“We all got the same warning, don’t worry,” Kimiko assures me.
“Then how are we here talking like this? How have we not ceased to exist yet?”
Noah, who has been relatively quiet the entire meeting, leans forward, looks me straight in the eye, and asks, “How are you so sure we haven’t?”
“What?”
“Ignore him. He fancies himself an amateur philosopher,” says Kimiko.
“We don’t advise group members to ignore each other, Kimiko,” Richard chides in a tone that sounds rehearsed, like he’s had to give her this same reminder more than once.
Despite that, I ignore Kimiko’s words—though I offer her a small smile—and turn to Noah. “What do you mean? I’m sure we haven’t ceased to exist because we’re still here.”
“That’s your perception of reality. But how are you sure that your perception is correct? And even if it is, are you sure that your reality is the only reality? We’ve all lived in two realities. Why should we think it ends there? If there are infinite realities, maybe there is one where you were erased the second you reached out to Richard, and now you’re stuck here with us in a new reality.”
“This is giving me a headache,” I mutter.
“I told you to ignore him,” Kimiko says.
“So is it all bullshit? Can I shout it to the world, tell all my friends, ‘Hey, I died and then un-died. Ask me how’?”
“Well—” Noah begins.
“No, you can’t do that,” Kimiko says flatly.
“We don’tknowthat,” Noah argues.
Kimiko turns so that her entire body is facing me and says, “No one in this group—oranyof the groups, as far as Richard is aware from talking to other group leaders—has ever directly told the truth to anybody who has not been given a second chance. We all found our way here by doing what you did—vague-posting online—or, in some cases, by hinting at it while drunk in a bar within hearing distance of someone who was in one of these groups. We talked around it. We shouted into the void for help, and the void brought us to each other.
“But none of us—not a single one—has ever told the truth to family or friends. Which seems odd, doesn’t it? That out of the thousands of people attending these sorts of group sessions around the world, no one has heard about a friend of a friend who managed to successfully confess the truth to someone they loved?
“Inmyopinion, it lends credence to the idea that our caseworkersweren’t bullshitting us. We can’t tell anybody the truth unless they’ve been through the same thing.”
“Just because no one has tried—” I start, but Steven cuts me off. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak.
“We don’t know that no one has tried,” he says. “We just know that if they did, they’re not here to talk about it.” I’m confused, and it must show, because he clarifies. “You’ll cease to exist, right? That was the promise. Well, there are a lot of people coming to these groups, and the odds are good that at least one or two of them would choose to risk it all and tell the truth to the people who mattered to them. But if they did, according to our caseworkers, they ceased to exist.
“I don’t want to speak for everyone, but sometimes these meetings feel… empty. Sparse. Quieter than they should be. Like something is missing. Someone. A lot of someones. Like there were more of us once. It’s hard to describe, but—”
“But we all get that feeling,” Kimiko finishes. “Keep coming long enough and you will too. And it gets worse the longer you come. That nagging sensation like someone’s not here who should be. Like the opposite of déjà vu. You’ve seen someone before, but now they’re nowhere to be found, not even in your memories.”
Trent and Marie nod, eyes haunted, like they know exactly what Kimiko and Steven are talking about but don’t want to think about it too much.
I certainly don’t.
Richard is the first to collect himself.
“But for now, here, in the comfort of this space and with these people, you’re free to be as open as you’d like. If there’s anything you want to share or ask, please do,” he says.
So I do.
Hesitantly, still not quite convinced it’s safe but also not wanting tocling to my reservations when I see no logical reason to, I tell these seven strangers about myself. About my first life. About my time with my caseworker and the past few weeks.
I talk about Helen and how worried I am. I tell them that her addiction won’t come until later and that, as far as I could tell, it was unexpected by her closest friends and family.
Once I’ve given all the information, I ask if anyone has any advice or if they’ve dealt with this in their new lives—having to prevent a nebulous downfall rather than a crisis at a specific moment.
My question hangs in the air for several heartbeats, each one thudding progressively louder in my head as I await their reactions.
