“Dr. Lander?” Tish said, knocking on the door. “Dr. Wright said to tell you he’s ready to begin the session.”
“He is?” Joanna said, glancing at her watch. Good God, it was nearly ten.
“Sorry,” she said, “be right there,” and scrambled to collect her minirecorder, a new tape, and her notebook. “Is Mr. Sage here?”
“Yes,” Tish said. “Talkative, as usual.”
Joanna grinned, shut the door, and locked it, just in case Mr. Mandrake came snooping around. They started back toward the lab.
“But at least Mr. Sage doesn’t have his head in RIPT scans like some people I could name,” Tish said sarcastically, “and he actually listens to you when you talk to him. The reason I came to get you,” she said, leaning confidentially toward Joanna, “was to tell you I’ve given up on Dr. Wright. He’s all yours.”
“He doesn’t listen to me either,” Joanna said, thinking of their conversation at Taco Pierre’s.
“That’s because he spends all his time thinking about NDEs. And I mean all his time. Do you know what he said when I told him I’d rented that Tommy Lee Jones movie that we’d talked about?”
That you talked about, Joanna thought.
“And that I’d bought steaks and made a salad? He said he can’t, that he’s busy tonight. Probably staring at his scans.”
This is probably not a good time to tell her about Dish Night, Joanna thought.
“He’s completely obsessed with those scans. If he doesn’t watch it, he’ll start believing NDEs are real, like Mr. Mandrake.”
“Somehow I can’t see that happening,” Joanna said and went in the lab.
Richard was at the console, staring at the scans, his hand up to his chin. “See?” Tish mouthed to Joanna.
Joanna went over to the examining table, where Mr. Sage was sitting, his hospital gown on. “Good morning, Mr. Sage,” she said. “How are you this morning?”
Mr. Sage thought about it a good forty seconds. “Okay,” he said. Tish gave Joanna a significant look.
At least his account won’t take long to record, Joanna thought, watching Tish prep Mr. Sage. Ten minutes for the session and another fifteen to pry out of him the fact that it was dark.
She was wrong. After two minutes and forty seconds in non-REM sleep, he went into the NDE-state. And stayed there.
After ten minutes, Richard asked, “How long was he under last time?”
“Two minutes, nineteen seconds,” Joanna said.
“Tish, how do his vitals look?”
“Fine,” Tish said. “Pulse 65, BP 110 over 70.”
A minute later, Richard asked, “What about his vitals now?”
“The same,” Tish said. “Pulse 65, BP 110 over 70. Is he in non-REM sleep?”
“No,” Richard said, sounding bemused. “He’s still in the NDE-state. Let’s stop the dithetamine.”
Tish did, but it didn’t change anything. Ten minutes later, Mr. Sage was still in the NDE-state. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” Richard said. “His EKG’s fine, his vitals are fine, and the scan patterns aren’t showing any abnormalities. He’s just having a long NDE.”
Joanna looked down at Mr. Sage. What if he can’t find the passage, or the tunnel, or the whatever it is where he is, back? she thought. What if he forgot to wedge his tennis shoe in whatever door or gate or barrier he went through, and it swung shut behind him and locked?
At twenty-eight minutes and fourteen seconds, Richard said, “All right, that’s long enough,” and told Tish to administer the norepinephrine and bring him out. “One good thing,” he said, watching the scans finally shift to the non-REM and then the waking pattern. “Mr. Sage should have plenty to tell us.”
But he was as noncommunicative as ever. “It was dark…” he said, pausing forever between phrases, “and then there was a light… and then it was dark again.”
“Were you there longer this time?” Joanna asked.
“Longer?”
I honestly think he’s dimwitted, Joanna thought. “Yes,” she said patiently. “Did it feel like more time had passed?”
“When?”
“In the dark,” Joanna said, and when he looked confused, “or in the light.”
“No.”
“Were you in the same place?”
“Place?”
She tried for nearly two and a half hours to get something, anything, out of him, to no avail.
At least his account won’t take long to type up, she thought, and I can run over to Blockbuster, but when she ran the transcript up to Richard, he asked for any and all references to elapsed time in her NDE interviews and any information on the actual time, if documented, of the clinical death. That took all afternoon. Halfway through writing it up, Richard knocked on her door. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it to Dish Night tonight,” he said. “I’m not done analyzing Mr. Sage’s scans, and I’ve still got the neurotransmitter analysis to go.”
“What time is it?” Joanna asked, glancing at her watch. “Oh, my gosh, it’s a quarter to six,” she said, hitting “save” and grabbing her coat. She was supposed to pick up Kit at six-thirty. And she still hadn’t gotten the videos.
“Tell Vielle I’m sorry. Maybe next time,” Richard said as she searched for her keys.
“I will,” she said and took off for Blockbuster. All right now, she told herself, skidding into the parking lot, just go in, grab a couple of movies, and go get Kit. Easier said than done. Glory was checked out, and so was Jumpin’ Jack Flash, and when she browsed the aisles, the first movie she picked up was a Woody Allen, the second starred Kevin Costner, and everything else seemed to have been made by demolitions experts.
“Are you finding everything?” a short kid in a blue-and-yellow shirt said.
No, she thought. Do you know where the Grand Staircase is? Or why I’m seeing the Titanic? “Can you suggest a good comedy?” she said.
“You bet,” he said, striding purposefully down the New Releases aisle and picking up a box with a photo of Robin Williams made up as a clown on the cover. “Die Laughing,” he said. “It’s about a man who’s dying of a heart condition.” Joanna shook her head. “Or how about this? Missing Link. It’s a comedy about a man with amnesia who doesn’t know who he is or what his name is—”
“What about Julia Roberts?” Joanna said. “Do you have anything with Julia Roberts in it?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said and walked over to the drama section. “Dying Young. Julia Roberts and Campbell Scott. It’s about a young woman who’s a caregiver for a man dying of leukemia—”
“I meant a Julia Roberts comedy,” Joanna said desperately.
He frowned. “Her new one’s all checked out. How about Runaway Bride?”
“Great,” she said, snatching the blue-and-yellow box from him, and when he started to walk away, “Nobody dies in this, do they? Or loses their memory?”
He shook his head.
“Great,” she said and began rummaging for her Blockbuster card. She knew Dish Night was supposed to be a double feature, but there was no way she could live through another round of this. One would have to do.