Hannah smiled at the memory, and Agnes gave her arm a maternal pat. “And then what happened?”
“I thought about Niels.”
“Your husband?”
Hannah paused to think. Is Niels my husband?
“You started coming back.”
“Yes. But not the same way. It was darker.”
“Then what?”
Hannah sounded on the verge of tears. “Then I was hovering above myself. And watching the doctors working and working on my body. It looked so foreign. So unpleasant. White and wrecked. Ugly.”
“You were hovering above yourself?”
“Yes.”
“In this room?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anything that surprised you?”
Hannah was silent.
“Hannah?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A picture. A picture of a naked baby. An illustration. A striped baby.”
“Striped?”
“Yes. You know: flower power—red, yellow, green, blue, all the colors of the rainbow. The brightest colors.”
“And then you woke up?”
“No. Then everything went black. And I disappeared.”
Hannah opened her eyes and wiped away the tears. Agnes was smiling at her.
“Okay, so hurry up,” said Hannah. “I’m an astrophysicist. I know what it’s like to wait for the proof.”
Agnes went out, and Hannah was left alone for a minute. Then Agnes was back, carrying a ladder. She climbed up. The ladder slipped an inch or two on the linoleum floor, and Agnes glanced down, frightened.
“Maybe you should get someone to hold the ladder,” said Hannah.
“No, it’s all right.”
Agnes Davidsen climbed up the last rungs and picked up the paper lying on the shelf. Without looking at it, she came back down and stood in front of Hannah. “Are you ready?”
9
Intensive Care, the National Hospital—Copenhagen
At first Niels had begged the night nurse to lend him a computer. She protested that it was Christmas Eve. He had to threaten her, telling her to open the cupboard and get out his gun and handcuffs. She laughed, shaking her head, but she did come back with an old laptop. His fingers could hardly strike the small keys. Worning syndrome. Enter. Lots of hits on the word “syndrome,” but only a few for Worning syndrome. Niels clicked on one of the links. The same picture as in the book. The gaunt man with short, dark hair and skinny legs. There he stood in the nude, with his back to the photographer. Niels read what it said:
Rare skin disease usually connected to religious hysteria. Worning syndrome begins as depressed lines or thin bands of reddened skin, which later become white, smooth, shiny, and further depressed, occurring in response to changes in weight or muscle mass and skin tension.
Niels wished he had his reading glasses. He turned up the brightness on the screen and kept reading. The first known case was in South America in 1942. After that a couple of cases in the United States, and then the case at the National Hospital in Denmark. Thorkild Worning. A telegraphist. How strange. Usually, a syndrome was named after the first known patient. Or after the doctor who discovered the disease. Niels’s heart skipped a beat. He went back to reading: In most cases, considered fatal—affecting the body’s organs. But not when it came to Thorkild Worning. He was discharged from the hospital. He survived.
11:15 P.M., Thursday, December 24
The nurse in charge of the ward straightened her white coat and gave Niels an unsympathetic look.
“But why not?” said Niels. “I have a name. Thorkild Worning. And he must have died long ago.”
“We have to comply with privacy laws.”
Niels gave her his most insistent look. The nurse seemed to waver.
“What if you come with me? Or maybe we can get a doctor to go down there with us.” Then Niels changed tactics and raised his voice a bit. “Now look here. I need to go downstairs to the archives. This is of the utmost importance.”
“I’m not the one who makes the rules,” she told him. “A nurse is only allowed to enter the archives if a doctor requests a specific medical record. And that hardly ever happens. Besides, it’s nighttime. And Christmas Eve. The place is locked!”
Niels sighed. He wasn’t going to have any luck pressuring her. Of course not. And he was only pretending to be clueless. Naturally, the archives housing patient records in the basement of the National Hospital wouldn’t be accessible to just anybody. Illnesses, medical treatments, and the cause of death were undeniably the most sensitive personal information imaginable. He thought about what Casper over at police headquarters would say if some chance passerby demanded access to the police case files.
“And you can’t get a key?”
“Mr. Bentzon. You don’t understand. Among all the thousands of hospital employees, only two or three have access to the archives. That’s Bjarne’s territory.”
“Bjarne?”
“The archivist. All patients who have been admitted to the hospital for the past seventy years are on file. Every single blood test has been recorded; every little pill a patient has taken has been entered into a complicated system that very few people would even understand.”
“But Bjarne’s one of them?”
“He could find things in his sleep.”
“Is a password required? We’re talking about a computerized database, right?”
“Only since the year 2000.”
“What do you mean since the year 2000?” Niels could hear how impatient he sounded.
“The medical records have only been entered electronically since 2000. The rest are part of a good old-fashioned archive. On paper, in folders.”
“That must take up a lot of space.”
“Fifteen kilometers. More than fifteen kilometers of shelving. Apparently, it’s too expensive to enter all the data in a computer. Some people say that it would take up to ten years to complete the transfer. So the archives consist of metal file cabinets, bookshelves, drawers, logbooks, card catalog files, and patient records. It’s a whole world unto itself. Secrets about everybody and everything. Astrid Lindgren, the author of Pippi Longstocking, gave birth in all secrecy here at this hospital. I’m sure there’s a record of that, too.”
