“Wet floor,” Rufus says. “My bad.”
We’re here.
We’re safe.
We have each other’s back. We’ll stretch this day out as long as possible, like we’re the summer solstice.
The Travel Arena has always reminded me of the Museum of Natural History, except half as big and with international flags fixed along the edges of the dome. The Hudson River is a couple blocks away, which I don’t point out to Rufus. The maximum capacity of the arena is three thousand people, which is more than perfect for Deckers, their guests, those with incurable diseases, and anyone else looking to enjoy the experience.
We decide to get our tickets while waiting for Lidia.
A staff member assists us. The three lines are organized by urgency, as in, those with sicknesses versus those of us dying today by some unknown force versus bored visitors. It’s easy figuring out our line with one look at the others. The line to our right is full of laughter, selfies, texting. The line to our left has none of that. There’s a young woman with a scarf wrapped around her head leaning against her oxygen tank; others are wheezing terribly; some are disfigured or badly burned. The sadness chokes me, not only for them, and not even for myself, but for the others ahead of us in our line who were woken up from their safe lives and will hurtle into danger in the next few hours, maybe even minutes. And then there are those who never got this far in the day.
“Why can’t we have a chance?” I ask Rufus.
“A chance at what?” He’s looking around, taking pictures of the arena and the lines.
“A chance at another chance,” I say. “Why can’t we knock on Death’s door and beg or barter or arm-wrestle or have a staring contest for the chance to keep living? I’d even want to fight for the chance to decide how I die. I’d go in my sleep.” And I would only go to sleep after I lived bravely, as the kind of person someone would want to wrap their arm around, who would maybe even nuzzle against my chin or shoulder, and go on and on about how happy we were to be alive with each other without question.
Rufus lowers his phone and looks me in the eyes. “You really think you can beat Death in an arm-wrestling match?”
I laugh and look away from him because the eye contact is warming my face. An Uber pulls up and Lidia storms out of the backseat. She’s frantically looking around for me, and even though today isn’t her End Day, I’m still nervous when a bike rider almost clips her, like he’ll knock her unconscious and she’ll find herself in the hospital with Dad.
“Lidia!”
I run out of line as her eyes find me. I almost trip in my excitement, like I haven’t seen her in years. She throws her arms around me and squeezes, almost as if she herself has pulled me out of a sinking car, or caught me after I’ve fallen out of a crashing plane. She says everything in this hug—every thank-you, every I-love-you, every apology. I squeeze her back to thank her, to make her feel my love, to apologize, and everything else that falls deep inside and skirts outside these realms. It’s the sweetest moment in our friendship since she handed me Penny as a newborn—Lidia steps back and slaps me hard across the face.
“You should’ve told me.” Lidia pulls me back into another hug.
My cheek stings, but I dig my chin into her shoulder, and she smells like whatever cinnamon thing she must’ve fed Penny today because she hasn’t changed out of the baggy shirt I last saw her in. In our hug we sway and I search for Rufus in line and he’s clearly shocked by the slap. It’s weird how Rufus doesn’t know this is Lidia at her core, how, like I said, she’s a coin constantly flipping. It’s strange how I’ve only known Rufus for a day.
“I know,” I tell Lidia. “You know I’m sorry and I was only trying to protect you.”
“You’re supposed to be with me forever,” Lidia cries. “You’re supposed to be around to play bad cop when Penny brings a crush home for the first time. You’re supposed to keep me company with card games and bad TV marathons when she leaves for college. You’re supposed to be around to vote for Penny to become president because you know she’s such a control freak already that she won’t be happy until she’s ruling the country. God knows she’ll sell her soul to take over the whole world, and you’re supposed to be there to help me stop her from making Faustian deals.”
I don’t know what to say. I go back and forth between nodding and shaking my head because I don’t know what to do. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” Lidia squeezes my shoulder.
