Robot Girl

Robot Girl

David Don

 

Mrs. Lyons bent down as much as she could and pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. She stuck a shaking hand into Rosemary's hair and ran it through her knobbly fingers.

“Aww. She's a pretty wee lassie you've got there,” said Mrs. Lyons.

“Aye, aye, she's alright,” I answered, laughing a bit. I patted Rosemary's head. 

“Beep blop boop,” said Rosie. 

Rosemary had been behaving strangely since she watched one of those crazy old kid's programmes on the BBC that they only show when it's so early it's still dark outside. It was one of those ones from the 80s or 90s that bring on an immediate headache as soon as the horrible title music starts, along with that sick feeling that lets you know that you're up too early. 

There was this robot puppet guy in it. I think he was a friend of the main character or something, but it seemed like this episode was about him. I only really began to watch it halfway through, my attention (and alarm) summoned by the clear five minutes of silence that had passed in the living room. I stuck my head round the door to make sure that my daughter was indeed still on the rug where I had left her. She was, and transfixed at that – mouth open a little, eyes focused still. I hadn't seen her move so little in perhaps her entire life; even in her sleeping hours Rosie raged against inertia. I came in and stood behind her and joined in watching, amazed, hoping that I might be able to absorb and harness for myself any of the apparently hypnotic powers that the television show was exhibiting.

To me it seemed the basic plot pattern was that this ragdoll girl – who seemed to be the focus of the programme – would walk around the 'village' with the robot and show him some particular human being activity. The two I saw were drinking tea and painting. The problem was that since he was a robot, he didn't have a mouth (or digestive tract) and therefore couldn't consume tea, and he couldn't seem to paint anything except squares and rectangles on his canvas. Ragdoll was getting melancholy because they had nothing they could do together. She opted to try one last activity, dancing, but admitted that she couldn't really show him how to do it because she was a terrible dancer. To Ragdoll's, mines and Rosemary's surprise, as soon as that music kicked in, Robot needed no instruction anyway, and was busting moves like nobody's business (well, really, busting 'move'. Specifically, the Robot). He was a natural. “Beep blop boop, beep boop boop,” he said as he cruised around on his wheels. Ragdoll started joining in with the dance. They had found something to do together. 

“Did you like that, Rosie?” I asked when the credits were on the screen.

“Beep boop boop,” answered my daughter. 

We met Mrs. Lyons in Tesco three days later. In the interim I had not heard my three-year-old produce a single utterance that wasn't compiled of some combination of 'beep', 'boop' and 'bop'. Oh, and how could I forget – 'blop'. It was actually kind of funny at first, like our own little private joke about how daft it all was. I enjoyed it especially when I took her out in public and she showed off her new vocabulary to unsuspecting old ladies. However, Mrs. Lyons was now maybe the fourth person to fit that description and the whole Robot Girl thing was beginning to seem less humorous and more like my daughter really was a robot that needed a few bolts tightened. 

Mrs. Lyons' eyes widened, then she laughed. “Oh, that's funny,” she said, while booping Rosie on the nose. “Well, it was lovely to see the both of you. I really do hope you're keeping alright, Stephen.”

I smiled and said we were. I waved and mouthed goodbye as Mrs. Lyons made her slow retreat into the aisles, and kept looking over at Rosie to try and make her imitate me. She could not have possibly seemed to hold any less of an interest in the situation, though, and stared open-mouthed down from her seat at the handle of the trolley, then started bashing it with her palms.

I looked at Mrs. Lyons and we laughed, but when the old lady was gone I lifted Rosie out of her seat and held her in front of me so that we were face to face.

“What's going on with you, little one?” I asked. “Why won't you talk to anyone? You know loads of words. You're always so chatty.”

She looked me in the eyes silently for a second, as if she understood.

“Beep,” she said. 

I sighed and put her back in the trolley.

***

Next on the day's agenda was a visit to my sister's. We took a route by the country roads. At three, kids have a really, really short attention span and I realised she hadn't been out the house very much in the last few days – nursery was on holiday for a few weeks – and maybe if I exposed her to some fresh stimuli (cows, sheep and hills were all previous show stealers) she might switch her attention to one of those and forget about the whole robot noises thing. 

I craned my neck round to see her in the car seat, and check what she was looking at.

“Do you see those wee white things on the grass away over there? What are they called again Rosie?”

For one lovely short moment I thought she said 'sheep', but no. Just a 'beep'. I look onwards towards my sister's.

