schoolyard, and cheating on an exam, and working as a candy striper in a hospital, and oh so many other things, vividly, with unbelievable clarity. And all the while we were growing closer to that beautiful, beautiful light.
“Then, suddenly, it was over. I felt myself being pulled backward and downward. I didn’t want to let go of Mary’s hand — I’d lost her once, after all, had never really had the chance to know her — but my fingers slipped from hers and I drifted backward, away from the light, and then, suddenly, I was back in my body. I could tell there were other people there. Soon my eyes opened, and I saw a man in a uniform. A paramedic. He had a syringe in his hand. He’d given me an injection of glucagon. ‘You’re going to be all right,’ he was saying. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’
“The woman I’d been talking to on the phone — her name was Mary, by coincidence — had finally realized that I’d fainted and had hung up and called for an ambulance. The paramedics had had to break down my front door. If they’d arrived a few minutes later, I’d have been gone for good.
“So, Peter, I know what death is like. And I don’t fear it. It changed my whole attitude toward life, that experience. I learned to see everything with perspective, take everything in stride. And although I know I’ve only got a few days left now, I’m not afraid. I know my Kevin will be waiting for me in that light. And Mary, too.”
Peter had listened intently to the whole thing. He’d heard of such stories before, of course, and had even read part of Moody’s famous book Life After Life when he’d been trapped at a relative’s cottage and the choice was that or a book on how sun signs supposedly affected your love life. He didn’t know what to make of such stories then, and was even more uncertain now.
“Did you tell any of your doctors here about this?” Peter asked.
Peggy Fennell snorted. “Those guys come through here like they’re marathon runners and my chart is the baton. Why in God’s name would I share my most intimate experiences with them?”
Peter nodded.
“Anyway,” said Mrs. Fennell, “that’s what death’s like, Peter.”
“I — ah, I’d—”
“You’d still like to do your experiment, though, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
Mrs. Fennell moved her head slightly, the closest thing to a nod she could manage. “Very well,” she said at last. “I trust you, Peter. You seem a good man, and I thank you for listening to me. Go get your equipment.”
It had been one hell of a week since Cathy had made her announcement. They weren’t talking much, and when they did talk, it was about things such as Peter’s experiment with the superEEG. Nothing personal, nothing directly related to them. Just safe topics to fill some of the long, melancholy silences.
Now, on Saturday afternoon, Peter sat on the living-room couch, reading. No electronic book this time, though: instead, he was reading an honest-to-goodness paperback.
Peter had only recently discovered Robert B. Parker’s old Spenser novels. There was something appealing about the absolute, unequivocal trust shared by Spenser and Hawk, and a wonderful honesty in the relationship between Spenser and Susan Silverman. Parker had never given Spenser a first name, but Peter thought his own — meaning “rock” — would have been a fine choice. Certainly, Spenser was more rock-stable than Peter Hobson was.
On the wall behind him was a framed print of an Alex Colville painting. Peter had originally thought Colville static, but, over the years, his work had grown on him, and he found this particular painting — a man sitting on a cottage porch, an old hound dog lying at his feet — very appealing. Peter had finally realized that the lack of movement in Colville’s art was designed to convey permanence: these are the things that last, these are the things that matter.
Peter still didn’t know what to make of it
“Then, suddenly, it was over. I felt myself being pulled backward and downward. I didn’t want to let go of Mary’s hand — I’d lost her once, after all, had never really had the chance to know her — but my fingers slipped from hers and I drifted backward, away from the light, and then, suddenly, I was back in my body. I could tell there were other people there. Soon my eyes opened, and I saw a man in a uniform. A paramedic. He had a syringe in his hand. He’d given me an injection of glucagon. ‘You’re going to be all right,’ he was saying. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’
“The woman I’d been talking to on the phone — her name was Mary, by coincidence — had finally realized that I’d fainted and had hung up and called for an ambulance. The paramedics had had to break down my front door. If they’d arrived a few minutes later, I’d have been gone for good.
“So, Peter, I know what death is like. And I don’t fear it. It changed my whole attitude toward life, that experience. I learned to see everything with perspective, take everything in stride. And although I know I’ve only got a few days left now, I’m not afraid. I know my Kevin will be waiting for me in that light. And Mary, too.”
Peter had listened intently to the whole thing. He’d heard of such stories before, of course, and had even read part of Moody’s famous book Life After Life when he’d been trapped at a relative’s cottage and the choice was that or a book on how sun signs supposedly affected your love life. He didn’t know what to make of such stories then, and was even more uncertain now.
“Did you tell any of your doctors here about this?” Peter asked.
Peggy Fennell snorted. “Those guys come through here like they’re marathon runners and my chart is the baton. Why in God’s name would I share my most intimate experiences with them?”
Peter nodded.
“Anyway,” said Mrs. Fennell, “that’s what death’s like, Peter.”
“I — ah, I’d—”
“You’d still like to do your experiment, though, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
Mrs. Fennell moved her head slightly, the closest thing to a nod she could manage. “Very well,” she said at last. “I trust you, Peter. You seem a good man, and I thank you for listening to me. Go get your equipment.”
It had been one hell of a week since Cathy had made her announcement. They weren’t talking much, and when they did talk, it was about things such as Peter’s experiment with the superEEG. Nothing personal, nothing directly related to them. Just safe topics to fill some of the long, melancholy silences.
Now, on Saturday afternoon, Peter sat on the living-room couch, reading. No electronic book this time, though: instead, he was reading an honest-to-goodness paperback.
Peter had only recently discovered Robert B. Parker’s old Spenser novels. There was something appealing about the absolute, unequivocal trust shared by Spenser and Hawk, and a wonderful honesty in the relationship between Spenser and Susan Silverman. Parker had never given Spenser a first name, but Peter thought his own — meaning “rock” — would have been a fine choice. Certainly, Spenser was more rock-stable than Peter Hobson was.
On the wall behind him was a framed print of an Alex Colville painting. Peter had originally thought Colville static, but, over the years, his work had grown on him, and he found this particular painting — a man sitting on a cottage porch, an old hound dog lying at his feet — very appealing. Peter had finally realized that the lack of movement in Colville’s art was designed to convey permanence: these are the things that last, these are the things that matter.
Peter still didn’t know what to make of it
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