Passage. Part 32

"No," Joanna said. "I recognized it in the pa.s.sage that very first time. I told you. I knew I recognized it but that I'd never been there. And if it was a confabulation, why would I confabulate the t.i.tanic, of all things? Confabulations are the result of expectations and influences. I've never heard of anyone seeing the t.i.tanic in his or her NDE. If I confabulated it, why didn't I see an Angel of Light or a golden stairway?"

"There are a couple of possibilities. Come over here a minute," he said, standing up and going over to the console. He called up four images from her NDE. "Look at this," he said, pointing to a scattering of orange, red, and yellow points in the frontal cortex of each scan. "Those are random neural firings in the area of the frontal cortex devoted to long-term memory. One of those firings may have been a memory of the t.i.tanic."

"But it wasn't just one memory, it was dozens of memories. The engines stopping and the pa.s.sage and the pa.s.sengers standing outside on the deck-"

"Which may all be confabulations growing out of that memory, the sensations of sound, light, and figures in white you were experiencing, and the same sort of persistence of meaning that causes dreams to be a coherent story rather than a series of separate images."

She didn't look convinced. "But why would a t.i.tanic neuron fire, out of all the-how many are there? Millions, billions of memories?"

"That's what random means," Richard said, "and your remembering something about the t.i.tanicwouldn't be that statistically unlikely."

Now Joanna was looking at him like he was crazy. "It wouldn't?"

"No. After all, it's a disaster, and you spend a lot of time talking to Maisie about disasters."

Joanna shook her head. "But not the t.i.tanic. I don't think I've ever heard Maisie mention the t.i.tanic."

"She talked about the Lusitania, and I'll bet you anything there are pictures of the t.i.tanic in those books of hers," Richard said. "The day I met her she turned every single page, looking for some photo. You could have seen that picture of the t.i.tanic half out of the water," but Joanna was shaking her head.

"If it was Maisie, I'd have been more likely to have seen Pompeii, and that isn't where the memory's from."

That's interesting, Richard thought. "You know the source of the memory?"

She got that odd, inward look again. "No. But I know it wasn't Mr. Wojakowski or Maisie.

And it wasn't random."

"How do you know?"

"Because... I don't know," she said, defeated. "It doesn't feel random. It feels like it came from something."

"It might have," Richard said. "Frequently accessed long-term memories have stronger neuronal pathways than the average memory, which makes them easier to retrieve."

"But the t.i.tanic's not a frequently accessed memory. I haven't thought of it since-"

"The movie came out?" Richard said. "That's the most obvious source. It even has a scene at the end where the old woman sees herself on the t.i.tanic in a white dress surrounded by a halo of light.

You saw the movie-"

"Five years ago," Joanna said, "and I didn't even like it."

"Liking wouldn't have anything to do with it," Richard said, "and there are references to the t.i.tanic everywhere-TV specials, books. I heard that G.o.dawful song of Celine Dion's on my way to the hospital this morning, and I know for a fact you've accessed t.i.tanic-related memories twice recently."

"When?" she demanded.

"The day I met you, you told me about the spiritualist-what was his name? Stead?-going down on the t.i.tanic, and that night at Vielle's, you said Dish Night was a t.i.tanic-free zone, so the neural pathway would have been not only recent, but reinforced. Your memory of the scene in the movie where the engines stopped and the pa.s.sengers went out on deck to see what had happened-"She was already shaking her head. "That scene, with them standing around out on the deck, wearing nightgowns and evening clothes, wasn't in t.i.tanic."

"All right, then a book or-"

"No," she said, but less certainly, "I don't think it was a book."

"Or a conversation-" but she was already shaking her head.

"Not a conversation. The memory came from somewhere else."

"Where?"

"I don't know. You say my seeing the t.i.tanic is determined by the random firing of a synapse-"

"And temporal-lobe stimulation."

"But nearly all the NDEers conclude they're seeing heaven. If random firings were determining the content, wouldn't they be reporting a whole variety of places and experiences?"

"Not necessarily," Richard said. "The firing of the synapses may be too weak in most cases to produce an image. Or the sense of cosmic significance may override any other images."

"Then why didn't it in mine?"

"Because you were on guard against those interpretations. As you said when you were trying to talk me into letting you go under, when you saw a radiant figure, you wouldn't automatically a.s.sume it was an Angel of Light."

