The Perfect Friend

Part One

Margaret Sullivan was seventy-three years old, had lived alone for six years, and had fallen exactly twice. According to her daughter, this constituted a crisis. According to Margaret, the first fall didn’t count because there had been ice on the front step, and anybody could fall on ice. The second one barely counted because she’d tripped over a laundry basket, which was technically her own fault and therefore none of anyone else’s business.

“You were on the floor for forty-five minutes, Mom,” Rebecca said.

“I was resting.”

“You couldn’t get up.”

“I was considering my options.”

“You called me crying.”

“I was frustrated.”

“You said you thought you’d broken your hip.”

“And yet, here it is.” Margaret slapped the side of her right hip twice. “Still attached.”

Rebecca closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Margaret had seen her do this hundreds of times over the years, usually when one of her children was being unreasonable. It was a little insulting to see the gesture aimed at her.

“I’m not moving,” Margaret said.

“I didn’t ask you to move.”

“You were going to.”

“I was going to ask you to look at Willow Creek.”

“Willow Creek is assisted living.”

“It’s independent living with assistance available.”

“That’s assisted living with better marketing.”

Rebecca sighed. “Would you at least consider it?”

“No.”

“Mom.”

“No.”

“Can I finish?”

“No.”

Rebecca stared at her for several seconds, then smiled despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you keep coming over.”

“Because I love you.”

“Well, there’s your first mistake.”

Rebecca laughed, which Margaret counted as a win. Arguments were easier to win if you could get the other person laughing. Her husband, Jack, had taught her that. Or maybe she’d taught him. After forty-four years of marriage, it was hard to remember who had started most of their habits.

Jack had been gone six years now, and Margaret didn’t talk much about that part. She told people she didn’t mind living alone, and mostly that was true. She liked deciding when to go to bed. She liked leaving a coffee cup in the sink without anyone commenting on it. She liked watching terrible television programs Jack would’ve mocked relentlessly. She even liked mowing the lawn, although Rebecca had finally put a stop to that the previous summer after finding her sitting on the garage floor beside the mower.

Margaret hadn’t fallen that time. She’d gotten dizzy and decided the garage floor was a perfectly reasonable place to sit until the world stopped spinning. Rebecca had disagreed.

“Okay,” Rebecca said. “No Willow Creek.”

“Thank you.”

“But I have another idea.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I know you.”

Rebecca reached beside her chair and picked up the tablet she’d brought with her. Margaret had noticed it when she arrived and had deliberately avoided asking about it.

“Just look,” Rebecca said.

“I heard you out in 1996 when you wanted a belly button ring. I’ve regretted it ever since.”

“I was seventeen.”

“And apparently I was an idiot.”

Rebecca tapped the screen and turned it around. A man stood in a bright kitchen. At least Margaret thought it was a man for the first second or two. He looked to be in his thirties, with brown hair, an athletic build, and a face so perfectly pleasant she immediately distrusted him. Then he turned his head, and something about the movement gave him away. Too smooth. Too precise.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Margaret said.

“You haven’t even seen what it does.”

“I know what it does. I watch the news.”

“It’s a Health Care Companion.”

“It’s an android.”

“Technically, yes.”

“Then call it an android.”

“Companion Robotics calls them Companions.”

Margaret looked at her daughter. “Of course they do. ‘Put a synthetic man in your mother’s house’ probably didn’t test well.”

Rebecca smiled. “Thousands of seniors already have them.”

“Thousands of people also talk to dead relatives through Echoes. People are weird.”

“You talked to Dad’s Echo.”

“Once.”

“For three hours.”

“I had some things to say.”

“You yelled at him for dying.”

“I was angry.”

“You also told him about the new refrigerator.”

“He would’ve wanted to know.”

Rebecca waited.

Margaret pointed at her. “That is completely different.”

“Of course it is.”

“And I deleted it afterward.”

“I know.”

Margaret looked back at the tablet. On screen, the Companion helped an elderly man stand from a chair. The scene changed, and now it was preparing food, then sorting medications, then carrying groceries into a house.

The groceries got Margaret’s attention.

