by Anne Rice
The overcast sky had been killing the daylight that May afternoon even when Rowan passed under the Golden Gate. By the time she was out of sight of it, the long twilight had faded completely.
Darkness was falling with a pure metallic monotony to it; the ocean was merging with the sky. And so cold it was that Rowan wore her woolen gloves and watch cap even in the wheelhouse, drinking cup after cup of steaming coffee, which never fazed her immense exhaustion. Her eyes were focused as always on the shifting sea.
Then came Michael Curry, that speck out there-could that possibly be a man?
On his face in the waves, his arms out loosely, hands floating near his head, and the black hair a mass against the shining gray water, the rest just clothes ballooning ever so slightly over the limp and shapeless form. A belted raincoat, brown heels. Dead-looking.
All that she could tell in those first few moments was that this was no decomposed corpse. Pale as the hands were, they were not waterlogged. He could have fallen overboard from some large vessel only moments before, or hours. The crucial thing was to signal “Pan Pan” immediately and to give her coordinates, and then to try to get him aboard.
As luck would have it the Coast Guard boats were miles from her location; the helicopter rescue teams were completely engaged. There were virtually no small craft in the area on account of the warnings. And the fog was rolling in. Assistance would come as soon as possible and no one could say when that was.
“I’m going to try to get him up out of the water,” she said. “I’m alone out here. Just get here as fast as you can.”
There was no need to tell them she was a doctor, or to remind them of what they already knew-in these cold waters, drowning victims could survive for incredibly long periods, because the drop in temperature slows the metabolism; the brain slumbers, demanding only a fraction of the usual oxygen and blood. The important thing was to bring him in and start resuscitation.
And that was the tough part because she had never done such a thing alone. She had the equipment for it, however, the harnesses connected to powerful nylon line running through the gasoline-driven winch on the top of the wheelhouse-in other words, sufficient means to get him on board if she could get to him, and that was where she might fail.
At once, she pulled on her rubber gloves and her life jacket, then fastened her own harness, and gathered up the second one for him. She checked the rigging, including the line connected to the dinghy, and found it secure; then she dropped the dinghy over the side of the Sweet Christine and headed down the swim ladder towards it, ignoring the tossing sea and the swaying of the ladder and the spray of the cold water in her face.
He was floating towards her as she paddled towards him; but the water was almost swamping the dinghy. For one second, she thought clearly: this is impossible. But she refused to give up. At last, nearly falling out of the small craft, she reached for his hand and caught it, and brought his body head first towards her. Now, how to get the damned harness properly around his chest.
Again the water nearly swamped the dinghy; she nearly flipped it herself. Then a wave lifted her and carried her over the man’s body. She lost his hand. She lost him. But he came bobbing up like a cork. She caught his left arm this time and forced the harness over his head and left shoulder, bringing the left arm through it. But it was crucial to get the right arm through as well. The harness had to be well on him if she was to pull him up, heavy as he was, with wet clothing.
And all the while, the diagnostic sense was working as she kept her eyes on the half-submerged face, as she felt the cold flesh of his outstretched hand. Yes, he’s in there, he can come back. Get him on deck.
One violent wave after another prevented her from doing anything, except holding onto him. Then finally she was able to grasp the right sleeve and tug the arm forward and through the harness, and at once she pulled the harness tight.
The dinghy capsized, pitching her into the sea with him. She swallowed water, then shot to the surface, the breath gone out of her as the freezing cold penetrated her clothes. How many minutes did she have at this temperature before she lost consciousness? But she had him harnessed to the boat now as surely as she was harnessed. If she could make it back to the swim ladder without passing out, she could reel him in. Letting his line go, she pulled herself in hand over hand, refusing to believe she could fail, the broad starboard side of the Sweet Christine a white blur disappearing and reappearing as the waves washed over her.