“Maybe it is. Maybe if I wasn’t hiding I’d have street smarts or something. It’s early to be blaming myself, but maybe it’s going to be my fault, Lidia.” This day has sort of felt like being thrust out into the wilderness with all the supplies I’d need to survive and no idea how to even make a fire.
“Shut your face,” Lidia demands. “This is not your fault. We failed you.”
“Now you shut your face.”
“That’s the rudest thing you’ve ever said,” Lidia says with a smile, like I’ve had promise to be mean all along. “The world isn’t the safest place ever, we know that because of Christian and everyone else dying on the daily. But I should’ve shown you some risks are worth it.”
Sometimes you have a child who you love more than anything, unexpectedly. This was one way she showed me. “I’m taking risks today,” I say. “And I want you here because it’s so much harder for you to break out and be adventurous with Penny in your life. You’ve always wanted to see the world, and since we’re not going to get a chance in this lifetime to go on road trips, I’m happy we can travel together right now.” I hold her hand. I nod toward Rufus.
Lidia turns to Rufus with the same nervous face she had when we were sitting in her bathroom with her pregnancy test. And just like then, before she flipped over the stick to see the result, she says, “Let’s do this.” She squeezes my hand, which Rufus focuses on.
“Hey, what’s up?” Rufus asks.
“Better days, obviously,” Lidia says. “This fucking sucks. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Rufus says.
Lidia stares at me like she’s still surprised I’m in front of her.
We reach the front of the line. The teller, dressed in a cheerful yellow vest, solemnly smiles. “Welcome to the World Travel Arena. Sorry to lose you three.”
“I’m not dying,” Lidia corrects.
“Oh. Cost for guests is going to be one hundred dollars,” the teller says. He looks at me and Rufus. “Suggested donation is one dollar for Deckers.”
I pay for all our tickets, donating an extra couple hundred dollars in the hope that the arena remains open for many, many years. What the arena provides for Deckers seems incomparable, way better than the Make-A-Moment station. The teller thanks us for our donation and doesn’t seem surprised by it; Deckers are always throwing their money around. Rufus and I receive yellow wristbands (for healthy Deckers) and Lidia an orange one (visitor), and we proceed in.
We stay close, not wandering too far from one another. The main entrance is a little crowded as Deckers and visitors look up at the gigantic screen listing all the regions you can visit, and the different kinds of tours available: Around the World in 80 Minutes, Miles of Wilds, Journey to the Center of the United States, and more.
“Should we go on a tour?” Rufus asks. “I’m game for any of them except You, Me, and the Deep Blue Sea.”
“The Around the World in 80 Minutes tour starts in ten,” I say.
“I’d love that,” Lidia says, her arm locked in mine. She turns to Rufus, embarrassed. “Sorry, oh my god, sorry. Really, it’s whatever you two want. I don’t get a vote. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Rufus, you cool with this?”
“Around the world we go, yo.”
We find Room 16 and settle into a double-decker trolley with twenty other people. Rufus and I are the only Deckers with yellow wristbands. There are six Deckers with blue wristbands. Online, I’ve followed many Deckers with incurable illnesses who take it
upon themselves to travel the real countries and cities while they still have time. But those who can’t afford to do so settle for the next best thing with the rest of us.
The driver stands in the aisle and speaks through her headset.
“Good afternoon. Thank you for joining me on this wonderful tour, where we’ll travel the world in eighty minutes, give or take ten. I’m Leslie and I’ll be your tour guide. On behalf of everyone at the World Travel Arena, I offer my condolences to you and your family. I hope our trip today manages to put a smile on your face and leaves a wonderful memory for any guests joining you.
“If at some point you’d like to linger in any region, you’re more than welcome to, but please be advised the tour will have to keep moving if we’re to finish traveling the world in under eighty minutes. Now, if everyone would please fasten your seat belts, we’ll take off!”
