that point that I say. “Oh… Okay. I’ll continue my sessions with the A.I.”
“Excellent,” Uncle Dave says. “I know this can help you, Alex. I know it can.”
Whether or not that is true is up for debate. Regardless, I can’t, and won’t, argue for or against it.
With that in mind, I simply continue to watch the road as we wind through the hills.
We eat a filling dinner that night; and after climbing into bed early this night, I lay awake listening to the sound of cars passing on the road outside—not just wondering, but dreaming of a time when I used to long for my driver’s license and the freedom if would provide.
And now you’re scared of being in a car, a part of me says.
Then a second, more devilish part adds, At least you don’t have to worry about driving anymore.
I purse my lips to keep from emotionally responding, but find that I do so regardless.
When I finally close my eyes in an effort to try and fall asleep, I see only one thing:
A.C.A.T.E.
“How are you feeling today?” AC.A.T.E. asks.
It is day two, and I am already feeling lost and bewildered, unsure and, above all else, broken. I hadn’t slept well last night on account of bad dreams—bad, reoccurring dreams—and I feel as though I will emotionally collapse before the session can even begin.
“Alexandra?” the artificial intelligence asks. “Are you all right?”
“I… had bad dreams,” I reply. “About… about the accident.”
“Do you want to talk about them?”
I really don’t. However, I figure the point of therapy is to expel my feelings, and get them off my chest as a result. So, with that in mind, I say, “No,” then add, “but I think I should.”
A.C.A.T.E. waits for me to respond.
“I just… I don’t know how I’m supposed to move forward,” I begin. “My life has been dismantled. My parents are gone. My friends aren’t coming around anymore. I haven’t been in school in months because I honestly don’t think I can face anyone. I mean, Uncle Dave and Aunt Tiffany have been homeschooling me, but… it isn’t the same.”
“I imagine that leaves you feeling troubled.”
“It does, in many ways. But… I’m trying to work through it,” I then add. “I’m studying for my GED. I’m looking into going to college in the next few years. I’m… I’m here.”
“Which is more than you could say a few days ago,” A.C.A.T.E. says.
“Yes. I… I suppose it does.”
I wait a moment for the realization to settle in—for my fears, as callous as they happen to be, to come to full focus. My heart is a timid house cat at this moment, scared and afraid of being left out in the rain. But somewhere, deep down, there is a lion, just waiting to come roaring in.
“Remember,” A.C.A.T.E. says, “that we cannot always control our circumstances. All we can do is work to better them in the meantime.”
“I think I understand,” I say.
A.C.A.T.E. offers a semblance of a nod. “Remember, Alexandra: only you can control your destiny.”
My destiny, I think.
Then, slowly, I nod.
We return home that afternoon—and though my aunt and uncle go about doing their normal, everyday things, I wheel myself out into the backyard to look out at the birds in the trees, singing as sweet as can be.
Only you can control your destiny, A.C.A.T.E. had said.
I still do not understand how it articulates its thoughts, or even where it pulls its central databases from. Perhaps it is conditionally learning—adapting as it goes along—or perhaps it is simply the result of expert programming. Regardless, the machine is slowly helping me unravel my thoughts.
All without having to confront them, I think.
My aunt and uncle.
Sighing, I reach up to run my hand through my long dark hair, and center my gaze on the road that can be seen beyond the chain-link fence in the distance. It seems so cruel to think that a simple trip to your aunt and uncle’s could result in your parents’ deaths. Uncle Dave has taken is so well, but I understand that part of his reasoning for doing so well in the first place is because he is compartmentalizing his feelings. Unlike me, he is not facing them. Rather, he is pushing them to the back burner, waiting to deal with them later.
Maybe that’s the difference between him and I. While he languishes in his feelings, I am growing from them.
Maybe, just maybe, that is why A.C.A.T.E. exists.
Maybe, just maybe, it can help me help my family.
“How do I help my family recover?” I ask.
The doll-like construct that A.C.A.T.E. has been installed within lifts its gaze to consider me, and asks, “In what way?”
“From this tragedy. Emotionally.”
“Grief is a complex thing. There is no true way to address it.”
“Isn’t that what you’re here for?” I ask. “To help address it?”
“I am here to unravel the inner psychological workings of your mind, and to help you process your feelings along the way. I cannot truly say how to help your family, because I know each of them must be interpreting their emotions in their own way.”
I open my mouth to speak, but stop before I can do so.
“Have you perhaps tried to talk with them?” A.C.A.T.E. asks.
“Talk… to them?” I reply.
“Yes. Talk to them.” The machine pauses. “I imagine your withdrawal has affected them, too.”
“I… I guess it could have,” I say, somewhat defeatedly at that.
“I would suggest you speak to them personally, Alexandra. Only you can know what to say.”
I don’t. I truly don’t. But deep down, I know A.C.A.T.E. is right.
“Uncle Dave,” I ask one evening while we’re getting ready for bed. “Can I talk to you about something?”
My uncle turns his head to face me. “What is it, Alex? You know you can tell me anything.”
“Can we… can we talk about the accident.”
His face blanches. His lips curl into a frown. He says, “I thought you were doing well at the program?”
“I… I am,” I say. “At least, I… I think I am. But I don’t want to talk about the program. I want to talk to you. About how you feel.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary at this moment,” my uncle says.
He turns away from where he stands in my bedroom doorway—and I, being quick and nimble enough, reach out and take hold of his hand.
My touch stops him before he can move further.
“Uncle Dave,” I say. “Please. Talk to me.”
He hesitates. Body grounded, muscles tense, he turns his head to face me slowly, hesitantly, than finally says, “Okay. I’ll talk.”
I relinquish my hold on his hand. Wheel myself back into my room. Wait until he settles himself into a chair that no one uses in the corner, then sighs—a long, monumental sound, like wind coming down from a high mountain. He then says, “I’m sorry I’ve put so much on you, Alex.”
“Uncle Dave—” I start.
“I should’ve been there for you from the start. I just… after your father died… I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I knew we had to take you in, and even though we had the means to do it, I wasn’t sure I was emotionally equipped to deal with the fallout of the accident.”
“I wish you would’ve said something earlier.”
“And risk hurting you? Hurting us?” He shakes his head. “No, Alex. I couldn’t say anything. I probably shouldn’t be saying anything. But… you’re almost an adult, and, well…” He pauses. “I feel I owe it to you to talk to you like one, and to apologize to you like I should’ve. I’m so sorry.”
It is at this point that I see tears budding in his eyes, trailing down his cheeks, off his chin. He leans forward, then, and cups his face into his hands, before letting out another long, drawn-out sigh.
“I need to thank you,” I say.
He lifts his head.
“For trusting me with A.C.A.T.E., I mean.”
“I’ve only ever wanted the best for you, Alex. I hope you know that.”
“I do.”
And, truthfully, I do know that. I know that for a fact. Because even though these wounds run deep, and have not truly begun to scar over, something tells me that, even through the darkest of times, there still might be light at the end of the tunnel.
I reach out. Take hold of my uncle’s hand. Start to hum a short tune.
“Are you—” he starts “—going to sing?”
“Do you want me to?” I ask, in a slow, gentle voice.
“I’ve wanted nothing more, Alexandra.”
It takes a moment for me to open my mouth—for me to feel the music build within me. But when it finally does, I take a long, deep breath, then, slowly, exhale it.
Then, I begin to sing.
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