I start to stand. “I think I’d like to leave now—”
“Please sit, Birdy. May I call you that?”
“I’d rather you—”
“We know your mother called you Birdy when you were a little girl—before she committed suicide—and that you prefer to be called Birdy than Olivia. And we know you know that with a diagnosis like yours, you’ll probably be dead before too long.” His insensitivity stuns me into silence. “Your pupils have dilated a little, so I can see that I have upset you, and I apologize for that. Your emotional response level is a little higher than we estimated based on the information you supplied. Causing you further anxiety is not our intention, but I hope you can understand our strict guidelines and the need for checks and balances. What I’m trying to establish is if we tell you the exact date you will die, what will you do with that information?”
“I don’t understand how you can claim to predict when—”
“You don’t need to knowhow, Birdy. That’s our job. We only want what is best for our clients, and we are a highly ethical company, one which takes its role and responsibility seriously. If telling you the date you will die might in any way cause you additional suffering or anxiety, we simply won’t do it.”
If this is an act it’s a bloody good one.
Ishe an actor? Is that why I recognize him?
He’s waiting for me to say something, and the truth feels like the best option.
“I want to know because there is someone I need to see before it’s too late.”
He stares back at me for a long time, then nods.
It’s only then that I notice the earpiece he is wearing.
“Good,” he says, as though I have just passed a test. “I’ll be back in just a moment.”
He leaves the room and “just a moment” feels like it takes almost an hour. I can’t be sure because they made me leave my watch and my phone in the locker and there is no clock in the room. I have never been a patient person, so after what feels like too long to leave me waiting, I stand and walk toward the door to let myself out. Assoon as I reach for the handle the door opens, almost as though someone was watching me the whole time.
“Sorry to have kept you,” says the doctor. “This is the nurse. She’s going to do a few tests, starting with a blood test if that’s okay?” I guess we’re still on a no-name basis. The nurse, like her colleague in reception, looks like she just stepped off a catwalk. “Please take a seat, this won’t take long.”
I remove my tweed jacket, roll up my shirt sleeve, and reluctantly sit back down. The nurse smiles, wraps a tourniquet around the top of my arm, smiles again, then inserts a needle. I’ve never been great with needles, so I turn away. The doctor resumes his position sitting on the white chair opposite me, then answers my next question before I have time to ask it. “Our tests involve a blood sample, some nail clippings—think of it as a mini manicure—followed by a scan, which will feel very similar to the MRI you had at the hospital, but works in a different way. Then I just need some skin and hair samples. It’s all just part of the process.” I turn back to the nurse and see that she is filling a third small tube with my blood. It seems they need quite a lot.
“Okay. After you’ve carried out these tests, what happens then?” I ask.
The doctor smiles. “Then we’ll be in touch.”
The letter arrives the next day.
There is no stamp. It has been hand-delivered.
It looks just like the fancy black envelope my grandmother received, with rose-gold foil letters printed on expensive-looking card stock. But this time the name on the front really is mine. My hands tremble a bit as I start to open it. People with my condition, diagnosed at this stage, can sometimes live for another year, possibly two. Or they’re dead within six months. The diagnosis was a death sentence without a deadline. This might give me a more accurate time frame, or it might all be nonsense. I understand enough aboutpharmaceutical companies and the lengths they are willing to go to in order to secure contracts and make money. A lot of money. And it’s often when people are at their most desperate and most vulnerable that they fall victim to huge corporations who feed off despair to fulfill their greed. But Thanatos, a so-called pharma tech company, still haven’t asked me for a penny. They invited me to see a doctor straight away and haven’t even made me wait for the results. Despite my cynical nature, I’m starting to believe they might actually be able to do what they claim to be able to do: accurately predict a person’s date of death. If not, it’s a very elaborate hoax, and given they don’t charge for their services I can’t quite fathom what they are getting out of it.
Sunday jumps up on the sofa beside me and rests his head on my lap. We stare at the envelope in my hands as though we’re both afraid of what might be inside. I open it and carefully take out the letter. My eyes rush to read the date of death first—of course—but then I read the words printed beneath it several times, as though I can’t quite process them.
Thank you for joining the Thanatos Family…
We all have a right to know when our last day will be,
and now you can live your best life every day until the day you die, and make any arrangements with peace of mind.
Do be sure to contact us if you need any further information on the number below.
We wish you a Happy Deathday.
Seeing myend date, as the doctor called it, winds me.
Maybe nobody should know their date of death.
Maybe we should all be allowed to dream that we might live forever.