Everyone buckles up and we set off. I’m no cartographer, but even I know the destination grid behind each seat—looking similar to the electronic maps on the subway—isn’t geographically correct. Still, it’s an unbelievable time with unbelievably convincing replicas in each room, made even better by Lidia sharing fun facts about each location she learned from her own studies. We move down a railway where we can see Deckers and guests enjoying themselves, some even waving at us like we’re not all tourists here.
In London, we pass the Palace of Westminster, where a myth says it’s illegal to die there, but my favorite part is hearing the bell of Big Ben chime, even if seeing the hands on the clock snaps me back into reality. In Jamaica, we’re greeted by dozens of large butterflies, the Giant Swallowtail, as people sitting on the floor eat special dishes, like ackee and saltfish. In Africa, we see a giant fish tank with inhabitants from Lake Malawi, and I’m so enraptured by the blues and yellows swimming around that I almost miss the live feed on the wall of a lioness carrying her cub by the scruff of its neck. In Cuba, we see guests competing against Cubans in dominoes, and a line for sugar cubes, and Rufus cheers for his roots. In Australia, there are exotic flowers, kite races, and complimentary koala plush toys for any children. In Iraq, the sounds of the national bird, the chucker partridge, play over the speakers discreetly hidden behind the merchant carts offering beautiful silk scarves and shirts. In Colombia, Lidia tells us about the country’s perpetual summer, and we’re tempted to grab a drink from the juice vendors. In Egypt, there are only two pyramid replicas, and since the room has a dry heat, the employees are offering Nile River–brand water bottles. In China, Lidia jokes about how she heard reincarnation is forbidden here without government permission, and I don’t want to think about that so I focus on the lit-up skyscraper replicas and people playing table tennis. In South Korea, we see a couple of orange-yellow robots used in classrooms—“robo-teachers,” they’re called—and Deckers having their faces made up. In Puerto Rico, the trolley stops for its forty-second break. Rufus tugs at my arm and ushers me elsewhere, Lidia following.
“What’s going on?” I ask over the chorus of tiny tree frogs—it’s unclear if they’re actually here or just recordings—and the sounds of wildlife are so jarring, since I’m only used to sirens and cars honking, that hearing the people talking by the rum cart comforts me.
“We talked about how you wanted to do something exhilarating if you ever had the chance to travel, right?” Rufus says. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for something on this tour, and look.” He points at the sign by a tunnel: Rainforest Jump! “I don’t know what it means, but it’s gotta be better than that fake skydive earlier.”
“You went skydiving?!” Lidia asks. Her tone is both are-you-crazy and I’m-super-jealous. She’s possessive in the most nurturing, big-sister way possible.
The three of us walk along the beige tiles, sprinklings of actual sand around, to the tunnel. An arena employee hands us a brochure for the El Yunque Rainforest Room and offers us an audio tour, while admitting we’ll miss out on some of the more natural music of the area if we do. We pass on the headphones and walk through the tunnel, where the air is moist and warm.
The crowding trees withstand the drizzle as an artificial sunlight filters through the thick leaves. We walk around the twisting trunks, going off the beaten path toward the trilling croaks of more tree frogs. Dad told me stories about how when he was my age he’d race up the trees with his friends, catch frogs and sell them to other kids who wanted pets, and sometimes just sit with his thoughts. The deeper we go, the more the frog song is replaced by the sounds of people and a waterfall. I mistake the latter for a recording until we pass through a clearing and I find water spilling off a twenty-foot-high cliff into a pool with shirtless Deckers and lifeguards. This must be the advertised rainforest jump. Don’t know why I thought it was going to be something lamer, like jumping from rock to rock on even ground.
I’ve seen so much already that the idea of leaving this arena is sharper than that of this day ending, like being ripped out of a dream you’ve waited your entire life to have. But I’m not dreaming. I’m awake, and I’m going for it.
“My daughter hates the rain,” Lidia tells Rufus. “She hates anything she can’t control.”
“She’ll come around,” I say.
