He was sweating badly, his skin gray like old paper. The EKG looked normal, but Amelia didn’t like the man’s symptoms. “Rachel, let’s get Mr. Carruthers hooked up on IV.”
Suddenly, the monitor hummed loudly and unexpectedly. Rachel froze halfway out of the room. Amelia snapped her head back to the monitor with its bursts of white lines on the green screen that indicated the fast, dangerous heartbeats of ventricular tachycardia.
“Rachel . . . ,” Amelia said. Rachel stepped back toward the patient on the bed.
As they all stared at the screen, there was abrupt silence as the beat stopped for a long pause.
“Doctor?” William asked. “Doctor!”
Amelia didn’t have a chance to explain. It was happening too fast. The heartbeat monitor picked up again, in slow, widened beats, then flat-lined.
Amelia had heard of this happening to heart doctors. A patient on the treadmill, walking and talking, not aware that the heart monitor showed his death, walking and talking for four or five seconds after the flat line, finally falling in surprise and getting swept off the treadmill. Sometimes a simple whack on the chest brought them back. Sometimes not.
“Come on, Doctor,” William Carruthers said, still conscious and unaware his heart had stopped. “That computer screen. It—”
The old man’s eyes rolled in his head. He fell backward, landing softly on the bed, faceup.
“Give him CPR,” Amelia commanded Rachel. “I’ll call for IV!”
She barked a command into the phone on the wall and returned to see that the monitor showed that the heartbeat had returned, but with an underlying block.
The beat was improper. She needed to bring it back. Now.
“Keep it going,” she told Rachel, then bent over the man, rhythmically pressing hard on his chest. “Don’t give up on him.”
This man needed oxygen. Rachel continued with the sequential chest and abdominal compressions. It was all that would keep William Carruthers alive until Amelia could get him hooked into a temporary pacemaker and restore the heartbeat to normal rhythm.
Amelia tore into the supply drawer. Found what she needed. Because he’d complained about chest pains, the man had been brought into a room that held the necessary equipment.
She took a large-bore needle and found the big vein under his collarbone. She threaded the pacemaker wire into the right side of the heart.
“I’ll take CPR,” Amelia told Rachel. Now the extra set of hands would just mean more confusion. “Get the IV. We need him on meds.”
Blood spurted upward with every misfired beat of the old man’s heart. Amelia stopped CPR to adjust the temporary pacemaker, and the man’s heart stopped. He began to convulse.
Amelia started him up again, pushing so hard she wondered if his ribs would crack. More blood spurted.
She shouldn’t have sent Rachel away so soon. Amelia frantically worked between CPR and adjusting the pacemaker. Every time she stopped pushing on his chest, the heart would stop and his eyes would roll back into his head. Every time she squeezed his heart with CPR compressions, it jump-started him back to life.
Blood covered her forearms.
William found his voice again, his yell a croak of horror. “Get me out of hell! Get me out of hell! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! When you stop, you send me back to hell!”
Rachel had made it back into the room.
“Take over again,” Amelia said.
During the exchange of her hands on his chest to Rachel’s hands, the CPR stopped briefly and William Carruthers convulsed again.
Died again.
Rachel’s sure, quick movements brought him back. This time he bellowed with greater strength. “For the love of God, don’t let me back! Keep me out of hell!”
Amelia’s first thought was hallucination.
“Pray for me!” he begged. “Please pray for me. Before I die! For God’s sake. Someone pray before I go. Don’t let me back in hell! I’m burning! I’m burning! Demons! Demons!”
Amelia wasn’t a minister. But as a doctor, she’d do what it took to calm a patient in this much fear, even if it was a self-induced hallucination. She remembered phrases from a Sunday morning television ministry.
As Rachel kept applying CPR, Amelia adjusted the pacemaker and fumbled out words. “Take me, Jesus,” she said, feeling ridiculous. “Say it after me; take me, Jesus.”
