by David Ellis
During the day, when Daniel was usually sleeping, Emma tried to catch up with work by e-mail and on the internet but her heart really wasn’t in it. She tried to prepare herself for when he died, but found it so difficult to imagine not holding onto his hand and looking into those gorgeous eyes.
But that day did come. One night, just after she’d fallen asleep, she heard Daniel shift in the bed and he reached out uncertainly for the light.
“What is it, Daniel?”
“Emma, I think it’s time. I just had to look at you once more.”
They lay back in the bed and Emma held him in her arms, staring into those soft brown eyes and watched and watched until they dulled over and death took Daniel away from her.
April 2005, one week later
Emma allowed Daniel’s mother to decide where the funeral should take place and whether he should be buried or cremated. Part of her wanted to hang on to the idea of him still being corporeal in some way, but the more rational side said that he would simply end up like dust anyway. His mother chose for him to be buried.
Fittingly, it was the church where they had been married that was chosen for the service, and there was a small graveyard at the back where he would be laid to rest. Daniel’s mother asked Emma to give a short eulogy. She decided that, as with her own mother’s funeral, it would be off the cuff but with a little something extra.
The day came and the weather was still spring-like, which Daniel would have liked. Emma was struck by the size of the congregation and guessed that a lot of the women there had been clients of his at one time or another.
Daniel’s coffin was in a warm redwood which perfectly matched his hair in the photo on top of the coffin. She kissed the photo and set down in her allotted place next to his mother. Emma noticed that Daniel’s father wasn’t present but thought it best not to say anything.
“How are you coping, Emma?” said his mother.
“Just coping really, it’s not easy,” said Emma.
Daniel’s mother held Emma’s hand tightly as the service started.
Emma tried to think what Daniel would have made of the service with its solemn pomp and unscientific talk about the afterlife. He’d have probably just smiled in that gentle way of his and said: “It’s whatever you want to think, Emma.”
It came time for Emma to walk up to a lectern for the second time in her life. She lifted her head up and studied the faces in the congregation, seeing their own individual grief and love for him. She glanced at his mother and smiled.
“Although Daniel and I had only been married for two weeks before his death, I think we’d loved each other from the first day when we met in Mrs Brown’s kindergarten. I’m embarrassed to say that I caused him to fall out of a tree and break his arm but he quickly forgave me. Daniel always was that sort of gentle, forgiving person and he had a beauty to him that transcended even his physical beauty. But life can be unkind, and sometimes the existence of something beautiful gets snuffed out for no reason other than some random mutation in a gene. I’d like to think that his beauty is preserved in my memory of him, just like one of Mrs Brown’s collection of butterflies. Goodbye, my darling, my beautiful Red Admiral.”
“I’d like to read a few lines by Mary Frye, an American poet, who died four years ago:
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond that glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.”
Emma stood next to Daniel’s mother, Barbara, by the graveside watching the interment. She felt curiously detached from the proceedings.
“Emma, I think we need to talk. Will you phone me sometime soon?” asked Barbara.
“Thanks, Barbara, I’d like that,” replied Emma.
May 2005
Emma discovered quite a lot about Daniel following his death.
On the first day in kindergarten, she remembers him proudly telling her that his father was a Scottish laird and lived in a castle. Whilst that was certainly true, Mr Armstrong Senior was also the CEO of a hugely successful, American biomedical company, which amongst other activities, made implants used in hip replacement. It amused her to think that if she ever required a hip replacement she could end up with a bit of an Armstrong inside her.
Daniel’s parents separated some years ago and were now thoroughly estranged. His mother was American and the Scottish/American partnership never really worked apart from giving Mr Armstrong Senior US citizenship.
“You need to be careful, Emma,” Barbara Armstrong told her. “He’s got eyes like a hawk and if wants something he stops at nothing until he gets it. He used me, he used Daniel and he’ll probably try using you if he can.”
Emma also discovered from Barbara Armstrong that Daniel was rather wealthy and that he had made a will even before proposing to her, in which he had left her his house and a sizeable sum of money. Although marriage clearly made that aspect of the will irrelevant, Daniel’s executor believed that the other major request in the will should still stand, which was that a foundation should be started in his name, with Emma named as the trustee with responsibility for deciding the purpose of the foundation.
Another unexpected legacy of Emma’s time with Daniel is that she realised that her ability was no longer to be feared or avoided, as she now felt able to modify her projection in a controlled way. In essence, Daniel had provided her with the feedback that she needed to master her ability. She wasn’t quite sure how she was going to take this forward, but she certainly had some ideas, including contacting some old colleagues. And she also had to make some decisions about the right direction to take with Daniel’s foundation.
June 2005
The first thing Emma did when she arrived back at work was to leave a white lily and a large box of chocolates on her secretary’s desk. Curiously, her secretary hadn’t come in yet and she wondered whether she was taking leave.
