Enough

Enough

By Sara Gomez

Iris jolted awake; she was startled, or so she thought, by a loud sound coming from somewhere in the kitchen downstairs. Mom must be baking again, she smiled to herself. But then, as they so often do, her memories of the previous week came back to her all at once, like a tsunami; they flooded her mind and filled her heart with horror. She struggled to stand, only to realize that it was impossible because she was still tied up, still trapped.

Iris had never minded being alone. “People,” she always said to her Golden Retriever, Max, “are far more demanding than dogs.” But now she understood why people went to such great lengths to avoid solitude. It wasn’t being alone that scared them, but being lonely. She hadn't been afraid when he grabbed her, only shocked. She hadn't been frightened in the truck, though its reckless engine had been of some alarm. And she hadn't even been afraid yesterday, although she had spent its entirety in captivity. But now, she was scared, more so than she had ever been before. The more time she spent in her head, the more she realized that it might be the only company she would ever have. She felt isolated, abandoned, and lonely. She wondered whether she would ever see her mother's smiling face, feel the sun’s caresses, or hear the sound of something falling in the kitchen downstairs.

…

When she heard the doorbell’s ping, Iris’s mom dashed down the stairs. The police were at the door, and the mere sight of their pristine blue uniforms almost brought her to tears.

“Mrs. Deer?” the taller and lankier of the pair asked.

“This is she,” the distressed mother replied.

“We found your daughter.”

Those four words were the final catalyst that started a flood of tears from poor Mrs. Deer’s eyes.

A policeman, the stockier one, filled the woman in on the rest of the details, but the only one of interest to her was where she could find her daughter. Finally, the pair offered her a ride to the station, which she swiftly accepted. The car ride passed by in a blur. Mrs. Deer was silent, and the policemen maintained a respectful silence. When Iris’s eyes met her mother’s, she immediately rose and ran towards Mrs. Deer’s open arms. They stood in each other's embrace as if making up for lost time. But Ms. Deer knew that a hug, regardless of its length, wouldn’t heal Iris’s trauma. For a while, her home wouldn't feel safe, food wouldn’t be nourishing, prayer wouldn't bring her peace, laughter would feel hollow, friendships would feel shallow, and love would feel painful. Only time, the wise mother knew, would mend Iris's heart.

…

Weeks passed by, then months, then years. Iris’s therapist was impressed by how much Iris had progressed and congratulated himself for his superior ability in the field of psychology. He was so proud, in fact, that he published a book recounting his ingenious techniques in curing PTSD survivors. Mrs. Deer read his book and believed it to be an outstanding load of crap. For her part, Iris coped with everything surprisingly well. She mechanically went through the motions. She successfully healed in the appropriate amount of time, and she was praised by her teachers, admired by her peers, liked by her boyfriend, and loved by her mother. She used her story as a landmark to look back and see how far she had come, how much she had achieved. In her applications to Stanford, she wrote about her brush with death, how she had survived. The whole world saw Iris thriving, full of life, but no one, not even her mother, knew the truth. Behind her shiny hair, manicured nails, and radiant smile, there was nothing. She was a hollow shell, devoid of emotion, passion, and drive. For a while, she had thought that it was, as her therapist liked to say, a coping mechanism, that one day, when she least expected it, she would be overcome by emotion, drown in her tears, and heal through. But this transformative catharsis never came. Her life, day in and day out, was a math formula; she did the right thing and would always yield the correct result. She woke up, one, she got ready, two, she went to school, kissed her boyfriend, and got an A on her essay, three. She did her homework, hugged her mom, cleaned her room, and said her prayers. Every day, she went to bed with the perfect score, yet no ten ever satisfied her, and she knew nothing ever would.

…

The day had been a long one. Iris had broken up with Cliff. Iris had always known that their relationship had an expiration date. She immediately marked him as the “ideal” from the first day. Strong enough to bench his body weight and handsome enough to be the protagonist of a Jane Austen novel, he was every girl's dream. However, it was not his appearance that had been attractive to Iris; it was his social standing and popularity. They had been a power couple; their friends teased that he was the brawn and she was the brains. Iris had found him amusing, but he was only the means to an end, a crucial aspect of her normalcy guise. And now he was no longer necessary, so she released him, not unkindly, and they parted ways. When she arrived home, Max raised his head and fixed his large, sorrowful eyes on her. Iris was sure those eyes would bear into her soul if she had one. A knock at the door caused her to whip her head in its direction.

Mrs. Deer asked about her day. Iris answered hesitantly, unsure of what she could have done to displease her.

“Iris, your dad… is in the hospital. A coworker shot your father in the leg.”

Iris cups her hands around her face and shakes; her mother wraps her arms around her. Iris quickly composes herself. Her eyes have evidently been rubbed red, yet there is not a single tear streak on her face.

“It will be ok, Mom,” Iris says. “Only 20% of gunshot wounds are fatal. Statistically, Dad’s probably in the 80th percentile. Of course,” she continues, “you and Dad obviously have your differences, but at the end of the day, he knows you love him.”

Besides the furrows of worry that mark her face, rivulets of sadness stream from Mrs. Deer’s eyes. She draws back.

“Oh, Iris,” she sighs, “how do you always know what to say?”