“Take me,” William Carruthers moaned, his neck and face slimy with his own blood. “Jesus, please, please take me.”
“I believe you are the Son of God, Jesus,” Amelia said. The heart monitor showed renewed ventricular tachycardia. “Repeat it after me.”
“Jesus, you are the Son of God,” William Carruthers crooned. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”
The heart monitor hummed eerily in the background.
“Forgive my sins and keep me out of hell,” Amelia said. “Say it.”
The temporary pacemaker had no effect on the rapid heartbeats that were converging into one sound.
“Forgive my sins and keep me out of hell. Please, Jesus, please.”
“I’m yours, Jesus,” Amelia coached him, feeling like a caricature of the sleaziest television preachers she’d seen.
“I’m yours, Jesus,” William Carruthers said. “Oh, Jesus, I’m yours.”
Carruthers had been clutching at Amelia’s white jacket, almost pulling her off balance. Suddenly, his grip loosened.
But he wasn’t dead. The heart monitor had gone back to regular, healthy beats.
His convulsions had ended. His eyes were wide open. “The demons are gone,” he breathed. He closed his eyes. Peace relaxed the strained muscles of his face. “I hear singing. Glorious singing. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you.”
The heart monitor pinged a reassuring rhythm.
“He’s back,” Amelia told Rachel. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
**
That was Amelia’s story. She told it in a straightforward way, without apology for how it might have sounded to an astronomer grounded in the scientific need for proof.
“What do you think about it?” she asked when she finished.
“You mean do I think you’re telling the truth? My answer is yes. If you’re asking if the guy really was in hell or just thought he was . . .”
“I’ve read everything I can on near-death experiences, and I can tell you all the medical theories. But really, none gives a good explanation. Blood test studies on oxygen deprivation for cardiac arrest patients show no difference between those who experienced an NDE and those who didn’t, so we know it wasn’t a hallucination caused by lack of oxygen in the blood cells. Other studies on trauma-induced polypeptide proteins—”
“Hang on,” I said. “Polypeptide proteins?”
“They attach to endomorphin receptors to relieve pain. But even at high levels of pain, they don’t produce NDEs. Only those who clinically die and return are the ones who bring back the stories. Electrical stimulation of various parts of the brain don’t reproduce the experiences. Then there’s all the visual details of the emergency room event that trauma victims can recall even though they were unconscious. A blind person able to tell doctors what clothes and jewelry they wore.”
“Most people see an angel of light,” I said. Amelia raised an eyebrow, and I answered her unspoken question. “I’ve read about NDEs too.”
“You’re right, though. William Carruthers saw an angel of death. Most people report an angel of light. Even those who weren’t believers are greeted by the sight of an angel of light. But what if there really is a hell?”
She looked directly at me with such intensity all of a sudden that it felt like we touched. I held her look, saw sad desperation, and did not flinch.
“What if on the doorstep of eternity, the ultimate evil spirit provides the ultimate deception? The devil. Lucifer. Latin for ‘angel of light.’ What if those who have yielded their souls to God in this life reach out to the true light when they pass through the curtain? What if those who haven’
t are reaching out to embrace hell, the angel of light who is only a deception? What if that’s what’s waiting for my father?”
The only reply I could think of was that he deserved it. So I said nothing.
“Since William Carruthers,” she said softly, “I began to wonder about it all. A lot. There a person is. Putting out the trash. Getting stuck in traffic. Hard to think of a soul and infinity and existence without a body when all the mundane daily things get in the way. Life and death sometimes seem so unrelated, it is unreal. But doctors and nurses are in a different position than most. We see death frequently. And there was no way to get away from the question he brought me: Are we eternal?”
She answered the question herself. “I believe we are. And that’s why I’m afraid for my father. There was no way to convince him to wonder about heaven or hell. Now he’s dead.”
I had long pinched off my soul too tightly to want to think about God.
