Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  “And the other half are federal agents.”

  She laughed. “I guess I sound paranoid, but it’s so competitive. No matter how many reporters there are on this story, only one is going to get it first.”

  “Don’t you guys usually get the story at the same time, like from news conferences and press releases and stuff like that?”

  “That’s no fun,” she said.

  “I think you’re the competitive one.”

  “Maybe. But it’s hard keeping up with the big boys, the TV networks, news magazines...”

  “You must be doing something right. I mean, you’re here, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. I made it here. Now I’m having dinner with a federal agent. I‘ll bet that’s pretty exciting, being like a…’G-man.’ You got a gun, G-man?”

  “Goodness no! My job’s ninety-nine percent book and computer research.”

  “Well that’s interesting,” she suggested. “Isn’t it?”

  He smiled. “You know, I’m not able to tell you anything.”

  The comment took her off guard for a moment. “Is that because you don’t know anything, or because you can’t say?”

  He laughed nervously. “If I did know anything, I would be overstepping my bounds to release it to a member of the press. You know the drill.”

  “Sure. The EPA has experts who decide what the public gets to know as opposed to what the agency can attempt to hide or cover-up.”

  He nodded. “Moreover, it would be favoritism giving you stuff that other reporters don’t have access to. It would be collusive.”

  She studied him while he played with the straw in his drink, thoughtlessly pushing crushed ice around his glass. Her instincts told her this guy was troubled by what he knew, that this guy wanted to talk. She decided on a new tack: “You know, this is the weirdest story I’ve ever worked.”

  “Amen,” he said almost automatically. Then he looked up. “How do you mean?”

  “I wish I could say,” she teased. “If I give you something will you give me something?”

  “I can’t.”

  “How about we talk off record,” she said quickly. “If you spill something I can use I go find someone else to hang the attribution on.”

  “I can’t, Ilene,” he pleaded.

  The waiter came but Ishue waved him off without taking her eyes off Warren. “Something’s really bothering you about all this, isn’t it?”

  Warren went back to stirring his drink to death. “I feel like…I feel like I’m on the rim of a volcano that’s about to erupt.”

  “I know, Warren. I need someone to talk to and I’ll bet you do too.”

  He looked up and frowned. “You’re good. You’re really, really good.”

  “Honest. I’m serious. I’m not sure I can believe my own eyes anymore. I have to tell you: I’m a little scared.”

  He studied her expressionlessly. The waiter came back and they ordered.

  The large dining room was down to only about six parties now. The candle in the pebble glass vase went out and Warren re-lit it.

  “I’m going to give you something,” Ishue blurted, “and I don’t give a damn whether you give me something back or not.” She had his attention. “The daughter of the woman who disappeared in Manzanita, Claire McCormick, dear woman, retired elementary school teacher, honest, smart, dedicated to taking care of her mom – well, she swears she’s having visions…that her house is haunted.” Ishue paused here, expecting a smirk or sarcastic comment, but he gave neither. “Normally I’d write her off as overly bereaved or kooky or some-such thing. But then I went into her house…and even though I fancy myself a writer, I don’t think I can find the words to express what happened in there.” She checked him again carefully; he was riveted on her. “It was so weird. I’ve never felt anything like it. Anxiety. Fear. I don’t know. And when I left, thinking I’d only been inside for a few minutes, almost an hour had gone by.” She paused. “I haven’t told anybody about this…until now.”

  “Afterimage,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Huh?”

  “The thing that troubles me,” Warren said, “is that lives may be in danger. I don’t know that I trust my superiors to recognize the danger…let alone deal with it. There’s too much self-interest, too much politics. The system may be too cumbersome to respond quickly enough, or correctly, or even at all.”

  She was staring deep into his eyes, silently pleading with him to tell her more, all the while the word burning in her consciousness: “Afterimage.”

  “If I do my job and remain loyal to my department and toe the line and some innocent person…some child perhaps…dies because I didn't speak out when I could have...”

  The food came.

