Passage (9 page)

Y
OU MANUFACTURE
NDE
S
? You mean, like in
Flatliners?”
Joanna blurted out, and then thought, you shouldn’t have said that. You’re alone in a stairwell with him, and he’s clearly a nutcase.

“Flatliners?”
Richard said, horrified. “You mean that movie where they stopped people’s hearts and then revived them before they were brain dead? Of course not. Manufacturing’s the wrong word. I should have said simulating.”

“Simulating,” Joanna said, still wary.

“Yes, using a psychoactive drug called dithetamine. Wait, let me start at the beginning. Mr. O’Reirdon coded, and we got his NDE on tape, so to speak, but, as you can imagine, I wasn’t eager to publish that fact. Mr. Mandrake’s book had just come out, he was on all the talk shows claiming the afterlife was real, and I could just imagine what would happen if I showed up with photographic proof.” He moved his spread hand through the air, as if displaying a headline: “ ‘Scientist Says Near-Death Experience Real.’ ”

“No, no,” Joanna said, “ ‘Scientist Takes Photo of Heaven,’ with an obviously faked picture of the pearly gates superimposed on a diagram of the brain.”

“Exactly,” Richard said, “and besides, it didn’t have anything to do with the mapping project I was working on. So I documented the scans and Mr. O’Reirdon’s NDE account and stuck them in a drawer. Then, two years later, I was reading about a study showing the effects of psychoactive drugs on temporal-lobe activity. There was a photo of an fPET scan of a patient on dithetamine, and I thought, That looks familiar, and got out Mr. O’Reirdon’s scans. They showed the same pattern.”

“Dithetamine?” Joanna said.

“It’s a drug similar to PCP,” Richard said, fumbling in his lab coat pockets, and Joanna wondered if he was going to come up with a vial full of the drug. He pulled out a roll of spearmint Life Savers. “After-dinner mint?” he said, offering Joanna the roll. She took one.

“It doesn’t produce PCP’s psychotic side effects,” Richard said, peeling back the paper covering the Life Savers, “or its high, but it does cause hallucinations, and when I called the doctor who conducted the study and asked him to describe them, he said his subjects reported floating above their bodies and then entering a dark tunnel with a light at the end of it and a radiant being standing in the light. And I knew I was on to something.”

To be able to find out what happened after death was something people had always been fascinated with, as witness the popularity of spiritualism and Mr. Mandrake’s books. Nobody’d ever figured out a scientific way to do it, though, unless you counted Harry Houdini, whose attempt to communicate with his wife from beyond the grave had failed, and Lavoisier.

Sentenced to die on the guillotine, the great French chemist had proposed an experiment to prove or disprove the hypothesis that the beheaded retained consciousness after death. Lavoisier had said he would blink his eyes for as long as he retained consciousness, and he had. He had blinked twelve times.

But it might have been nothing more than a reflex action, like that of chickens running around with their heads cut off, and there had been no way to verify what had happened. Until now. “So your project involves giving patients dithetamine and putting them under a RIPT scan,” Joanna said. “And then interviewing them?”

“Yes, and they’re reporting tunnels and lights and angels, all right, but I don’t know if they’re the same kind of phenomena NDEers experience, or if it’s a totally different type of hallucination.”

“And that’s what you’d want me for,” Joanna asked, “to interview your subjects and tell you if I thought their accounts matched those of people who’d had an NDE?”

Richard nodded. “And I’d want you to obtain a detailed
account of what they’ve experienced. Their subjective experience is an indicator of which brain areas are being stimulated and which neurotransmitters are involved. I really need your NDE interviewing expertise on the project,” Richard said. “The accounts I’ve been able to get from my subjects haven’t been very enlightening.”

“Then they must be NDEs,” Joanna said. “Unless Mr. Mandrake’s been telling them what to say, NDEers are notoriously vague, and if you try to press them for details, you run the risk of influencing their testimony.”

“Exactly,” Richard said, “which is why I need you. You know how to ask questions that aren’t leading, and you have experience with NDEs. Except for the core elements, I have no way of knowing how the dithetamine hallucinations compare to real NDEs. And I think it would be useful to you, too,” he said earnestly. “You’d have the opportunity to interview subjects in a controlled environment.”

And without worrying about Mr. Mandrake getting to them first, she thought.

“So what do you say?” Richard asked.

“I don’t know,” Joanna said, rubbing her temple tiredly. “It sounds wonderful but I’ll have to think about it.”

