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Authors: Robert J. Sawyer
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instead of the zebra, its blood staining the water hole.
And to this day, try as he might, he’d been unable to repress that memory.
Heather still wasn’t able to sleep. She got up off the couch, went to the closet in the bedroom and found some old photo albums; for the last ten years or so, she’d taken only filmless electronic photos, but all of her early memories were stored as prints.
She sat back down on the couch, one leg tucked up underneath her. She opened one of the albums, spread it on her lap.
The pictures were from fifteen or so years ago—the turn of the century. The old house on Merton. God, how she missed that place.
She flipped a page. The photos were under acetate, held in place by a slight adhesive on the backing sheets.
Becky’s fifth birthday party—the last one they’d had in the Merton house. Balloons clinging to the wall with static electricity. Becky’s friends Jasmine and Brandi—such sophisticated names for such little girls!—playing pin the tail on the donkey.
Of course, that was the party that Heather’s sister, Doreen, had failed to show up at—Becky was crushed that her aunt hadn’t made it. Heather was still angry about that; she’d bent over backward making a fuss for Doreen’s children’s birthdays, baking cakes, picking out gifts, and more. But Doreen had been too busy, begging off because some better offer had come along . . .
She turned the page again and—
Well, fancy that.
More pictures from the party.
And there was Doreen. She had shown up after all.
Heather peeled up the acetate sheet; it made a sucking sound as it pulled away from the adhesive backing. She then removed the print and read the caption she’d written on the back: “Becky’s 5th B-Day.” And just in case there was any doubt, there was the date printed by the photofinisher, two days after Rebecca’s actual birthday.
She’d been mad at Doreen for a decade and a half over this. Doreen must have originally said she wasn’t coming, but had actually shown up at the last minute. Heather had remembered the first part, but had completely forgotten the second.
But there was the photograph: Doreen crouching down next to Becky.
Photos didn’t lie.
Heather exhaled.
Memory was an imperfect process. Of course, the photos reminded her of things. But they were also telling her things she’d never known, or had completely forgotten.
And yet, how many rolls of film had she ever shot? Maybe a couple of hundred—meaning that scattered about in photo albums and shoeboxes, there were a few thousand still frames from her life. Of course there were some home videos, too, and the electronic snapshots she’d saved to disk.
And there were diaries, and copies of old correspondence.
And little mementos and souvenirs that brought to mind events long past.
But that was it. The rest was stored nowhere else but in her fallible brain.
She closed the album. The word “Memories” was stamped in gold foil on its beige vinyl cover, but the gold was flaking off.
She looked across the room, down the hallway.
Her computer was down there; when he’d still lived here, Kyle’s had been in the basement.
They had practiced safe computing. Every morning when she went to work, she had a memory wafer in her purse containing the previous night’s backup of Kyle’s optical drive; the drive itself was almost crash-proof, but off-site storage was the only real insurance against loss due to fire or theft. Kyle, likewise, had always taken a memory wafer to his lab with Heather’s backup on it.
But what of real value was on their home computers? Financial records, all of which could be reconstructed with some effort. Correspondence, most of it utterly ephemeral. Student grades and other work-related stuff, which all could be redone, if need be.
But for the most important events of their lives, there were no backups, no archives.
Her gaze fell on the stereo cabinet. On top of it sat some framed photographs—of
And to this day, try as he might, he’d been unable to repress that memory.
Heather still wasn’t able to sleep. She got up off the couch, went to the closet in the bedroom and found some old photo albums; for the last ten years or so, she’d taken only filmless electronic photos, but all of her early memories were stored as prints.
She sat back down on the couch, one leg tucked up underneath her. She opened one of the albums, spread it on her lap.
The pictures were from fifteen or so years ago—the turn of the century. The old house on Merton. God, how she missed that place.
She flipped a page. The photos were under acetate, held in place by a slight adhesive on the backing sheets.
Becky’s fifth birthday party—the last one they’d had in the Merton house. Balloons clinging to the wall with static electricity. Becky’s friends Jasmine and Brandi—such sophisticated names for such little girls!—playing pin the tail on the donkey.
Of course, that was the party that Heather’s sister, Doreen, had failed to show up at—Becky was crushed that her aunt hadn’t made it. Heather was still angry about that; she’d bent over backward making a fuss for Doreen’s children’s birthdays, baking cakes, picking out gifts, and more. But Doreen had been too busy, begging off because some better offer had come along . . .
She turned the page again and—
Well, fancy that.
More pictures from the party.
And there was Doreen. She had shown up after all.
Heather peeled up the acetate sheet; it made a sucking sound as it pulled away from the adhesive backing. She then removed the print and read the caption she’d written on the back: “Becky’s 5th B-Day.” And just in case there was any doubt, there was the date printed by the photofinisher, two days after Rebecca’s actual birthday.
She’d been mad at Doreen for a decade and a half over this. Doreen must have originally said she wasn’t coming, but had actually shown up at the last minute. Heather had remembered the first part, but had completely forgotten the second.
But there was the photograph: Doreen crouching down next to Becky.
Photos didn’t lie.
Heather exhaled.
Memory was an imperfect process. Of course, the photos reminded her of things. But they were also telling her things she’d never known, or had completely forgotten.
And yet, how many rolls of film had she ever shot? Maybe a couple of hundred—meaning that scattered about in photo albums and shoeboxes, there were a few thousand still frames from her life. Of course there were some home videos, too, and the electronic snapshots she’d saved to disk.
And there were diaries, and copies of old correspondence.
And little mementos and souvenirs that brought to mind events long past.
But that was it. The rest was stored nowhere else but in her fallible brain.
She closed the album. The word “Memories” was stamped in gold foil on its beige vinyl cover, but the gold was flaking off.
She looked across the room, down the hallway.
Her computer was down there; when he’d still lived here, Kyle’s had been in the basement.
They had practiced safe computing. Every morning when she went to work, she had a memory wafer in her purse containing the previous night’s backup of Kyle’s optical drive; the drive itself was almost crash-proof, but off-site storage was the only real insurance against loss due to fire or theft. Kyle, likewise, had always taken a memory wafer to his lab with Heather’s backup on it.
But what of real value was on their home computers? Financial records, all of which could be reconstructed with some effort. Correspondence, most of it utterly ephemeral. Student grades and other work-related stuff, which all could be redone, if need be.
But for the most important events of their lives, there were no backups, no archives.
Her gaze fell on the stereo cabinet. On top of it sat some framed photographs—of
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