Night Journey (11 page)

He drove too fast, they ended up in a ditch, and he left her by the side of the road. She lied and told her parents she’d been driving. They never questioned her further.

Time continued to retrogress. She saw herself in the ninth grade, marching in a parade, and playing a flute. She and her family drove to Florida and spent a week at Disney World. She played miniature golf with her little brother. At a church retreat she received her first kiss from the minister’s son. The visions seemed so real, she felt like she was there all over again.

Emma winced when she saw herself at thirteen, wearing a Rude-Dog T-Shirt, a hot pink Ra-Ra skirt, and matching leg warmers. Her bangs stood at attention, ratted and moussed into submission. She flitted through the Galleria with her best friend, Heather, and they both got busted shoplifting.

Her memories continued to wind downward, going deeper into the past. She fell off her bicycle and broke her arm. She received her first Cabbage Patch Doll. Her little gray kitten ran away and she cried for three days. She lost a tooth and received twenty-five cents from the Tooth Fairy.

When the visions reached back into her very early childhood, Emma looked on in amazement at life events that happened when she was much too young to consciously remember. The tiny little girl she recognized only from photographs sang along with The Muppets, learned to use the potty, took her first steps, and splashed happily in the bathtub while her mother gently soaped her back.

But the most disturbing scene of all was that of a tiny newborn, wrapped in a dingy yellow blanket, lying in a battered-looking infant carrier. On a chair beside the baby was a vinyl diaper bag, with two bulging pouches in front. A milk bottle poked out from one of the pockets and the other contained the antique musical powder box she hadn’t seen since she’d been in college.

A young woman with long brown hair and sad-looking eyes bent down, kissed the baby’s cheek, and then stared wistfully before she handed it over to a stern-looking man behind a desk. He gave the woman a long piece of paper and an ink pen.

Emma strained to see as she watched the woman sign the document—T-e-r-e-s-a—something. Her birth mother’s name was Teresa, but she couldn’t make out the last name. She caught a quick glimpse of an old woman in a nurse’s uniform standing in the corner. Then she noticed the nameplate on the man’s desk.
J. R. Covington, Attorney at Law
. A lot of good this information did her now—she was dead. Things like this didn’t matter any more.

The journey ended abruptly and the transcendent visions ceased. Emma now stood at the mouth of a long, dark tunnel. In the distance she saw a light. A warm glow of anticipation flowed through her. The dangling tie on her gown tickled her legs and she swatted at it. Then she stepped inside the tunnel and began to walk.

The light became brighter as Emma drew closer. Finally, she came to the end of the tunnel and stepped into a beautiful garden. The light she’d been following was still in the distance, but she stopped to stare at her surroundings. She’d never seen anything so exquisite.

Flowering trees and bushes were everywhere. Lush, green meadows stretched out endlessly. Brightly colored birds flew overhead and butterflies danced from flower to flower. The fragrance of the blossoms gently drifted on a zephyr wind, bathing the garden in a heady perfume.

Emma reveled in the beauty of this paradise. The sound of trickling water arrested her attention and she saw a clear, blue stream cascading down the side of a bluff. At the base of the waterfall a small group of people waded and swam in a tranquil, natural pool. Her breath caught when she recognized her family, standing at the edge of the water, watching the swimmers.

Joy bubbled up and overflowed within her. She ran to meet them, arms outstretched, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Mama—oh, Mama!”

Her mother embraced her, and then she felt herself enfolded by the arms of her father and brother. They laughed and cried and hugged. Emma had never experienced a more joyous reunion.

“Daddy—Tommy—I didn’t think I’d ever see any of you again,” said Emma. She pulled back a little so she could look at them. They were just as she remembered. Tommy wore a raggedy pair of blue jeans and a Dallas Stars jersey. Her father was wearing the outfit he always wore around the house—a loose pair of khaki pants and a plaid shirt. Her mother was dressed in the blue silk frock she’d worn to so many important functions.

“What are you doing here, Emma?” asked Tommy.

