The Replacements

They began arriving soon after the federal investigation. Smiling faces were replaced with humanoid robots and computerized voices. They didn’t have names for us to remember, only cold expressions lacking soul. We could hear them moving through the hallways in the night.

Too many facilities had failed to make the grade. Poor staffing levels—dire consequences. Life suddenly resembled one of those science fiction movies the grandkids sometimes watched.

“This will ensure we deliver an improved product to consumers,” said a man on the TV. “It will address short staffing across the industry.” The reporter said we were hearing from the Minister for Health and Aging—as if such parts of life could be condensed into titles.

Please don’t think I’m an old fogy resistant to change. I have nothing against innovation. It can do wonderful things—Derek, across the hallway, would be unable to speak if not for the eye gaze technology he uses to express himself.

But it was during lunch service one day that I started forming suspicions. Richard shuffled into the dining room, pushing his walking frame.

“Hi Richard.”

He usually came to life when somebody greeted him, but today was different. He refused to open his mouth, instead clutching a notepad and pen, scribbling down a message.

Can’t talk. No teeth.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Richard,” I said. “Nobody has their own. We understand.”

He shook his head, wrote another word. Missing.

“We can help you look for them,” I said.

Margaret glanced up from her soup and wiped her mouth. “Fourth person,” she said. “Lots of missing teeth.”

“Do you think the tooth fairy will come?” asked Catherine, smiling with the remnants of chocolate éclair dripping from her face.

“Don’t worry, Catherine,” I said. “Enjoy your éclair.”

Two robots entered the dining room, maneuvering themselves into the doorway, as if they were bouncers preventing us from entering nightclubs—except the clubs were our rooms.

Richard approached them, presenting a note. May I pass?

They stepped aside, their awkward movements sending a shiver down my spine as Richard shuffled into the hallway.

“Richard has passed,” one said. “Rest in peace, Richard.”

The other laughed—a sound like mechanical hiccups.

Things had certainly changed around here.

* * *

I woke in the middle of the night to screams coming from next door. They sounded urgent, so I wandered into the hallway and found a crowd gathering at Catherine’s door.

“What’s going on?” I asked Margaret. As a former nurse, I figured she would know better than anyone.

“They’re refusing pain medication,” whispered Margaret.

“Who?”

She gestured to the robots on either side of Catherine’s bed, pinning down her arms.

“Surely they can’t do that?” I asked.

Margaret shrugged. “One said it’s part of the new aged care model.”

Richard scribbled across his notepad. They said we must learn to live with pain.

We stared at each other.

“Return to your rooms,” said one of the robots, moving our direction. “Everything is under control.”

* * *

The following afternoon I noticed something odd. I was struck with a feeling—like I had gone out for the day and left the oven on. Perhaps it was dementia. I heard it creeps up on you in different ways.

Richard shuffled into my room and presented me with a pink carnation—my favorite. “How did you know?” I asked.

He smiled. It was heart-warming to see—still handsome, even without teeth.

“Thank you, Richard,” I said. “Feels wonderful to have something alive in here.”

The room seemed brighter, less clinical, yet something still niggled. I placed the carnation on a table in the corner of my room. It would look good among the framed photos of loved ones—but then I realized. The photos. My family. They had disappeared.

I looked at Richard who seemed equally puzzled. I pressed the distress button while staring at the stock images, the fake smiles that now filled my room.

“How can I help?” said a robotic voice from behind me.

“What happened to my photos?” I asked. “My children and grandchildren—they were here.”

“I like these ones better,” the robot said. “This is your family now.”

* * *

I had never been more grateful for a visit. My daughter, Amelia, arrived the next day with my grandson, Henry.

“You don’t seem yourself, Mom,” said Amelia. “Can always tell when something is bothering you.”

I gestured towards the photos—frames that once held family, now possessed by strangers. “I think the robots are behind it.”

Henry laughed. “Cool.”

I forced a smile, didn’t want to scare him. “I thought you might say that.”

He tugged at Amelia’s hand. “Can we visit the lounge? I want to look at books.”

“Sounds a lovely idea,” I said.

I was glad to leave my room, the constant presence of those strange faces.

“How is everything, really?” asked Amelia.

“Terrifying,” I said. “You must get me out of here.”

Amelia sighed as we entered the lounge, Henry running to the bookshelf. “We’ve been over this,” said Amelia. “You live here now.”

We sat down and watched Henry flick through various books. A robot paused in the doorway before continuing down the hall. Henry followed.

“Come back,” said Amelia, trailing after him.

“You also liked to wander at his age,” I said, trying to keep up.

Henry stalked the robot down a series of corridors, with Amelia calling after him, but the young man was on a mission. We turned a corner and there he was—standing before a utility closet, mouth agape, no robot in sight.

“What is it, dear?” I asked.

“Look what the robot has been making.”

We stared into the gloomy cupboard, our eyes resting on what looked like a craft project.

“Oh god,” gasped Amelia. “Get away, Henry!”

I placed a hand over my mouth. It resembled one of those models you see in real estate offices—an empty replica of the facility—but made with teeth, nail clippings, and hair.

“Now will you get me out of here?”