by Nick Pirog
No hands shot up. No one wanted to be first. And especially, not moi. I didn’t enjoy public speaking. Not a good attribute for an aspiring public defender. My chest was starting to tighten and I could feel the blood racing through my veins.
Dr. Raleigh began looking about the room. I wondered if anyone else was dreading that he might look at them, point, and say, “Why don’t you start us off?”
He raised his eyebrows a couple times, but he didn’t point at anybody, nor did he say, “You there, tell us how you died.”
After thirty seconds, the young girl next to me said, “I’ll go. I don’t mind.”
You could feel the entire room exhale. The average person would rather be in a room with a snake than stand up and talk about themselves in front of a group of strangers. And if the average person was anything like me, they would rather be bitten by said snake before they would stand up and recount how they died jerking off in the shower.
Dr. Raleigh said, “Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself, then you can tell us how you died.”
She shrugged and said, “Okay. My name is Berlin.”
“Berlin? Like the city?”
Berlin rolled her eyes. “My mom was this crazy hippie. Don’t ask.”
A couple people laughed. Including me.
She went on, “I’m seven. Like I said, my mom was this crazy hippie and we moved around a lot. My dad is some guy my mom met in Chicago. His name is Jack. Jack doesn’t come around all that much. Like not at all. I saw a picture of him once. He’s not bad looking, which is a plus. I mean, I’m lucky I don’t have red hair or something. But I guess, if someone else had been my dad and not Jack, I wouldn’t be here. Not here, like this place, I probably wouldn’t have been born. Some other little girl would have been. Or boy. I’m not really sure how all that works.”
I noticed everyone peering at young Berlin the same. Everyone thinking the same thing, a bit profound for a seven-year-old?
Berlin went on to tell how she and her mom had moved around a lot. Ten different states in her short seven years. They would stay at some hippie colony for a couple months, then her mom would get a job as a waitress and they would live at a motel, then they would be moving again. They never had much money, but they always had enough. And her mom was smart, although in a different sort of way. They always had health insurance; her mom still made her go to the dentist once a year for her annual check up. When they found out she had diabetes—she was four—they went to the best doctor, and got the best medicine and the latest supplies. Berlin ended it with, “Yeah, she was a pretty good mom I guess.”
This hit people differently and a couple people started crying. I didn’t.
Dr. Raleigh tried to stem the flow of tears and said, “Why don’t you tell us how you died.”
So Berlin told us. How she’d turned seven on September 8th, four days ago, and she’d gotten a PSP for her birthday, and how she was up all night playing it and how she forgot to take her insulin and she died.
Cut and dry.
There was silence. No one wanted to follow up a seven-year-old. Like going on stage after Chris Rock.
Dr. Raleigh took a step forward and said, “My name is Raleigh Devroe. I was born in Mississippi, moved around a bit, then came to Denver when I was nine. I went to George Washington High School. If any of you know Chauncey Billups from the Denver Nuggets, he was a year below me. Man, that was something to watch that guy play. I even got to watch him play in college. We both went to CU, he only for a couple years. Anyhow, I graduated, got decent enough grades, and decided to apply to a couple med schools. I got into a couple of them, but decided to keep it local and went to CU Medical School.”
This wasn’t an easy thing to do. CU Medical School wasn’t the toughest school to get into, but it wasn’t easy.
Raleigh continued, “Christmas break after my first semester, a buddy and I were skiing Monarch pass. I’d been skiing all my life, since I was five. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t ski. My buddy and I were doing some backcountry stuff and we heard this rumble and the next thing we knew, we had about a million pounds of snow coming down at us at eighty miles an hour.”
He paused, took a deep breath. “I can still remember getting hit. Still remember coming to. Still remember my friend Jeremy screaming my name. Thank God he made it out. And then my air ran out. And I died.”
