by Mitch Albom
A nurse entered now with her clipboard.
“How we doing today?” she asked Victor. She was red-haired and overweight and her outfit tugged in from the bust and waist.
“Just peachy,” he mumbled.
“That’s good,” she said.
He looked past her, tired, and drifted into a dreamy state. Another week of this, he thought. After that, he would disengage and be on that boat to the new world by New Year’s Eve.
He blinked at a shadow in the corner, the size of a man, but when he blinked again, it was gone.
The shadow was Dor.
He’d been exploring the building in his undetected way—wandering among the machines and the staff, trying to comprehend the process that, despite his prolonged observation, still mystified him. Somehow, this place healed the sick. That he understood. And he felt a familiar twinge of sadness he experienced whenever he witnessed modern medicine: Alli had died alone, on a blanket in the high plains. Had she been of this generation, might she not have lived a long life?
He wondered how it was fair that your dying should depend so much on when you were born.
Dor studied the large machine in the private suite, saw how blood made its way in and out of the body. He approached Victor, sitting in the large chair with a device in his ear—Victor, whose fate Dor would have to address to reach his own destiny.
How old was this Victor, who, like Nim, seemed to be treated better than other people? Based on the wrinkled flesh, thinned hair, and age spots on his arms, he seemed to have already been blessed with long years. Yet Dor noticed Victor’s expression—his eyebrows furrowed, his lips pulled down at the sides.
Although a diseased man might be frightened—or even grateful—this one seemed … angry.
Or a better word.
Impatient.
49
Now that Sarah had Ethan’s gift, she needed only a time and place to give it to him.
She kept texting him, but he didn’t respond. Maybe his phone was broken. But how else to reach him? There were only a few school days before the Christmas break. Finding him in the crowded hallways was chancy. Besides, she followed his lead at school and never spoke to him. The relationship was their little secret.
She knew that after classes he had indoor track practice. So she decided to wait outside the gym and “accidentally” bump into him. Standing in the hallway, holding the wrapped present, she looked away as the other kids passed—the “hot” girls in their designer clothes; the thick, sculpted jocks; the hipsters in black-framed glasses and funky hats; the sour-faced, deeply emotional types in ragged black T-shirts and studded earrings. Some of them she had seen for four years without exchanging a word. But that was how high school worked; it issued a verdict and you behaved accordingly. The verdict on Sarah Lemon was too smart, too fat, too weird—so few kids bothered to talk to her. She had been counting down the months to graduation until Ethan came along. Ethan, amazing Ethan, who dared to defy her verdict. He wanted her. Someone wanted her. She felt so grown-up now, having him as a boyfriend. She wanted to brag.
She spotted two girls she had known since the third grade—Eva and Ashley—walking toward her in clingy striped tops and the kind of tight jeans Sarah could never squeeze into. They glanced her way and she reflexively looked at her feet. Inside she was yelling, Guess who I’m waiting for? But then her phone rang—the harsh, heavy-metal guitar riff, the ring tone signaling her mother—and as Sarah quickly flicked it silent, she heard Eva and Ashley laughing.
She suddenly felt self-conscious being there, and she put Ethan’s gift inside her coat pocket and left. He’d never believe it was an accident anyhow, and she’d have no explanation besides the truth: that she was now, literally, chasing after him.
When she got outside, she texted him again.
50
Victor wheeled into his private office and pushed the door shut behind him. Only then did he see the apprentice from the clock shop, standing against the wall.
“How did you get in here?” Victor asked.
“Your timepiece is ready.”
“Did my secretary let you in?”
“I wanted to bring it to you.”
Victor paused. He scratched his head. “Let me see.”
The apprentice reached into his bag. Such an odd guy, Victor thought. If he worked for me, he’d be in the lab, one of those shy, nerdy technicians who one day invents a product that turns the company into a gold mine.
“Where did you learn so much about timepieces?” Victor asked.
“It was once an interest of mine.”
“Not anymore?”
“No.”
He opened a box and handed over the pocket watch, its jeweled case polished to a shine.
Victor smiled. “You really buffed this up.”
“Why do you want such a device?”
“Why?” Victor exhaled. “Well. I have a journey coming up, and I’d like to have a sturdy timepiece with me.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just some R and R.”
The man looked lost.
“Rest and relaxation? You do come out of that back room once in a while, don’t you?”
“I have been other places, if that is what you mean.”
“Yes,” Victor answered. “That’s what I mean.”
Victor examined his visitor. Something was off about him. Not his clothes so much. But his language. He got the words right, but they didn’t fit naturally, as if he were borrowing them from a book.
“The other day, in the shop, how did you know I was from France?”
The man shrugged.
“You read it somewhere?”
He shook his head.
“The Internet?”
No response.
“I’m serious. Tell me. How did you know I was from France?” The man looked down for several seconds. Then he flashed his eyes straight at Victor.
