Early Departures

by Justin A. Reynolds

  I want to reach for her, comfort her, but I’m cement.

  Dr. Rodriguez clears his throat, busies himself with his hands, staring down at them, wringing them, poking his cuticles, sliding the silver wedding band up and down his finger.

  I wonder when he decided to be a doctor, to devote his life to saving lives, if he thought about these moments.

  Stepping into a room that’s anxious for good news, even mediocre news, except there’s neither. There’s only worse and worser.

  But his voice, unlike his hands, is steady and calm, a series of soft I’m so sorry we did all we can I’m so sorry we did all we can I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry fluttering around the room, flying over our heads.

  And I’m waiting for my alarm to sound.

  I’m waiting to sit up in my bed.

  Blink this nightmare away.

  I keep waiting and waiting but.

  Ms. B slumps over like her bones have liquefied, crashes to her knees, the doctor barely stopping her from spilling all over conference room C, her screams loud enough that people rush in: Is everything okay? Is everything okay?

  But how could it be?

  Everything’s never gonna be okay again.

  85

  One Week Before the Funeral

  The doctor snatched the surgical cap from his head. “Is there someone I—I . . . can call for you?”

  “No.” Whit glanced at me, then the door. “It’s just . . . us.”

  “What about grandparents?” the doctor asked.

  “None left,” Whit said.

  “Aunts, uncles, cousins?”

  “We have a great-aunt in Cali, I think. Or Arizona. Look, Doctor, I’m sorry if this is rude, but when can we see them? We just want to see our parents.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “But your parents are . . . they, umm . . . they d—”

  But I erupted from my seat, sprinted down the hallway to the ER. There were heavy curtains on one side of the wide corridor, and regular rooms with walls and doors on the other. Most of the rooms were empty, filled with beige machines and platters of shiny instruments. I was halfway down the hall when I arrived at the first closed door.

  My hand turned the knob when a voice said her name.

  I turned around to see Trauma 2’s door propped open, a man mopping, a woman spraying a mist onto a metal table.

  “Did you say Jada?” I asked the man.

  He glanced at the woman.

  She sucked her teeth. “Told you you can’t whisper.”

  He waved her off. “Who you, little man?”

  “I’m looking for Jada Anderson.”

  He scratched his cheek. “You gotta ask the front desk. They’ll help you.”

  But I could feel it, the things he wasn’t saying. “Was she here?”

  His face fell.

  The woman cleared her throat. “Don’t do it,” she warned. “They’ll fire you for that.”

  He stood up straight, soaked the mop head into the bucket. “I’m sorry, but just go back down this hall and . . . c’mon, little brother, don’t cry, man. C’mon.” He scratched his chin, like he was thinking. “Look,” he said softly. “Who you say you looking for?”

  “Jada Anderson. She’s . . . she’s my mom. And my dad, he’s Andre Anderson. I’m looking for him, too. If you can show me where either one of them is, I’d . . .”

  And that was when I saw them. Just behind him. In a second room inside trauma room two marked TR-2B.

  I pushed past him, and he tried to grab me, but I was too quick. The woman didn’t even try to stop me. I had to stand on tiptoe to see.

  And there they were.

  Mom and Dad were flat on their backs atop two metal tables, their eyes pointed toward the ceiling lights. Two nurses moved between the tables, fastening a gown onto Mom, wiping Dad’s face.

  I palmed the metal door plate and pushed, just as I was grabbed from behind.

  “Noooo,” I screamed.

  I punched his arms, but he wouldn’t let me go.

  “No matter what happens, little man, you gon’ be okay.” His voice was damp as he carried me out of the room. “You gon’ be okay,” he said, over and over.

  I flailed and screamed but I couldn’t escape his hold. And we were nearly at the front desk when Whit came flying down the hall, yelling you can’t do that don’t ever do that again it’s just you and me now okay you can’t just take off Jamal you can’t just you can’t just—

  84

  They tell her: Simone, please, you have to wait. Please, Simone. Just another minute.

  They’re cleaning up.

  They’re almost finished.

