Elsewhere

by Gabrielle Zevin

“In the end, the end of a life only matters to friends, family, and other folks you used to know,” the pug whimpers miserably. “For everyone else, it’s just another end.”

When your dead no one will remember you

Even though Grandma Betty looks like a young woman on the outside, Liz can tell she probably harbors secret old-people tendencies.

Hahaha secret old people tendencies

Aldous proceeds to go through all the things Liz would have to do in the next several months. Dying seems to entail a great deal of work. In a way, dying isn’t that different from school.

Whaaattt the fuuuuuck? More work? What happened to rest in peace?

“I think you’re already on an adventure, and you don’t even know it,” Thandi says.

It’s an adventure!!

maudlin”

“That doesn’t just happen to people in Elsewhere, Liz,” says Owen. “Even on Earth, it’s difficult to ever go back to the same places or people. You turn away, even for a moment, and when you turn back around, everything’s changed.”

A Mystery

Liz in Love

“Anthropological,

indignant.

“I’ve been here before. And the truth is, intimacy doesn’t have all that much to do with backseats of cars. Real intimacy is brushing your teeth together.”

Liz wonders how someone could claim to love a person one minute and not love her the next.

convalescence.

Betty inhales sharply. “It’s just I thought I had lost you forever.” “Oh, Betty, don’t you know there’s no such thing as forever?”

The next day, Owen gives Liz a gold watch. Her old one was silver, but Liz doesn’t tell him that. The new one has a slim band made of tiny golden links. It is not a pocket watch, nor is it the sort of thing Liz would choose for herself, but she doesn’t tell him that either.

If you are going to forgive a person, Liz decides, it is best to do it sooner rather than later.

Oh, there are so many lives. How we wish we could live them concurrently instead of one by one by one. We could select the best pieces of each, stringing them together like a strand of pearls. But that’s not how it works. A human’s life is a beautiful mess.

Owen watches as Liz uses one of the raincoats as a blanket. Right then, he decides to tell Liz that he wants to marry her tomorrow or next weekend or sometime really soon. “Liz,” he calls out. But the boat is too loud, and Liz can’t hear him, and the subject never comes up again.

shantung

equanimity.

“A life isn’t measured in hours and minutes. It’s the quality, not the length. All things considered, I’ve been luckier than most.

“Owen,” Liz continues, “do you remember that game?” “What game?” “We were big,” says Liz, “I was soooo big, bigger every day, and our faces were like this all the time.” Liz frowns and furrows her brow in an exaggerated fashion. “And there was a house and a school. And a car and a job and a dog! And I was old! I was more old than you! And everything was rush-rush quick, and hard, so hard.” Liz laughs, and it sounds like a birdcall. After a moment, Owen answers, “I remember.” “I wonder,” says Liz, “I wonder what was so … hard?” “It was just a dumb game, Liz.” “It was a dumb game,” Liz agrees. “Let’s not play it anymore.” Owen nods. “We won’t.”

But you see, Winnie Foster, when I told you before I’m a hundred and four years old, I was telling the truth. But I’m really only seventeen. And, so far as I know, I’ll stay seventeen till the end of the world.”’” Owen sets down the book. “That’s the end of the chapter. Should I read the next one?” “Please,” says Liz,

Winnie did not believe in fairy tales. She had never longed for a magic wand, did not expect to marry a prince, and was scornful—most of the time—of her grandmother’s elves. So now she sat, mouth open, wideeyed, not knowing what to make of this extraordinary story. It couldn’t—not a bit of it—be true…’”

Owen doesn’t watch when they place Liz in the River, next to all the other babies who would be born that day. Nor does he watch when the launch nurse pushes Liz away from the shore into the current that leads back to Earth.

“On Elsewhere, we fool ourselves into thinking we know what will be just because we know the amount of time we have left. We know this, but we never really know what will be.

Furthermore, she isn’t sad to be a baby. As the wisest here know, it isn’t a sad thing getting older. On Earth, the attempt to stay young, in the face of maturity, is futile. And it isn’t a sad thing growing younger, either. There was a time Liz was afraid that she would forget things, but by the time she truly began to forget, she forgot to be afraid to forget. Life is kind, the baby thinks.