Dr Ambara smiled. ‘It depends on what you mean by “there,” Mr Clare. Heaven exists both inside and outside the human mind. But, yes, I believe that your family still exists, and as a Hindu, I also believe that one day they will each be reborn, reincarnated, as we all will, probably as the grandsons and granddaughters of distant relatives.’ Randolph said, Thank you.’
‘Why do you thank me? As far as I am concerned, this is what actually occurs.’ ‘I wish I had your faith.’
‘Well, what we believe is for each of us to decide,’ said Dr Ambara. ‘But all faith is based on fact, and there are many stories in Indonesia that substantiate our belief.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean simply that people who have lost their sons and daughters have sometimes spoken to their grandchildren and discovered that these grandchildren have possessed a knowledge of people and events that only their dead children could possibly have known. It is so common, this faculty, that it is not even remarked upon in the town I come from. I am sure that American children have the same faculty but their parents are not aware of it, and would not believe it even if they were. And so the children rapidly forget the memories they brought out of the womb with them from their previous lives.’
Dr Ambara was silent for a moment and then added, ‘There are those who claim to have met and spoken to the dead - mystics usually - but the high priests do not ordinarily approve of such things.’
He picked up the progress chart hanging at the foot of Randolph’s bed, unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen and jotted a few notes. Then he said, ‘Whatever you need, do not hesitate to ask for it. I know you are an active man; I know that you are the president of a very important company and that there are great pressures on you. But for your own sake, give yourself a few days in order to absorb and understand what has happened to you. Feel free to talk about it as much as you want. It is vital for your health - even for your survival - that you do not suppress your grief.’
He left Randolph alone then, and for almost an hour Randolph lay by himself, the light switched off, and wept. At about eight o’clock, however, a young nurse came in carrying a tray. She drew the drapes, switched on the bedside lights and helped Randolph sit up, his back propped by pillows.
‘My name is Suzie,’ she smiled. She was red-haired and freckle-faced. She could have stepped straight out of a Norman Rockwell picture: the bouncy young American nurse. She swung a tray around in front of Randolph and set his food on it: chicken soup, fresh-baked rolls and a glass of fruit juice.
‘This isn’t a Jewish hospital, is it?’ Randolph asked. It was a deliberate attempt to say something light and amusing. Unfortunately, his voice was strained from sobbing and the young nurse did not understand him.
‘I’m sorry?’ she blinked.
‘The chicken soup,’ Randolph told her. ‘Chicken soup is what Jewish mothers give their families for all conceivable ailments.’
‘Oh,’ said Suzie and tugged his bedcovers straight.
Randolph looked down at his supper and knew that he could not eat it. ‘You’d better just take this away,’ he said. ‘I can’t even swallow.’
‘Dr Ambara said that you have to eat something.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’
Suzie parked her well-rounded bottom on the bed and picked up the spoon. ‘If you can’t eat for yourself, I’m going to have to feed you.’
‘Please,’ said Randolph. ‘I’m really not hungry at all.’
But she ladled out a spoonful of soup and offered it up to his lips. ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘You don’t want to upset Dr Ambara.’
Randolph allowed her to pour the soup into his mouth. But he felt so childish and vulnerable when she did that his grief came rising up and he burst out sobbing. The soup splattered all over the tray and his gown.
‘Oh, God,’ he wept. I'm sorry.’
Suzie took away the tray and swung the table back against the wall. She dried him with a towel and then sat on the bed again and held him in her arms. ‘Sssh,’ she soothed him, stroking his hair. When he felt the softness of her nylon-covered breast against his cheek and smelled the perfume of her femininity, he could scarcely stop himself from screaming out in agony. It was as though every nerve in his body was being wound tighter and tighter and his brain was going to implode like a smashed television screen, leaving only fragments of his identity.
‘Sssh,’ she whispered again and kept on stroking his hair.
Later during the night, they gave him another sedative. He heard the door swing open and close several times, and voices. Somebody was saying something about Dr Linklater. Every time the door opened, light shone into his eyes and he could hear the bustle of the clinic outside his room.
