Matched (8 page)

After a few moments, Grandfather reappears wearing his Banquet clothes. They are basically plainclothes, simple pants and a shirt and socks, but they are made of fine-quality material, and he has been able to select the color.

I feel something catch in my throat when I see that the color he has chosen for his clothing is a light green. We are so much alike. And I wonder if he realized when I was born that the days of our Banquets would be so close together, since our birthdays are only a few days apart.

We all sit politely, Grandfather in his bed and the rest of us on chairs, while the Committee completes their part of the celebration.

“Mr. Reyes, we present to you the microcard with images and records from your life,” they say. “It has been compiled by one of our best historians in your honor.”

“Thank you,” Grandfather says, reaching out his hand.

The box containing the microcard is like the silver one we receive when we are Matched, except for the color: gold. The microcard inside has pictures of Grandfather as a small boy, a teenager, a man. He hasn’t seen some of these images in years, and I imagine that he is excited to view them today. The microcard also includes a summary of his life in words, read by one of the historians. Grandfather turns the golden box over in his hands as I did with my silver box not long ago at the Match Banquet. His life cupped in his palms, as mine was.

One of the women speaks next. She seems gentler than the others, but maybe that is because she is smaller and younger than the rest. “Mr. Reyes, have you chosen the person to take possession of your microcard when today is over?”

“My son, Abran,” Grandfather says.

She holds out the device for the tissue collection, which, as a final courtesy to the elderly, the Society allows to take place privately, among family. “And we are pleased to formally announce that your data indicates you have qualified for preservation. Not everyone qualifies, as you know, and it is another honor that you can add to your already long list of achievements.”

Grandfather takes the device from her and thanks her again. Before she can ask him who he’s trusted with the delivery of the sample, he volunteers the information. “My son, Abran, will take care of this as well.”

She nods her head. “Simply swab your cheek and put the sample in here,” she says, demonstrating. “Then seal it up. You need to bring the sample to the Biological Preservation Department within twenty-four hours of collection. Otherwise we cannot guarantee that preservation will be effective.”

I’m glad that Grandfather has qualified to have a tissue sample frozen. Now, for him, death may not necessarily be the end. Someday, the Society might figure out a way to bring us back. They don’t promise anything, but I think we all know that it will happen eventually. When has the Society ever failed in reaching a goal?

The man next to her speaks. “The food for your guests and your own final meal should arrive within the hour.” He leans over to hand Grandfather a printed menu card. “Are there any last-minute modifications you would like to make?”

Grandfather looks at the card and shakes his head. “Everything looks in order.”

“Enjoy your Final Banquet, then,” the man says, pocketing the card.

“Thank you.” There is a wry twist to Grandfather’s mouth as he says this, as though he knows something they don’t.

As the Committee leaves, they all shake Grandfather’s hand and say, “Congratulations.” And I swear that I can read Grandfather’s mind as he meets their gaze with his sharp eyes.
Are you congratulating me on my life, or on my death?

 

“Let’s get
this
over with,” Grandfather says with a spark in his eye, looking at the tissue collection device, and we all laugh at his tone. Grandfather swabs his own cheek, puts the sample in the clear glass tube, and seals it shut. Some of the solemnity leaves the room now that the Committee has gone.

“Everything’s going very well,” Grandfather says, handing the tube to my father. “I am having a perfect death so far.”

My father winces, an expression of pain crossing his face. I know he, like me, would prefer that Grandfather not use that word, but neither of us would think of correcting Grandfather today. The pain on my father’s face makes him look younger, almost like a child for a moment. Perhaps he remembers his mother’s death—so unusual, so difficult compared to a Final Banquet like this.

After today, he will be no one’s child.

Even though I don’t want to, I think of the murdered Markham boy. No celebration. No tissue preparation, no good-byes.
That hardly ever occurs,
I remind myself.
The odds of that happening are almost a million to one.

“We have some gifts for you,” Bram says to Grandfather. “Can we give them to you now?”

“
Bram
,” my father says reproachfully. “Perhaps he wants to get the microcard ready for viewing. He has guests on the way.”

“I do want to do that,” Grandfather says. “I’m looking forward to seeing my life pass before my eyes. And I’m looking forward to the food.”

“What did you choose?” Bram asks, eager. The selections for Grandfather and his guests are the same, but it is an actual law that we must eat the food from the trays and he must eat the food on
his
plate. We’re not allowed to share.

“All desserts,” Grandfather says with a grin. “Cake. Pudding. Cookies. And something else. But let me see your gift before we do any of that, Bram.”

Bram beams. “Close your eyes.”

Grandfather obeys and holds out his hand. Bram places the rock gently into Grandfather’s palm. A few particles of earth fall on the blanket covering Grandfather, and my mother reaches to brush them away. But at the last second, she pulls her hand back and smiles. Grandfather won’t mind the dirt.

“A rock,” Grandfather says, opening his eyes and looking down. He smiles at Bram. “I have a feeling I know where you found it.”

Bram grins and ducks his head. My grandfather holds on tight to the rock. “Who’s next, then?” he asks, almost merrily.

“I’d like to give my gift later, during the good-byes,” my father says quietly.

“That won’t leave me very much time to enjoy it,” Grandfather teases.

Suddenly self-conscious about my letter—I don’t want him to read it in front of everyone—I say, “Me too.”

There is a knock on the door: some of Grandfather’s friends. A few minutes after we let them in, more arrive. And more. And then the nutrition personnel, with all of Grandfather’s desserts—his last meal—and the separate trays for his guests.

