Chương 3
Move.
Move again.
The tendon in my hand seemed buried beneath concrete, but the fingertip dragged a fraction against the satin.
Marissa made a strangled sound.
She stepped backward hard enough to strike the viewing-room table.
A framed photograph fell flat with a crack.
Footsteps hurried in from the hallway.
“What happened?”
It was another funeral-home employee, a man whose voice I did not recognize.
Marissa did not answer immediately.
“Close the door.”
“What?”
“Close the damn door.”
The door shut.
Marissa leaned over me again.
“Mr. Cole, if you can hear me, move something.”
My finger twitched.
The man swore.
“Call 911.”
Marissa already had her phone out.
The other man said, “Wait.”
I hated him instantly.
“What do you mean, wait?”
“I mean, he was pronounced.”
“I felt a pulse.”
“You think you felt a pulse.”
“He moved.”
“Bodies move.”
“Not like that.”
“Marissa, this family is already halfway through a funeral.”
“And he is alive.”
Her voice rose on the last word.
“Keep it down.”
“Why?”
“Because if you're wrong—”
“If I'm wrong, I'm embarrassed.”
“If you're wrong, we open a sealed casket in the middle of a service, tell a grieving family their son might not be dead, call paramedics, create a scene, and probably get sued.”
“And if I'm right?”
The man did not answer.
Marissa did.
“If I'm right and we do nothing, we cremate him.”
Silence.
Then the man said, “Call.”
Marissa gave the dispatcher the funeral home's address with a steadiness I could not understand because my own mind had become a stampede.
She said possible signs of life.
She said previous declaration of death.
She said involuntary movement.
She said faint pulse.
Then the dispatcher apparently asked whether I was breathing.
Marissa lowered her ear near my mouth.
“Yes.”
She paused.
“Barely, but yes.”
The man said, “Jesus Christ.”
The door handle moved.
Marissa spun around.
“Don't let anyone in.”
He reached the door just as someone knocked.
“Everything all right?” Denise called from the hallway.
The employee opened it only a few inches.
“Small equipment issue.”
“What kind?”
“Nothing concerning.”
Denise was silent.
“That sounded concerning.”
“We're handling it.”
“I left my phone in there.”
Marissa looked toward the table.
A phone lay beside the fallen photograph.
The man picked it up and passed it through the gap.
Denise thanked him without conviction.
Then her footsteps moved away.
The employee shut the door again.
“This is insane,” he muttered.
Marissa ignored him.
She touched my wrist.
“Stay with me, Mr. Cole.”
As if I had anywhere else to go.
I tried to open my eyes.
Nothing.
I tried to swallow.
A muscle somewhere in my throat spasmed painfully.
Marissa noticed.
“He swallowed.”
The man came closer.
“Yeah.”
He sounded different now.
Less skeptical.
More afraid.
“We need to get the lid all the way open.”
Together they released something near the hinges.
The coffin opened wider.
Air moved across my face.
I heard the ventilation system above us, the hum of fluorescent lights, the ordinary mechanical sounds of a building that had nearly become the last place on earth I ever knew.
Sirens appeared in the distance.
The man whispered, “Oh, we're so screwed.”
Marissa said, “He's more screwed.”
The sirens grew louder.
Then the hallway erupted.
Someone shouted that an ambulance had arrived.
Shoes pounded over tile.
A voice demanded to know what was happening.
Olivia.
The employee tried to intercept her.
“Mrs. Cole, please—”
“What happened?”
“We need you to remain outside.”
“Why?”
“Medical personnel are coming through.”
“Medical personnel?”
Her voice broke perfectly.
“What are you talking about?”
The door swung open.
The room filled with movement.
A paramedic asked everyone to step back.
Another said my name.
Hands touched my neck, chest, eyelids.
Someone attached adhesive pads to my skin.
Velcro ripped.
Plastic packaging crackled.
Then a machine began emitting sharp electronic tones.
I waited for someone to say the word.
Alive.
Nobody said it.
The first paramedic spoke in clipped fragments.
“Pulse present.”
“Bradycardic.”
“Respirations shallow.”
“Get the stretcher in.”
Olivia made a sound I had never heard from her before.
Not grief.
Not surprise.
A small involuntary gasp.
The kind people make when something impossible has found them.
One of the paramedics asked, “How long has he been like this?”
Marissa answered.
“He was brought here this morning.”
“I mean responsive.”
“He isn't responsive.”
“He moved a finger.”
“When?”
“Maybe five minutes ago.”
Olivia found her voice.
“There has to be a mistake.”
The room stopped around that sentence.
Not literally, but I felt the change.
A paramedic asked, “Ma'am, who are you?”
“His wife.”
“Your husband has a pulse.”
“I know what you're saying.”
“Then I'm not sure what you mean by mistake.”
“He died.”
The paramedic did not answer.
Olivia stepped closer.
“He was pronounced dead at the hospital.”
“We'll sort that out there.”
“No.”
That word came too quickly.
Another pause.
Olivia corrected herself.
“I mean, no, you don't understand.”
Her breath hitched.
“He was gone.”
A woman near the door started crying.
My mother.
Daniel said, “What the hell is happening?”
Someone tried to keep him back.
He pushed past anyway.
“Ethan?”
His voice came from my left.
“Ethan, can you hear me?”
Yes.
I tried again to move my finger.
The paramedic noticed.
“He's responding to voice.”
Daniel inhaled sharply.
“Do it again.”
I tried.
Nothing.
“Come on, man.”
His voice cracked.
“Come on.”
My finger moved.
Daniel began to laugh.
It was one ugly, disbelieving bark.
Then he said, “Holy shit.”
My mother started sobbing.
Olivia said nothing.
The stretcher wheels locked beside the coffin.
The paramedics moved me onto a rigid board and lifted.
Pain exploded through my shoulder where someone gripped me.
Pain.
Beautiful pain.
The first undeniable proof that my body was still mine.
They transferred me to the stretcher and secured straps across my chest and legs.
As they wheeled me toward the hall, Olivia appeared beside me.
May you like
“My God,” she whispered.
Her hand reached for mine.
