by Mitch Albom
Not this. Not freezing yourself for a second go-round. But Victor was determined to control his dying the way he’d controlled his living. The numbness coming in his feet and hands? His skin turning a sickly gray? Both would be identified as end-stage signs of renal failure. Death would be expected. No one would suspect an alternative plan—Victor being frozen before he died. When that happened, only Roger, Jed, and a carefully chosen doctor and coroner would be present, and all would be well paid for their silence.
Death, on paper, would come when they wrote it came.
But death would never touch Victor.
He would duck it. And jump a boat to the future.
“Listen, Grace,” he said, his voice scratchy. “I know how hard this has been. But once I’m gone, everything is taken care of. All the paperwork, I mean. Roger can go over everything with you. What’s important is …”
He thought about what to say next. He wanted it to be true.
“What’s important is, you’ll never have to worry.”
Her eyes watered.
“I was never worried,” she said.
She took his hand. She stroked his fingers.
“I’m going to miss you, you know.”
He nodded.
“Terribly,” she added.
Each of them squeezed their lips tightly and Victor swallowed hard. He almost told her everything right then, that very moment. But you grab a moment, or you let it pass.
He let it pass.
“Me, too,” he said.
56
Ethan was, in her mind, the only boy she would ever love. But he did not love her back.
That became clear on Christmas night in the parking lot of Dunkin’ Donuts when, at 9:16 P.M., offering a brightly wrapped box containing an engraved watch from his favorite movie, Sarah finally blurted out how she felt about him, something she had been holding inside like an exploding star, something she had only told the man in the clock shop and the mirror in her bedroom. But before she finished, before she said the last words of “I just really—I know it’s crazy—I just love you, you know?” he began rolling his eyes as if he were looking for some friend to say, “Can you believe this?”
She wanted to melt into the ground at that moment, just hot wax into a puddle and disappear through a sewer grate. His eyes. That look. No interest. Total humiliation. The minutes of awkward talk from then until he said, “Look, Sarah, I gotta go” felt like years. She wanted to explain it better, erase the words. She could wait, she could wait forever. Just don’t ruin it, don’t end it! But when he gave her back the present, still wrapped, and he walked away and dug his hands into his pockets and then half a block down he took out his phone to call—who? Some other girl? Some friend to share a private laugh about this idiot who just told him he was (did she really say this?) her “ideal”? God, Sarah, what is wrong with you? After that, she turned to a new companion in the parking lot, invisible to all but her, a devil, a misery beast, who put his bony claw around her and said, “You live with me now.”
Sarah Lemon was only seventeen, but at that moment, she began to disengage from life. She felt alone, abandoned. And it was all her fault. How could she have blown something that rare, a boy like Ethan who had never looked at her before and would never look at her again? They had kissed and he had wanted her, but she had pushed him off and he’d obviously decided she wasn’t worth the bother—which she’d known all along she wasn’t—and why hadn’t she just shut up and done whatever he desired, who was she saving herself for, honestly, like someone better was going to come along?
Dizzy, her stomach tight, she slipped the gift back into her coat pocket. She wanted desperately to call him, but it suddenly hit her—she couldn’t call him, she couldn’t see him; it was over, totally over, and she fell to the ground like a dropped sack of rice. She cried on her knees until her chest hurt from heaving. She felt gravel in her palms from pressing on the asphalt. She remained on all fours until a man from the Dunkin’ Donuts pushed the door open and yelled, “Hey, what you doing out here? Go someplace else!” She wobbled to her feet. She staggered forward. A heart weighs more when it splits in two; it crashes in the chest like a broken plane. Sarah dragged her wreckage back to the house, up to her bedroom, and down into a deep dark hole.
57
Dor sat on a skyscraper, his feet dangling. The city below was a massive array of rooftops, spires, and window lights.
He held the hourglass. He did not turn it. He let time pass at its normal pace, thinking about what the old man had instructed.
He had found the two people. He had followed them in recent days. He had paused the world around Sarah and Victor many times, trying to understand their lives. He gathered that Victor, for all his wealth, could do little to stop his illness. And by the way Sarah collapsed in the parking lot, she cared for the tall boy more than he cared for her.
But the complexity of their worlds was baffling. Dor came from a time before the written word, a time when if you wished to speak with someone, you walked to see them. This time was different. The tools of this era—phones, computers—enabled people to move at a blurring pace. Yet despite all they accomplished, they were never at peace. They constantly checked their devices to see what time it was—the very thing Dor had tried to determine once with a stick, a stone, and a shadow.
Why did you measure the days and nights?
To know.
Sitting high above the city, Father Time realized that knowing something and understanding it were not the same thing.
58
No morphine. Not yet. Victor needed to keep control.
His breathing had accelerated, as his body tried to exhale carbon monoxide fast enough to battle its growing acidity.
It would not be long now.
