by Bill Myers
Sarah stared at the EEG. Now, the delta waves were starting to increase. This was remarkable.
“What type of peace, Brandon?”
“Waves…washing over me …”
“Any colors, sounds?”
“Wind — so quiet …”
Sarah leaned past the console to look at Brandon through the one-way mirror as Reichner quietly cooed, “Good … very good.”
Brandon barely heard Reichner’s voice. The waves of peace had completely enveloped him. He was deep inside them, floating, totally weightless. He was remotely aware that the wires and sensors were still attached to his head, arms, and chest, but he no longer felt them. He knew that he was still in the recliner back at the lab, but he was someplace else as well. Someplace beautiful and deep and crimson. The only sensation he felt was a soft breeze brushing against his face and a sound as gentle as wind stirring through pine trees.
At first he had been uneasy. Try as he might, he still couldn’t shake the old woman’s warning: There is only one path. All others lead to the occult, to destruction. Not easy words to forget, even if you didn’t necessarily believe them. But in one sense he did. In one sense, he wondered: How different were all of these expensive machines and intellectual scientists from the crystal balls and sorcerers of old? Besides spending a few extra million dollars and investing a few dozen more years of schooling, weren’t they in essence attempting to accomplish the same thing: contacting the spiritual world on their own terms?
The thought troubled him. But Sarah had promised that he would be safe. And there was the possibility of meeting Jenny again, of finding out what she was trying to tell him, of once again holding his little sister in his arms.
As Brandon floated, trying to push the fears aside and keep his mind free, he lost track of time. He didn’t know whether he’d been there ten minutes or an hour. Then, finally, through the deep crimson, there was a glint of light. It came and went before he realized that he’d seen it.
There it was again. Piercing bright. A great distance away.
The wind picked up, blowing a little harder. With it, the sound also increased. But it wasn’t really a sound. It was more like rapid, irregular puffs of air, like gentle whisperings. He had entered some sort of current. He could feel it pulling him — gently, yet persistently. And the more he gave himself over to it, the stronger it grew.
There was another glint of light, brilliant, and a little closer. Then another. And another, closer still. Yes, he was definitely moving. The current was drawing him toward the flashes. Directly in front of the light was a shadow, a silhouette. It looked human. He squinted, trying to protect his eyes from the blinding flashes, yet trying to see the form. He gave more of himself to the current and quickly picked up speed until, finally, he was close enough to make out that form.
It was a child. A girl in a white gown, her golden hair blowing in the wind. Although he was still some distance away, he immediately recognized her.
“Jenny …”
He watched as she reached into the folds of her gown and pulled out the lantern, the same one she had held out on the road. The same type that had been suspended by the lampstand in the foyer. This was the source of the light. It wasn’t coming from behind her, but from inside her gown. Yet it was so bright that Brandon had to raise his hands to shield his eyes.
The current grew stronger and he moved faster. The sensation of speed began to frighten him. He wasn’t sure why. After all, there was his sister, just ahead. He wanted desperately to reach her, to throw his arms around her, to hug her. But there was something holding him back. Maybe it was his fear of speed — or of giving up control.
Whatever the reason, he began to resist the current, turning his head, willing himself to slow. It proved to be harder than he had expected, but with great concentration he was able to retard his progress until he finally slowed to a tenuous stop. He turned toward her. She was a dozen feet away. He wanted so badly to touch her, to hold her — but he was afraid to give up control.
The current tugged and pulled, but he stood his ground. Part of him wanted to give in and be swept to her waiting arms. But he was simply too afraid.
As if understanding his fear, she raised her hand, the one holding the lantern. She held it out to him, offering to let him see it, to examine it.
Brandon looked on painfully. He wanted to trust her, he wanted to let go. But he couldn’t.
The light grew brighter, the current stronger. But Brandon’s panic only increased. He concentrated even harder to hold his ground. That’s when he saw the hurt on her face. The pain of rejection. His eyes started to burn with tears. He wanted to call out, to explain that it wasn’t her, that it was him, his fear, his cowardice. But no words would come.
Slowly, she withdrew the lantern.
Brandon’s heart broke. He hoped she understood but feared she didn’t. He watched as she lifted the lantern high above her head. Then, with great purpose, she released it. The lantern dropped, but it didn’t shatter. Instead, when it hit the ground, it seemed to melt, to become a pool, a molten pool of light that began to churn and bubble upon itself.
Brandon and his sister stared as the light began to grow, horizontally as well as vertically. And the larger it grew, the more power it radiated. Now he understood. The light was the source of the current. As it increased in size and strength, so did the current. It pulled him even harder. He dug in, struggling to stand firm, to keep his balance.
The pool of light boiled, expanded — and the current continued to grow. Brandon fought harder. He looked back at Jenny, pleading for her to help, to make it stop.
She watched in quiet sympathy but did nothing.
The molten light was much bigger now, taking shape, forming a huge, growing rectangle that looked like some sort of doorway. A doorway that now towered high above him.
