Do you have a favorite poem?
"Um. A couple.” I thought. “'Great God, I'd rather be suckled in a pagan creed unborn...gabble gabble...pleasant lea, see Proteus rising from the sea, and Triton blow his mighty horn.’”
I like that one, too.
"'And kiss her lips, and take her hands...’”
And pluck, till time and times are done...
"'The silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun.’”
Anything else?
"Um. ‘That time of year thou mayest in me behold...’”
She laughed. I continued. So form a circle round him thrice, and hide your eyes in holy dread...
...for he on honeydew hath fed, and drunk the milk of paradise, Mary finished. She gestured at the I.V. bag. Not exactly what I thought of as the milk of paradise. By the way, did you notice you stopped talking?
I realized that halfway through our conversation my mouth had stopped but the words hadn't. Okay. This is weird.
Poetry is good practice. We recite it in our heads anyway. Headtalk is one of those things like teaching yourself to whistle. You fool around until things click, then wonder how you ever missed it in the first place.
Okay. Headtalk?
Telepathy sounds so... fifties, she said.
I liked the fifties. Tailfins. Rockets. The IGY. Duck and cover. I leaned back and looked at the ceiling. The Last Days Club?
So far the only people who seem to learn headtalk are terminal cancer patients.
I see. I had already decided that this was more interesting than staring at the television; if I was going nuts, so what? I mean, what did I have to lose?
We don't know if it's an effect of the therapies, a combination of new drugs and the disease itself, why it never showed up earlier or what.
Who is ‘we'?
Everyone who manages to find the link. She grinned. Trial and error. It can be hard to make any progress when we keep losing members.
I can understand that. Don't fall for the three-year subscription. I shifted in the lounger. So. Will I hear anyone else?
When it starts most of us hear a low, background mumbling. I found it helped to actually see the other person at first. After a while you can... I'd have to say ‘call up’ the person you want to talk with. Relaxing helps. And in your case, a bit of sherry seems to act as a lubricant.
I'll try it again when I get home. One of the nurses walked by. Hey, Mary. Can we talk to regular people with this?
No, not like this. But we can make contact of a sort, sometimes. Some of us, anyway.
Really? Like, how?
Like this. Would you like a cup of coffee?
Um. Sure.
Okay. I'm going to suggest to Lena over there you'd like a drink.
Mary glanced at the nurse typing at her station. Nothing happened for a while, then she looked through the sliding window, got up and came over to me. “Would you like something to drink, Larry?” she asked.
Yeah.
She looked at me, waiting. Oops. “Uh, yeah, thanks. Some coffee, please.
"Black?"
"As usual."
Lena gave me a thumbs up and headed over to the table holding a couple of carafes and some snacks. The nurses in cancer wards are the best I've ever encountered. How they keep it up is beyond me.
Um. Mary, are you telling me we can learn to control other people's minds? Part of me didn't like the idea at all, but another part found the concept fascinating.
No, not control. A suggestion. Just like asking out loud. Well, not quite like that. Headtalk seems to allow them to believe they had the idea themselves.
Interesting. Also, unnerving. Can I try?
She looked at me. What do you have in mind, Larry?
"You'll see.” I fixed my eyes on Lena as she walked over with my coffee. “Thanks."
"No problem, Larry.” She glanced around, saw Doreen, the other duty nurse, back in the prep room. “Hey, Dor. Can you hold the fort for a minute or two?"
"Sure,” she called.
Lena patted my armrest. “Be right back,” she said and then moved quickly to the door.
That was interesting, I said to Mary.
Just what did you do, Larry?
I told Lena she needed to go to the bathroom. I suppose it could have been coincidence.
Mary looked at me. You seem to be a fast learner.
* * * *
We knocked lightly on the door. “Alf?"
A forearm at the edge of the bed lifted with a brief wave. “Come in. Here, have a seat, the two of you."
I had offered to drive Mary over to the hospice; she had some data from the library for Alf's book. We walked in to see him half sitting up, a laptop computer balanced on his abdomen. “'Lo, Mary. Hi, Larry. What's up?"
