So This Is the End

by Alexandra Franzen

  “Chocolate cake, champagne, and multiple orgasms. Possibly all at once if time is running short.”

  Well, I want you to know that I listened to your advice. It wound up being blueberry pancakes instead of chocolate cake and juice instead of champagne, but the multiple orgasms part I definitely handled, spot on.

  I know this might be oversharing, but we’ve always had that type of relationship—no boundaries and slightly inappropriate topics. It’s one of the things I love most about you.

  I know we’ve had our disagreements though the years. I know I’ve disappointed you at times, and I’ve made you proud at others. I know I should have visited you more often in California, and I’m sorry I didn’t. I hope you can forgive me.

  What I really want to say is that I love you. You shaped me into the woman that I am. From you, I got my compassion, my curiosity about people’s lives and feelings, my lifelong appreciation of mascara, and my willingness to try new, brave, and odd things. “You only live once!” as you always used to tell me.

  Recently, someone told me that I am very courageous, and at first I didn’t believe him, but then I realized that it’s true—because I learned how to be courageous from you.

  Also, yes, I know you didn’t miss that small detail, and I know you’re bursting with questions already. I didn’t quite believe him. Him as in: a guy. Or, I should say, a man.

  He’s very tall and very strong—both physically and emotionally—and he runs his own business, which I know would impress you very much. You would really like him. He is, as you’d say, “a real hot dish.”

  It’s possible that you’ll meet him when you receive this letter. If that happens, please give him a hug from me, and if possible, ask him to make some pancakes for you and the nurses and everybody else there. You won’t regret it.

  I love you, mom. I won’t be able to see you again, at least not in this world, but I hope—I really, really, really hope—that we’ll be together again somewhere else soon.

  Let’s hold onto that hope.

  Wherever we’re going, I’ll meet you there.

  Your daughter,

  Nora

  I fold my letter into thirds and write the address of my mom’s residential care facility on the top fold. I know it’s not a “perfect” letter, but it’s heartfelt and true. It will have to do.

  I nudge the folded paper in Ren’s direction.

  “For my mom,” I explain, pointing to the address. He nods. At this point, there’s almost nothing we need to say aloud to one another. Three words and everything is understood.

  I select a fresh sheet of paper and begin my second letter, smirking to myself as I write.

  Tasha,

  When I walked into your office—God, was it only yesterday?—I honestly had no idea what to expect.

  I was frightened and disoriented. Totally desperate. You pulled me into a safe cocoon—like a magical glittery womb—and you changed everything.

  Because of you, I got to meet AikidoGuy82 (his real name is Renzo, BTW) and get this … WE TOTALLY HAD SEX EVERYWHERE!!! Like … everywhere. Not just sex but a serious connection. I know it sounds crazy, but I am convinced he’s my soul mate, and I met him because of you. You, and your devious, wily ways. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

  Obviously, I wish I could have met Ren sooner. I wish we had more time together. I wish a whole galaxy of things. But it is what it is. We met. We’re in love. He’s literally draped over me right now, and he’s a million times hotter than the photo you showed me.

  You were the catalyst for all of this, and I’ll never be able to say “thank you” enough.

  I promised I’d write a review for your new business so that you can put it on your website or Yelp or whatever. Here it is:

  “I chose to purchase Temporary Cellular Resuscitation because I wanted an extra day of life. I didn’t know why, exactly, I just knew that I wanted that time.

  Then when my extra day arrived, I was clueless. I spent thirty minutes on Facebook, ate a cheeseburger, and felt completely aimless. I didn’t know what to do with my extra time, and I could feel it slipping away like sand through an hourglass. It was the worst feeling on earth. By sheer luck, I discovered Tasha’s info and hired her on the spot.

  With professionalism and warmth, Tasha helped me to create the most incredible ‘bonus round’ day for myself. Honestly, it was the best day of my entire life.

