Up Pops the Sun: Opening Scene

Present Day

Why can’t anything go as planned? 

Diligent preparation should lead to predictable outcomes, but no matter how organized I am, one unreliable cog in my regimented system can implode my best-laid plans.

I had hoped to be headed back to the office by now, armed with celebratory pastries and coffee. At the very least, wrapping up this interview. Instead, new pumps pinch my feet as I pace the starkly lit halls of Elysium’s inception center. The auditor from Boston’s Mental Health Board is over an hour late.

Mentally, I cycle through my calendar. Categorizing, shuffling, re-prioritizing. 

Ellie, dear, stop trying to control everything. I shoo away my mother’s voice in my head like a pesky gnat.

As if I’d summoned her, a message buzzes on my watch.

E-Mom: Good luck with the audit today!

“If he shows,” I mumble to the empty hall. 

My mother and her cosmic ability to feel when my pulse rises. I don’t know whether to be pleased or creeped out by how well she keeps track of me. If I’m honest, it’s a little of both.

E-Ellie: He’s late. 

E-Mom: That’s unfortunate. Such a shame to be stuck in an old basement when the leaves are changing. 

I laugh. My mother loves Boston in the fall. In the old days, whenever the mood struck, she would pull me out of school to spend the day in the sun and fallen leaves. We would wander city parks with no plan in mind. A small part of me wished I could channel my mother’s attitude and blow off work, but I’d never admit that to her. The logical part of me knows those decisions have consequences.

E-Ellie: I wish I could, but sadly, I have to work.

E-Mom: Make time for yourself, Ellie. Decorate. Dress up. Pass out Halloween candy. LIVE outside of work.

A loading circle appears, replaced by a picture of a six-year-old me in a glittering cat costume. My tiny feet perched on a step stool, hanging spider webs in the eaves of a porch I only remember because I’ve seen it in pictures. This particular Halloween, my mother had wanted me to go as Cookie Monster and forego my annual trick-or-treating cold because costumes shouldn’t be covered with anything so practical as a jacket. But Jo Jo and I promised to be sparkling cats at recess, and kindergarten pacts couldn’t be broken. So, I had whined until my mother had given in. As a compromise, I had to wear itchy wool stockings and developed a nasty rash. In my adolescent brain, Halloween had been ruined forever. 

E-Ellie: I’ll try to decorate this year.

Then mentally kick myself. With what time, Ellie?

E-Mom: I wish I could help. I miss the old place. 

My fingers hover over the keypad, unsure how to respond when my mom talks about our apartment, one of the many converted row houses in Boston’s North End. After college, I’d sworn off five-story walkups, determined to eat nothing but macaroni and ramen if it meant living in a place with no stairs, soundproof walls, and a decent heating system. But, here I am, living in my childhood home where the night life starts at dusk and drunk tourists stay strong until well past two in the morning. 

It pains me to admit it, but I’ve missed the noise, the smells, the familiarity. Even if the apartment costs a fortune to maintain.

When Marcus slips out of one of half a dozen identical doors, I type a hasty goodbye to my mother and slip the phone back in my pocket.

He scans the hall for the absent auditor, just as I have been for the past hour. “The Parsons are getting nervous.” 

Marcus, our resident counselor, leads every inception at Elysium. Clients appreciate his empathic professionalism, and he’s attractive, which, for reasons I don’t understand, encourages customers to open up. He is as meticulous with his appearance as I am with my schedule. A fade and sharp-cut beard coupled with his white lab coat neatly offset his dark skin. Add a glossy filter, and he could be on a magazine cover. Not many people would notice that his tailored shirts don’t completely hide the slight paunch to his belly, but I know how much he loves to bake. This subtle imperfection suits him. Makes him human.

I tug at the lapels of my department store suit and resist the urge to check my hair for errant curls. “I’ve tried calling his office. It goes to voicemail every time.”

He looks at his watch. “The Parsons were already emotional when they got here. We shouldn’t wait much longer.”

I cast a glare down the vacant hall. BMHB regulations require the auditor to observe Elysium’s process from the beginning, but that assumes they show up on time. Even though I logically know we should try to hold off a little longer, I don’t suggest it. Marcus’s emotional intelligence borders on sorcery. A compassionate look, a sympathetic ear, coffee magically appearing on an unpleasant morning. Somehow, he just knows.

 “Okay, get started,” I say. “But see if the Parsons will let us record the session. Surely, that should appease the auditor.” 

Marcus gives me an encouraging smile. “El, it’s going to be fine. Promise.”

He offers a salute and disappears into the treatment room. I resume my pacing, turning over the consequences of the proceeding. A successful audit would get Elysium one step closer to autonomy. One step closer to getting my company off the ground. We stand at the gateway between a struggling startup and a corporation generating real revenue, expanding our product line, and securing our freedom from the demands of investors. We are so close. I won’t let myself consider the alternative.

My heels clack against the yellowing linoleum, the churning in my stomach and the aroma of bleach reminiscent of my middle school days. It transports me back to Principal Marshall’s office, his sweat-pickled face leaning over mine as he pats my bare knee.

Ellie, do you think putting soap on chairs is how mature children should behave? 

That was the morning that Susan Little and Marley Pitman had gotten all the kids on the bus to sing “Smelly Ellie Has No Soap.” I thought smearing bathroom soap in their seats while the class was at recess had been a stroke of retaliatory genius. A day of sticky legs left no doubt that I did, in fact, have access to soap. 