At last she slammed against the side of the boat. The shock jolted her into full alertness. Her gloved fingers refused to flex as she reached for the bottom rung of the swim ladder. But she gave them the order, Close, damn you, close on the rope, and she watched what she could no longer feel as her right hand obeyed. Her left hand went out for the side of the ladder; again she was giving her numbed body orders, and half disbelieving, she found herself climbing up, rung by rung.
For one moment, lying on the deck, she couldn’t move. The warm air from the open door of the wheelhouse was steaming like hot breath. Then she began to massage her fingers until feeling returned to them. But there was no time to get warm; no time to do anything but climb to her feet and get to the winch.
Her hands were hurting now. But they were doing what she wanted automatically as she started the motor. The winch groaned and sang as it reeled in the nylon line. Suddenly, she saw the man’s body rising above the rail of the deck, the head bowed, the arms spread wide and falling limp over the nylon loop of the harness, water streaming from the heavy colorless clothes. The man fell forward, head first onto the deck.
The winch screamed as it dragged him closer to the wheelhouse, and then jerked him upright again, three feet from the door. She killed the motor. He dropped down, sodden, lifeless, too far from the warm air to do him good.
And she knew she couldn’t drag him inside, and there was no time to fool any more with the lines or the winch.
With a great heave, she rolled him over and pumped a good quart of seawater out of his lungs. Then she lifted him, pushing herself under him and flopping him again on his back. She pulled off her gloves because they were hampering her. And then she slid her left hand under his neck, clamped her right fingers on his nose, and breathed into his mouth. Her mind worked with him, envisioning the warm air pumped into him. But it seemed forever that she breathed, and nothing was changing in the inert mass beneath her.
She switched to his chest, pressing down as hard as she could on the breastbone, then releasing the pressure, over and over for fifteen beats. “Come on, breathe!” she said, as if it were a curse. “Damn it, breathe!” Then she went back to mouth-to-mouth.
Impossible to know how much time had passed; she was as oblivious to time as she ever was in the Operating Room. She simply went on, alternating between the chest massage and the lung inflation, stopping only now and then to feel the lifeless carotid artery, and to realize that the diagnostic message was the same-Alive-before she continued.
His body tossed on the deck under her efforts, the skin gleaming and waxen in its wetness, the heels of his brown leather shoes rolling on the boards.
Once she tried again to drag him into the wheelhouse, but it was useless. And dimly aware that no lights were shining through the fog and no helicopter was roaring overhead, she went on, only pausing suddenly to slap his face and call to him, to tell him that she knew he was in there and she expected him to come back.
“You know you can hear me!” she shouted as she pressed down again on the breastbone. She pictured the heart and the lungs in all their glorious anatomical detail. Then as she made to lift his neck again, his eyes snapped open, and his face suddenly fired with life. His chest gave a heave against her; she felt the breath pour out of him, hot against her face.
“That’s it, breathe!” she’d shouted over the wind. And why was she so amazed that he was alive, that he was staring at her, when she had not thought of giving up?
His right hand shot up and took hold of hers. And he
said something to her, something murmured, incoherent, something that sounded nevertheless like a proper name.
Again, she slapped his cheek, but only gently. And his breaths came ragged yet rapid, his face knotted with pain. How blue his eyes were, how clearly and certainly alive. It was as if she’d never seen eyes before in a human being, never seen these fierce, brilliant gelatinous orbs staring up at her from a human face.
“Keep it up, breathe, you hear me, I’m going for blankets below deck.”
He grabbed her hand again; he began to shiver violently. And as she tried to free herself, she saw him look past her and straight upwards. He lifted his left hand. He was pointing. A light was finally sweeping the deck. And God, the fog was rolling over them, thick as smoke. The helicopter had come just in time; the wind stung her eyes. She could barely see the blades turning up there.
She slumped back, nearly losing consciousness herself, aware of his hand gripping hers. He was trying to speak to her. She patted his hand, and she said, “It’s OK, it’s fine now, they’ll take you in.”