He turned away, trying to break free, to fight his way out of the current. His feet slipped once, twice. He was losing ground. He was being dragged toward the opening. He twisted and stretched, fighting with all of his will to break free of the current, until finally, with the greatest concentration —
Brandon’s eyes exploded open. They darted about the room. He was back in the lab, back in the leather recliner. He was covered in sweat, trying to catch his breath, but he was back.
“If there was so much ‘peace,’ why did you resist?” Reichner demanded as he paced back and forth in the lunchroom. “Why did you pull away?”
Brandon sat at the table, staring down at his coffee, looking weary and shaken. Sarah stood nearby, feeling no better than Brandon looked.
“You said it was fear,” Reichner said, crossing back to him. He leaned over the table. “Fear of what? Fear of the power? Of the intensity? Fear of what?”
Brandon remained silent. Finally he shrugged. “I was losing control. I don’t like … losing control.”
Reichner slammed his hand on the table and turned. Sarah was able to catch his eye and frown.
“He was there!” Reichner argued. “We were at Threshold. He even had his spirit guide.”
Sarah nodded and looked down. Of course, the man was right. It was a shame to have gotten so close and not pressed on. But they’d already pushed Brandon so far.
In exasperation, Reichner turned, then stormed out of the room.
Sarah looked up in surprise. This was a first. Reichner never lost control. He always won his arguments and he never, never gave up until he got his way. But, at least for now, it appeared that he had failed on both accounts. She glanced at Brandon, impressed. This young man affected people in surprising ways.
Silence hung over the room. She wanted to say something, to let him know it wasn’t his fault, that his fear was a natural response. She also wanted to let him know that if anybody was to blame, it was her. She shouldn’t have pushed, she shouldn’t have manipulated him to stay. She wanted to say all of this and more, but wasn’t sure where to begin.
Fortunately, he saved her the troubl
e. Picking at the Styrofoam cup in his hands, he asked, “Has this sort of thing happened before?”
She nodded. “In other studies, yes. But never with us.”
More silence.
She still wanted to apologize, to somehow make things better. “Listen, uh …” She cleared her throat. “It’s getting late. Do you want to catch a bite to eat or something?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.” Then, pushing the cup aside, he started to rise.
“No,” she said, “it was. A big deal, I mean.” He looked at her and she held his gaze. “I’m sorry, Brandon. We had no business putting you through that, and I’m — well, I’m just very sorry.”
She glanced down. She could feel him still looking at her. She hoped he could sense her sincerity. She swallowed and finally looked back up. “What do you think? How does — uh, do you like pizza?”
He kept looking at her.
She smiled nervously. “I might even spring for an extra topping.”
Then, slowly, a trace of a smile began to spread across his face.
CHAPTER 10
“SO WITH SCHOLARSHIP IN hand, I left for Stanford vowing never to set foot in Portland again, at least until I was rich and famous.”
“And you chose science,” Brandon said, his eyes never leaving hers.
She laughed self-consciously. “I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to find the cure for cancer or the purpose to man’s existence. But since I hate little white mice …” She threw him a grin. He nodded but didn’t smile back. She took another sip of Chianti. It was her third glass of the evening. It had taken that many just to loosen up around him.
“I guess some people — well, some people would say I might be overly ambitious,” she heard herself confessing. “I don’t know. Just because I plan on winning a couple Nobel prizes before I’m thirty …” She gave another self-conscious chuckle. It wasn’t the entire picture. She could have talked about the baby, about her need to keep pushing, to keep driving until his death counted for something — but that was a part of her no one was allowed to see. Ever.
She took another sip of wine and avoided Brandon’s eyes by glancing around Eddie’s Pizzeria. It was dim and smoke-filled — mostly townies putting down the brews after a hard day at the drill press or wherever they worked. She and Brandon had just finished off a medium Canadian bacon with pineapple (his choice) and, thanks to the Chianti, she was doing most of the talking. Still, she found herself being drawn to him.
She watched as he caught the waitress’s attention and motioned for another Pepsi. Even that intrigued her. She’d figured him to be more of a drink-beer-until-you-drop kind of guy. And yet, here he was, ordering a soft drink. Such a paradox, so full of contradictions — like a man caught between two worlds, not completely fitting into either.
He looked back at her. She smiled. Maybe a bit more flirtatiously than she had intended. Still, it was her third glass.
“What about you?” she asked. “Didn’t you ever want to be famous, make a name for yourself?”
Brandon shrugged. “I do all right.”
“Terrorizing techies?” She smiled at her barb.
He frowned, then understood and returned the smile. “It’s a thankless job, but —”
“— somebody has to do it.” They finished the phrase together and chuckled. It was the second time she had gotten him to smile, and she liked it — the way his face lit up, illuminating their corner of the room. They were starting to connect. At least she hoped so. But he still hadn’t answered her question. Instead, he had looked away. This time he was the self-conscious one. And she liked that even better.
“Well?” she asked, waiting for a response.
He shrugged. But she didn’t intend to give up until she got an answer.
Finally he cleared this throat. “As a kid, way back when I was little, I always wanted to be …” Again he looked away. “I always wanted to be kinda like a pastor.”