However, her secretary had cleared her morning’s schedule, so Emma was finally able to trawl through the hundreds of e-mails that had clogged up her inbox during the months she was looking after Daniel.
Emma met up with her team for lunch and it was obvious that they were trying to avoid saying anything that might upset her. She realised the risk of allowing this continuing indefinitely, so she simply thanked them for the cards they’d sent for the marriage and funeral and then talked about her plans for the future. The reality is that, unlike after the attempted rape, she’d had plenty of time to process everything that had happened and was ready to move on. And she reassured them that she wouldn’t be moving on from them and this hospital.
Emma’s afternoon was spent going around the wards and checking whether there was anyone they’d like her to see.
“Dr Jones?” called a patient in a bed just near to where she was standing.
Emma went across to where she heard the voice coming from.
“Well, well, it’s Naomi, isn’t it?” said Emma, recognising her as someone she’d seen on a ward about six years ago.
“You’ve got a good memory!” said Naomi.
“So have you, Naomi. What brings you back into hospital? Is it the same problem?”
“Well, that’s the strange thing, Dr Jones. As soon as you left me that time, the pain just stopped and hasn’t come back. I’m here for a routine operation, nothing serious. And you’ll never believe it, but I’ve almost finished that book. I don’t know whether anyone will want to publish it, but I’ll certainly try self-publishing if not.”
“Gosh, that’s terrific, Naomi. I’m really pleased for you. I’ll look out for i
t in the bookshops. What’s it called, by the way?”
“’Me and You’”, she said.
“You know, I think that’s a great title,” said Emma.
Emma gave Naomi a quick hug and went back to where she’d been standing before. A medical SHO had been waiting to have a word with her whilst she was talking with Naomi.
“One of your old patients?” he said.
“Yes, and I suppose you could say she was one of my success stories. And we don’t really get too many of them. She’s actually written a book. Rather amazing, really.” said Emma. “Anyway, how can I help you?”
“Well, it’s a bit embarrassing, really,” he said, “but we’ve got this elderly chap on the ward who was seen by your team when you were away – I was really sorry to hear about your loss, by the way – and they didn’t think there was anything more they could do for him. The trouble is he’s in so much pain and just seems so desperate, so if there’s any wand or something you could wave, we’d be really grateful.”
How could I refuse? Emma thought. “Yes, I’d be happy to see him. Do you have his notes?”
The SHO showed Emma the notes and she made a double take when she saw the name Brian Spencer on the front of them. The last time Emma saw him was 13 years ago, when she’d just been appointed as a consultant and he’d made an impression because of his newly found love of cooking. But Emma was astonished that he was still alive at the ripe old age of 86 with advanced prostate cancer diagnosed way back then.
She went over to his bed and briefly looked at him. Reading his notes hadn’t prepared her for the change she saw in him: a tiny wizened man who looked as if the wind could blow him away at any moment. He looked up at her and there was that instant recognition that sometimes happens even after many years of being apart.
Emma sat down on the chair by his bed.
“It’s Dr Jones, isn’t it?” he said in a soft, barely modulated voice.
“Yes, it’s me, Brian, and after all these years,” said Emma. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this but I can’t believe you’re still with us. You had pretty advanced prostate cancer back then, didn’t you?”
“Yes, doctor, but I think it was something about how you talked to me that gave me some hope and I sort of got back on my feet after that. Also, they had some new medication that they wanted to try and that seemed to help, too.”
“What about now, though, Brian?” asked Emma.
“Look, doctor, I’m not going to beat about the bush; it’s really gone beyond pain now. I’ve asked them here for something to help, but they say there’s nothing they can do and it’s just a matter of waiting, but I just can’t stand the thought of that… and I do miss Lucy so much.”
He cried softly to himself.
“Lucy was your cat, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, she died just last year, and that was the final straw.”
“Gosh, she must have been almost as old as you in cat years.”
“Yes, she was 85.”
“Brian, I think I can help you, but you have to understand that I can’t do anything which will actually end your life. All I can do is help you to find the way you want to go. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, doctor, I trust you.”
Emma pulled the curtain around his bed.
“Now, Brian, what I’m going to do will be like before all those years ago. I’m going to look into your eyes and try to feel what you’re going through and then help you to turn that into something that might help you. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Firstly, I need to prop you up in the bed so that I can look at you on the same level.”
Emma helped him sit up against the pillows until the two of them were able to look at each other on the same level.
“Okay, are you ready, Brian? Do you have any second thoughts or questions?”
“I’m ready.”
“Right, Brian, I want you to keep your eyes open as wide as you can.”