  If you’re dead, if you’re dying, even if you’re perfectly healthy and completely alive, you need to meet Tasha Lockwood because she will propel you into doing the things you’ve been postponing for too long. This is a woman who understands what it means to be … alive.”

  Tasha: there’s your review! I hope your new business is a huge success—and I’m honored to have been your first client. Please pour yourself a glass of whatever that blue-ish booze is that you’ve got tucked away in your office and toast to yourself.

  You’re amazing.

  Nora

  I fold this second letter into an origami heart, because I’ve got a feeling Tasha will love that. I can imagine her affixing the heart to her fridge with a hot pink magnet. I don’t remember her exact address, but I write her name and the general vicinity of her office on one of the heart folds. I trust that Ren is sharp enough to figure it out. He doesn’t strike me as the type of guy who lacks the ability to Google shit.

  I fan out several more blank pages in front of me. There are about a hundred other people that I “should” write to. My first college professor. My coworkers at my last job. The nursing team that currently takes care of my mom. Friends from high school, scattered across the country with spouses and kids.

  My mind floods with names, names, names—a mental compendium of every human being who has influenced my life. I blow air through my cheeks, sighing audibly. My shoulders crunch towards my ears.

  “What’s up?” Ren probes, stroking my back with his free hand.

  “Just trying to decide who I should write to next,” I explain. “There are so many people I know I should reach out to. So many people I need to thank. So many people I should say goodbye to . . .” I’m performing mental gymnastics, tallying up all the names, pages, words, minutes. Overwhelm weighs heavily in my bones. This could take hours.

  “So don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” I ask Ren, curling onto my side.

  “Don’t write to all of them. Or any of them. I can see that it’s stressing you out, just thinking about it. So don’t.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me. Just … don’t. Doing nothing is a totally valid option.

  My fingers curl around Ren’s waist, and relief percolates through my veins. Nothing. Nobody. That feels like the perfect choice.

  “How come you make everything feel so simple?” I ask, pulling myself closer to his warmth.

  “Because everything is.”

  Hour Twenty-Two

  No. No no no.

  My eyes snap wide open. Adrenaline crashes through every cell.

  I feel that oddly recognizable feeling of disorientation and dread—like when you wake up in an unfamiliar hotel room, and your body can’t register where you are, what day it is, and if it’s morning or night. Mental pandemonium. Synapses firing incoherently. Is it Friday or Saturday? Am I late for work? Did I miss my flight?

  Reality settles into focus.

  White walls. Wood floors. Moonlight. Ren.

  Ren. He’s right by my side. A pair of dark honey-colored eyes meet mine.

  “Did I fall asleep?” I ask, already knowing the answer. A different type of dread consumes me. I can’t afford to sleep. I don’t have time.

  “How long?”

  “About thirty minutes,” he answers. “You looked so peaceful.”

  Part of me wants to slap him for letting me fall asleep. Now? Seriously? Unbelievable. But then
he pulls me closely into his body, curling himself around me in the classic spoon-position, and all is forgiven. He rocks me gently, and despite the bare floor beneath our bodies, I feel like I could easily drift off to sleep again. Too easily.

  Nearly twenty-four hours of nonstop activity is taking its toll. My eyes are heavy-lidded. I’m fighting the alluring undertow of sleep with every breath.

  There’s a distinct silence—the particular silence of a man gathering his thoughts, carefully selecting his words—and then Ren speaks.

  “Where do you want to be … when it happens?”

  It’s the first time that Ren has verbally acknowledged what we both know is coming, imminently.

  His voice is strained. Each word drops like a copper coin into an empty basin. “With you.”

  “OK. But where, though?”

  “Your bed sounds like a good idea.”

  “Anything you want to do before then?”

  “Bungee jumping?” I offer bleakly. He knows I’m kidding and gives me a firm squeeze, silently saying, “But seriously … ”

  “I really can’t think of anything. Unless you want to make me the world’s great cup of coffee in the history of everything ever. But no pressure.”

