There are moments in our lives when we achieve clarity – a sharp, crystallized, hyper-real vision – and grasp, with surprising firmness, a kind of wisdom that allows us to shrink Earth and embrace the monstrous cosmos without fear or sadness. The universe isn’t malevolent or neutral but undulating, frigid love. And then the wisdom dissipates, and you are left with heavy grief but an acceptance of your aloneness that, while still lonely, somehow makes the remainder of your days bearable.
Let me explain.
Eight years ago, I became a Professor of French literature at a small college, Thistle Hills, in Vermont, three months after being awarded my doctorate at Columbia University. Despite the glut of applicants for the position, I was hired promptly by Professor Gabonne, Emeritus Professor of Modern Languages at the college, because we were both astronomy enthusiasts, were obsessed with perfectly poached eggs, and adored movies with Cary Grant. I’m not stating that I wasn’t qualified for the position, but Professor Gabonne and I had instant ease in conversation, and our intensely quiet natures became less intense together. Professor Gabonne was in his sixties and would retire to a mountain cabin four years later, leaving me as head of the department and sad, though I didn’t use that word. Did I describe my state as bereft? No, that’s the same as sad. My feelings likely went unnamed as I poorly navigated teaching, faculty, and student meetings.
One December, Ms. Ramos, the department secretary, was at her desk selecting items from a catering menu for the faculty Christmas party while frequently checking her phone. It kept dinging. I was sorting through old literary journals sent over by the library. I selected which ones to save and which would go in the bin.
“Do you suppose I should order a honey-baked ham?” asked Ms. Ramos.
“Ham’s appropriate for Christmas, but I would select turkey for those with dietary restrictions. Many people in the world are quite particular about eating pigs.” I chucked a journal as her phone dinged again. “Why does your phone keep doing that?” I asked.
“My dog is giving birth. My husband says she’s birthed two babies, and more are coming.” Ms. Ramos wrote something on a legal pad. “Do you have any pets, Ms. Briggs?”
“Me? No.” I responded.
Ms. Ramos smiled, except her eyes seemed very serious. “And no boyfriend?” she paused. “Or girlfriend?”
I laughed with strange difficulty. “I’ve no partner.”
Ms. Ramos averted her gaze to the menu. “I should definitely order mashed potatoes.” She circled something on the menu. “So you’re all alone in that big house? It’s supposed to be haunted. The whole town thinks it’s haunted. People have died in that house.”
That statement garnered my attention. “People have been murdered?”
Ms. Ramos shook her head. “No, they simply died. I think. The last owner was this old man; I think his name was Bobby, and he slipped in the shower and wasn’t discovered for a few days. His wife had died a few years before. He never talked to anyone in town except maybe the pharmacist. Anyhow, you should adopt one of my puppies. Dachshunds are the best companions, and they’re adorable.”
“Sure,” I said. I didn’t think about it until January when she brought a crate with delightful pups, and my heart felt weak and warm. They were squishy and joyous, and I wasn’t going to pet any of them until my love, my Toulouse, a chocolate Dachshund, rambunctiously ran into my feet, squeaked out a bark and then rolled onto his back, begging me to stroke his surprisingly chubby belly. I was falling into a warm pool of amorous liquid sugar. Toulouse was the sweetest life I had ever grasped in my hands. Ms. Ramos wouldn’t let me bring him home for a few days until I bought hundreds of dollars of supplies, and she inspected my home, which I realized was a ruse to see if any ghosts emerged from the walls.
When a companion enters your life, you develop a schedule, a daily discipline, that isn’t burdensome. The structure of routine becomes pleasurable. In the morning, before work, I would walk Toulouse. He loved to prance, bark at squirrels, and wag his tail when others waved or said good morning. When we returned, I would shower, dress, and feed Toulouse. When he began eating, I would make toast and coffee as I listened to the news, which was ambient noise because I didn’t care about the world, at least not the world outside my tiny college town. My life was insular, Toulouse my only companion, and I escaped, usually with my dog on my lap, into fictive, vibrant worlds that emerged from books and my own little stories that I never attempted to get published.
My life was enjoyable, and year after year slipped away, dissolving like sugar on the tongue. I noticed gray in my hair, deepening crevices around my mouth, and Toulouse became delightfully fat so that I could squeeze his belly: his heft made a slight dent in my bed where he drifted off every night long before I was finished reading, and the light went out.
A year ago, exactly, Toulouse wouldn’t get out of bed. Usually, I took him to work, but he seemed so lethargic. When I got home in the early evening, there was vomit in the living room, and Toulouse was whimpering. I took him to the vet, which was thirty minutes away. I don’t remember driving, only that I went fast because I got a speeding ticket that I didn’t remember getting until two months later when I was sent a bill with a hefty fine.
The vet saw Toulouse immediately. I waited an hour, pacing the waiting room, oblivious to the other animals held protectively by their owners. The vet came out and waved me to the back, and we went into the examining room. Toulouse was sedated and no longer crying. I stroked his head.
“I hate this part of my job,” he said. “Your little guy here has advanced cancer. He has maybe a week.”
I started sobbing. “Can’t you do anything?”
“I can’t. We have impressive AI, a base on Mars, and no cures for most cancers. Biology is complex.”
I put my forehead on Toulouse’s head. His large, dark eyes were mournful and wet from tears. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Keeping him alive for a week would be torture for him. I suggest…”
I shook my head. “No.”
The vet flung up his hands, went to a counter holding medical supplies and opened a drawer. He pulled out a brochure and handed it to me. “Contact them.”
“What is this?” I asked.
“The brochure is for Paradise Never Lost Corporation. They download consciousness into a computer code and place it into an android, a copy of your loved one. Toulouse will live in the Copy. Toulouse will be alive until you die.”