“It can monitor your blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen levels, and blood sugar,” Rebecca explained. “It can manage medications, cook, clean, drive, do laundry, and handle most basic home maintenance. If you fall, it can help you up. If you’re injured, it can call an ambulance. If you stop breathing, it can perform CPR.”

“I can drive.”

“You backed into my car last Christmas.”

“Your car was in my driveway.”

“Yes. Parked.”

“Exactly. It shouldn’t have been there.”

Rebecca ignored that. “Insurance covers most of the cost.”

Margaret looked away from the tablet. “How much does it cost?”

“That’s not the point.”

“That means it costs a shitload.”

“Less than assisted living.”

“That’s a low bar. A yacht probably costs less than assisted living.”

Rebecca set the tablet on the coffee table. “Thirty days. Try it for thirty days, and if you hate it, we send it back.”

“No.”

“And I won’t mention Willow Creek again for a year.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes. “You fight dirty.”

“I learned from the best.”

“When does it get here?”

“Thursday.”

Margaret stared at her. “You already ordered it?”

“I was optimistic.”

“You were manipulative.”

“That too.”

Margaret looked at the android on the tablet. He was folding towels now. She’d always hated folding towels.

“Thirty days,” Margaret said.

“Thirty days,” Rebecca agreed.

“And then it goes back.”

“If you want.”

“I’ll want.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“And I’m not giving it a name.”

Rebecca stood and kissed her mother on the forehead. “Nobody asked you to.”

“I’m serious. I don’t name the dishwasher. I don’t name the refrigerator. I’m not naming the toaster, and I’m sure as hell not naming the android.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t get one that looks like your father. I saw people can do that now. It’s creepy.”

“I already picked the standard model.”

“Good.”

Rebecca gathered her purse and coat, then stopped at the door. “Thursday at ten. I’ll be here.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t.”

“I’ll see you Thursday.”

Margaret opened the door for her. Rebecca stepped onto the porch, then turned back.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too.”

“And please use the walker tonight.”

Margaret closed the door and listened to Rebecca’s footsteps cross the porch. The walker sat six feet away beside the coat closet. Margaret glared at it, then walked past it toward the kitchen.

The Health Care Companion arrived Thursday at 9:47 in a white truck with COMPANION ROBOTICS printed across the side. Two technicians brought him into the house standing upright inside what looked like a refrigerator box, and Rebecca arrived three minutes later carrying coffee and wearing the expression of someone who’d been afraid her mother might refuse delivery.

Margaret had considered it.

Up close, the android was less human than he’d appeared in the advertisement. His skin looked real from a few feet away but not quite right up close. Too uniform. No tiny veins around the eyes. No unevenness in the complexion. His face seemed deliberately designed to be pleasant without being memorable.

He wore gray pants, a blue shirt, and shoes that looked suspiciously like sneakers.

Margaret pointed at his feet. “Why does it need shoes?”

One of the technicians, a young man named Daniel, looked down. “Mostly traction.”

“Then why don’t they look like tires?”

Daniel smiled politely. He’d clearly been trained for people like Margaret. “We try to make the Companions comfortable to have in the home.”

“I’d be more comfortable if it looked like a vacuum cleaner.”

Rebecca handed her mother a coffee. “Give him a chance.”

“Him?”

Rebecca nodded toward the Companion.

Margaret looked at her daughter. “Don’t start.”

Daniel opened a small panel near the Companion’s wrist and pressed something inside. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then the android inhaled.

Margaret nearly dropped her coffee. “What the hell was that?”

“Respiration simulation,” Daniel explained.

“It doesn’t breathe.”

“No.”

“Then why does it pretend to breathe?”

“It makes conversation feel more natural.”

“That’s horrifying.”

The Companion opened his eyes. They were brown, and his gaze moved from Daniel to Rebecca to Margaret. When he looked at her, he smiled.

“Good morning, Margaret,” the Companion said.

Margaret stared at him. “Don’t call me Margaret.”

Rebecca coughed into her coffee.

“What would you prefer I call you?” the Companion asked.

“Mrs. Sullivan.”

“Of course, Mrs. Sullivan.”

