by Terri Garey
As sunlight lit the edges of the curtains, I pulled the earphones out of my sore ears and turned off the iPod.
Joe stirred, coming awake. I made room for him to roll over on his back, and when he did, I snuggled against his chest. He gathered me close with one arm and covered his eyes with another, groaning as my movements shook the bed.
“Oh, man. Now I remember why I quit going out with the boys,” he moaned.
“Poor baby,” I said, totally unsympathetic. I’d been dancing with the dead all night while he’d been sleeping like one. “Does your head hurt?” I asked, knowing full well it had to be pounding. Still, I couldn’t be too mad at him—he felt good, warm and solid beneath my cheek.
Joe lowered his arm, wincing at the glare. He lifted his head with an effort and looked around the room, taking in the ring of lamps surrounding the bed. There were ten of them…I know, I’d counted them often enough during the night.
“Wow.” He eased his head back to the pillow. “Did we make a porno movie?”
I giggled tiredly, realizing how it must look to wake up in a sea of red sheets, bright lights all around.
“More importantly,” Joe licked dry lips, eyes already closing, “was I any good?”
CHAPTER 12
“So let me get this straight.”
Dr. Ivy Jacobson was a no-nonsense woman in her early sixties. She offered private counseling at two hundred and fifty bucks an hour from an office on the second floor of an old Victorian on Piedmont. The house was in the heart of the Buckhead historic district, where Ivy no doubt did a thriving business among the desperate housewives and businessmen of wealthy Buckhead County.
“During the last ten days you’ve suffered a near-fatal heart stoppage, lost a friend to domestic violence, and learned you might have an identical twin sister.” Ivy had pale blue eyes, a direct manner, and gray hair cut fashionably short.
“Um, yeah. Don’t forget that I can talk to dead people and that I’ve started sleeping with my doctor. Who might also be my brother-in-law.”
Ivy waved that away for the moment, unimpressed with my glib comments. After spending less than an hour with her, I should have known better. The woman wasn’t easily shocked. She’d listened to my whole twisted tale without batting an eye.
For two hundred and fifty bucks an hour I wasn’t wasting time. I was telling all…a total brain dump.
“One life-changing event would be traumatic enough, Nicki, but you’ve had to cope with several within a very short time. It could certainly be enough to cause some misconceptions in your thinking.”
The window behind Ivy overlooked the backyard of the old Victorian. Moss-draped trees, azaleas, and a fountain, very peaceful and picturesque.
“Misconceptions?”
“Let’s talk more about your near death experience.” Ivy leaned over to check the tape recorder. “I appreciate you agreeing to tape our session, by the way.” She gave me that direct gaze again. “Why is it, do you think, that you were sent back?”
I shook my head. “He said it wasn’t my time.”
“He?” Her eyes sharpened. “This is the first time you’ve mentioned a gender.”
I was frustrated at my inability to explain. Gender wasn’t an issue. “The Light. The Presence behind the Light.”
“I see.” Ivy scribbled notes while I stared out the window. The chair beneath me was a butter-soft leather, designed no doubt to relax the people who sat in it while they put themselves under a microscope. Ivy had taken the couch, a reversal of what I would’ve expected.
“Did he say anything else?”
I closed my eyes, remembering. “Something about life being a dream, and that I should do unto others as I’d have them do to me.”
“The Golden Rule.”
I opened my eyes. “Yeah.”
Or row, row, row your boat. One or the other.
Maybe I was delusional. Maybe a few dying neurons had sparked childhood imaginings of heaven.
Maybe Irene and Caprice were both just figments of a fried brain cell or two.
I wanted to believe that, but I knew better. I had an empty box of lightbulbs to prove it.
“And why, do you think, can you now see and speak to the dead? Do you think these events are somehow connected?”
I was starting to get irritated. I’d come here for answers, not questions.