“I heard you ask for something when you were a child. Then, as now, you wanted time.”
51
Sarah got the idea from, of all people, her mother.
Lorraine, over a dinner of chicken pot pies, was talking about a bracelet she and her friends were buying for a woman who was turning fifty. They were having it engraved with a message.
As soon as Lorraine said that, Sarah thought of Ethan. A message on the back of his watch? Why hadn’t she thought of that?
“Sarah? Are you listening?”
“What? Yeah.”
The next day, Sarah cut her last two classes (again, uncharacteristic for her, but she had Ethan now, and he required time, too) and took the train back to the city. When she entered the clock shop, it was late afternoon, and she was once again the only customer. She felt sorry for this place, because if it wasn’t busy at Christmas, when would it be?
“Ah,” the old proprietor said, recognizing her. “Hello again.”
“You know the watch I got here?” Sarah said. “Can you engrave it? Do you do that?”
The proprietor nodded.
“Great.”
She took the box from her bag and put it on the counter. She looked through the door that led to the back room.
“Is the other man here?”
The proprietor smiled.
“You want him to do it?”
Sarah flushed. “Oh, no. I mean, I didn’t know if he did it or not. Whoever. I mean. Yeah. If he does it. Sure. But anybody can.”
Privately, she was hoping the man was there. He was, after all, the only person she’d told about Ethan.
“I’ll get him,” the proprietor said.
A moment later, Dor emerged from the back, wearing the familiar black turtleneck, his hair still mussed.
“Hey,” Sarah said.
He looked at her with his head tilted slightly. He had the gentlest expression, Sarah thought.
He picked up the watch.
“What do you want it to say?” he asked.
She had chosen a simple message.
She cleared her throat.
“Can you put …” She lowered her voice to a near-whisper, even though no one else was in the shop. “‘Time flies with you’?”
Dor looked at her, puzzled.
“What does it mean?”
Sarah raised her eyebrows. “Is it too serious? Honestly, I think—this sounds stupid, right?—I think he’s like, the one for me. But I don’t want to overdo it.”
Dor shook his head. “The phrase. What does it mean?” Sarah wondered if he was kidding. “Time flies? You know, like, time goes really fast and suddenly you’re saying good-bye and it’s like no time passed at all?”
His eyes drifted. He liked it. “Time flies.”
“With you,” she added.
52
Even after the funeral, young Victor wondered if his father might return one day, magically,
as if all this—the priest, the weeping family, the wooden casket—was just some phase you went through when adults had accidents.
He asked his mother. She said they should pray. Perhaps God knew a way they could all be together. They knelt by a small fireplace, and she pulled a shawl over their shoulders. She closed her eyes and mumbled something, so Victor did the same. What he said was, “Please make it yesterday, when Papa came home.”
In a cave, far away, the boy’s words wafted up through a glowing pool. There were millions of other voices, but the pleas of a child find our ears differently, and Dor was moved by the simple request. Children so rarely ask to reverse time. Mostly they are in a hurry. They want a school bell to ring. A birthday to arrive.
“Please make it yesterday.”
Dor remembered Victor’s voice. And while they deepen with age, voices are, to one destined to listen for eternity, as distinct as a fingerprint. Dor knew it was him the moment Victor spoke in the shop.
He did not know that the child who had asked for yesterday was now seeking to own tomorrow.
Victor never prayed again.
Once his mother leapt from that bridge, he gave up on prayer, he gave up on yesterdays. He came to America and learned that those who made the most of their time prospered. So he worked. He sped up his life. He trained himself not to think about his younger days.
Now, in his top-floor office, he was being reminded of them by a virtual stranger.
“I heard you ask for something when you were a child,” the apprentice said. “Then, as now, you wanted time.”
“What are you talking about?”
The apprentice pointed to the pocket watch. “We all yearn for what we have lost. But sometimes, we forget what we have.”
Victor looked at the timepiece, the painting of the family.
When he looked up, the man had vanished.
Victor yelled, “Hey!” assuming it was some trick. “Hey! Get back here!”
He rolled his wheelchair to the door. Roger was already headed his way, as was Charlene, his executive assistant.
“Is everything OK, Mr. D?” Charlene said.
“Did you see a guy just run out of here?”
“A guy?”
He noticed the concerned look on her face.
“Forget it,” he said, embarrassed. “My mistake.”
He shut the door. His heart was racing. Was his mind going now? He felt uncharacteristically out of control.
The phone rang, jolting him. His private line. It was Grace, asking when he was coming home. She was cooking.
He exhaled.
“I don’t know if I can eat that stuff, Grace.”
“Just come home and we’ll see.”
“All right.”
“Is something wrong?”
Victor looked at the pocket watch. He found himself thinking about his parents, seeing their faces, something he had not done in years. It made him angry. He needed to get back on track.
