For Love of Audrey Rose (12 page)

Bill began pacing and turning, back and forth, in front of the window.

“Now, if you look at this analytically,” he said, “if you really pore over it day and night for as long as I have, you begin to discover a few things.”

Bill paused, then straightened his back, as though in pain. His hand kneaded the back of his neck.

“Before there were any writings,” he said softly, his voice oddly in rhythm with the swaying plants and undulating grass outside. “Before there were any temples and all that. There was a belief, by the people of the plains, that when you died, you passed into a heaven. But if you were really good, if you were successful, you could go up to the chief of the heavens, and there you could be with the father of all the gods, who was Yama. Now listen to me, Janice. It was called going up to the world of light. Light. You got to remember that. And if you passed upward into that light, you could unite in some way with Yama, and drink with the gods under leafy trees, and there was constant singing all around, and lutes played, and your body was young and vigorous, without imperfection or weakness. If you passed into the light.”

Bill paused, savoring the recollection of what he had read. He imagined the picture, the metaphors of what he now repeated. Bill waited for a response.

“All right, Bill,” Janice said. “The light.”

“Yes. The light. Now that doesn’t help us much with Ivy, does it? So I kept reading. And the prophets, after two thousand years, went deeper into death. And they put it differently.”

Bill stared dreamily out of the window.

“The departed soul,” he continued softly, “rises to the moon. If it passes on, it goes to the world of fire, and wind, and sky, and the gods. And it is dressed in exquisite robes and garlands, and perfumed with soft ointments. It goes to a lake and an ageless river, and crosses, and shakes off evil deeds. And it comes to a celestial city, Janice. A kind of palace with a long hall. A shining throne. Bathed in light. You see?
The light!
And when it sees the light, the body is truly dead, and the Creator God asks—he asks: ‘Who are you?’”

Bill’s voice trailed away. The dripping eaves made a steady sound behind him. Janice watched as his silhouette rubbed his eyes, but whether in fatigue or for tears, she could not tell.

“And you say something like—something that translates like—‘I am real,’” Bill concluded. “It’s like that, Janice. Are you listening?”

“I am. Of course I am.”

“Good. Because if you don’t pass on to that light, that shining light, you falter. You fumble. You find yourself back on the earth. And like a caterpillar that goes from one blade of grass to the next, you live all over again, trying to become a beautiful form. So you can pass into the light. The light of oblivion.”

Bill slumped wearily, sitting against the windowsill. He breathed heavily, then smoothed his hair down with his right hand. He looked at Janice, his own face reduced to the two pinpoints of his eyes, gleaming softly at her.

“Well, that could help,” he said gently. “That could lead us somewhere. I mean, if you’re really trying to understand what happened. Maybe somehow Ivy—I mean the earlier child, Audrey—There was a false continuation, but it doesn’t quite make sense. Does it?”

“I—I don’t know, Bill.”

“I mean, you accepted all that. What do you think now?”

“I’m prepared to believe that something like that might have happened,” Janice said sincerely, faltering. “But the details—”

“Exactly, Janice. The details. The details will never make sense to people like us, will they? I mean, we believe in reason, in analyzing, as best we can, and then—but that’s what I thought until—now listen closely, Janice. Follow what I’m saying.”

Bill began pacing again, talking to the storm, yet listening, trying to sense Janice’s responses. Then he picked up a long, heavy book from the floor and began slowly paging through it, looking for something, even while he spoke.

“Two things stuck in my mind,” he said quietly. “First, Hoover said that Audrey Rose came back and there was only one reason. Why did she come back? She came back because her death was untimely. Isn’t that it? What else was going on, it all happened because she was caught in that car. Dead before her time. And of all the books I read, all the incomprehensible poems and prayers and voodoo and parables and Christ knows what, nobody ever mentioned an untimely death. All the Hindus cared about, all the Jains cared about, all anybody cared about was what happened at the end of a long quiet life.”

Bill licked his lips. Evidently he had found his place. He peered down at the book, squinted, then backed against the window to catch some light from the low floodlights outside.

“So I had to keep looking. And then I found the Clear Light of Death,” he whispered. “I found it in the
bardo t’ odro,
the Book of Death.”