“Nick, I made a point of visiting William Carruthers the next day. I had questions. He told me something I’ll never forget.
“He said it would have been okay if he died, once I’d helped him through the prayer. Then he told me about when he first died. He said it was like he was floating in an absolutely pitch-black place until it began to glow and a beautiful bright light pulled him closer and closer. But when he got to the light, suddenly he felt intense heat and he saw the outline of a woman. She came closer, calling his name. He heard groaning behind her. There were other black outlines of people. No eyes. No mouths. Feeling more and more dread weighing him down, he said it seemed like he was on the edge of that huge black void, with a fire in front pulling him in. He knew if he fell, he would fall forever. That he would be alone forever, lost and burning.
Just as abruptly he was back in the hospital room. He told me whenever I would stop pumping his chest, he would be back there, on the edge, ready to fall. And when he prayed for Jesus’ help, he was removed and his terror subsided. He didn’t go back to hell, but his wife appeared beside him. Smiling, actually beaming. She told him he could go home with her. They walked away from the edge and she pointed at someone ahead. Carruthers told me he knew it was Jesus. That Jesus called his name and reached for him. And that was when it would have been okay for him to die.”
She had been talking in a hurry, trying to spill out the story, and she paused for breath. “Nick, God gives some of us many different ways to first think about him. I’m in medicine so that’s how he nudged me to begin looking more for him. It was amazing. With the tiniest bit of faith, I began to recognize miracles for what they were. Even the birth of a child is so amazing when you think about it. You’re an astronomer, perhaps you . . .”
She waited for me to contribute something. I didn’t.
“That’s when I started my own search,” Amelia said, to fill the silence. “It’s not about church or following the rules. It’s about trying to understand death. Because once you understand death, you understand life.
“Nick, God is there waiting. If you understand that, you’ll have peace and meaning and hope that nothing in this life will ever take away from you, no matter how bad it gets. I’d like to talk about it with you. If you want to listen.”
I tried for an ironic smile. “The last woman who tried to lead me to Jesus was my mother. And she ran away on me when I was ten.”
“You’re right,” she said. “What you believe is none of my business.”
“No . . . no . . . ,” I protested.
But the damage had been done.
Her face tightened slightly. I had glanced over earlier, when she sat on the rocker with her eyes closed. Her face then had had the innocence and softness of a child’s in sleep. Instantly, with my touch of cynicism, I’d thrust her again into the adult world, where sincere thoughts must be guarded. I saw it in her face.
“We share the one night of our childhood that changed both our lives,” she said. “And we are both trying to understand exactly what happened that night. There’s a difference, though. I’ll freely admit I’m hurt. I’ll freely admit I need to try to get past that. I’m not afraid to look upward and ask for help. Especially now, with my father dead. But you . . .”
Anger began to swell her voice. “You think you’ve brought yourself to the point where you’re beyond the damage that was done to you. You believe you’re above it all, beyond needing anyone. But look at yourself. Not married. No children. A career of indifference at a small college. You haven’t allowed yourself to care about a single thing. Who are you really spiting, Nick? Who are you really punishing? Yourself.”
Delicate red circles began to flush her cheeks. “You think you’re here to find out the truth about your mother. But I wonder if that’s it. I see it in your questions, in your eyes, in the rigidness of your body. I think you’re here to destroy what you can’t have. You’re a damaged person, Nick. And you won’t heal until you admit you need healing.”
“I thought you were a medical doctor. Not a psychiatrist.”
“I don’t need to be one to see any of this about you.”
Amelia stood.
Always the perfect southern gentleman, I stood too.
I watched her walk down the cobblestone path. Away from me.
I felt an unsure emptiness. I’d lost something just now but couldn’t understand what.
Chapter 36
Unlike earlier, I did not enter Pendleton’s office with a sense of triumph. There was no attractive blonde-haired, plastic-enhanced secretary to stop me at the front desk of the outer office.
