The End, Virtually
by Charles David Taylor
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Marjorie’s eyes widened. “Let the record show, and be it known to all men present, that I am fully coherent and have all my wits about me, if that’s what you mean,” she said, smiling pleasantly. Wilcox stifled a smirk.
Dexter looked pained. He had never liked his mother’s sarcasm, especially when it slighted his sacred profession. “Just checking. I’ve been here when that thing was running and you were completely... gone.”
“Gone but not forgotten. At least not yet. You may recall, I am dying.”
Dexter shuddered. She knew death made him uncomfortable, but she was long past dancing around the subject. Dexter preferred to speak of “passing” or “departing” and once even said “go to your just reward.” She had laughingly replied, “Now I get it! It’s like winning the lottery!”
“Yes, I am aware of... that. I know you need to rest after the nurse has tended to you, so I’ll get right to the purpose of my visit.” He cleared his throat and glanced back at Wilcox, who remained impassive. “In my best judgment, I think it best for you and the family if we brought you home. You need to be surrounded by those closest to you, not in a sterile institution, tended by strangers.”
Marjorie was horrified. “But why, Dexter? I like it here. I feel so fortunate to be part of the Virtuality program. It’s working wonderfully for me. No matter what you think, the people here are marvelous, kind and attentive. They’ve seen dying before. They understand what I’m going through.” She glanced at Wilcox, who gave the slightest nod.
Dexter had prepared his argument in advance and began listing off case points. “We’ll have a nurse tend you. Full or part time, as needs require. But the real advantage is, you would have us and the children close by. Millie is quite a competent housemaid and can see to your needs while Eunice and I are at work.”
Dexter had just described the worst possible scenario. She would be alone all day with an indifferent housekeeper who had no experience in anything but light housework, lighter cooking, and watching soap operas. The children would avoid her, and complain mightily behind her back. The last time she’d seen them was when she could still get around by herself. During her visit in their 5,000 square-foot Mcmansion, both had ignored her and stayed plugged into their phones, texting nonstop. And Eunice, she was a colder fish than Dexter.
“Have you discussed this with Eunice?’
Dexter cleared his throat and avoided her sharp gaze. “Eunice will comply.” That meant no. That did it. The last thing Marjorie wanted was to be in the middle of a family civil war.
She decided it was time for brutal frankness, which she had avoided for too long. “Dex, honey, why are you doing this? Is it the money?”
Dexter flushed and stammered, “Of course not, I...”
She cut him off. “Oh Dex, it is the money, isn’t it? But I have plenty. Enough to last for the weeks or months or however long I have, according to the oncologist and the internist, and Dr. Wilcox.” Wilcox nodded.
Dexter recovered quickly. “You don’t know that! It’s costing thousands per day! And it’s increasing. Every minute you spend in that escapist, trance-like state, it drains your estate—”
“The money, that is what’s bothering you. Draining your inheritance. And the fact that I am ‘escaping’ as you put it. Not facing reality.”
“Escaping from us, your family. We who love you.”
“Then why haven’t Eunice and the kids been here to see me? Not once. Too depressing? Do they even know I’m dying?”
Dexter flushed again. “Not exactly. Granted, they need to know, but the opportunity for an in-depth discussion has simply not presented itself. Our family is like so many others these days, so very busy, you can’t imagine...”
She was angry now. “No, Dexter, the answer is no. I am still a sentient being and I refuse. I want to stay here.”
She hardly ever contradicted her one and only son this way, never questioned his judgment with such firmness. She had always been the conciliator, the understanding one.
Dexter’s mouth dropped open in a caricature of shock. “Mother! What has come over you?” He scowled and answered his own question: “It’s these treatments, they’ve changed you completely, and for the worse.”
His expression hardened as his attorney persona took over. “Mother, I cannot sit here and let this pass. This reckless experimental procedure has altered your personality, and damaged your judgment to a pathological extent. Clearly, you are no longer competent to make a rational decision. And I have no doubt a judge will agree with me.”
He shot a hostile look back at Wilcox, then continued. “One more week. That’s it. In the meantime, I suggest you wean yourself off this infernal machine. You must come willingly, or I shall take action. I know the judge will agree with me.” He rose and straightened his coat. “You’ll see. It’s for the best. For all of us.”
Dexter turned and marched past the wide-eyed Wilcox, who jerked back, then hurried to stand next to her. When Dexter had gone, he leaned in and asked, “Would he do such a thing? Why can’t he understand?”
