charting was done via computer.
The car arrived at six-thirty. After the pleasantly smooth ride I was shown into the White House. Michael came forward to take my hand and then introduced me to his colleagues.
“You look gorgeous, princess . Come right this way,” he said, leading me down a thickly carpeted corridor. “The president and first lady are eager to finally meet you.”
We walked into a large room with a long mahogany desk. I was happy to see that the White House had been well preserved and kept in its original style. For some reason, modern furniture would have looked odd in the nation’s capital.
“ Michael, is this your lovely wife?” asked a handsome, middle-aged man whom I recognized as the president.
“Yes, it is, Mr. President. I would like to introduce you to Zoë Adams.”
I extended my right hand and said with a smile, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
The president looked at my hand and hesitated before accepting it. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable with cryo-people, which made me feel apprehensive.
“It is such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Adams,” he said with a smile that I had trouble discerning if it was sincere or not. I also noticed he had a slight southern accent.
The president turned towards an attractive woman wi th short, blonde hair. “Honey, come on over and meet Michael’s wife.”
After an official introduction, the first lady gave me a warm hug and a sincere smile. “It is so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Adams,” she said in the same southern drawl her husband possessed.
I failed to detect any insincerity in her greeting and smiled back gratefully. The president’s wife took my arm and led me to a small group of women in an adjoining room while the men remained together to discuss business.
Before long, I was the center of attention. The women practically interrogated me: How does it feel to wake up almost twenty years into the future? Do you find the world very different? How is your health? And so on. One woman even compared me to Sleeping Beauty.
A uniformed maid came into the room to announce that dinner was to be served and I almost sighed aloud in relief. The meal was delicious and the conversation was mostly about politics (as I had expected). I caught the president looking at me occasionally with a curious expression on his face. Since many Southerners were devout Christians, I wondered if the president opposed cryogenic technology and viewed it as blasphemous.
Michael, who sat beside me, whispered in my ear just before dessert arrived. “How are you doing, princess?”
“Fine,” I whispered back with a forced smile.
He patted my knee in approval before turning around to talk to the man beside him.
I picked at the mango mousse and wondered what the other guests were thinking. None of them had asked me about my position in the gallery or the new exhibition I was putting together (even though there was a prominent article in the paper about it). All they seemed to care about was the fact that I had been as good as “dead” for almost twenty years and then came back to life. I was gradually beginning to realize that no matter how hard I tried, I would never again be normal .
Later that night as Michael drove us home I noticed that he was unusually quiet. “Is there something wrong?” I asked timidly.
He looked surprised, as if I interrupted some deep thought. “No, everything is fine,” he replied.
“Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Are you ashamed of me?”
He seemed genuinely shocked by my question. “What?” When I said nothing, he demanded, “What kind of question is that, Zoë?”
“Well, you know how som e people feel about cryogenics…I wonder if people think I’m a freak or something.”
“Oh, princess , no one thinks you’re a freak. Banish the thought from your head.”
“It’s the way I catch people looking at me; like I’m an alien from
The car arrived at six-thirty. After the pleasantly smooth ride I was shown into the White House. Michael came forward to take my hand and then introduced me to his colleagues.
“You look gorgeous, princess . Come right this way,” he said, leading me down a thickly carpeted corridor. “The president and first lady are eager to finally meet you.”
We walked into a large room with a long mahogany desk. I was happy to see that the White House had been well preserved and kept in its original style. For some reason, modern furniture would have looked odd in the nation’s capital.
“ Michael, is this your lovely wife?” asked a handsome, middle-aged man whom I recognized as the president.
“Yes, it is, Mr. President. I would like to introduce you to Zoë Adams.”
I extended my right hand and said with a smile, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
The president looked at my hand and hesitated before accepting it. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable with cryo-people, which made me feel apprehensive.
“It is such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Adams,” he said with a smile that I had trouble discerning if it was sincere or not. I also noticed he had a slight southern accent.
The president turned towards an attractive woman wi th short, blonde hair. “Honey, come on over and meet Michael’s wife.”
After an official introduction, the first lady gave me a warm hug and a sincere smile. “It is so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Adams,” she said in the same southern drawl her husband possessed.
I failed to detect any insincerity in her greeting and smiled back gratefully. The president’s wife took my arm and led me to a small group of women in an adjoining room while the men remained together to discuss business.
Before long, I was the center of attention. The women practically interrogated me: How does it feel to wake up almost twenty years into the future? Do you find the world very different? How is your health? And so on. One woman even compared me to Sleeping Beauty.
A uniformed maid came into the room to announce that dinner was to be served and I almost sighed aloud in relief. The meal was delicious and the conversation was mostly about politics (as I had expected). I caught the president looking at me occasionally with a curious expression on his face. Since many Southerners were devout Christians, I wondered if the president opposed cryogenic technology and viewed it as blasphemous.
Michael, who sat beside me, whispered in my ear just before dessert arrived. “How are you doing, princess?”
“Fine,” I whispered back with a forced smile.
He patted my knee in approval before turning around to talk to the man beside him.
I picked at the mango mousse and wondered what the other guests were thinking. None of them had asked me about my position in the gallery or the new exhibition I was putting together (even though there was a prominent article in the paper about it). All they seemed to care about was the fact that I had been as good as “dead” for almost twenty years and then came back to life. I was gradually beginning to realize that no matter how hard I tried, I would never again be normal .
Later that night as Michael drove us home I noticed that he was unusually quiet. “Is there something wrong?” I asked timidly.
He looked surprised, as if I interrupted some deep thought. “No, everything is fine,” he replied.
“Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Are you ashamed of me?”
He seemed genuinely shocked by my question. “What?” When I said nothing, he demanded, “What kind of question is that, Zoë?”
“Well, you know how som e people feel about cryogenics…I wonder if people think I’m a freak or something.”
“Oh, princess , no one thinks you’re a freak. Banish the thought from your head.”
“It’s the way I catch people looking at me; like I’m an alien from
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