She leads us across a glass bridge, and there’s Dr. Iverson. She introduces her colleague as Dr. Langdon.
Dr. Langdon clears his throat. “Before we proceed, you should know that neither Dr. Iverson or myself, nor the Center, are in any way affiliated with the Elytown hospital, or with any hospital system. We are entirely separate entities. The Center is a privately funded medical research facility. You understand?”
“I do, yes.” Ms. B clasps her hands. “Rich people own this technology and control how it’s used.”
Dr. Iverson cuts in. “Luckily, the people who make this place go aren’t only generous but also operate with the best intentions.” Dr. Iverson smiles. “But that’s not why you’re here. As we confirmed prior to Quincy’s transfer here, he does indeed meet all of our major reanimation criteria.”
I meet the doctor’s eyes. “Those being?”
“He is healthy, his body is largely unscathed, and he had a good amount of brain and heart activity postexpiration.”
“Postexpiration? You mean, his organs were still working after he died?” I ask.
Dr. Langdon grins. “Did you know that right before you take your last breath, there is a large chemical surge within your brain? In fact, it’s more activity than your brain ever experienced during all your life. That was the start of all this,” he says, holding his arms out like he’s selling us a house. “That surge is the key.”
Ms. B presses for more. “But how does it work? What if something goes wrong?”
“While I cannot go into the specifics of the reanimation process, I can tell you that each phase is closely monitored,” Dr. Langdon says.
Dr. Iverson adds, “The technology is new, yes, but we employ many of the world’s most advanced scientific minds. Quincy will be our tenth reanimation. Each time, as with any procedure, we’ve improved the quality of the experience.”
Dr. Langdon frowns, takes a small step forward. “There is . . . a psychological component to reanimation that you should be keenly aware of.”
Ms. B shifts. “Which is?”
“For the reanimation to hold, we need to rewind Quincy’s memory to several moments prior to the moment he jumped into the water.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because the trauma of that incident, its severity, could untether Quincy’s mental health.”
“You said there’d be no pain, but now you’re saying my son could go crazy,” Ms. B says, her voice rising.
“No, no,” Dr. Langdon says, holding his hands up. “The rewind prevents that. It lessens the shock to the system. As such, our team is also determining the ideal window in which to restart your son’s memory of last night.”
Ms. B nods slowly. “There’s a but coming.”
Dr. Iverson tilts her head. “Quincy will not recall any aspect surrounding his death.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re saying . . .” Dr. Iverson clasps her hands together in that doctorly way. “Quincy will not know he’s dead, but in a few weeks’ time, he will die again, Ms. Barrantes. Physiologically and psychologically, memory rewinding is the safest way for us to reanimate. But once Quincy’s fully regrounded into his old world, it may be beneficial to . . . alert him to the nature of his situation.”
“You mean, you want me to tell my son that he’s dead, that he was temporarily reanimated in a milk factory, and that in however many days, he’ll die again?”
Dr. Langdon’s face tightens. “It’s very much a question of ethics. The moral thing to do.”
“So, you’re suggesting withholding this from my son makes me immoral?”
Dr. Iverson cuts in. “We understand why you might opt not to tell Quincy. You want him to be happy. To enjoy his last days without being consumed by some countdown.”
“I want my son to live in peace. Without worry. Free to be his normal self.”
“And that is your legal right.” Dr. Iverson nods. “We’ll need you to sign a document acknowledging this conversation.”
And clearly, this is not my decision, no one’s asked for my opinion, but. “Wouldn’t you want to know the truth?” I blurt.
Ms. B glares. “This isn’t about me. This is what’s best for Quincy.”
“You agreed he deserves more time. Doesn’t he also deserve to know what’s happened to him? I think he’d want . . .”
“You know Quincy better than me, Jamal?”
I take a step back. “No, I’m just saying maybe we should consider . . .”
“We? We should consider,” Ms. B repeats, her rage flaring. “When’s the last time you had an actual conversation with my son?”
Technically speaking, it was on the beach, but that’s not what she means. “Longer than it should’ve been.”
She nods. “I appreciate you being here, but I know my son, and I’ve made my decision. No one is to tell him a single word. Not one. Is that clear?”
Finally, I nod.
Do I agree? Absolutely not. But I’m going to support Ms. B’s decision.
Until I can’t.
74
When Mr. Oklahoma returns, Ms. B rubs her hands together.
“What’s next? You mentioned tests?”
He nods. “There will be a formal analysis. But first, we need to collect blood samples from each of you.”
And I know I said I was gonna back-seat this thing, but—
“Blood samples for what?” I ask.
“It is essential we maintain a clean facility. As such, we need to ensure you are healthy, lest we expose Quincy to unnecessary risks.”
I’m about to follow up when Ms. B touches my arm. “We’ll do whatever’s required,” she says.
“That is the spirit.” Mr. Oklahoma removes his glasses, rubs each lens with a cloth from his pocket. “But first, showers. You will find fresh linen and clothing in the dressing rooms.”
“How soon until you bring my son back?”
“Very.”