"But why would I a.s.sume it was the t.i.tanic, of all things? Why not a railroad tunnel? Just last week Vielle said, 'What if the light at the end of the tunnel's an oncoming train?' And I live in Colorado. There are dozens of tunnels in the mountains. One of them would have been the logical a.s.sociation, not a s.h.i.+p. I've never even been on a s.h.i.+p."

"You're thinking logical explanations," Richard said, "but these synapse firings are random-"

Joanna was shaking her head again. "It doesn't feel random. I have this feeling that I saw the t.i.tanic for a reason, that it means something."

And here we are, Richard thought, right back at the temporal lobe and the sense of significance.

"This feeling," he said, "can you describe it?"

"It has to do with where the memory that triggered the image of the t.i.tanic came from," she said. "I have this strong feeling that I know where the memory came from, and that if I could just remember-"

"But you can't?""No, it's right..." her hand reached out, as if trying to grasp something, "...on the tip-" She stopped and yanked her hand back to her side. "You don't think that means anything either, do you?"

she said angrily. "You think it's temporal-lobe stimulation again."

"It would explain why you can't remember where you got the memory," he said mildly. "Are you having the feeling now? That you know where the memory came from?"

"Yes."

"Get on the table," he said, going rapidly over to the supply cabinet. "I want to see if we can catch this on the scan." He got out a syringe.

"Do you want me to get undressed?"

"No, and I'm not going to bother with an IV, since all I'm going to inject is the marker," Richard said, filling the syringe. "Take off your sweater and roll up your sleeve."

Joanna took off her cardigan and got up on the table, unb.u.t.toning the cuff of her blouse and pus.h.i.+ng the sleeve up.

He began positioning the RIPT scan. "You had a feeling of recognition in the first three scans, and in this one you recognized the t.i.tanic. Those two things may have nothing to do with each other."

"What do you mean, nothing to do with each other?"

He swabbed the inside of her elbow with alcohol and injected the marker. "The feeling of recognition you experienced in the walkway and when the heater shut off may have been just that, a feeling, triggered by random stimuli, and unrelated to your recognition of the t.i.tanic."

"But they weren't random," she said, flus.h.i.+ng. "They all fit, your lab coat and the cold and the-"

"Those could apply to any number of situations."

"Name one," Joanna said.

"You yourself said the people you saw could have been at a party or a ball."

"The woman was in her nightgown!"

"You concluded it was a nightgown after you realized it was the t.i.tanic. Earlier, you said it was an old-fas.h.i.+oned dress. You originally thought it was an angel's robe. Lie down."

"But what about the curving floor," she said, lying down on the examining table, "and your lab coat, and-?"

"Don't talk," he said, moving the scan into position. He walked over to the console. "All right,"

he said, starting the scan. "I want you to count to five in your head."

He looked up at the image on the scans. "Now, I want you to visualize the tunnel. Think aboutwhat you saw."

A number of frontal-cortex sites lit up, indicating a variety of sources for the memory, both auditory and visual, which might be why Joanna couldn't remember whether she'd heard or read something about the engines stopping and the pa.s.sengers going out on deck to see what had happened.

Or seen it in the movie, he thought. He still considered that the most likely possibility, in spite of Joanna's protests. The movie had been an enormous. .h.i.t, and for over a year it had been impossible to turn around without being bombarded with information about it-books, CDs, newspaper articles, TV specials. And a few years before that the same thing had happened with the discovery of the wreck. It was impossible not to know something about the t.i.tanic, and Joanna obviously did. She not only knew that there'd been carpets in the first-cla.s.s pa.s.sageways, but that the wireless operator had been Jack Phillips. "All right, now, Joanna, concentrate on the source of the memory," he said and looked up at the temporal-lobe area on the screen, expecting it to light up.

It did, a vivid orange-red. He asked her several more questions and then shut off the scan. "You can get up now," he said and started graphing the scans.

Joanna came over to the console, rolling down her sleeve. "I still haven't recorded my NDE."

She pulled on her cardigan. "I'll be in my office."

"Don't you want to see your feeling of significance?" He called the scan up. "There it is," he said, pointing to the temporal lobe. "That's why you feel seeing the t.i.tanic isn't random."

She looked at it glumly, her hands jammed in her lab coat pockets, as he showed her the areas of activity.

"But the feeling that I know where the memory came from is so strong..." she murmured.

"Like the feeling you had in the dressing room and the walkway," Richard said.

