It’s funny that we have no memory of the day
we’re born.
It’s a hugely important moment—the beginning
of your life—and yet you have to rely on
photographs and anecdotes to know what even
happened. I mean, in a way, entering the world
is kind of like a night of spectacular
drunkenness.
Okay, well, being blackout drunk is more likely
to result in later discovering that—to use a
completely random example—you hooked up with
your best friend’s older sister, as opposed to
learning that you came out of the womb with a
conehead or something.
But still.
In both situations, you’re only hearing the story
from others, so how can you really know what
the truth is?
To use another completely random example, if
you’d been told your entire life that your
mother died soon after giving birth to you, how
would you begin to refute that? Why would you
even think to try?
The answer is: you wouldn’t. You’d take it at
face value, occasionally feel bad for yourself,
and get on with your life.
But later on, if that life took an extreme detour
—a detour that seemed highly connected to
things that went down at your birth—you might
just begin to question everything.
I wish someone had taken more pictures.
“Am I dead?” I ask.
I’m supposed to be dead.
My mother smiles. “No.”
This would be reassuring, except for the fact
that she’s supposed to be dead, too.
“I’m alive,” she says. “We’re both alive. We’ve
been waiting for you, Denton.”
Everything spins, and I’m fairly certain the
contents of my stomach are about to splatter
onto my undead mom’s face. But then the
spinning stops.
My mom stares at me, more curious than
concerned. I don’t know if I should believe what
she’s said or if this is even real, but I’m too
damn tired to go anywhere else.
I nod and walk inside.
“Up this way,” she says, stepping over an empty
can of Mr. Pibb and pointing to a set of stairs. I
immediately feel relieved. If this turns out to be
some kind of afterlife, stairs that ascend seem
like a good sign. Heaven, baby!
But the stairwell smells like fish sticks. And
farts.
“It’s just this one flight,” my mom says, her
dark curls bouncing as she leads the way up the
concrete steps and stops at a door marked 2D.
Of course. 2D. As in: a second dimension. As in:
the afterlife.
Wow. Here we go.
My mom grits her teeth, fiddling with the key.
“Haven’t figured this stupid lock out yet,” she
says. Guess it makes sense there would be tight
security. You wouldn’t want any ol’ schmuck to
be able to get into heaven.
“Whew,” she says as she finally pushes the door
open and gestures for me to head inside. “They
don’t make it easy, do they?”
“Exactly,” I say, pushing past her to see what’s
in store for me in this other dimension. “Oh.” My
hopes quickly evaporate. There are no babies
playing harps. There are no Skittles raining
down from the ceiling. I’m staring at a room
with nothing on the walls and only a few pieces
of furniture.
This must be a way station between life and
heaven.
“Denton,” my mother says, locking the door and
then coming to stand right in front of me.
“You’re here. At last.” Her eyes sparkle.
“Yeah,” I say. I can’t believe I’m chilling with
my mom’s ghost.
“You’ve grown up into such a handsome young
man.” She touches my cheek with her cold ghost
fingers, and I flinch. “Sorry,” she says,
retracting her hand.
“No, it’s…” I can’t finish the sentence. My brain
is a swirling stew of words, images, and question
marks, but none are staying put long enough for
me to get a handle on them.
Here’s what I do know:
Today—well, technically yesterday at this point,
since it must be, like, three in the morning—was
my deathdate.
By which I mean, you know, the date I was
going to die? Which was determined by a highly
advanced test that is given to every baby born
in the US? Which is known to be one hundred
percent accurate?
Right. So, my deathdate was yesterday.
And I lived through it.
Just…did not die.
Or so I thought.
Because now, to add another slice of insanity to
this WTF pie, I’ve arrived at the New York City
address given to me by doctor-guy Brian Blum,
and my dead biological mother opened the door.
So I’m pretty sure I did die.
I finally formulate a question: “We’re ghosts,
right?”
“What?” my mom says, a grin blossoming on her
face like I’ve just mispronounced a very simple
word.
“I mean…,” I say. “You’re a ghost. And I’m a
ghost. Right?”
“Oh, you poor, confused boy,” my mom says,
cracking up. “I already told you: we’re alive,
Denton.”
“This isn’t, like…heaven?”
My mom laughs harder. “Oh, Jesus. Let’s hope
that if there’s a heaven, it’s more appealing
than this shit hole.”
So this is not heaven.
And I am not dead.
And I am standing here with my mother.
Holy fuckballs.
“I’m sorry to laugh,” my mom says, wiping tears
from her eyes. “I know you’ve been through a
lot. But you looked so sincere when you said it.
We’re ghosts, right?” She imitates how I looked
when I said it, and I notice the parts of her
that do, in fact, look like me. Same mouth.
Same slightly oversize nose. Different hair,
though. And different eyes.
But there’s no doubt this is my mother. I know
this should be an emotional moment, but I feel
nothing.
“I’m sure you have a lot of questions,” she says.
Understatement of the century.
“I thought you…,” I say. I blink three times, my
eyes feeling like they’ve been coated with a thick
layer of glue. “You’re supposed to be dead. You
died giving birth to me.”
“I know, Denton.” She looks at me with a
sympathetic smile, like she feels bad that I’m
the only one not in on the joke. “That’s what was
supposed to happen. But it didn’t.”
“You’ve been alive this whole time?” I ask. “Just
living here?”
“Oh,” my mother says, running a hand through
her brown curls. “I don’t live here. This is a
temporary situation. A place where we could…
welcome you.”
I stare at the walls, thinking there might be a
WELCOME, DENTON! banner I didn’t notice when
I first walked in.
“I know it seems impossible,” my mom continues,
“but we both survived. I was part of a team that
created a powerful virus, and eighteen years
ago, when you were in my womb, we injected this
virus into you, and then I contracted it, too.
The virus kept both of us alive.”
I blink some more. I can barely understand
what she’s saying. She’s definitely using the
word virus a lot, though.
“The rash you had,” she says. “Purple with red
dots…That was the virus in its activated state.”
The splotch. She’s talking about the purple
splotch that started at my thigh and then
spread to cover my whole body. Even in my
addled, exhausted state, I remember being
purple. “Okay, cool, yeah,” I say, the shock of
this new reality starting to ebb away. “It was in
its activated state. Fantastic. That makes
perfect sense.” I giggle a little. Maybe it’s
because I’m ridiculously tired, but suddenly
everything seems hilarious.
“Here,” my mother says, putting her hands on
my shoulders, steering me toward a flimsy-
looking gray table and guiding me down into a
folding chair. “I’m sure you’re hungry. I got you
sesame noodles and broccoli. Does that work?”
