“If it’s Kevin, tell him the assignment is ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus.’ Pages 169 to 180. Tell him it will be on the final.”
“I’m glad he’s all right,” Joanna said.
“ ‘ “Oh, father! I see a gleaming light,” ’ ” Mr. Briarley said. “ ‘ “Oh, say, what may it be?” ’ ”
And so much for the good day, Joanna thought.
“I’ll call you as soon as I find the book,” Kit said and hung up.
He wasn’t dead. She had outside confirmation. Then why did she still have the feeling? It persisted, in spite of the relief she’d felt hearing Mr. Briarley’s voice, in spite of the fact that people didn’t die of cut thumbs. Maybe it’s a message of some kind, a premonition.
There was a sudden shriek from outside in the ER, and a clattering crash. “Mrs. Rosen,” Nina said, exasperated, “the British aren’t coming!”
“They are!” the woman said, her voice rising ominously. “I saw the light!”
The feeling’s a message, all right, Joanna thought, a message that you’re starting to sound just as crazy as that woman out there. Richard was right. You are turning into Bridey Murphy.
It wasn’t a premonition, or precognition, or proof that Mr. Briarley was dead. It was a contentless feeling, brought on by temporal-lobe stimulation. And what about the feeling that the Titanic is the key to the NDE? Doesn’t this prove it’s purely chemical, too?
“No,” she said stubbornly to the radio control board and the dangling wires. “It means something, and I’m going to find out what.” Which meant calling Betty Peterson back and going over the NDE accounts line by line, looking for clues.
Nina had asked her to take the phone back to the station desk. She picked it up and opened the door. The British are coming! woman had stopped screaming. Joanna leaned out the door to see if she was still out there.
She wasn’t, and Joanna couldn’t see Nina anywhere. The security guard was still lounging against the wall, and scrubsclad nurses were moving routinely between the trauma rooms. Halfway down the row a young man in a lab coat and running shoes—Dr. Carroll?—stood, earnestly reading a chart.
But there was no telling when the next rogue-raver or gun-waving gangbanger might show up. Joanna started for the side door, keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who looked dangerous. At least Vielle isn’t here, she thought, walking between two heart monitors. And maybe a few days away from the ER had given her a new perspective. Joanna went over to the station desk and set the phone down. The door of Trauma Room 2 opened, and an orderly came out, talking to a black nurse in a surgical cap and dark blue—
“Vielle!” Joanna said. She started across the crowded space toward them. “What are you doing here?”
Vielle had turned at the sound of her name. As she caught sight of Joanna, she grabbed compulsively at her right arm and cradled it close to her body as if protecting it.
“I thought you weren’t coming back till next week,” Joanna said. “What made you change—?” and saw what Vielle was protecting. No, hiding. It was a bandage, and it covered half her forearm.
“What happened?” Joanna said blankly.
“Didn’t you hear about Vielle getting shot?” the orderly asked.
“Shot?”
“This guy comes in, waving a gun around,” the orderly said, “and he says, ‘Where the—’ ”
“Don’t you have work to do?” Vielle said sharply. “The bed in Four needs to be stripped. And mop the floor,” but she was looking at Joanna.
Joanna couldn’t take her eyes off Vielle’s bandaged arm. “You didn’t have the flu,” she said numbly. “You got shot.”
“Joanna—”
“You could have gotten killed.”
Vielle shook her capped head. “It’s just a flesh wound. It—”
“They told me you went home with the flu. Where were you? Up in the ICU?”
“No, of course not,” Vielle said. “The bullet barely creased the skin. I didn’t even have to have stitches.”
“That’s why you wouldn’t let me come over. You said you didn’t want me to catch the flu, but it was because you didn’t want me to know you’d been shot.”
“Joanna—”
“You told me you were going to stay home and get over it,” Joanna said. “Did you, or was that a lie, too, and you were back at work the next day because you couldn’t wait to let them take another shot at you?”
