1 3 7 – ZOË (5 page)

“Congratulations on a job well done, mom.  I’m so proud of you.  I
hope they find this monster and bring him to justice.”

“
Thanks, honey, so do I.  We almost lost you because of his vile deed.”  She sighed and shook her head as if to clear it of bad thoughts.  “Let’s enjoy our Independence Day, shall we?  I see more guests arriving and you should be greeting them.”   

I took my mother’s advice and went to stand bes
ide my husband.  It felt strange to see my former peers now old enough to be my parents.  Everyone was nice to me, but they weren’t the same people I remembered.  Naturally, people change with time- they
grow
.  Almost two decades had passed, and I had not grown with them.

As the professional chefs Michael hired cooked sirloin burgers
, pork ribs and free-range chicken breasts on industrial outdoor grills, caterers went around with drinks and fancy canapés.  I stood among a group of older women, listening to them go on about a new shoe designer.  Michael came over and handed me a mojito cocktail, complete with a cute yellow paper umbrella and a slice of sugar cane.  I nodded gratefully and took a sip.  He stroked my shoulders.

I held up the tiny umbrella.  “I’m so glad
they still make these,” I said, twirling it between my fingers.

“Sure
they do,” one of the women in the group said.  “We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“That’s right,” Michael agreed.
  “As long as women walk this planet, cute little drink umbrellas will always be in existence.”

The women laughed in unison an
d there was something artificial about the sound.

“May I please have everyone’s attention?
” Michael called out loudly.  “I have an announcement to make.”

I turned to him in surprise. 
The guests stopped speaking to look at Michael expectantly.  They gathered around us and waited. 

Looking deeply into
my eyes, he announced, “I’m the luckiest man in the world.  I’m married to a woman who is nothing short of a miracle.”  The guests mumbled in agreement.  “Not only is she beautiful, intelligent and talented, she is also a survivor.  I know I speak for everyone here when I say that it’s so good to have you back with us, Zoë.”

The guests
applauded and I spotted my mother crying.

I gave my husband’s
hand a grateful squeeze and accepted his kiss.  “Thank you, Michael.”

“As a token of
my affection for you, I would like to give you this little gift.”

He proceeded to remove
a small Tiffany box from his shirt pocket (it was still the same robin’s egg blue I remembered, wrapped with a white satin ribbon). Several women in the group gasped in envious delight as he placed it in my hands.

“Open it,” Michael urged.

I opened the box and removed the black velvet jewelry box from within.  I flipped the lid back to reveal a stunning pair of round diamond earrings- each over two carats in size.

“Oh, Michael…they’re beautiful!”
I said.

The women crowded arou
nd the tiny box to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ and compliment Michael on his good taste. 

“Put them on,” Michael said.

I exchanged the gold studs in my ears for the diamonds.  “Well?” I asked.

“
Two shining stars,” he said.  “You’re my shining star, princess.”

The women cooed at his words, and
I realized for the first time that they all looked alike; same designer clothing, same brand shoes and bags, similar haircuts, similar facial expressions.  They looked like plastic Barbie dolls and I was suddenly reminded of the old movie
The Stepford Wives
.

Maddy approached to admire my new earrings. 
“They’re gorgeous!  You’re so lucky.”

I raised my eyebrow. 
“He
does
have a younger brother, you know.”

Maddy laughe
d and shook her head. 

My mother touched my earlobe
and smiled.  “Michael loves you so much,” she said, looking at the earrings.  “I can’t even begin to tell you how happy he is to have you back.”

“You’re mother is right, you know,” Michael said
before kissing the tip of my nose.  “Now let’s go eat some all-American food.  I’m hungry.”

As Michael led m
e towards tables laden with mass quantities of food, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that something wasn’t right.

I slowed my pace and got off the jogging path in order to check my heart rate.  The doctor had advised checking it periodically whenever I did strenuous exercise.  I was warned that the first six months after waking up were crucial.  It was mid-September and (thankfully) I hadn’t suffered any complications so far.  I still couldn’t run, so I jogged and took three yoga classes a week to stay in shape.  Things were slowly getting back to normal.

I also got my old
job back at the Ashford Gallery.  The owner (my former employer), Hillary Ashford, had passed away several years ago.  Hillary’s daughter, Nancy, had inherited the gallery and was more than happy to rehire me.  It was also good for business. 
Cryo-people
, as we were commonly referred to, were rare and I would be somewhat of a novelty within the gallery.  Novelties usually attracted clients.

I
took a deep breath and walked around, allowing my heart rate to slow down gradually before taking my pulse.  Eighty beats a minute.  Normal.

“Hey, that’s Zoë Adams!”

I turned to see two women staring at me; one was pointing.  I smiled at them and waved, and they waved back.

