Tunnel Vision (24 page)

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.

“Perfect.”

His father beamed and patted his shoulder. And a ripple of pleasure passed through him as he got ready to show his dad.

“Okay, now hold it just like that.”
He went back to the pitching line. “
Ready
?”

“
Ready
.” When the next ball came, Zack swung but missed again. And he smacked the sand with the bat.
“I stink.”

“No, you don’t. You swung too soon. Keep your eye on the ball.”

One more went by, and he tipped it.
“Now you’re getting it.”
Before the next one came, his dad said,
“You’re a hitter, Zack.”

And he smacked the next one, sending it far over his father’s head. “
There you go!
” his dad shouted, and he shot his fist into the air.

He hit several more.

Then they were walking down the flats, which glistened in the late morning sun as if the sea had been sprinkled with diamond dust. Seagulls wheeled overhead, sometimes landing on the sandbar to squawk hysterically after a dead fish.

“
Dad, you like Jake, right?
”

“
Of course I do. Why do you ask that?
”

“
Just wondering. You know what?
”

“
What?
”

“
I wish you never had to go back to work and it could be summer all the time.
”

“
Me, too
.” And his dad put his arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the head.

They picked up shells—huge ashtray-size quahogs, whitened by the sun. They skipped stones. They skipped quahog shells. And the sea sparkled with frenzied glee.

It was the happiest moment of the summer.

They continued down the sun-warmed flats of the sandbar for a few more minutes, then his father stopped. He looked back toward the beach, toward where their cottage hunched on dunes above their umbrella. Gray clouds were rolling in from the mainland.

“I have to tell you something,”
his father said.
“It’s important.”

His father had gripped him by the shoulders, and his face was serious. “
What?
”

“Time to wake up.”

“That’s it, Zack. Open your eyes. How do you feel?”

It took him a few moments to catch up to his awakening. He blinked around the bright lab, taking in Sarah, who was standing there with a clipboard. Dr. Luria was next to her, and Drs. Stern and Cates were at their computer monitors. Two technicians were watching from the other office through the windows.

“Are you all right?” Sarah asked, handing him a cup of water.

Her voice sounded as if it came from a mile-long tunnel. He nodded.

“Unless you prefer root beer.”

He shook his head and sipped the water.

“Do you recall anything?” Luria asked.

He felt himself adjust to the moment. “Just scraps.”

“Like what?”

“The sandbar of a beach. I think it was Sagamore.”

“Sagamore Beach?” Luria said.

“Kind of vague,” he said. “With my father, hitting balls.”

“Go on,” Luria said.

He struggled to find the words. From what he recalled, it was a strange double vision, and he didn’t know how to explain seeing himself as a boy through his own eyes, then through someone else’s in weirdly shifting perspectives. He remembered seeing his father pitch to him, then from a distance he saw himself in baggy green trunks swinging the bat.

“I was hitting whiffle balls, but I can’t remember anything else.”

“How would you characterize your emotional state?”

“Happy.” Instantly he felt himself choke up. He squeezed down, reciting pi.

Sensing his struggle, Sarah cut in. “Zack, did you have a sense of other people?”

He wanted to thank her for changing the subject. He shook his head.

“No other people on the beach?” Luria asked.

“A few down the sandbar. I think my mother and brother were on the beach.”

“But you remember playing ball with your father.”

He felt himself gain control again. “Yeah, and it felt very real, not like a dream—like I was there on that sandbar.” He could still feel the warmth of the sun on his skin as Dr. Cates began to peel off the electrode cups. He could still feel the soft, fine sand of the flats, his father’s hand in his as they walked along.

“Did you feel yourself detach from your body?” Dr. Luria asked.

“No, I was in my own head,” Zack said, trying to get back. But the experience was fading fast, as if he were pulling away from the scene.

“Anything else happen in the experience?” Luria asked. “I mean besides hitting balls with your father, then walking down the sandbar? Did he say anything?”

“He said he wanted to tell me something.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“Just that, then I woke up.” He could still see the expression on his father’s face—serious, time for “a big-boy talk.” From nowhere the phrase shot up.
Big-boy talk.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

They continued interviewing him, going over the same ground. He could see their disappointment, especially Dr. Luria’s. “What did the scan and blood show?” he asked.

“We still have to analyze them,” said Dr. Stern at his computer. “But the secretions show that you had a pleasurable experience, unlike the last time.”

“If it’s okay with you,” Luria said, “we’d like to do another run this Friday if that’s good for you.”

