The woman studied him, her eyes narrowed with anger and suspicion.
“Why else would I possibly be going to see her? Do you think I want to see her, that I’m going to enjoy this? I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
Slowly, tentatively, she moved aside. “All right. Tell her Idris loves her.” Just before the doors swirled shut, Rob heard her add, “You bastard.”
Deep in the wall, machinery hummed, and the crèche slid slowly out of the wall, like a drawer opening in a morgue. She came feetfirst, and was covered in a silver wrap that was something between a blanket and aluminum foil. Rob was relieved he couldn’t see her body. He probably should have read what to expect before coming, but as soon as the money had been secured and there was no turning back, he’d wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.
Raising the money had reminded Rob of their frantic attempts to raise enough money to save his mom when she got cancer, only this time they’d needed far less money, and had succeeded in raising what they needed.
His chest felt tight, his stomach and bowels were roiling. Another bout of anxiety-induced diarrhea was probably imminent. If he hadn’t been twenty-five years old and in perfect health, he was sure a heart attack would be imminent as well.
Her face was the only part of her not covered in silver wrap; Rob stifled a moan when it slid into view. She was so terribly white, her lips gray blue, her eyelashes frosted. She was so clearly dead, and he so did not want to see her dead eyes open and fix on him. As the glass between them slid away, he considered fleeing. He could hide in the bathroom, tell his father he’d done it, fabricate a story about how well it had gone, how cathartic it had been for both of them. Of course, he wouldn’t do that, not after his father had taken out a high-interest loan to get him here.
Some sort of machinery started up beneath the crèche, a whooshing, whistling sound that grew higher in pitch and then stabilized, and a separate deep thrumming that Rob felt in his lurching belly.
Winter opened her eyes.
Her pupils were fat disks, devoid of awareness, staring into eternity. Rob pulled back, leaned out of her field of vision, his breath coming in gasps as Winter blinked once, twice, in slow motion.
“I can’t—” Rob whispered. He stood to leave as Winter’s eyes rolled to look at him, her head perfectly, unnaturally still. Her eyes were focused now—focused on him—and they were wet with terror.
“Hi, Miss West, my name is Robert.” He licked his lips. His mouth was horribly dry.
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out but a hiss of air, as if her mouth was one of those spigots that inflate your tires that you still came across, out beyond the suburbs. He watched her recently frozen tongue struggle to form a word. “Do you work here?” When he was searching for her crèche he’d heard other women speaking, so he wasn’t startled that her voice was a deep, rolling, androgynous croak.
“No. This is the first time I’ve ever been here.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering strength. “I’m scared. I want to go home.”
Rob pressed his hand over his mouth; his chest hitched spasmodically. “I’m so sorry.”
Winter narrowed her eyes like she was trying to see Rob better, like he was far away. “What am I supposed to do? I don’t understand. You’re my first…”—she struggled for a word—“visitor.”
Her first “date,” she meant, but she didn’t want to call it that. Rob couldn’t blame her.
“What day is it? How long have I been here?”
“About three weeks.”
“It feels longer.” Her speech was coming easier, maybe as her lips and tongue warmed, but the awful, empty gargling quality of her voice persisted. “The woman who works here told me I’m supposed to talk to you, get to know you, not talk about this place.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m not…” He trailed off, the words clogging in his constricted throat. He was going to say, “I’m not here for that,” but then Winter would ask why he was here, and he’d have to say, “Because I’m the one who ran you over.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Robert. Rob.”
“Hello, Rob. You’re not catching me at my best.” She laughed, or maybe it was a sob. “What do you do?”
“I’m a musician.”
“What do you play?”
“The lute.” He took a deep breath. He stammered, starting and abandoning a half-dozen sentences. How could he broach something like this? It needed to be led up to, he couldn’t just blurt it out.
“Aren’t I the one who should be nervous?” She smiled, clearly trying to put him at ease. He was a wreck, blinking rapidly, his breath coming in shaky gasps. He closed his eyes, feeling like an idiot.
“I promise you, the only reason I don’t seem nervous is because my heart isn’t beating.” Winter’s own words seemed to startle her. Her mouth moved soundlessly, her eyes darting around as if seeking an escape route. “I’m really dead, aren’t I?”
He didn’t want to answer, but what choice did he have? “Yes.”
“She wouldn’t tell me much about the accident, when she woke me for the orientation.”
Somehow Rob’s heart found another gear. “Do you remember it at all?”
“No. Not at all. She said I was hit by a small vehicle? Does it say how I died, in my profile?”
Rob checked the timer in the wall above her head. He’d used up nearly four minutes; the remaining seconds were ticking away much too quickly. He needed to get to the point, or this would be pointless, and nine grand he couldn’t afford would be wasted.
He just had to say it, let it spill out. He inhaled sharply, looked directly at her face, his heart pumping madly, and said, “There was—you were jogging, and a Scamp came around the corner too fast. The driver wasn’t paying attention. And he hit you.”
“It says it was a he?”
The timer was racing, the seconds bleeding away. Thirty-one seconds. Twenty-eight. “No, I know it was a he because I—.” He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head. There wasn’t time. If he told her, there wouldn’t be time to explain, to express how sorry he was. To ask her forgiveness.
Nineteen seconds.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said.
She smiled. It was clearly meant to be a sunny smile, but with limited muscle control it looked like she was showing Rob her teeth. From her profile he knew she’d had a beautiful smile. “Sorry for what? I should be the one apologizing. You’re being kind enough to visit, and all I’ve done is talk about my accident.”
Eight seconds. She couldn’t see the timer. She had no idea how little time they had.
“So you must have died instantly. No pain.”
“No pain. At least, I don’t remember any.”
Her eyes went blank; the muscles in her face relaxed all at once.
Rob stood, stared down at her, his legs trembling, threatening to give way. “Shit. Oh, shit.” What was he going to tell his father?
The window slid silently over Winter. Rob watched from the bottom of the blackest despair as the crèche retracted back into the wall. With nothing else to do, he left.
Nine thousand dollars, wasted. He’d have to lie to his father, tell him everything went swimmingly, that Winter had been incredibly understanding under the circumstances.
Who was he kidding? He couldn’t pretend everything was nifty for two minutes, let alone indefinitely. He could barely walk; he felt like there were fifty-pound weights around his ankles, a hundred-pound sack across his shoulders.