They must have expected any visitor to knock, because when I pushed open the door to Pendleton’s inner office, she was coyly perched on the edge of his desk, one leg crossed over the other, her skirt barely managing to maintain public decency.
My entrance stopped her in mid-giggle.
She, at least, had the grace to blush as she quickly stood.
Pendleton did not. Blush. Or stand. “Whatever it is,” he said, remaining behind his desk, “I’m not interested. Go away.”
“Sure,” I said. “After we talk about our father.”
I had expected a lot of different reactions. Puzzlement. Anger. Curiosity.
Instead, he allowed a small frown to crinkle his perpet-ually composed face. “Denise, have that condo contract finished in a half hour. I’ll be ready to take it down to the bank by then. And please close the door behind you.”
It was not a subtle command. She stepped past me, the swish of her nylons seeming loud in the quiet of his office.
With the door shut, Pendleton regarded me, then, surprisingly, smiled. “I was wondering if ever we would have this conversation.”
He rose from behind his chair. His expensively tailored suit dropped to hang perfectly as he straightened. He stepped toward me. In the sunlight that filled his office, I saw the touch of makeup across the top of his forehead, where traces of powder clung to the roots of his hair.
I wondered if he was going to swing at me.
“Lift your arms,” he said pleasantly.
When I did not, he maintained his pleasant voice. “Do you want us to talk freely? Or with attorneys on both sides of us?”
Slowly, I lifted my arms.
He reached for me. I flinched.
“Relax,” he said. He patted the sides of my ribs, patted my stomach, my back. I winced at the touch of his fingers against the scabbed wounds from the dog attack. He squatted and quickly slid his hands up and down the insides of my legs.
By then, I realized what he was doing. “Interesting life you’ve had, Pendleton.”
He stood again and pressed his hand hard against my lower back. “Imagine my surprise,” he said, patting my upper body one more time. “The out-of-town Realtor I took for dinner turned out to be IRS on a fishing expedition. And wired for sound. Who would have thought anyone that attractive worked for the Feds? Basically, it turned out to be a two-million-dollar date, and while the resulting hangover nearly killed me, I didn’t get so much
as a kiss.”
He walked around to a black leather chair in the corner of his large office and pointed to its match, opposite a low coffee table.
“Sit. Let’s talk then. About our father.”
I sat, reminding myself that his easy charm was something he could use as a magical cloak whenever necessary.
“You know then,” he said. “How?”
“Not relevant.”
“Nicholas, we’re brothers. You finally know it. We truly can speak freely. I mean, this is almost like a homecoming, discovering each is the other’s only remaining family.”
“Then you tell me,” I said. “How did you know? When?”
He crossed his legs and leaned back, hands behind his head. “I was fourteen or fifteen. I overheard my parents arguing. Their marriage was finished long before you came on the scene, but I think having you there every day as a reminder of Father’s extramarital habits made it even more hellish on her. Which in turn made it hellish on him. You understand, of course, why they both hated you. But they couldn’t get rid of you. Helen made sure of that. In fact, that’s what they were arguing about that day. Helen and how my father could at least have the decency to stop taking her to restaurants in the city and perhaps limit his philandering to out of town and on weekends. Great role models my parents were.”
“Helen,” I said, “made sure I stayed with you?”
“She protected you more than you might know. She had something over my father. But I don’t know what. Mother and Father moved their argument into the garden, and I couldn’t follow them out there without being seen.”
Pendleton dropped his arms from behind his head and leaned forward. “So what now?” he asked. “Now that you’ve finally discovered he was your father too?”
I wasn’t the poker player that Pendleton was. He laughed as he watched the conflicting emotions on my face. I couldn’t understand his friendliness.
“Nicholas, we’re talking money here. There is nothing personal about money. I totally understand why you’re going to try to take it from me. Just as you should totally understand why I did my best to make sure you couldn’t get it. It simply means we can get past any antagonism and be very practical about this.”
Out of the Shadows Page 20