subjected to peer pressure?”
Aimee blinked at her. “Isn’t everyone?”
“To some extent, yes. But did it change you? Did you forget about things you enjoyed? Did you focus exclusively on being attractive, restraining your intelligence to an acceptable level, and pleasing boys?”
“Of course.”
The Warloctor nodded, and under the turban, her dark face betrayed some sadness.
Aimee bristled. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”
“Goddess, no, dear. You were a child. Someone should have been guiding you and looking out for you.”
“Wait.” A new thought erased Aimee’s irritation. “Are you sure it happened then? Why didn’t I notice sooner?”
“It doesn’t usually manifest until adulthood. Many teenage girls lose their souls, and no one notices until years later.” The Warloctor sighed for some reason, then asked patiently enough, “What was your soul like, do you know?”
Somewhat recovered now, Aimee gave her the bright, edgy smile of a stressed young executive woman. “How would I know?”
“Well, as a child, perhaps sometime when you were half awake, did you ever happen to see it? Perhaps as a butterfly, or a moth, or a tiny white dove, or a honeybee?”
Aimee shook her head, feeling her mouth beginning to thin, to lose its full-lipped charm. She wanted out of this weird office. She wanted time to absorb the diagnosis. And above all she wanted a treatment. She demanded, “What do I do now?”
“Well, there are prosthetic souls available. A specialist could fabricate one for you out of your choice of poetry, music, art and so on. And the implant procedure is noninvasive.” The Warloctor recited all of this without hesitation or enthusiasm. “But it’s impossible to match the quality of a real, original soul.” The W.D. sighed again. “Do you still have access to the place, by which I mean the physical location, where you lived when you were pubescent?”
“Yes,” said Aimee. “Yes, I do.”
“Then I would go back there, if I were you, and have a look for your soul.”
*
Aimee hadn’t been back in years. She hated going back. The house, like her mother, was too ice-cream-and-ruffled-curtains dowdy, and the town was too small, and it hadn’t developed at all. Back yards still ended in country. There was nowhere to shop, not even a dinky strip mall. There were no night clubs. There was nobody worth trying to impress. In short, there was nothing to do. Aimee hadn’t been home since her father’s funeral.
Her mother was delighted to see her, of course, and seemed to think that the unexpected visit had something to do with wedding plans. “I know Colin is a very handsome young man,” Mom said the morning after Aimee’s arrival, over a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and homemade strawberry jam, “and he’s very well to-do and so forth, but is he—will he—” Mother faltered, evidently attempting a kind of delicacy for which her lack of sophistication gave her no experience. “Is he good to you?” she blurted.
“He has a penthouse, Mom.”
“I know, but—”
“And he’s great in bed.”
Aimee said this to shock, and succeeded. Her mother gasped and blushed. “Heavens, Aimee, that’s not what I meant at all.”
“What do you mean, then?”
“Well, is he—will he—does he love you?”
The question seemed meaningless. Aimee brushed it aside and got down to business. “Mom, I seem to have misplaced my soul. Before I order one, I was wondering, do you happen to know where it got to?”
Her mother sat straight up and gazed at her with transparent, moist-eyed pride. “Aimee, I always knew you were precocious.”
“Huh?”
“Look at you, wanting your soul back already. I didn’t start missing mine till I hit menopause.” Mom turned and hollered, “Mama! Mother! Have you seen Aimee’s soul?”
The creaky old woman, Aimee’s grandmother, shuffled into the kitchen. Mom was dowdy, but Grandma was a disaster. Mom wore polyester; Grandma wore
Aimee blinked at her. “Isn’t everyone?”
“To some extent, yes. But did it change you? Did you forget about things you enjoyed? Did you focus exclusively on being attractive, restraining your intelligence to an acceptable level, and pleasing boys?”
“Of course.”
The Warloctor nodded, and under the turban, her dark face betrayed some sadness.
Aimee bristled. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”
“Goddess, no, dear. You were a child. Someone should have been guiding you and looking out for you.”
“Wait.” A new thought erased Aimee’s irritation. “Are you sure it happened then? Why didn’t I notice sooner?”
“It doesn’t usually manifest until adulthood. Many teenage girls lose their souls, and no one notices until years later.” The Warloctor sighed for some reason, then asked patiently enough, “What was your soul like, do you know?”
Somewhat recovered now, Aimee gave her the bright, edgy smile of a stressed young executive woman. “How would I know?”
“Well, as a child, perhaps sometime when you were half awake, did you ever happen to see it? Perhaps as a butterfly, or a moth, or a tiny white dove, or a honeybee?”
Aimee shook her head, feeling her mouth beginning to thin, to lose its full-lipped charm. She wanted out of this weird office. She wanted time to absorb the diagnosis. And above all she wanted a treatment. She demanded, “What do I do now?”
“Well, there are prosthetic souls available. A specialist could fabricate one for you out of your choice of poetry, music, art and so on. And the implant procedure is noninvasive.” The Warloctor recited all of this without hesitation or enthusiasm. “But it’s impossible to match the quality of a real, original soul.” The W.D. sighed again. “Do you still have access to the place, by which I mean the physical location, where you lived when you were pubescent?”
“Yes,” said Aimee. “Yes, I do.”
“Then I would go back there, if I were you, and have a look for your soul.”
*
Aimee hadn’t been back in years. She hated going back. The house, like her mother, was too ice-cream-and-ruffled-curtains dowdy, and the town was too small, and it hadn’t developed at all. Back yards still ended in country. There was nowhere to shop, not even a dinky strip mall. There were no night clubs. There was nobody worth trying to impress. In short, there was nothing to do. Aimee hadn’t been home since her father’s funeral.
Her mother was delighted to see her, of course, and seemed to think that the unexpected visit had something to do with wedding plans. “I know Colin is a very handsome young man,” Mom said the morning after Aimee’s arrival, over a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and homemade strawberry jam, “and he’s very well to-do and so forth, but is he—will he—” Mother faltered, evidently attempting a kind of delicacy for which her lack of sophistication gave her no experience. “Is he good to you?” she blurted.
“He has a penthouse, Mom.”
“I know, but—”
“And he’s great in bed.”
Aimee said this to shock, and succeeded. Her mother gasped and blushed. “Heavens, Aimee, that’s not what I meant at all.”
“What do you mean, then?”
“Well, is he—will he—does he love you?”
The question seemed meaningless. Aimee brushed it aside and got down to business. “Mom, I seem to have misplaced my soul. Before I order one, I was wondering, do you happen to know where it got to?”
Her mother sat straight up and gazed at her with transparent, moist-eyed pride. “Aimee, I always knew you were precocious.”
“Huh?”
“Look at you, wanting your soul back already. I didn’t start missing mine till I hit menopause.” Mom turned and hollered, “Mama! Mother! Have you seen Aimee’s soul?”
The creaky old woman, Aimee’s grandmother, shuffled into the kitchen. Mom was dowdy, but Grandma was a disaster. Mom wore polyester; Grandma wore
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