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.”
82
Ms. B hustles back down the hall, and once again I double my efforts to keep up.
But then the office door flies open. Dr. Iverson rushing after us, her eyes wild.
“Ms. Barrantes, the difference in your story is,” Dr. Iverson shouts down the hall. “That person got to decide.”
I look at Ms. B. She presses the elevator button.
Dr. Iverson’s voice still booming. “She had time to come to terms. To say her last words.”
The elevator chimes, the door opens. Ms. B steps inside and I follow, Dr. Iverson right behind us now.
“Quincy didn’t get that tonight. But doesn’t he deserve it?”
I tilt my head to catch Ms. B’s eyes. “Are you sure?” I ask softly, so only she can hear.
The door now sliding.
“Ms. B,” I say quietly.
Dr. Iverson one step outside the threshold. “Ms. Barrantes, doesn’t your son deserve the same chance?”
“Ms. B,” I say again. “Ms. Barrantes? Ms. Barrantes?”
The doors nearly closed.
But then Ms. B throws her arm in between.
81
“Why my son? Why my Quincy?”
Dr. Iverson frowns. “I’m afraid that I can’t tell you.”
“And why not?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not being cute. I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I qualify our reanimation candidates, but I don’t select them.”
The elevator alarm sounds. It wants to close, but Ms. B’s arm is there.
She nods at me, and we step back into the hall. “Who does the selecting?”
“Usually? A board.”
“You said usually. Not this time?”
“I’ll be honest, we haven’t reanimated anyone under these circumstances.”
I jump in. “Circumstances?”
Dr. Iverson glances my way. “We’ve performed nine reanimations. All were already being prepped prior to their deaths, because their deaths were expected.”
“But my son’s death was decidedly not expected.”
Dr. Iverson nods.
“So, this would be your first spontaneous reanimation?”
Another nod.
“If we do this, will he . . . be in any pain?”
Dr. Iverson shakes her head. “Quincy won’t feel a thing.”
Ms. B’s fingers trace the elevator panel, like she’s deciding if she should push the button, step back inside, walk into her empty house, alone. “He deserves more time,” Ms. B says finally. “You’re right. Everyone deserves one last word.” Her hand drops to her side. “Doctor, you’ll take good care of my son?”
“I’ll personally oversee the entire reanimation.”
Ms. B nods, and Dr. Iverson takes her hand. “You’re making the right decision.”
Dr. Iverson glances at her watch, smiles. “I apologize, but as I mentioned, we don’t have a lot of time. I should’ve already left the hospital. If you’ll follow me back to—”
I cut in. “Left for where?”
“The Center,” she answers.
“What center?” Ms. Barrantes asks. “You aren’t doing the . . . procedure here?”
“Reanimation is . . . very involved. There’s a lot of equipment, a lot of people at work.”
I clear my throat. “And all of this is legal, right?”
Dr. Iverson grins. “It’s not not legal. But of course, discretion is important.”
Dr. Iverson’s pocket vibrates, and she holds up a finger to us as she accepts the call.
“Yes,” she says into the receiver. “And the room’s prepped? Good. I’m on my way.”
I steal a look at Ms. B, but she’s leaning against the hallway wall, her eyes closed, her lips pursed in a low hum.
The doctor rattles off a sequence of numbers, and before she ends the call, she’s corralling us back down the hall. “I promise you. It won’t be long now.”
80
There’s a door behind the grief specialist’s desk.
I hadn’t noticed it.
Seconds after Dr. Iverson’s apology-filled exit, this other door opens; a lean, immaculately groomed man in pressed gray pants, a stark white dress shirt, and a gray wool bow tie enters.
My first thought is he must be hella hot; Elytown is unseasonably blistering.
My next thought: everything about him feels designed, staged, like a house you were trying to sell.
His smile.
His perfectly square silver-frame glasses matching his gray eyes.
This kind of guy, anything he offers, you read the fine print twice.
He extends his hand to Ms. Barrantes, then to me: a cold, tight grip.
“I am Mr. Oklahoma.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Oklahoma,” she says, glancing at me like she wants me to exchange pleasantries.
But that’s not happening. This dude, one of those I can’t quite put my finger on what’s wrong with you people. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not your real name?” I ask.
His customer-service smile doesn’t wilt the slightest. “I will be your personal reanimation liaison, Ms. Barrantes. Your case is my only assignment. As such, day or night, I am at your call. Should you require anything, I will do my level best to bring it to fruition. Should you have questions or concerns, I will work to address your inquiries. It is our expectation that this experience be the very best for Quincy. For you. And for your family. We demand of ourselves your full satisfaction.”
“It sounds . . . too good,” Ms. Barrantes says.
Mr. Oklahoma hands her a paper-thin, transparent tablet.
“This is a transfer of care authorization,” she says.
“It will allow us to move Quincy to our facility.”
She looks up. “But how do I know any of this is legit?” And for a second, I expect her to tell me to stand, say we’re leaving. But instead, her finger glides across the signature line.
“You will not regret this,” he says, in a voice that makes me wonder how long it is until we do.
79
Two years ago, my freshman biology teacher burst into the lab with too much excitement for nine a.m. and asked his students if we’d watched the hearings.
We hadn’t.
“They’re saying they can bring someone back from the dead,” he’d said.
What? How? Had they already done it? we all wanted to know.
“Not yet,” he admitted. “But they’re close, and . . .”
But he’d already lost us.
Except now, here I am.
On the verge of seeing the amazing.