  “I have an espresso machine back at my place that will blow your mind.”

  Hour Twenty-Three

  The early-dawn air feels brisk, biting, almost confrontational as we leave the warmth of the dojo and step onto the sidewalk. We walk at double-speed. The light is silvery-peach. A few buses rumble down the street, scantily filled with drowsy passengers, ears plugged with headphones. The city is flexing and yawning and stretching. Dawn is coming.

  Within minutes, I’m seated in the exact same spot I found myself just a few hours earlier—reclining on Ren’s couch, a discarded copy of Wired magazine by my side. He’s busying himself in the kitchen. The oily resonance of freshly ground coffee fills the air. He turns to glance at me over his shoulder and smiles. I smile back.

  The sweet, unhurried domesticity of this moment is so sweet, I almost cry. So normal. So perfectly couple-ish. I rise from the couch and float around the room without much direction, studying his possessions, idly stroking the top the couch, browsing through books and DVDs. Taking in the pieces of his world.

  I notice a small vintage-looking radio resting on his desk. I flip it on, turning the dial from station to station, hunting for the perfect soundtrack for this moment.

  A Christian rocker earnestly sings about sins being washed clean. Next. A rapper boasts about how many fine-ass booties be up in dis club. Next.

  A trio of aggressively chipper morning talk show hosts deliver the salacious celebrity gossip of the day. Nope.

  There’s a chasm of static, and then I arrive on a familiar spot on the dial.

  “It’s 6 a.m., and you’re listening to . . .”

  It’s one of my favorite public radio hosts. Her measured, dulcet voice evokes a thousand memories of a thousand mornings—listening to her report on the news of the hour while brushing my teeth, zipping my coat, readying myself for the day ahead. I’m lulled by the familiar intonation of her voice, and I pause, my hand resting on the desk as she continues with the morning news.

  There’s been another bombing in another country that, shamefully, I don’t think I could spell correctly or locate on a world map. Civilians have been injured. The final death toll has not yet been tabulated. On a happier note: the Pope is visiting Japan and thoroughly enjoyed his visit to the Meiji Shrine in Tokyo. In other news: the offspring of the world’s first cloned dolphin have all died for reasons unknown. But the whales are all doing well.

  It’s the usual blend of unthinkable violence, hesitant optimism, and glimmers of hope, delivered in a rapid succession of audio sound bites. After the fifth or sixth news update, I’m feeling saturated with information, and I’m just about to turn the dial, when . . .

  “A new study from Cambridge University reveals exciting information about the procedure known as TCR, or Temporary Cellular Resuscitation.”

  Across the room, with a milk-frothing device in one hand, Ren turns swiftly to face me. Without saying a word, his message emanates clearly through every cell of his body:

  “Don’t turn it off.” Immobilized, facing one another with approximately seventeen feet of empty space between us, we listen to the broadcast with rapt attention. The host continues her preamble.

  “Commonly known as the ‘bonus round,’ TCR has been gaining popularity in recent years—with over 1.8 million customers in the past fiscal quarter alone. As most listeners may already know, the life-extending effects of TCR typically last for twenty-four hours. Sometimes slightly less, sometimes slightly more. But one research team may have discovered a surprising loophole. We turn, now, to Dr. Gerard Livingston for an update on the project. Dr. Livingston, thank you for joining us here today.”

  The host and research doctor exchange the usual pleasantries. Thank you, the honor is all mine, etcetera, and so forth. Ren and I wait with stiffened breath, willing them to cut to the chase.

  “Dr. Livingston, you’re the lead author of a new research paper that was published in the latest issue of the British Medical Journal, which was released just a few hours ago,” the host continues. “Can you summarize your findings for our listeners?”

  “Of course,” the doctor responds, with that clipped British accent that every American immediately associates with “trustworthy professionalism and authority.”