Sarah nearly choked on her drink. Fortunately, the words were coming so hard for him that he barely noticed. “It just seemed like, you know, the right thing to do. I mean, my dad was a pastor, and his dad before him. It just seemed … it seemed good.”
He looked back at her.
“What happened?” she asked, a little softer.
He took a breath and slowly let it out. Sarah listened intently.
“I’m not sure,” he finally said, “but somewhere along the line I started to learn the truth. About Santa Claus, the Easter bunny — and God.” He swallowed hard, looking everywhere but at her. “I tried. God knows how I tried. But there was … nothing. Nothing I could believe in anymore, nothing I could hang onto, nothing I could see …” His voice trailed off.
Sarah watched silently. There was deep water here, far deeper than she had guessed. She wanted to reach out and touch his arm, to tell him it was okay, that she understood. But she didn’t trust herself, she didn’t trust the wine. Instead she quietly offered, “Maybe — maybe that’s what faith is all about. Believing in something, even when you don’t see it.” He looked at her, and she shrugged. “Not that our generation is terribly fond of believing in anything.”
He nodded, musing.
They’d found another point of contact, and she pursued it. “What is it about us? Why are we always so afraid? I mean, half of my friends are still in graduate school because they’re afraid to get out into the real world.”
Brandon spoke slowly. “Maybe we’ve just been lied to by too many people.”
Sarah nodded. He was right, of course. They were the ones raised by parents with broken vows, politicians with broken promises, and ads with impossible claims.
Another pause settled over their conversation.
Sarah resumed. “You know, you talk about faith. In a lot of ways, science and faith aren’t that far apart. I mean, we’re both asking the same questions: Why are we here? How did we get here? And most important, who or what is responsible?”
She glanced at him, but he was looking away again.
“I guess, in some ways, that makes me no different from your dad, or the local rabbi, or some Tibetan monk — we’re all out there searching for some sort of God, some sort of Absolute.”
He looked back at her, that penetrating look, the one that made her weak inside. She forced herself to continue. “Science doesn’t have to be religion’s enemy. In some ways it can actually be an ally in proving faith. I mean, look at the study they did at San Francisco General Hospital.”
He stared.
“You’ve heard of it, right?”
Apparently he hadn’t.
Her words came faster. After all, this was her work, this was where she felt safest and most secure. “The director of the coronary care unit agreed to put nearly four hundred patients on two lists — those who were to be prayed for and those who were not. A quarter of a mile away, a group of evangelical Christians prayed for the patients on the first list without either the patients or their doctors being aware of it. The study lasted ten months. During that time, the patients who were prayed for showed a significant decrease in congestive heart failure, fewer incidents of pneumonia, less need for antibiotics, and fewer cardiac arrests.”
“This was an official study?” he asked.
She nodded. “Published back in ’88.”
He looked away, thinking.
But she wasn’t finished. “Then there’s the 1995 study at Dartmouth Medical School, where they discovered that the most religious of those who underwent heart surgery were three times more likely to recover than those who were not religious.”
He looked skeptical.
“No, I’m serious,” she insisted, “these were all legitimate studies. And there are plenty more, each and every one verifying the power of faith and prayer.”
She took a sip of wine. She knew she’d become too chatty, but she didn’t particularly care to stop.
“I’m not saying you have to believe in God. I mean, look at me. For me it’s sci
ence. I’ve given everything I’ve got to science, poured my whole life into it. And I’m going to make a difference. You know why? Because I’m committed, because I believe. That’s the whole point. You’ve got to believe in something, Brandon, otherwise your life will never have any —” She searched for the word. “I mean, everything will just keep on being so …”
“Pointless?” he asked.
“Exactly. Pointless. Otherwise your life will continue to be pointless, a waste with no meaning or purpose to —” She suddenly stopped. Even in her flushed state, she saw the pain cross Brandon’s face. What had she said?
“Listen,” she stammered, “I didn’t mean to imply that your life doesn’t have — you know, that it’s a waste or anything like that.”
But Brandon was already looking off and away. She’d hit a nerve and hit it hard. She reached out and touched his arm. “I didn’t mean —”
“No, that’s okay,” he said, shrugging, pretending it didn’t matter. “You probably have a point. I mean, I know you have a point.”
She watched as he struggled to find the words. Why had she done that? They had been connecting so well, they had really been —
“Brandon! Hey, Brandon!”
She looked up to see two young men, the ones she had met with Brandon last week at the countryclub — a shorter kid with thick glasses and a taller, almost good-looking one. It was the taller one who had called out to them. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” he asked as he sauntered over to the booth.
Brandon nodded. “’s up, Frank?”
“Not much. At least for me.” Turning to Sarah, he smiled. “You’re lookin’ real good tonight, Sarah.”
She nodded, trying unsuccessfully to cover her distaste.
“Hey, Bran.” The shorter one in the glasses nodded.
“Del.”
“Haven’t seen you at work,” Frank said as he reached for the remainder of Brandon’s drink. “Everything okay?”
Brandon nodded. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Yeah?” Frank raised the glass and chugged down the rest of the soda. Brandon threw an embarrassed glance at Sarah.