“Sure. Of course,” he said. “It’s a lot to lay on you all at once, and I know you’ve had a hard day.”

Yes, she thought, and saw Greg Menotti’s body lying there on the examining table, pale and cold. And uninhabited. Gone. “You don’t have to decide now,” Richard was saying. “You’ll want to see the setup, read my grant proposal. You don’t have to make a decision tonight.”

“Good,” Joanna said, suddenly worn out. “Because I don’t think I can.” She stood up. “You’re right, it has been a hard day, and I’ve still got some interviews to transcribe before I go home. And I’ve got to go see Maisie—”

“I understand,” he said. “You think about it tonight, and tomorrow I’ll show you the setup. Okay?”

“Okay. Ten o’clock,” she said, and started up the stairs. “And thank you for dinner. Your lab coat’s the best restaurant around.”

She went cautiously to the top of the stairs, opened the door a crack, and peered out. The hall was empty. “The coast is clear,” she said, and they went out into the hall.

“I’ll see you at ten o’clock,” he said and smiled at her. “Or call me if you have any questions.” He pulled a business card out of his lab coat pocket. He’s like one of those clowns, she thought, who keep pulling handkerchiefs and bicycle horns and rabbits out of their pockets.

“I think we’d make a great team,” he said.

“I want to think about it,” she said. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

He nodded. “I really want you to work with me. I think we could accomplish great things.” He started down the hall and then turned back, looking bewildered. “How do I get back to my office?”

She laughed. “Elevator up to seventh, go across the walkway, and take the stairs outside Magnetic Imaging back down to sixth.”

He grinned. “You see? I can’t do without you. You’ve got to say you’ll do the project.”

She shook her head, smiling, and turned to go over to the west wing to see Maisie. And ran straight into Maurice Mandrake.

“I couldn’t get you through your pager,” he said sternly. “I assumed you were interviewing a patient. Is that where you’re going now?”

“No,” Joanna said, continuing to walk.

“I heard someone who’d coded was brought into the ER this afternoon,” he said. “Where is he?”

That’s the question, Joanna thought. Where is he? “He died,” she said.

“Died?”

“Yes. Right after they brought him in.”

“Pity,” Mr. Mandrake said. “Heart attack victims have the most detailed NDEs. Where are you going now?”

He must think she had another NDEer stashed somewhere. “Home,” she said and walked determinedly away from him.

He caught up with her. “I spoke with Mrs. Davenport this
afternoon. She’s remembered a number of additional details about her NDE. She remembers a golden staircase, and at the top of it, two angels with shining white wings.”

“Really?” Joanna said, continuing to walk. There was a staff elevator at the end of the hall if she could just get away from him for a moment, which didn’t seem likely.

“Standing between the angels was her uncle Alvin, wearing his white naval uniform,” Mr. Mandrake said, “which proves that the experience was real. Mrs. Davenport had no way of knowing what he was wearing when he was killed at Guadalcanal.”

Except for family snapshots and every World War II movie ever made, Joanna thought, wondering whether Mr. Mandrake intended to follow her all the way to wherever she was going. Apparently he was, which meant she didn’t dare go see Maisie. Maisie could hold her own against Mr. Mandrake, but he didn’t know she was back in the hospital, and Joanna wanted to keep it that way.

“I’m anxious to tell Dr. Wright about Mrs. Davenport’s experience,” he said. “One of the nurses told me he is attempting to reproduce the NAE in the laboratory, which is, of course, impossible. Any number of researchers have tried, using sensory deprivation and drugs and sonic vibrations, but none of them have been able to reproduce the NAE because it is spiritual, not physical.”

Joanna looked down the hall at two women coming their way, hoping it was someone she knew, but they were clearly visitors. One of them was carrying a bouquet of tulips.

“The NAE cannot be explained by anoxia, endorphins, or randomly firing synapses, as I proved in my book,
The Light at the End of the Tunnel,”
Mr. Mandrake said as they passed the visitors. “The only explanation is that they have actually been to the Other Side. In my new book, I explore the many messages that—”

“Excuse me,” a voice from behind them said. It was the woman with the tulips. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re Maurice Mandrake, aren’t you? I just wanted to tell you—”

Joanna didn’t hesitate. She said, “I’ll leave you two,” and darted around the corner to the stairs.