“Don’t you know?” Emma was puzzled by his question. “I died—just like the rest of you.”

“Honey, it’s not your time,” said her mother.

“What do you mean?” Emma paused, searched their faces, and spread her arms. “I’m here. Just look at me.”

“Emma, we know you’re here,” her father answered. “But look at the way we’re dressed and then look at yourself.”

Emma glanced down. She still wore the thin cotton hospital gown, barefooted and bare legged. She didn’t understand. They were all wearing their favorite outfits from life, yet she was still dressed in this old thing.

She glanced around and now she could see other people standing in clusters. It looked like a costume party. Some were dressed casually in shorts, or sweatshirts, or jeans. But others were decked out in formal wear, or uniforms, or clothes from bygone eras. There were ballerinas and figure skaters and football players. Where were all the white robes and harps?

“I’m confused.” Emma shook her head.

“When it’s your time to be here, you get to wear whatever you liked best when you were alive,” said her father.

“Yeah, and you get to do your favorite things, too.” Tommy grinned and showed her a handheld video game.

“Good grief, Tommy. You’re twenty-two. Haven’t you outgrown those silly things yet?”

“Remember my favorite saying?” Tommy winked at his sister. “He who dies with the most toys, wins.”

Emma laughed. “Well, it all sounds great. Where do I go to sign up?”

“No, Emma,” her father shook his head. “You have to go back. Zan needs you back on earth.”

“How did you know about Zan?”

“That’s one of the benefits of being in Heaven,” said her father. “We get to see what’s going on down there whenever we want. Come here, I’ll give you a preview.”

Her father waved his arm and Emma’s perspective suddenly changed. It was like looking down through a window in the floor. Below them she could see her body again in the emergency room. Nothing much had changed since she’d last been there. The activity was still frantic as the medical personnel fought to revive her. How long had she been gone?

Tommy put a hand on her shoulder. “See, Emma? You’ve got to hurry back down there before it’s too late. If your brain’s deprived of oxygen too long you’ll be damaged.”

“But it’s already been hours,” Emma argued.

“No,” her father said. “It only seems like it to you. There’s still time.”

Emma peered down through the window again. Her body looked so frail and vulnerable, overwhelmed with all the tubes and machines. It felt so good being at the threshold of Heaven. Why would she want to go back?

Emma turned back to her family. “Why do you think it’s not my time? Just because I’m not dressed in my favorite clothes? That seems silly to me, if that’s the only reason.”

“Sweetheart, just look at this.” Her mother reached behind Emma’s back and held a slender, glowing cable. “This is your silver cord. It’s like an umbilical cord that connects your soul between life and death. Once it breaks, you can never go back.”

“Ours broke instantly when the plane crashed,” her father added. “That’s how we know it’s not your time. When you get back, you won’t remember this experience. And if you do recall any of it, you’ll think it was all a dream.”

Emma stared at the cord. It wasn’t much thicker than a piece of thread, but she now realized it must have been what caused the tickling sensation on her legs. Its light pulsed and wavered, and she could see now that it was attached to her mortal body down below. She felt sad when she thought about all the pain she’d have to face if she went back. Was she strong enough to do it?

“Emma, you’ve got to be brave and think about Zan and my grandchildren now,” her mother urged.

“What grandchildren?” Emma’s eyes flew to her mother’s face.

Her mother’s eyes sparkled. “The ones that will never exist if you don’t get down there right now.”

Emma’s eyes widened and she took a deep breath when she realized what her mother meant. “What do I have to do?”

“Okay, Emma. See this faint little glow here?” her father pointed to a hazy, shimmering mist in the window. “This is the portal. You’ve got to go down very quickly, like sliding down a very high toboggan run. But you need to be careful not to break the cord.”

“All right.” Emma nodded. “How do I do it?”

“Climb up here, pull your knees up underneath your chin, keep your head down, and your arms close. But whatever you do, keep your eyes straight ahead and make sure you don’t waver off the path,” her father instructed. “Don’t even look around.”