A small number of visitors—mostly business associates—came to pay final respects. Others wanted to, but Victor told Grace he wasn’t up to their good-byes; that was true, but mostly because he didn’t feel like he was going anywhere. Other people’s dying weeks are filled with fear or farewells; Victor’s had been consumed with planning. He had his exit strategy. And it now included this detail:
Each year, on New Year’s Eve, Victor and Grace traditionally attended a gala in which they presented a large donation to their charitable foundation. The amount reflected the success of Victor’s fund that year.
“Grace, you should go,” he’d said yesterday.
“No.”
“You need to present the check.”
“I won’t leave you.”
“It will mean a lot to everybody.”
“Someone else can do it.”
He lied one more time.
“It would mean a lot to me.”
She was surprised. “Why?”
“Because I want the tradition to go on. I want you to do it this year, next year, hopefully many more.”
Grace hesitated. The gala had been her idea. Victor had never been crazy about it—he’d even fought her about going in years past. She wondered if, in some way, this was her husband saying “I’m sorry.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll go.”
He nodded as if relieved. “It’ll be good for everybody.”
59
Sarah awoke at two in the afternoon, with Lorraine banging on the door.
“Sarah!”
“… What? …”
“Sarah!”
“I’m up!”
“I’ve been banging for five minutes!”
“I had headphones on!”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing!”
“Sarah!”
“Leave me alone!”
She heard her mother walk away, then fell back into the pillow and groaned. Her head hurt. Her mouth felt like cotton. Lorraine had thankfully been out when she’d returned home last night, and Sarah had snuck two of her sleeping pills before locking the bedroom door. Now, with her head pounding, she flopped over and relived everything in her mind—what she
said last night, what Ethan said. She began to cry when she saw his wrapped package sitting on her chair. She reached for it, threw it against the wall, and cried even harder.
She thought about him walking away. She felt so helpless. That couldn’t be the end. That couldn’t be their last time together. There had to be something she could do …
Wait. Maybe she could write him. Take everything back. Make an excuse. The gift was a gag. She’d been drunk. Problems at home. Whatever. She could control things better in writing, couldn’t she? Not make the same mistakes, not blurt out all those words that scared him?
She wiped her eyes.
She sat down at her desk.
Common sense would have told Sarah to steer clear of Ethan’s waters. But common sense has no place in first love and never has.
She would not send a text.
She didn’t want this popping up on his cell phone. But she could send a private Facebook message. She gripped the edge of her desk, thinking of what to say.
She would start with, “Listen, I’m sorry …” and then she’d go into how she understood why he was put off, how she sometimes got way too deep about things, and how, well, whatever she would say—as long as she didn’t take herself too seriously, maybe he wouldn’t, either.
She turned on her computer.
The screen lit up.
Once, lovers on faraway shores sat by candlelight and dipped ink to parchment, writing words that could not be erased.
They took an evening to compose their thoughts, maybe the next evening as well. When they mailed the letter, they wrote a name, a street, a city, and a country and they melted wax and sealed the envelope with a signet ring.
Sarah had never known a world like that. Speed now trumped the quality of words. A fast send was most important. Had she lived in an older, slower world, what happened next would not have happened. But she lived in this world.
And it did.
She went to his Facebook page.
Up came his picture, all that coffee-colored hair, the sleepy eyes, the grin that said “mildly amused.” But before she could click to send him a message, her eyes found his latest post. They blinked. They welled with tears. A sick feeling began to spread inside her. She read it twice. Three times. Four times.
“Sarah Lemon made play 4 me. Whoa. Ain’t happening. That’s what u get 4 being nice.”
Suddenly, she couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe. If the room had caught fire, she’d have burned to a crisp, because she could not lift her body from the chair. Her stomach felt as if it were tying itself around a pole and pulling from both ends.
“Sarah Lemon made play 4 me.”
Her name was on his page.
“Whoa. Ain’t happening.”
An unwelcome cat, trying to crawl into his lap.
“That’s what u get 4 being nice.”
That was it? He was being nice?
She shivered. She hyperventilated. Beneath his post was a long row of faces, people commenting—dozens of them.
“Seriously?” one read.
“U + Sarah = gross.”
“C movie: he’s just not into u.”
“That butt’s too big, bro.”
“Knew she was a skank.”
“Run, dude!”
It was like one of those dreams where you are naked on a stage and everyone is pointing. Ethan had told the world, the world sympathized, and Sarah Lemon was now and forever (because wasn’t cyberspace instantly forever?) someone you had to be nice to, a pathetic girl who just didn’t get it, the scourge of her generation, the lowest rung on the ladder, a loser.
“Sarah Lemon made play 4 me.”
For him? But hadn’t he been kissing her?
“Whoa. Ain’t happening.”
Was she that disgusting?
“That’s what u get 4 being nice.”
Was it charity? The beautiful taking pity on the ugly?
“Isn’t she the science geek?”