Grandfather lifts the cover from his plate and a heavenly, warm-fruit smell fills the room.

“I thought you might like some pie,” Grandfather says, looking at me. He saw me, then, the other day, and I smile at him. At his signal, I lift the covers from the guest trays and we all gather around to eat. I serve everyone else first and then I pick up my piece of pie, flaky and warm and fruit-filled, and lift a forkful of the pastry to my mouth.

I wonder if death will always taste this good.

After all the guests have put down their forks and sighed in satiation, they talk with Grandfather, who leans back on a pile of thick white pillows. Bram eats on, stuffing himself with bites of everything. Grandfather smiles at him from across the room, amused.

“It’s
so good
,” Bram says around a mouthful of pie, and Grandfather laughs outright, a sound so warm and familiar that I smile, too, and put my hand down. I was about to touch Bram’s arm, tell him to quit feasting. But if Grandfather doesn’t mind, why should I?

My father doesn’t eat anything. He puts a piece of pie on a round, white plate and then holds it in his hands, juice seeping out onto the china without him noticing. A little drop of it falls to the floor when he stands up to say good-bye to Grandfather’s guests after the viewing of the microcard. “Thank you for coming,” Papa says, and my mother bends down behind him to dab up the drop with her napkin. Someone else will move in after Grandfather leaves, and they won’t want to see the signs of another person’s Banquet. But that’s not why my mother did it, I realize. She wanted to spare my father any worry, any tiny bit at all.

She takes the plate from my father as the door shuts behind the last guest. “Family time now,” she says, and my grandfather nods.

“Thank goodness,” he says. “I have things to say to each of you.”

So far, except for that one moment when he talked about what might come next, Grandfather has been behaving as usual. I’ve heard that some of the elderly have surprised everyone at the end, by choosing not to die with dignity. They cry and get upset and go crazy. All it does is make their families sad. There is nothing they can do about it. It’s the way things are.

By some unspoken agreement, my mother and Bram and I go into the kitchen to let my father speak with Grandfather first. Bram, drowsy and stuffed with food, puts his head down on the table and falls asleep, snoring gently. My mother smoothes his curly brown hair with her hand, and I imagine that Bram dreams of more desserts, a plate heaped with them. My eyes feel heavy, too, but I don’t want to miss any part of Grandfather’s last day.

After my father, Bram has a turn, and then my mother goes in to speak with Grandfather. The gift she has for him is a leaf from his favorite tree at the Arboretum. She picked it yesterday, so the edges have curled and become brown, but there is still green in the middle. She told me, while we waited and Bram slept, that Grandfather had asked if he could have his final celebration at the Arboretum, out in the blue-sky air. Of course, his request was denied.

My turn at last. As I go into the room I notice that the windows are open. It is not a cool afternoon, and the breeze feels urgent and hot as it blows through the apartment. Soon, though, it will be night and things will be cooler.

“I wanted to feel the air moving,” Grandfather says to me as I sit in the chair next to his bed.

I hand him the gift. He thanks me and reads through it. “These are lovely words,” Grandfather says. “Fine sentiments.”

I should feel pleased, but I can tell there is something more coming.

“But none of these words are your own, Cassia,” Grandfather says gently.

Tears sting my eyes and I look down at my hands. My hands that, like almost everyone else in our Society, cannot write, that merely know how to use the words of others. Words that have disappointed my grandfather. I wish I had brought a rock like Bram. Or nothing at all. Even coming here empty-handed would be better than disappointing Grandfather.

“You have words of your own, Cassia,” Grandfather says to me. “I have heard some of them, and they are beautiful. And you have already given me a gift by visiting so often. I still love this letter because it is from you. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I want you to trust your own words. Do you understand?”

I look up and meet his eyes, and nod, because I know that’s what he’ll want me to do, and I can give that gift to him even if my letter is a failure. And then I think of something else. Since that day on the air train, I’ve kept the cottonwood seed in the pocket of my plainclothes. I pull it out now and give it to him.

“Ah,” he says, lifting it up to look at it more closely. “Thank you, my dear. Look. It’s trailing clouds of glory.”

Now I wonder if Grandfather
is
starting to slip away already. I don’t know what he means. I glance at the door, wondering if I should get one of my parents.

“I’m an old hypocrite, too,” he says, his eyes mischievous again. “I told you to use your own words, and now I’m going to ask you for someone else’s. Let me see your compact.”

Surprised, I hold it out to him. He takes it and taps it sharply against his palm, twists something. The base of the compact opens up and I gasp in shock as a paper falls out. I can see right away that it is old—heavy and thick and creamy, not slick and white like the curls of paper that come out of the ports or the scribes.

Grandfather unfolds the paper carefully, gently. I try not to look too closely, in case he does not want me to see, but with a glance I can tell that the words are old, too. The type is not one in use anymore; the letters are small and black and cramped together.

His fingers tremble; whether it is from the end of his life drawing close or because of what he holds in his hand, I do not know. I want to help him, but I can tell that this is something he must do himself.

It doesn’t take long for him to read the paper, and when he’s finished, he closes his eyes. An emotion crosses his face that I cannot read. Something deep.

Then he opens his bright, beautiful eyes and looks straight at me while he folds the paper back up. “Cassia. This is for you. It’s even more precious than the compact.”

“But it’s so—” I stop before I can say the word
dangerous
.

There is no time. I hear my father and mother and brother speaking in the hall.