“I’m stopping the dialysis, Grace.”
“What?”
“It’s pointless.”
“You can’t.”
There was a long pause.
“If you do that …”
“I know.”
“Why?” her voice was shaky. He could tell she was crying.
“It’s no way to live. I’m on a damn machine. You heard what the doctors said.”
She was breathing hard.
“Grace?”
“Just come home and we can talk about it, OK?”
“My mind is made up.”
“We can talk about it.”
“OK, but don’t fight me on this.” He would have preferred to use this sentence regarding his real plan—to freeze his way into another life. But he already knew she’d have no part of that. So he said it now, a true sentence for a false reason.
“I don’t want to fight,” she whispered. “Just come home.”
53
It was set. Ethan would meet her Christmas night
at Dunkin’ Donuts, because she knew it would be open. The plan had come together by accident—although Sarah chose to view it as fate.
She’d had no luck reaching him via text. But upon leaving the clock shop, she had walked past another “End of the World” gathering, and as any idea sparked the adjacent idea of calling Ethan, she dialed his number impulsively, even though he almost never answered his phone.
When she heard him say hello, her heart caught in her throat. She quickly blurted out, “You’ll never guess what I’m looking at.”
“Who’s this?”
“Sarah.”
Pause. “Hey, Sarah. I thought I dialed … this phone is screwed up.”
“Guess where I’m calling from?”
“I don’t know.”
“The ‘End of the World’ table in Washington Square Park.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I know, right? Anyhow, they say the world is going to end next week, and I have something I want to give you, so I better do it fast.”
“Wait. What’s the end-of-the-world part?”
“I don’t know, it’s Indian or religious or whatever. One of those freakoid things.”
She had read more but didn’t want to sound too smart. When had being smart ever gotten her anywhere with boys?
“So when can we get together? I want to give you this thing.”
“You don’t need to give me anything, Sarah.”
“It’s no big deal. Christmas, right?”
“Yeah. I don’t know …”
There was an awkward pause, and Sarah felt her stomach tighten.
“It won’t take long.”
“All right,” he said.
“Can’t take long if the world is gonna end, right?”
“I hear ya.” It didn’t sound as if he heard her at all.
They settled on Christmas night at the Dunkin’ Donuts—he had a party to go to near there anyhow—and she hung up and was glad to have something on the schedule. She tried to ignore his distracted tone, figuring phones were never a good barometer of anything. Besides, once he saw the watch, he’d be happy. No one else would be giving him a gift that special.
She thought back to him kissing her. He wanted her. Someone wanted her. This time around, she told herself, she would be more relaxed about the whole physical thing. She’d let him do more. He’d be happy about that, too. It was fun thinking about making him happy.
She glanced at the crowd of doomsday gatherers, some with signs, some dressed in religious clothing. On one table, a set of small speakers was playing a song that caught Sarah’s ear.
Why does the sun go on shining?
Why does the sea rush to shore?
Don’t they know—it’s the end of the world
’Cause you don’t love me anymore?
Depressing, she thought. And kind of cynical for this event. Still, the female singer’s voice was so sad and melancholy that she found herself listening longer.
Why do the birds go on singing?
Why do the stars glow above?
Don’t they know—it’s the end o
f the world? …
She picked up a pamphlet from the table. On the front it read, “The End is coming. What will you do with the time you have left?”
Well, it was only Wednesday. She was going to lose a pound or two.
54
Grace waited for Victor to come home.
She wiped her eyes. She cut the vegetables.
Lorraine waited for Sarah to come home.
She vacuumed. She smoked a cigarette.
This will happen soon.
Every person on the planet—including Grace, Lorraine, Victor, and Sarah—will instantly stop aging.
And one person will start.
LETTING GO
55
Victor had done his homework. He knew what dying would entail.
Once he stopped dialysis, his blood pressure zoomed, he grew puffy, his back hurt, and his appetite disappeared. He’d anticipated these symptoms, and he forced himself to ingest bread, soup, and supplements, because he didn’t want to weaken too soon.
On Christmas, he was moved from the wheelchair to a bed in the living room. Grace stayed with him all night, sleeping in a chaise. She had accepted his untrue plan for the very reasons he knew she would not accept his true one—letting go was natural, embracing God’s will. If he was at peace with stopping the dialysis, then she could be, too.
Still, she hid a tear the next morning when Victor asked Roger to bring over a set of files. Don’t be mad, she told herself now, as she bent a straw for him into a glass of water, this is how he holds on to his life, his papers, his business, it is who he is. She didn’t know that Roger was bringing documents to protect Victor’s future empire.
She offered him the glass, which Victor took himself, rather than let her hold it for him. He sipped the water then put the glass down. He saw the concern on her face.
“It’s OK, Grace. It’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
It was not, in the world’s design, the way it’s supposed to be.