“What are you talking about, Bill?”

“Those books you gave me about Tibet. Things that Borofsky got for me. Did you know that for thousands of years the Tibetans were isolated from the rest of the world? That they perfected the science of death? I’ve read these verses over and over again, Janice, until I can recite them by heart! And I have to explain them to you because they make sense. They make sense the way nothing else in this evil-infested world ever did!”

Bill whipped the book upward to his chest, looking feverishly for his place. Janice found herself shivering. She unconsciously pulled the blanket from the top of the bed and gathered it around her.

“You see,” he whispered, “the great fear of the Tibetans was an
untimely death
! So they analyzed the death process. They found that there is a point of no return, a sinking down past recovery. There is a feeling of being unable to maintain one’s human form. A person panics. He feels as though he is falling. Dissolving. His bodily strength has slipped away. His cognition grows clouded.”

Bill read directly from the volume in his hands. As he moved into the light from the driveway, Janice read the title:
The Tibetan Book of the Dead.

“All right,” Bill continued. “The next step. The warmth of the body fades. The eyes turn inward. The limbs tremble.”

“Bill, please! I don’t want to listen!”

“It’s what happened to Ivy, isn’t it? Listen, Janice. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Afterward, the cognition inverts, turns into miragelike flashes, and things come unreal, just the reverse of being born: the blood slows; this is called ‘the black path’ because the heart is dying. It’s the point of the worst panic. Vision is cut off. Memory dies. Breath is cut off. Now listen. ‘The mind that rides upon the wind leaves the central channel.’”

Bill looked up, triumphant.

“Do you understand that? ‘The mind that rides upon the wind’—the soul, Janice—‘leaves the channel of the body.’ Now follow what happens next!”

Janice, in spite of herself, was hypnotized by the rhythmic voice in front of her. Bill weaved slowly back and forth, his finger picking out phrases in the light of the rain and sleet behind him.

“‘Awareness,’” he read very slowly, “‘passes into the Clear Light of Death’!”

He looked up at her, frightened, yet gaining confidence when she offered no objection. He laughed hideously, uncertainly.

“‘The Clear Light of Death’! There it is! It’s mentioned everywhere, but here it
is
! Analyzed! And if the soul can pass into the light of emptiness, without fear, if it reaches a firm communion with the emptiness—that is, Nirvana—then it has embraced bliss! There is no return, no more return. It’s all oblivion… and peace…”

Slowly, as he spoke, Bill calmed down. The fire left his eyes. He became aware of the cold and shivered. The mania was gone.

“But if there is panic,” he said with a dull finality, glazed, “if there is no acceptance, then there must be a return, another life… who knows, a hundred more lives…”

Bill came forward, sat at the edge of the bed, and put his arm on Janice’s shoulder. He was sweating, his shirt damp, his hair moist over his brows. He looked into her face.

“In an untimely death,” he said simply, “there can be no acceptance.”

Janice moved slightly back, but his hand firmly held her shoulder.

“Even for somebody trained all his life like a priest, it’s almost impossibly difficult. But for somebody like Ivy—”

A hand went slowly to Janice’s mouth. “Or
like Audrey Rose
!” she whispered hoarsely.

He nodded slowly. “Did Ivy have a chance to prepare for death?” he asked simply. “No! It was too sudden. You saw what I saw, Janice. She was in a state of panic!”

Bill wearily stood. He seemed not to have the strength to move anymore. Dismally he watched the lessening rain, dripping with monotonous regularity in thin silver streaks at the window.

“Ivy could not have passed through,” he said gently. “She could not have passed through into the radiance… dissolving… into a circle of pure light.” Then, softly: “Hoover was wrong, Janice. Our daughter’s soul is
not
at peace. She’s back.
Ivy’s come back.
”

Just then the main room light suddenly went on, hurting their eyes, and Dr. Geddes stood at the door. He studied them both for a few seconds.

“How are you feeling, Bill?” Dr. Geddes asked.

“Oh, better. Much better. Listen, I feel pretty rotten about what happened. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“I hope not, Bill. It really wasn’t like you.”

