Passage. Part 59

she said and s.h.i.+vered in her midriff top. She opened the door wide. "How come you're not wearing a coat?"

Joanna had no idea how to answer that, but Kit didn't seem to require an answer. "Let me go get the book," she said, and went into the library. She was back out in less than a minute, quietly closing the door behind her. "Uncle Pat's dozing," she whispered, motioning Joanna to follow her down the hall to the kitchen. "He'll wake up again in a few minutes. I want to let him sleep if he can.

He had a bad night last night."

A bad night. He had dismantled the kitchen again, more completely than before. Dishes and silverware were everywhere, and the entire contents of the refrigerator sat on the floor. A full roll of paper towels was draped over, under, among the canisters and cookie sheets and china. A smashed bottle of ketchup lay on the counter, leaking red into the sink. A dustpan of broken gla.s.s sat on the table, and the wastebasket was nearly full of it.

"Uncle Pat was looking for the book," Kit said, taking two teacups off a tottering stack. "I think he must have had a vague memory of having put it somewhere in the kitchen, and that's why he kept doing this."

She stepped over a head of lettuce to the sink to fill the two cups. "I'm so glad you were able to come over. I'm positive this time it's the right book. It's blue, just like you said, and it's got all the things you said it had on it." She put the cups in the microwave and punched b.u.t.tons. "They're inside these gray panels that I think are supposed to be mirrors-"

Mazes and Mirrors, Joanna thought, and could see the mirrors, set at an angle, with different pictures in each one-a bottle of ink and a quill pen, and Queen Elizabeth, whom Ricky Inman had drawn a mustache and gla.s.ses on, and the carved prow of the caravel, plowing through the blue water.

Kit said, looking under a pile of potholders, "One of them has a s.h.i.+p, just like you said, and a-"

"-castle and a crown on a red velvet pillow," Joanna said. "It's definitely the right one."

"Oh, good!" Kit clapped her hands. "Now, if I can do as good a job finding the teabags..." She looked under an unsteady tower of cereal boxes and spices.

"How far away was the Carpathia from the t.i.tanic?" Joanna said.

"The s.h.i.+p that came to the t.i.tanic's aid?" Kit asked. "I don't know. I'll look it up." She set a tin of cinnamon down and started for the door, stepping over a broiler pan, a jar of olives, and a carton of eggs. "Be right back."

She pattered down the hall and up the stairs and back down almost immediately, carrying a stack of books. "I checked on Uncle Pat. He's still asleep," she said, clearing a s.p.a.ce on the table to set the books down. "Let's see," she said, opening the top book to the index. "Carpathia, Carpathia. Here it is, fifty-eight miles.""Are you sure?" Joanna said. And of course she was sure. You knew it the minute Maisie said it.

You were kidding yourself that you needed outside confirmation.

"It's right here," Kit said. " 'Fifty-eight miles southwest of the t.i.tanic when she received its first SOS,' " she read, " 'the Carpathia came at full steam, but arrived too late to take pa.s.sengers off the s.h.i.+p.' " She closed the book to look at the cover. "That's The t.i.tanic: Symbol for Our Time. Do you want me to double-check it in something else?"

"No," Joanna said. "No."

"What is it? Are you all right, Joanna?"

"No."

"This has something to do with your NDE," Kit said anxiously, "doesn't it?"

"No," Joanna said. "With somebody else's."

She told her about Greg Menotti's last words, and the nagging feeling that she should know what they meant, about Maisie telling her. "He was talking about the Carpathia," she said.

"And so you think that means he was seeing the t.i.tanic in his NDE, too?"

"Yes. But why would he see the same imagery I saw?" Joanna asked. "The RIPT scans show that the NDEs get their imagery from long-term memory. Those memory patterns are different for every subject. So why would the two of us have identical NDEs? Why would he see the t.i.tanic?"

"Are you sure he did?" Kit said. "I mean, fifty-eight could mean lots of different things.

Addresses, PIN numbers-how old was he?"

"Thirty-four," Joanna said. "It wasn't his blood pressure or his cell phone number or his locker combination. It was miles. He said, 'Too far for her to come.' He was talking about the Carpathia.

I'm sure of it. He was on board the t.i.tanic, just like I was."

