My Old Daughter

They had arrested me, sure, but they had to understand I was not a threat. I had located my daughter—the one now older than me—but did not know how to approach her. I had been following her for 27 days now, working up the nerve to re-introduce myself and do it right this time.

The door opened, and more artificial light seeped into the tiny grey room. A tall, broad-shouldered man entered. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt, and red tie. He had close-cropped dark hair. The archetypal cop had not changed a bit in all my Downtime (what we at The Clinic call the time between death and life).

“What were you doing on March 19th, April 1st, April 7th, April 10th, and this afternoon?” He asked, sitting across the cool metal table from me, getting straight to business. He had listed off an impressive string of dates. Oh you don’t scare me, I thought, leaning back and placing my hands on the table. That was something I had always tried to teach my daughter, not to let men think they can boss you around. Because of his string of dates, my daughter must have known I had been following her for longer than just today. I feel terrible; I hope she wasn’t scared. At least she’s perceptive. I had to think carefully about my answer to his question. Rule Number One at The Clinic: Don’t Tell. I couldn’t say: “Oh, it’s okay. I’m her mother.”

Taking my silence as stupidity, he went on. “Are you affiliated with any group or organization?”

Did he know? I studied his face, but he kept up the façade. I kept my face equally placid, staring him down. Maybe law enforcement knew about The Clinic.

“Are you opposed to human manipulation of life and death?”

That was a clue that he knew, meaning it was okay.

“You know then,” I stated coolly. “You know I’m her mother.”

His look said otherwise. He looked a bit astonished, his eyes and forehead crinkling ever so slightly, despite his military-like impenetrability, the corrugator and orbicularis oris muscles contracting involuntarily.

He said, “I’ll be right back,” standing up from the table, my eyes tracking him the entire way.

He exited from the lonely door he entered. Does he know?

He entered again, approximately three minutes later, followed by another man. This one was shorter, with darker skin and eyes, probably of Latin American descent. He had on similar black pants, but a soft grey sweater instead of an imposing suit jacket.

“This is Dr. Juan,” Military-face said, introducing his colleague. “It may be beneficial for you to talk with him.”

He turned, leaving the doctor behind with me.

“So I hear you have some deep thoughts about life and death. Tell me about them,” Dr. Juan spoke softly.

His voice was so convincing, but I knew I couldn’t say anything more. My first attempt to speak, to learn more about what they knew, had landed me a date with the psychologist. That’s not even a real doctor. He must have been watching through a wall. They really have advanced one-way mirrors.

“Are you opposed to the job of the woman you were following?”

Job? I knew she worked in a hospital and was a doctor. I had trained her well. She was successful, following in my footsteps. Is there anything to be against?

“She and others at her clinic participate in Final Dispatch… Assisted suicide.”

That was news and gave a new meaning to the questions the cop had asked. He didn’t know about me or The Clinic, where I was brought back from cryonic sleep—death. He was wondering if I was opposed to my daughter’s manipulation of life and death, not what I had taken part in.

He leaned in. Mocking him, I leaned in too. “Were you going to harm the nice lady? Were you going to kill her because of the awful things she helps others do?”

“No!” I couldn’t contain myself anymore. You don’t mess with or accuse me. “I don’t hate her! I love her! She’s my daughter!” I stood up, chair screeching across the floor behind me.

He leaned back, looking at me, almost smiling, the corner of his mouth almost turning up.

“I think it’s best if you stayed here for a while. We can help you.”

Two more people entered through the door, wearing white scrubs, like at The Clinic. They brought a gurney with them. For me. The last time I was on a gurney like that was at The Clinic.

The policeman had entered with them and whispered loudly to the psychologist: “It is impossible for that sixty-three year old woman to be her ‘daughter.’ What is she, nineteen? I’ll send her to the psych wing.” To this, the psychologist silently nodded in affirmation.

The people in white told me to come with them and tried to take my arms. I kicked one of them, but they overpowered me, forcing me onto the gurney. I remember a sting on my left arm, then everything went black.


I awoke, this time remembering where I was, unlike in my dream about when I was first revived. Even though I was awake, there was heaviness behind my eyes. I was surrounded by white walls and yellowing ceiling lights, still on the gurney. I felt the heavy metal on my wrists holding me to the bed, but didn’t give them the satisfaction of straining against them. They think I’m crazy.

I began to ponder my options. I could tell them that I was momentarily crazy, that I knew that old lady wasn’t my daughter. I could attempt to contact someone from The Clinic, although they would be upset at my breaking of Rule Number One.

I didn’t have much longer to think of my future, because a door opened and someone walked over to me, standing above me so I could see her.

“You’re awake. Good. You have a visitor. The police and the doctor said it would be okay for you to talk, but only for a moment. This may help you recognize the truth.” She gave me a small nod and a small smile of encouragement and walked off. As she exited, two more people entered. The first was in white and lifted my bed, so that I was sitting and pulled a chair near my bed. The woman accompanying—I couldn’t believe it—was my daughter.

She sat down on the chair slowly and quietly. She smiled at the man in white and waited for him to leave before she spoke.

“Hi Mom.” She said in a slow, steady way. Her face was wrinkled, her eyes soft. She leaned in closer, as though not wanting to be overheard.

“I know you’ve been following me. But why violate the rules?”

“I had to see you. You’re all grown up.”

“That’s one way to put it. You were never there for me then, why come around for me now?”

I thought back to my past mistakes and achievements. Perhaps I had been too distant when she was growing up, always working. I was a cryonic doctor, one of the reasons I had the opportunity to freeze my body.

“How did you know I was back?” I asked.

“I requested revival. For you.” She said. “I know it’s what you would have wanted, even if I disagree with it.”

“Then why did you have me arrested or sent to the nut house or wherever I am?”

“It’s the only way I could think of to speak to you. I know the rules. Don’t Tell. You were always working on this project. You were afraid of what was to come next. I told the police that I, as a doctor, understand crazy, and sometimes confronting the truth is all that delusional individuals need in order to realize the truth. That’s why they let me in.”

She rose slowly, to leave. “I’m afraid we can’t be in contact again.”

“Why? Please! Give me another chance to be your mother… or at least your friend!”

“You were too worried about your own mortality when I was growing up, you forgot about living with those around you. You forgot about me.” She spoke in a quiet dignified way, but her voice was weakening as she spoke. I became aware of how fragile she looked. Like when she was first born.

“But I came back for you!” I pleaded.

“You knew you were predisposed to cancer. You knew you would die sometime, but worked for ‘The Clinic’ so you wouldn’t. I’m old. I’m going to die. I have the same predisposition as you and now, I have the cancer. But, in my case, I’m going on to something better…I’ve scheduled my Dispatch for tomorrow. I just wanted to see you first.”

“No! I can get you treated too. In the same way they Revived me! They can treat you while you are still living!” I begged her to stay.

“Take care.” She turned her worn out body and hobbled towards the door.

“Please!” I said.

Hand on the doorknob, she turned. “I’ll drop the charges against you. I’ve let you go. I’ll tell them to do the same.”

The weight behind my eyes formed teardrops, and I wept as the door closed behind her. I was acutely aware, for the first time, of something worse than death.