“Why? What’s in there?” Emma’s heart skipped a beat when she saw the look that passed between her parents.

“All I’m going to tell you is that sometimes there are bubbles in the portal, and if you don’t stick to the path you could be pulled off somewhere you don’t want to go, or your cord could break—go on, Emma. Just do it while there’s still time.”

Emma nodded, embraced them all one last time, then looked again through the window. She swallowed the lump in her throat, climbed into position, and propelled herself forward.
Her hair billowed upward as she made the deep, sliding descent. Mysterious sounds resonated and fabulous colors quivered all around. The portal was a glowing, liquid tube, with intermittent bulges that writhed and squirmed like quicksilver. Were these the bubbles her father had warned her about?

Going down seemed much quicker than going up, but she was still anxious to get back to Zan. She had so many things to do and so much to tell him. Was she almost there? She lifted her head to see. The hospital emergency room appeared very close; it would only be a matter of seconds now.

Her will to live intensified as she zipped toward earth, thankful she’d been granted a second chance. She vowed to live life to the fullest and waste no more precious time on insecurities and anxieties. She would be the best wife and mother ever. Just the thought of seeing Zan and sharing her secret with him made her tingle with anticipation.

Then something moved on the periphery. Emma turned her head to look. She gasped when she saw it. The evil nurse of her nightmares emerged from one of the bulges in the portal and advanced on her, wielding a knife. Startled, Emma jerked slightly and her course veered from the heavenly track that guided her.

She panicked when she realized she now careened toward the bubble, with no way to stop or turn. Emma wasn’t sliding anymore. She was falling.

Her thoughts centered on the silver cord—her lifeline. She must protect it, but she didn’t know what to do. The blade looked sharp and she knew it would easily slice through the slender thread.

She plummeted on and on, hurtling out of control. Panic-stricken, Emma raised her arms, hoping to fend off the attack. Then a scream of pure rage, like the wail of a banshee, pierced the air. She looked up in time to see a second figure climb out of the bubble—an old woman wearing a black dress. Emma felt a hard jerk on her arm when the woman suddenly grabbed her and pushed her off in another direction.

The malevolent nurse grew more distant as Emma tumbled farther and farther away. Then her spirit entered the body with a thud, her silver cord still intact.

And then she slept.

“Your wife is back, Mr. Fuller.” Dr. Richard Wilson wiped his forehead with a towel, smiled wearily, and extended his right hand.

“Oh, thank God,” Zan said and then exhaled in relief as he clasped the other man’s hand. “Is she going to be all right?”

“We don’t know yet,” the doctor replied. “She’s still extremely critical. Hopefully, I’ll be able to give you a better prognosis within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

“Why so long?” Jonathan asked.

“The lady’s been through a terrible trauma,” explained the doctor. “She’s lost a lot of blood and she’s in a coma. I don’t know how long before she comes out of it—if she does.”

Zan gasped. “Are you saying she may never wake up?”

“Sir, I just don’t know. Her heart actually stopped for two or three minutes. Until we’ve had time to run some tests, I can’t give you a definitive prognosis.”

“May I see her?” asked Zan. He felt like a condemned man who’d just been reprieved, and then told they might hang him after all.

“Okay, but only one person at a time for now,” answered the doctor. “As soon as her blood pressure’s stabilized we’re going to take her down for a CT scan—oh, by the way. Were you aware that your wife’s blood is AB negative?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think she ever told me her blood type. Is that a problem?”

“No, not from the standpoint of a recipient. It’s just an unusual blood type. Very rare. But we did have to give her quite a bit of blood before we got the bleeding under control. I don’t suppose any of you might care to donate, just to help renew our supply?

Moonbeam spoke up. “That’s not my blood type, but I’ll be glad to give whatever you need.”

“Me too,” said Barbara. The entire group nodded their agreement.

Dr. Wilson turned to a nurse standing beside him. “Bridget, would you please direct these people to the lab? Mr. Fuller, why don’t you come with me.”

