Appearing Re-Humously

            I watch one of her interviews every day before I go to work. One from before, when I know it wasn’t scripted. Or as scripted. I’m not foolish enough to think that she ever told the entire truth. My favorite is one I helped arrange under the nose of her agent. She’d been fed up with boring questions and stuffy people, and so had decided to go on a popular YouTuber’s talk show, where they drank tequila and got a little too tipsy. Her agent, Mr. Blake Frolic, couldn’t do anything to retaliate. How could he? She was Eliza Bernhardt. 

             My favorite moment is when they got on the topic of love. Her answers were somewhat vague, although they sounded beautiful and poetic. The interviewer asks: "So what does love mean to you?” 

             It’s blink and you miss it, but for one second after, she glances at something behind the camera. Right where I was standing, watching this conversation be recorded and waiting with a cup of water and some snacks to help sober her up when it was done. Then, she says: “Love is a wonderful thing, really. Terrible, too, but worth it in the end. It's a risk, that’s what it is, risk. And, at the same time, reward. Beautiful, passionate reward.” 

            It’s such a small gesture. The moment barely lasts a minute, but it’s there, caught on camera. It’s the only recorded evidence that what we had was anything other than professional.  I arrive at work filled with dread. We’re on a new set today, and I notice it’s a smaller space than we usually work with. I’ve stopped paying attention to what we’re filming at any given moment. Maybe I should, so I stop getting jump scared when I see her in posters on the street or making a cameo appearance in my favorite tv show, but if I’m being honest with myself, I like the surprise. It makes it feel like she’s just off somewhere, doing something without me.  Mr. Frolic is waiting for me when I arrive.

             “Emily, welcome in! It’s a big day today.”

             “Is it?” I ask, but he’s not listening. 

            “Can you go check on Eliza? We want to get started as soon as possible.” He tells me. I nod, but he doesn’t notice, already off to talk to who I presume is the director of this project.  Her trailer is set up the farthest away from where filming is taking place, isolated from the rest of the trailers, so the oil smell and noise of the four generators that surround it don’t bother the other actors. I’ve gotten used to it. Stepping over the neatly taped down cords, I reach up to knock on the door, before stopping myself. She doesn’t need me to knock.  The trailer only has one chair, and it’s for me. In the center, a sleek, black computer terminal lies, connected to the various strings of wires. The screen is blank until I walk in, and there she is. Her small smile, her brown hair curling around her face perfectly, and her eyes. I used to love her eyes, she always looked so alive. Now, they look dead. They match the rest of her, and I hate it. 

             “Hello, Emily. Fantastic day, isn’t it?” she asks. 

            I don’t know why today is the breaking point, but I ask, “Why do you greet me like that?”

            “It’s how I was programmed. You are a friend and associate, so you get a conversational greeting. Is there a different way you’d like me to greet you?” 

            “No, that’s fine.” It’s not worth arguing with her about. It wouldn’t be an argument, anyway. She’d just run me through a list of pre-programmed greetings she could give me. “It’s just… It’s not how you used to greet me.” 

             She says, “I’m sorry.” 

            I feed the lines into the machine as quickly as I can and leave her alone so that she can run them through her algorithm to figure out the best possible delivery. Back in the studio, Mr. Frolic is trying to calm down one of the other actors. Her scene partner, if I had to guess. It seems he was not informed that he would be working with Re-Humous Tech.

            “Just… one take, alright?” Mr. Frolic assured him. “One take, and if you don’t like working with her, then you can leave. We can find someone to replace you.” 

            “I’m not working with a ghost,” The actor says, but he can hear the underlying threat. “Fine. One take.” 