"Or-there's another possibility, you know," Kit said thoughtfully. "You said he had the same NDE as you. Maybe that's not right. Maybe it's the other way around."

"The other way around?" Joanna said. "What do you mean?"

"Remember how you told me everybody sees tunnels and lights and relatives because that's what they've been programmed to expect? And how Mr. Mandrake influences all of his subjects to see the Angel of Light?"

Joanna nodded, unable to see where this was going.

"Well, what if, when you heard this patient say, 'Fifty-eight,' your subconscious connected it to the t.i.tanic, because of all the stories Uncle Pat told you, and that was why when you went under, you saw the t.i.tanic? Because he'd influenced you. He could have been talking about anything, but you connected it to the Carpathia."It made perfect sense. She had been steeled against seeing the relatives and angels and life reviews everyone else reported. But that didn't mean she hadn't had expectations. She'd spent the last two years watching her subjects' expressions, and their body language, trying to find out what their near-death experiences were like. "Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no," Amelia had said, and Mrs. Woollam had held her Bible to her frail chest and said, "How can it not be frightening?"

And during the period right before she'd gone under, she had been thinking about Greg Menotti, worrying over what he'd said, trying to make sense of it. She had thought "fifty-eight" sounded familiar. Her subconscious mind must have remembered that was how far away the Carpathia had been and triggered the other memories, triggered the NDE and the reference to Mr. Briarley, and it wasn't the engines stopping that was the connection she'd been trying to remember, it was Mr.

Briarley saying, "The Carpathia was fifty-eight miles away, too far for her to come in time."

"That has to be it," Joanna said. "It makes perfect sense."

"But how does the book fit into it?" Kit asked. "I'll bet it has a poem or something in it about the Carpathia and if it does, that will prove it," she said excitedly. "This is just like a detective story." She put down the book and began threading her way through the pans and groceries. "I'll go get it."

"I don't want you to disturb Mr. Bri-"

"I'll be quiet. Be right back," she said and went down the hall.

Joanna picked up The t.i.tanic: Symbol for Our Time and looked at the picture of the half-sinking s.h.i.+p with a rocket bursting above it. If Greg Menotti had been the influence for her NDE, then that would explain why he was in it. And Mr. Briarley- "Oh, no!" Kit said from the study, and Joanna stood up quickly, knocking her knee against the table leg as she did. A stack of plates slid toward the edge, and a half-dozen dinner knives went onto the floor with a clatter.

Joanna dived for the plates and moved them back from the edge. "What's wrong?" she called to Kit, maneuvering the maze of pans and salad-dressing bottles between her and the door.

There was no answer. "Kit! Are you okay?" Joanna called, pelting down the hall, thinking, Mr.

Briarley's dead. "What happened?"

Kit was standing arms akimbo over Mr. Briarley, and he wasn't dead. He was awake and staring dully ahead, slumped in the dark red leather chair, his hands loosely folded in his lap. Joanna saw with a pang that his gray tweed vest was b.u.t.toned wrong. Looking at him, Joanna realized that this, and not the disaster in the kitchen, was what Kit had meant when she said he was having a bad day.

"It's not there," Kit said disgustedly.

"What isn't?" Joanna said.

"Mazes and Mirrors," Kit said. She knelt down in front of Mr. Briarley. "Uncle Pat, did you take the book?"He didn't answer, or even give any indication he'd heard her, or knew she was there. He stared dully at the opposite side of the room.

"Where did you put it, Uncle Pat?" Kit asked, and when there was no answer, she straightened.

"He's hidden it again. He can't have been awake more than five minutes. He was still asleep when I brought the books about the t.i.tanic down."

"Where did you leave it?" Joanna asked.

"Right here," Kit said, pointing to an empty s.p.a.ce at the end of a bookshelf. "I thought he wouldn't notice it in the bookcase. I should never have left it in here. I should have put it upstairs with the t.i.tanic books."

"It doesn't matter," Joanna said, worried that Kit seemed so upset. "The book was an excuse. I really came to ask you about the Carpathia, to find out why Greg Menotti saw the t.i.tanic when he was dying-"

"It does matter," Kit said, nearly in tears. "I should have known not to leave it in here.

Yesterday, I found him hiding my boots in the clothes hamper-wait a minute! I just had an idea!"