Then she was barking orders at the Coast Guard men as they came down the ladder; don’t warm him up fast, and for God’s sake, don’t give him anything hot to drink. This is severe hypothermia. Radio for an ambulance at the dock.
She feared for him as they took him up. But in truth she knew what the doctors would say: no neurological deficit.
By midnight, she had given up on sleep. But she was warm and comfortable again. The Sweet Christine rocked like a great cradle on the dark sea, her lights sweeping the fog, her radar on, her autopilot keeping the same broad circular course. Snug in the corner of the wheelhouse bunk, dressed in fresh clothes, Rowan drank her steaming coffee.
She wondered about him, about the look in his eyes. Michael Curry was his name, or so the Coast Guard had told her when she called in. He’d been in the water for at least an hour before she’d spotted him. But it had turned out just as she’d thought. “No neurological problems at all.” The press was calling it a miracle.
Unfortunately, he’d gotten disoriented and violent in the ambulance-maybe it was all those reporters at the dock-and they had sedated him (stupid!) and that had fuzzed things a bit for a while (of course!) but he was “just fine” now.
“Don’t release my name to anyone,” she’d said. “I want my privacy protected.”
Understood. The reporters were being a real pain. And to tell the truth, well, her call for help had come at the worst of times, it wasn’t properly logged. They didn’t have her name or the name of her boat. Would she please give them that info now if she-
“Over and out, and thank you,” she said as she cut them off.
The Sweet Christine drifted. She pictured Michael Curry lying on the deck, the way his forehead creased when he woke up, the way his eyes had caught the light from the wheelhouse. What was that word he’d said, a name it sounded like. But she couldn’t remember, if she had ever distinctly heard it at all.
It seemed almost certain that he would have died if she hadn’t spotted him. It didn’t comfort her to think of it, of his floating out there in the dark and the fog, of life leaking moment by moment out of his body. Too close.
And such a beauty he was. Even drowned, he’d been something to behold. Mysterious always, the mix of features that renders a man beautiful. His was an Irish face undoubtedly-square, with a short and rather rounded nose, and that can make for a plain individual in many circumstances. But no one would have found him plain. Not with those eyes and that mouth. Not a chance.
But it was not appropriate to think of him in those terms, was it? She wasn’t the doctor when she went hunting; she was Rowan wanting the anonymous partner and then sleep afterwards when the door had shut. It was the doctor, Rowan, who worried about him.
And who knew better than she did all the things that might have gone wrong in the chemistry of the brain during that crucial hour?
She called San Francisco General early the next morning when she brought the boat in. Dr. Morris, the chief resident there, was still on duty. “You have my complete sympathy,” she’d said, briefly explaining her own position at University. She described the resuscitation, the instructions she’d given the paramedics about the hypothermia. Curry hadn’t said anything, just mumbled something, she hadn’t caught any distinct syllables. But she’d felt strongly that he was going to be all right.
“He is, he’s fine, he’s damned lucky,” Dr. Morris told her. And yes, this call was doctor to doctor, completely confidential. All those jackals in the hall needed was to know that a lone female brain surgeon had reeled him in. Of course he was a bit out of it psychologically, talking on and on about visions he had out there, and there’s something else happening with his hands, kind of extraordinary-
“His hands?”
“No paralysis or anything like that. Look, my beeper is going off.”
“I can hear it. Listen, I’m in my last thirty days at University. Call me if you need me. I’ll come.”
She hung up. What the hell did he mean about hands? She remembered Michael Curry’s grip, the way he had hung on, not wanting to let her go, his eyes fixed on hers. “I didn’t screw up,” she whispered. “There’s nothing wrong with that guy’s hands.”
She understood about the hands the following afternoon when she opened the Examiner.
He had had a “mystical experience,” he explained. From some place high above he’d seen his own body down there floating in the Pacific. A lot more had happened to him, but he couldn’t recall it now and it was driving him out of his mind, this failure to remember.
