Artificial Heart

Prisha stared up at the ceiling, wide-awake. The events of the night would not stop swirling in her brain. It was all so vivid, so astonishing, so utterly impossible. Though it was hours ago, it was all still pumping through her veins. It seemed so much less real to be here, in bed, back in her mundane life.

I still have four hours with you. What should we do?

It was the dumbest question she’d ever asked.

They’d flown all over the globe, sometimes close, sometimes far above the clouds, in the daylight, in the night. She’d seen Europe and Russia and Mongolia. She’d seen shifting icecaps and blasting volcanos. She’d flown over great twinkling cities like Hong Kong and New York and even Cairo. She’d seen the pyramids!

Then there were the deep forests and the expansive landscapes, the mountains and oceans and islands. Fires, floods, storms, wars. She’d seen huge movements of people and animals, like waves across the surface. How could so many astonishing things be happening all on one planet? Prisha hadn’t really done much travelling; it always seemed like such a big task. Now … Earth suddenly seemed so small.

Next time she wanted to go in the other direction, out into space. Maybe see the moon! Prisha threaded her fingers together. Excitement bubbled over in her chest. Then there was Alf. They’d kissed. They’d held each other. He’d touched her.

She held up her hand, studying it, remembering how his own big hand had clasped firmly around it as she gripped the lever of the ship’s controls. It had been just as exhilarating as everything else.

Alf.

She was only a few hours back home and she already missed him. She missed him like an ache in her guts.

But that’s very sad.

Longer than your lifetime.

Prisha rolled onto her side with a sigh. He hadn’t specified when next he’d pick her up.

She prayed it was soon.

She spent the next several days in a daze. Everything seemed so different now. Her surroundings. Her own self. Life in general. Everything seemed pointless and dull. It felt like she was moving through a fog. It was like she’d left her mind and soul and happiness up with Alf amid the stars.

It was hard to focus on her work. Meeting with clients was difficult. But she managed. Her sister was calling her with less frequency now, which was good. Often, Prisha felt guilty about holding so much of the truth back from her. Other times, she was splitting at the seams to tell her everything.

She didn’t, of course. That would be a very very bad thing.

At night, when all her work was done, she would sit in her yard, gazing up a the twinkling stars, watching, waiting, hoping, wondering if he might be looking down upon her. She would touch her mouth and close her eyes, remembering how he’d felt. Most nights she would go to the park, hopelessly hopeful, knowing full well he wouldn’t be there, not without that telltale burn at the back of her neck.

During her free time she would search the news, looking for anything about her astounding encounter between her and these so-called world leaders. She tried hard to remember it. What she’d seen. What she’d been thinking. How she’d felt. She tried to recall the seven figures, their appearance, expressions and accents. She should have asked them their names.

Yeah … sure.

At each swipe of her phone or click of a channel on the T.V, her heart would thump and she would brace herself. Nothing. There was nothing. How could there be nothing? No evidence at all of the miraculous event that had happened while the rest of the world had eaten and slept and worked.

She searched online for any rumours of alien encounters. Some reports and websites would leap out at her—there were a lot of conspiracy theories regarding government contact with extraterrestrials—but there was nothing recent, and nothing that resembled her situation.

Prisha touched her mouth again.

Alf.

And then it happened.

It started online: a suspected encounter with a UFO. Somewhere deep in Washington state.

So, it had been America.

Whispers. Rumours. Conspiracies.

No talk of Prisha’s involvement yet.

It was hard to put down her phone. She kept the T.V running. Her laptop was rarely shut. Every time she went to bed at night she would shuffle through the day’s revelations. The assumptions and theories. They were getting closer. Too many minds, both crazy and logical, working as one. Social media was terrifying.

It grew quickly. Far too quickly. Facebook and Instagram was flooded with it. It seeped onto Youtube and TikTok. Then it finally reached mainstream media.

And then the worst happened.

Prisha was eating breakfast early Friday morning, listening to the usual morning programs when she froze. She could feel the blood drain from her face. Her spoon clattered into her cereal, splashing milk everywhere. She scrambled for the control, pounding it with her thumb as she turned the volume up full blast.

’ …unidentified woman involved.’ The two presenters were whispering to each other across the couch, glancing furtively at the camera. All very dramatic and stupid. Prisha tried to shrug away a sudden rush of embarrassment. ’But apparently she’s a local.’