“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be upset,” Vielle said, “and I didn’t see any point in—”
“Upset? Upset?” Joanna said furiously, and Dr. Carroll and one of the nurses turned around to look at them. The security guard began to lumber to his feet. “Why should I be upset, just because my best friend has been shot?”
“Keep your voice down,” Vielle hissed, looking anxiously toward the security guard. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you, because I knew you’d overreact—”
“Overreact?”
“Problem, Nurse Howard?” the security guard said, heading toward them, his hand on his gun. “No,” Vielle said, “no problem.”
“Yes,” Joanna said to him, “where were you when the guy was waving a gun around?” She turned back to Vielle. “When exactly did you plan to tell me? Or did you plan to? If he’d shot you through the heart, would you have told me then?” and flung herself across the ER.
“Joanna—” Vielle called after her.
She pushed through the side door. Behind her, she heard Vielle say, “Cover for me. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Joanna, wait—”
Joanna ignored her and headed down the hallway.
“Joanna, please!” Vielle caught up to her just before she reached the stairs. “Don’t be angry,” she said, clutching at Joanna’s arm with her left hand. “The reason I didn’t tell you was—”
“Because you knew what I’d say,” Joanna said. “You’re right. I would have said it. Did you really expect me to stand idly by and watch my best friend get killed?”
“It was just a scratch,” Vielle protested. “He wasn’t shooting at me. I don’t even think he knew he had a gun. He was on rogue—”
“On rogue,” Joanna said, “which has caused a twenty-five percent increase in emergency room casualties.”
“You don’t understand,” Vielle said. “I was as much to blame as he was. I should have seen he was too far gone to reason with. I thought I could calm him down, and I took hold of his arm. The first thing the hospital memo said was, ‘Do not attempt to engage the patient.’ I had no business—”
“You have no business working in the ER,” Joanna cut in. “How many more warnings do you need? This is about as plain as it gets. You’ve got to get out of there.”
“I can’t. We’re shorthanded as it is. Two of our nurses are out with the flu, and the bad publicity means we can’t get subs. Look, it won’t happen again. They’ve hired an additional security guard. He starts tomorrow, and the hospital is talking about putting in a metal detector.”
“The hospital that responded to the last shooting by putting out a memo? Vielle, listen to me. You’ve got to transfer out now.”
Vielle was looking at her with an odd expression. “All right,” she said.
Joanna blinked. “You’ll ask for a transfer?”
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll transfer out of the ER, and you tell Richard you can’t be his guinea pig anymore.”
Joanna stared at her. “Quit the project? Why?”
“You said you couldn’t stand idly by and watch your best friend get killed? Well, neither can I. I’m worried about you.”
“Worried about me?” Joanna said. “You’re the one with a bandage on her arm. You’re the one who—”
“You’re the one who’s got shadows under her eyes practically down to her knees,” Vielle said. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“I’m fine,” Joanna said.
“That’s what the woman in there just said, the one who keeps screaming, ‘The British are coming!’;the one
who doesn’t realize she’s crazy. You’re nervous as a cat, you space out when people are talking to you. When you came down to the ER just now, you looked—”
“You saw me?” Joanna said, outraged all over again. “What were you doing, hiding from me? You were,” she said, suddenly remembering Nina looking anxiously around and then hustling her into the communications room. “You waited till you thought I’d gone to come out.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Vielle snapped. “You looked white as a ghost. You still look white as a ghost.”
“And how am I supposed to look? I just found out my best friend was shot by a lunatic.”
Stalemate. They stood there, bristling like a pair of dogs for a long minute, then Vielle said patiently, “You’re overwrought, you’re losing weight—”
“I’ve been busy,” Joanna said defensively. “The cafeteria’s always closed—”
“The cafeteria has nothing to do with your disappearing for hours, jumping if anybody talks to you. You know who you’re acting like?”
“Julia Roberts in Flatliners?” Joanna said sarcastically.
“Julia Roberts in Mary Reilly. She had shadows under her eyes, too, and she nearly got herself killed because she refused to stop working for Dr. Jekyll.”