He still felt a dull jab of anxiety but agreed. But this time it wasn’t the thousand-dollar fee. He felt an agonizing yearning to get back to the flats with his dad.

42

Warren Gladstone loved the Lord. He loved the Lord with all his heart and soul and mind. He loved the Lord more than anything else in his life, because he knew that God loved him. And with God’s love all things were possible.

Warren had asked the Lord God for water, and the Lord God gave him a river. He’d asked the Lord God for light, and the Lord God gave him the sun. He’d asked the Lord God for a flower, and the Lord God gave him a garden. He’d asked the Lord God to show him the way to defeat the enemy of atheistic science, and the Lord brought him this video.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Zachary Kashian,” Elizabeth said. “He’s a grad student at Northeastern University here in town.”

“Well, this certainly beats a bunch of drug addicts and illegals.”

“We had to start somewhere,” Elizabeth Luria said.

“Except they found hell instead of paradise.”

They met in an elegant suite on the tenth floor of the Taj Boston at the corner of Arlington and Newbury. Because of the commanding view, this was Warren’s favorite venue for their meetings where Elizabeth and Morris Stern would apprise him of their progress. For too long,
progress
had been an overstatement, with mediocre results at best, sometimes outrageous failures such as the mental impairment or death of test subjects. Some committed suicide, others suffered relapses of suspension because of excessive dosages of tetrodotoxin. Only in the last few months had true progress been made, and Elizabeth had called this meeting to recap the turnaround.

“So, tell me what I’m looking at.” Stern and Byron Cates had brought laptops.

“We’re looking at images from the functional MRI machine whose resolution power is unlike any other on the planet, thanks to your generosity, Reverend.”

Warren cringed whenever Morris Stern addressed him as Reverend, because all he heard was sarcasm. Stern was a hard-nosed scientist whose expertise alone qualified him for the project. He held no spiritual beliefs: He lived in a universe where nothing was sacred. He had been heard saying that religion was the enemy of free thinking and more about death than peace. He had once claimed that all religious conflict reduced to “My imaginary friend is better than your imaginary friend.” His antireligious stance was rooted in his secular Jewish upbringing. So, having him run the diagnostics was like hiring a blind man to invent a better light bulb. But he knew that Stern would soon prove himself dead wrong and end up singing “Amazing Grace.” Warren lived for that moment.

Stern brought up images on the two separate monitors. “The left shows interaxonal activity from Zack’s brain while in suspension. On the right are brain images of others during flatline. You can see the clear differences.” He scrolled through several different images. “Each of these subjects was flatlined. When we woke them, they claimed to have no NDEs.”

“You’re saying that none of the others had near-death experiences?”

“Correct,” Elizabeth said. “This one is special. Very. His brain electricity is extraordinary.” She nodded for Morris Stern to continue.

“The first time we put him under, he claimed to have no discrete NDE.” Stern moved the mouse, and a video image of the MRI of Zack Kashian’s brain appeared with moving blotches. “A few days later, we put him under again, and you can see the different patterns move from flatlined inactivity to a full OBE. Whatever was going on, his mind appeared to be functioning independently from his brain. Of course, we have to do more work with him before we can draw any conclusions.”

Warren nodded. The godless bastard wouldn’t give an inch. He looked to Elizabeth for a more enlightened interpretation.

“Warren, what we can tell you is all good news. Zack has had three different experiences while in suspension. And the last—his most coherent yet—appears to indicate the presence of another mind—one independent of his own. It’s only in scraps of exterior data, and we still need to run more analyses. But it’s the first time we’ve seen anything approaching something like an external sentience.”

“Hal-le-lu-jah!” Warren said, drawing out the syllables with glee.

“Yes, hallelujah,” Elizabeth said as if taking an oath. “At this stage, he still doesn’t have clear recollections of his NDEs, but the diagnostics indicate great intensity.”

“And we still have a lot of computations to do before drawing any conclusion.” It was Stern, muttering to nobody in particular.

Warren disregarded him like a gnat and glared at the colored mottlings imposed on the schematic of Zack Kashian’s brain. “This fellow may be a godsend … literally.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “He’s got the most active God lobe we’ve ever seen. Last week, he positively identified a root beer logo hidden from view. Then he had two more NDEs that he couldn’t recall but which showed high activity. What distinguished the last one was the emotional profile. His bloodwork showed secretions of chemicals associated with fear followed by serotonin tranquillity.”