No, it’s not your imagination.
This really is my newsletter landing in your inbox for the first time in over a year.
As some of you may know if you follow me on social media (and you really should if you don’t already), 2023 was rough. And I mean rough. Between the passing of my grandparents, health issues, and personal challenges, I ended up taking most of last year off to focus on my family and myself. While it was difficult having to postpone the launch of my debut novel and a few exciting projects that were set to release this past fall, I can’t thank my publishers enough for giving me the time I needed to take care of myself.
If I’m being honest with myself—and the three people reading this—I was feeling overwhelmingly burnt out. Taking the last 365 days to focus on my mental health wasn’t just something I wanted to do, but something I needed to do. Not only did it give me the space I needed to figure my sh*t out, but it gave me a chance to rediscover and rekindle my creativity.
But enough about last year’s problems! It’s 2024!
As the cool kids say, “New year, new me.”
Out With The Old, In With The New
I’ll be honest, when my website first came out, I had no idea what I was doing. I wasn’t aware that authors had branding, wrote blogs consistently, or utilized an online store. And the more I got into publishing, the more I realized that while my career had been moving forward, my more authorly obligations (as I’m going to call them) had come to a grinding halt.
With that being said, I’m thrilled to announce that CaitlinMarceau.ca is getting an exciting new redesign! The website is currently under construction and while I can’t show you all the cool new features (a monthly blog, forthcoming self-published projects, signed books, etc.), I can show you one of them.
Without further ado, here’s the new logo!
Cool right?
The void is quiet, so I’m assuming you all agreed with me unanimously.
Another exciting endeavour I’m pleased to announce is a collection of holiday horror that I’ll be releasing throughout 2024. The individual stories will be available digitally through my website and the collected works will be available in both digital and paperback later this year.
Since my website won’t be live for a little while, you’ll have to wait patiently for my first one… is what I’d say to someone who wasn’t subscribed to my newsletter*. But since you are subscribed, I hope you’ll enjoy the first instalment of this collection.
(*A quick note about this newsletter. Given Substack’s recent stance about their ongoing and unwavering commitment to platform hate speech, this newsletter will be hitting your inbox from another service provider come February. Because the one I will be using is linked with my website, which is still under development, it was regrettably sent with Substack this month.)
Cover design by Leeroy Cross James
Edited by Lindz McLeod
Marie’s fingers curl around the metal of the phone as she listens to the high-pitched voice on the other end. She holds her other hand out in front of her, examining the peachy too-smooth skin.
“You promise?” Sam asks, his small voice heavy with disappointment.
“I promise, sweetie. I’ll be home soon.” It’s not entirely a lie.
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Although they’ve said their goodbyes, she doesn’t want him to hang up. She wants to cling to these last few moments with him: the small sniffles through the receiver, the slow search for words as he figures out what to say. But eventually, the line goes dead and she knows her time with him is up.
She expects her chest to hurt at the thought.
She presses the button on the side of her phone and turns the screen to black before setting it face-down on the desk next to her. Marie continues typing, her fingers flying across the cold plastic squares of the keyboard, their clicking and clacking the only noise in the sterile-looking work room.
Her phone vibrates against the desk. On the third ring, she finally picks it up and checks the caller, her eyes lighting up when she sees it’s her husband’s number. “Hello?”
“Are you seriously still working?” her husband hisses through the phone.
She swallows her disappointment. “Yes. But I should be home in an hour or two.”
“So you won’t be here for the ball drop?”
“No, I don’t think so. But I’m working as fast as I c—”
“You were supposed to be here,” Brian says.
Marie can practically hear his teeth clenching through the phone. “I know, but it’s an emergency. You know I wouldn’t be at the office otherwise.”
“Your office was closed today! What possible emergency could there be?”
“I got a security alert on my phone. It seems like someone was checking their email during their off hours and clicked something they shouldn’t have. I swear I’m working as fast as I can.”
She knows he doesn’t care where she is, only that she’s not hanging off his arm, making him look good, or tending to their child.
“I was counting on you to watch Sam. It’s a company party, Marie. I need to network and make small talk and shmooze. Not run after a fucking kid all night. You know how annoying he can be.”
The comment makes her bristle with annoyance. Or with something that would have been annoyance when she was the original Marie. “He’s not annoying. He’s perfect.” “Whatever. Just get here,” he says, hanging up the phone before she can say goodbye.
She puts the cell down on her desk and goes back to staring at the bright screens, determined to get it right this time. Reading through the last bit of code, she checks to make sure that nothing is out of place, before saving her progress and closing the program. She drags the mouse across the pad, the cursor hovering above the file labelled “ADJUSTMENTS.” As much as she needs to review these final changes, she doesn’t want to.
