Passage (2 page)

I
HEARD A NOISE
,” Mrs. Davenport said, “and then I was moving through this tunnel.”

“Can you describe it?” Joanna asked, pushing the minitape recorder a little closer to her.

“The tunnel?” Mrs. Davenport said, looking around her hospital room, as if for inspiration. “Well, it was dark . . . ”

Joanna waited. Any question, even “How dark was it?” could be a leading one when it came to interviewing people about their near-death experiences, and most people, when confronted with a silence, would talk to fill it, and all the interviewer had to do was wait. Not, however, Mrs. Davenport. She stared at her IV stand for a while, and then looked inquiringly at Joanna.

“Is there anything else you can remember about the tunnel?” Joanna asked.

“No . . . ” Mrs. Davenport said after a minute. “It was dark.”

“Dark,” Joanna wrote down. She always took notes in case the tape ran out or something went wrong with the recorder, and so she could note the subject’s manner and intonation. “Closemouthed,” she wrote. “Reluctant.” But sometimes the reluctant ones turned out to be the best subjects if you just had patience. “You said you heard a noise,” Joanna said. “Can you describe it?”

“A noise?” Mrs. Davenport said vaguely.

If you just had the patience of Job, Joanna corrected. “You said,” she repeated, consulting her notes, “ ‘I heard a noise, and then I was moving through this tunnel.’ Did you hear the noise before you entered the tunnel?”

“No . . . ” Mrs. Davenport said, frowning, “ . . . yes. I’m not sure. It was a sort of ringing . . . ” She looked questioningly at Joanna. “Or maybe a buzzing?” Joanna kept her face carefully
impassive. An encouraging smile or a frown could be leading, too. “A buzzing, I think,” Mrs. Davenport said after a minute.

“Can you describe it?”

I should have had something to eat before I started this, Joanna thought. It was after twelve, and she hadn’t had anything for breakfast except coffee and a Pop-Tart. But she had wanted to get to Mrs. Davenport before Maurice Mandrake did, and the longer the interval between the NDE and the interview, the more confabulation there was.

“Describe it?” Mrs. Davenport said irritably. “A
buzzing.”

It was no use. She was going to have to ask more specific questions, leading or not, or she would never get anything out of her. “Was the buzzing steady or intermittent?”

“Intermittent?” Mrs. Davenport said, confused.

“Did it stop and start? Like someone buzzing to get into an apartment? Or was it a steady sound like the buzzing of a bee?”

Mrs. Davenport stared at her IV stand some more. “A bee,” she said finally.

“Was the buzzing loud or soft?”

“Loud,” she said, but uncertainly. “It stopped.”

I’m not going to be able to use any of this, Joanna thought. “What happened after it stopped?”

“It was dark,” Mrs. Davenport said, “and then I saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and—”

Joanna’s pager began to beep. Wonderful, she thought, fumbling to switch it off. This is all I need. She should have turned it off before she started, in spite of Mercy General’s rule about keeping it on at all times. The only people who ever paged her were Vielle and Mr. Mandrake, and it had ruined more than one NDE interview.

“Do you have to go?” Mrs. Davenport asked.

“No. You saw a light—”

“If you have to go . . . ”

“I don’t,” Joanna said firmly, sticking the pager back in her pocket without looking at it. “It’s nothing. You saw a light. Can you describe it?”

“It was golden,” Mrs. Davenport said promptly. Too promptly. And she looked smugly pleased, like a child who knows the answer.

“Golden,” Joanna said.

“Yes, and brighter than any light I’d ever seen, but it didn’t hurt my eyes. It was warm and comforting, and as I looked into it I could see it was a being, an Angel of Light.”

“An Angel of Light,” Joanna said with a sinking feeling.

“Yes, and all around the angel were people I’d known who had died. My mother and my poor dear father and my uncle Alvin. He was in the navy in World War II. He was killed at Guadalcanal, and the Angel of Light said—”

“Before you went into the tunnel,” Joanna interrupted, “did you have an out-of-body experience?”

“No,” she said, just as promptly. “Mr. Mandrake said people sometimes do, but all I had was the tunnel and the light.”

Mr. Mandrake. Of course. She should have known. “He interviewed me last night,” Mrs. Davenport said. “Do you know him?”

Oh, yes, Joanna thought.

“He’s a famous author,” Mrs. Davenport said. “He wrote
The Light at the End of the Tunnel.
It was a best-seller, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Joanna said.

“He’s working on a new one,” Mrs. Davenport said.
“Messages from the Other Side.
You know, you’d never know he was famous. He’s so nice. He has a wonderful way of asking questions.”

He certainly does, Joanna thought. She’d heard him: “When you went through the tunnel, you heard a buzzing sound, didn’t you? Would you describe the light you saw at the end of the tunnel as golden? Even though it was brighter than anything you’d ever seen, it didn’t hurt your eyes, did it? When did you meet the Angel of Light?” Leading wasn’t even the word.

And smiling, nodding encouragingly at the answers he wanted. Pursing his lips, asking, “Are you sure it wasn’t more of a buzzing than a ringing?” Frowning, asking concernedly, “And you don’t remember hovering above the operating table? You’re sure?”

They remembered it all for him, leaving their body and entering the tunnel and meeting Jesus, remembered the Light
and the Life Review and the Meetings with Deceased Loved Ones. Conveniently forgetting the sights and sounds that didn’t fit and conjuring up ones that did. And completely obliterating whatever had actually occurred.

It was bad enough having Moody’s books out there and
Embraced by the Light
and all the other near-death-experience books and TV specials and magazine articles telling people what they should expect to see without having someone right here in Mercy General putting ideas in her subjects’ heads.

“Mr. Mandrake told me except for the out-of-body thing,” Mrs. Davenport said proudly, “my near-death experience was one of the best he’d ever taken.”

Taken is right, Joanna thought. There was no point in going on with this. “Thank you, Mrs. Davenport,” she said. “I think I have enough.”

“But I haven’t told you about the heavenly choir yet, or the Life Review,” Mrs. Davenport, suddenly anything but reluctant, said. “The Angel of Light made me look in this crystal, and it showed me all the things I’d ever done, both good and bad, my whole life.”

Which she will now proceed to tell me, Joanna thought. She sneaked her hand into her pocket and switched her pager back on. Beep, she willed it. Now.

“ . . . and then the crystal showed me the time I got locked out of my car, and I looked all through my purse and my coat pockets for the key . . . ”

Now that Joanna wanted the beeper to go off, it remained stubbornly silent. She needed one with a button you could press to make it beep in emergencies. She wondered if RadioShack had one.

“ . . . and then it showed my going into the hospital and my heart stopping,” Mrs. Davenport said, “and then the light started to blink on and off, and the Angel handed me a telegram, just like the one we got when Alvin was killed, and I said, ‘Does this mean I’m dead?’ and the Angel said, ‘No, it’s a message telling you you must return to your earthly life.’ Are you getting all this down?”

“Yes,” Joanna said, writing, “Cheeseburger, fries, large Coke.”

“ ‘It is not your time yet,’ the Angel of Light said, and the next thing I knew I was back in the operating room.”

“If I don’t get out of here soon,” Joanna wrote, “the cafeteria will be closed, so please, somebody, page me.”

Her beeper finally, blessedly, went off during Mrs. Davenport’s description of the light as “like shining prisms of diamonds and sapphires and rubies,” a verbatim quote from
The Light at the End of the Tunnel.
“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,” Joanna said, pulling the pager out of her pocket. “It’s an emergency.” She snatched up her recorder and switched it off.