At the time, I was confused. However, with Toulouse at the vet on pain meds, I went to Paradise Never Lost in Boston the next day. I met with an attractive, youthful woman dressed in somber gray. Her voice was cool, and she clipped her sentences cleanly as if scissoring off emotion. It was oddly comforting. She told me that a technician would attach electrodes to Toulouse and download his consciousness onto a drive. The procedure would be painless, she assured me. The technician would also take photos and perform a full-body scan. At the lab, the android would be 3D printed, and then artists would complete the Copy and ensure that Toulouse would be identical to the actual Toulouse. The process would take a month.
“And I would always have Toulouse?” I asked.
She smiled brightly. “Of course,” she exclaimed. “Toulouse would be alive until you die, and at that time, he would be shut down. He will always be your companion.”
“How much?” I asked. She wrote down a number. It was more money than I had. Paradise Never Lost had a financing department, and I was approved for a loan an hour later.
The corporation visited Toulouse the following day. I wasn’t there as I had to teach. I wonder if I would have changed my mind if I had been there. The next day, the vet called and said Toulouse was in terrible pain. He recommended euthanasia immediately. After a faculty meeting, I went to the vet. I held Toulouse so close to me. His crying was constant. The procedure lasted a few minutes. I was stricken with grief. My survival was perilous without the promise of a Toulouse copy. I buried the real Toulouse in my backyard, where he liked to dig.
I waited weeks. On a Saturday, the doorbell rang, and I opened the door. There was a large box on my porch. It weighed as much as my fat Toulouse. I eagerly opened it, and I gasped. It was Toulouse – my handsome, sweet Toulouse. The instructions were simple, and within five minutes, I had activated Toulouse. He opened his eyes, blinked a few times, and barked.
The problems surfaced a few minutes later. First of all, the Copy didn’t prance like Toulouse; the Copy was glum, the Copy was reluctant to walk, and the Copy didn’t want to sleep in my bed; the Copy didn’t feel like Toulouse though the likeness to Toulouse was remarkable. I called the corporation’s weekend assistance number. I was irate. I was upset. I was told to give it a few days as I and the Copy needed to adjust and sync.
In the morning, I found the Copy in the backyard, staring at Toulouse’s grave. I called to him. He moved his tiny head as if shaking his head no. I picked him up and carried him inside. the Copy wandered to the grave daily, and I led him back inside every time. What did the Copy know about death? I realized later it was a silly question. A week later, we hiked into the mountains, and the Copy ran and jumped off a squat cliff as soon as we reached a minor elevation. I screamed. I threaded my way back down and found the Copy in perfect shape; however, he was whimpering.
“Why are you whimpering?” I asked. “You aren’t even real.” I was angry and realized I hadn’t accepted the Copy as actual Toulouse. “Did you try to kill yourself?” I asked. I was distraught.
We got in the car and drove up the mountain. After forty minutes or so, I saw the cabin. I hadn’t seen it in years. It was tidy and well-kept, except Ivy climbed up the sides of the house, giving the cabin a wild look that also seemed simultaneously cozy. With the Copy in my arms, I knocked on the door and waited. Professor Gabonne, dressed in autumnal shades with unkempt white hair, opened the door, raised his eyebrows in surprise, and waved me in. His smile was wide, but he seemed nervous. I sat on his sofa with the Copy curled up beside me.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here?” I said. I explained. I told him about Toulouse, the illness, the Copy.
“He tried to commit suicide this morning. Why? Why do you think?”
Professor Gabonne leaned back in his chair. “You copied Toulouse when Toulouse was in the process of actively dying. The shadow of death colored in his soul. He was grasping death, and life was fading like an old memory.”
“I should have copied Toulouse before his health deteriorated,” I concluded. “I should have copied him the moment I fell in love with him.”
Professor Gabonne shook his head. “His soul changed over the years of loving him, and you loved him the most as he was dying. It would have been silly to copy him before that.”
I was on the verge of tears. “But this…thing,” I pointed to the Copy. “This thing is not my Toulouse and wants to die.”
“All things end. One day, the universe will end. We have to let go. Clinging onto things will drive you mad.”
I started crying. “I’m so lonely.”
“I’ve been here,” chimed Professor Gabonne softly. “You haven’t visited me. We had a remarkable friendship, I thought. You know…,” he paused. “I’m alone. I’ve always been alone, and the moment I met you, I fell in love with you.”
“What?” I was shocked.
“And now I’m dying. I have cancer like Toulouse. I don’t know how long I have. Weeks, months, I don’t know. Let Toulouse rest. Deactivate the Copy. Find a friend, a lover, someone. Life is about connection and loving as much as you can love because the universe is transitory; everything dissolves into frigid cosmic dust, and all we have to warm us are those beautiful things that make our hearts feel weighted, full, and substantial despite the temporary quality of everything else.”
I wiped my tears away. “You loved me?” I asked. I heard all his words, but all I could think about was love—romantic love.
The Copy nudged my hand. I looked into his shiny and false eyes. No emotion seeped from his pupils. The Copy had no soul, though its microchip supposedly consisted of his soul. Perhaps. It’s possible that the soul is not an electric impulse and that when we die, it ascends from the body like a vapor, wringing itself out of the impurities of living.
I drove down the mountain and went home. I deactivated the Copy and buried it next to Toulouse as tears streamed down my face. There is only love, and the task and reality of dying is aloneness, but if you love and it rests in your heart, you are never truly alone.
I walked away from the grave and made chicken soup for Professor Gabonne, whom I would keep company for the rest of his days and who would live in my heart for the rest of my days.