I shake off the memory and am on the verge of leaving an ill-advised message on the auditor’s voicemail, when a squat man in his fifties appears at the end of the hall. With gas station coffee in one hand and a weathered attaché in the other, he shuffles towards me. His cheap loafers mar the ugly linoleum with faint scuff marks like a slug trail. His chinos and polo boast deep wrinkles, his spine curving as though it can no longer hold him upright. 

“Ms. Adams?” My name comes out as a sigh.

In an effort of goodwill, I say, “Please, call me Ellie.” 

When he doesn’t offer his name, an uncomfortable silence settles between us. I remember my high school locker combination, my childhood dentist, and the choreography to my fifth-grade graduation song Moving on Up, but a name I had read this very morning eludes me. For the past hour, I’d just been tacking on better adjectives to absent auditor, like inconsiderate auditor. Selfish auditor. Useless auditor. Possibly dead-and-therefore-excused auditor. 

With exaggerated movements, I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from my slacks and motion him to one of the doors. “Shall we proceed to the observation room? We may have only missed a few minutes of their inception.”

He doesn’t move. “You’ve already started?”

I try and fail to summon patience. “Look Mr. – What was your name again?”

He frowns. “Brandis.” Perhaps my unfamiliarity with his name sparks confusion. Maybe my bluntness comes off as rude. At this point, I just don’t care.

“Right. Well, Mr. Brandis, creating a loved one’s E-Replica can be a psychologically draining experience. We don’t want to put undue burden on those who have already lost so much with unnecessary delays. I’m sure you can understand. We do have a recording of – ”

“Look, Ms. Adams,” he interrupts, sighing moist coffee breath in my face. “This is standard procedure for all mental wellness facilities, even one such as yours.”

Any budding pity I’d amassed for this auditor dissipates. If Elysium didn’t need this detestable man’s approval to continue operations in the state of Massachusetts, I’d unleash the litany of expletives held back by my bitten tongue. 

“Well, as you haven’t seen a company ‘such as mine,’ perhaps we should observe what we can of the replication process – ”

The auditor starts. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Ms. Adams, is there genetic cloning occurring in this facility?”

I can’t hide my surprise. He should know what Elysium does. At the very least, he should have read an article or two. Or arrived on time.

Oh absolutely, Mr. Brandis, but we only clone the finest people with the most money and the best intentions, so that’s okay, right? The image of me snarking this in my most innocent voice is so strong, I almost break down into hysterical laughter. Sadly, I have a company to run and don’t have the luxury of being glib. I choke back the sarcastic – and in my opinion better – response and do my best to salvage the situation.

“Mr. Brandis, there is no genetic cloning occurring here. Elysium compiles facsimiles of departed loved ones using various pictographic and digital media. Everything is computer generated and for consortium purposes only. Please.” I motion once again for the door. “Let’s observe the inception, and if you still have questions, we can schedule a second visit for you.”

He deflates before my eyes. “My next appointment is six months out.” 

I force a chipper lilt to my voice. “Well, we won’t know if you’ll need that second visit until you see the process for yourself. Right this way.”

Without waiting for him to follow me, I ease into the observation room. After a few tense seconds, Coffee Breath joins me. 

One point for Ellie. 

A thin pane of glass separates us from the adjacent room, which is windowless, colorless, and identical to the one we stand in. The observation side contains two plastic lawn chairs (added for the benefit of this audit) and a one-way audio system. In contrast, the treatment room boasts a singular folding table with a laptop on one side and a box of tissues and bottled water on the other. Our rented therapy center screams B-movie hospital ward. 

I long for a more professional space, full of sunlight and artwork and plush carpet. Deep-seated chairs and top of the line coffee. Soft music and maybe a soothing indoor fountain. But the basement of a onetime university is the best we can afford. 

For now. 

Our grieving clients huddle on one side of the table. Opposite, Marcus explains the replication process in soft tones. 

The auditor honks his nose into a handkerchief and stuffs the soiled cloth back into his rumpled khakis. Even though the observation booth is supposed to be soundproof, I have to stifle the urge to shush him. And not to gag.

Get it together, Ellie. Convince him he doesn’t need to come back.

I take a deep breath and soften my tone the way Marcus would. “These are the Parsons. Siblings in their early 20s whose grandfather has recently passed away. Invasive cancer. They were little more than toddlers when they were orphaned, and their grandfather was the only parent they’d ever really known.”

The auditor stares at the young man and woman, arms wrapped around each other, eyes bloodshot, crumpled tissues littering the tabletop. I hope he sees them as I do. They are lost souls. 

“They have no one left,” I say. “That is why we’re here. That is why Elysium is here.”

A faint interest lights his expression. “What service does your company offer them?”

I stand a little straighter and slip on my corporate voice. The one I use at every investor pitch and every board meeting. The one that shows how confident and capable I am. 

“In some cases, persistent complex bereavement disorder, more commonly known as complicated grief, can stem from the sudden passing of a loved one. The individual left behind struggles to return to a normal life, leading to years, and sometimes decades, of depression or worse. Our goal is to help family members to find closure. Combined with grief counseling, we create an E-Replica of the departed, a digital ghost if you will, until they are ready to let go. Elysium’s mission is to evolve the way people think about and process death.”

Endless seconds pass with neither of us moving. I suppress the urge to fill the silence. Marcus probes the Parsons about their grandfather, gently extracting his attitudes about weather, politics, life in general. The auditor sets his coffee cup on the window’s ledge and settles into a plastic chair. Then, he opens his attaché and turns to me. “Has a digital ghost ever done something you didn’t expect?” 

Inwardly, I smile. “All the time. That’s the beauty of blending AI with specific human characteristics. Sometimes, they can surprise you. Just like humans.” 

“Interesting.” It sounds like he genuinely means it. 

And just like that, we are back on track.