“Well, we were constantly monitoring blood flow and electrical activity, and the most active sectors weren’t in areas associated with dreams.”
“I’m sorry, but what are you telling me?”
“I’m not really sure.” He paused a moment to think something over. “Is your son a religious person?”
“Religious? No, and what does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, while he was under, we did some scans and found unusual electrical activity in the areas of his temporal lobe—sectors associated with abstract concept, but also mystical experiences. What some people call the ‘God lobe.’”
“My son’s not religious or mystical. And as far as I know, he’s never taken psychedelic drugs.”
“I’m not implying that. But given the trauma he experienced, the neurocircuitry appears to have undergone some reconfiguration—cross-wiring, if you will.”
Maggie simply nodded, feeling tension constrict her throat.
“Was he close to his father?”
“Not particularly.” She felt her resentment return. “Can I see him now?”
“Of course. And I know how you feel about all the religious fervor regarding the video.”
“Doctor, is there something wrong with him?” She began to wonder if he’d be prone to seizures.
“No, I don’t mean it that way. It’s just that the rest of his brain was in deep sleep, while his parietal lobe was processing information like crazy.”
“What kind of information?”
“I don’t know. Nor do I know where it came from. Areas associated with vision and auditory activity should have been dormant.”
Maggie could feel her anxiety spike. “What are you telling me? What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t think anything is wrong with him. He’s back to normal. It’s just that while he was comatose, his parietal lobe was extraordinary, as if he were awake and receiving input.”
“Meaning what?”
The doctor shook his head. “I’ve not seen anything like it before. But from the little literature on the subject, I’d say he was having a spiritual experience.”
20
“‘Miracle? Coma Victim “Resurrected from the Dead.”’
“He has no memory of being in a coma, no meeting the dead or finding God. He’s a professed atheist, so he probably wasn’t exposed to the scriptures, especially in the original.” Elizabeth Luria removed her glasses and handed the newspaper back to Warren Gladstone. “Maybe there’s a rational explanation.”
Warren Gladstone made a steeple with his fingers. “St. Paul tells us that God sends signs and wonders to capture our attention. A professed atheist reciting the Lord’s Prayer in Jesus’s language while in a coma
“Well, given all those who showed up, you’re not alone. I was there. I saw them.”
He looked over his glasses at her. “But you don’t share their conviction.”
His statement was almost accusatory. “Warren, those people who’d flocked to his bedside were blue-collar people, some from third world countries, all ardent Christians, desperate for miracles.”
“And you’re an enlightened Harvard University neuroscientist whose Episcopal upbringing no longer has a hold on you.”
“Warren, believe me that I want to believe. I want there to be an afterlife and God and all the promise of that. Why do you think I’ve invested so much of the last six years in this?”
“And we’ll reap our rewards and maybe show you the light at the end of the tunnel.”
Elizabeth smiled at his wording and took a sip of her tea. “We can only hope.”
“Then take heart in the signs and the theological possibilities.”
Elizabeth Luria and Warren Gladstone were sitting in the sunroom of her waterfront home in Arlington, overlooking the lower Mystic Lake. It was a beautiful home with four bedrooms and lovely views—views that still reminded her of all that had been taken from her. “I suppose,” she said. “But given the imprecise calendar dates over two thousand years, who can say exactly when Jesus died and was resurrected?”
“Except those are spiritual dates—dates of believers. And the boy’s breakthrough falls precisely on them.”
“So, God uses the same Gregorian calendar as the rest of us.”
“If God wants to get our attention, then yes, He does.” He picked up the article. “From the look of things, He’s gotten the attention of lots of folks, including mine.”
“Well, the mother’s not buying it. And clearly her son wasn’t raised on the Word of God.”
“The more powerful the message: The Lord spoke through a nonbeliever,” Warren said. “And another confirmation that the ways of God are mysterious to man.”
Warren Gladstone was an unwaveringly godly man and a good man. Elizabeth had met him through her late husband. Both had been raised in an Evangelical Christian tradition in Tennessee, Warren following his faith into a mainline Protestant seminary to become a televangelist. A dozen years ago, he’d founded the GodLight Channel—a satellite network that brought to the Northeast his ministry, now encompassing most of New England and parts of New York. Much of his success had to do with his enlightened social theology. Unlike most Evangelical preachers, Warren was a political liberal—a pacifist opposed to capital punishment and supportive of gun control. He also promoted the legalization of gay marriage and laws protecting abortion. It was his progressive views that drew liberal New Englanders, amassing him a tidy fortune that he hoped would expand coverage of his cable
Warren also was a godsend for her, embarrassing as it was. Owing to the nature of her research, she had been denied grant money even though she was a highly published tenured professor at Harvard Medical School. Critics accused her of abandoning serious neurological research for questionable pursuits. It was Gladstone and company that made possible her current quest and one that could lead him to the Promised Land.
“When you met the mother, what exactly did you say to her?”
“Nothing, really.”
“You didn’t tell her…” And he trailed off.
“No, I didn’t tell her I’d lost a son, too. That would have suggested a more disturbing bond.”
“Of course. And what was her response?”
“That she didn’t believe in miracles, but she thanked me. And that was that.”
“And you didn’t mention our…”
“No, of course not.” She walked to the window. Already the magnolia tree was fat with buds. Of all the trees in the world, she loved best the pink magnolia with their big fleshy leaves and intoxicating scent. But, sadly, full glory lasted only a week.
“Did you speak to anyone else?”
“No.”
“Emerging from a coma is not extraordinary. It’s what he uttered on the video that fills me with wonder.”
For a moment, she was taken back to the double funeral—a day that she had managed to get through only because of the consolation and compassion that had radiated from Warren Gladstone.
He had spoken of spiritual dates. Could any be more brutally ironic than her own “spiritual” date? Fourteen years ago, on a warm Sunday in May, she had announced that she wanted the day off just to hang around the house and not work, not to do chores, not do things for other people—just a day to and for herself. The weather was beautiful, and under the delft blue sky the lake looked like liquid sapphire. All she desired was to languish on the deck with a good book. The Red Sox were playing a home game, so she sent her husband and son to Fenway Park. But on the way home, their car was hit head-on by a drunk driver, and her son and husband were killed. While