"Not much,” I answered. “How you doing?"
"Been better. My kidneys are finally shutting down. They asked if I was interested in dialysis, but I'll be done here in a few days at most, so I don't really see the point.” He chuckled. The counselor asked if I was giving up, or accepting, or whatever Kübler-Ross folderol is in favor nowadays. I just told her I was done with my work and wanted to move on to the next thing.
Mary reached over and handed him a thin sheaf of papers. He adjusted his glasses and then flipped rapidly through the leaves. Uh-huh. Yes, I remembered it correctly. Good, just the right confirmatory footnote. Thank you, my dear.
You're welcome, Alf.
He looked at me. And thank you for stopping by, Larry. Not that you had to.
Oh, it's... and I realized I had slipped into headtalk without realizing it. No trouble at all. I guess I feel the same way.
He pursed his lips and nodded. Yes, that seems to be one of the traits of club members, a certain type of acceptance about life.
Not to mention sherry.
Yes, I always liked sherry. Or amontillado. But my favorite was a really good stout. I could nurse a pint for a whole evening. He paused, remembering.
I don't think I've given up, I lied.
Eh? Oh, no, I don't mean acceptance as going limp. Not at all. Alf spoke with a slight professorial lilt, a sort of British cadence without the accent, if that means anything. Once I knew that my cancer couldn't be cured, couldn't be burned out or cut out or poisoned, I decided to accept it as part of me, not some loathsome enemy to be destroyed, but an altered part to be lived with and, if possible, understood.
So, I asked, what do you understand now, Alf?
He shrugged again. That once I dropped all that war imagery, I felt much better. I'm just in another phase of my life now. Looking forward to the phase after this.
Then you believe in an afterlife?
He pursed his lips. No, not really. Has Mary talked with you about the next phase?
I glanced at her. I don't understand.
I guess not, then. He looked at Mary over his glasses. Would you like to explain, or shall I?
She waved two fingers. Please, go ahead.
Alf spoke as he typed. I wasn't bothered, just wished I could multitask like that. I have never even been able to play a musical instrument, I'm so right-handed. Besides, I was either having a marvelous hallucination or an impossible conversation. Larry, none of us really understands just what the hell is going on here. So far, we can't tell if we are the result of some specific type of disease, some particular combination of individual and therapy, or what. There seems to be absolutely no pattern, nothing common, in those of us who get here. The only thing that seems to be a rough constant is that abilities begin to emerge in late stages of the disease.
I thought about it. Alf continued.
Looking back, I think my ability began to manifest itself just as the cancer really took off. Others seem to confirm this. He reached up to scratch his chin, then glanced at me. “How about you?"
I shrugged. “My treatments pretty much stopped working a couple of cycles ago. They're keeping me in the trial to see if they are still slowing it down.
&
nbsp; Well, why not? He shifted his body, looking for a more comfortable position, something basically impossible in a hospital bed. So far you've been able to headtalk with Mary and me. Anybody else?
Not like this. But I hear this sort of group mumbling from time to time.
Yes, that was the way it was for me as well. My guess is that you will shortly find yourself with a coven of new friends. Associates, anyway.
I looked from Alf to Mary and back. Have either of you mentioned this to your doctors? Nurses? Any of the clinicians?
Alf laughed, then winced. My dear fellow, whatever for? Either I would be urged to take antipsychotic medications or some eager-beaver researcher would want to hook me up to an encephalograph, MRI, SQUID, or some such nonsense. Or worse, suggest professional counseling.
But new science....
And what are you going to do?
That stopped me. All I really wanted was to head to oblivion with as little pain as practicable. I was done with my life, show over, heading out into the lobby for the last time. Um. For now, nothing. See where this stuff leads, at least for a while. Well, as I said, what else did I have to do? My will was up to date, I had gotten rid of most of my junk, I had my jazz collection. How do I talk to you if I'm not with you?
