1 3 7 – ZOË

by C. De Melo

  Chapter Four

  I slowed my pace and got off the jogging path in order to check my heart rate. The doctor had advised checking it periodically whenever I did strenuous exercise. I was warned that the first six months after waking up were crucial. It was mid-September and (thankfully) I hadn’t suffered any complications so far. I still couldn’t run, so I jogged and took three yoga classes a week to stay in shape. Things were slowly getting back to normal.

  I also got my old job back at the Ashford Gallery. The owner (my former employer), Hillary Ashford, had passed away several years ago. Hillary’s daughter, Nancy, had inherited the gallery and was more than happy to rehire me. It was also good for business. Cryo-people, as we were commonly referred to, were rare and I would be somewhat of a novelty within the gallery. Novelties usually attracted clients.

  I took a deep breath and walked around, allowing my heart rate to slow down gradually before taking my pulse. Eighty beats a minute. Normal.

  “Hey, that’s Zoë Adams!”

  I turned to see two women staring at me; one was pointing. I smiled at them and waved, and they waved back.

  “Good to see you’re doing well,” the woman called out.

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  I ran into these well-wishers often now that I had integrated myself into public life. Strangers approached me on a regular basis to ask me questions. Some just stared in shocked silence. The latter were usually old people who refused to accept the idea of cryogenics and feared the unknown. Anti-cryo activists were also not shy about approaching me and letting me know what they thought. Usually, they were quite civil. Since my case was so famous, most of them realized that it hadn’t been my choice to be frozen.

  I was brought out of my reverie by the sound of a persistent beep. Pushing the ‘receive’ button on my wrist-phone, I watched the tiny neon blue screen reveal Michael’s smiling face.

  “Hello, Michael.”

  “Hi, princess. I can see from the trees behind you that you’re in the park.”

  “I am.”

  “Jogging?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got a nice surprise for you. The president and first lady have invited us for dinner tonight.”

  “Great.”

  “I’m sorry, honey, but I can’t pick you up. I’ve got too many meetings. I’ll send a car.”

  “That’ll be fine, Michael.”

  “I’ll see you at seven. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I pressed the ‘end’ button and the screen returned to neon blue. Wrist-phones would soon be on the out. Holographic phones would be the next hi-tech device.

  “On your left!”

  I immediately took a step to the right in order to avoid collision with a young boy on an orange and silver hover board. I smiled, remembering the old “Back to the Future Movie” with the actor Michael J. Fox. Ten years ago, a scientist who had been a great fan of the movie had finally perfected a hover board suitable for the mass market.

  Everything was so different, yet the same.

  That’s why I liked history. Everything was cyclical. People had gotten wiser in regards to planet upkeep and peace preservation, but there was something unsettling that I still couldn’t put my finger on. Maybe it had to do with my feelings of displacement. For example, clothes were very modern and linear, mostly made of synthetic materials that were easy to care for and required no ironing. Natural fibers were outrageously expensive and only the very rich could afford them.

  At first this didn’t make any sense since the planet was so bio-conscious, but then Michael explained that the clothing was recycled. When clothes got worn out or went out of style and people tired of them, they would toss them into one of the many silver boxes set up all over the city. The boxes were in banks, supermarkets, metro stops, and street corners. The old clothing would then be recycled into next season’s fashions.

  Everything made perfect sense. And that was not normal. Life was chock full of ironies and idiosyncrasies.

  I made my way towards the sporty Mercedes convertible Michael had given me as a gift after the doctors said I could drive. The driver’s side door opened to let me inside. It was not long before I was cruising down the smooth, clean streets towards home. Two decades of perfecting solar power batteries had paid off because the car packed a lot of punch, and hugged curves as closely as traditional sports cars once had in the past.

  Juana was outside speaking with Carlos when I pulled up the driveway. She looked upset, but smiled as though nothing was amiss when she noticed that I was watching. She gave me a brief wave, and then ran back into the house. Carlos nodded politely as I got out of the car and proceeded to continue watering the flowerbeds.

  “Is everything all right, Carlos?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Adams.”

  “Juana seemed upset.”

  Carlos shrugged dismissively. “She gets that way whenever a recipe does not work out.”

  I sensed he was lying. He couldn’t even look me in the eye when he spoke. “I see.”

  I walked into the house and Juana seemed to materialize out of nowhere, giving me the impression that she had overheard my brief conversation with Carlos.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Adams. Mr. Adams has informed me that you will be dining at the White House this evening. Shall I lay out your clothes?”

  “Yes, please. The chocolate Dior cocktail dress.”

  “Excellent choice. I will get everything ready for you. The car will be here in an hour.”

  “Thank you, Juana.”

  I took a long, hot shower, savoring every minute. This would be my second dinner at the White House- the first since my awakening. The press would undoubtedly be there since I will be the first cryo-person to ever dine with a U.S. president.