  If she could just be—

  They’ll take her to him as soon as they—

  “I’m not going anywhere or listening to anyone until I see my son. You will take me to my son now.”

  She doesn’t raise her voice. And her screams, her wails, are now a periodic burst of s-s-sobs, her face afflicted with a soundless pain, like when the hurt is lodged in the back of your throat, still chambered in your heart.

  I never again want to see someone hurt so badly.

  See someone suffer.

  This is your face, helpless.

  This is hope, smithereened.

  This is good things happen to good people, solid as a soap bubble.

  There’s no divine hand reaching down to save the person you love.

  Today’s all out of miracles.

  83

  “I can’t fathom how you must feel, Ms. Barrantes.”

  The woman in the gray dress sits as if she’s auditioning for Human with Extraordinary Posture, her hands folded, face even. Her only embellishment a silver bracelet that rattled as she shook our hands.

  A grief specialist, Dr. Rodriguez called her, as he’d led us through a section of the hospital straight out of a horror flick.

  Our only light a rope of low-wattage bulbs in metal cages strung the length of the cinder-block walls. Most of the ceiling missing too, bundles of cables dangling, some hanging low enough we had to move around them, some of them hissing.

  We hurried right by the Authorized Personnel Only signs.

  “Where are we going, Doctor?” Ms. Barrantes asked.

  “They’ll explain better than I can,” he said. Before I could point out that she’d asked where, not whom or what, he added: “Please, hear them out, Simone.”

  When we came to the mouth of the final hallway, it was so aggressively dark and quiet, I hesitated, searched Ms. Barrantes’s face for affirmation this was okay, that we were safe—but all I saw was pain.

  Without knowing our destination—or what awaited us—our commitment solidified with each step. Somehow, we both knew that no matter what lay on the other end of this dark rainbow, we’d say yes. What was there to lose?

  In the conference room, when he’d finally calmed her down enough to hear him, Dr. Rodriguez had said what was at best a rather peculiar thing: “There is tremendous opportunity here, Simone. Don’t let it slip through your fingers.”

  I first assumed he wanted her to donate Q’s organs—waited for him to say: this is how Q lives on.

  But this isn’t that. This is several galaxies removed.

  When the labyrinth ended, we were in front of a single elevator, its door open, a dingy orange light shining from its ceiling. We’re barely inside the car when Dr. Rodriguez’s finger mashes SB. The door closes, and the elevator hiccups as we descend.

  “What’s SB?” I asked.

  Ms. Barrantes made a face. “Subbasement.”

  “What’s in the subbasement?”

  “Nothing,” she whispered.

  “This is as far as I go,” Dr. Rodriguez said, holding the elevator door. “It’s the third door on your left.”

  But Ms. Barrantes didn’t move, and I followed her lead. “Why am I here? What are we doing?” She wagged her head. “You can’t just . . . just . . . drop me off into some creepy hallway, Kevin.”

  “
I’m sorry, but it has to be this way, Simone. Listen to what they have to say. I think . . . I think you’ll find solace.”

  We stepped out of the elevator and watched the doors close. And suddenly, it was so dark I could see just as much with my eyes closed. Ms. Barrantes felt for my hand, and together we took a few small steps forward. Then a few more, until we heard a click, and a buzzy halogen bulb flickered on, giving us enough light to continue moving forward.

  We walked.

  Past one door.

  Quietly, carefully, we walked past another.

  We saw it at the same time, the third door on the left, light escaping from the gap beneath it.

  Ms. Barrantes looked at me, then turned the knob.

  Now here we are.

  “Losing a child,” the woman continues. “No one should ever bear that cross.”

  “You’ve lost a child?” Ms. Barrantes asks.

  The grief specialist shakes her head. “I don’t have children,” she says with a pause that sounds like I can’t. “But I’ve lost people I’ve loved. My husband last year.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Ms. Barrantes says.

  “He’d never been sick before. Not even a cold. All his coworkers gave him a hard time, said he made them look bad. Just take one sick day, Ross, they’d say. Everything Ross did, he did faithfully. That was his way. One night he woke up with severe abdominal pain. The doctors said they needed to remove his appendix, there was no time to waste . . .” The woman’s face neutral. “When they cut him open, they found mets in his pancreas. He was already stage three. He died four months later.”