He slept at last and dreamed that he was frantically trying to run back to Quebec. He had to reach Marmie and the children. It was crucial. A dark wave of panic was rolling in behind him while a snarl of brambles was clinging to his trouser legs, making it impossible for him to hurry. He saw Marmie and the children in the distance, running from him across a stormy wheatfield; clouds were building over their heads in inky castles. He tried to free his legs so he could catch up with them and warn them, but the brambles had grown into his skin now and he couldn’t take another step.
He shouted ‘Marmie!’ but the wind was rising and his voice was carried away.
He shouted ‘Marmie!’ again and this time she turned around; he could see that her face was as white as wax. She was staring at him with such frightening accusation that he stopped shouting, dropped his arms by his sides and looked back at her in guilt and terror. Then the children turned around - John and Mark and Issa - and their faces too were as white as wax and there was no love in them, only condemnation.
‘I didn’t know,’ he told Marmie. He raised his hands towards her, begging her to forgive him and to come back and embrace him. ‘Marmie, I swear it. I didn’t know.’
Marmie stared at him for a moment longer and then she turned away, and the children turned away too, and they began to glide through the deserted street that had taken the place of the wheatfield until they reached the banks of the Mississippi.
‘You’ll drown!’ he desperately tried to warn them. But they continued to glide away across the surface of the river, and at last the dark clouds descended to the opposite shore and they were gone.
He woke up, found himself staring at his pillow in horror … and knew with absolute finality that they were dead.
Slowly he turned and looked towards the window. The drapes had been drawn back and sunlight was illuminating the blind. His head ached and his limbs felt stiff, but he managed to raise himself up on one elbow.
Just then the door opened and Suzie came in. Behind her, sleek and tanned, his grey-winged hair neatly combed, his eyes shining, came Dr Linklater.
‘Randolph,’ the doctor said, coming over and taking his hand.
‘Hallo, Miles,’ Randolph said. ‘How are you doing? Didn’t expect to be seeing you for a while.’
Suzie asked, ‘How about some breakfast?’
‘Coffee,’ Randolph told her.
‘Oh, come on now, you have to have more than coffee,’ Dr Linklater chided him. He turned to Suzie and said, ‘Bring the man a bowl of Rice Krispies and some fruit.’
‘Miles, I never eat Rice Krispies,’ Randolph protested.
‘Quiet, or you’ll get Count Chokula instead.’
Randolph eased himself into a sitting position. ‘Were you here last night?’ he asked.
‘Sure was. Looked in at nine, and then again at eleven.’
‘I guess I’ll see it on my bill.’
Dr Linklater tugged his chair closer. ‘This has been a terrible business, Randolph. I want you to know that Marjorie and I, well, we’re so stunned that we don’t even know what to say. But you have our heartfelt sympathies, and you know that you can count on us for anything you need.’
Randolph said, ‘Will I have to go to Canada?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘There was some suggestion of it from the Canadian police, but I vetoed it on health grounds. They’ll be sending two of their detectives down to talk to you tomorrow, if you can stand it.’
Randolph nodded. He felt disassembled this morning, and nothing seemed to make much sense. But he acquiesced because he knew that time had refused to stand still, even at eight forty-seven yesterday morning, and that in one way or another, he was going to have to start living again, walking around and talking to people, and running his business.
‘Will I have to … look at them?’ Randolph asked.
‘You mean will you have to identify the remains? No, that’s already been done. Your Cousin Ella flew up to Quebec yesterday afternoon and did everything necessary.
She’ll be getting in touch with you later, but she’ll fly the remains back just as soon as the police have released them, and she’ll help you make the funeral arrangements.’
‘Funeral arrangements,’ Randolph mouthed as if they were words in an alien vocabulary.
Dr Linklater reached out and held his hand. ‘I called your office too. Your Mr Sleaman said that everything was fine and that you shouldn’t concern yourself about getting back to work until you are really ready. He said the Raleigh factory should be back on line within four days now.’
