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.