by Gary Braver
“Maybe next time.”
And how come I have flashes of digging myself out of sand? another voice cut in. But he pushed it down, and the waiter came for their orders. Sarah requested the shrimp risotto and Zack the blackened tuna.
“One of the other problems,” she said, “is trying to separate actual near-death experiences from confabulations. People make all sorts of claims, some the result of autosuggestion—what they think they should experience: moving down tunnels, life reviews, meeting beings of light. Claims that don’t match with neuro and metabolic activity.”
“So it’s easier to verify out-of-the-body experiences because they either identify images or they don’t.”
“Yes, and reports of NDEs are nearly untestable. All we can see is activity and blood chemistry, which tells us something about the emotions of the experience.”
“Do people ever report bad NDEs, something other than light and peace?”
“On occasion. Why?”
“Just wondering. All you hear about are blissful ones.”
“The literature cites a few cases of unpleasant experiences. But nothing I’ve seen.”
Zack sipped his beer. “You’re a scientist, so where do you stand on all this? Do you think my mind actually separated from my brain and floated to the ceiling?”
“The short answer is maybe. But that’s the big question—what sits at the heart of the whole science-faith debate: Is the mind reducible to neural networks, or is there something beyond the physicality of the brain? And if so, does it exist in another realm—heaven, nirvana, the afterlife?”
“Yeah, all of that.”
“Well, I’m also a former dyed-in-the-wool Roman Catholic. I used to believe that religion was a leap of faith, untouched by rationalism. But the more I studied, the more I began to lapse in faith.” She took another sip of wine. “Yet this project raises other possibilities.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe there’s something to the spiritual world, though not in the biblical sense.”
“So, you believe in God but you don’t.”
She smiled. “I like how you word things.”
“One of the few benefits of being an English major: saying things to impress a date.”
“I’m impressed. Let’s say that I’m still skeptical, but if there is a spiritual sentience, I don’t believe it’s the Judeo-Christian-Muslim paternal figure who watches over all life and answers prayers.”
“You’re not quite a born-again NDE-er.”
“No, I’m still stuck in the materialist school—you know, that consciousness is a function of the living brain—and once the brain is dead, so is sentience. So an NDE is a shut-down mechanism of the brain telling the body to die.”
“Then how do you explain all the reports of heavenly light and great peacefulness?”
“Possibly evolutionary strategies to make death easier to accept—buffers to the horror of one’s dying.”
“Pure neurobiology,” he said, using Stern’s phrase.
“Yes. For an NDE to be real, one would have to scientifically demonstrate that consciousness survives clinical death. And the only way to do that is for someone to acquire information when their unconscious mind leaves their body.”
“Like my craving for root beer.”
“Maybe.”
“But that could also be a coincidence, or recall of the photo tests.”
“Except that you couldn’t have remembered it. Also, we’ve seen other OBEs before.”
“Maybe more coincidences.”
“Or maybe evidence that the mind can separate from the body.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I’m open to the possibility, but not there yet.” Then she leaned forward, her face glowing as if a light had clicked on inside. “But if true, what an awesome possibility—that in the end, we experience a transformation in states, from physical to nonphysical sentience. In short, there’s no such thing as death. And that once we die, our minds merge with a cosmic sentience—the Overmind.”
The intensity of her manner sent a ripple through him. “The Overmind?”
“Another sci-fi term. Some think that mental telepathy is a glimpse of the Overmind. Also that some of us are genetically programmed for such.”
For a shuddering moment, his head filled with the face of Winston glowering at him across the poker table.
“And that telepathic people are evidence that we all merge with the Ovemind—which is what all religions talk about. If that could be demonstrated—a huge if—it might be the discovery of all time. As Elizabeth says, what we need are secrets from the grave.”
“Such as?”
“Such as information known only to the deceased and not the subject.”
“Like meeting your dead grandmother, who says there’s treasure buried in the backyard. And lo and behold, you take a shovel and voilà.”
“That would do it.”
Zack was enjoying the suppleness of her mind and the vigorous enthusiasm in her manner that lit her eyes and lent a resplendence to her beautiful face. He could also tell that she was enjoying being with him—and that gave him relief that there was life after Amanda. When they had broken up last year, Zack had nearly convinced himself that his best options were behind him, that he was not destined to find a woman who was as fascinating, smart, and attractive. “I get the feeling that Dr. Luria is more open to spiritual possibilities?”
“Yes.”
“And Dr. Stern is pure neurobiology, kind of like yourself.”
She smiled warmly at his name, as if he were more than a mentor, maybe a father figure. “He’s a hard-core rationalist, a geneticist by training, who takes an evolutionary interest in the phenomena. He believes that a small number of people have a bent toward spirituality, but that’s as far as he goes.”
“That we’re wired to believe in God,” he said.
“Yes, which has the evolutionary advantage of forging communities based on belief systems, at the heart of which are shamans, priests, and other specially wired people.”
“But that’s not the same as saying there’s a God.”
“No, just that some have neurological hankerings for a God.”