            He takes his place for the scene, sitting on a Victorian couch in a fake drawing room. Someone flips a switch somewhere, and the work lights go off. There’s a subtle shift in the air as power surges to the projectors hanging above the set. Only me and Mr. Frolic notice, because we’re both used to the technology. The crew does gasp when particles swirl around the room. The fragments start to form the shape of a human, and in a flash of light, there she is.  Her dress is gorgeous, Victorian and a lovely shade of purple. Though I think she’d look beautiful in anything. Her smile is sharp, precise. Her presence commands the attention of everyone in the room, and not just because they are witnessing a miracle. Although I can see the director processing what he is witnessing. Legends never have to die, do they?  But then her eyes sweep over the assembled crew, and she doesn’t even spare a second glance for me. 

            “Well,” she says, “Let’s get started then, shall we?” 

            I watch them film. The scene is clunky, and I can see the actor getting increasingly frustrated with her performance, but it’s fine. The director looks okay with it. I find it hard to care about their emotions when she’s being projected. It looks like her. It doesn’t feel like her, but it looks like her, and for a moment I can pretend.

            After work, I stop by Eliza’s old mansion. There are a couple chores to do. Harrison finds me a while later, while I’m washing dishes. He’s got a bottle in one hand, and his beard hasn’t been shaved. I tell him “I like the rugged look.” 

            He waves me off. “You don’t have to do that. I can wash my own damned dishes.”  “Let me take care of you? Please?” 

 	He moves to stand next to me, rolls up the sleeves of his button up shirt, and holds his hand out. I hand him a plate, and he starts drying it. “How did she do today?” he asks.  

            I sigh. “Great, as always.” 

             “Good. Good.” He reaches down and pulls one of the cups directly out of the soapy water. I can’t help but watch the way the bubbles stick to the sides of his wedding ring. “I know you don’t like it.” 

            “That’s not true.” 

            “I know you don’t like it. But… she just wanted to entertain people. You know that.”  

             I hum. “I know.” 

             “And this? This means she never has to stop.” 

             “I know,” I turn to him, and make sure he’s looking at me. “I understand. And you’re right. She’s still doing what she loves. But it’s hard.”             

            He nods and brings one of my hands to his lips. “You are so strong, and I am so, so sorry, Emily. You don’t have to be around her, if you don’t want to.”
 
             I frown. We’ve talked about this far too often. “Harrison-” 

            “You deserve half of the inheritance. I will give you half of the estate. Live off that, leave her alone.” He pleads.

             “How? Legally, how would you do that? There’s no cause-” 

             “Marry me.” 

            I stare at him. He’s not joking. His breath still smells like alcohol, but I know he would have the papers drawn up in a second if that’s what I wanted. I wouldn’t be surprised if Eliza had already half-filed the papers, and they're sitting upstairs in a safe somewhere. We’d talked about this before. Harrison was the one who legally married her. It made sense. He was a star in his own right, and their relationship was above-board. They didn’t have professional ties, and, crucially, he wasn’t a woman. 

            I shake my head. “Not now. Not like this.” 

            He shrugs and lightly bumps my shoulder with his. “Then let me take care of you, please? You know it’s what she would have wanted.” 

            He’s right. The two of us have never been romantically involved, we mostly bonded over our shared love of her, but we love each other platonically, in a way I don’t know if there is a word to describe. Eliza wanted us to get along. 

            Harrison invites me to spend the night at the mansion, and I accept. We sleep in separate rooms and ignore the empty master bedroom. 

            I watch a different interview on my way to work the next day. This one is from when Eliza and Harrison first started dating. We’d carefully planned out the reveal. Eliza would get VIP tickets to the last stop on Harrison’s tour, and at the end of the concert, Harrison would sing his most popular love song directly to her, before he pulled her up on stage and kissed her in front of the whole crowd.

            They’re laughing about it with the interviewer, and lying, just like I’d told them to. “I don’t know, man,” Harrison is saying. “We’d been talking before, on the down low, and then the music just came over me, and I realized there was one person I wanted to be singing to at that moment.” Eliza elbows him, and he rushes to add: “not that I don’t want to perform for my fans. You know that’s always the goal, the joy. But, well, love.” 

