Matched

After a few moments, Grandfather reappears wearing his Banquet clothes. They are basical y plainclothes, simple pants and a shirt and socks, but they are made of fine-quality material, and he has been able to select the color.

I feel something catch in my throat when I see that the color he has chosen for his clothing is a light green. We are so much alike. And I wonder if he realized when I was born that the days of our Banquets would be so close together, since our birthdays are only a few days apart.

We al sit politely, Grandfather in his bed and the rest of us on chairs, while the Committee completes their part of the celebration.

“Mr. Reyes, we present to you the microcard with images and records from your life,” they say. “It has been compiled by one of our best historians in your honor.”

“Thank you,” Grandfather says, reaching out his hand.

The box containing the microcard is like the silver one we receive when we are Matched, except for the color: gold. The microcard inside has pictures of Grandfather as a smal boy, a teenager, a man. He hasn’t seen some of these images in years, and I imagine that he is excited to view them today. The microcard also includes a summary of his life in words, read by one of the historians. Grandfather turns the golden box over in his hands as I did with my silver box not long ago at the Match Banquet. His life cupped in his palms, as mine was.

One of the women speaks next. She seems gentler than the others, but maybe that is because she is smal er and younger than the rest. “Mr.

Reyes, have you chosen the person to take possession of your microcard when today is over?”

“My son, Abran,” Grandfather says.

She holds out the device for the tissue col ection, which, as a final courtesy to the elderly, the Society al ows to take place privately, among family.

“And we are pleased to formal y announce that your data indicates you have qualified for preservation. Not everyone qualifies, as you know, and it is another honor that you can add to your already long list of achievements.”

Grandfather takes the device from her and thanks her again. Before she can ask him who he’s trusted with the delivery of the sample, he volunteers the information. “My son, Abran, wil take care of this as wel .”

She nods her head. “Simply swab your cheek and put the sample in here,” she says, demonstrating. “Then seal it up. You need to bring the sample to the Biological Preservation Department within twenty-four hours of col ection. Otherwise we cannot guarantee that preservation wil be effective.”

I’m glad that Grandfather has qualified to have a tissue sample frozen. Now, for him, death may not necessarily be the end. Someday, the Society might figure out a way to bring us back. They don’t promise anything, but I think we al know that it wil happen eventual y. When has the Society ever failed in reaching a goal?

The man next to her speaks. “The food for your guests and your own final meal should arrive within the hour.” He leans over to hand Grandfather a printed menu card. “Are there any last-minute modifications you would like to make?”

Grandfather looks at the card and shakes his head. “Everything looks in order.”

“Enjoy your Final Banquet, then,” the man says, pocketing the card.

“Thank you.” There is a wry twist to Grandfather’s mouth as he says this, as though he knows something they don’t.

As the Committee leaves, they al shake Grandfather’s hand and say, “Congratulations.” And I swear that I can read Grandfather’s mind as he meets their gaze with his sharp eyes. Are you congratulating me on my life, or on my death?

“Let’s get this over with,” Grandfather says with a spark in his eye, looking at the tissue col ection device, and we al laugh at his tone. Grandfather swabs his own cheek, puts the sample in the clear glass tube, and seals it shut. Some of the solemnity leaves the room now that the Committee has gone.

“Everything’s going very wel ,” Grandfather says, handing the tube to my father. “I am having a perfect death so far.”

My father winces, an expression of pain crossing his face. I know he, like me, would prefer that Grandfather not use that word, but neither of us would think of correcting Grandfather today. The pain on my father’s face makes him look younger, almost like a child for a moment. Perhaps he remembers his mother’s death—so unusual, so difficult compared to a Final Banquet like this.

After today, he wil be no one’s child.

Even though I don’t want to, I think of the murdered Markham boy. No celebration. No tissue preparation, no good-byes. That hardly ever occurs, I remind myself. The odds of that happening are almost a million to one.

“We have some gifts for you,” Bram says to Grandfather. “Can we give them to you now?”

“Bram,” my father says reproachful y. “Perhaps he wants to get the microcard ready for viewing. He has guests on the way.”

“I do want to do that,” Grandfather says. “I’m looking forward to seeing my life pass before my eyes. And I’m looking forward to the food.”