Emma looked directly into his eyes from about four feet away, letting her cortex absorb his emotions. She could feel his profound love for his cat and she imagined her limbic system glowing in intensity on the scan. She moved closer until she was about two feet away and let his pain and despair engulf her brain. She remembered the location of her prefrontal, insula and anterior cingulate and imagined them glowing ever brighter as they responded to his pain. Then using all her ability, she imagined cutting the blood flow to the activated centres and then sent that back to Brian’s cortex through his optic nerve. The effect for her was like suddenly shutting off a torrent of water, leaving nothing but silence and tranquillity.
Feeling exhausted, she looked down at Brian, who now appeared to be sleeping peacefully.
Emma found the trainee and said that they’d talked about his interest in cooking and his cat. She added that there wasn’t any active intervention she could offer, but thought the time would come very soon.
Emma wrote up her notes and returned to her office, thinking that she’d finally proven something to herself.
An hour later, just before going home, Emma had a call from the SHO on the ward where she saw Mr Spencer.
“Oh, hi, is that Dr Jones?”
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“It’s David Simpson, the SHO looking after Mr Spencer. I just wanted you to know that he passed away a few minutes ago. I think you must have helped, as he looked so peaceful.”
“Thanks for letting me know. I’m glad that he didn’t suffer anymore and I hope he’ll be stroking his cat wherever he ends up.”
“Dr Jones, I’m interested to understand - you know, from a learning perspective - what you did.”
“Well, David, it’s a long story, and it’s not exactly evidence-based, but I think it was his pain that was keeping him alive, and that by removing his pain, I allowed him to make the decision to move on to where he really wanted to be.”
“I thought it was something like that. I guess it’s not something I should really discuss at supervision.”
“I think probably not, David.”
“Oh, and another thing, Dr Jones?”
“Yes, David?”
“I learnt a lot from that seminar and I wanted to thank you for that.”
“Thank you, David. I thought you had. I think you’ll make an excellent doctor.”
She heard him crying softly as he put down the phone.
June 2005, one day later
The following morning, Emma contacted two colleagues who had been very helpful in the past: Dr Michael Moore and Dr Jim Lawrence. She suggested that they meet to discuss something very important. Their interest was obviously piqued and they agreed to come to Emma’s house the following Saturday.
“Thanks, Jim and Mike, for coming at such short notice. I’ve got a proposal to put to you but first I need to fill you in with some background because it’s some time since we last met. So, where do I start? I think right at the beginning:
“When I was baptised a few months after birth, I’m told that I glared at the vicar on being lifted out of the font. He died from a heart attack two weeks later. Five months postnatally, my mother was admitted to a psychiatric ward in a psychotic state and she told my father and those treating her that I was evil and that she saw something in my eyes. Then when I was at kindergarten, I glared at a boy and he fell out of a tree and broke her arm. One day at school, I was humiliated by a girl in front of the class and she had a seizure. When I was a volunteer in a nursing home in my last ‘A’ level year, I spent some time talking to an elderly woman who took an overdose of insulin the same day. At my Oxford interview, I glared at a rather obnoxious Dean and I learnt years later that he died from a heart attack a couple of weeks later.
“During my years as a house officer and SHO there were a number of unexpected deaths that occurred after I’d spent time with patients. As a higher trainee, I became more aware that I had some sort of ability, but I was generally wary about using it
. Things came to a head after I saw the two of you, when I became convinced that I’d turned into some sort of latter-day Medusa and very nearly jumped off the top of a six-storey car park. That was the turning point for me, and I think I’ve established some sort of control over this ability and I believe I can now use it reliably and therapeutically.
“I’ve also gained some information about this ability from elsewhere. I was contacted after my mother’s death by a former consultant whom I’m sure has a similar, although more limited, ability. She told me that she had been contacted by someone called Brimstone who had asked her to mentor me and she thinks he was part of some organisation that has a particular interest in people like me. She also warned me that I might be at risk. A short time after this, I was lured to my grandparent’s house and I think they had the intention of gouging out my eyes, although I suspect this is because they blamed me for my mother’s death and have some rather extreme religious beliefs.”
“Christ, that sounds horrendous,” said Jim. “Did you report that to the police?”
“I just don’t think they’d have believed me,” said Emma. “And by the time I left with my father, they were just cowering in the corner holding their crucifixes.”
“Do you think that someone put them up to it?” asked Mike.
“No idea,” said Emma. “I somehow doubt it as they were pretty much loners. Anyhow, I also did a literature search and discovered that there’s a widespread tradition of the evil eye that crosses many centuries and cultures, and almost invariably involves a female with heterochromia; in other words, someone like me. I found out that there’s a certain Scottish clan where the belief in the evil eye is particularly prevalent and I think that they may have been somehow involved in transferring a cadaver to the dissecting room in Oxford in order to send me a warning sign, as the body had both eyes removed and dead butterflies put in their place. Whilst I was at Oxford, my old kindergarten school teacher died and left me her butterfly collecting equipment plus a single butterfly, and it wouldn’t surprise me if that was another warning.”