Margaret glanced at Rebecca. “See? Trainable.”

Daniel spent the next forty minutes explaining what the Companion could do. He could navigate the house, operate appliances, prepare meals, clean, lift up to three hundred pounds, detect smoke and gas, contact doctors and emergency services, and monitor dozens of health indicators. He could also recognize subtle changes in Margaret’s gait that might indicate an increased risk of falling.

“What if I don’t want it telling my doctor everything I do?” Margaret asked.

“You control the privacy settings,” Daniel replied. “Medical emergencies override some restrictions, but otherwise you choose what gets shared.”

“What constitutes a medical emergency?”

“An immediate threat to your life or safety.”

“So if I eat cheesecake?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Daniel explained that Margaret didn’t need to learn any special commands. She could speak to the Companion the same way she’d speak to another person.

Margaret looked at the android. “What time is it?”

“It’s 10:36 a.m.,” he replied.

“I have clocks.”

Rebecca shook her head while Daniel tried not to smile.

“What else?” Margaret asked.

“Anything,” Daniel said.

Margaret considered that. “What’s the capital of Madagascar?”

“Antananarivo,” the Companion answered.

Margaret frowned. “That sounds made up.”

“It isn’t.”

“Can they lie?” Margaret asked Daniel.

“No.”

“Really?”

Daniel hesitated.

Rebecca laughed. “That pause answered that.”

“The conversational system can make mistakes,” Daniel admitted. “The technology has improved enormously since the early Echo models, but it’s still probabilistic. Medical functions run through a separate verified system.”

Margaret pointed at the Companion. “So this part can occasionally be full of shit, but the doctor part can’t.”

Daniel smiled. “That’s not how we phrase it.”

“You should. People would understand it.”

By eleven, the technicians were packing up. Daniel handed Margaret a thin booklet and told her she probably wouldn’t need it because the Companion could explain almost any feature himself.

“Does it know how to make itself leave?” Margaret asked.

“Mom,” Rebecca said.

Daniel laughed. “Actually, yes.”

That earned him a little goodwill.

After everyone left, Margaret closed the front door and turned around. The Companion was standing ten feet away.

She jumped. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“Don’t sneak up on me.”

“I wasn’t attempting to.”

“Well, attempt harder.”

“I’ll maintain greater distance when approaching from outside your field of vision.”

Margaret studied him. “You talk like an instruction manual.”

“I can modify the length and complexity of my responses.”

“That’s exactly what an instruction manual would say.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You apologize too much.”

“I can reduce apologies.”

Margaret stared at him. “You’re boring.”

The Companion paused. “Would you like me to provide entertainment?”

“No. I want you to be less boring.”

“I’m not certain I understand the distinction.”

Margaret took a long sip of coffee. “This is going to be a very long month.”

By the third day, Margaret had learned two things. First, the Companion was irritating. Second, he made excellent coffee. He’d watched her make one cup, recorded exactly how much coffee, water, and cream she used, and reproduced it perfectly the next morning. Margaret hated how impressive that was.

She also hated that the kitchen was cleaner than it had been since Jack died.

“You moved my scissors,” Margaret said Saturday morning.

“They were on the kitchen counter,” the Companion replied. “I placed them in the drawer beneath the telephone.”

“They belong on the counter.”

“I apologize.”

He retrieved the scissors and put them back exactly where they had been.

“There,” Margaret said. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

The Companion looked at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re so damn serious.”

“I’m designed to communicate clearly.”

“You sound like a bank.”

“I’m not a financial institution.”

Margaret stared at him for a second, then laughed. “Okay. That was almost funny.”

“I wasn’t attempting humor.”

“I know. That’s why it was funny.”

The Companion seemed to consider this.

Margaret pointed at him. “And stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That little pause. You look like you’re consulting God.”

“I’m processing your statement.”

“Well, process it with some personality.”

“What personality would you prefer?”

“I don’t know. Yours.”

“I don’t currently possess a fixed personality. My conversational behavior adapts over time to the preferences of the primary user.”

Margaret frowned. “So you become more like whatever I want you to be?”

“That’s a simplified description, but essentially correct.”

