IEEE Spectrum June, 2014 - 83

She lay in her crib across the room,
drowsy and blinking. The white expanse
disappeared, reappeared, disappeared
again. I said, too shrilly, "Mobile on," and
her smartcrib activated it. Becky's eyes
opened wide and she cooed. My screen
showed somersaulting kittens made of
light, seen from Becky's perspective as
the camera behind her cornea sent its
images to the receiver.
"Mobile off." The kittens disappeared. I
crossed the room and loomed over Becky,
looking back over my shoulder. On-screen
was her view of me, head turned away.
Trevor said, "I still don't think you've
thought this through. And I still hate it.
Becky-"
"Won't know a thing. She doesn't feel
the implant, and the images don't get
stored in her brain, at least not any more
than they would from her own vision.
Nothing connects to her memory. There
are dozens of studies proving that."
"With adult subjects. Not infants."
"Infants remember even less than we
do."
"I wish you remembered less," Trevor
said. "Remembered less, felt less,
schemed less-"
I'd stopped listening to him. I watched
Becky watch me until her lids fell into
sleep and the screen went blank.
This was Wednesday. On Friday Jake
would pick up Becky for his weekend of
shared custody.

"what's with yoU?" felicity said
to me in the ladies' room nearest our
cubicles. "You're jumpy as a cat."
"Cats aren't particularly jumpy. Neither am I. Just stressed about the GloBiz
account."
Felicity frowned, but before she could
point out that GloBiz was consistently
thrilled with our campaign for them,
I was out of the ladies' room, out of the
building, in a cab home. Only 4:00 p.m.,
but so what? Even a copywriter de-

serves a dangerous, illegal, utterly stupid hobby.
In my bedroom I turned on the dedicated computer. Becky gazed at the back of a
head in a moving car. One head, not two.
Jake, alone, had picked her up at day care.
Then his apartment, not Pam's. I had
never been inside either one, but I recognized his half of what had once been
our furniture. He put Becky on the floor
to crawl, and whenever she glanced over
at him, I glimpsed the slippers I'd given
him for his last birthday.
In college, I'd been a film major. No
Fellini retrospective, no Welles film work,
had ever enthralled me like the images on
my screen that Friday evening. Jake's slippers, Becky's toys, a rubber ducky floating
in the bathtub. Quick shots of Jake's face,
laughing or talking to her-why didn't the
implant have audio! Pam did not appear.
When Becky finally fell asleep, I turned
off the computer and then sat for a long
time in the dark, tears running down my
face, rage in my heart.
He had no right to do this to me. To
Becky. To live his life as if I'd never occupied the center of it.
At midnight I gave in and keyed his number into my cell. He answered sleepily.
"Hello?"
Not breathing, I clutched the phone.
More sharply: "Hello?" And then,
"Amanda, if this is you, you're violating
the restraining order. Please stop. I mean
it this time. I'll go back to court if I have to."
I said nothing. Tears and rage, tears and
rage. Long after he hung up, I clutched
the phone as if I could crush it.

on s at U r day, Pa m a PPe a r e d i n
Becky's field of vision.
At first I got only flashes of her; Becky
was not interested in focusing on this unknown person. It was eerie to glimpse a
red-shirted elbow, the toe of a black boot,
the back of a blond head. It disassembled
her, made her less than real. Eventually,

however, she sat down in front of Becky
and fed the baby strained applesauce.
Instantly, I wanted to leap through the
lens and shove her away from my baby.
Leave her alone, you bitch, she's mine!
Pam was pretty but not gorgeous, a girlnext-door type if the door happened to
open on a Hamptons beach house. Sunstreaked hair, fine sun lines around brown
eyes, no makeup, vintage Lululemon
workout clothes. On the street I'd never
have noticed her. Her body looked nicely
curved but neither buxom nor modelelegant. What did she have that I didn't?
Becky spat applesauce at her and the
view vibrated-she must have been giggling. Pam giggled back.
Stop. Leave her alone! She's mine!
He's mine.

By sUnday afternoon, when Jake
brought Becky back, I had slept a total of
three hours. All weekend I'd sat by the
screen, seldom eating, scarcely going to
the bathroom. Becky might wake in the
night; there might be something to see.
It was, as I'd discovered online, a onebedroom apartment. Did Jake wheel her
crib out into the living room so he and Pam
could have sex in the bedroom? Or did
they do it with Becky asleep beside them?
By order of the court, ever since that
stupid misunderstanding two months ago,
Jake and I had no contact when Becky
was returned on Sunday. Jake brought his
sister with him every single week. Linda
brought Becky into my building, and the
two of us did not exchange a word.
I unwrapped Becky and studied every
inch of her, looking for-what? Anything
amiss, a bruise or a dirty diaper or ripped
pj's. There was nothing, of course. Jake
had always been a terrific father.
The baby was asleep by seven o'clock. I
called Trevor to come over; my call went
straight to voice mail. Felicity had a date.
TV was boring. I roamed the house, unable to sit for even a moment.

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Table of Contents for the Digital Edition of IEEE Spectrum June, 2014