Dr. Geddes smiled awkwardly, sensing he had broken something between Janice and Bill, but not certain just what.

“Would you like me to call down to the gate for a taxi, Janice?”

“Yes, please—”

When Geddes left, there was a momentary impasse. Bill made a few desultory efforts at cleaning the debris from the floor. Janice joined him by carefully, timidly, scraping together the sheets and note cards into neat piles.

“I’m going to need your help,” he whispered.

She stopped. “What kind of help?”

“I’ll call you at home. Now just keep picking up these papers. I don’t want Dr. Geddes to get wind of anything.”

They worked in silence until she saw the headlights of a taxi moving up the driveway.

“It’s the cab,” she said. “I’d better go.”

“Okay. Good. I won’t call you tonight. They listen to your calls around here, no matter what they tell you. I’ll find a way to call you in a couple of days.”

They heard Dr. Geddes’s footsteps coming. Janice stood up.

“I’d like to discuss your prescriptions,” Dr. Geddes said. “I mean, with your wife. So she’ll understand.”

“Sure, doctor,” Bill said, eager to restore a working relationship with Dr. Geddes. Janice embraced Bill. “I’ll call you. I’ll need your help,” he whispered in her ear.

Then he separated from her and smiled broadly.

“Good night, darling,” he said just a trifle loudly. “And thanks a million for coming down. I don’t know what happened. I just—just flipped out—”

Dr. Geddes drew Janice discreetly off toward the lobby.

“This episode with Mr. Borofsky,” he said uncertainly, “it worries me a great deal. I think you’ll agree that a visit home is out of the question.”

Janice said nothing. She turned slowly and looked casually over her shoulder at Bill through the open door of his room. He caught her looking at him and smiled.

“I think he knows he’s in trouble,” Dr. Geddes continued quickly. “I really can’t countenance a departure from observation at this time. Do you disagree?”

The sudden cancellation of Bill’s visit seemed to push the boulder back in front of Bill’s tomb. Janice felt an overpowering sense of relief.

“No,” she said, trying not to sound eager. “You’re right.” She hurried out of the building, over the slippery gravel, and into the taxi.

The train ride back into the city flashed by like a jagged nightmare, whispering voices, hissing insinuations, and the people waiting at the stations loomed like twisted piles of flesh, already decomposing.

7

D
uring the next weeks, Bill telephoned almost daily. He wanted books. He read Janice the titles of pamphlets he needed. He wanted her to write letters to several authorities in New York, and to a psychiatrist in Berlin. Impatient for her replies, he began to call her at work.

He needed copies of articles from the encyclopedias of religion at the New York Public Library. Mailed special delivery to the clinic. When she visited him, he cross-examined her ruthlessly. He tried to trip her up to see if she had really made the telephone calls, really written the letters. Exhausted, she shoved the written replies in his face and he mumbled an apology.

Finally, at work, Bill called and demanded that during her lunch break she visit the Temple where Hoover had last been seen.

“I can’t go there, Bill,” she whispered into the telephone, her fingers angrily toying with her paintbrush on the drafting table.

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s where I went to the service for Ivy. I—I just don’t want to go back there.”

“I’ve got to know the answers!” he said loudly.

She held the receiver away from her ear.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” he said. “Look, just a few questions. I’m going crazy here. Geddes won’t let me out for another month.”

“All right, Bill,” she said, reaching for a pencil and note pad. “Read me your questions.”

Bill slowly and distinctly read several technical questions. They involved the time delay in return of the soul. Whether time functioned in a different mode between death and the new life. Whether one could rely on earth clocks and calendars in computations.

“What do you mean, computations?” Janice asked warily.

“Never mind. Just go there. Ask the high priest or whatever he’s called. And call me back when you’ve found out.”

“Well, I can’t go today.”

There was a suspicious silence at the other end.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve already had my lunch break and this will take at least an hour—”

“Then say you’re sick.”

“I won’t say I’m sick, Bill. I’m not going to cut out of work for this.”

“But you have to, Janice. I’m depending on you!”

“I’m happy to do the favor for you,” she said, trying to hold her temper. “But I’m not going to risk my job!”