Ms. B holds her head. “I still don’t understand how this is possible. We can’t eliminate cancer, or solve world hunger, but you can resurrect the dead?”
“It is challenging to grasp. I admit there are times I too wonder if this is real. If this work is . . .” He pauses. “World hunger is a by-product of greed and could easily be resolved. As for solving cancer? We are close. The work we are doing, Ms. Barrantes, we are reverse engineering death itself. Conquer death and every domino falls swiftly—pestilence, every senseless killing, every affliction. Gone forever.”
I jump in. “No one’s mentioned a price. How much is this gonna cost?”
Mr. Oklahoma shakes his head. “This reanimation has been gifted.”
“What?” Ms. B shakes her head. “By whom?”
He adjusts his glasses. “An anonymous donor.” Mr. Oklahoma holds up two fingers at a camera mounted in the corner. “Apparently, someone believes your son to be a hero.”
“A hero?”
“There was a report he saved someone from drowning.”
Ms. B’s voice is tinged with confusion. “Wait, what do you mean? What are you saying?”
And I remember Q’s question: Is she okay? Had this been what he’d meant? Had there been someone else out there in that water? And if so, how had Q managed to save her?
“All will be explained in due time,” Mr. Oklahoma says.
“No, now,” Ms. B says firmly. “How about you tell me right now?”
But then a woman in gray scrubs materializes, waits at Mr. Oklahoma’s side. “I understand your desire to know what happened tonight, and we will make time for it. But right now, the most important matter is that we restore your son safely. Now, if you will excuse me, I will gather you shortly.”
Ms. B starts to object, but the woman in gray scrubs motions for us to follow. And I decide to keep Q’s words to myself. At least for now.
“This way, please,” our new guide says.
She leads us down a long white corridor, stopping at two doors. “Return here when y
ou’re finished, please.”
And then she’s gone.
Ms. B and I exchange a look.
“Am I crazy, Jamal? Am I crazy to do this?”
“What do you have to lose?”
She squeezes my shoulder. “My son again,” she says, then disappears inside her dressing room.
The shower? More like a car wash.
Large enough to bathe a whole herd of cows.
Which, gross.
Anyway, the shower is fully automated.
There are no visible controls. No knobs, handles, buttons. No touchscreen. I step through the glass door and it closes silently behind me.
Three transparent arms slide up the three surrounding walls, shooting a warm, massage-like jet stream on all sides of my body.
And then a purple mist.
A rinse.
A yellow mist.
Another rinse.
The water snaps off.
I half expect an arm to pop out of the wall and dress me, but instead I slip on the new clothes, a powder-blue jumpsuit and house shoes.
Ms. B already back in the hallway.
The woman in gray scrubs leads us to another area of the Center.
A room with a wide window overlooking an enormous all-white lab, women and men wearing hospital masks and jumpsuits like the one I have on, except white, seated at workstations with rows and rows of interconnected monitors. Jumbled letters and numbers fly across the screens at a rate I can’t process. Even if I could slow it down, I wouldn’t know what any of it meant.
Mr. Oklahoma, standing with a man and woman dressed in lab coats, smiles, waves us over. “Ms. Barrantes, Jamal, these are our clinical modelers, Marcus and Kiana.”
“Modelers?”
“They will conduct your interviews. The information they gather will assist in Quincy’s personality recovery.”
“Wait, why . . . are you saying Quincy might not have the same personality?”
“He will be the same Quincy, but the imaging smooths any potential wrinkles we might discover during the last phase of reanimation. Likely it will not be needed, but we prefer to be proactive rather than reactive.”
Kiana pushes the door, holds it open. “Ms. Barrantes, if you’ll please follow me to analysis room one, we’ll get started.”
“So that means it’s you and me,” I say to Marcus.
He doesn’t smile. “Come,” he says. “It’s important we don’t fall behind the reanimators.”
73
Marcus is not a small-talk person.
“And Quincy’s mental state at the party?”
“I’d say, uh, fairly normal, initially.”
“Numerical value only, please.”
I refer to the tablet he gave me. Columns of emotions, each with a half dozen subemotions, all assigned a number range. Get it?
Yeah, me either.
I tap the screen. “Right. Sorry. Eight. No, seven, I guess.”
Marcus glances up from the terminal. “All of your responses are guesses, Mr. Anderson. As I explained, the majority of Quincy’s recall will be directly downloaded. This work, it’s simply a facade. Window dressing. All you need to do is answer to the best of your ability, yes?”
“Honestly, I don’t understand how any of this helps.”
He sighs. “The better we understand the way Q was perceived by those closest to him, the better the imaging. Make sense?”
No. Not really. “Yeah. Sure. I’m just . . . I haven’t slept and I’m just . . . any idea how much longer this is gonna take?”
“You have better things to do?”
“Definitely not, but . . .”
“You want the best outcome for your friend?”
“Of course.”
“The best outcome takes as long as it takes. Now, can we continue, or do you require a brief intermission?”
“No, no, you’re right. Let’s . . . let’s keep going.”
