"Your clothes are nice, though."
"We can buy you some other things," Grandma Betty says. "I would have bought them for you myself, but I didn't know what you would like. Clothes are a personal business, at least for me."
Liz shrugs.
"When you're ready," Grandma Betty continues, "I'll give you money. Just say the word."
But Liz can't bring herself to care what she wears anymore and decides to change the subject.
"I've been wondering what I should call you, by the way. It seems odd to call you Grandma somehow."
"How about Betty, then?"
Liz nods. "Betty."
"And what do you like to be called?" Betty asks.
"Well, Mom and Dad call me Lizzie ..." Liz corrects herself. "They used to call me Lizzie, but I think I prefer Liz now."
Betty smiles. "Liz."
"I'm really not feeling well. Would it be all right if I stayed in bed today, and we changed my acclimation appointment to tomorrow?" asks Liz. Her collarbone feels tender where the seat belt pulled against it during last night's crash, but mainly Liz doesn't feel like doing anything.
Betty shakes her head. "Sorry, doll, but everyone's got to have their acclimation appointment their first day in Elsewhere. No exceptions."
Liz leaves the closet and turns to Betty's bedroom window, which overlooks an unruly garden.
She can identify roses, lilies, lavender, sunflowers, chrysanthemums, begonias, gardenias, an apple tree, an orange tree, an olive tree, and a cherry tree. Liz wonders how so many varieties of flowers and fruits can share a single plot of land. "Is that your garden?" Liz asks.
"Yes," Betty answers.
"Mom likes to garden, too."
Betty nods. "Olivia and I used to garden together, but among other things, we never agreed about what to plant. She preferred useful plants like cabbages and carrots and peas. Me, I'm a sucker for a sweet perfume or a splash of color."
"It's pretty," Liz says, watching a monarch butterfly rest on a red hibiscus flower. "Wild, but pretty."
The butterfly flaps its wings and flies away.
"Oh, I know I should probably trim everything back and impose some order on it, but I can never bring myself to prune a rosebush or clip a bud. A flower's life is short enough as it is." Betty laughs. "My garden is a beautiful mess, I'm afraid."
"Are you sure you don't want to drive?" Betty asks on the way to Liz's meeting at the Registry. Liz shakes her head.
"You shouldn't be discouraged just because you had a minor setback."
"No," Liz says firmly. "If I'm getting younger anyway, I'm going to have to get used to being a passenger."
Betty looks at Liz in the rearview mirror. In the backseat, Liz's arms are folded across the chest of her pajama shirt.
"I'm sorry about my tour guide routine last night," Betty says.
"What do you mean?" Liz asks.
"I mean, I think I was trying too hard. I want you to like it here, and I want you to like me. But I think I just went on and on, and sounded like an idiot."
Liz shakes her head. "You were fine. I just ..." Her voice trails off. "I just don't really know you is all."
"I know," Betty says, "but I know you a bit. I've watched you most of your life from the ODs."
"What are ODs?"
"Observation Decks. They're these places where you can see all the way to Earth. For limited amounts of time, of course. Do you remember when you saw your funeral on the ship?"
"Yes," says Liz, "from the binoculars." As long as she lived (died?), she would never forget it.
"Well, they have Observation Decks set up throughout Elsewhere. They'll go over it today at your acclimation appointment."
Liz nods.
"Out of curiosity, is there anyone in particular you'd like to see?" Betty asks.
Of course, Liz misses her family. But in some ways the one person Liz misses the most is her best friend, Zooey. She wonders what Zooey's prom dress would look like. Would Zooey even go to prom now that Liz was dead? Zooey hadn't bothered to attend the funeral. If Zooey had been the one who died, Liz definitely would have gone to her funeral. Now that she thinks about it, it seems pretty rude that her own best friend had skipped out, particularly under the circumstances.
After all, if Zooey hadn't asked Liz to the mall to look for dumb prom dresses, Liz wouldn't have been hit by a taxicab. If Liz hadn't been hit by a taxicab, she wouldn't have died, and . . . Liz sighs: you could drive yourself crazy with ifs.
Suddenly, Betty gestures out the window, causing the car to swerve a little. "That's where your appointment is. It's called the Registry. I pointed it out to you yesterday, but I don't know how much attention you were paying."
Out her window, Liz sees a gargantuan, rather homely structure. The tallest building Liz has ever seen, it seems to stretch up to infinity. Despite its size, the Registry looks like a child built it: walls, stairways, and other additions jut out at improbable angles, and the construction seems improvised, almost like the makeshift forts Liz used to build with her brother. "It's sort of ugly," Liz pronounces.
"It used to be better looking," says Betty, "but the building's needs are always outpacing its size.
Architects are constantly concocting ways to expand the building, and construction workers are constantly implementing those plans. Some people say the building looks like it's growing right before your eyes."
Betty makes a left turn into the Registry parking lot. She stops the car in front of one of the building's multiple entrances. "Do you want me to walk you inside? It can get kind of confusing in there," Betty says.
"No, I'd rather go myself, if you don't mind," Liz replies.
Betty nods. "I'll pick you up around five, then. Try to have a good day, doll."
A Circle and a Line
Although Liz has arrived at the Registry fifteen minutes early, it takes her nearly twentyfive minutes to find the Office of Acclimation. The maps posted at the elevator shaft are long outdated, and no one who works at the building seems able to give proper directions. When Liz attempts to retrace her footsteps, she keeps finding new doorways that she could swear weren't there five minutes earlier.
At random (for she now believes in the power of randomness as only the suddenly deceased can), Liz decides to give one of the new doorways a try. She finds a hallway and, at the end of the hallway, another door. An unofficial-looking cardboard sign indicates that behind this door lies the temporary home of the Office of Acclimation.
Liz opens the door. Inside, she finds a busy, perfectly ordinary-looking reception area. (As Betty had said, many people are still wearing white pajamas.) If not for a faded, rather macabre poster hanging on the wall, Liz might have thought she was at her doctor's office. The poster depicts a smiling gray-haired woman sitting up in a mahogany coffin. Printed on the poster are the following words:
SO YOU'RE DEAD, NOW WHAT?
The Office of Acclimation is here to help.
The peevish-looking woman at the front desk reminds Liz of the poster; she, too, is faded, dated, and grim. She wears her hair in a 1960s beehive and her skin has a greenish tint. A name-plate on her desk reads yetta brown.