  I brushed my long, red hair into a simple chignon and donned the elegant chocolate brown satin dinner dress. Strappy copper shoes completed the outfit. I truly relished the simple, smart-looking styles that were so popular nowadays. Even cosmetics were simpler now, more natural and easy to apply. My first visit to Saks had been so much fun. No more intimidating, ultra-glamorous cosmetic girls- everything from skincare consultations to color charting was done via computer.

  The car arrived at six-thirty. After the pleasantly smooth ride I was shown into the White House. Michael came forward to take my hand and then introduced me to his colleagues.

  “You look gorgeous, princess. Come right this way,” he said, leading me down a thickly carpeted corridor. “The president and first lady are eager to finally meet you.”

  We walked into a large room with a long mahogany desk. I was happy to see that the White House had been well preserved and kept in its original style. For some reason, modern furniture would have looked odd in the nation’s capital.

  “Michael, is this your lovely wife?” asked a handsome, middle-aged man whom I recognized as the president.

  “Yes, it is, Mr. President. I would like to introduce you to Zoë Adams.”

  I extended my right hand and said with a smile, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  The president looked at my hand and hesitated before accepting it. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable with cryo-people, which made me feel apprehensive.

  “It is such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Adams,” he said with a smile that I had trouble discerning if it was sincere or not. I also noticed he had a slight southern accent.

  The president turned towards an attractive woman with short, blonde hair. “Honey, come on over and meet Michael’s wife.”

  After an official introduction, the first lady gave me a warm hug and a sincere smile. “It is so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Adams,” she said in the same southern drawl her husband possessed.

  I failed to detect any insincerity in her greeting and smiled back gratefully. The president’s wife took my arm and led me to a small group of women in an adjoining room while the men remained together to discuss business.

  Before
long, I was the center of attention. The women practically interrogated me: How does it feel to wake up almost twenty years into the future? Do you find the world very different? How is your health? And so on. One woman even compared me to Sleeping Beauty.

  A uniformed maid came into the room to announce that dinner was to be served and I almost sighed aloud in relief. The meal was delicious and the conversation was mostly about politics (as I had expected). I caught the president looking at me occasionally with a curious expression on his face. Since many Southerners were devout Christians, I wondered if the president opposed cryogenic technology and viewed it as blasphemous.

  Michael, who sat beside me, whispered in my ear just before dessert arrived. “How are you doing, princess?”

  “Fine,” I whispered back with a forced smile.

  He patted my knee in approval before turning around to talk to the man beside him.

  I picked at the mango mousse and wondered what the other guests were thinking. None of them had asked me about my position in the gallery or the new exhibition I was putting together (even though there was a prominent article in the paper about it). All they seemed to care about was the fact that I had been as good as “dead” for almost twenty years and then came back to life. I was gradually beginning to realize that no matter how hard I tried, I would never again be normal.

  Later that night as Michael drove us home I noticed that he was unusually quiet. “Is there something wrong?” I asked timidly.

  He looked surprised, as if I interrupted some deep thought. “No, everything is fine,” he replied.

  “Michael?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you ashamed of me?”

  He seemed genuinely shocked by my question. “What?” When I said nothing, he demanded, “What kind of question is that, Zoë?”

  “Well, you know how some people feel about cryogenics…I wonder if people think I’m a freak or something.”

  “Oh, princess, no one thinks you’re a freak. Banish the thought from your head.”

  “It’s the way I catch people looking at me; like I’m an alien from another planet. Even the president was looking at me that way.”

  “He was not looking at you like that,” he assured. “People are just amazed at the wonders of science and technology. Everyone loves you, Zoë. God, honey, you’re a celebrity!”

  I let the matter drop.

  “I’m going to have Juana make you a nice cup of herbal tea when we get home and you’ll feel much better in the morning,” he said in a fatherly tone that set my teeth on edge.

  He was always very solicitous and concerned, but he babied me incessantly. Despite being given the recent green light by doctors to drive, jog and have sex, Michael treated me like an invalid. And he still hadn’t come into my bed.

  “Michael?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  “Oh no? Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

  “No,” I said, placing my hand on his thigh.

  He looked down in surprise before glancing over at me.

  “Remember that time that we made love in your car?” I purred softly. “We were still dating and you were taking me home from that awful Chinese restaurant?”

  He nodded, a nostalgic smile playing about his lips. “I remember very well.”

  My hand moved higher on his thigh. “Well, can’t we pretend the White House was that awful Chinese restaurant?”

  He smiled apprehensively. “You mustn’t excite yourself.”

  “Nonsense! I can jog two miles without breaking a sweat. I feel great. Besides, you know the doctor gave me the green light on normal daily activities. What do you say, honey?” He said nothing and I added, “Come on, it’s been twenty years since I’ve…you know.”

  He laughed and said, “All right. We’ll be home in a few minutes.”

  “No, not at home! By the park, in your car…like that time.”

  Michael’s face grew serious. “If I got arrested for indecent exposure the media would have a field day. I can’t risk that sort of scandal.”

  “Oh, come on, Michael! Let’s take the chance. Please?”

  He was not convinced. “I don’t know, Zoë. It doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

  “Is it me? Do you not find me desirable anymore?”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world!”

  “Then why don’t you want to make love to me?” I finally blurted out.

