various regions of pain begin to radiate with new intensity, torturous agony that ignites new movement, waves of movement, and Steve realizes he is convulsing. That his body is shuddering in the throes of death, attempting one last, pleading defense against impending doom. In this fleeting moment he finds himself yearning, begging, for God. He knows he should accept the spiritual world so that it will, in turn, accept him. But to do this is to release his fear, to have faith that a wonderful, golden experience awaits him on the other side.
It’s so difficult to believe this. He wants to live.
He begins to cry.
Hears voices.
Succumbs to the terrifying light.
2
Darkness now, darkness and a kind of fleeting light. Flickering blue and yellow, a live wire in empty space. A curved tunnel. A corridor of some kind. A great presence, a force, somehow like the field of pain, only much more elemental. Extending beyond the boundary of himself, into the space around him, into everything. He marvels at the scope of this experience, the sensation of knowing, of structure, of truth.
And then pure white once more.
3
The darkness is back. And then fluttering light, like the quick strokes of a camera shutter, images of bright, blurry color. Janine’s smiling face. The furrowed brow of his father, his mother’s artificially brown perm. A roving white coat that steps between his loved ones and nearly blots out the light.
“Mr. Keeley?” a voice says. The accent is clipped, a German speaking English, perhaps.
“Stevie?” This is his mother. “Stevie? Can you hear us?”
More fluttering light, images flickering between beats of darkness, but gradually the shutter begins to stay open long enough for his eyes to focus. Because that’s where the images are coming from—his eyes. He can see.
He is alive.
“I think he is coming out of it,” the German-sounding voice says.
“Praise Jesus,” his mother says.
“I would not read much into this initial alertness,” the German voice adds. “We think the procedure was a success, but there is much we do not know.”
“But he tried to speak!” Betty Keeley shrieks. “He nearly died and now he speaks. It’s a miracle!”
“It’s not a miracle,” his father, Jack, says. “It’s medicine.”
“Oh, Stevie! Oh, baby, I can’t believe it! Janine, come here, honey. Come see our Stevie.”
Steve shifts his head downward, lowering the angle of his eyesight in order to look forward instead of straight up. He sees shadowy cabinets and blurry metal tray tables and indistinct IVs, translucent tubes disappearing into bedsheets. And his visitors: a tall doctor with bushy, black hair and similar mustache; his mother and father; Janine.
The familiar faces move forward, tentatively, while the doctor remains motionless.
“Hi, Mom,” Steve says. “Hi, Dad.” He pauses, unsure how to proceed. He remembers the hurt and anger, the shock, but seeing her now somehow blots out those horrible feelings. He is alive, the people he loves are in this room, and he smiles.
“Hi, Janine.”
Then a shower of saline, his mother and Janine flooding the room with tears.
4
“You were found on the street by a Russian woman,” the doctor says. “She called for an ambulance, and you were brought to this hospital. Apparently you were involved in some kind of struggle and fell out a window three stories high. Do you remember any of this?”
Steve remembers more than he wants to, including the fight, although he’s not quite sure how he went out the window. He wonders if anyone in the room knows the nature of the building from which he was thrown. Or if they realize what drove him there.
“I’m not really sure what happened,” he says. “The last thing I remember is having dinner with the girl from my office. Serena. Everything after that is kind of dark.”
“You were very lucky, Mr. Keeley. If you had not been brought to the hospital immediately, you most surely would have died. I
It’s so difficult to believe this. He wants to live.
He begins to cry.
Hears voices.
Succumbs to the terrifying light.
2
Darkness now, darkness and a kind of fleeting light. Flickering blue and yellow, a live wire in empty space. A curved tunnel. A corridor of some kind. A great presence, a force, somehow like the field of pain, only much more elemental. Extending beyond the boundary of himself, into the space around him, into everything. He marvels at the scope of this experience, the sensation of knowing, of structure, of truth.
And then pure white once more.
3
The darkness is back. And then fluttering light, like the quick strokes of a camera shutter, images of bright, blurry color. Janine’s smiling face. The furrowed brow of his father, his mother’s artificially brown perm. A roving white coat that steps between his loved ones and nearly blots out the light.
“Mr. Keeley?” a voice says. The accent is clipped, a German speaking English, perhaps.
“Stevie?” This is his mother. “Stevie? Can you hear us?”
More fluttering light, images flickering between beats of darkness, but gradually the shutter begins to stay open long enough for his eyes to focus. Because that’s where the images are coming from—his eyes. He can see.
He is alive.
“I think he is coming out of it,” the German-sounding voice says.
“Praise Jesus,” his mother says.
“I would not read much into this initial alertness,” the German voice adds. “We think the procedure was a success, but there is much we do not know.”
“But he tried to speak!” Betty Keeley shrieks. “He nearly died and now he speaks. It’s a miracle!”
“It’s not a miracle,” his father, Jack, says. “It’s medicine.”
“Oh, Stevie! Oh, baby, I can’t believe it! Janine, come here, honey. Come see our Stevie.”
Steve shifts his head downward, lowering the angle of his eyesight in order to look forward instead of straight up. He sees shadowy cabinets and blurry metal tray tables and indistinct IVs, translucent tubes disappearing into bedsheets. And his visitors: a tall doctor with bushy, black hair and similar mustache; his mother and father; Janine.
The familiar faces move forward, tentatively, while the doctor remains motionless.
“Hi, Mom,” Steve says. “Hi, Dad.” He pauses, unsure how to proceed. He remembers the hurt and anger, the shock, but seeing her now somehow blots out those horrible feelings. He is alive, the people he loves are in this room, and he smiles.
“Hi, Janine.”
Then a shower of saline, his mother and Janine flooding the room with tears.
4
“You were found on the street by a Russian woman,” the doctor says. “She called for an ambulance, and you were brought to this hospital. Apparently you were involved in some kind of struggle and fell out a window three stories high. Do you remember any of this?”
Steve remembers more than he wants to, including the fight, although he’s not quite sure how he went out the window. He wonders if anyone in the room knows the nature of the building from which he was thrown. Or if they realize what drove him there.
“I’m not really sure what happened,” he says. “The last thing I remember is having dinner with the girl from my office. Serena. Everything after that is kind of dark.”
“You were very lucky, Mr. Keeley. If you had not been brought to the hospital immediately, you most surely would have died. I
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