“Oh, yes, he’ll do it. He’s incapable of understanding anything but the law and his own judgment. He’s always had a stick up his ass, like his father. He prides himself on his iron will and thinks it’s his greatest virtue. It’s nothing but pure egotism, if not narcissism.”
Wilcox took her hand, holding it gently. There was great sadness in his eyes. “Do you want to talk, Marjorie? I have some time. If I’m this disturbed, I can only imagine how you feel.”
“Not now, Doctor. I need time to think. Alone.” She smiled kindly. “Did you make those adjustments we talked about?”
He nodded. “More barriers removed, so be careful. You can do more, go deeper, but the potential for... emotional pain is greater. When you want to talk, just call.”
As soon as he left, she turned on the machine.
* * *
“Brad?”
“Um?”
They had been making love all afternoon in a frenzy of escape. Now Brad was dozing underneath her, but she needed to talk.
“I want to run away.”
“What are you talking about?’
“I’ve only got another week. Then it’s all going to end.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“I want to... need to escape. Can you come with me? Help me?”
He gave her an enigmatic smile. “You know I can’t. I’ve got my job here. Plus there’s child support, alimony. You know my situation.”
She sighed. “I know. But I’ve got to figure something out.”
He kissed her ear. “You’ll do it, baby. You’re the genius. I just work here.”
She laughed, then sighed. Her eyes were full of tears. “I know what I have to do, but I’m afraid. And I don’t know how to do it. Not yet, anyway.”
* * *
Four days later, Wilcox was sitting by her bed, holding her hand. His was the saddest face she had ever seen. She smiled. “Cheer up, it has to happen sometime, right? My darling son has simply put a firm deadline on it. Deadline, get it?’”
Wilcox winced at the awful joke, tried to smile. “You’re the best patient we’ve ever had, Marjorie. And...” He blinked away tears. She had never seen him so emotional. “And I like you so much. Sorry, in my professional lifetime, I’ve never allowed myself to say that. Or feel it.”
“I know. I like you too.” She reached out a trembling hand and squeezed his arm. Her grip was pathetically weak, but her smile was radiant.
He wiped his eyes and put his hand on hers. “Thanks,” he whispered.
“Okay,” she sighed, “as Dex would say, let’s get down to business.”
The explainer-in-chief kept it simple. He had removed all limits on Virtuality. She would have total control. He had turned off the exit warning so no one could interrupt. Whatever happened, she was responsible and must accept the consequences, in that world and this. By the time he finished, she understood everything, including the dangers involved.
“You’re sure you won’t get into trouble?” she asked. “Do I have to sign anything, a waiver or something?”
“You’ve already signed it. When you volunteered for the experimental treatment. Your son co-signed, as I recall.”
She grinned. “Poor little Scrooge. He was thrilled when he found out the grant would pay for the majority of the treatment. But he didn’t realize how much lost time and experience his mother had to make up.”
“Pardon? What do you mean?” said Wilcox. The explainer wanted an explanation.
She sighed. “I’ve given you hints and bits of my pathetic story. The trophy wife who gave up her dream of becoming an actress to live in luxury, ending up as a nursemaid to a domineering, invalid husband. And then, an equally domineering son. I had to retreat into an inner life.
“Did you know I made quite a name for myself — a pen name — secretly writing fantastical romance stories?” She looked into his eyes and shrugged. “Enough of that. I’m so grateful, Richard. You’ve given me such a gift, breathed life into my dreams, no matter how trite and banal.”
“Don’t say that!” It came out with more force than he intended. “They, you, are absolutely astounding. Lindsay and I... Okay, I’ve said enough.”
She smiled coyly. “Been following my little soap opera, have you? I guess I knew that. Isn’t Brad wonderful? But do me a favor. Dex will no doubt subpoena your records, your ‘data.’ Can you—?”
“All the bedroom scenes will be wiped. Consider it done.”
“Thank you, Richard.” She groaned as a blast of pain shot through her mid-section. “Ooh, God, that was a bad one! I’d best be going. Now, don’t you and Lindsay miss my final act, hear? Even I won’t know what happens until it happens.” She grinned. “You know what? I’m excited.”
“You have complete authorial license. Like Hemingway, a lesson in courage.” He reached over and squeezed her hand.
