Tunnel Vision

“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 white 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.