What You Missed While You Were Dead

Welcome to the Memory Database, Charlie.

Who would you like to speak to?

Who would I like to speak to? Every time I come here, I try to talk to someone new, someone I’ve never heard of. Let’s try … Rogers. I enter my name of the day. Of course, there are thousands of people named Rogers. I tap the left arrow key a few times to move my blinking line to the left of R and add Clara. Huh. Only a few Clara Rogerses.

I click on the third, whose middle name is Amelia, which reminds me of Mom. The screen changes, telling me Clara’s memories have successfully loaded. I clear my throat and start the conversation as I usually do, the white screen quickly beginning its automatic captioning.

“Hi, Clara! I’m Charlie. Would you like to chat?”

“Hello, Charlie. That would be nice.” I smile, though I know she can only hear me. Clara’s voice is sweet and mature, and I immediately feel welcomed.

As I speak, I scoot the keyboard forward and replace it with my notebook. “Great! Do you have any questions? About current events or people I may know or anything?”

“I suppose I do have a question about you, if you don’t mind: if you don’t know me, why choose to talk to me in particular?”

“Well, I enjoy picking names of people I don’t know so I can learn their stories. So they can be more than a name in a database.”

“That’s kind of you.” Clara pauses for a moment before adding, “What year is it, Charlie?”

“It’s 2086.”

I wait for an answer—or rather, for her to ask another question. After a few moments, I start to second-guess myself, so I check my phone: yep, 2086. I look in the bottom corner of the screen. The connection indicator is still green.

“Clara?”

“I’m sorry, Charlie. I was just … surprised.”

“Oh, why is that? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Because I passed forty years ago now, and you are the first to speak with me.”

Forty years? Forty years with no contact? That’s almost unheard of.

Sure, millions of people have died and had their consciousness uploaded, so it has happened, but only once or twice that I know of. Usually a person’s friends, family, even their acquaintances want to talk to them at least once after they’re gone. But nothing?

Forty years? Forty years with no contact? That’s almost unheard of. Sure, millions of people have died and had their consciousness uploaded, so it has happened, but only once or twice that I know of. Usually a person’s friends, family, even their acquaintances want to talk to them at least once after they’re gone. But nothing?

”Charlie?” I suppose it’s her turn to make sure I’m still here.

“I’m sorry, Clara, I can’t believe no one has visited you.”

“You’ve visited me now.”

“I have.”

“Will you visit again?”

I don’t even have to think about my answer. “Yes. As soon as I can.”

I suddenly remember my open notebook and I write Clara Amelia Rogers, 2046, no visitors.

“Do you promise?”

As if it had been waiting for a good place to interject, my phone starts buzzing.

“I promise we’ll talk again real soon. I have to leave for school now.”

“Okay. Goodbye, Charlie.”

“Bye, Clara.”

I press the escape key, then quickly shove my notebook into my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. I shut the small room’s door behind me and head for the exit, my tennis shoes knocking on the reflective white tiles that cover the library’s floor.

I can already see Jason’s car waiting for me outside through the automatic glass doors. Well, his mom’s car. It’s from the first generation of cars that can run exclusively on waterpower, though it still has the option of using electricity in case we find ourselves in another drought.

As I climb into the back seat beside Jason, he and his mom speak at the same time:

“Anything good today?”

“Good morning, honey.”

I laugh through my nose as she begins to drive away from the library: “Good morning, Mrs. Rivers.” I turn to Jason, who is surprisingly still interested in hearing about my weird obsession. “And yes! The woman I talked to today passed away forty years ago, and,” I pause for dramatic effect, “I am the very first to talk to her through the Database.”

Mrs. Rivers, who usually just listens to our conversations on the way to school with a smile, interjects: “Forty years? I can’t imagine being alone for that long.”

“Me neither, but at least I’m here to talk to her now. And when I finish my book, she’ll have plenty of people waiting in her queue.”

“Oh, right, I forgot about that project of yours.”

“He’s already on his second notebook of notes!”

“Thank you for the enthusiasm, Jason.”

Mrs. Rivers laughs, “I think it’s sweet that you want to stop people’s memories from falling to the wayside, Charlie.”

“So, what’d you find out about her?” Jason asks.

“Not much today. I got here kind of late since I had to walk,” I blow a raspberry, “but I told her that we could talk again soon.”

Mrs. Rivers meets my eyes in the rear-view mirror, “Will you want me to take you back there after school?”

“Yes, please!”

The Database always introduces itself the same way: its dark, bold font stark against the screen’s white background. I visit it in this bookless library every day before—and usually after—school. There are still traditional libraries, but the books in them are much older and far less used than I’m sure they were when paper libraries were in their prime.

This library is one of hundreds—probably thousands—scattered around the world, where anyone can talk to someone who’s died. If, of course, the deceased had a PsySync—Psync for short—an implant that essentially serves as a recorder, saving thoughts, feelings, and memories to be uploaded to the Database after death.