  They ate in silence, Warren because he feared he’d already said too much, and Ishue because she was busy developing strategy. The prime rib was good but he had to keep reminding himself to eat.

  She had taken a chance on a house specialty, a clam pesto dish. “For someone who eats fast food and frozen dinners that was pretty good,” she said, pushing the empty plate away.

  She sensed him tightening up and it made her think she’d pushed him too far, too fast. Not enough ground work. “Damnit,” she mumbled.

  He looked up, then back at his food.

  She decided to change direction again, hoping it wasn’t too late. “I have to tell you I really admire you, Warren. You have a conscience. You’re smart. You can see the big picture. You’re really a pleasant surprise in a world of mostly…well… unpleasant surprises.”

  He looked up and smiled. “I don’t know how to take this much flattery.”

  Good; he was relaxing, loosening. Time to move on, the old double-double back. “You know, I don’t know anything about you.”

  “Not much to know,” he said.

  “Bull-logna. How ‘bout your age, where you went to school, girlfriends?”

  “Twenty-nine, UC Berkeley, divorced with one son, no girlfriend. There it is - one sentence. Pathetic, eh?”

  “Not at all! A son? How old? What’s his name?”

  “Tyler. He’s eight. I have joint custody with his mother. He goes back and forth between us like a tennis ball at Wimbledon.” He paused. “Poor kid. I almost took him with me when I left San Francisco yesterday, but Louise threw a fit, as usual. What about you?”

  She was listening, feeling a little jealous. She’d gotten pregnant 11 years ago, but Jeff, the bastard, had left her and she’d miscarried. It would have been a boy. “I’ll give you my one sentence version too: I’m 35, went to J-school at San Diego State, no kids, two dogs, an avid backpacker, no boyfriends.”

  They had both gravitated slowly across the table, leaning in closer to one another. “I guess our timing is good,” he said softly. Until this moment he had been unable to quite decide if he found her attractive or not. He stared at her lips and breathed in deeply to catch the scent of her. Yes. I want her.

  She suddenly realized how long it had been… almost a year. Hal Whitman, city editor at the Register. She’d gone to his house to pick up the police blotters. A handsome, rugged man pushing 50. He’d complemented her legs, said something about having never seen them before. Yes, she’d always worn pants or ankle-length skirts to work. Why had she gone to his house that day wearing her short, suede skirt, legs carefully shaven? Hal had touched the skin lightly just above her knee, electricity arcing into her. “Where did you get such smooth, sexy brown legs,” he had asked, voice cracking with nervous anticipation.

  “My dad was Japanese,” she’d whispered, not resisting, trying not to care he was married.

  “Oh, goodness,” Ishue blushed, rocking back into her chair. They smiled awkwardly at one another a moment. “We are adults,” she whispered. “We can do this…if we want.”

  Without another word Warren put cash on the table, rose and extended his hand to her. She took it and followed him upstairs to his room.

  Day 9

  Friday

  Ash
land, Oregon

  Eighty minutes south of Eugene, left-lane-hugging in the big Mercedes 500, Dr. Abraham Lomax emerged on a small city ringed with forested mountains and snow-capped peaks. The valley floor was dominated by five columns of brownish smoke - three lumber mills, a plywood plant and a fiberboard factory - twisting up into a pale blue sky. A decade earlier the Rogue Valley had endured twenty such mills, but accessible timber was running low here and most ‘forest products’ conglomerates had since moved on to easier pickings.

  The doctor fingered his brights lever, clicking it on a slow-moving Mazda ahead. When the sedan refused to cede the lane, Lomax came up hard on it’s tail and fired his brights twice, Autobahn style. “Little fish move for big fish,” he growled, firing again, the xenon bulbs reflecting blue off the Mazda’s trunk deck…

  Once the sedan had given way, the silver Mercedes surged ahead, passing through Medford to an offramp at the valley’s southern end. Lomax parked in the Ashland Community Hospital lot next to a rambling one-story craftsman-style house. A small sign on the building’s large front porch read: Hospice Care of Jackson County.