She ran up the stairs.

"Can I help?" Joanna called after her.

"No, you'd better stay there with him," she said. "There's no telling what he'll hide next!"

Joanna went back in the library, though Mr. Briarley didn't look like he would move from his chair, let alone sneak out of the room to hide things. He looked as still, as senseless, as Coma Carl, and Joanna felt suddenly embarra.s.sed to be looking at him, as if she had broken into a house when no one was home. She turned and stared at the bookcases.

If he had taken the book out of one bookcase, he might have put it in another. She scanned the books lying along the tops of the shelves first and then along the ranks of shelved volumes, looking for something thick, with a textbook binding. And here it was, sandwiched in between Bleak House and Spoon River Anthology. She called up to Kit, "I've foun-" then stopped, looking at it.

"You found it?" Kit said from the top of the stairs.

"No," Joanna shouted up to her. "Sorry, it's the other one, the one that wasn't right."

The one that wasn't right, she thought, looking down at the clipper s.h.i.+p and the blue background and the orange lettering. It wasn't right, even though it fit all the criteria.

And neither was Kit's theory. It was logical, it fit all the circ.u.mstances, but even if they found Mazes and Mirrors and it had a poem about the Carpathia, a poem with an introduction that explained in italics, "On the night the t.i.tanic sank, the steamer Carpathia was fifty-eight miles away, too far away for her to come to the liner's rescue..." it still wouldn't make it the right one.

I didn't see the t.i.tanic because of Greg's dying words, she thought. It was because of something Mr. Briarley said in cla.s.s. And she would know it when she heard it, the way Kit hadknown when she found the right book, the way she had known that the sound she'd heard was the stopping of the engines.

Joanna went over to Mr. Briarley's chair. "Mr. Briarley," she said, kneeling next to the arm of the chair. "You said something in cla.s.s about the t.i.tanic, about what it meant. What was it? Can you remember?"

Mr. Briarley continued to stare dully at the opposite wall.

"I know it's hard for you to remember," Joanna said gently, "but this is really important. It was something about the t.i.tanic. You shut the book, and you said," she hit the leather arm of the chair, trying to make the memory come, "something. About the t.i.tanic. It was foggy out, and you were holding a book..."

Joanna shut her eyes, trying to remember if he had been holding Mazes and Mirrors or the tattered paperback of A Night to Remember. "Please try to remember what you said, Mr. Briarley,"

she whispered. "Please. It's important."

There was no response at all.

He's too far away to hear me, Joanna thought. Where are you, Mr. Briarley? Standing in the mail room, ankle-deep in water, asking the clerk for the key? Or in the library, trying to scrawl Kit a message?

Or nowhere, the brain cells that held awareness and comprehension and ident.i.ty destroyed by the plaque of Alzheimer's, the synapses that held the memory of that foggy afternoon sunk without a trace? "You don't remember," she said hopelessly and stood up. "It's all right. Don't worry about it."

She put Voyages and Voices back on the shelf and searched carefully along the rest of the shelves, even though it was useless. Because Mazes and Mirrors didn't have anything about the t.i.tanic in it. She had remembered it not because of a poem or an essay, but because Mr. Briarley had been holding it when he made the speech that was the trigger. And that was why, when Betty had told her the t.i.tle, she had felt that shock of recognition. Because it was the cover she remembered, the cover she was looking at when he said the critical words.

She finished the bookshelves and started through the books piled in the window seat. She wondered if the window seat lifted up, if Mr. Briarley could have put the textbook inside.

"What else would he see?" Mr. Briarley said from his chair.

"What?" Joanna said, startled into answering. He had sat up and was looking at the side of the chair where she had knelt.

"Who can tell me what a metaphor is?" he asked, scanning the room. His cla.s.s, she thought.

He's seeing his English cla.s.s.

"Ms. Lander?" he said, his gaze coming back to the s.p.a.ce next to his chair. "Can you define a metaphor?"Joanna glanced toward the stairs, wondering if she should call Kit.

"A metaphor is an implied or direct comparison of two things that are alike in some way," he said. "Death is a journey, a voyage, a pa.s.sage. And yes, I know, Mr. Inman, you never saw fog with feet. That is because most things are only alike in one or two ways. Like a cat, the fog is silent, mysterious. On the other hand, it does not eat fish or, as you have pointed out, Mr. Inman, have feet."

