About The Process Offer (A Short Story)

Post 415:

The Process Offer: Parts One and Two

He counted something like a hundred people at the burial. Not a great turnout, considering the tide of sullen faces that came out for the viewing and funeral service. Maybe his numbers were off. It was all a blur. Six days he’d spent in misery, dreading this final goodbye. Desperate as he was to continue courting denial, it was impossible, considering what was before him. The ground was calling them down, dust to dust and—he couldn’t bear watching. A rush of tears. The preacher whispered final words and attendees starting slinking off in the rain, leaving him to stomach random men in coveralls as they lowered three caskets, all different sizes. The caskets of his wife and two children.

            After hugs and downed heads from his closest friends and family, he was alone. An hour. Maybe two. Standing motionless until he was nothing but a remnant in a suit, a puddle for a home.

            Shivering and completely lost on how to proceed with the next minute, let alone the rest of his life, he decided vaguely that it was time to go back to the limousine. He thought about how big it was and how alone he’d feel once he got in—

            “Mr. Schroeder, I can’t say how sorry I am.”

            He looked up to see a woman with a caring face, completely clad in black. Dress, stockings, hat… all black. She was between him and the limo—he tried to place her—I’ve seen her before—maybe one of Nicolette’s colleagues—perhaps one of Jackie’s teachers—one of Sally’s nannies—“Thank you,” he muttered, abandoning further attempts at recollection. “T-thanks for coming. I’m going to go home now.”

            “Mr. Schroeder, this is the worst part of my job, but if I could talk to you a moment before you go.”

            “Have we?” he asked. The question was weak, dying quick in the wet air. He tried to pass by the woman. Collapse into the limo. The big, empty limo.

            “If you’re asking if we’ve met, the answer is yes, but only briefly. I doubt you’d remember.”          

            The driver came out and rounded the ridiculous vehicle, opening the door and an umbrella with choreographic fluidity.

            “It was at your home. Just after,” she continued.

            “Maybe I remember,” he mumbled, thinking more about the driver and the sadness of his job. Picking up people from the worst moments of their lives, driving them back so they might get along coping, finding space in the fridge for We’re so sorry casseroles.  

            She could see he wasn’t responding. She’d give her pitch and hopefully that would be enough to cut through the fog. “I’m Alayna Ruiz, a representative of your life insurance company. I’ve come to inform you that because of the work at your tech firm and the extraordinary nature of the loss, we’d like to make you an offer.”

            “Offer.”

            “Yes sir, Mr. Schroeder. Our company has a burgeoning partnership with your firm, and as an Executive Vice President, you qualify for the program.”

            “Program? You’re selling me something?”

            Ms. Ruiz took a step between Kip Schroeder and the limousine. She was telling the truth. This was the worst part of the job. This man—this young man, probably a guy she’d check out if she’d seen him a week ago—reduced to a husk. But she wasn’t selling. She was offering.

            This is what Alayna told herself as she proceeded. “No one can bring back the people you love. There is no compensation.”

            He looked at her, not knowing what to say.

            “Our program can’t bring them back, but it might make it so you don’t have to let go so suddenly.”

            The rain fell. Kip’s red eyes tightened. “Miss—”

            “Ruiz. Alayna Ruiz.”

            Kip tried to speak, but his insides were desiccated. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth to the gray sky, letting thick drops lubricate his mouth and throat. “Miss Ruiz,” he finally managed, “what the hell are you talking about?”

            She joined Kip Schroeder on the ride home, explaining the situation, what he might have in front of him. The technology made sense—he was always quick to understand technology—the why however, remained elusive.

            Pulling up to the house he put his head down and looked over at the insurance woman. “Ms. Ruiz?”

            “Please, Mr. Schroeder. Call me Alayna.”

            “It’s strange, what you’re talking about. Isn’t it? People in the neighborhood will think I’ve gone crazy.” He rubbed his wet red face, clearing rain and tears from his eyes. Expectantly he looked up, scanning her appearance for any signs of a hustle. Nothing. Alayna Ruiz was either a world-class actress or exactly what she said she was. “I’m not sure I can go back in there,” he said, leaping off the subject to think about the home that was now just a building where he’d have to sleep. “It’s probably best to sell it. Never go back in. Wouldn’t that be better for coping?”

            She leaned forward and uncrossed her legs in a slow and motherly fashion. Ms. Ruiz was remarkably attractive, Schroeder realized, young and matronly all at once. Her image belonged in some grand museum, painted by a master and dramatized in chiaroscuro. The thought lasted a second before retrieving, making way for the sadness that had pitched its tent in his brain.

            “Kip,” she said, seeing his hand move to the door handle, “I suggest you don’t go back in there.”

            “I have to.”

            “Not yet. Have the limo take you someplace. Anywhere you’ve ever wanted. It’s the worst time in the world for R and R, but a new place might distract you. Give it a week.”

            “Is that how long it takes to forget about my family?”

            She put her little hand on top of his as he began to pull the door latch. “That’s not what I meant.”

            “I’m sorry. That came out hard.” Schroeder imagined his wife’s hand in the place of Ruiz’s, staying him from some decision he was hell-bent on making. He was lost without Nicolette. Nicky. Nicks. My love. My wife until death. But it was supposed to be my death. I was five years older. She was the picture of health.

            “It’s not a problem. And you don’t have to apologize. I can’t say that enough.”

            “What?” Kip said, turning off the mental pictures of his wife.

            “You said you were sorry,” Alayna answered. “Apologies are my department. This is such an intrusive process at the beginning—we’re well aware of it, believe me.”

            “But the quicker after the tragedy, the more effective—”

            “Exactly. I can show you the data from participants in the beta testing. We can go through it as rigorously as you want.”

            He let his hand slip off the handle. She was right about going back to the house. What would he do once he got inside? Watch TV? Get some work done?

            “So I’m assuming when I’m gone, your people will see to all the changes. That’s how it works, right?”

            “It’s a big project. Living there while we do the floors and ceilings isn’t really a viable option.”

            “I’ll go.”

            “Very good. I’ll have the driver take you to the airport. We have a private plane at your disposal. Just decide and the pilots will take you anywhere you want to go.”

            “Then I come home.”

            “You deserve a home, Kip. Once you’re back, I’ll be here to explain the particulars and provide any assistance. Seeing them again will help. I wouldn’t do this job if I hadn’t witnessed the results with my own eyes.”

            Schroeder’s head was foggy and still laden with questions, but he didn’t have the energy. “Do it. I’ll see you in week.”