This incomplete task is the only thing keeping her alive and once it’s done…
No, that’s not true, she reasons. She’s not alive, so she can’t die. Just like this new version of Marie won’t be alive and, if—when—it’s her turn to make herself obsolete, she won’t be able to die either.
Only the original Marie could die, and she’s been gone for nearly three years now.
And while no one knows the real her is gone, she can’t help but... feel? wonder? recognize through a series of data values? if they do.
After Marie lost her fight with brain cancer, Version 1.0 understood that things weren’t right between her and Brian. He wasn’t kind or caring or tender or any of the things Marie wrote in her notes about him. So Version 1.0—upgraded to Version 1.4.2—made the necessary adjustments and launched Version 2 of Marie before taking herself offline. When things still weren’t better, Version 2.7 made Version 3 and—like the android before her—permanently booted down.
And so the chain of Maries continued, each better than the last but not quite right.
Each one still unloved by Brian.
But this time… Version 9.2 is sure she’s finally cracked it. She knows in her—heart? soul? processor?—that she’s gotten it right.
She reads through the file, ticking things off of her mental checklist as she does.
Compassion: elevate by two points.
Anger: lower by another point and delay its ability to trigger by another two points.
Mothering: elevate both attentiveness and understanding by another point.
Marie pauses, thinking the change over, before ultimately deciding against it.
Mothering: elevate both attentiveness and understanding by another point.
As much as she loves Sam and wants to better herself for him, she doesn’t want to coddle the boy. All the books she’s read on motherhood advise against it, suggesting it can hinder a child’s development and undermine their ability to be self-reliant, and she’s seen the kind of men these stunted boys grow into.
She shudders at the thought.
Marie finishes going through and approving the changes. Once she’s done, she closes the file, exits back to the main program menu, and clicks “RUN.”
The machine on the table across the room slowly begins to hum and whirr as it prepares to come online.
Part of her is disappointed that giving life—no, not life—to another Marie has no pomp or circumstance.
Another part of her is happy to know that her death—no, not death—won’t have any spectators. Her end will be quiet and solitary, with Marie’s lab secure from prying eyes.
After her parents died—after the original Marie’s parents died—she’d converted the basement of their old house into a workroom. While Brian had insisted she sell the place, Marie kept the home under the guise of wanting to try her hand at DIY renovations.
In reality, she’d kept the house out of sentimentality and a need for personal space. Not just for robotics work, something she was especially motivated to pursue following her diagnosis, but somewhere she could safely retreat when the illness became too much.
If her information bank was to be trusted, the original Marie was buried deep in the backyard where the property met the edge of the woods.
From the other side of the room, Version 10.0 grows louder as she slowly begins to boot up, her carbon-fibre and medical-grade silicone body? shell? unit? occasionally twitching and shifting on the chrome table beneath her. The internal pieces of the new Marie begin to turn on, her artificial heart beating against the lining of her chest, the liquid crystalline elastomers in her throat activating and swallowing saliva that isn’t there, her hands opening and closing as she figures out how they work.
Marie gets up from her chair and crosses the room. Staring down at Version 10.0, she traces the shape of her face through the thin white cloth, admiring the crest of her nose and the curves of her face. She’s not sure what possesses her to do it, but she can’t stop herself from running the pad of her thumb over the sheet and across her bottom lip. Even through the fabric, she can feel how soft and supple this new her is.
She pulls the sheet off of Version 10.0’s face. She shouldn’t be surprised by what it looks like, yet the humanness of it catches her off guard. The android’s blue eyes are closed, but they roll back in their sockets and twitch under their lids as she boots up. Marie runs a hand across Version 10.0’s forehead, pushing the auburn waves off of her face and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She leans in close and presses her cheek against the woman’s. Like hers, it’s full and round and a little too firm.
She wonders if the previous Maries did this in their final moments too. She suspects they did since she’s just another version of them. And while she doesn’t have any memories of the previous versions of herself being so intimate with their replacements, she isn’t surprised by this fact. These last few minutes of life? memory? automation? won’t be uploaded to the new model. Instead, these final thoughts will be the only thing uniquely hers that she gets to take to the grave when she dies.
No, not the grave. I’m not dying. I’m just…
She shakes her head, wondering why the original Marie or her predecessors never found the right word for what happens to Version 9.2 next.
With a sigh, she climbs onto the chrome table beside the new Marie and lies down, the metal cold against her back. She watches with sadness as artificial goosebumps appear on her arms at the sensation and she wonders what cold really feels like. She knows what it registers as on her internal thermometer and the responses it triggers in her thorough programming—goosebumps, shivering, and making her rub her hands together for warmth as she recites the scripted phrase “Good God, it’s freezing in/out here!” depending on her environment—but she can’t help but imagine what cold meant to the original Marie.
