Human Sister

beg, “Please? Please, Grandpa. May I keep her? Please?”
    But Grandpa was coy. He reminded me of the toad I’d quickly lost interest in. And the lizard.
    I said everything would be different with Lily: I’d take good care of her, really, forever.
    Grandma smiled approvingly, but Grandpa knelt down and, face-to-face with me, said, “You may keep Lily, but only if you promise me two things.”
    I nodded solemnly, reflecting the look on his face.
    “First, you must promise to feed her, clean up her messes, and exercise with her outside every day.”
    “Okay.”
    “I’m serious about this. Grandma has enough with her vineyard and garden and greenhouse. She doesn’t need a dog to take care of on top of everything else.”
    “Okay.”
    “Second, I want you to promise that you will think of Lily not as something to be understood or a problem to be solved, but as a complete, indivisible living creature, full of mystery. Never think about how she might be put together, how her neurons work, and so on. Can you do that for your grandpa?”
    I nodded, though I liked to know about the kinds of things I heard Grandpa and Grandma talk about with Mom and Dad whenever they visited.
    “Good. You will discover with Lily that love is another way of knowing.”
    For the first few weeks my delicate, floppy-eared puppy was afraid to leave my presence. By whining, she even managed to secure a cozy place for herself beside me in my bed—for a while, that is, until Grandma objected to the messes. Then, despite my pleading and tears, a doghouse was installed beside our garage, and Lily was banished from the house. Too many microbots, I was told, could hide in her fur.

    I’ve had to ask Michael to make more paper. He thought I would fill the pages he’d initially given me; then he would scan them into the computer (and probably read them) before recycling them. But there are things I want to write that I don’t want him to see, not now, not until I’m finished, if ever. Jealousy is new to me. I need time to heal.

    It was spring, and although the garden and trees were full of blossoms and Lily seemed to enjoy romping in the wide-open spaces of the yard, I felt a growing emptiness; it had been weeks since I’d seen Mom and Dad, and I missed them.
    “When are Mommy and Daddy coming to see us again?” I asked Grandma late one afternoon while Lily and I were helping her find some weeds the gardenerbots had missed.
    She looked up at me. “I think you should speak with Grandpa about that.”
    I often wished she would, but Grandma never—I can’t think of a single instance—interfered with the way Grandpa taught me.
    She pulled another weed. “I think you should ask to see First Brother, too.”
    I turned to Lily and began telling her my words for the week and a story I’d composed using those words. While I spoke, she licked my hand and nibbled on one of my fingers, then rolled onto her back, inviting me to rub her tummy.
    I now know there is disagreement among experts as to how early a child develops a theory of mind. But I distinctly remember thinking—at least, I believe I do, remembering being a creative and therefore an unavoidably fictionalized process—that even though Lily’s internal world did not include my concern for numbers or words or stories, she nevertheless had a vibrant, happy life; and I loved her. Maybe First Brother liked different things, too, just as Lily did. Maybe he wasn’t bored with me, either. Maybe he was just waiting for me to do something such as play ball with him or rub his tummy—perhaps where the electricity went in.
    “I’ll see what I can do,” Grandpa said when I asked him about an hour later if he could have Mom, Dad, and First Brother visit us again. “But I want you to think about how you can be more patient with your brother than you were the last time.”
    “I will.”
    “And I want you to think up some games you can play with him. He likes to play games. Can you do that?”
    By the next Saturday, I’d devised two games. Mom, Dad, and First Brother were scheduled to arrive just before afternoon tea, and although it would still be my sun-curfew time, Grandpa said I could take them out to meet Lily, provided I stayed in the shadow of the garage.
    As their arrival drew near, I waited anxiously beside Gatekeeper. Clunk, clunk, whoosh and there they were, standing hand in hand as before: Mom and Dad smiling at me, First Brother staring at the wall. Lily, who hadn’t yet