Life Clock
The day Marcie left rehab, her mother handed her a gift. “Honey, I got you a new phone with an important app.”
“Great, Mom.” Marcie looked out the window as the car pulled onto the highway. The last six weeks had been hell, and she was eager to get back to her apartment for a bath, a decent pizza, and some weed. “So, what’s the deal?”
“When you get home, turn it on. Please, for me. Dr. Moran recommended it.”
“That bitch,” Marcie muttered.
“She is only trying to help. We all are. You almost died, Marcie. Twice. You can’t put us through that again.”
Her mother began ragging on her. She was like a broken record, ranting about how hard she and Dad worked, all the money they spent on her tuition, her lawyer, her hospital bills, the court costs, rehab, her therapist—all the dirty details of her first OD and the whole drama of her second. On and on.
“Mom, like I never heard this before. Like I need this right now? Save the sermon. Pull—leeze.” She raised her palm like a traffic cop.
“Just, when you get home, check the ‘Life Clock’ app.”
Marcie did not have to check. As soon as she closed the door, her phone beeped. “This is Life Clock. An analysis of your current status lists your life expectancy as 18 years, 4 months, 3 days, 12 hours, 13 minutes, 27 seconds.” The numerals flashed in green, counting down. She watched the last two digits blink away the seconds: 26…25…24…23…
Creepy. What kind of shit is this? Why would her mom get her this?
The androgynous voice continued. “Life Clock assesses your current status and lifestyle to determine your expected longevity. Your diet, exercise routine, tobacco use, driving habits, and behavior can….”
Marcie turned off her phone. Flipping creepy, she thought, like having a second mom.
And one mom was bad enough. While she was away, her mother had cleaned the apartment. And cleaned her out! Marcie appreciated the freshly waxed floors, new recycling bins, vacuumed carpets, and well-stocked cupboards. The refrigerator was full of chicken, ground beef, vegetables, and fruit. Way too much fresh stuff. No cakes, cookies, or candy. Nothing good. Her counters were spotless and neat. Everything was in its place. But all her booze was gone! The gin, the rum, the bottle of Jack Daniels Skyler gave her, her best vodka—gone! Along with all her dope and pills. Even her secret stash taped under the bed was missing. Mom must have rented a search dog to find it.
Having no desire to return to jail, Marcie made sure to do the drill: attend her meetings, do the drug tests, and see her PO. For two weeks, she went to the gym her mother paid for, made chicken in her wok, and went to bed early. Out of curiosity, she hit “Life Clock” on her phone. The green numbers now read 26 years, 5 months, 3 days, 4 hours, 22 minutes, 32 seconds. Living clean had its benefits, she smiled. It went up eight years. Like watching your bank account soar.
A week later, Nicole called her. She was back in town and eager to catch up. Marcie grabbed an Uber. Nicole always had good dope. They smoked, drank beer, did shots of tequila, snorted a line of good coke, and ordered a pizza. They watched videos, shared rehab stories, talked trash about old boyfriends, and complained about the world.
When Marcie overslept and missed the gym the next morning, her phone beeped, announcing “Life Clock Update.” She had to close one eye to focus on the blinking numerals: 12 years, 3 months, 6 days, 4 hours, 45 minutes, 12 seconds.
Ugh. Worse than a second mom!
The next day, the party was stale. Everyone was so lame. Nicole had already bailed, hooking up with Tommy J. Marcie was thinking of Ubering to the Mad Hatter on Seventh when she spotted him looking at her. Jason something. She’d seen him before, a lean-cut guy hitting on Nicole’s sister at Ugo’s birthday party. Catching his glance, she thrust her chest out, and he moved toward her, slipping between stoned couples lurching on the dance floor.
“Marcie,” he said smoothly, “glad to see you. Heard you were back from death row. Must have been hell. Over a month, right?”
“Try six weeks,” she said, nudging closer.
“Well, you deserve the best. Gotta celebrate getting out. I got some special stuff.” He was good-looking, and it had been a long time.
“Get me another drink first,” she winked.
The drink hit her hard, really hard. When he escorted her down the steps, it seemed like she was watching someone else’s legs moving under her. Jason held onto her as he opened the car door and pushed her into the seat.
She was woozy and closed her eyes, hoping she would not get sick. The car was weaving through back alleys into a narrow street between abandoned factories and the river.
A pothole jarred her awake. “Hey, where you taking me?”
“We’re almost there,” he said sternly. “Don’t freak out on me, bitch.”
Feeling her phone vibrate, Marcie slipped it from her jacket. “Life Clock” was flashing an alert in bright red: Two-minute warning!1 minute, 49 seconds.
About the Author
Mark Connelly’s fiction has appeared in Indiana Review, Milwaukee Magazine, Cream City Review, The Ledge, The Great American Literary Magazine, Home Planet News, Smoky Blue Arts and Literary Magazine, Change Seven, Light and Dark, 34th Parallel, The Chamber Magazine, and Digital Papercut. He received an Editor’s Choice Award in Carve Magazine’s Raymond Carver Short Story Contest in 2014; in 2015 he received Third Place in Red Savina Review’s Albert Camus Prize for Short Fiction. In 2005 Texas Review Press published his novella Fifteen Minutes, which received the Clay Reynolds Prize.