‘An Aussie?’ the man returned in surprise. ‘How do they know?’

The woman shrugged. ‘Perhaps she told them.’

‘Probably her accent.’ The male presenter grinned at the camera. ’It is strong.’ Then he started reeling something off in a really bad imitation of an Australian.

Prisha winced.

’Any other clues as to who it might be?

‘Who knows? Could be me!’ The woman wriggled her fingers at the camera with an “oohhhh.”

Prisha gripped her tummy, feeling sick. It was bad enough being found out. Terrifying, in fact. And then to have them joke about it …

There was no footage. No real evidence. The two presenters continued to laugh and joke. The X-Files theme song played.

Just a rumour.

Just whisperings.

Just a stupid thing.

‘The truth is out there—and we’ll find it!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘This is Scoop, your morning entertainment program! See you in a bit!’ Then the commercials came on.

Prisha’s hand shook. The control clattered to the floor as she fumbled with it. Silence fell as she finally switched the T.V off. She was on her knees on the tiles, clutching the control to her chest.

Just relax. They didn’t know.

Just a joke.

Prisha wasn’t sure why but later that evening when she’d finished with her clients, she tried to figure out how long she’d actually spent on the ship. Perhaps she was bored and sad. Perhaps she needed an excuse to be angry at Alf. It was approaching the end of the week. What if he didn’t come back? What if he couldn’t come back?

She would never know why.

So many terrible possibilities.

Washington … Hmmm … Australia. From early evening to what had he said?—seven hours sub Universal Time, something, something. She searched online, found what he’d meant. Prisha stared at her calculation in disbelief. She stared at it and stared at it, then recalculated it several more times. But it was all the same answer.

Approximately 24 hours. 24 hours? She’d been there for a whole day? The last four hours were easy to remember. The first few were vague. She’d slept in between. But for 17 hours?! She must have calculated wrong.

She sat back in her seat and rubbed her eyes. It was very possible she wasn’t thinking straight. She’d been strangely tired since she’d gotten back, sleeping long hours, right through her alarm. There’d been no collapses and only a few bouts of dizziness; there was still the occasional throbbing headache.

Prisha rubbed at her chest. No palpitations and her period was over. She was feeling mostly normal again.

Mostly.

She got up and went to bed.

It wasn’t unusual to dream about Alf and all the marvellous adventures of space but tonight was different, because she suddenly woke up right in the middle of the best of them. Just like that, like a light switch turned on, she snapped open her eyes and sat up.

Her skin prickled. She shrugged her shoulders and slapped the back of her neck. It felt like a spider was crawling down her spine. She stood. She left the bedroom. She picked up her keys and phone instinctively as she left the house, pulling the door closed behind her.

Prisha stared down the street. It was black. No cars. No people. Not even a barking dog. She stared towards the park. She needed to get to the park. She wore no shoes. She wore only her pyjamas. Nothing mattered. It didn’t seem an unusual thing to do. Why not? Only the park mattered. A tug in her navel drew her forward.

She was halfway down the street before her mind finally caught up. It was like a fog parting from her eyes. Like she’d still been asleep and had only now just woken up. Alf.

Alf!

The park!

She was running.

The road was hard and painful beneath her feet. The cool night air raised goose bumps on her arms. The burn in the back of her neck grew hotter and hotter. She turned onto the footpath, the light slap of her feet echoing against the abutting houses.

Then she was there, grass crunching beneath her feet, cool and sharp against her soles. The child’s swing creaked. The silver slide gleamed in the moonlight. The nearby trees waved and rustled in the breeze. She clutched onto her chest, panting.

The park was empty.

Seemingly empty.

‘Alf!’ she hissed.

She stared at the spot where he’d last landed. The nearby streetlight made the dew on the grass glitter and she could see that some of it was flattened. Her heart pounded. She stepped back at a shimmer in the air. And suddenly it was there. The ship. The ramp. Prisha shoved her phone and keys into her pocket and rushed inside.

And there was Alf, as always, sitting at his controls, as much a part of the ship as the seats and and the curved walls and space blankets and blinking lights. He didn’t turn to greet her, fixated on the view ahead. Not yet. Not until they were safely away.

The ramp closed behind her.

She could feel the coolness of the air pricking at her skin even as the heat rushed through her veins. Burning her neck. Burning her cheeks. Pooling in her hips. Sending her heart soaring.

‘Alf,’ Prisha croaked.