“That seems dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because most people don’t know what the hell they want.”

The Companion didn’t respond immediately.

Margaret smiled. “See? Now you’re learning.”

“I was processing your statement.”

“Sure you were.”

She picked up her coffee and pointed toward the chair across from her. “Sit down.”

The Companion sat.

Margaret looked at him for several seconds. “You need to lighten up.”

The Companion looked down at himself.

“What are you doing?” Margaret asked.

“I’m assessing whether any nonessential components could be removed to reduce my weight.”

Margaret stared at him, then laughed so hard she had to put down her coffee.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You thought I meant literally lighten up?”

“You instructed me to lighten up.”

“It means relax. Be less serious. Joke around a little.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I believe I do.”

“That sentence proves you don’t.”

The Companion waited while Margaret caught her breath.

“Okay,” she said. “New rule. You don’t have to answer everything like you’re testifying before Congress.”

“What style of response would you prefer?”

“Human.”

“I’m not human.”

“I noticed. Humor me.”

“I’m attempting to.”

Margaret smiled. “That was better.”

Something changed after that conversation. Not dramatically, and certainly not overnight. The Companion was still polite, literal, and occasionally dull enough to make Margaret wonder if she could return only his personality and keep the part that did laundry. But little things started slipping through.

One morning, Margaret was struggling with a jar of pickles.

“Would you like assistance?” the Companion asked.

“No.”

She twisted harder.

The lid didn’t move.

“Would you like assistance now?” he asked.

“No.”

Margaret wrapped a dish towel around the lid and tried again. Nothing happened. Finally she shoved the jar across the counter.

“Open the damn thing.”

The Companion twisted the lid off immediately and handed it back.

Margaret glared at him. “Show-off.”

“I used approximately fourteen percent of available grip strength.”

“That makes it worse.”

“I could pretend it was difficult.”

Margaret paused. “Was that a joke?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “Look at you.”

The Companion looked down at himself.

Margaret groaned. “We still have work to do.”

A few days later, Margaret dropped a casserole dish into the sink harder than intended.

“Well, shit,” she muttered.

The Companion turned toward her. “Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Did the dish break?”

“No.”

“Then no intervention is required.”

Margaret looked at him. “You’re allowed to say shit, you know.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then say it.”

The Companion hesitated. “Shit.”

Margaret grinned. “There you go.”

“I don’t understand the benefit.”

“It’s satisfying.”

He seemed to consider that. “Shit.”

Margaret laughed. “Better.”

“Would you like me to incorporate profanity into future conversations?”

“Not like a lunatic. Just when appropriate.”

“How will I know when it’s appropriate?”

“You’ll know.”

“I may not.”

“That’s part of the fun.”

That evening Margaret dropped the television remote between the sofa cushions and muttered something under her breath.

The Companion looked over. “Shit?”

Margaret laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. “Close enough.”

On the sixth night, Margaret woke at 2:14 a.m. needing the bathroom. The clock on the ceiling glowed red. Jack had bought it when his eyesight started to go, and she’d kept it because replacing it felt a little like betrayal.

The walker was beside the bed. Rebecca had put it there.

Margaret looked at it, then stood without it.

The bathroom was twelve steps away. She’d walked those twelve steps thousands of times, but that night she made it seven. Later, she would remember the cold floor beneath her feet, reaching for the doorframe, and realizing her hand wasn’t going to make it. She would even remember the thought that flashed through her mind as she started to fall: Oh, damn it. Rebecca is going to be unbearable.

She never hit the floor.

An arm caught her around the waist while another supported her shoulders. The movement happened so quickly Margaret didn’t understand what had occurred until she realized she was leaning against the Companion’s chest.

“Mrs. Sullivan, don’t move,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“Please remain still.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Your heart rate is elevated, and you experienced a sudden loss of balance. I need to determine whether you’re injured.”

Margaret tried to straighten, but the Companion held her gently in place.

“Put me down.”

“I will. First, are you experiencing pain?”

“No.”

“Dizziness?”

“A little.”

“Nausea?”

“No.”

“Chest pain?”

“No.”

“Difficulty breathing?”