Mr. Briarley stood up and walked over to the library table, sat down on the edge of it.

Joanna held her breath.

"Usually there are only a few points of comparison, but sometimes, sometimes, the two things are mirror images. Have you never wondered why I would spend valuable cla.s.s time on a s.h.i.+pwreck?" Mr. Briarley said. "Have you never wondered why, after all these years, all those books and movies and plays, people are still fascinated?"

He's talking about the t.i.tanic, Joanna thought. He remembers. She sank down on the window seat, waiting.

"They know it when they see it," he said. "They recognize it instantly, though they have never seen it before. And cannot take their eyes off it."

He was talking in riddles, in tangles of memory and metaphor, and it might mean no more than his asking her why she didn't have a hall pa.s.s, but she sat silently on the window seat, afraid to move, afraid even to breathe.

"They tell themselves that isn't what it is, that it's a morality play or a comedy of errors," Mr.

Briarley said. "They say it looks like cla.s.s warfare or technological arrogance or the vengeance of a wrathful G.o.d, but they're lying to themselves. They know, they know what it looks like. And so did he.

"That's why he saw it," Mr. Briarley said, and Joanna realized what he was talking about. He hadn't heard her when she knelt next to his chair and asked him to remember. He had heard her before, talking to Kit, asking her why Greg Menotti had seen the t.i.tanic, and he had spent the past fifteen minutes searching patiently through the pa.s.sages of his blocked and damaged brain, trying to find the answer.

" 'I shall never forget it,' " he murmured. "Edith said that," and, as if she had asked, "Edith Haisman. She said, 'I shall never forget it, the darkness and the cold,' but she wasn't talking about the t.i.tanic. And the forward lookout, who saw it first-who gave the warning-hanged himself from a lamppost. Because he knew what it really was. He knew it as soon as he saw it, knew-"

"I can't find it anywhere," Kit said, and Joanna could hear her pattering down the stairs.

No, Joanna thought, pressing herself against the back of the window seat as she had against the stairwell wall that day she and Richard had hidden from Mr. Mandrake.

"It wasn't in the clothes hamper or under the mattress or behind the radiator," Kit said, halfway down, two-thirds.Don't, Joanna prayed. Not now- "Wait!" Kit said, only a few steps from the bottom. "I just thought of something. I know someplace else," and ran back up.

Mr. Briarley looked after her, his head c.o.c.ked as if listening for her voice, and then slumped back into his chair again. Joanna waited, but Kit's voice, all unintending, had broken the spell, and he had sunk back into unawareness.

What does it look like, Mr. Briarley? Joanna nearly asked, but she was afraid of breaking the connection that might still be there in his mind. Wait, she thought, listening anxiously for Kit. Don't lead. Wait.

"I kept losing my grade book," Mr. Briarley said, and his voice had changed. It was introspective, even gentle. "And I couldn't remember the names of Lear's daughters. Ice warnings. But I didn't listen to them. 'Getting old,' I told myself. 'Typical absentminded professor.' Very few of the pa.s.sengers even heard the collision, you know. It was the engines stopping that woke them up."

Joanna's heart beat painfully. Wait.

"I told myself there was nothing to worry about," he said. "Modern medicine had made the s.h.i.+p unsinkable, and the lights were still on, the decks were still comparatively level. But inside..."

He stared ahead blindly for a moment and then went on. "The perfect metaphor," he said, "looming up suddenly out of nowhere in the middle of your maiden voyage, unseen until it is nearly upon you, unavoidable even when you try to swerve, unexpected even though there have been warnings all along. Literature, literature is a warning," he said, and then waveringly, " 'No, no, my dream was lengthened after life.' Shakespeare wrote that, trying to warn us of what's coming. 'I pa.s.sed, methought, the melancholy flood, With that sour ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.' " He looked out over the library as if it were a cla.s.sroom. "Can anyone tell me what that means?"

Above them, Kit slammed a drawer shut, and Mr. Briarley said, as if the sound had been a question, "Nothing can save you, not youth or beauty or wealth, not intelligence or power or courage.

You are all alone, in the middle of an ocean, with the lights going out."