Just listen. Relax and listen. Distance doesn't seem to play a role. I have a Misquito friend down Yucatan way, getting traditional herbal treatments from her shaman, who's as clear as you sitting next to me. And when I've had some really potent grass I get odd clicking noises that sound like a grasshopper sending Morse code. I wonder a bit if a creature out Aldebaran way is going through something similar. He winked. Why not? How do you rank your impossibilities?
Mary stood up and patted him on his head. Why don't you finish this writing up, Alf?
He nodded to her. Good idea. I think my body is beginning to tell me that if I don't get this done damned soon, it won't get done at all. Once the kidneys are gone I'll be comatose in a couple of days, tops.
"I know,” I said, also standing up. My mom went like that. Didn't seem all that bad. Just tell them to give you antihistamines for the itching.
Until later, then, Alf replied, focusing back on his keyboard.
We'll be in touch, I said, taking Mary's arm to offer support. Mutual.
It'll be kind of hard not to, you'll see, he said absently.
* * * *
I awoke to Mary saying gently, It's time, although my subconscious had been keeping tabs for a while. I heard greetings from several people and returned them. Dick Johansen, a used-car salesman on the other side of town; Peter Hayling, a very pleasant fellow in southern England; the Miskito in northern Belize who called herself Chara (or at least that was what I heard), others. Alf.
everyone hi... hi times, feels like mother of all tokes what day
Saturday, Alf.
no no what day I'm in, swinging like benny goodman thank you all for going-away party, forward, backward, want to go forward I'll try to explain lcr thirty eight four friday
Got it, just let it roll, chap, Peter said, anything that turns up.
I was on the sidelines, letting Alf know I was there. From time to time I would catch something, a description, sometimes a snippet on the edge of the visual. Hallucinations. Here for you, Alf. To anyone next to his bedside he would appear to have been in a deep coma. Was everyone like that?
Make sure you sit by a loved one and talk, maybe they can still hear you.
hey larry, what'dya think... ah, forward, I can really feel it, hey, grayson never expected you got to focus and, hey, see that? it's—
I tried hard to concentrate, the tail end of a few drinks making my brain cells slippery. There was an image of a flying saucer thing taking off in my head, like the scene from Forbidden Planet.
And Alf was gone.
I looked around my living room. Four in the morning, hour of the wolf. There was a dull ache in my lower abdomen, not too bad. Is he....
Yes, Larry. Go in peace, Alfred. There was a murmur of assent. Did everybody hear the same thing?
Lots of stuff. Still sorting out, writing down whatever I can remember.
Grayson?
Old colleague of Alf's. Died several years ago.
Was he back or forward?
Couldn't tell. Be a total rip if he was forward.
Indeed.
Can anyone tell me what you're all talking about? I asked.
First you tell us what you felt, what you saw, heard, Peter replied.
I saw a college campus.
Any details?
I thought. It felt...small. Mountains in the background, not too tall.
Brighton College, Alf's old alma mater in Vermont, likely. Anything else?
Um. Numbers. Thirty eight four, and Friday. And letters. LCR. What was that, anybody?
Dick laughed. My guess is that you should check the market report end of next week. Anything else?
A memory of an old fantasy movie, I said.
No, Dick said, real. What an upper. I'm not an astronomer, anyone else?
Cool off, Buzz Lightyear, it was Forbidden Planet.
Huh? I interjected.
The numbers, Mary replied. Try it and see. Assuming, of course.
* * * *
I was looking at the Friday close of LCR Industries on my computer screen. Thirty eight and forty cents, up one dollar twenty.
The week hadn't been too bad. I was starting to need morphine to get to sleep, but during the day I felt okay once I loosened up. I was enjoying ice cream, on the assumption that before much longer I wouldn't get any ice cream. And meat loaf, Mom's recipe.
I just really happen to love her meat loaf. No apologies there.
It was after dinner when I picked up the phone to call Mary. I just didn't feel like headtalk that evening. Or maybe I didn't believe in it on even-numbered days. I was still mostly sure this was a bizarre if not unpleasant hallucination on the road to oblivion.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Mary. It's me. How you doing?"