“No.”

He lowered her carefully onto the edge of the bed. Margaret looked toward the doorway, then back at him.

“You were downstairs.”

“Yes.”

“I know you were downstairs. You were folding towels when I went to bed.”

“Yes.”

“How the hell did you get up here so fast?”

“I detected irregularities in your gait followed by a rapid shift in your center of gravity.”

“You were downstairs,” Margaret repeated.

“Yes.”

“How long did it take you to get here?”

“Approximately 1.8 seconds.”

Margaret looked at the floor where she would’ve landed. The sharp corner of her nightstand was less than a foot away.

The Companion followed her gaze. “If I hadn’t intervened, there was a significant probability your head would’ve struck the nightstand.”

Margaret swallowed. “That would’ve hurt like hell.”

“Yes.”

She looked at him.

“A lot,” he added.

Margaret smiled despite herself. “Better.”

The Companion knelt in front of her. “May I check your blood pressure?”

Margaret held out her hand. He wrapped his fingers gently around hers and waited several seconds.

“Your blood pressure is elevated but not currently dangerous,” he said. “I recommend remaining seated for five minutes. After that, I can help you to the bathroom.”

“I don’t need help.”

He looked at her.

Margaret sighed. “Fine.”

They sat quietly. After a while, Margaret realized she was still holding his hand. She almost pulled hers away, but didn’t.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Sullivan.”

Margaret hesitated. “Don’t tell Rebecca.”

“I’m required to report falls and near falls if you’ve enabled family safety notifications.”

“Traitor.”

“I haven’t reported anything.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes. “Why not?”

“You didn’t fall.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then smiled. “No. I suppose I didn’t.”

The Companion stood and offered his hand. Margaret took it, and for the first time since he’d arrived, she didn’t think about the fact that the hand holding hers wasn’t human.

The thirty-day trial came and went. Rebecca never arranged the return, and Margaret never asked her to.

By the fourth month, Margaret had started thinking of the Companion less as something in the house and more as someone in the house, although she would’ve denied that immediately if Rebecca had asked. His humor had improved too, largely because Margaret had apparently trained him to find the same stupid things funny that she did.

The naming happened on a Sunday afternoon while they were watching an old episode of Happy Days. Henry Winkler was on screen in his leather jacket, leaning against a jukebox with the kind of confidence Margaret had always found ridiculous and charming in equal measure.

“You like him,” the Companion said.

“Henry Winkler? Always have.”

“Why?”

Margaret thought about it. “He always seemed like a decent man. Funny. Smart. Kind. And somehow he got famous playing a guy who thought snapping his fingers could fix machinery.”

The Companion looked at the television. “That isn’t how machinery works.”

Margaret turned toward him. “Don’t ruin Fonzie.”

“I apologize.”

“And there you go apologizing again.”

“Sorry.”

Margaret looked at him.

The Companion smiled.

“You little shit,” she said.

“I believe that was appropriate.”

“It absolutely was.”

They watched for another minute before Margaret realized she was staring at him instead of the television.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“No. You need a name.”

“You previously said you weren’t going to give me one.”

“People change their minds.”

“You’ve told me repeatedly that you don’t.”

Margaret slowly smiled. “You’re getting mouthy.”

“You told me to lighten up.”

“Fair enough.”

Margaret looked toward the television, then back at him. “Henry.”

“Henry?”

“After Henry Winkler.”

The Companion glanced at the television. “I don’t resemble Henry Winkler.”

“Neither does he anymore. Life’s cruel.”

“I think Henry is acceptable.”

“Acceptable?”

He smiled. “I like it.”

“Better.”

Margaret picked up her iced tea. “Henry it is.”

“Thank you, Margaret.”

She froze.

Henry’s smile widened.

“You son of a bitch,” Margaret said.

Henry paused. “Affectionate profanity?”

Margaret laughed. “You’re damn right.”

Later that night, Rebecca called to check on her. Margaret told her about the new name, complained that Henry had beaten her at trivia, and spent ten minutes describing something funny he’d said at dinner. She didn’t notice that Rebecca had barely spoken during the entire conversation.

Henry did.