"Yes," she admitted.

He pointed at the red-orange temporal lobe. "Your mind is simply trying to make sense of an irrational feeling by giving it an object, in this case the source of the memory, but it's only a feeling."

She looked like she was going to contradict him, but all she said was, "I still haven't recorded my account." She picked up her recorder.

"When you write it up-"

"I know," Joanna said. "Don't let it fall into enemy hands."

"Mandrake would-"

"I know," she said. "Have a field day with this."

She started out of the lab. At the door she turned and looked back at the scan. "I think I liked itbetter when you were accusing me of being Bridey Murphy," she said ruefully and went out.

20.

"I scorn to answer you such a question!"

-Queen Elizabeth I, on being asked on her deathbed by Sir Robert Cecil if she had seen any spirits.

Richard's wrong, Joanna thought, opening the door to her office. It isn't a content-free feeling.

The memory didn't come from the movie, and it's not the first thing my long-term memory happened to stumble over. It's the t.i.tanic for a reason.

And no doubt he'll be down here in a minute to tell me my thinking that is yet another symptom of temporal-lobe stimulation, and show me a scan that proves it. I don't want to see it, she thought, and I don't want to hear another lecture on what will happen if Mr. Mandrake finds out about this. I'll record my account somewhere else.

She yanked her door shut, locked it, and walked quickly down the hall to the stairs. She would go record her account in the cafeteria, if it was open, or in one of the nurses' lounges. Anywhere where I don't have to listen to him telling me the t.i.tanic was a random synapse, she thought, clattering down the stairs. It's not random. I'm seeing the t.i.tanic for a reason. I know it.

And could hear Mr. Darby's voice insisting, "I was there. It was real. I know it." She sounded just like him. And that's why you don't want to talk to Richard, she thought, because you know he's right.

He's not right, she thought stubbornly. I know the memory isn't from the movie.

Yes, and Mr. Viraldi knew he'd seen Elvis, Mr. Suarez knew he'd been abducted by aliens, Bridey Murphy knew she'd lived a previous life in Ireland. Her psychiatrist had been certain Bridey's memories were proof of reincarnation, even though it had later been proved they'd been concocted out of folk songs and half-remembered stories her nanny'd told her, and that subjects under hypnosis could be talked into all sorts of false memories. And how do you know this isn't the same thing? How do you know the memory isn't from the movie, like Richard said?

But that scene isn't in the movie, she thought, and knew it very well might be. Memory had been proved notoriously unreliable in study after study, and she and Vielle had had more than one argument about what was and wasn't in various movies. After they'd watched A Perfect Murder at Dish Night, Vielle had been convinced that Gwyneth Paltrow had stabbed Michael Douglas to death with a meat thermometer instead of shooting him. Joanna had had to rent the video again and show her the ending to prove it to her. A scene with the pa.s.sengers standing around asking the steward what had happened might very well be in t.i.tanic, and she'd simply forgotten it. And there was a simple way to prove it, one way or the other. Watch the movie.But Richard was already convinced her NDE had been influenced by the movie. If she watched it, her memory of her NDE would be hopelessly contaminated by its images, and so would any future NDEs she might have. And no matter what she saw in them, Richard would claim the memory came from the movie.

I need to have somebody else watch it and see if the scene's there, she thought. But who? Vielle would have a fit if she told her she'd seen the t.i.tanic. She'd be convinced it was a warning from the subconscious about going under.

Maisie? She was a disaster expert, but, as Joanna had told Richard, she'd never heard her so much as mention the t.i.tanic, and, anyway, it was unlikely Maisie's mother would allow her to see the movie. Quite apart from the "negative subject matter," there was a nude scene and s.e.x in the backseat of a Renault.

Tish? No, Joanna couldn't trust her to keep her mouth shut, and Richard was right, Mr.

Mandrake would have a field day if he found out about this, which eliminated anybody connected with Gossip General.

It would have to be Vielle, who, she hoped, wouldn't ask too many questions. Joanna went down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, past the morgue, and across to the ER.

It was jammed, as usual, with drugged and dangerous-looking people, though there didn't seem to be any rogue-ravers on the premises at the moment. The new security guard was looking bored in a chair by the door. Joanna worked her way through the mess to Vielle, who was handing a patient on a gurney over to two orderlies. "She goes up to four-west," Vielle said to them. "Do you know how to get there?"