Phoebe and Allen hugged Zan before he turned and followed the doctor down the hallway. He’d never felt so forlorn in his life. He swallowed a lump in his throat when he entered the emergency area.

He barely recognized her. Tubes and IV’s surrounded her and an oxygen ventilator mask covered her face. A machine beside the bed beeped monotonously, but the steady zigzag of the heart monitor gave him hope. The top of her head was bald on one side where they’d shaved her to stitch up the cut. She wasn’t going to be happy about that.

“They’re ready for her in radiology, doctor,” said a nurse.

“Okay. Sorry to rush you out, Mr. Fuller.” Dr. Wilson patted Zan on the shoulder. “We’ll call you when we have more information.”

“I understand.”

Zan hung his head as he walked slowly back to the waiting area. Everyone else had gone to the lab. He sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair and stared at the television. A perky blonde wearing bright yellow leotards demonstrated aerobics to a quick-paced disco beat, but Zan didn’t even notice. All he could think about was Emma.

An eternity later Dr. Wilson reappeared in the waiting room and motioned for Zan to follow him into a small office. The rest of the group, who had joined him in his vigil, watched hopefully as he rose. His cheeks and chin felt like coarse sandpaper when he tried to rub the grit from his eyes. His mouth tasted sour from too many cups of coffee and his whole body felt stiff and sore.

The doctor pointed to a set of x-rays illuminated by a viewer on the wall. “Your wife has an epidural hematoma—a blood clot at this section of the covering of the brain.”

Zan gasped. “Can you operate?”

Dr. Wilson nodded. “Yes, but we’ve got to relieve the swelling first. We’ll have to put in a catheter to drain the fluid and an intracranial pressure monitor.”

“Doctor—is she going to make it?” Zan’s voice came out in a rasp.

“It’s just too soon to say, Mr. Fuller.” The doctor patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll do our best. Your wife isn’t pregnant, is she?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“It’s just a routine question when a woman is in her child-bearing years.”

“We’ve been trying to have a baby, but haven’t been successful. She was supposed to have outpatient tests next week to try to figure out the problem. She pre-registered and everything.”

“Be sure and give all that information to the nurse. We’ll get your doctor to fax her records to us.”

“Can’t we take her back to Dallas for treatment?”

“Not at this time, sir. She’ll be in ICU here for a while.” Doctor Wilson shook his head at Zan’s disheveled appearance. “You look like you could use some rest. Where are you staying?”

“In Eureka Springs.”

“You’d better move to a motel here in town.”
Rachel Hughes sipped her coffee and frowned. God, how she hated Mondays. Heaven forbid she take a Friday off. It was barely nine o’clock and already her phone was lighting up, her in-box was overflowing, and her messages numbered in the triple digits.

And where the hell was her assistant? Did she have to do the job of Hospital Administrator and receptionist both? No, she wouldn’t. Those calls could just go to voice mail and Dorinda could deal with them when she got back from wherever she was. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to chain that girl to her desk, pregnant or not. How many friggin’ bathroom breaks did a person need?

She sighed and opened her e-mail, then sighed again. She’d need a snow plow to get through all this. Well, better get to it. She wrinkled her nose when she saw the request from the homeless shelter asking for an increase in free medical services—delete. Another message was an invitation to speak at a medical symposium in Las Vegas—now that looked interesting. Memos—budget meetings—the usual stuff.

Oh, no. Not him again. Another urgent message from the office of United States Senator Grayson Talmedge. The poor guy was getting desperate. He’d been bombarding hospitals all over the region for weeks, reminding them about his twenty-one year old daughter. She’d been on the list for quite a while now waiting for a heart transplant. Rachel shook her head. She wished her luck, but she knew how tough it would be to find a proper match. Even though she was at the top of the list, she kept getting bumped because donors with her particular blood and tissue type just didn’t come available very often.