“Of course they’re connected. When I woke up in the hospital, there was Irene Goldblatt. I thought if I helped her, I’d be ‘doing unto others’ and that would be that. But as soon as I got rid of Irene, there was Caprice.” I sounded defiant, but I didn’t care. “Spirits seem to know I can hear them?like they know I’ve been to the other side. Even Granny Julep said so. She knew it before I told her.”
“I see.” Irene tapped her lower lip with a pencil, face carefully neutral. “What does Granny Julep say about Caprice?”
“It’s complicated, but she says Caprice draws her power from my mind.”
“I see.”
Those two words were rapidly becoming my least favorite phrase in the English language. Ivy scribbled some more while I tried not to fidget.
“You seem to admire this Granny Julep, respect her opinion.”
I thought about that carefully. “I do respect her.”
She’d accept nothing less, the old bat.
“In all honesty, she sounds like a charlatan.” Ivy gave me a carefully bland look. “But perhaps you should consider the possibility she may be right. Perhaps Caprice exists only in your mind.”
I could see where this was going. “I’m not imagining things. I’m not crazy.”
Ivy shrugged. “That word’s not in my vocabulary.”
“That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not.” She put her pencil and pad aside and leaned forward. “I’m saying you should consider the possibility that your mind is creating its own reality.”
Not bothering to hide the roll of my eyes, I said, “That sounds like typical psychobabble to me. I promised Joe I’d come and talk to you, but in all honesty, I can’t see the point.” Ivy’s expression never changed. “Something happened to me. Something changed me.” My voice quivered, almost broke. “It’s not something I ever wanted, or anything I would’ve ever ‘made up’ for myself.”
I dug my nails into the leather chair. “I don’t want to see ghosts, or spirits, or whatever the hell they are.” I was trembling, emotions building. I felt the tears coming, struggled to hold them back. “I don’t want to ‘do unto others’?I just want to be left alone.” Ivy held out a box of tissues, impassive in the face of my meltdown. I snatched one, crying openly now. “And I don’t want a twin.” It felt good to admit it, so I said it again. “I don’t want a twin, and I sure as hell don’t want to fall in love with her husband.”
Oh my God. Had I just said the L word?
Ivy said nothing, letting me cry. Crying wasn’t something I normally did, and I wasn’t very good at it. My nose quickly felt twice its size, making it hard to breathe. I felt like a wet fish, flopping and gasping for air, crying my heart out in a way I hadn’t since my parents died.
Ivy turned off the recorder and leaned over to squeeze my hand. She waited, making sympathetic noises.
After destroying a few tissues and smearing my eyeliner beyond repair, I finally got myself under control. A shaky breath or two later, I felt better. Surprisingly so, for a woman whose nose felt swollen to the size of a grapefruit.
“I guess therapy might not be such a bad idea after all, huh?” A lame attempt at a joke, with a grain of truth.
“Everybody needs a good cry now and then,” Ivy said, giving my hand a final pat. “I’d like to continue this next week, Nicki. Would Monday work for you?”
I was hesitant. “To be honest,” though only partly so, “I’m not sure I can afford you. I don’t even know if therapy is covered under my health insurance.”
And I don’t know if I want the word “therapy” to become part o
f my vocabulary.
Ivy rose and moved toward her desk. “I’m sure we can work something out, Nicki. Dr. Bascombe is a colleague of mine, after all. I wouldn’t have agreed to assist him with a blind study otherwise.”
“Excuse me?”
Ivy picked up her appointment book. Her pink and gray tweed suit was nicely tailored, Ann Taylor or Saks.
“I assumed Dr. Bascombe told you I’ve agreed to help him with his paper.” She turned to face me, frowning.
How had I forgotten this? I was a test case to Joe, an oddity, made more so by the resemblance to his missing wife. He’d sent me to a handpicked psychiatrist to get more data for his report.