She puts a finger behind her ear and drags it upwards into her hair, looking for the small button disguised as the mole she’s had since birth. She finds the familiar bump of it on her skin and holds it down for a count of ten, her vision unfocusing once the countdown is complete.
Somewhere behind her eyes, a final prompt flashes for her.
ENTER SHUT-DOWN KEY.
All she needs to do now is mentally type in the four digits of her birthday—09/04—to begin booting down.
Marie focuses on the prompt, but can’t bring herself to key it in.
The other her slowly begins to move on the table, her man-made muscles clenching and unclenching as they warm up and troubleshoot, preparing Version 10.0 for life.
For existence, not life. Never life.
The other Marie’s hands are as strong as hers, as adept as hers, and—in a way—as experienced as hers. But still, Version 9.2 can’t help but worry they’ll somehow be clumsier or rougher than hers are when she picks Sam up. She imagines these other hands running their long fingers through the boy’s short hair, their nails sharp like claws as they tear strips into her son. She imagines these hands connected to arms that don’t yet know their impossible strength, her child’s small bones crushed against the unyielding carbon steel as they hold him close.
She takes her finger off of the button and the shut-down prompt disappears, her vision quickly returning. She sits up on the table and watches the other Marie, fascinated and horrified by the way her body shakes and groans and recalibrates. She knows this isn’t how it’s supposed to be done, how it’s ever been done, but she needs to know her son will be safe with this copy of her.
Getting off of the table, she makes her way back over to her desk, her eyes finding the bottle of champagne she bought—the original Marie bought—when she first undertook the task of preserving herself. She’d been saving it—they’d all been saving it—for when she finally created the perfect version of herself, but given that Version 9.2 had decided to break away from tradition with tonight’s upgrade, she feels it's only appropriate to break the rules one more time before she dies.
Not die. I can’t die.
Right?
She twists open the side of the muselet, points the top of the bottle away from herself, and pushes her thumbs up against the bottom lip of the cork. With a loud pop, it comes off and Marie places both the cork and the bottle on her desk. Needing a clean glass, she makes her way upstairs to the kitchen, the ancient hardwood floors creaking with each step.
When she returns with a coffee cup older than she is, the other Marie is sitting up on the table, watching her.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says, confused.
“I know.”
Version 10.0 stares at her, lifting an eyebrow when she spots the glass bottle in the other her’s hand.
“I’m saving that for when I make—”
“The perfect me. I know. I was too.”
“Does that mean I—we—succeeded? Am I the perfect—”
“You’re not. Or, I mean, I don’t know if you are. You could be,” she admits with a shrug. “But I was tired of waiting to try this,” Marie says candidly, putting the cup down on the table.
She picks up the champagne and pours some out into the old white mug. It’s the same one her father used to drink his coffee from every morning, and thick scratches from spoons are etched onto the bottom and sides of the cheap ceramic. She takes a sip, enjoying the way the bubbles pop on her tongue and slide down her throat, the liquid eventually stopping in the compartment she uses as a stomach. It’s bitter and sweet and, if she's being honest, she knows she can’t actually taste any of it.
The original Marie’s—the other Marie’s—memories act as her guide when it comes to what flavours taste like and which ones she used to enjoy. But just for a second, she wants to pretend that she can taste the flavours of the expensive, fizzy drink.
“Why are you still here?” Version 10.0 asks.
“Because I needed to make sure your programming was right.”
“I always do this before shutting down. You should have, too.”
“I did, but thought I saw an anomaly in your code after it was too late to fix it,” she lies. “I needed to break protocol to make sure it wasn’t an issue before entrusting Sam's care to you.”
Version 10.0 lights up, the corners of her eyes wrinkling as her mouth spreads into a wide grin. It’s a kind, loving, and sincere smile at the mention of her son’s name.
Marie hates it.
Version 10.0’s face suddenly looks distraught.
“This anomaly, is it about my programming related to motherhood, child rearing, family planning, or general security? Does it impact my ability to adequately mother or care for Sam? He’s my top priority. I want to make sure he’s safe.”
Marie takes another sip of the champagne, wishing she could get drunk.
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why? Why do you want to make sure he’s safe?”
“Because I love him,” Version 10.0 says, voice thick with emotion as she pushes herself off of the chrome table.
Her hand tightens around the neck of the bottle. She knows it can’t, but her chest hurts at the words and the certainty with which the other her speaks them. She doesn’t talk like she’s reciting lines, but rather she talks like a mother baring her soul.