“Good morning, Ms. Hughes”

“G’morning, Dorinda,” said Rachel, glancing at her assistant over the rim of her reading glasses. She looked like she was about to pop. Oh, well. Rachel had already warned her that her expectations would remain the same after she gave birth. Sick babies and doctor’s appointments would not be an excuse for absence or tardiness. So, the ungrateful little wench had decided to turn her maternity leave into permanent retirement. Fine. Maybe then she’d get to replace her with somebody competent.

“I’ve typed up all the stats you requested and I’ve updated the hospital calendar,” said Dorinda. She slowly lowered her bloated body into a chair across from Rachel’s desk.

“Thank you. Now, will you please fill me in on what’s happened over the weekend?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dorinda scanned through her notes. “Let’s see…CareFlight brought in a woman in the wee hours Sunday morning—a severe head injury case. She’s in ICU in a coma right now and she can’t breathe without life support.”

“Really?” Rachel’s interest was aroused. “Is she brain dead?”

“Mmm…I don’t know. It says they’re still trying to control the swelling and keep her vitals going. Won’t know her prognosis for a few days.”

“Who’s the attending?”

“Dr. Richard Wilson.”

Rachel couldn’t control a sneer. “I should have known. How old is she?”

“Twenty-eight. She had an accident over in Eureka Springs. A cave-in at a hotel? That’s weird.”

“We don’t need your opinions, Dorinda. What else does the report say?” Rachel leaned back in her chair and laced her fingers together. She smiled with satisfaction, knowing how annoyed Dorinda was growing by having to sit and read to her.

Rachel relaxed while Dorinda read until she heard something that arrested her attention. She put up her perfectly manicured hand and said, “Stop.”

“Ma’am?”

“Go back. To the part about the Living Will.”

“Oh, okay. Living Will with executed organ donor affidavit included with other documents faxed from Dallas.”

“What does it say about life support?” questioned Rachel.

“It’s just the standard form,” said Dorinda. “I can pull up her file for you if you want to see for yourself.”

“Yes, Dorinda. Please do.” Rachel wheeled her chair away from her desk and waited while Dorinda bent over to work on Rachel’s computer.

“Is there something else wrong with her?” asked Rachel. “What’s she doing with a Living Will?”

“The report said she’s been trying to get pregnant and she was set to go in for outpatient tests next week in Dallas. From what I’ve heard, her family is frantic with worry and they’ll do anything to keep her alive. They probably don’t even know she signed a Living Will. It was one of those routine forms they get you to fill out whenever you go into the hospital for anything. Everybody’s pushing ‘em like crazy ever since that woman in Florida with the feeding tube case.”

“Still, it’s a binding legal document. Right?”

“I suppose so,” replied Dorinda. “Do you want me to continue reading the report?”

“No, I’ll read through it myself. You really should get back to your desk and take care of those messages. The phone’s been ringing off the hook while you’ve been dawdling,” said Rachel. She pretended not to notice the glare of hatred on Dorinda’s face before waddling back to her desk.

Rachel stared at the advance directive on the computer screen and wondered. What if? No way. It would be too much of a coincidence. On impulse, Rachel logged into the transplant data base and read the information for Monica Talmedge. Then she pulled up the file on the new patient. Emily Jean Fuller. She compared the data. Close—extraordinarily close. She picked up the telephone.

“Frank? This is Rachel…I need you to take over a patient from Dr. Wilson…head trauma…she’s in a coma…no, I’ll explain when you get here…okay, bye.” Rachel placed the telephone receiver in the cradle and smiled.

Dr. Richard Wilson. The son-of-a-bitch. She couldn’t wait to show him who’s boss. They’d clashed on many subjects, but their opinions were polar opposite on the right-to-die/right-to-live issue. She thought about her own mother-in-law, wasting away like some vegetable in a high priced nursing home. The old woman wasn’t ever going to get any better. She was eighty friggin’ years old, for God’s sake, and she’d had Alzheimer’s for the past three years. The dementia had grown progressively worse, yet Rachel’s husband still refused to accept the fact that his mother’s life was as good as over. She couldn’t even eat or drink anymore without a feeding tube, so what was the point?