‘Funeral arrangements,’ Randolph repeated.
Dr Linklater gave him a tight, professional smile. ‘All you have to think about now, Randy, is number one. Getting yourself back into shape, learning to come to terms with what happened. Your family is tragically dead, but you’re still alive, and you know as well as I do that Marmie and the kids would never wish anything harmful to happen to you, not ever.’
Randolph frowned at him with unfocused eyes. ‘Miles,’ he said, ‘do you believe in spirits? I mean souls?’
‘Sure.’
‘No, no, I don’t think I’m making myself clear. Do you believe in them, do you believe they’re real? I mean really real?’
‘I’m not too sure of what you’re driving at,’ Dr Linklater confessed, sitting upright and taking his hand away from Randolph’s.
Randolph rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘It’s not too easy to explain,’
he said, ‘but Dr -whatever-his-name-is - he was talking about it. The Indonesian guy.’
‘Oh, you mean Dr Ambara. Yes, excellent doctor. One of the best. Came from Djakarta originally and graduated from University Hospital in Baltimore. What did he say?’
‘He said that in the Hindu religion, when you die, your soul doesn’t vanish forever, like the Christians think it does. It goes to heaven and waits to be reborn.’
‘Well, yes, that’s what Hindus believe, sure. Reincarnation, coming back to earth as a sacred cow, that kind of thing.’
‘No, no, it’s much more than that,’ Randolph said.
‘There are mystics, he said, who can actually talk to the dead, actually meet them.’
Dr Linklater looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, wrung his hands and inspected the floor. ‘What you have to understand, Randy, is that what Dr Ambara was saying to you was probably just his way of trying to console you, of trying to make you feel that you hadn’t lost Marmie and the kids forever. I think he may have slightly miscalculated the effect that his words were likely to have on you at this crucial stage in the grieving process.’
‘You mean you don’t believe that Marmie and the children are anywhere at all? You think they’re just gone, forever?’
‘Randy, I didn’t say that I didn’t believe in heaven. I’m a Christian, goddam it, and I believe what the Good Book has to say on the subject. But Dr Ambara has no right to suggest to you in any way that your family is still alive in a human sense and that they’re hovering around in some kind of celestial anteroom. I believe in life everlasting, Randy, but I also know for a fact that once you’ve shaken off this mortal coil, you don’t come back. Your family is sitting on the right hand of God, Randy, but once you’re sitting on the right hand of God, I’m sorry but you’re beyond recall.’
Randolph nodded slowly and attempted a smile. ‘I’m sorry I made you struggle with religious philosophy so early in the morning,’ he said.
Suzie came in with Randolph’s coffee and Rice Krispies. She poured out the milk for him while the doctor continued to talk.
‘I’m sure that Dr Ambara was well-intentioned. He wanted to give you hope for the future and reassurance about your family, and of course he related their deaths to his own religion. Well, that’s perfectly legitimate. There is no discrimination in Tennessee hospitals on religious grounds. But, Randy, you’re not a Hindu. You’re going to have to come to terms with this according to your own religion and your own upbringing.’
Randolph ate his cereal slowly and carefully. He was just beginning to realize how hungry he was. ‘Suppose I converted?’ he asked.
‘That wouldn’t solve anything. You have to understand that Marmie and the kids are gone from this world, and no matter where they are - and I believe that wherever they are, they’re happy - you won’t see them again.’
‘You don’t think a spiritualist might be able to get in touch with them?’
Dr Linklater shook his head. ‘They’re gone, Randy.’
Tears suddenly began to pour down Randolph’s cheeks and he choked on the Rice Krispies.
There was so much I didn’t have a chance to tell them,’ he said. There was so much I wanted to say.’
‘I understand,’ Dr Linklater told him in a confiding voice. ‘Believe me, Randy, I know how you feel.’
Suzie came bustling in again and Dr Linklater said uneasily, ‘I’d better go. I’ll come back later, after I’m through with evening surgery.’