Iris knows to stay silent. She just smiles—meekly—and pats her mother’s back.

Mrs. Deer scrutinizes her daughter. She is the same girl, same features, same voice, same mannerisms. Somehow, though, she is different. As a mother, she feels guilty for not having that instinctual gut feeling all moms are supposedly blessed with.

Iris is looking intently at her mother. She thinks that, if it were possible, she would love this woman. This loving mother who has taken on double shifts to pay for medical bills while still finding the place and I love you note on Iris’ door every day. Iris is aware of all the sacrifices her mother has made and feels guilt. She is not the one who deserves this attention, this care. And yet, Iris finds herself clinging tighter to her mother. She is bound, no chained, to her lie, unable to escape even if she wanted to.

…

Mr. Deer can only concentrate on the ringing in his ears. His vision is blurred, and his head is throbbing. And for a minute, he forgets. He forgets the events which have led him to this point and allows himself to believe that the girl standing at his bedside is his daughter. But the moment passes. Mr. Deer knows that the girl next to him is only a product. The result of countless hours of programming, building, and encoding. Her body runs only on man-made items, her mind functions using a system of interactive artificial intelligence, and her soul—well, her soul is only the manifestation of his own ideals and sense of morality, as well as what he believed Iris’s to be.

The real Iris—the one who inhales oxygen and exhales carbon dioxide, the one who has original thoughts and feels real emotions—shot him this morning. Of course, it had been a long time coming. Anyone held against their will for long enough will attempt to escape. And Iris’s fiery spirit had not allowed her to remain ensnared for long. Her first several attempts had been futile, but somehow, this time, she had stolen his gun, which was always kept locked in his bedside drawer.

Mr. Deer looked at his wounded shoulder. She was aiming for the chest, he thinks. She was trying to kill me.

His brainchild speaks up, as if she were reading his mind.

“Can’t blame her, you know,” she says. “I would try to escape too if someone had kidnapped me and replaced me with an artificial robot so that he wouldn’t have to abide by the court's ruling.”

“I did it for her,” he grunts. “Her mother couldn't have given her the life she deserved.”

She scoffs. “Her mother has shown me more affection in a day than you ever have. Isn't that worth more than a nice house?”

Before he can reply, Mrs. Deer rushes in.

“Dylan!” she gasps. “What happened?”

Mr. Deer smiles and weaves some story about an angry neighbor. The innocuous woman believes him. And Iris, once his greatest admirer, simply eyes him with disdain.

…

The car ride home is filled with an indignant Mrs. Deer, complaining about the epidemic of crazy neighbors in America.

“I heard on the news that there is a 60% chance you could live next to a serial killer.”

With an instantaneous search in her database, Iris knows this is misinformation. But she stays silent. As they pull into the driveway, Mrs. Deer takes hold of her daughter's hand and squeezes it three times. I. Love. You. Iris draws her hand away, but not before squeezing back four times. I. Love. You. Too. Once they get out, Mrs. Deer unlocks the front door and screams. Sitting expectantly on the couch is a girl. She looks emaciated, her shirt is disheveled and marked by a dark brown blood stain, her hair is long and unkempt, but her eyes are gleaming with hope as well as tears. Iris knows that this girl is the real Iris—the one who she was molded after—and for a moment she feels a sense of awe, but this quickly dissipates into terror.

“Mom,” the girl says.

Mrs. Deer looks at the girl with shock, which quickly turns into anger.

“Who are you?” she trembles. “How did you get here?”

“I used the spare set of keys that we keep under the gnome. Mom, don’t you recognize me?”

Mrs. Deer is now crying as well as trembling.

“Get out now,” she shouts.

Iris, the real one, looks as if she has been stabbed. Her sentences are incoherent.

“Fake… kidnapped me… artificial me… not real… thought I was dead… Max knows.”

And it was true. The devoted Max had recognized his lifelong companion in an instant and was now at her side, offering her all the support that a dog could give.

Mrs. Deer turns to the imposter who she has cared for the past three years.

“Iris, who is that girl?”

The set of robotics, disguised as a girl, is speechless. Instead of answering, she runs—as fast and hard as her mechanically engineered legs will take her. Scenes flash by in her head, moments in which she felt alive, taking pictures for prom night, watching a rom-com with Mrs. Deer and discovering the delights of fiction. But even in those magical moments, her knowledge that it was fake irrevocably tainted the memory. She has failed. She does not care that she hurt her heartless creator, but she wishes that she could have been there for Mrs. Deer.

I can never be human enough, she laments, as she runs off to the unknown, unsure of what the future holds.

…

"I'm making popcorn," Mrs. Deer yells back toward the living room, then hesitantly, "You still like caramel popcorn, right?"

In the living room, Iris smiles. With the news interviews, police reports, and her dad’s trial, she and her mom have barely had any time to themselves. Now they are making up for three years' worth of lost moments.

“Of course I still like it,” she calls back.

Leaning into the couch, Iris closes her eyes and allows herself to sit alone. For the first time, the heart palpitations and tremors that solitude usually brings her don’t come. She breathes a sigh of relief. Sounds of metal clanking on the floor come from the kitchen.

Mrs. Deer pops into the living room.

“How do you feel about chocolate instead?”

Iris grins.

“Chocolate sounds great, Mom.”

The end.