any of the videos claimed to have met dead relatives?”
“Well, maybe you’ll be the first.”
35
Zack tried to suppress his anxiety as Bruce drove him to the lab the next Tuesday night. He tried to lose himself in the Vivaldi CD, thinking about those people who had been flatlined and crowed about spiritual transports of loving light and tranquillity.
When he arrived, the core team met him, and Sarah gave him a warm hug, wishing him a belated happy birthday. Yesterday he had turned twenty-five. That made him feel better. He signed the various waivers and nondisclosure forms. They then led him into the MRI room, where he changed into pajama bottoms and lay on the gurney. They connected him up to an IV and several electronic monitoring devices. Along one wall was a viewing window, behind which were the computer workstations where scans of his brain would be projected.
Sarah positioned a videocamera on a tripod. “Once again, we’re going to record the whole procedure and catch any movements.”
“Like breaking into the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus.”
She laughed. “That would be something.” She then put a mask across his brow, ready to be lowered. He felt a nervous flare in his chest.
When they finished, Dr. Luria came over. She was beaming with expectation. “Ready?”
“I think so.”
“How do you feel?” Sarah asked.
He looked up at the faces, the lights, IV stand, tubes connected to him, thinking that he was a syringe away from near death. “Nervous.”
She patted his arm. “Of course, but you’ll be perfectly safe. You’re just going to sleep.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I’ll be monitoring every second you’re under. Then in an hour we’ll bring you back.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And everyone came back?”
“Absolutely.”
“And whole?”
“And whole and healthy.” She patted his arm again. “All set?”
“Want to come with me? I may be going to paradise.”
She laughed. “Love to, but I don’t have your brain.”
She lowered the mask and fitted the earplugs and muffler, cutting off the outside world. The gurney moved headfirst into the tube and he felt a twinge of claustrophobia. “How long will it take to fall asleep?” If anyone responded, he never heard. His brain went instantly black.
* * *
A female voice.
He grunted. Shards of sleep were falling away as awareness gradually returned.
A male voice.
He forced open one eye.
Then the other.
“Welcome back. How do you feel?” asked a pretty woman with short hair.
He licked his lips.
“If your mouth and tongue feel tingly, that’s normal. Can you tell me your name?”
He looked at her dumbly without response.
“Okay, you’re still a little foggy.”
“Can you tell us your name?” an older woman asked.
He shook his head.
“No? Sure you can. It’s Zack. What’s your last name?”
He hesitated a moment. Then he muttered, “Kashian.”
“What was that?”
“Kashian.”
“Right. Good. And do you know where you are?”
“Magog Woods?”
“Where?”
“Magog Woods.”
“His voice sounds different,” someone said.
“Where’s Magog Woods?”
“Where I live.”
“And where’s that?”
“Maine.”
“Maine? No, you’re in Massachusetts. You remember.”
Zack shook his head.
“Yes, you’re in Massachusetts, not Maine. And you live in Boston.”
He looked around dumbly. Then his mind slowly began to clear, and the trees faded and it became bright, and he saw people standing around him in a large white room with all the electronic equipment and tubes and wires attached to his head and arms.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Mmm. Guess I was dreaming. Sleep test.”
“Good. Can you tell me your name?”
“Zack Kashian.”
“Great. And the date?”
He thought a moment, then it came back to him.
“Very good. And what state are we in?”
“Massachusetts.”
“That’s better. And the capital?”
“Boston.”
“Do you remember my name?” asked a younger pretty woman.
He felt himself return to the moment. Sarah Wyman, the neuroscientist with the pretty face and short hair. “Joan of Arc.”
“Joan of Arc?”
“Look like her. Paul Delaroche, painter.”
“Wow. You know your art.”
“French history.” He spoke haltingly, trying to clear his brain. His mouth felt dry.
“Where?”
She was still testing him. “Northeastern.”
“I think he’s fine. Zack, it’s me, Dr. Luria.” She sat beside him with a clipboard, a videocamera trained on him. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your experience. Do you remember anything while under—people, locale, activity of any kind?”
“No, nothing. Just a blank.”
“No sense of where you were? Who you were with, if anyone?”
