Connie Willis - Passage

“That depends on how you define ‘better,’ ” Barbara said. “Her basic condition hasn’t changed, but her heart function’s up slightly, and the inderone seems to be working to stabilize her heart rhythm, though I don’t know how long they can keep her on it. The side effects are pretty bad—liver damage, kidney damage, but, yeah, her mother was telling the truth for a change. She is doing better.”

“Good,” Joanna said, relieved. “You haven’t seen Mr. Mandrake on the floor, have you?”

“No,” Barbara said.

“Even better,” Joanna said. She slapped the counter of the nurses’ station with both hands. “See you later.”

“Oh, good, you’re still here,” Maisie’s mother said, coming up to the nurses’ station. “I just wanted to thank you for spending so much time with Maisie. She loves visitors, but so many of them insist on talking about depressing things, illness and… they just upset her. But she loves to have you come. I don’t know what you two find to talk about, but she’s always so cheered up after your visits.”

Joanna didn’t get down to see Mrs. Woollam until after three. Mr. Pearsall had arrived late, and his interview (which went fine) had been interrupted by a phone call from Mrs. Haighton, who was apparently calling from her crafts fair, because she kept shouting asides to people named Ashley and Felicia who were apparently hanging things.

“This week is impossible,” she told Joanna, “but next week—just a minute, let me get my calendar—might just be possible—no, it’s too high on that end.”

Mr. Pearsall was waiting patiently, and Joanna knew the appropriate thing to do was to tell Mrs. Haighton to call back later, but she had the feeling that if she did, she’d never hear from her again. “What times do you have available next Monday?” Joanna asked her, smiling apologetically at Mr. Pearsall.

“Monday, let me see—it needs to drape more—no, the afternoon won’t work, and, let’s see, what’s in the morning? I have an AAUW meeting at ten. Would eleven forty-five work for you?”

“Yes,” Joanna said, even though she already had Mrs. Troudtheim scheduled for eleven. Even taking Mrs. Troudtheim’s oral surgery appointments into account, she could reschedule Mrs. Troudtheim easier than Mrs. Haighton. “Eleven forty-five will be fine.”

“Eleven forty-five,” Mrs. Haighton said. “Oh, no, I was looking at Wednesday, not Monday. I can’t do it Monday after all.”

“What about Tuesday?”

Joanna spent the next ten minutes listening to a litany of Mrs. Haighton’s meetings, in between instructions to Felicia, before finally agreeing to sandwich Joanna in Friday between her library board and her yoga class. “Although I was almost sure I had something else that day.”

Joanna hung up before she had a chance to remember what it was and went back to questioning Mr. Pearsall, who had never had surgery, let alone been near death. “I’ve never even had my appendix out, or my tonsils. Neither has anyone else in my family. My father’s seventy-four and never been sick a day in his life.”

Mr. Pearsall had never met Mr. Mandrake or read his books, and when Joanna asked him whether he believed in spiritualism, he said, looking faintly scandalized, “This is medical research, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Joanna said and let him go.

There was still the schedule to set up, though, and she had to tell Richard about her encounter with Mr. Mandrake. “He thinks you’re trying to debunk his research,” she said.

“I am,” he said. “What did he think about your working with me?”

“I escaped before he could tell me,” Joanna said. “I imagine he’ll try to talk me out of it. If he can catch me,” she added. “I’m going down to the cardiac care unit to interview an NDEer. If Mr. Mandrake calls, tell him I went to see Maisie.”

“I thought she went home,” he said.

“She did,” Joanna said, and went down to the cardiac care unit, only to find Mrs. Woollam had already been moved out of cardiac care and into a regular room.

Her watch said four-sixteen by the time she got down to her room. Mrs. Woollam had been in over seven hours. Mr. Mandrake had had time not only to ruin her for interview purposes, but to turn her into another Mrs. Davenport. Unless Mrs. Woollam couldn’t have visitors, in which case she wouldn’t be able to see her either.

But yes, Mrs. Woollam could have visitors, Luann said. She was doing fine. They were just keeping her a couple of days for observation. “Has Mr. Mandrake been in to see her?” Joanna asked.

“He tried,” Luann said, “Mrs. Woollam threw him out.”

“Threw him out?”

Luann grinned. “She’s one tough cookie. Go on in.”

Joanna rapped gently on the open door. “Mrs. Woollam?” she said timidly.

“Come in,” a soft voice said, and Joanna found herself looking at a frail old woman not much bigger than Maisie. Her white hair was as fine and insubstantial as the fluff on a dandelion, and Mrs. Woollam herself looked like she might blow away in the first breeze. She certainly didn’t look capable of throwing anyone out, least of all the immovable Mr. Mandrake. She was sitting up in bed, hooked with an array of wires to a bank of monitors. She was reading a book with a white cover, which she reached over and put in the nightstand drawer as soon as she saw Joanna.

“I’m Joanna Lander,” Joanna said. “I—”

“Vielle’s friend,” Mrs. Woollam said. “She told me about you.” She smiled. “Vielle’s a wonderful nurse. Any friend of hers is a friend of mine.” She dimpled again, a smile of incredible sweetness. “She tells me you’re studying near-death experiences.”

“Yes,” Joanna said. She pulled a release form out of her pocket, explained it, and gave her a chance to look it over.

“I don’t always experience the same thing,” Mrs. Woollam said, pen poised above the release form, “and I’ve never floated above my body or seen angels, so if that’s what you’re looking for—”

“I’m not looking for anything,” Joanna said. “I’d just like you to tell me what you experienced.”

“Good,” she said. She signed the release form in a spidery hand. “Maurice Mandrake was determined to have me see a tunnel and an Angel of Light the last time I was here. Dreadful man. You don’t work with him, do you?”

“No,” Joanna said, “no matter what he might tell you.”

“Good. Do you know what he told me?” Mrs. Woollam asked indignantly. “That near-death experiences are messages from the dead.”

“You don’t think they are?”

“Of course not. That’s not the sort of message the dead send to the living.”

Oh, no, Joanna thought. “What kind of messages do they send?” she asked carefully.

“Messages of love and forgiveness, because so often we cannot forgive ourselves,” she said. “Messages only our hearts can hear.” She handed Joanna the release form and her pen. “Now, what did you want to ask me? I have been in a tunnel, though I didn’t tell Mr. Mandrake that.”

“What sort of tunnel?” Joanna asked.

“It was too dark to see exactly what it was, but I know it was smaller than a railway tunnel. I’ve been in a tunnel twice, the first time and the second to last time.”

“The same tunnel?” Joanna asked.

“No, one was narrower and its floor was more uneven. I had to hold on to the walls to keep from falling.”

“What about the other times?” Joanna asked, wishing Mrs. Woollam didn’t have a heart condition and wasn’t nearly eighty. She would make a wonderful volunteer.