Chapter 15 #2
Kimiko’s hand shoots up in my peripheral vision, and I watch as the room reacts. Richard looks comically surprised, while Steven and Marie seem almost hostile.
So weird.
From the way Kimiko approached me and immediately talked my ear off, I would have thought she’d be a big sharer during these meetings, but I can tell by everyone’s reactions—as well as the fact that she hasn’t said a word since we all sat down—that this isn’t the case.
Richard clears his throat and asks, “Kimiko, do you have something you would like to share with the group?”
“Hard pass,” she says. “I just want to establish that you haven’t actually asked Joey if she wants to talk.” She turns to me. “You can talk, you know. Richard’s big on easing us in and making sure we’re comfortable, but you can talk if you want to. Do you want to?”
I freeze, suddenly on the spot for the second time tonight.
“You can talk if you would like to, Joey,” Richard confirms. “But you don’t have to.”
I take a moment to think about it. Do I want to talk?
I came here for a reason, didn’t I? And yet…
something about this is so disconcerting; the way everyone talks and looks at each other is just a little off.
I feel like I’m missing something, maybe something big, but I can’t put my finger on what it might be.
There’s a tension in the air, a judgmental undertone to every action.
I’ve never been to group therapy, but something tells me it’s not supposed to be like this.
But I did come here for a reason. Even if I never come back, I want to know that I did my best to help Helen.
Easier said than done.
Even though I’ve listened to every single one of them speak with unnerving frankness, I still have my caseworker’s words in my ear, reminding me that the one and only rule of this whole deal is that I don’t talk about it.
It’s like Fight Club. First rule, second rule, et cetera.
So why are we all here talking about Fight Club? Something’s gotta give.
“Do the people…” I struggle with the wording. “The people up there…”
“The caseworkers?” Richard fills in.
“Yes. The caseworkers. Um, the caseworkers in the game—”
Kimiko snorts, then says, “We all know you’re talking about ‘the game.’ You’re fine. They’re not going to smite you. We’ve been doing this for years.”
“Right. How, though?”
“How have we been talking openly about it?” Richard clarifies.
I nod. “My caseworker—in the game—told me that talking openly about the opportunity I was given would result in me being… kicked out of the game. Erased from the game completely. Did your caseworkers not give you the same warning?”
“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’t know that,” Noah argues.
Kimiko turns so that her entire body is facing me and says, “No one in this group—or any of 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?
“In my opinion, it lends credence to the idea that our caseworkers weren’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 to cling 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.
Finally, someone answers.
“Why do you think you need to save her?”
I turn to Trent and respond, “Because she’s my friend.”
“I’m not saying she isn’t. But why do you feel like you’re the person who has to save her?”
“I’m the only person who knows.”
Trent considers this. A small smile tugs at his lips, almost like he’s amused by what I’ve said. “You think that knowing her future makes that future your responsibility?”
“Doesn’t it?”
Kimiko says, “I agree with Trent!” in a surprised, almost scandalized, tone.
“Everyone is on their own path. This opportunity that you’ve been given is about correcting your path and finding joy and pleasure in your second life.
If you spend all your time worrying about other people, it will interfere with your personal fulfillment. ”
“That’s not at all what I said,” Trent says flatly, all humor wiped from his face.
“Isn’t it, though?” Kimiko challenges.
“The problem is, maybe Joey isn’t a selfish person,” Marie chimes in. “Maybe she finds fulfillment in helping others. Not everyone can engage with your solipsistic worldview, Kimiko.”
Kimiko is unfazed. “Oh, I wouldn’t give me all the credit. Trent said it first.”
“I didn’t say that,” Trent exclaims. His voice is only slightly raised, but the effect is as good as yelling.
“We’re forgetting one key piece here,” Noah says.
At his words, Trent and Kimiko both roll their eyes, and Trent says, “Here we go again,” in a way that does absolutely nothing to mask his derision. So it’s not just Kimiko he can’t stand.
Noah continues as if Trent hasn’t said anything. “This entire debate rests on the assumption that Helen is a pawn in this story instead of a player. But if she died in this tragic way, and she had regrets because of it, there’s always the chance that she was given the same choice as all of us.”
“Wait a minute—are you saying she might be living her second life too?” I ask.
“I have a theory—” Noah starts.
Trent snorts. “You always have a theory.”
“Go ahead, Noah,” Kimiko encourages.