"You didn't have to call, you know. And not too bad. Considering."
"Yeah. Listen, Mary. I did what Peter said last week. I'm looking at the market closing numbers and I'm trying to believe I'm seeing a coincidence and not a prediction of the future."
"Ah. Alf's stock tip?"
I sighed. “You know, I'm just about convinced by this telepathy stuff, and now you're telling me cancer gives precognition. Really, Mary."
"Not all the time. We're trying to figure out just why it works with some people and not others. Obviously hard to ask them afterwards. We really need someone to help us formulate a plan to figure things out."
"Uh-huh. Well, it's pretty obvious that you need to get some discipline in your methods. You're all trying to look at everything all the time. Most unscientific."
"We just wanted you to see for yourself, Larry. What do you think now?"
I sighed. “This is too much. I'm pretty much convinced none of this is real. Sorry. I'm going to the doc tomorrow and asking for something to make my head right again."
There was a pause. “Please...don't."
"Sorry, I've decided. Leave me alone, all of you. Just let me die in peace. After a lifetime of working, can't I have that?” I hung up the phone.
Her voice in my head pulled me up short. Please don't, Larry.
What is it, Mary?
I'm afraid any drugs will mess up your ability.
Mary...I don't want any of this. I don't need any new stuff. I...just want to get it over with and die. Might as well tell the truth for a change.
I'm going to die on Monday. Alf told me. I'd like you to be there.
Not funny, Mary.
Oh, dear Larry. I didn't mean to bother you. But what is, is.
No, it isn't.
It is, Larry. It just hasn't happened for you yet.
No, I won't listen to this. I held my head for a moment, willing the voice to turn off. Listen, Mary. If you're real, if you're not a psychot
ic episode, don't buy into this prediction crap. Hang in there. I'll...miss you if you die.
Why, thank you, Larry.
* * * *
I shut down.
No more headtalk, no more shared hallucinations, no more stock tips, no crap, nothing. I found the amontillado I had put away and opened it, embarking on a weekend of sherry and meatloaf, with ice cream to cleanse the palate. Morphine chaser, dangerous business if you're not careful. So what. Stereo on loud to cover the murmurs.
Don't let anyone say you get used to the empty chairs, the empty beds. It just gets worse. Memento mori. And I didn't want anyone telling me when the black camel would kneel at my door. Or anyone else's for that matter.
I was sick of cancer, a rotten sea-change. I didn't like the idea that it was changing me, whether into a pile of dying meat or something new, bizarre, and different; it didn't matter. What kind of cosmic joke would give you strange new powers while taking away life itself? It was as if Superman needed to cover himself with kryptonite so he could fly a mile once or twice.
Early Sunday evening I looked over at the table next to the couch and saw a bottle of painkillers. They looked luscious.
* * * *
I woke up in the hospital feeling more dragged out than usual. Well, why not? I hadn't expected to wake up at all. The on-call physician was looking down at me, then back to a clipboard. I decided to do a little prognostication of my own: You're lucky, we almost lost you.
"We almost lost you,” he said. “You were very lucky.” Arf.
I blinked. “Tell me, Doc, is this one of those new definitions of ‘luck’ with which I'm unfamiliar?"
"You really shouldn't mix painkillers with alcohol."
"I'll remember that in the future."
"Was it an accident, or intentional?” Cut to the chase.
"Accidental,” I lied. “A little booze, a pill or two, I got swacked and lost count. Won't happen again.” A thought occurred. “How did you find me?"
He flipped back through the pages. “Ummmm.... Got a call just after one ay-em yesterday."
"Well, I'm glad for that. Does it say who it was?"
"Let's see...someone who identified herself as ‘Mary.’ Said you seemed depressed and that she felt you should be looked in on. I believe the EMs had to break your lock, sorry. Know anyone by that name?"
FSF, July-August 2010 Page 6