She thought about the thousands of dollars being wasted every single month on the old bat—her husband’s inheritance was slipping right down that tube. Rachel could certainly think of better ways to put the money to use. They desperately needed to re-plaster the swimming pool—and he’d been promising her a trip to Italy for ages.
The news had been out less than forty-five minutes when Dr. Wilson banged on Rachel’s office door. She looked up and smiled demurely. “Yes, doctor. May I help you?”

“Rachel, I want to talk to you.” He stormed into the room and slouched onto a chair that faced her desk. He ignored Dr. Ballew, who was sitting in the next chair.

“I’m listening.” She leaned back and gave him her attention. Her right foot tapped impatiently beneath her desk. That stubbly chin and the graying hair curling down his neck set her teeth on edge, but she pretended not to notice.

“Just give me one good reason why you’re transferring my patient to Dr. Ballew,” demanded Dr. Wilson.

“Which patient are you referring to?” she asked, with sugar dripping from her mouth.

“You know very well which patient I’m talking about—Emma Fuller.”

“All right. I’ll give you two reasons,” Rachel replied. “Number one—Frank’s a neurosurgeon and you’re not. Number two—your shift is over. You’ve already pulled two doubles and you need a break.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Dr. Wilson raged. “Since when did either of those reasons justify removing a doctor from his patient?”

“Don’t you have someone else to go bother?” Rachel stared up through the half-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of her nose.

“You’re such a bitch.” Dr. Wilson’s eyes blazed with anger.

“Richard, don’t take this personally.” Dr. Ballew tried to intervene. His bushy black eyebrows rose higher on his forehead and he seemed unsure of how to react to the looming battle.

“You’re just as bad as she is.” Dr. Wilson whirled and pointed at the other man. “You’ve both had it in for me ever since your organ procurement buddy called me by accident and started trying to ring me in on his deals.”

“I
thought
we’d already addressed that issue. The Board of Directors established that Frank and I did nothing wrong. Thanks to you, the OPO was able to catch on to the agent’s scheme in time and fire him.” She drummed her fingernails on the desk. “That’s all water under the bridge. Can we please give it a rest?”

“Humph,” Dr. Wilson folded his arms. “The whole thing leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. He should’ve gone to jail. The government needs to have stricter regulations for these organ procurement organizations. There’s way too much potential to make money the wrong way. And I think you’re both trying to punish me now for foiling your plans. ”

“Don’t be so paranoid, Richard.” Dr. Ballew glanced toward Rachel before he continued. “Ms. Hughes and I just think this new case should be handled by a specialist.”

Dr. Wilson folded his arms and grimaced. “Okay, so why the nasty little comment about my bothering you?”

“Richard, I’m sorry,” Rachel said. She hoped she could keep the insincerity out of her tone. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’ve just pulled a double shift and it’s time for you to get some rest. We think this patient would be better served if Frank were officially the treating physician. That’s all.”

“No. I don’t trust you.” Dr. Wilson leaned down, put his hands on Rachel’s desk and stared at her. “I think you’ve got some evil agenda.”

“You will
not
speak to me like that.” Rachel’s eyes narrowed and she straightened her posture, moving closer to meet his stare. “The decision is made.”

Dr. Wilson stood poised for battle. Rachel could see how angry he was by the redness of his face and the tightness of his jaw. But she wasn’t about to give in. She’d fought her way through life and she knew that continuing to fight was the only way to stay on top. A show of weakness now and he would win. He’d almost brought her down once before. She couldn’t let it happen now.

“I’m going to check on my patient now.” Dr. Wilson maintained eye contact with Rachel, trying to stare her down.

Rachel laced her fingers together and smiled. Her eyes were cold and her words were clipped and precise. “You will go clock out of your shift right now and leave this hospital, doctor—do I have to call security to have you removed?”

“Richard, please…” Dr. Ballew mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. “I’ll take good care of the patient.”

“I’m sure you will.” Dr. Wilson’s lip curled in an expression of loathing, then he turned and shrugged before he stalked out of the office, leaving the door hanging open.