Look at Lana and Melora, he said one night. They don’t approve.
Everyone turned, and we felt our faces get hot.
They’re tough customers, those two. They’ve got me doing pigtails. And buns.
Incredulous laughter. I don’t believe you, said Charlie, our oldest sister. She dragged her chair next to our father and offered him her golden hair, which fell almost to her waist. Make a bun, she dared him.
Our father gathered Charlie’s hair in his fists but seemed unsure at first what to do with it. Girls, he roused us. Get me the pins and brush.
Serious! Stickler! came the table howls.
Our father brushed Charlie’s hair until it crackled in the candlelight. Then he herded it into a shimmering bundle and looped it expertly around, pins pursed between his teeth. Silence fell on the room as everyone watched. Our father slid the pins into Charlie’s hair and anchored in place a beautiful, shining bun. It made Charlie look like a little girl, although she must have been in her twenties by then. Laugher broke at the table, and everyone clapped.
Charlie’s eyes brimmed and overflowed. I don’t know why I’m crying, she kept saying as she flicked away the tears. But they wouldn’t stop.
We knew why. We were getting the best of him.
2
At some point during the past year, 2024, our mother disappeared. This fact is not yet widely known beyond （presumably） the circle of colleagues and graduate students who would have normally expected to see her in person. She is seventy-four years old and in excellent health. She may be in another hemisphere or hiding in plain sight.
Her proxy, so far, is doing the job. Professional proxying is still new, but the best ones manage to infuse their client’s utterances with enough randomness and spontaneity （while staying “in character”） to seem authentic even to those who know them well. If you’re thinking we’re somehow acting as our mother’s proxies, think again; we discovered her absence well after those close to her already knew of it—had probably known for months. That’s how far she had drifted from us.
* * *
Proxies are such quick responders, such deft evaders, that even in an intimate group chat, it can be hard to know for certain that you’re dealing with one.
Hi Mom.
Girls!
We miss you.
Miss you too. Sry I’ve been so busy. Hoping things’ll calm down soon.
But when?
Have to get through a few conferences/papers.
Whr?
Singapore, Reykjavik, The Hague…
Names of conferences? We don’t see online.
They’re private. Il send you everything ltr today, w/links. Mbe you can meet me at one!
What about HERE in LA? Where we all live!
Throw out some dates. You grls r busy too!
We need you, Mama.
I need you too, JBs.
We need to see you.
We’ll make it happen soon, I promise. Meanwhile, you know you’re in my heart, don’t you?
Are we really, Mama? You seem far away.
Always are, always will be.
* * *
Without an immediate expectation of seeing someone physically, it can take a while to be certain you’re dealing with a vacant identity. A proxy has access to every digital utterance a person has ever made, along with gray grabs from the Collective Consciousness—although there won’t be many of those in our mother’s case. We haven’t shared our externalized memories to the collective, and she never would have externalized hers at all. The omniscience of the Collective Consciousness is what the eluders want to escape so desperately that they’re willing to leave their identities behind. Some liken eluders to trapped animals gnawing off their own legs as the price of freedom.