“Good to see you’re doing well,” the woman called out.

“Thanks,” I replied.

I ran into these well-wishers
often now that I had integrated myself into public life.  Strangers approached me on a regular basis to ask me questions.  Some just stared in shocked silence.  The latter were usually old people who refused to accept the idea of cryogenics and feared the unknown.  Anti-cryo activists were also not shy about approaching me and letting me know what they thought.  Usually, they were quite civil.  Since my case was so famous, most of them realized that it hadn’t been my choice to be frozen. 

I was brought out of my reveri
e by the sound of a persistent beep.  Pushing the ‘receive’ button on my wrist-phone, I watched the tiny neon blue screen reveal Michael’s smiling face.

“Hello, Michael.”

“Hi, princess.  I can see from the trees behind you that you’re in the park.”

“I am.”

“Jogging?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got a nice surprise for you.  The president and first lady have invited us for dinner tonight.”

“Great.”

“I’m sorry, honey, but I can’t pick you up.  I’ve got too many meetings.  I’ll send a car.”

“That’ll be fine, Michael.”

“I’ll see you at seven.  Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I pressed the ‘end’ button and the screen returned to neon blue.  Wrist-phones would soon be on the out.  Holographic phones would be the next hi-tech device. 

“On your left!”

I immediately took a step to the right in order to avoid collision with a young boy on an orange and silver hover board.  I smiled, remembering the old “Back to the Future Movie” with the actor Michael J. Fox.  Ten years ago, a scientist who had been a great fan of the movie had finally perfected a hover board suitable for the mass market. 

Everything
was so different, yet the same. 

That’s why I liked
history.  Everything was cyclical.
People had gotten wiser in regards to planet upkeep and peace preservation, but there was something unsettling that I still couldn’t put my finger on.  Maybe it had to do with my feelings of displacement.  For example, clothes were very modern and linear, mostly made of synthetic materials that were easy to care for and required no ironing.  Natural fibers were outrageously expensive and only the very rich could afford them. 

At first
this didn’t make any sense since the planet was so bio-conscious, but then Michael explained that the clothing was recycled.  When clothes got worn out or went out of style and people tired of them, they would toss them into one of the many silver boxes set up all over the city.  The boxes were in banks, supermarkets, metro stops, and street corners.  The old clothing would then be recycled into next season’s fashions.

Everything made perfect sense
.  And
that
was not normal.  Life was chock full of ironies and idiosyncrasies.

I made my way towards th
e sporty Mercedes convertible Michael had given me as a gift after the doctors said I could drive.  The driver’s side door opened to let me inside.  It was not long before I was cruising down the smooth, clean streets towards home.  Two decades of perfecting solar power batteries had paid off because the car packed a lot of punch, and hugged curves as closely as traditional sports cars once had in the past.

Juana was outsi
de speaking with Carlos when I pulled up the driveway.  She looked upset, but smiled as though nothing was amiss when she noticed that I was watching.  She gave me a brief wave, and then ran back into the house.  Carlos nodded politely as I got out of the car and proceeded to continue watering the flowerbeds.

“Is everything all right, Carlos?”

“Yes, Mrs. Adams.”

“Juana seemed upset.”

Carlos shrugged dismissively. “She gets that way whenever a recipe does not work out.”

I sensed
he was lying.  He couldn’t even look me in the eye when he spoke.  “I see.”

I
walked into the house and Juana seemed to materialize out of nowhere, giving me the impression that she had overheard my brief conversation with Carlos.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Adams.  Mr. Adams has informed me that you will be dining at the White House this evening.  Shall I lay out your clothes?”

“Yes, please.  The chocolate Dior cocktail dress.”

“Excellent choice.  I will get everything ready for you.  The car will be here in an hour.”

“Thank you, Juana.”

I
took a long, hot shower, savoring every minute.  This would be my second dinner at the White House- the first since my awakening.  The press would undoubtedly be there since I will be the first cryo-person to ever dine with a U.S. president.

I
brushed my long, red hair into a simple chignon and donned the elegant chocolate brown satin dinner dress.  Strappy copper shoes completed the outfit.  I truly relished the simple, smart-looking styles that were so popular nowadays.  Even cosmetics were simpler now, more natural and easy to apply.  My first visit to Saks had been so much fun.  No more intimidating, ultra-glamorous cosmetic girls- everything from skincare consultations to color charting was done via computer.

The car
arrived at six-thirty.  After the pleasantly smooth ride I was shown into the White House.  Michael came forward to take my hand and then introduced me to his colleagues. 

“You look gorgeous, princess
.  Come right this way,” he said, leading me down a thickly carpeted corridor.  “The president and first lady are eager to finally meet you.”