“The blind study relates strictly to the documentation of near death experiences and their aftereffects, nothing more. We present our findings separately, and compare conclusions.” Ivy looked worried. “As far as the personal nature of your relationship with Dr. Bascombe, I’m bound by confidentiality. I would never share anything with him of a private nature?only my findings as they relate to your NDE. I thought you understood the situation when you agreed to let me tape the session.”
I noticed for the first time the pin she wore on the breast of her suit?a tiered pink rhinestone flower, vintage Coro maybe.
“You won’t tell Joe anything I say about him?”
“Absolutely not. Doctor-patient privilege.”
I hesitated, considering. I couldn’t deny I felt better after spilling my guts. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what’s in it for you?”
Ivy leaned back against her desk and crossed her arms. “Aside from a chance of having an article published in a medical journal?” She paused, giving me a wry smile. “Let me be honest, Nicki. You’re a refreshing change from the typical mid-life crises and sexual dysfunction I see every day.”
I grinned, knowing I looked like a sodden version of a raccoon with my mascara-smeared cheeks. She probably didn’t get many clients with nipple rings.
“You seem like a nice girl,” she added. “Let me help you through this.”
“How’d it go with the shrink?”
Evan was happily ensconced in the catbird seat, flipping through the latest issue of Vogue. He’d called me that morning, just after Joe left, and informed me he’d decided it was safe to leave suburbia for Little Five Points during the day. Privately, I think he was just bored. The store was his lifeblood as much as it was mine.
He tore his gaze from Christian Lacroix’s spring collection to take a good look at my face.
“Oh, dear Lord. It’s Kelly Osbourne the morning after. What happened to your mascara? Your lipstick is all smeared.”
“Kelly Osbourne’s fat,” I sniffed. “I’m not fat.”
Evan was nothing if not clever. Clever enough to cease the questions long enough to offer me the catbird’s seat and a soda from the little fridge we kept under the counter.
I plopped down with a sigh, opened the soda, then told him about Ivy.
“I like her. But I don’t like that Joe didn’t tell me she was helping with his paper. That part makes me feel like a specimen, a freak.” I chewed morosely on a fingernail until Evan slapped my hand away. “I thought he sent me to her because she could help me, because he cared about me, not because he needed another expert opinion for his report.”
“He should’ve told you,” Evan agreed.
“I’d forgotten about the stupid paper anyway. Even thought it was just his ‘opener,’ you know?” Evan nodded, completely understanding where I was coming from. “I thought it just was an excuse to find out more about me, figure out if I was Kelly’s sister?I didn’t realize he was serious.”
“He should’ve told you.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
Evan threw up his hands. “Honey, if I knew the answer to that I’d either be a straight man or a shrink. And I’d much rather have the two hundred bucks an hour.”
“Two fifty,” I said glumly.
The front door jingled as two teenage girls came in. Evan put on his show face and greeted them cheerfully, then gave me a final comment.
“Ask him.”
I wanted to ask him.
I should’ve asked him.
But instead I did what any red-blooded American woman would do if given half the chance.
I snooped.
When Joe woke up in my bed that morning, hung over but happy, his solution to the problem with the lights, the drums, and the scratching was to insist I take the key to his apartment. He’d also insisted I go there when the sun went down, even though he was working the night shift. I’m not sure if he believed that Caprice was behind it all, but at least he believed I believed it.
So it was kind of his own fault if, when I opened the door to his empty apartment, I couldn’t resist stepping inside.
It was quiet. Being there alone felt strange. I dropped my bag and keys on a chair and looked around.
His collection of black and white framed prints was the nicest thing about the place. I could easily envision how much better they’d show if he put an Oriental red on the walls and got rid of the bland brown couch. Black leather furniture might be a bachelor cliché, but it could work if done tastefully. With Joe’s wholesome good looks, he could carry it off.
I walked around the living room, deliberately avoiding the bookcase with its photo albums. I admired the prints for a moment—all black and white nature photos, stark contrasts of light and shadow—and wondered if Joe would like Edward Gorey’s macabre sketches.
