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I pay for all our tickets, donating an extra couple hundred dollars in the hope that the arena remains open for many, many years. What the arena provides for Deckers seems incomparable, way better than the Make-A-Moment station. The teller thanks us for our donation and doesn’t seem surprised by it; Deckers are always throwing their money around. Rufus and I receive yellow wristbands (for healthy Deckers) and Lidia an orange one (visitor), and we proceed in.
We stay close, not wandering too far from one another. The main entrance is a little crowded as Deckers and visitors look up at the gigantic screen listing all the regions you can visit, and the different kinds of tours available: Around the World in 80 Minutes, Miles of Wilds, Journey to the Center of the United States, and more.
“Should we go on a tour?” Rufus asks. “I’m game for any of them except You, Me, and the Deep Blue Sea.”
“The Around the World in 80 Minutes tour starts in ten,” I say.
“I’d love that,” Lidia says, her arm locked in mine. She turns to Rufus, embarrassed. “Sorry, oh my god, sorry. Really, it’s whatever you two want. I don’t get a vote. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Rufus, you cool with this?”
“Around the world we go, yo.”
We find Room 16 and settle into a double-decker trolley with twenty other people. Rufus and I are the only Deckers with yellow wristbands. There are six Deckers with blue wristbands. Online, I’ve followed many Deckers with incurable illnesses who take it
upon themselves to travel the real countries and cities while they still have time. But those who can’t afford to do so settle for the next best thing with the rest of us.
The driver stands in the aisle and speaks through her headset.
“Good afternoon. Thank you for joining me on this wonderful tour, where we’ll travel the world in eighty minutes, give or take ten. I’m Leslie and I’ll be your tour guide. On behalf of everyone at the World Travel Arena, I offer my condolences to you and your family. I hope our trip today manages to put a smile on your face and leaves a wonderful memory for any guests joining you.
“If at some point you’d like to linger in any region, you’re more than welcome to, but please be advised the tour will have to keep moving if we’re to finish traveling the world in under eighty minutes. Now, if everyone would please fasten your seat belts, we’ll take off!”
Everyone buckles up and we set off. I’m no cartographer, but even I know the destination grid behind each seat—looking similar to the electronic maps on the subway—isn’t geographically correct. Still, it’s an unbelievable time with unbelievably convincing replicas in each room, made even better by Lidia sharing fun facts about each location she learned from her own studies. We move down a railway where we can see Deckers and guests enjoying themselves, some even waving at us like we’re not all tourists here.
In London, we pass the Palace of Westminster, where a myth says it’s illegal to die there, but my favorite part is hearing the bell of Big Ben chime, even if seeing the hands on the clock snaps me back into reality. In Jamaica, we’re greeted by dozens of large butterflies, the Giant Swallowtail, as people sitting on the floor eat special dishes, like ackee and saltfish. In Africa, we see a giant fish tank with inhabitants from Lake Malawi, and I’m so enraptured by the blues and yellows swimming around that I almost miss the live feed on the wall of a lioness carrying her cub by the scruff of its neck. In Cuba, we see guests competing against Cubans in dominoes, and a line for sugar cubes, and Rufus cheers for his roots. In Australia, there are exotic flowers, kite races, and complimentary koala plush toys for any children. In Iraq, the sounds of the national bird, the chucker partridge, play over the speakers discreetly hidden behind the merchant carts offering beautiful silk scarves and shirts. In Colombia, Lidia tells us about the country’s perpetual summer, and we’re tempted to grab a drink from the juice vendors. In Egypt, there are only two pyramid replicas, and since the room has a dry heat, the employees are offering Nile River–brand water bottles. In China, Lidia jokes about how she heard reincarnation is forbidden here without government permission, and I don’t want to think about that so I focus on the lit-up skyscraper replicas and people playing table tennis. In South Korea, we see a couple of orange-yellow robots used in classrooms—“robo-teachers,” they’re called—and Deckers having their faces made up. In Puerto Rico, the trolley stops for its forty-second break. Rufus tugs at my arm and ushers me elsewhere, Lidia following.
“What’s going on?” I ask over the chorus of tiny tree frogs—it’s unclear if they’re actually here or just recordings—and the sounds of wildlife are so jarring, since I’m only used to sirens and cars honking, that hearing the people talking by the rum cart comforts me.
“We talked about how you wanted to do something exhilarating if you ever had the chance to travel, right?” Rufus says. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for something on this tour, and look.” He points at the sign by a tunnel: Rainforest Jump! “I don’t know what it means, but it’s gotta be better than that fake skydive earlier.”
“You went skydiving?!” Lidia asks. Her tone is both are-you-crazy and I’m-super-jealous. She’s possessive in the most nurturing, big-sister way possible.
The three of us walk along the beige tiles, sprinklings of actual sand around, to the tunnel. An arena employee hands us a brochure for the El Yunque Rainforest Room and offers us an audio tour, while admitting we’ll miss out on some of the more natural music of the area if we do. We pass on the headphones and walk through the tunnel, where the air is moist and warm.
The crowding trees withstand the drizzle as an artificial sunlight filters through the thick leaves. We walk around the twisting trunks, going off the beaten path toward the trilling croaks of more tree frogs. Dad told me stories about how when he was my age he’d race up the trees with his friends, catch frogs and sell them to other kids who wanted pets, and sometimes just sit with his thoughts. The deeper we go, the more the frog song is replaced by the sounds of people and a waterfall. I mistake the latter for a recording until we pass through a clearing and I find water spilling off a twenty-foot-high cliff into a pool with shirtless Deckers and lifeguards. This must be the advertised rainforest jump. Don’t know why I thought it was going to be something lamer, like jumping from rock to rock on even ground.
I’ve seen so much already that the idea of leaving this arena is sharper than that of this day ending, like being ripped out of a dream you’ve waited your entire life to have. But I’m not dreaming. I’m awake, and I’m going for it.
“My daughter hates the rain,” Lidia tells Rufus. “She hates anything she can’t control.”
“She’ll come around,” I say.
We walk toward the edge of the cliff where Deckers are jumping. A petite girl with a blue wristband, a headscarf, and floaties does something dangerous at the very last second—she turns around and falls backward, like someone pushed off a building. A lifeguard below whistles and the others swim to the center where she’s splashed through. She returns to the surface, laughing, and it looks like the lifeguards are scolding her, but she doesn’t care. How could anyone on a day like today?
RUFUS
4:24 p.m.
For all the mouth I ran about being brave, I’m not sure about this jump. I haven’t set foot onto a beach or gone inside a community pool since my family died. The closest I’ve come to big bodies of water like this before today was when Aimee was fishing in the East River, and that led to a nightmare of me fishing for my family’s car in the Hudson River, reeling up their skeletons in the clothes they died in, reminding me how I abandoned them.
“You’re all good to go here, Mateo. Gonna have to veto this for myself.”
“You should skip this too,” Lidia tells him. “I know I have no real say here, but veto, veto, veto, veto.”
Mad props to Mateo for getting in line anyway; I want this for him. There aren’t any more croaking frogs, so I know he heard me. This kid has changed. I know you’re paying attention, but look at him—he’s in line to leap off a cliff and I bet you anything he can’t even swim. He turns and waves us over, like he’s inviting us to a line for a roller coaster.
“Come on,” Mateo says, eyeing me. “Or we can go back to Make-A-Moment and swim around one of their pools if you want. I honestly think you’ll feel better about everything if you get back in the water. . . . Me coaching you through something is weird, right?”