We arrived quite quickly. After a few minutes of Rosemary's making Abigail laugh I pointed to the 
 toys in the corner of the lounge and talked in excited tones until she plodded off to amuse herself amongst them for a bit. At least she still got a kick out of all the usual colours and sounds. I had been half worried that she'd start taking an interest in the washing machine or gas meter. I sat down at the other side of the room with Abigail and explained, between sips of coffee, what had been happening.

“I'm just worried about her.” I said.

“Oh Stephen,” said my sister. “It's not worth getting worked up about. It'll just be a wee phase. I remember when Connor was little he wouldn't get into bed without us first telling him that Emma, each of his teddies and the dog were all already sleeping. We – or, well, I – had all these visions of him as a grown man stoating about at night checking everyone's rooms. But he grew out of it. They always do.”

“Hmm,” I said. I wanted to say 'this is different', but to a competing parent that garners nothing but the all-knowing smile. “I don't know. It's just getting a little bit beyond a joke at this point; it's starting to concern me.”

“Rosie will be fine, Steve. It's you I'm more worried about. How are you getting on, really?”

“What?” I asked. “Oh. Oh, I'm fine, I'm fine. Good and bad days, you know.” There was a lull. “I'm going to speak to Dr. Ford after this, actually.” 

“Oh, good, that's great. I love Dr. Ford. He's a fantastic therapist. Speaking of Connor, actually, Ford really helped me with him. He helped me push through that first year. He was a brilliant help.”

“Aye, I remember,” I said. We both took gulps from our mugs. “It's not always so easy, having kids.”

Abigail nodded slowly. I was focused on my cup but I could feel that her eyes were still on me. Rosie came ambling over. She looked tired.

“We better get going,” I said, checking my watch. “That appointment is gaining on us, can't keep the doc waiting.”

We all hugged at the door and Rosie didn't say anything – not even a beep. 

***

By the time we got to the surgery I had to lift her limp dozing body out of the seat to take her in with me.

We sat in the waiting area for far too long, but I suppose that's just how it always goes. Or maybe we had just seen the sight too much lately. Waiting rooms change your perception of time. I think they get special clocks made. Too many heaps of three-month-old magazines. Too many bead roller coasters. Seriously, could nobody put out a different toy to mix it up a bit, just even once? They called my name fifteen minutes late.

“It probably is just a phase, Stephen. It'll pass. She's still only a little girl, but she's never demonstrated anything except intelligence and an abundance of energy before now,” said the doctor, head turned from his computer to me, with one hand on the mouse, our entire history on the screen.

“I know, I know.” I said. 

“So what's your worry?”

“I don't know.”

There was another one of those silences.

“You have to vocalise your thoughts if you want me to be able to help you.” He waited, again. He wanted me to do the work.

“It's just-” I paused. “I just wonder if it's because- y'know, since then she's, well...” I couldn't say the words out loud. 

I took a breath then exhaled it. I looked over at my sleeping girl on the chair in the corner, draped in my coat. She was scratching her head.

Dr. Ford turned his chair fully round to face me, and took his hand off the mouse, clasping it with the other across his lap. He looked for my eyes and waited for me to return the gaze. Eventually I did.

“Stephen, Rosemary isn't nearly old enough to understand now, and she was even younger when it happened.”

“I know. I know that logically, but I can't help but think that this whole robot thing... I mean, I know it's a phase, but what's the next phase going to be? What if she keeps having 'phases' her whole life? I'm just terrified in case she's- she's... disturbed, or something like that.” I squirmed a bit saying it.

The doctor shook his head. “She can't be. You have to listen to me. Her brain isn't developed enough to register what has happened enough for it to impact her permanently in any serious way. As long as you have a caring and nurturing relationship with her, you will cultivate a healthy, happy mind in your daughter's head.”

“I'm trying to. I really am. I'm just scared of what could happen to her, y'know? And I feel like we're not connecting any more, she never wants to do anything, and now she's not tal-”

“That's exactly the point I'm making, though. You're carrying all that grief and fear around with you – those are very dangerous items to expose to any child that you're rearing. I know it's difficult – it's probably the most difficult thing you'll have ever had to do -  but you need to let go of them, at least a little bit – at very least around Rosemary. I'm sure she feels all the pain surrounding her in some way or another, and she's acting out because she can't process it. The silly robot noises will stop eventually, yes – she will get bored of it – but the only way to ensure that she grows up mentally healthy is that you yourself are mentally healthy too and can be a stable, reliable influence on her.”

I wanted to argue and pontificate with him more but he was, of course, right. I shifted in my seat, staring at my shoes.