  Hospice Director Donald Ives ushered him into the living room saying: “They’re waiting for you,” with just a tinge of polite impatience in his voice. Lomax checked his watch. Fifteen minutes late.

  His audience – just six people – was smaller than the other groups he’d seen, in Eugene, Grant’s Pass, Bend, Salem and several in Portland. Quality, not quantity, he reminded himself.

  Seated on an overstuffed sofa facing the fireplace were two young men, both thin, one very pale, bags under his eyes and large bandage on his neck. To their left, an elderly man and woman sat in adjoining easy chairs, the woman wearing the characteristic chemotherapy bandana. Another was in a wheelchair – a young man whose head was supported in a traction brace. As he’d previously arranged with Ives, none of these people appeared too old or too feeble or too drugged to comprehend what he was about to say.

  “I'd like to introduce Dr. Abraham Lomax, A distinguished surgeon, noted

  Thanatologist and author of a book I think most of us have read: The Supreme Adventure.’ He's come down here today from Eugene to talk about his research.”

  Lomax backed toward the lit fireplace, his hands, still chilly, folded behind him. “Thank you...”

  “Before I leave you in Dr. Lomax’ capable hands,” Ives interrupted, “I want you all to know that the hospital will not be held responsible should anyone here decide to participate in his research.”

  “Thank you, Don,” the tall, slender doctor said as Ives left the room. “I'm glad you covered that.” He assumed a casual pose, slipping his right hand into the trouser pocket of his $2500 suit, leaving his left arm free for body language. “I’d like to spend a quick moment getting acquainted if we could.” He scanned his audience for expressions of objection, then continued. “I feel very fortunate to have had two fascinating careers during my lifetime. I graduated Columbia medical school, worked as a New York surgeon for over ten years.” He paused here. “Sometimes…surgeons lose patients. It’s not something you ever get used to.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “Never. I guess I had some…experiences, ‘perceived visitations’ if you will.” He could see his audience was having trouble following his meaning, except the neck-bandaged man, who smiled knowingly and for the first time made eye contact. A good sign.

  “I came to understand that I’d been ignoring the world beyond the observable, beyond the provable. And over the years my career evolved away from surgery as I became increasingly involved in Thanatology, in consulting with hospitals and local health-care agencies around the country setting up hospices like this one. I recently finished my second book which hasn’t come out yet – ‘Into the White Light’ about near-death experiences.

  Lomax nodded at the two people in the easy chairs. They were holding hands. The woman had a kindly face. “Before I get into the details of my research, I’d like to hear a little about you.”

  “Yes, well I’m Mary Walker and this is my husband Ernie and we’re originally from St. Louis.” She looked skyward, thinking about what to say. “We have three, beautiful, grown children. We moved here when Ernie retired.” She paused, “And I have cancer. Diagnosed about a year ago but it had already metastasized. So I’m managing quite well and they keep telling me I’m in remission but you know, I don’t think so. I don’t think I have much time.”

  Lomax glanced at Ernie, whose eyes seemed to hold more pain then hers.

  “We believe she’s going to get better,” Ernie said.

  Lomax gestured to the man in neck traction.

  “You…want to play…the name game,” he said, pausing for enough air to speak. “Well, I’m Jeff Damon…I’m 27, I love skiing…and hiking and intimate dinners…for two.”

  Lomax laughed heartily, recognizing the sarcastic humor, the underlying anger.

  Encouraged, Jeff continued: “So I have this perfect…life until three years ago when…some asshole doctor says…I have amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

  “Nice to meet you, Jeff,” The doctor turned his attention to the two young men on the sofa. He stared for a very long five seconds before one spoke:

  “I’m Thomas; this is Wayne,” was all he said.

  “Good to know you Thomas, Wayne,” he said, nodding to each.

  “Faggots,” Jeff wheezed, pretending to sneeze.

