The young woman is sympathetic. “This sort of thing happens all the time,” she assures him. “More often than people think.” She hands Jonas a form with a litany of security questions. He answers every one, his entire scheme hinging on the hope that the details he recalls—his social security number, his home address in Manhattan, his mother’s maiden name, the make of his first car, and other ephemera—remain consistent in this reality. As he fills out the form, he makes small talk with the representative, doing his best to endear himself to her, to build a personal connection should he need to take advantage of one.
After he hands over the completed form, the representative disappears into a back room for what feels like an eternity. He passes the time thinking about what he’ll do if his ploy doesn’t work. It’s an interesting challenge, he reflects, bringing forth the identity and financial resurrection of a dead man. But if it seems as though he’s trying to con American Express, to steal a deceased identity, he’s going to have to get out of here quickly.
When the representative emerges, she appears stricken. Jonas’s heart sinks, and a new concern billows forward. What if she suspects him of attempting to defraud her? What if she called the police? He can’t allow himself to be taken into custody, nor can he leave this universe. Landing here was winning the cosmic lottery. No one does that twice. He can’t leave, and he can’t permit the circumstances that would compel him to.
He forces a friendly smile to reaffirm that he’s a good guy just having a bad day and to cover a glance behind him to confirm that the door to the Amex office is open, should he need to effect a quick escape. He resists the urge to ask if there’s a problem. Don’t admit the premise, he admonishes himself. This could be nothing. Just your paranoia.
But it’s not. There is, in fact, a problem.
“Mr. Cullen, I’m afraid there’s something unusual with your account.”
Jonas forces an air of easygoing detachment. “Unusual how?”
“According to our records,” the woman starts, almost apologetic, “you’re dead.”
He works hard to pretend this development is unexpected, smiling broadly but not, he hopes, too broadly. “Funny, I don’t feel dead,” he quips. Disarm with humor.
“Good point.” She seems genuinely sympathetic to his plight. “And you match the photo we have on file for you, but the account was closed two years ago.”
Jonas is prepared for this but tries to come off like he’s just had the thought. “Y’know, it’s funny . . . I just read—I don’t know when, maybe a month or two ago—I read an article in Wired magazine about how hackers are altering public records like that. Y’know, make someone appear to be dead. I guess it makes identity theft easier somehow.” He punctuates the idea with a naive shrug, ignorant of the dark ways of cybercrime. It’s time to cash in on the connection he hopefully made with the lady earlier. “Is there—I don’t know—a manager you can talk to or something? This is all such a nightmare.”
Sympathetic, she says she’ll see what she can do and disappears again into the back room. The call she’s making is to one of only two possibilities: her boss or the airport police. Jonas can’t see her behind the divide, can’t read her body language or facial expressions. Can’t know whether to stay and hope or run and escape. His hands leave a film of perspiration on the Formica countertop.
Over his shoulder, he spots two uniformed police officers moving toward the office. He wills himself to remain calm, only to note that his fists are clenched and his legs feel rubbery. He fights an urge to vomit.
“Okay.” The voice comes out of nowhere, shafts of sunlight through gray storm clouds. The representative approaches the counter holding a green card, another form, and a pen. “We got it all squared away. It helps that you’re here and, you know, alive.”
“Very much so.” He tries to keep the relief and exultation out of his voice, but the attempt comes off comically. The woman titters slightly as she places the items down on the counter. The green card is, as Jonas had hoped, a brand new American Express card. The letters J-O-N-A-S-C-U-L-L-E-N bubble up in black over the field of green and white. The pen is for him to sign the form acknowledging receipt. He initials and signs where instructed. Relief washes over him.
After getting a cash advance from an ATM using his new Amex card, Jonas hails a taxi. Within ninety minutes, he’s waiting in line outside the United States diplomatic mission to Switzerland.
Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait long. The consular officer he happens to get is a man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and absolutely no warmth or sense of humor. Whatever charms Jonas was able to work on the Amex representative, this man is impervious to them. Nevertheless, Jonas launches into his rehearsed remarks: “Pickpocket.” “So stupid.” “Switzerland has the reputation of being one of the safest countries on earth.” But this time his recitation includes the added novelty of “I’m just lucky I kept this in a separate pocket.” And he holds up his newly minted credit card as if it’s an Olympic medal.
Once again, he deploys the line about the Wired article and computer hackers committing virtual murder. “Yeah, I think I read that one too,” the consular officer says, and Jonas considers the possibility that maybe it wasn’t an invention after all. In any case, after a new photograph is taken and a three-hour wait, he is once again officially alive and an American citizen.