“Richard’s not Mr. Hyde.”
“Richard wouldn’t notice if you fell over unless it showed up on one of those scans of his. You have to tell him you can’t go under anymore.”
“I can’t,” Joanna said.
“Why not?”
Because it means something, Joanna thought. Because it’s important. “Richard doesn’t have any other subjects,” she said, “except Mr. Sage, and he’s useless. The progress report is due in two weeks, and if we don’t discover how the NDE works soon—” She broke off and started again. “If it’s a survival mechanism, it could be used to revive patients who’ve coded, and the key is the images I’m seeing in my NDEs. I have to figure out what they mean.”
Vielle was regarding her solemnly. “This is about Maisie Nellis,” she said wonderingly. “You think you’re going to make some big discovery about NDEs that’ll bring back patients whose hearts have given out. That’s why you joined the project in the first place, not because you could find out firsthand what NDEs were like or because Dr. Wright was Dr. Right. You did it because you thought you could save Maisie from drowning.”
“I don’t—”
“Nurse Howard,” Nina called, leaning her head out the side door. “Nurse Gilbert wants to talk to you.”
“Tell her I’ll be there in a minute,” Vielle said.
Nina’s head disappeared and then popped out again. “Where’s the fiberoptic gastroenterology scope?”
“Examining Room Two,” Vielle said, “lefthand side of the cabinet above the sink,” and Nina disappeared again.
Vielle turned back to Joanna. “When I first started in the ER,” she said, “I thought if I just worked long and hard enough, I could fix everything, I could save everybody’s life.” She smiled wryly. “You can’t. You’re only human.”
“You still have to try,” Joanna said.
“Even if it means risking your own health? And don’t tell me about wanting to die like Sullivan or Gilbert, whichever one it was, because, trust me, dying isn’t something you want to do. I work with death every day in there. It’s something to avoid at all costs.”
“Then why are you still working in there?”
Nina leaned out again. “It’s locked.”
“The key’s in the station desk. Top drawer, right side.”
“And Stan wants to know if he’s supposed to work a double shift tonight.”
Vielle sighed. “Tell him to ask Mr. Avila in Ops. He’ll know what’s happening.”
He’ll know what’s happening. “Ask Mr. Briarley,” the bearded gentleman had told the steward. “He’ll know what’s happening.” He was right. The Mr. Briarley on board had remembered Ricky Inman and “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.”
He’d remember what he had said in class. I should have asked him there in the writing room, Joanna thought. He would have been able to tell me, and then, with a shock of comprehension, That’s why he was there. Not because he was dead. Because he knew the answer.
“Well, then ask her where Mr. Avila is,” Vielle was saying.
I have to get Richard to send me under again, Joanna thought, so I can ask Mr. Briarley what he said.
“All right,” Vielle was saying resignedly. “I’ll be right there.” She turned to Joanna. “What say we both quit right now and walk out that door?” She pointed to the door that led to the parking lot. “We get in my car and go someplace where it never snows and there aren’t any Ninas.”
“Or rogue-ravers.”
“Or sick people.”
“Or Mrs. Davenports.”
Vielle smiled. “And the cafeteria’s open twenty-four hours a day.”
“You’ve just described Mr. Mandrake’s Other Side.” Joanna grinned.
“Except for the Mrs. Davenport part,” Vielle said. “Can you imagine how awful that would be? You die and go through the tunnel, and there, waiting for you in the light, is Mrs. Davenport. Can you imagine anything worse than that?”
Yes, Joanna thought.
“I’d settle for just no snow,” Vielle said. “How about this? We go to Hollywood and get jobs as film consultants. I tell them why people can’t survive in twenty-eight-degree water, and you tell them what John Belushi’s last words were. We’ve got the credentials. All those Dish Nights.”
Nina leaned her head out the door again. “Dr. Carroll said to tell you we’ve got incoming. A three-car crash on I-70.”