“Our next session is long-form questions. Use as many words as you need to answer. Clear?”
Not especially. I nod.
“So, it is our understanding, you and Quincy are no longer friends? Why was this relationship terminated?”
I wring my hands in my lap. My lips, throat, dry up. “What do you mean?”
Marcus shakes his head, sighs for the hundredth time since we sat down. “Jamal, tell me why your friendship ended.”
72
Two Months After the Funeral
QUINCY: Hey, just thought you’d want to know it’s not looking good. Doctors said he probably only has a few weeks left so I thought you might wanna come and see him, you know.
And then a week later.
QUINCY: he’s gone
QUINCY: not that you care
My finger brushed the doorbell, but I didn’t push it.
I’m not sure how long I stood out there, on the Barrantes porch, before the door swung open.
Before I got what was coming to me.
“You’re too late, Jamal,” Q spat. “Why’d you even bother?”
And I couldn’t even look at him.
“Q,” I said. “Q,” I said again, the words not coming.
For two months, I’d been so angry. All I could think was if Q hadn’t called, my parents would be here, in our kitchen, in their bed, on our porch. And the more Q tried to be there for me, the angrier I became.
I was so stupid.
But as usual, I made matters worse, ignoring his texts.
And of course, he thought it was because I didn’t care.
But the truth is, I couldn’t stand to look at him. I couldn’t separate Q’s face from theirs.
“I’m . . . I’m so—”
But Q waved me off. “Don’t you dare,” he said. “Don’t fucking dare.”
And I couldn’t even roll another word to the tip of my tongue before the door slammed, rocked so hard the hand-painted sign fell of its hook.
Bless This House, it said.
But I was too late.
Even before I stepped off that porch, the lesson was clear: There comes a point when, no matter what they’d done to you, you couldn’t justify continuing to treat someone terribly.
There comes a point when it’s no longer their problem, only yours.
And you could forgive and heal, or you could keep clutching that hurt, like a hot coal against your chest.
71
* * *
A SPECIAL JAUNCY UPDATE
TuberOne
22,212 views 45 1691 | JAUNCY COMEDY DUO | SUBSCRIBE 4,244
* * *
Quincy: Hey guys, so this is more of an announcement than anything. I know you all have been asking, What’s going on with you and J? Well, I’m not gonna get into all the details, because honestly, I’m kinda wondering the same thing. But I’ll say this, as of now, we won’t be making any more videos together. Because, as it turns out, it’s kinda hard to make videos with someone when you’re not even talking, so, haaaaaaa.
But, never fear, I’m still gonna be here.
Yep, the UNCY in Jauncy ain’t going nowhere . . .
So, I hope you guys stay put too.
Keep checking back every Saturday for new content, okay!
Quincy out!
Peaaaaacceeeee!
70
I can’t tell you how many questions I answer.
How many numerical values I assign.
We take intermittent breaks, and at some point, they lead us to a room filled with enough food to feed all of Elytown. Hopefully you’ll find something you like, they said before leaving me and Ms. B alone, a white table with two place settings in the center of the room. The room is made of glass, same as all the others, except on their way out, our guides made it a point to press a panel beside the door, the clear glass darkening to a translucent frost. We’ll collect you in thirty.
And when they return, we’re taken to more tests.
Except for our meal, Ms. B and I are separated the entire process, but then, at the very end, I’m l
ed to a large room the shape of a half circle. It’s like a college lecture hall, but grander, plush seats, synthetic wood detailing, and a massive screen in the center of the front wall.
“Any clue why we’re here?” I ask her.
But then the lights dim and the screen glows.
A woman in a tailored suit smiles at us from the screen. She’s standing in the Center’s main lobby.
“On behalf of everyone here at the Center, we’d like to thank you for your hard work today. Your willingness to participate in the reanimation of your loved one does not go unrecognized,” she says as she walks the lobby floor.
She goes on like this for a while, highlighting each phase of the reanimation process, except her version is even more watered down, and I struggle to understand the point until finally she looks into the camera and says:
“And to ensure your loved one the optimal reanimation experience, we must ask that you follow three basic rules.”
She holds up a finger. “One. Immediate family and close friends aside, you must not communicate what you’ve seen or heard during your visit here. For Q’s safety, it’s important that we limit knowledge of his procedure and this facility only to those who need to know. And this should be obvious, but please, no social media posts.”
She smiles. Holds up two fingers. “You have been assigned a personal reanimation adviser. In the unlikely event something unusual should occur with your loved one, under no circumstances are you to contact your local authorities. Your loved one is under twenty-four-hour monitoring, and as such, it is likely a team of trained professionals is already on their way. But, for your peace of mind, please feel free to relay any concerns directly to your adviser.”
Three fingers. “This is perhaps the most important rule. Enjoy these precious moments with your loved one. This is the second chance you didn’t know you could have. Have fun with it!”
If this is what’s required of Ms. B and me, I can’t even imagine what they’re putting Q through: rifling through his DNA, analyzing this, diagnosing that.
When the lights come back on, we’re no longer alone.
Early Departures Page 7