Niels looked at the nurse and saw the excitement in her eyes, which had come to life. “So I’m sorry.” She shrugged. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No. Thanks anyway. Can I keep the book for a while?”
“Of course.”
She went out the door, leaving him in the whiteness of the room. He opened the book and looked at the photo of Thorkild Worning’s back. Again he felt his stomach turn over. Thirty-six. There was nothing about Thorkild Worning in the accompanying text. Niels leafed through the book, scanning the pages in the hope of stumbling on something he might be able to use. There was a lot about burns. Horrible pictures: the children at the French School on Frederiksberg Allé in Copenhagen. In the spring of 1945, the school was mistakenly bombed by the RAF. One hundred and four people perished in the flames. Eighty-six were children. Many suffered terrible burns.
There were articles about all sorts of skin diseases. It was under “rare skin diseases” that he found Worning syndrome.
Niels couldn’t manage anything more. His body simply refused. The last thing he did was slip the book under his pillow. “Worning,” he muttered. “Worning was discharged. He survived.”
Survived.
10
11:22 P.M., Thursday, December 24
Maybe she had dreamed it. Hannah opened her eyes. She knew she’d been asleep, at least. She looked down at herself, at the hand that was so stubbornly clutching a piece of paper. Names, websites—places that Agnes wanted Hannah to see when she was feeling better. YouTube: Dr. Bruce Greyson, speaking at the United Nations. Also on YouTube: Dr. Sam Parnia on MSNBC.
It was real. The study of near-death experiences was going o
n all over the world. Hannah had seen the proof. Proof that consciousness could exist separate from the body. Hannah was the proof.
She wanted to go back. That was the only thing she knew for certain. Back to the place where her consciousness existed outside of her body. The place where she would be able to find Johannes. Thoughts ricocheted inside her thick skull, which for all these years had managed to hold together a deeply problematic intelligence. An intelligence that had made her a stranger to her own family, to her friends, to life itself, and that first found a home at the Niels Bohr Institute. Those were good years. Especially in the beginning, before she met Gustav. They shouldn’t have had a child together. It was too much of a handicap for one person to bear. And “handicap” was the right word for it. Possessing such an overload of intelligence was a handicap, she had no doubt about that. It wouldn’t bother her at all to leave the physical world behind.
Then everything fell into place. Like an equation. Values that were seemingly irreconcilable coalesced right before her eyes. Hannah was lying in bed, clutching the piece of paper with the names of American and British scientists as she pictured all the elements: Johannes. His suicide. Consciousness. Niels. The system. The thirty-six. She knew that she had to go on, she had to leave her body.
And she knew how Niels could be saved.
“How bad is it?” she whispered to herself as she lifted off the covers to study her injured body. She couldn’t tell. Bandages covered almost everything. Maybe it was because of the Christmas decorations that some determined nurse had hung up in the room, or maybe it was the chemicals that had been pumped into her, but when she looked down at herself, she had a childish image of a Christmas present. All she needed was some ribbon and she’d be ready to be put under the tree.
Hannah tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but they resisted. “Come on!”
She tried again. This time she put all her strength into the effort. The cold sweat that broke out on her skin followed the pain: from the back of her neck to her spine to her thighs. She persisted and got her legs out of bed. She stood still. Then, with a swift motion, she yanked the IV out of her hand. She felt warm blood run down between her fingers, and she pressed her other hand over the wound to stanch the flow. Then she headed for the door.
Even the National Hospital was saving on energy. The light didn’t switch on until Hannah hobbled past a sensor. A nurse rushed past her at the end of the corridor. Otherwise, the ward was deserted. Hannah was having a hard time walking. She felt a tugging sensation in one calf, as if the floor were trying to hold on to her leg. She had no idea where she was in the hospital. Two doctors were coming toward her. Hannah opened the door to a room and went in, closing the door behind her. Waiting.
“That was fast.” The voice gave Hannah a shock.
A girl who looked about twenty was lying in a hospital bed. She had a cast around her neck and spoke with difficulty. “I’m in a lot of pain. That’s why I rang for you.”
Hannah took a step closer. The girl must have broken her neck, because she couldn’t hold up her head on her own. “I’m not a nurse. I’m a patient here, like you.”
“Are you lost?”
“Yes.”
They looked at each other, searching for words that might make sense of the situation.
“Get well. I hope you feel better,” said Hannah, then left. She could feel the girl’s disappointment prickling at the back of her neck as she closed the door. But there was no time. She had to find Niels.
“What are you doing here?”
Hannah had run right into a nurse. “You’re supposed to be in bed.” The woman was trying to sound kind, but anger and fatigue were right below the surface.
“I need to find . . .” Hannah realized that she was gripping the nurse’s hand. She was leaning on her and might fall over if she let go.
“No, you need to stay in bed. You’ve been in a serious car accident, and you need to rest.”
“I have to find Niels. You have to help me.”
Hannah tore herself away. She didn’t know how she found the strength, but she managed to set off at a trot down the corridor. She heard the nurse shouting behind her: “I need some help here!”