Everyone was quiet. Raleigh’s face went somber. He was there. He was back in that avalanche, buried under who knows how many pounds of snow. He snapped out of it and said, “That was thirteen years ago. And I sat in the same chairs you’re sitting in right now. I went through the same tests you went through, answered the same questions, and I went through the same program you will go through over the course of the next couple months. Went back to school, became a doctor, and now I help people with their transition to this life. I got married last summer and we’re expecting to get our first child in January. All in all, I have a great life.”
And everyone in those white plastic chairs believed him. Dr. Raleigh went through exactly what we’d been going through. And here he was years later, happy, well adjusted. But one thing disturbed me. He didn't say, "Expecting our first child," he said, "Expecting to get our first child." I thought about asking him what he meant, but someone, one of the women, had already begun telling her tale.
Dr. Raleigh’s story got people in the storytelling mood and one by one people started recounting life stories. Telling anecdotes—where they grew up, college, kids, lovers—before finally getting to how they had ultimately perished. It was therapeutic in a way and you could see a weight had been lifted off people’s shoulders after they’d shared their stories. I was no longer terrified when I would have to speak. My heart was still racing and it felt like I’d just walked in from a torrential downpour, but I was no longer terrified. I would no longer pick the room with the snake.
Both the old men were long-winded, as both had led long interesting lives. One had been career army, retiring as a two star general. He had a purple heart from Korea and a couple other medals from Vietnam. He went on and on and on, and then he told us how he’d been driving home from his daughter’s house and gotten in a car accident.
The other old man was an inventor and had a couple patents on microwave parts that had made him a small fortune. He spent most of his life traveling the world and to quote him, “Romancing the ladies.” He had a house in Aspen and had been on his way up when he’d gotten into a car accident. Same day as the other old guy. Same time. Same road.
I’m not sure if anyone else was drawing on this coincidence, but I was pretty sure these two old farts had killed each other.
One woman had a rare disease that killed her. The doctors on Two had given her a new medicine and she was responding well to it. Another woman had epilepsy. She died while having a seizure. Or she assumes that’s how she died. One of the guys had a bad sinus infection and he mixed a bunch of medicines, as well as pot and booze, and his heart stopped. His sinus infection was gone. Another guy was eating at Elways, a steakhouse in Denver, and he’d been choking and excused himself to go to the bathroom.
I’d once read an article in Maxim that five hundred men died each year from choking and only one woman. That’s because women would freak out and someone would give them the Heimlich, whereas guys would try to play it off and go the bathroom, and as in Floyd’s case, not be able to expunge the large piece of prime rib from their airway. Another guy, the black guy, drowned in a pool.
A couple more car crashes, a couple diseases I’d never heard of, and suddenly the only people not to have recounted their deathly tale were myself and the sullen teenager. I could feel all the eyes in the room floating between both the emo-kid and myself. Watching us like a tennis match to see who would raise their hand.
My heart raced and my mouth turned into the Sahara. I raised my hand. All the eyes found their way to me. I said, “My name is Maddy Young.”
I took a deep breath and said, “I’m a l
aw student at the University of Denver.” I laughed. “I mean, I was a law student. I graduated in December and took the bar in March.”
“I heard that shit is hard as hell,” said the black guy who couldn’t swim.
I nodded. “Yeah, it’s a bitch. I got a 100.”
“You lie.” He looked impressed all the same. I saw a couple eyebrows rise around the room. These people thought they were in the presence of genius.
I set them straight. “I got 100 out of a possible 400.” You had to get 176 more points than I got to pass.
“So you failed.”
“Miserably.”
I heard Dr. Raleigh give a sharp laugh in the corner. I looked at him. He smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I took the MCATS three times.”
I smiled at him.
“I was scheduled to take the Bar again next week.” I hadn’t thought of this yet and I found it depressing. All those hours studying. All that money. I took a deep breath and said, “Anyhow, how I died isn’t very interesting. I was in the shower, I was washing my hair and the next thing I remember is falling. I woke up here with twenty stitches in my head and a horrible headache.”