As for the rumors flying around about his hands, well, yes, that was true, he was wearing black gloves now all the time because he saw images every time he touched things. He couldn’t lift a spoon or touch a bar of soap, but that he didn’t see some image connected to the last human being who’d handled it.
For the reporter he had touched the crucifix of her rosary, and told her it had been bought at Lourdes in 1939 and passed on to her by her mother.
This was absolutely accurate, the newspaper claimed, but there were now countless people on the staff of San Francisco General who could attest to Curry’s new power.
He’d like to get out of the hospital, he really would. And he’d like this thing with his hands to go away, for his memory to come back of what had happened to him out there.
She studied the picture-a large clear black-and-white shot of him sitting up in bed. The proletarian charm was unmistakable. And his smile was simply wonderful. He even wore a little gold chain and cross around his neck, the kind that emphasized the muscularity of his shoulders. Lots of cops and fire fighters wore those kinds of chains. She adored them. Even when the little gold cross or medal, or whatever the hell it was, hung down in her face in bed, brushing her like a kiss on the eyelids.
But the black-gloved hands looked sinister in the picture, resting as they did on the white cover. Was it possible, what the article said? She did not for a moment doubt it. She had seen things stranger than that, oh, yes, much stranger.
Don’t go see this guy. He doesn’t need you, and you don’t need to ask about the hands.
She tore out the story, folded it, and shoved it in her pocket. It was still there the following morning when she staggered into the coffee room after a full night of the Neurological Trauma Center and opened the Chronicle.
Curry was on page three, a good head shot, looking a little grimmer than before, perhaps a little less trusting. Dozens of people had now witnessed his strange psychometric power. He wished that people would understand it was nothing but a “parlor trick.” He couldn’t help them.
All that concerned him now was the forgotten adventure, that is, the realms he’d visited when he was dead. “There was a reason I came back,” he said, “I know there was. I had a choice, and I made the decision to return. There was something very important that I had to do. I knew this, I knew the purpose. And it had something to do with a doorway, and a nu
mber. But I can’t remember the number or what the number meant. Truth is, I can’t recall any of it. It’s as if the most important experience of my entire life has been wiped out. And I don’t know any way to recover it.”
They’re making him sound crazy, she thought. And it was probably a routine “near death” experience. We know now that people have these all the time. What’s wrong with the people around him?
As for his hands, she was a little too fascinated by that part, wasn’t she? She perused the various witness accounts. She wished she had five minutes to look at the tests they’d run on him.
She thought again of him lying on the deck, of the firmness of his grip, of the expression on his face.
Had he felt something at that moment through his hand? And what would he feel now, were she to go there, tell him what she remembered about the accident, sit on the bed beside him, and ask him to do his parlor trick-in other words, barter her meager information for what everybody else wanted from him? No.
Repellent that she should make such a demand. Repellent that she, a doctor, should think not of what he might need, but of what she wanted. It was worse than wondering what it would be like to take him to bed, to drink coffee with him at the table in the little cabin at three in the morning.
She’d call Dr. Morris when she had time. See how he was, though when that would be, she couldn’t say. She was the walking dead herself right now from lack of sleep, and she was needed right now in Recovery. Maybe she ought to leave Curry entirely alone. Maybe that was the best thing she could do for both of them.
At the end of the week the San Francisco Chronicle ran a long feature story on the front page.
WHAT HAPPENED TO MICHAEL CURRY?
He was forty-eight, a contractor by profession, a specialist in renovating old Victorian houses, owner of a company called Great Expectations. Seems he was a legend in San Francisco for turning ruins into mansions, a stickler for authenticity right down to the wooden pegs and square nails. He owned a little shop in the Castro full of claw-foot tubs and pedestal lavatories. His detailed drawings for restorations were famous. In fact, a book of them had been published called Grand Victorian Inside and Out. He’d done the award-winning Barbary Coast Bed and Breakfast on Clay Street, and the Jack London Hotel on Buena Vista West.