The Choice by Jason Mott

Nathaniel and Evelyn Whitland stood in the waning sunlight, staring off to the west as the thin plume of dust rose up. Nathaniel placed his arm around his wife and, though she could not stop trembling, she did not take her eyes off the approaching car. “Is it really her?” she asked her husband. Nathaniel did not reply; he only squeezed her a little tighter and held his breath and watched and waited.
    The car was a long time coming, winding its way up the mountain, slowing now and again to navigate imperfections in the weathered road. It was a black sedan and Evelyn couldn’t help but think to herself how much it reminded her of the black sedans she saw in movies when people from the government went about whatever business governments go about.
    “Is it really her?” she asked again.
    “I suppose we’ll know shortly,” her husband replied.
    It was almost completely dark when the car finally came to a stop in the front yard. The chill of early evening had crept into the air and the old couple was weary from standing on the hardwood porch, but they were too excited to sit. Too full of questions.
    At last the dust settled and the Whitlands finally released one another when the back door of the car opened and there, somehow, was their daughter—who had died nearly twenty years ago. She looked not a day older than she had been the last time they had seen her.
    “It’s her,” Nathaniel said, his voice faltering slightly.
    Evelyn did not reply. Her body swayed a little, as if a hard wind had suddenly blown over her, but then she straightened herself and opened her arms wide and called her daughter’s name, reveling in the sound of her voice being answered back after all these years.
    * * *
    Lisa took her breakfast in front of the television while Peter and Samantha shuffled about in the kitchen. Whenever he could, Peter stole a peek into the living room to catch pieces of the news report.
    For the past few weeks, all over the world, the dead had been returning. They appeared without warning or explanation, oftentimes far away from wherever they had once lived or died. And all they seemed to want was to reenter their lives…. But despite the miracle of their return, the world was beginning to slip into fear and confusion. There was an unease that was slowly building into chaos.
    As the whole world was struggling to understand what was happening, a tension had begun creeping into Peter and Samantha’s lives. Each morning now they awoke and prepared for the day with only the basest of communication between them. They had become roommates, somehow. Roommates with a daughter caught in the middle.
    “Don’t forget—Lisa’s got soccer today,” Samantha said. She stood at the sink, running her finger under a stream of cold water. She had burned it on the skillet while making bacon. It was the third time in the past two weeks. All the little things were going wrong lately.
    “Do I ever forget?” Peter asked. He stood half in the kitchen and half in the living room, watching the television and watching Lisa all at once. The girl was entranced by the images of the Returned on the television.
    “Yes,” Samantha responded. “Point of fact you do forget.” She turned off the faucet and dried her hand. “Where’s the aloe?”
    “Wherever you put it,” Peter said, sipping his coffee.
    Samantha looked out the window above the sink, exhaling slowly in the hopes of easing the flash of anger growing inside her. Next door the Johnsons were piling into their van—a cluster of chaos and franticness; their twin seven-year-old boys were grappling with one another, yet, somehow, they all seemed happy. “Did you book the reservations for dinner Saturday night?”
    Peter grunted, but Samantha couldn’t be sure if it was an affirmation or if he was shrugging her off.
    In the living room, Lisa sat in front of the television sucking her thumb. She was six now and Peter and Samantha were always telling her to keep her thumb out of