  “Just suppose there really is a final judgment day,” Thomas barked. “And in your case, I mean soon. Don’t you worry about how you’ll be judged?”

  “I think you’re the ones…should be worried,” Jeff answered.

  “I’m not going to pretend to know what each of you is going through,” Lomax said, interrupting this little repartee. “In spite of the fact I’ve been working with patients like yourselves for over 20 years, I don’t really know because I’m not going through it. You are. You’re the real experts on the subject of death and dying. And I’ll bet you get enough mincing of words – for that matter - outright avoidance from friends and family. So I’m not going to do that. I’m not here to console you or tell you lies. I’m here because I need your help, and I have something very valuable to offer you in return...

  “In my research I’ve interviewed hundreds of terminal patients. I know it is a very personal thing, how one makes - or fails to make - the adjustments. Many never get past the unfairness, the ‘why-me-ness’ of it. And I understand that, because it isn’t fair. Others cling to hope, to imminent cures, perhaps divine intervention.”

  “Hope is what keeps my Mary going,” Ernie interrupted.

  “Yes. Hope. Let’s talk a little about that. It’s considered a prime tenant of Thanatology to always encourage hope, but never fabricate it. Doctors may provide factual information that seems hopeful, such as ‘this new research looks very promising,’ or ‘that latest test suggests your condition isn’t worsening…’ But it’s up to the patient to actually feel the hopefulness.

  “We’re often reminded of how hope is such a noble – a divine - quality. It is Satan who says ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here’ in Dante’s Inferno. A lack of hope is unholy. It’s evil. If you have no hope you go to hell.” Lomax made a little smirk. “Even scientists tend to harbor fantasies about what hope can do, like it’s some costumed superhero who flies in and smites the disease with a single blast of something-or-other.

  “I can’t tell you how many eulogies I’ve heard that include phrases like ‘he fought to the very end,’ or ‘she never gave in to the disease.’ But let’s climb out of the box for a second. Let’s dispense with the mythology. Could hope possibly have a downside? When is hope really just denial in disguise? When does hope become a roadblock to the truth? And we, as professionals – are we just humoring you to keep you quiet until you die? Think about it. Every day you refuse to accept the truth about your condition is one less day you get to experience the beauty of this precious thing we call life.” He held up his l
eft-hand index finger. “And that’s one more day you can’t afford to waste.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Thomas muttered.

  “Let him talk,” Wayne whispered, squeezing Thomas’ leg.

  “If I may be brutally frank. Most terminals wait until they’re on their deathbeds to accept the inevitable. If they’re not too drugged-out to notice – which I might add, most are - it kind of just hits them: ‘Hey, this is it. No more bullshit. I’m going to die in a few minutes.’ For the fortunate ones, it is a moment of philosophical clarity, of insight and freedom…

  “You expect us to just abandon hope?” Thomas asked.

  “What have you got to lose?” Lomax turned to Mary. “If you go into remission, well, great. The fact is: being hopeful or not isn’t going to make any difference to the cancers.” He shrugged. “Look at it this way: most people don’t get the opportunity to go through a philosophical metamorphosis. One day they think they’re healthy, the next day they’re dead.

  “You’re probably thinking that they are the lucky ones, that ignorance is bliss. Well, I would argue that forewarning can be an opportunity. But regardless…for you that’s not the way it’s going to be. You folks have received the call, advance notice away from this life, and there’s no turning back from that knowledge.

  “I want to ask you now what you think happens when you die…I’m sure you’ve been thinking a lot about that, but probably not talking much about it. Wayne? Would you go first?”

  “Yeah, I have thought about it. I keep coming up with nothing. Nothing is what happens.”

  “Well we agree there,” Jeff volunteered. “Who I am…who we all are…just bags full of memories that get dumped out.”

  Mary said: “I was raised religious, but it’s hard…hard to believe it. I try, but I don’t think I do.”

  “You’ll probably outlive me,” Ernie said with a chuckle intended to lighten the mood. But his voice cracked and he started to sob.