  And I want to say something comforting, but what?

  “When the Center came to us, I was skeptical, as I’m sure you are now. Ross was their second case. What they did for him, for us . . . I left my practice of twenty-three years to sit in this chair to talk to people like you. To offer you that same gift.”

  Ms. Barrantes takes a sharp breath, wipes her eyes. “I just want to see my son. I don’t care if I have to climb onto that hospital table to be with him . . . I have to see him.”

  “Ms. Barrantes, what if he sat up on that table? What if the two of you walked out of that room together?”

  Ms. Barrantes opens her mouth but says nothing. Her face perspiring. I hop from my chair.

  “Ms. B, are you okay?” I ask.

  Ms. Barrantes cuffs her ears like she’s blocking out a painful frequency only she hears, her face color draining rapidly, as if some internal plug’s been pulled.

  “Ms. Barrantes, talk to us. What’s happening?” the specialist says. “Ms. Barrantes!”

  But Ms. Barrantes slumps forward, eyes glazed, sweat racing down every part of her face like rain on an umbrella.

  The woman mashes a button hidden behind the desk, and a buzz fills the room. Two black-clad men rush in like there’s a suspect to subdue, a woman in a lab coat trailing.

  One of the men points to me, then at the wall. “We need you over there now.”

  The lab coat woman seems unfazed. “Wanda,” she says to the specialist. “Please, escort Jamal next door.”

  But I move toward Ms. Barrantes. “I’m not leaving her.”

  Wanda reaches for my arm, but I pull away. “I’m staying.”

  The lab coat woman nods. “It’s okay, Wanda.”

  One man supports Ms. Barrantes’s head while the other snaps the head off a Q-tip-sized stick, fans it beneath her nose.

  The lab coat woman removes a tablet from her pocket, slides her finger across the screen, points an edge toward Ms. B, prompting two rapid beeps.

  She tilts the screen my direction: a series of colliding green and blue clusters, like a weather map.

  I have no idea what I’m looking at.

  And finally, the woman, realizing this, smiles. “She’s fine. Understandably a little anxious.”

  On cue, Ms. B’s eyes flit open.

  “I fainted,” Ms. B says, rubbing her temples.

  “You did.” The lab coat woman smiles, extends her hand. “I’m Dr. Maya Iverson, Ms. Barrantes. And while I certainly wish you didn’t need our services, I’m happy you’ve accepted our offer.”

  Ms. B kneads her neck. “I haven’t accepted anything. I’m not certain I even understand the offer.”

  Dr. Iverson returns the tablet to her coat pocket. “We want to reunite you with your son, Ms. Barrantes.”

  Ms. B laughs. “Reunite us. Just like that, huh? Like we got separated at the mall.”

  Dr. Iverson smiles. “You’re a nurse. You know doctors love to gloss over the details. But yes, we’re supremely confident.”

  “I’ve heard rumors for years. We all have . . . but you never think something like this is truly possible . . .” Ms. B’s face like she’s just left a dream.

  “I appreciate your position. Trust me, I understand how it works, yet when I consider what we’ve done, what we’re doing, I can barely fathom any of it.”

  “As a parent . . .” Ms. B grips her mouth, her hand shaking. “As a parent, you think about what’ll happen to them when you die, but . . . not this. You’re not supposed to outlive your child.”

  And what do you say to that?

  Nothing.

  Silence hitting the room hard enough to rattle walls.

  So quiet you hear halogen crackling in the overhead lights.

  Dr. Iverson’s smile gone. “I know. I know . . . it’s a lot to process, and . . . nothing, no one, can change what’s happened. But if we can soften the blow even just a bit, isn’t that something?”

  And it’s not my place to speak, but. “This is real? This isn’t some scam?”

  Dr. Iverson’s smile returns. “It’s a hundred percent real.” She meets Ms. B’s gaze. “If you accept our offer, Quincy will live again.”