Then I trailed into the kitchen, taking a peek inside the fridge.
Mostly empty; cartons of milk and orange juice, some apples and some yogurt, a few leftover strawberries. I popped one in my mouth as I moved on, enjoying the juicy reminder. No need to look for the whipped cream?that was all gone.
Joe’s cupboards were equally spartan; some healthy cereals and canned soups, a shelf of vitamins and herbal supplements. Evidently, Dr. Bascombe practiced what he preached when it came to good health. He had the great body to prove it.
The apartment wasn’t that big, so I had a decision to make. Joe’s bedroom, or his office? The bedroom was tempting, but that would be going over the line. I wanted to find out what the man really thought about me, not rat out his stack of dirty magazines.
I’d never been in the second bedroom he used as an office, but the door was open.
This room had more of Joe’s personality—framed photos of his sister and his parents, scattered papers and books, some stacked on the floor. A scuffed and battered recliner, dark blue, with a flexible reading lamp. Newspapers and empty cups, the foil wrapper from a protein bar. A big desk with a computer and printer.
Hoping his computer wasn’t password protected, I turned it on. While it booted I took a look at the papers spread all over the desk.
Supporting NDE in the Health Care Setting. The Lancet. Scientific American. There was a small pile of books, nearly buried beneath the papers. Lessons from the Light. The Division of Consciousness. Near Death Experiences: The Other Side of Life.
Wow. There were actual books written about this stuff.
The screen flickered, then steadied as the icons appeared. Next to the keyboard were pages of notes in what I assumed was Joe’s handwriting, scribbled and barely legible. I figured I’d have better luck with the computer itself, and loaded up Joe’s word-processing program. Sure enough, the last document he’d worked on was a file called NDE#1.
I pulled it up and began to read.
Eight million Americans have experienced near death episodes during medical emergencies. A near death experience is defined as clinical death accompanied by successful resuscitation.
As fascinating as that was, I was more anxious to read about how Joe’s paper related to me. I found myself skimming quickly over boring things like “methodology” and “abstracts.”
Near death experiencers often report a significant increase in belief in the afterlife, accompanied by higher spiritual awareness.
“Huh,�
�� I muttered. “That’s putting it mildly.”
Problems can occur with these increased sensitivities. The sudden shift in thinking may be so drastic that the experiencer cannot adjust.
Uh-oh. Can’t adjust? As in maladjusted? As in screwed-up?
The perception of a different reality other than that of the physical world can have negative consequences as well as positive. Some experiencers find it hard to commit to relationships after an NDE, citing an inability to “personalize” concepts such as love and family. What were once private emotions are now seen as universal concepts…
“Blah, blah, blah.” I hit the Print button, deciding to reread that part later. I wasn’t too thrilled with what I’d read so far.
While the printer spewed out paper, I skipped ahead, searching for the good stuff. Lots of statistics and theories, but nothing personal. I checked the file menu on the word processor again and saw a filed named SUB#1. I pulled it up.
Subject #1: Female, age 28.
Subject, huh?
Cardiac arrest due to secondary mitral valve prolapse, previously undetected. Spontaneous resuscitation after time of death declared. Subject reports tunnel, white light, feelings of euphoria.
All accurate, but reading it left me cold. Joe made it sound so clinical, so dispassionate.
The experience had been anything but.
I leaned back in his chair, unsatisfied. There was more; notes from what I’d told him in the hospital, reference to the taped session we’d had in the coffee shop the day of Irene’s funeral. It seemed so long ago.
Suddenly, I felt like an absolute jerk. What was I doing? What was I looking for?
I closed all the files as quickly as I could and shut down the computer, though I did take the pages from the printer. It wouldn’t hurt to learn more about NDEs. I even took a minute to write down the name of a couple of Joe’s reference books, thinking a trip to the bookstore was in order.