The small room I sit in now—just barely bigger than the average bathroom stall, actually—fits only the clean, white desk, my backpack, and a simple chair with a bit of wiggle room. At least whoever designed these libraries was sure to make the rooms soundproof to give anyone grieving a little privacy. The design choices prevent any semblance of coziness, though.

I quickly enter Clara Amelia Rogers and reconnect.

“Hi, Clara!”

“Hello again, Charlie.”

“How are you since our chat earlier today?”

“I’m doing well. It feels as if hardly any time at all has passed, actually.”

“That’s good,” I pause for a moment to scribble Time feels slower. “Do you have anything you want to ask me before I start with my questions?”

“Oh, plenty. I would like to know more about you, Charlie. How old are you?”

“I’m fourteen. I started eighth grade about a month ago, in September. What about you?”

“I’m thirty-five. Well, I suppose I’m technically … seventy-five now?”

Woah. “I guess you are. We can say you’re still thirty-five, if you like.”

Clara laughs. It’s melodic, and the bland caption on the screen, Laughter, immediately makes me thankful for my hearing. “Thank you, Charlie. What’s your favorite subject in school?”

“I guess, if I had to pick, it would be English: I can’t say no to a good book. Though math isn’t bad, either. Or science … What was yours?”

“I couldn’t say.” She paused, then, “I liked all of them.”

“Good answer. What was your family like?”

“I had a husband and a daughter. She was … twelve when I passed, just a little younger than you. What about yours?”

Now it was my turn to pause. “It’s just me and my dad now. My mom passed away last year. Cancer. We thought she had gotten better, but then it got worse again. It’s one of the few things doctors and scientists still haven’t cured, unfortunately. Um, let’s see … do you have a favorite memory?”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Charlie. Do you miss her?”

“Of course I do. I can still talk to her whenever I want, it’s just … hard to when I know she’s not really here anymore.” I take a deep breath. “It’s your turn to answer, though.”

“Right. Favorite memory … it must be when my daughter, my husband, and I went on vacation to see the ocean. My daughter was only two at the time, but she was so entranced by every little thing there that she asked to vacation there again every year. What are your friends like?”

I smile, picturing this little family on the beach for the first time together. “That sounds like a sweet memory. And it’s actually just friend, singular. We’re pretty close, though, and his parents are always really nice to me. What was your biggest goal in life?”

“I suppose one very good friend can be better than many mediocre friends. I learned that the hard way. My main goal in life was to take care of my daughter, of course, to make sure she was always happy. But if you’re looking for something a little less abstract, I always wanted to open a café.” She laughs, through her nose by the sound of it: “Cheesy but true. What about you, Charlie?”

“Oh! Did you have a name planned for it?”

“I was going to name it after my daughter.”

“What was her name?”

“What about your biggest goal, Charlie?” she asks, as though she hadn’t heard me.

“Me? Well, right now, I’m planning on writing a book. Actually, I want to write about the people I talk to here in the Database. If it’s alright, I’d like to write about you, as well.”

“Of course! I can’t wait to see how it turns out.”

“I’m sorry to end our questions on a more somber note. And you are, of course, welcome to not answer or to change the subject, but … do you know how you passed?”

Silence. Maybe she’s just taking a moment to think. Maybe I should have made sure to word it better, softer. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that at all. Maybe—

The sound of Clara crying cuts through my runaway thoughts.

“Clara? I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry. We don’t have to talk about—”

“Charlie, I can’t remember,” she says through the tears.

“That’s okay! I’m sorry for asking. We don’t ever have to talk about it again.”

“I don’t remember anything, Charlie, not really. Not how I died, not my husband’s face, not my daughter’s name, barely even my own. I couldn’t remember until you said it.”

“Clara, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“I … I’m sorry, Charlie, I have to go.”

The transcript on the screen is replaced by thick, black letters: Conversation ended.

It’s Dad’s turn to pick me up from the library today. “Hey, kiddo,” he says as I climb into his antique EV. “Have a good day?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure? Sounds pretty lackluster.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, it’s just the person I talked to today, Clara. She can’t remember how she died.”

“Really …? You sure she just doesn’t want to talk about it?”

“Dad, she doesn’t know her daughter’s name; she didn’t even remember her own name until I said it. Do you know what could cause that?”

“Well, I’ve only ever heard of that happening if their Psync was tampered with.”

“Tampered with? Only people who work with the Database would be able to do something like that, right? Why would somebody—”

“Woah, slow down. You’re gonna have to direct these kinda questions to Grandad. He worked on the Database back in the forties, you know.”

“I know, Dad. It’s all he talks about.”

“What did you say her name was?”

“Oh, it’s Clara—Clara Amelia Rogers.”

Dad repeats the name to himself, frowning at the road ahead.

“Do you … know her?”

“That was your grandmother’s name. I never met her, myself, not in person. She died when your mother was pretty young. Your mom visited her at the library pretty regularly when we first got married, until her Psync data got corrupted, that is. Grandad tried everything to get her back, but he said the memories were unrecoverable. Gosh, what an eerie coincidence, huh?”

“Dad?”

“Yes, Charlie?”

“There’s only one Clara Amelia Rogers in the Database’s history.”