“I know. I'll try, as hard as I can.”

“Good. I'm glad. And I know you will, Stephen.” 

I looked over at Rosie. She was still asleep.

“Now, I understand that I'm to write a new prescription for you, yes?”

I was wondering what she might be dreaming about. I realised he'd said something. “Hm? A prescription... oh, aye. Aye. If that's alright.”

I drove us round to the pharmacy and waited for the pills. They came in a green paper bag. 

Rosemary was back up and raring to go. She was pushing boxes of hair dye back on the shelf with her pointer finger, with a “bop” or a “bloop” every time. There was an older couple sitting waiting who chuckled about it, but I hardly noticed. I just watched her.

***

We pulled up into the driveway. Rosie ran ahead to the front door, and I caught up and let her in.

I took off our jackets in the hall and hung them up.

“Aren't you going to say hi to Mummy, Rosie?” 
Clarissa emerged from the living room in pyjamas and picked up our daughter, kissing her cheek. Her eyes were dark around the bottom.

“Hi,” I said. 

“Hiya.” 

While she wasn't saying a lot these days, she seemed happy to have us home. She didn't like being here alone, but today was for Rosemary and me to have some long overdue bonding. It was too bad she'd spent the duration as a robot, but there was always next time. Clarissa put her down after a big hug, opened the child-gate and she ran up to her room.

“Oh. Here you go,” I said, and handed my wife the green bag. 

“Thanks. Cup of coffee?” She started through to the kitchen.

“Sure, sounds great,” I said, following. 

Things would take a wee while to get back to normal between us, and we both knew that. It wasn't like we were slinging blame or malice towards each other; there was no animosity. It's just, when such an unthinkable, terrible thing happens to both of you at once, even a strong connection flickers a bit. Everything flickers. It takes time.

The thing was, I was as close to happy as I had been in a long time. I felt a strange niggling hint of calmness, courtesy of Dr. Ford's echoing words, in my brain somewhere the area that covered Rosie – an area which encompasses most of the real estate up there. What was important was forward progress, and I had at least some idea now how I could make this come about. It was dim ahead, but not black any more.

With that in mind, I climbed the stairs that evening. I walked down the hallway at the top, and passed the toilet door and Rosie's, then got to mine and Clarissa's, which was on the right. 

Instead of charging straight for our door without looking, as I had been doing for the last while, I made myself stop, stand still, and turn left instead.

I stared at that other door for twenty seconds. The plain white one, with no names or decorations on it. Gently, I pushed it open.

It wasn't as bad as I thought it might be, but it was still a bit sore in a really profound, inarticulable way. Every wall was still blue, just like we'd left it. The dressers and drawers were all the same. Nothing had changed since we last closed the door two months ago. There was even that little crescent moon night-light stuck into a plug socket by the window. It was Rosie's old one.

I finally let the crib fill my vision. It was made from sapling wood, carved with stars.

I walked up to it, and rested my hands on the sides, looking down at the soft white bedding. It was time to realise that fantasies about past and present lives were not a luxuries my mind could any longer purchase. I was beginning to understand that the cost was too high, for me and my family. The future, though. It was a little more affordable.

“Beep bop boop!” 

I yelped, jumped while turning, saw Rosie giggling in the doorway, and tripped backwards over a cable. I landed on a switch. I heard music, and Rosie and I both looked up and saw the mobile above the cot begin to whirl and twinkle. It played the tune of a nursery rhyme while the soft plushy items slowly rotated. They were all babyish versions of boy things, like a red car, a football, a dinosaur – and a robot.

It looked just like the one from the kids show, actually. I looked at her and she started jumping up and down, pointing at it. She made all sorts of noises, ranging all the way from from beep to blop, and kept jumping.

“Have- have you been coming in here, Rosie?” I asked, pulling myself up. I didn't really expect her to answer, and I didn't really need her to. 

I suppose she must have simplified it down. You fill a room in a house with enough sadness and significance, and even a child feels it. 

What was important was that I didn't let it stay that way. I stood up and carefully fiddled with the mobile until the little robot man was free. I ushered Rosemary out of the room. I left the door open a crack.

We went into her own pink and lilac room, dolls and teddy bears filling every corner, and sat down on the fluffy carpet. I looked down at Robot in my hands. He stared back, ever-blank.

“Beep bop bloop!” I said, making him dance his way over to Rosie. She thought it was hysterical. I let him go.

“Boop!” she replied, scooping him up.

“Boop.” I said, grinning. We'd finally found something we could do together.