“Coming,” Vielle said and started toward the door. She put her hand on it. “Think about it, okay?”
“About Hollywood?”
“About quitting. I really am worried about you, you know.”
“Ditto,” Joanna said.
“Or, if you won’t quit, about taking a couple of weeks off to catch up on your sleep and get any excess dithetamine out of your system. Promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I promise,” Joanna said, but as soon as Vielle had gone into the ER, she tore up the stairs, across the walkway, and up to the lab to talk Richard into sending her under right away.
“Everything has gone wrong, my girl.”
—NOVELIST ARNOLD BENNETT’S LAST WORDS
RICHARD WASN’T THERE. Which was just as well, Joanna thought, catching sight of herself in the dressing-room-door mirror. Tish had left it open after her makeup session, and Joanna’s reflection looked wild-eyed and disheveled, like someone escaping from Pompeii.
If Richard saw me like this, he’d never send me under again, she thought. And he had to. She had to ask Mr. Briarley what the connection was.
The affidavit and the sealed tape she’d had Tish sign were both on Richard’s desk where she’d left them. She picked them up. She could tear up the affidavit and unseal the tape, and Richard would never have to know about it. If Tish said anything, she could say she just wanted the fact that she’d recorded her NDE immediately after her session documented.
But then she was as bad as Vielle. Worse, she thought, because this is a scientific experiment, and Richard can’t possibly come up with a theory without all the data. You have to tell him. But she didn’t have to look like a nutcase while she was doing it. She combed her hair and put on some lipstick so she wouldn’t look so pale, and then stood there trying to think of a way to explain it to Richard, but the image of Vielle and a kid brandishing a gun kept intruding. If he’d waved it a little more to the right, if it had ricocheted a little differently—
Richard came in, and walked straight to the console. “I think we may finally have something. Your readouts aren’t identical, but they show at least one of the same neurotransmitters as Mrs. Troudtheim’s, and I need to check the cortisol numbers, but I think they’re the same, too. Have you written up your NDE yet? If you have, I need a copy. I?
??m meeting with Dr. Jamison at two-thirty, and—” he stopped. “My God, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”
“No,” she said. “Vielle got shot.”
“Shot?” he said. “Good God, is she okay?”
She nodded. “It was only a flesh wound.”
“My God! When did this happen?”
“Three days ago,” Joanna said, and burst into tears.
He was across the lab in two steps, his arms around her. “What happened?”
She told him through her tears. “She didn’t tell me because she knew what I’d say.”
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “She’s got to transfer out of there. It’s getting ridiculously dangerous.”
“I know, but she won’t,” she said, wiping at her tears with her hand. “She says they’re too shorthanded.”
He reached in his lab coat pocket and pulled out a package of Kleenex, which made her laugh. “I’m sorry to cry all over you,” she said.
“Anytime,” he said. “You doing okay now?”
She nodded and blew her nose. “I just keep thinking about what might have happened—”
“I know. Look, let me call Dr. Jamison and cancel our meeting, and you and I go get something to eat.”
It sounded wonderful, but if she went out with him, she was liable to blurt out what had happened with Mr. Briarley just like she’d blurted out the news about Vielle, and, worse, try to explain her conviction that Mr. Briarley could tell her the reason she was seeing the Titanic, and he’d decide she was too distraught or unstable to go under again.
And she had to go under again, had to ask Mr. Briarley, “What did you say in class that day? What does the Titanic have to do with NDEs?”
“No, I’m okay now, really,” she said. “I don’t want to take you away from what you’re doing, especially if you’re on to something, and I need to go transcribe my account.” She picked up the sealed tape and quickly stuck it in her cardigan pocket. “You said you needed it by two-thirty?”
“Actually, all I need is the very end,” he said. “You said you came back through the same passage, but it was in a different place?”
“No.” She explained about following Mr. Briarley, opening the door to the passage, realizing it was the same one. “The passage is always in the same location. Everything is. It’s a real place. I mean,” she said at his look, “it feels like a real place.”