            Eliza laughs, light and airy, though I know it’s fake. They hadn’t run any of this by anyone but me, and now all three of us were trying to do damage control. It would all work out in the end. They would date publicly and get married, and I would get to stay in my shadows, taking care of everything from the background.

            “Love, eh?” Eliza says. “What a wild beast. Makes people do crazy things, doesn’t it?” 

            Mr. Frolic looks tense when I walk into the studio. It’s the same one as yesterday. I’ve pieced together that this is a historical fiction romance. The actor from yesterday, her on-screen love interest, is still here, though he’s more withdrawn. I hand Mr. Frolic a cup of coffee. “Is everything alright?” 

            He shakes his head. “Did you see your schedule? We have a meeting with Harrison Bernhardt and the Re-Humous team after this.” 

            “I’m just an assistant,” I say, “Why am I involved?” 

            “You’re her assistant,” He corrects. “And this is about her.” 

            The rest of the day passes in a blur. She performs just as well as she always does nowadays. She’s not really responding to the other actors. She’s just reading the lines. It’s a subtle difference, but it’s noticeable.

            After filming, Mr. Frolic and I make our way to a meeting room. Harrison is already there, sitting in one of the plastic spinning chairs. He smiles, just a little bit, when he sees me, but masks it quickly. I take a seat in the chair next to him. He bumps his foot lightly against mine under the table. I tap back. 

            Mr. Frolic sits on the other side of the table, along with a representative from Re-Humous. The representative introduces herself as Harriet Wellwood. Mr. Frolic starts the meeting. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Mrs. Bernhardt's ratings are going down.” I frown. Harrison scoffs. He continues. “The big studios say she’s not performing as well as she used to, and smaller studios can’t afford to bring the projectors into their spaces.” 

            “Then we’ll build a space specifically for filming with Re-Humanous tech.” Harrison pitches. Ms. Wellwood looks intrigued, but Mr. Frolic shakes his head. 

            “That’s not the only issue,” he says. “People don’t really want her in movies anymore. Actors are skeptical, and audience reviews of her are mixed at best.” 

            “Re-Humous is working on fixing some of the issues audiences are encountering.” Ms. Wellwood chimes in. 

            I perk up. “You're trying to make her more life-like?” 

            Ms. Wellwood smiles. As she talks, she looks like she’s restraining herself from gesturing around. “Our technicians are experimenting with using AI to fill in some of the gaps that the algorithm can’t work with. Then, it could make choices and respond more to the other actors around it.” 

            I feel myself freeze. Harrison scowls and crosses his arms. “It?” He says. “Eliza is not an it.”

            “That’s not what I meant.” She rushes to defend herself. “I was only talking about the system, not your wife. Mrs. Bernhardt is not the only person working with Re-Humous.”  

            “It’s not a lot of celebrities, and none at the caliber of Eliza, but there are others,” Mr. Frolic adds, blissfully unaware of the side eye Ms. Wellwood gives him. 

            “What would that be trained on?” I ask. “Would it be from the movies and videos already fed into the algorithm? What would change?” 

            Ms. Wellwood hesitates. Her eyes glance off to the side, like she’s searching for someone to tell her what to say. “You have to understand that I’m not a developer, and this is still in the early stages-” 

            “How long until we can see anything? Even a test with this?” Harrison asks. She goes silent. Mr. Frolic glances away. I share a look of understanding with Harrison. So, this is why the meeting was called. Ms. Wellwood doesn’t make eye contact. “At least a year, possibly more.” 

            “It might also have a rough starting phase, as the tech gets settled and learns more, so we’d have to factor in a few months of practice and growth.” Mr. Frolic adds. 

            “So what does she do in the meantime?” I ask. 

            Mr. Frolic pulls at his tie. “Well, could we give her a break? Take her out of the limelight for a while, let the dust from these reviews blow over.” 