Hannah fell. When the nurse reached her, Hannah lashed out. It wasn’t a hard blow, but her hand struck the nurse on the cheek. People in white coats appeared from all directions. Hannah had no idea where they’d come from or where they’d been only a moment ago.
“She hit me.” The nurse was on the verge of tears.
Strong arms lifted Hannah up. She reached for the nurse’s hand and whispered, “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know whether the woman heard her or not.
They put her back in bed. With a new IV. Hannah tried to fight them off. “Let go of me!”
Soothing voices intoned: Rest, everything will be fine, take it easy.
“Let go!” she screamed. “Niels! Niels!”
She heard an echo in her voice, and she couldn’t tell whether she had merely dreamed the whole thing.
11
11:40 P.M., Thursday, December 24
Maybe it was still Christmas Eve. Niels stared outside at the snow. He didn’t know how long he’d been awake. The door opened.
“Niels? There’s a phone call for you. It’s Hannah.” Randi was standing in the doorway with the phone in her hand. “Are you up to it? I think she really wants to talk to you. She even tried to run away from her room to find you.”
He tried to say yes, but the word got stuck in his throat. The nurse handed him the phone. “Hannah?” he said.
“Niels?”
“You’re alive.”
He could tell that she was smiling. “Yes. I’m alive. Niels, something really incredible happened.”
“Did you see it, too?”
“The striped baby?”
“Baby? What are you talking about?”
“Niels. I died. Twice. I was gone for nine minutes.”
Niels looked out the window as Hannah told him how she had died and then come back to life. How she saw what was lying on the little shelf near the ceiling. For several long moments they savored the silence, listening to each other breathing.
“I wish I could see you.”
He could hear the yearning in her voice. Then she had an idea. “Try to aim your lamp at the window. Can you do that? Can you move your arms?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll do the same.”
Niels pushed the desk lamp against the window and aimed the light out toward the snow. At that instant he saw a light in the opposite wing of the building, from a window at almost the same level, shining at him. “Can you see my light?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Niels, I’m so glad I met you. Even though we’ve ended up here in the hospital.”
Niels interrupted her. “There’s a precedent, Hannah.”
“A precedent for what?”
“Here at the hospital. In 1943. I’ve seen a picture of the man. His name was Thorkild Worning. And he had exactly the same mark on his back. Number thirty-six. The dermatologist showed it to me.”
The door to his room opened. It was Randi. “That’s about enough for now.”
“Hannah. Can you hear me? He survived. It’s not certain that everything has to end tomorrow.”
The nurse was standing in front of Niels. “Two more minutes.” She shook her head and left.
“Can you walk, Hannah?”
There was a clattering sound on the phone. Maybe she’d dropped it. He waited for her to call him back. Nothing happened except the nurse came in, took away the phone, and left again.
He reached for the lamp. Switched it off and turned it on twice. A moment later, with precisely the same timing, the lamp in the opposite wing did the same. Niels and Hannah. Separate but connected.
12
Friday, December 25, 2009
Niels tried to move his legs. It hurt, but after a short time, he managed to regain
control of his feet. He couldn’t feel his thigh muscles. He struggled to get some life into them. At first without success, but slowly, very slowly, he was able to lift his legs.
The question was whether that would be enough for him to make it all the way down to the archives.
12:01 A.M.—15 hours and 40 minutes until sundown
Niels stopped abruptly at the sound of a scream. Could that be Hannah? Impossible. She was too far away.
Niels was moving like an old man. The pain in his ankles allowed him only to shuffle forward. His head felt heavy, like a weight that he was forced to drag along with him; he wished he could take it off and carry it under his arm. A couple of broken ribs kept trying to poke through his skin, or at least that was how it felt. Like a body that should be split into pieces and put into storage to await better times.
He waited an eternity for the elevator, and when it finally arrived, he was met by the sleepy gaze of an orderly coming out. The man didn’t look at all surprised to see an injured patient out of bed.
The elevator landed on the basement level with a jolt, and Niels almost lost his balance. He stepped out and looked around. A sign said ADMITTANCE FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Stacked up in one corner were dozens of plastic-wrapped mattresses. A row of worn metal lockers lining the wall reminded Niels of an American high school. And then there were all the doors—what seemed like an endless number of them along the hallways, like a series of secrets. Niels tugged on a few handles, but all were locked. The only room he was able to enter—presumably due to an oversight—was some sort of workshop. In spite of the dim lighting, he could see the toolboxes, workbenches, saws, hammers, and screwdrivers. Niels went back out to the corridor. Was he even anywhere near the archives? He tried to think back; it was only a week ago that he’d been running around inside the hospital. Had he seen the archives back then?
Voices.
From his hiding place behind a mattress standing on end against the wall, Niels heard two men walk past. One of them—the man with the high voice—was saying that his wife had a sex phobia. The other man laughed. Then they disappeared into the elevator. Niels waited a moment before he headed in the opposite direction. It still hurt to walk, and he made only slow progress, but he was getting used to the pain. His ribs hurt the most, while his ankles had simply gone numb. He leaned against the wall as he crept along.
The Last Good Man Page 41