“Never be nice to psychos.”
“She’s delusional.”
“2 bad, Ethan.”
Sarah slammed the computer shut. She heard the expulsion of her breath—exhale, exhale, exhale. Then she raced downstairs and burst out the front door, the thumbnail faces in an orbit around her brain, laughing at her misery, flipping open previous rejections like the worn pages of a familiar book. She was fatty Sarah again, running home from school after a girl made fun of her. She was unlovable Sarah again, whose father didn’t want her after the divorce. She was geeky Sarah again, in the corner of the lunchroom with a science book. Now she was delusional Sarah, crazy stalker Sarah, a post on Ethan’s Facebook page, a joke being slapped from computer to computer like one of those beachballs at a concert that never touches the ground.
She ran, shivering, in lightly falling snow, tears streaming down her face and hardening in the cold. There was no one to talk to. No one to comfort her. There was blackness and solitude and she was never, ever going back to that school again. What should she do? What should she do?
She thought for the first time about killing herself, the when and the how.
She already had the why.
NEW YEAR’S EVE
60
It was 8 P.M. Grace dressed before the mirror.
She didn’t want to go. She would say her hellos, present the check, and return quickly. Her makeup was done. Her hair was set. Her dress needed to be zipped, something Victor had always done for her. She reached around awkwardly, fumbling several times. But on the third try, her fingers found the zipper, and she pulled it up successfully. Then she burst into tears.
She went to the kitchen, poured some cold ginger tea, wiped her eyes, and carried the glass to Victor. He appeared to be sleeping.
“Sweetheart?” she whispered.
His eyes opened. He blinked. Her gown was satin with tulle frill and crystals sewn into the fabric.
“Look at you … So beautiful.”
She bit her lower lip. How long had it been since he’d complimented her looks? In the early years, he used to do it often, whispering to her at country club dances, “How’s it feel to be the best-looking woman in the room?”
“I don’t want to go. Listen to your voice—”
“Go. Nothing’s going to happen in one night.”
“You promise?”
“Go and come back.”
“I brought you some tea.”
“Thank you.”
“Make sure he drinks it,” she said to Roger, who sat dutifully in the corner of the living room. Roger nodded. She turned back to her husband.
“Do you like these earrings? You gave me them on our thirtieth, remember?”
“Yes.”
“I always loved these.”
“They look terrific.”
“I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“All right.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“I’ll be …”
His voice trailed off.
“What, sweetheart?”
“Here. I’ll be here.”
“Good.”
She kissed him on the forehead and patted his chest. Then she quickly rose, hiding her tears, and walked away. Her heels clicked on the hallway tile until the sound faded.
Victor felt torn and guilty.
His final sentence to Grace had been a lie. He would not be here when she returned. He would leave while she was gone, and be on his way to the cryonics facility. That was the plan, the reason he’d encouraged her to attend the gala.
He nearly called her back. But a wave of dizziness came over him, his head drooped, and he rolled to the side. Everything he had planned for, all these weeks and months, really all his adult life, was to culminate in the next few hours. It was no time to deviate. Stick to the plan.
Still …
He called for Roger, who approached, and he whispered something to his lowered ear.
“Do you understand?” Victor gasped. “No hesitation if that
happens?”
“I understand,” Roger said.
Victor inhaled weakly. “Let’s go, then.”
61
It was 8 P.M. Lorraine dressed in front of the mirror.
She hated New Year’s parties. But she went to one every year. Her divorced friends had made a pact not to leave each other alone on nights when loneliness had extra strength.
She sprayed her hair. She peeked down the hall to see if Sarah had emerged. She was worried about her daughter, who had barely left her room in five days, wearing the same black sweatpants and old green T-shirt. She wanted to ask about whomever the high heels had been for, but she never got any traction with such subjects. Sarah would just freeze her out.
Lorraine remembered back when New Year’s Eve was still a family thing, and the one December all three of them went into the city and stood shivering in Times Square, watching the ball drop. Sarah was seven years old, still small enough to sit on Tom’s shoulders. She ate honey-roasted pecans they’d bought from a street cart, and it started snowing just before midnight. Sarah screamed, “three … two … one … Happy New Year!” along with a million other people.
Lorraine had been happy that night. She’d taken lots of pictures. But when they got in the car, Tom wiped the snow from his hair and said, “Well, we never have to do that again.”
She went down the hall and knocked on Sarah’s door.
She heard slow music playing. A female singer.
“Honey?”
It took a moment.
“What?” came the flat reply.
“Just saying bye.”
“Bye.”
“Happy New Year.”
“Yep.”
“I won’t be back late.”
“Bye.”
Lorraine heard a car honking outside. Her friends.
“Do you have anyone to hang out with tonight?” She hated to even ask that question.
“I don’t want to hang out, Mom.”
“OK.” She shook her head. “Tomorrow we’ll have breakfast, all right?”
Silence.