            Harrison shakes his head. “No, don’t lie to me. The only reason she’s getting jobs at all is because there is still hype around her death and re-birth. If that dries up?” 

            “She’s still Eliza Bernhardt,” I assure him, but it sounds hollow. He looks distressed, and I wish I could comfort him more. I turn back to Mr. Frolic, “but you can’t guarantee that.”

            “I- No, but I’ve gotten her jobs before. I can do it again.” 

            “So, no.” 

            Ms. Wellwood adds “The tech will be better, more realistic. It will work better, and audiences will get back the Eliza Bernhardt they knew and loved.” 

            “But it’s not her,” I remind them. “And it’s not going to act like her. She’s not going to ACT like her.” 

            Mr. Frolic waves me off. “Then we’ll figure out who she will be now. And, sure, maybe her acting's not what it used to be. We’ll figure out what the new image is, do a public re-brand, and then she’ll be rising back up through the ranks.” 

            I look around at all of them. “Why? Why would we do that?” 

            Harrison visibly flinches. Mr. Folic opens his mouth and closes it again. Ms. Wellwood is trying her best not to glare at me. No one else has been willing to really address this question. When Eliza died, a Re-Humous representative had shown up to the hospital almost before the news had even been released to the public. In total, there was only a month between when Harrison called me about the car accident, and when we saw the first test of her with the Re-Humous test. There was never another option. The minute she was gone, we were told that she didn’t have to stay that way. 

            Harrison isn’t looking at me. He pushes his chair back and stands up. “Can we- I take time to think about it?” 

            Mr. Frolic clears his throat. “We have to finish filming this project anyway, although I’d like to get started on booking her next role as soon as possible.”

            Harrison nods quickly, makes eye contact with me, and storms out of the room. I make my excuses to leave and follow after him. We don’t leave together. I suspect Mr. Frolic knew something was happening between Eliza and I, but he probably assumed that it was happening underneath Harrison’s nose. Ms. Wellwood doesn’t know anything, and we don’t want her to. His sports car stays in my rear-view mirror until we reach the mansion. We both get out of our car at the same time. 

            We don’t acknowledge each other until Harrison has made himself an old fashioned and poured me a glass of wine. We end up sitting on the porch. It’s sunset by now, and we can see the whole city. Harrison takes a sip. “So. You already know what you want to do.” 

            I shake my head. “No, I don’t. I’ve got an opinion, sure, but that’s not set in stone.” He leans back in his chair and yells a curse out at the world. We sit in silence for a moment, stewing. 

            Eventually, he swears again. “Explain it to me, then. What you want.” 

            “They were explaining our options, and I couldn’t help but keep thinking, it’s not her. Either we can give her face and voice to some completely new, digital actress, or we keep running her reputation into the ground. Is that worth it? Is it selfish?” 

            Harrison chuckles, dark and drawn out. “Yeah, probably. But you know what? We are selfish. So was she. I mean, look at us.” 

            I frown and take a sip of my wine. “Then is that what you want? To continue destroying her- destroying her memory like this?” 

            “Is that what you think I’m doing?” he spits. “Look at me, Emily. Look me in the eyes and really say you could do it. You could have told Re-Humous no back then. Could you pull the plug now? Kill the one way we can still see her-”

            “Maybe I could. I don’t know. God, this isn’t even what she would have wanted.”

            Harrison glares, “You can’t know that.”  

            I roll my eyes, “Don’t lie to yourself. You knew her. You loved her. She was always passionate about getting more people into the industry, giving them opportunities. And maybe Re-Humous worked fine with that goal when she was filling rolls she had booked before her death and making cameo appearances. Now? Now, these are roles that could have gone to some new star, but instead they're being given to her. It’s not what she would have wanted, you know-” 

            “I know that!” he yells. He’s got his ears hunched to his shoulders, defensive. The sunset is beginning to dip below the horizon. The shadows he casts against the house are long. He isn’t glaring at me; he’s glaring out at something far off in the distance. Any chance of this being a cordial conversation is gone. “Don’t you dare tell me what I do or don’t know about her. You know what I think? I think you're just jealous she doesn’t love you anymore.” 