  “My team at Cambridge has been studying the possibility of ECR, or Extended Cellular Resuscitation.”

  “Like an extended version of TCR?”

  “That’s right. Whereas the life-extending effects of TCR typically last for one day, my team is pursuing the possibility of extending that experience for two days, three, four, perhaps more.”

  “The goal being, to give people who have been temporarily resuscitated from death a little extra time,” the host clarifies.

  “That’s right. A bit more time. When you’re in that, ah, em, condition, two or three extra days can be a priceless gift.”

  I glance at Ren. His gaze is rooted to the floor, as if making eye contact with me would undo his carefully sealed composure, shattering him into pieces. My stomach is lurching, gyrating, as the broadcast continues.

  “So what have you discovered? Is it possible to extend life past the usual timeframe of twenty-four hours?” the radio host asks. Her voice—usually so controlled and purged of any discernible opinion—betrays the subtlest hint of emotion. I wonder, momentarily, if this radio host has purchased TCR for herself—or for someone she loves. Because she wants to know the answer. Badly. And so do I.

  “The answer to that question is … yes.”

  Ren’s face glows like the sun. He lifts his gaze to meet mine. But neither one of us smiles. We’re both waiting for the inevitable “But . . .” to drop like a hammer. And it does.

  “But . . .” the doctor continues. “Our research is extremely preliminary, and to date, we have been unable to replicate the occurrence.”

  “Can you describe the ‘occurrence’ that you mentioned in your research paper?” The host presses.

  Silently, Ren moves to my side and takes my hand in his own. We stand, imprisoned in a cage of sound, listening to two disembodied strangers discussing details that may or may not directly impact my life. It’s like I’m an inmate on death row waiting to discover if I’ve been pardoned. I’m tingling, uneasy, and desperately trying to stamp out the soft scuffling of hope inside my heart because hope feels much too dangerous.

  The doctor quickly details his project.

  One thousand mice. Fifty percent died of natural causes. Fifty percent were killed by the researchers (he said, “death was induced” but come on, we all know what that means). TCR was administered to all of the mice—zing! they’re back!—and then the resuscitat
ed mice were divided into a variety of groups. Each group of mice got pricked, prodded, infused, defibrillated, and toyed with in a unique way—dozens of different ways to possibly, maybe, theoretically extend life a few more precious hours.

  One group of mice received no additional treatment.

  “That was, of course, the control group,” Dr. Livingston explains patronizingly.

  “And within the control group,” the host intervenes, trying to move the story along.

  “There was one mouse who exhibited, as you put it, an ‘atypical response.’ ”

  “Correct. One mouse responded atypically to the TCR procedure. We nicknamed this mouse Lazarus,” the doctor adds, chuckling at his own uncontainable wit and brilliance. My temper is shortening. Get to the point, doc. The host seems to share my impatience.

  “Doctor, how long do mice typically remain alive after TCR has been administered?”

  “Typically a few minutes, at most.”

  “And this one mouse? The one you named Lazarus?”

  There’s a slow intake of breath, and a significant pause, as if the doctor can’t believe what he’s about to say:

  “Eleven months.”

  There’s another prolonged pause. Probably just a few seconds, but in radio-time, the vacancy feels like an eternity. Dr. Livingston’s voice cuts the silence.

  “To put that in perspective, if Lazarus were a human being rather than a mouse, that would equate to nearly fifty-six years.”

  “Fifty-six years of additional life?” The host exclaims. “But how?”

  “Well,” the doctor chirps brightly. “That is the big question, now, isn’t it? As I mentioned earlier, our research is extremely preliminary. We cannot point to any particular reason why this mouse—this one mouse—continued to live, and live, and live, while the other test subjects did not. We are investigating numerous possibilities. For example, this atypical response could be due to a genetic abnormality. But there are dozens of other physiological factors that may or may not have played a role in this miracle occurrence. We simply don’t have clear answers. Not yet.”