We walk toward the edge of the cliff where Deckers are jumping. A petite girl with a blue wristband, a headscarf, and floaties does something dangerous at the very last second—she turns around and falls backward, like someone pushed off a building. A lifeguard below whistles and the others swim to the center where she’s splashed through. She returns to the surface, laughing, and it looks like the lifeguards are scolding her, but she doesn’t care. How could anyone on a day like today?
RUFUS
4:24 p.m.
For all the mouth I ran about being brave, I’m not sure about this jump. I haven’t set foot onto a beach or gone inside a community pool since my family died. The closest I’ve come to big bodies of water like this before today was when Aimee was fishing in the East River, and that led to a nightmare of me fishing for my family’s car in the Hudson River, reeling up their skeletons in the clothes they died in, reminding me how I abandoned them.
“You’re all good to go here, Mateo. Gonna have to veto this for myself.”
“You should skip this too,” Lidia tells him. “I know I have no real say here, but veto, veto, veto, veto.”
Mad props to Mateo for getting in line anyway; I want this for him. There aren’t any more croaking frogs, so I know he heard me. This kid has changed. I know you’re paying attention, but look at him—he’s in line to leap off a cliff and I bet you anything he can’t even swim. He turns and waves us over, like he’s inviting us to a line for a roller coaster.
“Come on,” Mateo says, eyeing me. “Or we can go back to Make-A-Moment and swim around one of their pools if you want. I honestly think you’ll feel better about everything if you get back in the water. . . . Me coaching you through something is weird, right?”
“It’s a little ass-backward, yeah,” I say.
“I’ll make it short. We don’t need those Make-A-Moment stations and their virtual realities. We can make our own moment right here.”
“In this artificial rainforest?” I smile back.
“I made no claims to this place being real.”
The arena attendant tells Mateo he’s next.
“Is it cool if my friends and I jump together?” Mateo asks.
“Absolutely,” she responds.
“I’m not going!” Lidia says.
“Yes you are,” Mateo says. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“I should push you off the cliff,” I tell Mateo. “But I won’t because you’re right.” I can take on my fear, especially in a controlled environment like this with lifeguards and arm floaties.
No one planned for a swim, so we strip down to our underwear and yo, I had no idea how damn skinny Mateo is. He avoids looking my way—which I find funny—unlike Lidia, in nothing but her bra and jeans, who’s looking me up and down.
They attendants give us our gear—I’m calling the floaties “gear” because it sounds less cute—and we slip it on. The attendant tells us to jump when we’re comfortable, which shouldn’t be too long since a line is forming behind us.
“Count of three?” Mateo asks.
“Yeah.”
“One. Two . . .”
I grab Mateo’s hand and lock my fingers in his. He turns to me with flushed cheeks and grabs Lidia’s hand.
“Three.”
We all look ahead and below, and we jump. I feel like I’m falling through the air faster, dragging Mateo with me. Mateo shouts, and in the few seconds I have left before hitting the water I shout too, and Lidia cheers. I hit the water, Mateo still beside me, and we’re underwater for only a few seconds, but I open my eyes and see him there. He’s not panicking, and it reminds me of how settled my parents looked after they set me up for freedom. Lidia has disconnected; she’s already out of sight. Mateo and I float back to the top with our hands still locked, lifeguards flanking us. I move toward Mateo, laughing, and I hug him for this freedom he’s forced onto me. It’s like I’ve been baptized or some shit, ditching more anger and sadness and blame and frustration beneath the surface, where they can sink to who-cares-where.
The waterfall pummels the water around us, and a lifeguard ushers us to the hill.
An attendant at the bottom of the hill offers us towels and Mateo wraps his around his shoulders, shivering. “How do you feel?” he asks.
“Not bad,” I say.
We don’t bring up the hand-holding or anything like that, but hopefully he gets where I’m coming from now in case he had any doubts. We head on up to the top of the hill, drying ourselves with towels, and retrieve our clothes and get dressed. We exit through the gift shop, where I catch Mateo singing along with the song on the radio.