We walked into
a large room with a long mahogany desk.  I was happy to see that the White House had been well preserved and kept in its original style.  For some reason, modern furniture would have looked odd in the nation’s capital.

“
Michael, is this your lovely wife?” asked a handsome, middle-aged man whom I recognized as the president.

“Yes, it is, Mr. President.  I would like to introduce
you to Zoë Adams.”

I
extended my right hand and said with a smile, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

The president looked at
my hand and hesitated before accepting it.  It was obvious that he was uncomfortable with cryo-people, which made me feel apprehensive.

“It is such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Adams,” he said with a smile that
I had trouble discerning if it was sincere or not.  I also noticed he had a slight southern accent. 

The president turned towards an attractive woman wi
th short, blonde hair.  “Honey, come on over and meet Michael’s wife.”

After an official introduction, the first lady
gave me a warm hug and a sincere smile.  “It is so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Adams,” she said in the same southern drawl her husband possessed. 

I failed to detect any insincerity in her greeting
and smiled back gratefully.  The president’s wife took my arm and led me to a small group of women in an adjoining room while the men remained together to discuss business.

Before long,
I was the center of attention.  The women practically interrogated me:
How does it feel to wake up almost twenty years into the future?  Do you find the world very different?  How is your health?
  And so on.  One woman even compared me to Sleeping Beauty. 

A uniformed maid came into the room to announce that dinner was to be served and
I almost sighed aloud in relief.  The meal was delicious and the conversation was mostly about politics (as I had expected).  I caught the president looking at me occasionally with a curious expression on his face.  Since many Southerners were devout Christians, I wondered if the president opposed cryogenic technology and viewed it as blasphemous.

Michael, who sat beside me,
whispered in my ear just before dessert arrived.  “How are you doing, princess?”

“Fine,” I
whispered back with a forced smile.

He patted my
knee in approval before turning around to talk to the man beside him.

I
picked at the mango mousse and wondered what the other guests were thinking.  None of them had asked me about my position in the gallery or the new exhibition I was putting together (even though there was a prominent article in the paper about it).  All they seemed to care about was the fact that I had been as good as “dead” for almost twenty years and then came back to life.  I was gradually beginning to realize that no matter how hard I tried, I would never again be
normal
.

Later that night as Michael drove us home
I noticed that he was unusually quiet.  “Is there something wrong?” I asked timidly.

He looked surprised, as if I
interrupted some deep thought.  “No, everything is fine,” he replied.

“Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Are you ashamed of me?”

He seemed genuinely shocked by my question.  “What?”  When I said nothing, he demanded, “What kind of question is that, Zoë?”

“Well, you know how som
e people feel about cryogenics…I wonder if people think I’m a freak or something.”

“Oh, princess
, no one thinks you’re a freak.  Banish the thought from your head.”

“It’s the way I catch people looking at
me; like I’m an alien from another planet.  Even the president was looking at me that way.”

“He was not looking
at you like that,” he assured.  “People are just amazed at the wonders of science and technology.  Everyone loves you, Zoë.  God, honey, you’re a celebrity!”

I let the matter drop.

“I’m going to have Juana make you a nice cup of herbal tea when we get home and you’ll feel much better in the morning,” he said in a fatherly tone that set my teeth on edge.

He was alway
s very solicitous and concerned, but he babied me incessantly.  Despite being given the recent green light by doctors to drive, jog and have sex, Michael treated me like an invalid.  And he still hadn’t come into my bed. 

“Michael?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Oh no?  Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

“No,” I
said, placing my hand on his thigh.

He looked dow
n in surprise before glancing over at me. 

“Remember that time that we made love in your car?
” I purred softly.  “We were still dating and you were taking me home from that awful Chinese restaurant?”

He nodded, a nostalgic smile playing about his lips.
  “I remember very well.”

My
hand moved higher on his thigh.  “Well, can’t we pretend the White House was that awful Chinese restaurant?”

He
smiled apprehensively.  “You mustn’t excite yourself.”

“
Nonsense!  I can jog two miles without breaking a sweat. I feel great.  Besides, you know the doctor gave me the green light on normal daily activities.  What do you say, honey?”  He said nothing and I added, “Come on, it’s been twenty years since I’ve…you
know
.”

He laughed and said, “All right
.  We’ll be home in a few minutes.”

“No, not at home!  By the park, in your car…like that time.”

Michael’s face grew serious.  “If I got arrested for indecent exposure the media would have a field day.  I can’t risk that sort of scandal.”

“Oh, come on, Michael!  Let’s take the chance.  Please?”

He was not convinced.  “I don’t know, Zoë.  It doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“Is it me?  Do you not find me desirable anymore?”