Leaving the embassy, he discovers that taxis are in short supply, so he elects to take public transportation back to the airport, and soon enough he’s handing his new passport and credit card to a kindly attendant at Swissair. He splurges for a first-class seat. It’s not every day one flies home to a deceased spouse.
His direct flight to New York doesn’t take off for another two hours, and he spends them using his newly obtained line of credit on a shaving kit, an iPad, and a meal at McDonald’s. He cleans himself up in the restroom and fills the iPad with as much information on Amanda’s life as he can pull off the airport’s glacial public Wi-Fi. He considers purchasing a change of clothes but decides that would be tempting fate. He keeps his reality-slipping wardrobe on.
After settling into his seat on Swissair flight 4587, he fires up the iPad and plunges into the life his wife has lived without him. He does this without envy or concern that she’s found someone else. He has no insecurity about the speed with which Amanda may have processed his loss. She’s alive in this reality, and that is all that matters. He takes in every detail the internet reveals, reading about a new gallery showing, indulging in an interview in The Art Newspaper and another in Vulture. He reads with the fervor of an obsessed fan. Each factoid and piece of trivia confirms she’s still alive, and the feelings fill him with light.
She’s alive. He repeats this to himself over and over—an incantation—playing with the idea in his head, examining it.
She’s alive.
The mantra is a warm blanket, soothing and reaffirming. The calm eventually opens the door to a fatigue that comes slamming in. The lethargy pulls down on him, making a triumphant return after being held at bay through force of will for the past two years. Jonas stops fighting to remain awake.
She’s alive.
His mouth is fixed in a contented smile when sleep takes him.
FIVE YEARS AGO
Two months into their relationship, Jonas knew they would marry. But he never raised the subject, and neither did she. He felt no urgency to propose. For one thing, it had only been two months. All he cared about was that they were content. Amanda seemed as happy as he was. The synchronicity they enjoyed seemed like the stuff of bad movies or trashy novels, yet it was all the sweeter for that. They exchanged “I love yous” with the frequency of “thank yous.”
One night, they found themselves at a bar in the financial district. It was an upscale place with throbbing music, staccato lights, and onyx floors—the kind of establishment with mixologists instead of bartenders. The clientele mostly worked on Wall Street, letting off steam after days spent trading options or stocks or hedge fund positions. Work hard, play hard.
Jonas threaded through a sea of brokers and bankers, each of them seeming to conspire to knock into him and jostle the drinks he precariously ferried over to the two-top where Amanda was waiting. He handed over her cocktail before sitting down with his cabernet sauvignon.
Amanda lifted her drink and stared at it. Light caught the edge of the martini glass and made the rim sparkle. She talked, but Jonas couldn’t hear her over the music. The bar had a karaoke stage, and some twentysomething market analyst was mangling a Taylor Swift song.
“What?” Jonas asked, leaning forward.
Amanda raised her drink again. She pointed to it with her free hand and raised her voice above the Taylor Swift wannabe’s warbling. “What is this?”
Jonas considered the drink and answered confidently, “It’s purple.” Amanda cocked an ear. “The bartender recommended it,” he explained. “He told me what it was, but to be honest, all I understood was ‘elderberry’ and ‘infusion.’” Amanda chanced a sip. Her reaction was inscrutable. “How is it?”
“You’re right. It’s purple.”
“Here, take mine.” He swapped out his drink for hers, tried the purple concoction, and found it to be pungently floral, like drinking a spa.
Amanda glanced in the direction of the karaoke stage. The analyst was nearing the bridge. “I put us in the queue.”
“What queue?”
“For karaoke. You know ‘It Had to Be You,’ right?”
“Everyone knows Sinatra. But I don’t sing.”
“You took me to a karaoke bar . . . ,” she said, incredulous.
Jonas lifted the martini glass. “For a drink,” he said, laughter in his voice. “This place is close to our dinner reservation.”
Amanda cocked her head and wrinkled her face in a wry expression. “You lecture to dozens of students a day. You can’t handle singing in public?”
“No,” he blurted out. “I mean yes. I mean—” Amanda stared back, reveling in his predicament. “I mean that—what I mean is, I don’t sing. Like, at all.”
Amanda’s eyebrows rose, suspended by disbelief. “Who doesn’t sing?”
Jonas slowly raised his hand like a kid in school.
Amanda eyed him with mock pity. “I’m guessing you don’t dance either.”
He shrugged. “Guilty as charged.”
“Who doesn’t dance?” Before Jonas could raise his hand again, she added, “I mean why wouldn’t anyone dance?”