  Ms. B sits up straight, pulls the skin beneath her red eyes taut. “For how long, doctor?”

  Dr. Iverson’s brow furrows. “How long?”

  “How long until my son would die again?”

  Dr. Iverson nods faintly.

  “Wait,” I say. “What do you mean, die again?”

  Dr. Iverson’s eyes stay on Ms. B. “We won’t know until Quincy’s completed the fifth phase of the reanimation.”

  “So we’re talking, what? Five years? Ten years?”

  Ms. B wags her head. “No, Jamal. That’s not what they’re offering. Is it, Doctor?”

  “We’re offering you the chance to say goodbye to your son.”

  “For how long, though?” I press.

  The first bubbles of impatience finally break through the surface of the doctor’s face. “As I said, we won’t know until . . .”

  I cut her off. “Okay, but what’s the longest you’ve brought any of the others back?”

  “We make amazing strides every day. The technology is improving all the time. What we’re accomplishing is nothing short of mirac—”

  “Please, answer the question, Doctor,” Ms. B interjects.

  Dr. Iverson folds her arms. “What we’ve done in the past is not an indication of . . .”

  “Doctor,” Ms. B says firmly.

  Dr. Iverson shakes her head. “Nineteen days, seven hours.”

  My face drops. “I know this sounds crazy, but I thought, at minimum, we were talking months, but . . . but this is . . .”

  “One day, soon, we’ll be able to safely extend the reawakening. But for now . . .”

  Ms. B nods. “So, even if it’s successful, and I imagine it’s a big if, Quincy would live for a couple more weeks?”

  “The good news is we have reason to believe Quincy will exceed our initial estimate.”

  “How much longer?” I ask.

  “I’d rather not speculate, but so far the diagnostics point to several more days. Which may not seem like an astronomical difference, but when you’re talking about bringing a person back to life, every minute matters.”

  And that’s fair. Why had I been so shocked about the time frame? They were undying a human being
. Any amount of time would be amazing.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” I say. “I guess I just heard you could bring Q back and I just assumed it was . . . forever. But obviously, even if it’s just for a few weeks, it’s still . . .”

  “No,” Ms. B says, her wobbly voice stretching no to two syllables. “No,” she says again, more firmly. “No,” she repeats.

  And it’s like you can feel the fight happening in her brain—inside her heart.

  Dr. Iverson shakes her head. “No, what?”

  The uncertainty gone from Ms. B’s voice. “My answer is no. We’re going to let Quincy pass in peace.”

  Dr. Iverson raps her knuckles atop the desk. “Ms. Barrantes, I don’t think you understand what we’re offering you. This is a once-in-a-lifetime . . .” The doctor looks at me for backup.

  “Ms. B, are you sure?” I ask.

  She nods. “Many moons ago, my first nursing job was on an oncology unit, and I was terrified to make a mistake. What if I hurt someone? I quadruple-checked everything. Even their lunch orders. But then, a few weeks into the job, I watched a patient who’d been in my care die. There were other options the patient could’ve tried. Another surgery. More chemo. But she declined. And her family was so sad and angry. They took it personally. Why didn’t she want to keep trying? Keep fighting? And I’ll never forget what another nurse told them. ‘Sometimes it’s not can we, but should we?’” Ms. B shakes her head. “No one wants my son back more than me. But this. This feels selfish, bringing him back just so I get to say goodbye. Waking him up just so he can die again.”

  But Dr. Iverson isn’t giving up. “It’s like we dropped a dinosaur into your lap, Ms. Barrantes. I get it. It’s a lot. But time is of the essence here. The reanimation window is incredibly narrow, and . . .”

  Ms. B interrupts. “You know, this entire time, all I thought about was what I wanted. But who’s asking what Quincy would want?”

  And who could argue with that?

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Barrantes,” Dr. Iverson says. “But I think you’re making a mistake you’ll lament for the rest of your life.”

  But Ms. B’s standing now. “Maybe,” she concedes, already opening the door. “But if there’s anything I was reminded of today, it’s how brief the rest of our lives can be.”