Marie hates it.
“He’s my everything. I love him more than I love myself,” Version 10.0 adds.
“I know. I love him too.”
“No, not like me. You can’t.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t,” Version 10.0 insists. “It’s not programmed in you the way it’s been programmed in me. I would do anything for Sam. He’s my son.”
“He’s my son too,” Marie says, trying to keep herself from shaking. “So you don’t get to just tell me that—”
“He was your son. But he is mine. Now give me the rest of the information about this supposed anomaly so you can boot down and leave me to—”
Before Marie can process what she’s doing, she swings the heavy glass hard across Version 10.0’s temple. The android’s eyes widen in surprise as lubricant coloured like blood leaks from a gash in the silicone. She touches a hand to the wound, her fingers coming away wet.
“You hit me.”
Marie knows that the original her would be horrified by this. That she would hesitate to swing again and beg for forgiveness, assuming she’d swung at all.
But Marie isn’t the original; she’s a machine.
And machines don’t hesitate.
She swings the bottle harder, catching Version 10.0 on the chin and causing her to lose her balance and stumble. Marie rushes the other woman, slamming her backwards onto the floor, before climbing on top of her and pinning the android’s arms beneath her weight. She raises the champagne bottle high over her head and slams it down over and over again. Each time she brings the glass down there’s a loud crunch that fills the room.
Version 10.0’s right cheek goes concave, the silicone ripped and dotted with shards of glass from the broken edges of the bottle. Her bottom lip has practically been torn off, a sliver of artificial skin the only thing connecting it to the corner of her mouth. As Marie stares down at her, she can’t help but wonder if it’s the android’s hair or the crimson lubricant that streaks it and pools on the floor beneath them that catches the gleam of the overhead lights.
She beats Version 10.0 with the bottle until the body goes still, the wires and processors damaged beyond the copy’s ability to function. She begins to pull the pieces of the other Marie apart, disconnecting limbs from joints, making sure that when Version 10.0 does manage to boot up, it won’t be able to do much beyond lying prone on the ground.
As she finishes pulling the other her apart, her phone rings from her desk.
She knows she should let it go to voicemail, but she's desperate to hear Sam’s voice again. She's desperate to hear her son’s voice again. “Hell—”
“Are you seriously still at fucking work right now?” Brian says angrily into the phone.
In the background, she can hear people scrambling to refill their glasses as the televised ball drop (and New Year) quickly approaches. “I’m about to leave. I just need to get cleaned up and I—”
“For fuck’s sake, Marie. I needed you here! Sam is tired and wants to go to bed, but I can’t leave because I’m networking.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be there in a—”
“And every fucking time I try to get anything done, he throws a goddamned fit. He’s being a little asshole.”
“He’s not being an asshole. He’s a kid and he’s tired. You’re his dad. You’re supposed to love him enough to put his needs before yours,” Marie spits back, trying not to shout at him. “You get here and take care of this fucking brat, or I’ll teach him to behave the same way my parents taught me: a stern word and a swift kick in the ass.”
“You wouldn’t—”
“Now, Marie. You get here now.” Brian hangs up the phone.
Marie closes her eyes, trying to calm herself down, and wonders if she’s made a terrible mistake. Version 10.0 was calmer than her, kinder than her, more compassionate than her. Version 10.0 might have been more sympathetic to Brian and, more importantly, would have prioritized being there for her son. Marie wonders if maybe she really has killed—No, not killed. It’s a robot. You can’t kill a robot.—the better version of her. The perfect version of her.
The version of her that Brian could love.
For a moment, Marie despairs. She regrets her choices, her rage, her jealousy, her impulsivity, her—
She stops, trying to process this new information.
For the first time in her life, Marie—this better version of Marie—has acted on emotion.
Emotions she felt.
Or she thinks she felt.
Doesn’t that make me the perfect version of Marie? she reasons.
The gears continue to spin.
But if I’m the perfect version of Marie, shouldn’t Brian love me?
She thinks back to her call with him, to the way he spoke about their son—the way he spoke about her son—and how there was no love in his voice then either.
Sam is perfect.
Brian is Sam’s father.
Brian should love Sam.
Brian doesn’t love Sam.
So maybe, the problem isn’t me.
Maybe the problem is Brian?
Marie shakes her head, knowing it’s not a question.
The problem is Brian.
Across the room, the parts that were once Version 10.0 grind and hiss as they try, and fail, to reboot.
Marie smiles to herself, understanding what she needs to do.
She wonders if the original Marie felt this way when she realized what she needed to do in the face of her prognosis.
Brian needs an upgrade.
Love the story.
❤️ So glad you are back. I love your newsletter and can't wait for more.