“That,” Vielle said, gesturing at the screen where Richard Gere was kissing Julia Roberts. “She has five gorgeous guys to choose from and I can’t even find one, unless you count Harvey the embalming expert.”
Kit stopped with a handful of popcorn halfway to her mouth. “Embalming expert?”
“Yes, and a scintillating conversationalist,” Vielle said. “Did you know Ajax is the best thing to use to get teeth shiny and white?”
“Ajax?” Kit put the handful of popcorn down on a napkin.
“Rule Number Eighteen,” Joanna said. “No discussing embalming techniques at Dish Night.” She reached for some popcorn. “What about Officer Denzel? This police officer Vielle met who looks like Denzel Washington,” she explained to Kit.
“And who she can’t think of a way to meet again,” Vielle said. “Maybe I’ll get lucky, and another rogue-raver will shoot up the ER,” and immediately looked sorry she’d said it.
“Vielle works in the ER,” Joanna explained to Kit, “the most dangerous place in the hospital. I keep telling her she needs to transfer out—”
“And I keep telling her she has no business playing Flatliners,” Vielle said, pointing at Joanna.
“Flatliners?”
“She means the research project I’m working with Dr. Wright on, but it’s nothing like Flatliners,” Joanna said.
“Except that you’re having near-death experiences,” Vielle said.
“They’re drug-induced hallucinations, and they’re perfectly safe,” Joanna said. “Unlike working in the ER where people get shot and stabbed—”
“Rule Number One,” Vielle said, rewinding to the kissing scene. “No talking about work at Dish Night. Isn’t that right, Joanna?”
“Right. Which of Julia’s wedding dresses do you like the best, Kit?” Joanna asked, changing the subject.
“I don’t know,” Kit said, leaning forward to make sure the cell phone was still on. “They’re all pretty.”
“The one with the train,” Vielle said. “I definitely want a dress with a train. And a big wedding, with all the trimmings. Bridesmaids, flowers, the works. Do police officers get married in their uniforms?”
“You’re thinking of the military,” Kit said.
“And counting your chickens before they’re hatched,” Joanna said. “She hasn’t even found out his name yet, let alone gotten him to the altar, and a lot can happen in between, right, Kit?”
“I think I’d better call and make sure my uncle’s okay,” Kit said, standing up.
“I thought you said calling upset him,” Joanna said.
“I know,” she said uncertainly.
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“No, that’s okay,” she said and sat back down. “I’m sure he’s okay. And Mrs. Gray said she’d call if there was a problem.” But as soon as they finished the movie, she insisted on leaving. “This has been great, but I think I’d better not stay too long,” she said. “It’s tempting fate.”
“I hope you’ll come again,” Vielle said. “We promise next time we won’t talk about work.”
“Or embalming,” Joanna said, and Kit smiled, but when they got in the car, Kit said seriously, “I have a question to ask you.”
“About embalming?” Joanna said, starting the car.
“No,” Kit said. “About your research project. If that’s okay. I mean, I know you have a rule about discussing work.”
“Which we obviously don’t follow,” Joanna said, pulling out of the parking lot. “And, besides, Dish Night’s officially over.” She turned onto the street and started toward Kit’s. She explained the way the project worked. “It’s not Flatliners, if that’s what you were going to ask.”
“No,” Kit said. She was silent for almost the length of a block, and then, as Joanna stopped at a light, said, “What does the Titanic have to do with your project? Do you think it’s what you’re seeing when you have these near-death experiences?”
You don’t have to tell her, Joanna thought. You can tell her the results of the project are confidential. But, like Maisie, she’d already figured it out, and, like Maisie, she deserved a straight answer.
She wished Kit had asked the question the way Vielle had, so she could say no. But I do think it’s what I’m seeing, in spite of the First-Class Dining Saloon being the wrong colors, in spite of the officer naming the wrong ships. And it has something to do with what Mr. Briarley said. He, and Kit, are my only chance of finding out what.
“Yes, I think I’m seeing the Titanic,” she said, and Kit sucked in her breath. “But I don’t know for sure, and if I read about the Titanic to find out—”
“You won’t be able to tell if reading about it is what made you see it. The Titanic,” she murmured. “How terrible.”
“It’s not really,” Joanna said. “The visions are very strange. They feel utterly real, but at the same time, you know they’re not.” She looked at Kit. “You’re afraid of what this means in regard to your uncle’s hallucinations, aren’t you?” she asked. “This isn’t the vision the malfunctioning brain normally produces. It seems to be peculiar to me. Most people have a warm, fuzzy feeling and see lights and angels. That’s why I came to ask Mr. Briarley what he’d said in class, because I think my mind saw some connection between that and what was happening in the NDE, and that connection is what triggered this particular vision.”
“But Uncle Pat was a Titanic expert. Wouldn’t he have made the same connection?”
“Not necessarily.” Joanna explained about the acetylcholine, and the brain’s increased associative abilities. “Dr. Wright thinks it’s a combination of random images out of my long-term memory, but I’m convinced there’s a reason for the vision, that the Titanic stands for something.” She looked at Kit. “If you don’t want to be involved with this anymore, I completely understand. I sound crazy even to myself when I try to explain it, and I had no business asking you. Or bothering Mr. Briarley.”
It was a relief to have told her, even if Kit did say, “I’d rather not be involved,” or look at her as if she were an NDE nutcase.
But she did neither. She said, “Uncle Pat would have loved to help you if he could, and since he can’t, I want to. Speaking of which, I still haven’t told you about the engines stopping. I think I found the thing you mean. It’s in Walter Lord’s A Night to Remember. The passengers noticed that the hum of the engines had stopped, and they went out on deck to see—wait,” she said, fumbling in the pocket of her coat. “I brought the book with me so I could read you the part—”
She pulled out a paperback book, and Joanna switched on the overhead light and then looked anxiously toward the house, wondering if Mr. Briarley would see the car and Kit, haloed in the light.
“Here it is… ‘wandered aimlessly about or stood by the rail, staring into the empty night for some clue to the trouble,’ ” Kit read, and Joanna looked at the book.
It was an ancient paperback, dog-eared and tattered, with the same picture of the Titanic that had been in Maisie’s book: the stern rising out of the water, the boats in the foreground full of people with blankets around their shoulders, watching in horror, the picture that was on every book about the Titanic, except that this one was in red, like a scene out of helclass="underline" the sea blood red, the ship burgundy, the enormous funnels black-red.
She had seen Mr. Briarley brandishing the book dozens of times, making a point, reading a passage. It was as familiar as her sophomore English textbook had been. But that wasn’t why she stared at it. It had been there, in Mr. Briarley’s hand, that day. He had shut it with a snap and dropped it on the desk. It hadn’t been the textbook, after all. It was A Night to Remember.