Randolph said, ‘Okay. Thank you.’
‘Listen,’ said Dr Linklater, glancing meaningfully at Suzie to make sure she understood what the problem was, ‘don’t start getting ideas about spiritualists or mediums or any of that kind of stuff. Believe me, Randy, it will only confuse you, give you false hopes and delay your recovery.’
‘All right,’ Randolph agreed. He wiped his eyes with his napkin.
That’s fine,’ smiled Dr Linklater. ‘Now finish your breakfast and I’ll catch you later.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Randolph was attended to that evening by a different doctor, a crew-cut MD with a stiff, peremptory manner who assured him that his scalp wound was going to heal like new within three days and that most illnesses were all in the mind. When Randolph asked him where Dr Ambara was, the doctor pushed one hand deep into the pocket of his overall, gave a crooked smile and said, ‘We’re pretty damn busy here, believe me.’
But the next morning the crew-cut doctor returned. He sat on the end of the bed uninvited, leafed through Randolph’s chart and muttered to himself, ‘Whole damn family, huh?’
Randolph said, ‘I want to see Dr Ambara.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Clare. Dr Ambara had to take some time off.’
‘I insist on seeing him.’
‘I can pass your message on. Unfortunately, I can’t guarantee that Dr Ambara will respond to it.’
That afternoon when Dr Linklater stopped by, Randolph demanded, ‘What happened to Dr Ambara? They took him off my case.’
Dr Linklater puffed out his cheeks and looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid to say that they did it on my instructions.’
‘But why? What right did you have to do that? I liked him, he helped me. What he was saying to me was reassuring, for God’s sake. It gave me confidence.’
‘Confidence in what, Randy? Confidence that you would somehow talk to Marmie and the kids again, tell them everything you never had time to tell them when they were alive? Come on, Randy, I’m your friend. You’ve been through a terrible, traumatic experience. Right now your mind is vulnerable and suggestible, and while people like Dr Ambara may mean well, they won’t do your recovery process any good.’
Randolph pulled back the bedcovers and swung his legs
out of bed.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Dr Linklater wanted to know.
‘What the hell do you think I’m doing? I’m discharging myself. I’m not going to lie here for the next five days and be treated like a rutabaga.’
‘You can’t do that. You’re sick. You’re under sedation. You had a concussion, clinical shock and psychological trauma.’
‘Maybe I did. But now I’m better and I’m going home.’ ‘The Canadian police are coming here this afternoon to talk to you.’
‘I’m sure the hospital can redirect them.’ Randolph untied his gown, went to the closet and took out his clothes.
‘How do you think you’re going to get home?’ Dr Linklater demanded.
‘I’m sure I can prevail on you to drive me.’ ‘I’m not driving you anywhere. My medical advice to you is to stay put until you’re well enough to go home; even then, you should have a private nurse in attendance.’ ‘If you won’t drive me home, Miles, I’ll just have to call Herbert.’
‘Herbert doesn’t happen to be there today. I know that because I called Charles about arrangements for private medical care and Charles said that Herbert had gone to the body shop to pick up your limousine.’
Randolph stuffed his shirt-tails into his pants and zipped up his fly. ‘I’m discharging myself, Miles, and that’s all there is to it.’ He knotted his necktie and went across to the side-table drawer where Suzie had put his wallet. He took out the card that Stanley Vergo had given him, lifted the telephone receiver and punched out the number.
‘You’re making a serious mistake here, Randolph,’ Dr Linklater said.
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ Randolph told him.
Stanley Verge’s yellow cab drew up in front of the Mount Moriah Clinic less than ten minutes later.
‘How are you doing, Mr Clare?’ Stanley asked, getting out and opening the back door of the cab with one hand and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the other.
Randolph had not seen the man out of the driver’s seat before and was suitably impressed by his girth and the size of his belly. When Stanley got back behind the wheel, he sniffed, smiled at Randolph in the rearview mirror and said, ‘They didn’t send your limo?’
Death Trance Page 9
