Gary Brandner - Walkers

The older man: "It's hard to say. It depends on how long the oxygen supply to her brain was cut off."

Glen: "It couldn't have been more than two or three minutes."

The older man: "Let's hope not. Five minutes is usually the critical period."

Joana opened her eyes and her vision cleared. She was lying on a sofa, the familiar sofa in Glen's apartment where they had sat so often watching television and drinking wine, and sometimes making love while the late movie flickered on unwatched.

A semicircle of faces looked down on her. She saw Glen first, his light hair in a tangle across his brow, his eyes full of relief. And there was Peter Landau watching her curiously. Looking for the first sign of brain damage, no doubt. Standing beside the sofa was a professional-looking man with steel-gray hair and a nice tan. Joana tried to reach out for Glen, but she was cocooned in blankets and could not move her arms.

"How do you feel?" asked the gray-haired man.

"All right, I think. Who are you?"

"My name's Warren Hovde. I'm a doctor."

"Hi, Doctor. My head hurts."

"I shouldn't wonder." The doctor took a silver penlight out of a leather case and shone it into her pupils, one after the other. He nodded, satisfied.

"Will she have to go to the hospital?" Glen asked.

The doctor placed a hand on her forehead. The hand was dry and firm, and smelled faintly of soap. "I don't think so," he said. "Keep her warm and quiet tonight, and tomorrow she ought to see her own doctor for a thorough checkup."

"I'm here," Joana said. "You don't have to talk around me."

"I'm sorry." Dr. Hovde smiled. "Would you like me to repeat that?"

"No need."

"The paramedics are here," someone called from the far side of the room.

"I'll talk to them," Glen said. He gave Joana's hand a squeeze and made his way to the door. Joana turned her head and saw him talking to two young men with short haircuts and blue uniforms. Glen gestured toward Joana on the couch. She gave them a smile, and everybody seemed happy and relieved.

"Dr. Hovde," Joana said.

"Yes?"

"I don't have a doctor of my own. Could I come to you for the checkup?"

"If you like." The doctor fished through his wallet for a card. "Call my office before you come in. I'll tell my girl to be expecting you. It will have to be in the morning-tomorrow's my afternoon in Emergency at West L.A. Receiving."

Joana took the card. "I'll call early."

Some of the people in the crowded room started to move off. The voices picked up to a more normal conversational level.

"Is there any beer left?" somebody asked.

"There's a whole tub hasn't been touched."

"Well, let's go. Get the music started again. It's early."

Several of the people stopped by the sofa to say a few word3 to Glen and smile at Joana, and soon the apartment was empty except for the two of them and Dr. Hovde.

The doctor gave her a small plastic vial of pills. "This is a mild sedative. If you have any trouble sleeping tonight, take two of them. Other than that, keep warm and take it easy."

"I intend to," she said.

"Fine. I'll see you tomorrow."

Glen walked Dr. Hovde to the door and saw him out. He drew the draperies across the broad windows and came back to the sofa. He sat down on the edge of the cushion, looking intently at Joana. She worked one of her arms free of the blanket to take his hand. His grip was strong and reassuring.

"Baby, baby," he said, "for a while there I really thought I had lost you."

"For a while there you did," she told him.

"Can I get you anything? Glass of wine? Coffee? Soup?"

"Hot soup sounds good. Something not too thick, if you've got it."

"I'll check."

Glen went out to the kitchen. Joana readjusted the pillows and laid her head back. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath of clean, dry air. Her chest hurt a little, and there was still a faint headache, but nothing serious.

Joana thought back over what had happened to her. The panic of drowning, then floating out of her body and up somewhere above the pool, the flash scenes of her life, the powerful magnetic pull on her to go… somewhere. Then the tunnel, the shadowy forms along the walls, the pure white light at the end, and the figure-whoever or whatever it was-that sat in the circle of light. She remembered the overwhelming sense of peace and comfort she had experienced at first, and how very much she wanted to go to join the seated figure. There was the feeling of sailing at great speed along the tunnel, then suddenly the voice calling her back. It had been Glen's voice, she knew that now. Once she had heard Glen's voice and hesitated, everything changed. The figure in the light became cold and menacing, the shadow people along the walls reached out to prevent her from going back. But she had come back. She was here.

Joana knew that something very special had happened to her. It was no dream. Everything that had occurred was fresh and clear in her memory. Although her rational mind fought against acceptance, she knew in her heart what had happened. She had died. She had been dead for a little while, and then she had come back. She felt a golden, breathless sense of relief. It was like almost slipping over a cliff, then barely pulling back at the last instant. Only in this case Joana had actually gone over, and still she made it back. She should be the happiest, most grateful young woman in the world. But there was a shadow across her happiness. The final thundering words of the thing in the tunnel still echoed in her brain.

You may win once, not likely twice, most rarely thrice, and four times - never! You must return by the Eve of St. John.

What did it mean? Why did the memory make her shiver with the cold here in Glen's cozy apartment?

Glen came out of the kitchen. "Did you say something?"

"No. I was just thinking."

"I put on a can of chicken gumbo, is that okay?"

"That's fine. Glen?"

"What, baby?"

"What is the Eve of St. John?"

"I don't know. Title of a play?"

"No, that's The Eve of St. Mark."

"Then you've got me. Is it important?"

"It might be. Come here and sit by me for a minute."

He walked over and sat down on the edge of the sofa. He leaned down to brush her forehead with his lips.

"You know, you brought me back, Glen."

He laughed self-consciously. "That's the first time I ever tried to give somebody mouth-to-mouth. I wasn't even sure I was doing it right. I'm just glad it wasn't some dude with a beard."

Joana did not smile. "I don't mean only that," she said. "You called me back."

"Called you?"

"Glen, we know each other pretty well, but there are some important things we've never talked about."

"Like what?"

"Like death."

Glen looked uncomfortable. "It really doesn't make for a fun conversation."

"We can't just talk fun all the time."

"Of course not. What about it? Death."

"What do you think happens? Afterward, I mean."

"Afterward? The family and friends gather around and say nice things about you. Then they put you in the ground. Or they cremate you."

"I don't mean the body," she said. "I mean what happens to your spirit? Your… soul, or whatever the spark is that makes us alive?"

"God, Joana, I don't know, I'm an engineer and an agnostic. Do you really feel like having a philosophical discussion right now?"

"It's important to me."

"All right, then. Wait a minute, though, I think the soup is boiling. And you'd better get out of that wet swimsuit. I'll bring you a robe."

Joana sat up and freed herself from the blankets. "I'll get it. I know where it is."

"Sure you're steady enough to walk?"

"I'm steady enough for a lot of things. You go tend to the soup."