I looked at Dr. Raleigh, I wondered if he knew I was rubbing one out when I’d slipped. If Dr. Raleigh was aware of this, he didn’t show it. He did ask, “What about family? You didn’t mention any family.”
“I don’t have any.”
And we left it at that. Twenty-six eyes moved from me to the emo-teenager. He was staring straight down. His face in his hands. His greasy hair hanging over his eyes. He looked familiar, but I suppose all those emo-kids look pretty much the same.
Dr. Raleigh looked at him and said, “You’re up.”
The kid didn’t say anything. Didn’t even flinch. Dr. Raleigh had seen this before. He said, “We can’t leave this room until everyone has told their story. That’s how it works.”
I should mention we’d been in this room for going on six hours. We were ready to be done. Ready to return to our little rooms, with our little bathrooms, and our little beds, and watch some TV. The TV’s wouldn’t turn on before. I had a feeling they would turn on tonight.
Ten minutes went by. Then twenty. The teenager hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even blinked. I was starting to think maybe he was dead. Again. The black guy stood up and walked over to him. I don’t know if he whispered in his ear that he was going to kill him if he didn’t start talking, or if it was his favorite proverb, or a black joke, or what, but the kid snapped out of it.
He looked up and said, “My name is Damon. I’m fourteen. My dad started beating the shit out of me when I was seven. Started fucking my little sister when she was eight. I bought a gun. I shot him. Then I shot myself.”
I’d heard about this. I’d seen it on the news. It had happened two days before I’d died. That’s why the kid looked so familiar. I’d seen his picture on the television.
Damon looked around, then said, “And if that motherfucker is here. I’m going to find him and I’m going to cut him into a million pieces.”
Yikes.
Dr. Raleigh said, “I think that’s enough for today.”
Chapter 3.
Counseling
When I sat down in the chair opposite my designated TAC, Two Adjustment Counselor, I examined every square inch, and there were several, of Dr. JeAnn Tury.
She was big, with hairy arms, a hairy lip, and large glasses that fed into short spiked grayish hair. She wore a tan polo shirt. I would imagine JeAnn Tury was partial to the women, if not for being cast aside by men for a good twenty years. She gave a disarming smile and I instantly felt at ease.
I should mention I was wearing a pair of jeans, a gray hooded sweatshirt, and sandals. In addition to the contacts, when I had awoken this morning, I had found a pile of neatly folded clothes at the foot of my bed. A couple pairs of jeans, five or six shirts, two hoodies, some socks, a pair of Converse, some sandals, and three pairs of boxer briefs. Oddly enough, the clothes they had picked for me weren’t far-off the clothes I would have picked for myself. There was, of course, a logical explanation for this. During one of the intensive question and answer sessions I had in my first three days, I’d been asked to describe a typical outfit I might wear. It would appear someone had been listening.
Dr. Tury introduced herself and told me to call her JeAnn. I told her that in that case she could call me Mr. Young, which she found humorous. After sitting her large frame down, JeAnn said, “I hope the testing over the course of the past couple days wasn’t too grueling.”
“It’s still uncomfortable to sit down, but I’ll live.”
“That’s good to hear.” She stifled a chuckle and said, “So, my job is to help you adjust to your new surroundings. How are you feeling so far?”
I shrugged. “It’s a little crazy, sort of hard to wrap your head around, but I think I’ll get there.”
“Good, good.”
“I thought Dr. Raleigh was my counselor.”
“Dr. Raleigh is the head counselor for the entire facility. There are four other counselors, including myself, who deal with the Arrivals on a more intimate level. More hands on. I’ll help you acclimate to your new environment, anything from setting up a new bank account, to finding a place to live, to finding a job. All that crap.”
I laughed.
She added, “But if you ever have any questions for Dr. Raleigh his door is always open.”
“Good to know.”
After a moment’s pause, I asked, “How long have you been here?”
She peered up at the ceiling and exhaled. “Gosh. . . in May it will have been twenty-seven years.”