“Goodbye, Richard. It’s time.” She smiled and withdrew her hand, then reached over and pressed the green button.
* * *
She got out of bed quickly and put on her silk running shorts and the tight tank top. At least I’ll be going in style. She laced up her runners and glanced out the window. The sky was darkening. Her favorite poem came to mind:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.
She stepped outside as lightning arced across the sky, followed instantly by an ear-splitting clap of thunder. She began to jog slowly, warming up.
For old times’ sake, she ran past the pool. She was surprised to see everyone standing away from the bar, watching her, holding up their glasses in a toast. George had his arm around Brad’s shoulder, who was standing next to Angel. Brad’s grin was enormous.
Alex hurried out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on his apron. He beckoned her over. “Come on, Marj, one more. For drinks all around?” She slowed to a walk and nodded.
Alex had a sly look on his face. “This term, coined by Arnold Schoenberg, describes the splitting of a melodic line between multiple instruments to add texture and tone color to the melody.”
She recognized it as one of the hardest questions in the J1 database, which Jeopardy contestants studied for years before going on the show. She shook her head, pretending to be stumped. Everyone groaned. She laughed. “What is Klangfarbenmelodie?”
Alex slapped his forehead and the crowd whooped for joy. She pumped her fist and resumed her run, calling back over her shoulder, “Enjoy, everybody!” When she rounded the corner, she could still hear the cheers.
Footsteps behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder and grinned. It was Usain. He often ran with her around the compound.
“You can’t beat me, Marj. I’m the world’s fastest man. Don’t even try.”
“Oh yeah? Fastest man, maybe,” and she poured it on. He did too, but after a few minutes, he began to fade. Over her shoulder, she shouted back at him, “You always were a short-distance man, Mister Bolt!” He was standing still in the road, hands on knees, gasping for breath.
She took the coast road, where she often ran because she could watch the sun set over the ocean. The road wound around and down a long hill, descending and ascending in fits and starts for a half-mile. By the time she came to the beach, she was at least two hundred feet below the crest of the hill.
She stopped to walk along the beach. The sky was full of scudding clouds with a strange greenish hue. She hoped the sun would break through at the last minute on the horizon and produce a spectacular sunset. The ocean was strangely quiet, just a gentle lapping.
Oddly, the water had receded far from the shore, and the beach was much broader than she had ever seen it. She wandered out toward the water, puzzled by freshly-exposed rocks and piles of sea kelp and even a few fish that had been stranded by the rapidly receding water. She was so transfixed by the sight of the newly exposed ocean floor and the eerie greenish light that she almost didn’t see what was on the horizon.
A dark line had formed at the junction of water and sky. She squinted and saw the line getting thicker, swelling. She had never seen anything like it. Then she felt the first tremor underfoot, and moments later the first wave of sound, which continued to build relentlessly into a deep, powerful roar that increased in volume until it became louder, more like a freight train than surf. The black line resolved itself into what it was, a vast wall of water: tsunami.
She turned and ran for her life.
She raced back up the hill, her legs pumping in a wild sprint. The world was engulfed by the thunderous roar as a wall of water slammed and swallowing up the beach she had been strolling along moments before. The huge wave ascended behind her, When she was halfway up the hill, she stopped and faced its boiling turbulence.
“You’ll never have me, you bastard!” she screamed. Her heart hammered with terror, then a wild exhilaration. At the last minute, as water roiled up around her knees, she dove into it and let it toss her body like a fallen leaf. Moments later, she got her bearings and did what she had to do: dive deeper.
Sure enough, the turbulence was all at the surface. Underneath was quiet, beautifully clear, like the crystal waters off Jamaica where she’d once gone swimming. The clarity did not seem strange at all, and neither did it seem strange that she felt no need to breathe.
She took off her shoes and shorts and top and swam down, down, turning round and round, as naked as the day she was born, descending further because it was warm and suffused with a wondrous glow. She looked up at the surface, so far away now, thinking the sun must have come out because she saw a single spot of light through the swirling currents, and her last thought was that she would remember this moment forever, for the rest of her life.
* * *
From the control room, Lindsay’s voice came softly over the intercom. “I’m not getting anything. Is she gone?”
Wilcox glanced at the bedside screen: flatline. “Looks like it,” he said. “God, I’ll miss her.” Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Look at that face,” said Jolene. “So peaceful. You’d never know she fought it to the last.”
Copyright © 2022 by Charles David Taylor