“I’ve read your book, and it gave me so much hope,” she heard the woman say as she opened the door. She darted down to second, sprinted through Radiology across the walkway to the west wing, and up the stairs to the fourth floor.

Maisie wasn’t there. She must have been taken down for tests, Joanna thought, peeking in 456. The bed was unmade, the sheets pushed back where Maisie had gotten out of them. The TV was on, and on the screen an assortment of orphans was dancing up and down stairs.
Annie.

Joanna started down to the nurses’ station to find out when she’d be back, and then saw Maisie’s mother coming down the hall, smiling. “Were you looking for Maisie, Dr. Lander?” she asked. “She’s down having an echocardiogram.”

“I just dropped by to see her, Mrs. Nellis,” Joanna said. “Would you tell her I’ll come see her tomorrow?”

“I don’t know if she’ll be here tomorrow,” Mrs. Nellis said. “She’s just in for follow-up tests. Dr. Murrow will probably let her go home as soon as they’re finished.”

“Oh?” Joanna said. “How’s she doing?”

“Really well,” Mrs. Nellis said enthusiastically. “This new antiarrhythmia drug’s working wonderfully, much better than the one she was on before. I’ve seen enormous improvement. I think she may even be able to start back to school soon.”

“That’s wonderful,” Joanna said. “I’ll miss her, but I’m glad she’s doing so well. Tell her I’ll come by and see her early tomorrow morning before she goes home.”

“I will,” Mrs. Nellis said. She looked at her watch. “I’d better get going. I need to go pick up something to eat, and I want to be here when Maisie gets back.” She hurried off toward the elevators.

I hope she’s not counting on the cafeteria, Joanna thought, and started toward the stairs.

“Don’t leave!” a voice shouted. She turned. It was Maisie, gesturing wildly from a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse. Joanna walked over to them.

“See?” Maisie was saying triumphantly to the nurse. “I told you she always comes to see me as soon as she knows I’m here.” She turned to Joanna. “Did Dr. Wright tell you I had something to talk to you about?”

“Yes,” Joanna said, and to the nurse, “I can take her back to her room.”

The nurse shook her head. “I’ve got to hook her up to the monitors, and see that she gets in bed and rests,” she said mock-fiercely to Maisie.

“I will,” Maisie said, “only I’ve got to tell Joanna something first. About NDEs. I was reading this book about the
Hindenburg,”
she told Joanna as she was pushed to her room. “It’s really neat. Did you know they had a piano? Up in a balloon?”

The nurse pushed the wheelchair into the room and over next to the bed. “It was an aluminum piano, but still!” Maisie said, bounding out of the wheelchair before the nurse could get the footrests flipped up. She dug in the drawer of the stand next to her bed. “I bet it fell on somebody when the
Hindenburg
blew up.”

I’ll bet it did, Joanna thought.

“Maisie,” the nurse said, holding the monitor wires and the tube of gel to attach the electrodes.

“Why don’t you get into bed?” Joanna suggested, “and I’ll look for the book.”

“Not the book,” Maisie said, still digging. “The paper. The piano weighed 397 pounds.”

“Maisie,” the nurse said firmly.

“Did you know there was a reporter there?” she said, matter-of-factly yanking her hospital gown up so the nurse could attach electrodes to her flat little-girl chest. “He reported the whole thing. ‘Oh, this is terrible!’ Ow! That’s cold! ‘Oh, the humanity.’ ”

She chattered on while the nurse checked the monitor, adjusted dials, and checked the readouts. It had nothing to do with NDEs, but Joanna hadn’t really expected it to. Maisie had spent the better part of three years in hospitals—she knew exactly how to distract nurses, put off unpleasant procedures, and, above all, get people to stay and keep her company.

“All right, now don’t get out of bed,” the nurse ordered. “See that she rests,” she said to Joanna and went out.

“You heard what she said,” Joanna said, standing up. “How about if I come see you tomorrow morning?”

“No,” Maisie said. “You can’t go yet. I haven’t told you about the NDE thing yet. You know how I didn’t see anything that time I almost died, and Mr. Mandrake said I did, that everybody sees a tunnel and an angel. Well, they don’t. This guy, he worked on the
Hindenburg
, and he was up inside the balloon part when it blew up, and everybody else fell off, but he didn’t. He hung on to the metal struts and it was really hot. His hands got all burned into these black claws,” —she demonstrated,—“and he wanted to let go, but he didn’t. He squinched his eyes shut” —she demonstrated—“and he saw all these different things.”