I knew it was coming before she started. I’d learned to recognize the look.
“It was May 5th, 1982. I was fifteen years old, living in Nebraska at the time. It was a Tuesday. My school was about two miles away from our house and my brother and I, Johnny—he was a year younger than me—would walk home from school everyday. “
She took a deep breath.
“You could tell a storm was coming, but I thought we could make it back in time. The sky turned from blue to black, then yellow. The siren went off. Johnny and I ran, but then we couldn’t see, we were enveloped by this swirling yellowness. And then it was like a bomb went off. The loudest sound I’d ever heard and I grabbed Johnny and covered him, but the tornado just ripped me off him.”
She went silent.
I could see her eyes were moist.
She said, “I’d like to think that Johnny made it.”
“So he didn’t come here?”
“No.”
But according to Dr. Raleigh, only one out of every three people who died came to Two. So technically, Johnny could have died and gone somewhere else. Or Johnny could have survived. But Johnny didn’t survive. Johnny died at the hands of the tornado, just as his big sister had died at the hands of the tornado. And I knew this because they had documented the tornado she was speaking of on Storm Stories on the weather channel. I was a big weather guy. For a long time, I’d wanted to be a storm chaser. Some kids want to be in the NBA, I wanted to chase tornadoes. I grew out of this obsession when I was about fifteen, but to this day I DVR’d every show on the Weather Channel. Anyhow, a couple months back they'd done an episode on the deadliest tornado to ever make its way through Nebraska. May 5, 1982. They had interviewed JeAnn and Johnny’s parents. Johnny hadn’t made it. I thought about telling JeAnn about her brother. But JeAnn already knew.
JeAnn said, “So, that’s my story. Now that we have that out-of-the-way, why don’t you ask me all the questions that have been burning inside you since you got here.”
I pulled a piece of paper from my back pocket and unfolded it.
“I see you came prepared.”
“Always.” Or most of the time. Or sometimes. Or once.
I started at the top of the list. “How many people here died and how many people were born here?”
JeAnn's eyes shot open and I asked, “What?”
“Nothing, it’s just not a question I’m used to getting day one with a new Arrival.” She paused. Looked at her computer. Hit a couple buttons. Took a deep breath. “No one is born in Two, but Borns—" she caught herself.
“Did you say Borns? What’s a Born?"
She leaned forward and whispered, "Trust me, you'll know. Now, listen, we shouldn't be talking about this."
I wanted to ask, "Why? What's the big deal?" But instead, I said, "So women can’t get pregnant here?"
She nodded. "When a female dies, no matter what age, all their eggs die with them."
"But the Borns—”
She put her hand up. “Next question, Mr. Young."
I put an asterisk next to Borns in my mental file folder and asked, “Does Two have a high rate of suicide?”
Again she raised her eyebrows. “Why do you ask that?”
“All these people have died, they come to Two and they have a clean slate. I had a quarter of a million dollars in school loans and I come here and I don't owe a penny. I’m not saying I ever contemplated killing myself, but you can see how after coming here, someone might get themselves in trouble—financial or criminal—and decide to pull out a gun and blow their brains out. Start fresh again. Go to Three.”
“You are a bright kid. In fact, we do have a high suicide rate. And for that very reason. People get themselves in trouble and want a fresh start. But no one knows where people go when they die here. That's the rub. As for the gun part, there are no guns here.”
“None?”
“None.”
“Even law enforcement?”
“Stun guns. Nothing that shoots bullets.”
“What about a black market?”
“Some. But law enforcement cracks down hard on gun dealers. We have a three-strike law.”
“Colorado has a three-strike law?”
“No. The entire world.”
She must have noticed the perplexed look on my face and explained, “There are boundaries, different governments, different states even, but the entire world works together on issues of safety, environment, punishment, and healthcare. You get one strike in Alabama, another in Germany, and another in Ecuador, you go away for life.”