“And visions of tunnel light and dead relatives are the brain’s way of softening death.”
“Yes. Interestingly, when the brain dies, the optical center creates illusions of moving down a tunnel toward light.”
“I can see why some would consider that sacrilegious.”
The waiter came with their orders, and they ate quietly for a few moments. Zack could not remember having such a satisfying first date—if that’s what this was. “When I was a kid, I used to ask God for a sign—make a weird noise, cause an animal to step out of the woods, send a meteorite across the sky. Something out of the ordinary. But I never got one.” And when his father died, Zack prayed for him to show himself, whisper to him, brush his cheek. He drew a blank there also.
“We all do that. Every time I get on a plane, I whisper a prayer we don’t crash. When my mother got cancer, I prayed to save her. But if God intervened whenever we asked, there’d be no science. In fact, the world would be a frightening place with nothing predictable.”
The waiter came by. Sarah ordered a second glass of wine. Zack had another beer. He looked around the restaurant. It was mostly a young crowd, college kids and young professionals. “I’ve got a feeling not a lot of other people in here are talking about whether there’s an afterlife.”
“They’re probably more concerned about the Red Sox.”
“Now that’s important.” On the bar monitors, the Sox were behind Toronto 6–2. As Zack scanned the bar, his eyes fell on a man sitting alone and reading a newspaper. Their eyes locked, then the man went back to his paper. Zack leaned into Sarah. “That guy with the newspaper and the Patriots hat. Does he look familiar to you?”
Sarah glanced over her shoulder. “Not really. Is he someone famous?”
The man was wh
ite and in his fifties, with an oval face partially hidden by the cap and glasses. “I don’t know, but he’s been eyeing us since he came in.”
“No one I’ve seen before.”
“Maybe he’s checking out good-looking women.”
“Or good-looking men.”
“He’d do better with option one.” Zack paid the check, and they got up to leave. Meanwhile, the guy behind the paper paid them no attention as they walked outside.
It was a pleasant evening, and the Square was alive with people. They walked to Brattle Street, then back up Massachusetts Avenue. Zack enjoyed the Square, although it had lost its renegade charm, funky little shops and eateries giving way to mall franchises. They cut through Harvard Yard, which took them back to Harvard Street and Sarah’s apartment, where he had locked his bike.
Zack hoped she would ask him upstairs, but she didn’t. Maybe this was just a professional tryst rather than a bona fide date. It crossed his mind to give her a kiss, but he didn’t want to push matters. So he thanked her for the pleasant evening and extended his hand. She took it and, surprisingly, gave him a hug. “See you Tuesday.”
Zack was so happy for that gesture that in his distraction while unchaining his bike at a nearby telephone pole, he failed to notice a man in a blue shirt and Patriots hat watching him from the silver SUV across the street.
41
Bruce dropped off Zack at the lab around seven that next Tuesday, and Sarah met him at the entrance and walked him to the lab office. “Where did you find that guy?”
“Bruce?”
“Yeah. Not exactly Hoke Colburn.”
“Who’s Hoke Colburn?”
“Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Daisy. He’s got the personality of asphalt.”
Sarah laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Also, see if you can arrange a bona fide tunnel.”
“We’ll work on that, too.”
“My luck, I’ll end up in the Ted Williams with no money and a maniacal toll collector.”
“You’re in good spirits,” she said.
“For a guy who’s going to die.”
“You’re not going to die,” she said. “And thanks again for Friday night. I had a good time.”
“Enough to do it again?”
“Sure.”
She opened the door to the MRI room, where Drs. Luria, Stern, and Cates greeted him. He then changed and got up on the gurney, where Sarah and Cates hooked him up to the monitors and IV. He could feel his heart pounding in anticipation. As Sarah adjusted a connection, he whispered, “In case I don’t come back, you’re gorgeous.”
“You are, too,” she said. “See you soon.”
Zack smiled and passed out.
His first awareness was of moving through a tunnel toward light. No, not a tunnel. A hole above him with a dim slice of light glowing through the opening. And the walls were made of sand, and he was pushing his way upward. But he had no idea who he was or where he was. A dull, filmy moon hung overhead, and he was covered with sand and chilled to the bone and burning from stings of things needling into his flesh. His mouth was numb and his fingers stiff, as if his blood had turned to wax.
He pulled himself out of the hole and began to shuffle across the sand toward the water, guided by some raw instinct. His feet were bare and half-numb to the rocks and shells, too distracted by the chilled air.
“Hey, sport, want to hit a few?”
He stopped and looked behind him, and coming toward him across the sun-warmed sandbar was his dad, with a bright yellow bat and bucket of whiffle balls. On the beach sat his mom in a lounge chair, with Jake on a blanket with the kid from the next-door rental.
Instantly, the world was sunny and good. “Sure.”
His dad was five feet ten, but he looked twice as tall standing before him on the flats, his big hard body glistening from sunscreen and his gold crucifix winking at him from the chain around his neck.
“What about Jake? He can play field.”
“He said he’d rather get some sun.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yeah, but he’s not the baseball type. But you are, sport. And you’re a hitter, right?”