  “It’s not that…I just don’t want to get caught in the park by the police!”

  “Please?”

  “Zoë …”

  I put on my sexiest pouty face. “Please?”

  Michael looked at me the way a father looks at a child whining for a toy. “All right,” he finally agreed with a sigh. “Just this once.”

  He drove until he found the same spot where we had made love over two decades ago. Not much had changed.

  I unbuckled my seat belt and kissed my husband. “Thank you, this means a lot to me, Michael.”

  He stroked my hair and kissed my neck. I pressed myself against him as I unbuckled his seat belt and moved to straddle him in the car. He moaned in pleasure. Without prompting, he untied the straps of my halter top dress, allowing the triangular flaps to fall and reveal my bare breasts. I tilted my head back as he caressed and kissed them.

  “Michael…”

  One of his hands moved up my thigh as he lowered the seat back. We heard laughter outside and Michael sat up with a jolt. He practically pushed me off of him. Two teenage boys were walking behind the foliage near the car.

  “I told you this was a bad idea,” Michael hissed angrily.

  I tied the straps of my dress quickly. “Oh, Michael, it’s just a couple of kids. They probably didn’t even notice us.”

  He frowned and started the engine. “Still, I can’t take any chances.”

  We drove home in silence and the mood had been broken. Michael remained in his office while I went upstairs to bed. I felt bad about the entire evening and wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and forget about it.

  Chapter Five

  Thanksgiving

  “Come on, just a taste,” Michael pleaded.

  I was standing between my husband and Juana, who was holding a large baking pan containing a succulent, golden turkey.

  “It’s not fully cooked yet, Mr. Adams,” Juana said.

  “Please?” he persisted.

  “You heard the woman, it’s not cooked. You’ll get sick,” I warned.

  He wasn’t convinced, however. “It certainly looks cooked.”

  “See?” Juana pointed at the thermometer stuck in the bird’s chest. “It hasn’t popped out yet.”

  A slight frown creased Michael’s brow as he looked at me. “I remember someone pleading for something a couple of months ago and I gave in,” he said, referring to the park incident.

  “That was then and this is now,” I retorted playfully. “Besides, I didn’t get what I wanted, did I?”

  Michael pouted and let the matter drop. Nothing had come from the sexy park incident last September. The teenage boys had seen nothing. The matter was laid to rest and I never asked anything risky of my husband again.

  “Dinner will be served shortly, Mr. Adams,” Juana said consolingly.

  “Sure thing,” he said, finally giving up and leaving the kitchen.

  Maria was at the sink peeling and chopping potatoes while Juana continued to baste the turkey. A peppy tune was coming out of the surround sound system, and the autumn sunshine was pouring in from the many glass walls. It was a good day.

  I didn’t tell Michael that I had invited Lance for today’s feast, nor did I tell him about the date I enjoyed with his brother at the Smithsonian the week before. Lance had initially refused my Thanksgiving invitation, but after much persuasion, he finally agreed.

  “I’m going out for a walk,” Michael said, poking his head through the kitche
n’s entrance as he put on his jacket.

  “Don’t be too long. The guests should be here shortly,” I said.

  He nodded and walked out the front door.

  “Mrs. Adams?” Maria called from the sink.

  “Yes?”

  “Which of the table linens shall I use to set the table?”

  “Good question. I wonder if Michael kept the set my grandmother gave me.”

  Maria gave me a sly look. “Maybe it’s in the trunk upstairs.”

  There was something contrived about the way Maria had mentioned the trunk. Juana’s reprimanding look confirmed that she had indeed spoken out of turn.

  “What trunk?” I demanded.

  “Maria doesn’t know what she’s talking about, Mrs. Adams,” Juana replied, visibly flustered. “It’s just an old trunk Mr. Adams keeps in the attic with some odds and ends. I’m sure your grandmother’s linens would not be in there.”

  “Oh, I’ll go and have a look anyway.”

  Juana took a step forward as if to bar my way. “No!” At the sight of my surprised expression, she quickly added, “It won’t be in there. I’ll check the top shelf in the pantry, instead.”

  “No, I’ll check the trunk. Maria, please take me to it,” I said.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maria’s satisfied expression.

  Juana pursed her lips. “You have so many lovely linens and your guests will be here soon,” she persisted.

  Now I had to see what was inside that trunk. I grabbed Maria’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Juana moved as though she would accompany us and I held up my hand in protest. “No, Juana, you stay.”

  Juana gave Maria a warning look before we left the kitchen. I walked beside Maria in silence until we reached the attic. There were several boxes and old furniture strewn about the large space.

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  Maria pointed towards a large window. I walked over and found a brown leather trunk hidden behind a partial wall. It reminded me of a set of classic Louis Vuitton ocean voyage trunks that I had once spotted in a vintage shop several years ago. Only this one was custom-made to look old when in fact it was new. Even the brass trim and corners were still shiny. Upon closer examination, I noticed the leather was patterned with tiny swirls and looked costly. I knelt down and attempted to push open the lid, but it was locked.