            He regrets it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He doesn’t actually believe them, I know that. He just felt backed into a corner, and lashed out in a way he knew would hurt. I stand up and grab his drink from out of his hands. “Goodnight, Harrison,” I say. “We’ll talk in the morning.” 

            He calls out: “Emily, I’m sorry,” but I shut the screen door behind me. He knows better than to do that. He hasn’t said anything like that in years. 

            I end up in the master bedroom that night. It’s relatively sparse but well lived. There are trinkets from various places either she’s filmed, or he’s toured in. The two of them somehow convinced me to hang up some of the watercolor paintings I do as a hobby on the walls.

            Eliza had bought us a massive, Texas king sized bed so that all three of us could sleep together. It feels so strange to sleep in it alone, but I do. I don’t want to go to my guest bedroom. Not tonight. 

            It takes me a minute to find Harrison the next morning. I don't have work, so I sleep in a little later. I find he’s left me a plate of waffles in the oven. After eating those, I hear noise coming from the in-home movie theater. I push open the red plush door. He’s sitting in his pajamas, nursing a cup of coffee in a seat in the middle row. I naturally find myself leaving an extra space between the two of us. 

            The video on screen is a recording I haven’t seen in a long time. It’s from the last Christmas we ever got to spend together. Harrison is on screen most of the time, playing mostly random cords that occasionally spiral into songs on the guitar Eliza had just bought him. But in the background, you can see into the kitchen, where Eliza is interrupting me while I work on making us a home-cooked brunch. She’s laughing, her hair is down, and she’s not wearing any makeup. I’m laughing too, although I’m pretending to be annoyed. 

            “I thought you deleted this?” I ask Harrison. 

            He winces. “I’m sorry, I know I said I would. It’s a liability to have any kind of proof that you… You looked so happy. She looked so happy, and I barely have any video of her just… being. So, I kept it. I’m sorry.” 

            I keep watching the video. Eventually, Harrison starts playing a version of Jingle Bell Rock. Eliza giggles and pokes at me until I dance with her. Harrison forgets about his phone and stands up to join us in the kitchen. In the background of the video, Harrison serenades the two of us as we dance.

            “I miss her,” I say, and I realize it might be the first time I’ve ever said it aloud. 

            Harrison hums his agreement. “I’ve been thinking about last night, and what you said. You’re right. You’re always right. I just… I can’t make myself go through with it. I should have put you in charge of the estate. You were always the one who could say no to her.”

             “So we’re done then. She’s… we’re turning it off,” I clarify. He nods, and I hold out my hand. “Give me your phone. I’ll write the email.” 

            I write one of the best damned emails I’ve ever written in my career. For a minute, I wonder if I should edit it to sound more like Harrison. Eventually, I decide against it. I don't care anymore. 

            I start to hear soft sniffling just as I send my resignation letter to Mr. Frolic. I look over and tears are streaming down Harrison's face. 

            “Oh, god,” he says. “It just hit me. She’s really gone.” 

            I blink some of my own tears away. When we’re in the studio, and she’s being projected, I can pretend. We’ve just been fighting, so now she’s acting professional and distant at work. When I’m with Harrison at home, it feels a little like she’s off filming in a remote location or traveling without us on a press tour. But no, she’s dead. She’s gone. 

            I reach across the seat between us and grab Harrison’s hand. He squeezes mine, and I squeeze back. The video on the screen ends, and we sit there in the dark, breathing.

TG Sparks is an author and playwright from Seattle, Washington. He is the author of The Last Siren. His work has been featured in Misty Mint Magazine and The Panel Jumpers Live! His writing is an exploration of memory, and the importance we place on the things that happen to us. In his free time, he enjoys playing DnD with friends and going on walks. You can find him at @tg.sparks on Instagram.