“Right.”
With the bat, his dad scratched a home plate in the sand, then moved some feet away and drew the pitcher’s mound. When Zack said he was ready, his father made an underhand pitch. Zack swung mightily but missed. “That’s okay. You’ll get it.” His dad made three more pitches, and each time he missed.
“You’re swinging like a girl. You’re chopping at it. Make a straight easy swing.”
Mortified, Zack tried again, and again he missed.
His father came over to him and crouched down. “I think you’ve been watching your brother too much. The secret of hitting the ball is how you hold the bat.” While Zack held it in his hands, his dad positioned his feet and got him to choke up. “And keep your upper arm parallel to the ground. Know what parallel means?”
“Sure.” He could smell his dad’s sunscreen, a scent he loved and one he always associated with him. “Like this?” Zack raised his arm, the bat at a stiff angle over his shoulder.
“Perfect.”
His father beamed and patted his shoulder. And a ripple of pleasure passed through him as he got ready to show his dad.
“Okay, now hold it just like that.” He went back to the pitching line. “Ready?”
“Ready.” When the next ball came, Zack swung but missed again. And he smacked the sand with the bat. “I stink.”
“No, you don’t. You swung too soon. Keep your eye on the ball.”
One more went by, and he tipped it. “Now you’re getting it.” Before the next one came, his dad said, “You’re a hitter, Zack.”
And he smacked the next one, sending it far over his father’s head. “There you go!” his dad shouted, and he shot his fist into the air.
He hit several more.
Then they were walking down the flats, which glistened in the late morning sun as if the sea had been sprinkled with diamond dust. Seagulls wheeled overhead, sometimes landing on the sandbar to squawk hysterically after a dead fish.
“Dad, you like Jake, right?”
“Of course I do. Why do you ask that?”
“Just wondering. You know what?”
“What?”
“I wish you never had to go back to work and it could be summer all the time.”
“Me, too.” And his dad put his arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the head.
They picked up shells—huge ashtray-size quahogs, whitened by the sun. They skipped stones. They skipped quahog shells. And the sea sparkled with frenzied glee.
It was the happiest moment of the summer.
They continued down the sun-warmed flats of the sandbar for a few more minutes, then his father stopped. He looked back toward the beach, toward where their cottage hunched on dunes above their umbrella. Gray clouds were rolling in from the mainland.
“I have to tell you something,” his father said. “It’s important.”
His father had gripped him by the shoulders, and his face was serious. “What?”
“Time to wake up.”
“That’s it, Zack. Open your eyes. How do you feel?”
It took him a few moments to catch up to his awakening. He blinked around the bright lab, taking in Sarah, who was standing there with a clipboard. Dr. Luria was next to her, and Drs. Stern and Cates were at their computer monitors. Two technicians were watching from the other office through the windows.
“Are you all right?” Sarah asked, handing him a cup of water.
Her voice sounded as if it came from a mile-long tunnel. He nodded.
“Unless you prefer root beer.”
He shook his head and sipped the water.
“Do you recall anything?” Luria asked.
He felt himself adjust to the moment. “Just scraps.”
“Like what?”
“The sandbar of a beach. I think it was S
agamore.”
“Sagamore Beach?” Luria said.
“Kind of vague,” he said. “With my father, hitting balls.”
“Go on,” Luria said.
He struggled to find the words. From what he recalled, it was a strange double vision, and he didn’t know how to explain seeing himself as a boy through his own eyes, then through someone else’s in weirdly shifting perspectives. He remembered seeing his father pitch to him, then from a distance he saw himself in baggy green trunks swinging the bat.
“I was hitting whiffle balls, but I can’t remember anything else.”
“How would you characterize your emotional state?”
“Happy.” Instantly he felt himself choke up. He squeezed down, reciting pi.
Sensing his struggle, Sarah cut in. “Zack, did you have a sense of other people?”
He wanted to thank her for changing the subject. He shook his head.
“No other people on the beach?” Luria asked.
“A few down the sandbar. I think my mother and brother were on the beach.”
“But you remember playing ball with your father.”
He felt himself gain control again. “Yeah, and it felt very real, not like a dream—like I was there on that sandbar.” He could still feel the warmth of the sun on his skin as Dr. Cates began to peel off the electrode cups. He could still feel the soft, fine sand of the flats, his father’s hand in his as they walked along.
“Did you feel yourself detach from your body?” Dr. Luria asked.
“No, I was in my own head,” Zack said, trying to get back. But the experience was fading fast, as if he were pulling away from the scene.
“Anything else happen in the experience?” Luria asked. “I mean besides hitting balls with your father, then walking down the sandbar? Did he say anything?”
“He said he wanted to tell me something.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Just that, then I woke up.” He could still see the expression on his father’s face—serious, time for “a big-boy talk.” From nowhere the phrase shot up. Big-boy talk.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
They continued interviewing him, going over the same ground. He could see their disappointment, especially Dr. Luria’s. “What did the scan and blood show?” he asked.
