Book of the Dead Page 4

  But Dr. Bauer wasn’t there. They both looked around the room. Ren looked at everything except the bed.

  “That’s weird,” said her dad.

  “She’s not back at the museum, is she?” said Ren.

  “No, she’s on leave. Dr. Todtman took over for her. She’s probably just grabbing some food.”

  Ren found a table and unloaded all the gifts except the one from her. It was a book. She knew Alex couldn’t read it now, but he had enough flowers and she knew he wouldn’t want another stuffed animal.

  The room was dimly lit and the blinds were closed. Ren looked at the sunlight slipping in around the edges until, finally, she was ready to look at Alex. She did it in one quick motion. Like tearing off a bandage, she thought, and then hated herself for it. And then there he was.

  Alex had always seemed kind of large to Ren. Really, everyone seemed kind of large to Ren. But not now. Now he seemed small, swallowed up by the bed and shrink-wrapped by the sheets, except for his head, shoulders, and arms. His arms had to be outside the sheets, she saw, because they had so many things going into and out of them. And then there was the mask and the hose that led from it and the machine it led to. She had known it would be there. She’d recognized the Darth Vader sound of mechanical breathing from the hallway.

  Alex’s face looked the same but different, as if a thin, clear layer of wax had been brushed over his tan skin. Less animated — those were the words Ren settled on, because it was the nicest way to put it.

  She watched him closely, looking for any signs of movement: a blink, the twitch of a finger.

  Nothing.

  “Hi,” she said.

  She thought of the thousands — maybe millions — of words they’d exchanged over the years. Sometimes talking over each other because they had so much to say. Now she couldn’t think of anything else to say at all.

  Fortunately, she had a few extra words already written down. She knew what everyone thought. She heard them talking about Alex as if he were already dead. Even his own mother wasn’t there. Ren had no control over any of that. All she could do was make up her own mind.

  As her dad bustled around the room, looking for flat surfaces and containers for the flowers, Ren slid the book across the crisp, flat sheet and under Alex’s hand. It was a paperback copy of Watership Down. Her class had read it in school that spring, after he’d left. She hadn’t liked it that much — rabbits don’t talk! — but she thought he might. Inside there was a ten-dollar gift card to the bookstore. Her mom had bought the book, but Ren had bought the gift card on her own. It read, in whole:

  TO: ALEX

  FROM: REN

  FOR LATER.

  He was her best friend, and she would not give up on him.

  Dr. Bauer returned to the hospital a few hours later. She entered the room dressed for business, wearing a power suit and carrying a black leather briefcase. She walked across the polished floor as if she were covering the last few feet of a tightrope, her steps fast but measured, her lips pressed flat with purpose. She pulled the chair back up to Alex’s bedside, put down the briefcase, and picked a battered old book up off the night table.

  A nurse named Helen fluttered around the room. The two had spent so much time together over the last few days that they barely spoke now, just went about their respective tasks. Helen swapped out an empty IV bag with a full one and double-checked a chart. Alex’s mom resumed reading where she’d left off. Her features softened as she began reciting the familiar story.

  “ ‘It is true that Osiris was first a living king. But it is also true that the Egyptians saw little difference between the world of the living and that of the dead …’ ”

  Helen shot her a quick, disapproving look, as if to say: All this talk of death. Alex’s mom kept reading. She knew this story was her son’s favorite. He always liked the ones with a hint of immortality to them. “ ‘Osiris ruled wisely, but his brother, Set, grew jealous. Set struck down his brother and cast his body into the floodwaters of the Nile. It was faithful Isis who searched for and found the body. Using powerful magic and potent spells, she brought Osiris back to life.’ ”

  Helen glanced over, looked away. She headed toward the door, swiping at a last speck of dust as she left. Dr. Bauer shot to her feet, tossed the book aside, and glanced at the clock. How long until the next nurse ducked her head in: Five minutes? Ten?

  Dr. Bauer reached up and wrapped her left hand around the ancient scarab at her neck. She waved her right hand toward the open door and watched it snap shut. Not enough. She looked down at her chair. She flicked her wrist toward the door again and the chair skittered across the waxed tile and lodged itself firmly under the door handle. Better.

  Dr. Bauer took a deep breath. That was the easy part. What she was about to do was something else entirely. She wasn’t sure it could be done, and she wasn’t sure if it should be. She let go of the amulet and, with a trembling hand, picked up her briefcase.

  She took one last look at her son, allowing herself to really see him this time. Her breath caught in her chest. He looked so small under the covers, and there were so many tubes and wires. The doctors had already begun talking to her about “moving on,” about disconnecting.

  “The machines are keeping him going,” they told her, always careful to say “going” instead of “alive.” To them, he was already gone.

  But not to her.

  Not yet.

  A deep breath: She had to try. He was her son, not theirs. And she had access to more than mere machinery. She’d spent her life finding it. So many days and weeks away from him already. Days she would never get back, unless …

  She looked over at the little table covered with cards, stuffed animals, and flowers from her coworkers. She’d thank them later. She placed the vase of flowers on the floor and then swept her forearm across the table. The animals flopped onto the floor, landing with soft thuds, and the cards wafted down to join them.

  Dr. Bauer opened her briefcase and carefully removed a panel revealing a secret compartment. She gently lifted out the object that had been hidden inside: her life’s work. The golden letters of the Lost Spells reflected the dim light of the room as she flattened the ancient cloth out on the table. Her hands were trembling more now — shaking, really.

  How can I control these spells if I can’t control myself?

  She let out a long, slow breath, trying to expel all fear and doubt.

  She glanced at the door, at the clock, and then reached up and wrapped her left hand around her amulet again. The scarab: the symbol of rebirth, regeneration. It felt hot in her hand. On the table in front of her, the Lost Spells began to change. Soon, the golden letters were giving off more light than the room had to offer, glowing rather than reflecting. The linen lost the dull yellow tint of time and reclaimed the crisp white of long ago. Even the air seemed different, the scent of industrial cleaners brushed away by a light desert breeze.

  The old magic was here. She could feel it all around her. It had traveled across the ages, and that both frightened and reassured her. Her eyes scanned the document, the ancient symbols now as clear to her as her ABCs. She found the right spell, and in a low, clear voice, she began to chant.

  “Aa-Nadj Khetraak …”

  Her voice grew louder and her grip on the amulet grew stronger. The desert breeze became a strong wind, whipping through the little room. The blinds rippled and flapped against the inside of the closed window. She reached down and held the scroll in place. She didn’t realize how tightly she was clutching her amulet until thin lines of blood began to slip out from between her fingers.

  Her voice was no longer alone.

  She heard them now: phantom whispers, dry and raspy, emerging from the air itself and echoing her words. Her right hand no longer trembled. Instead, it brushed across the page without her even asking it to, following the lines of text.

  The sheer power of it overwhelmed her. It was as if, intent on starting a campfire, she’d looked up to find the
entire campsite ablaze.

  At last, she reached the end. Her right hand trailed off the edge of the scroll, and with great effort, she pried her left hand from the amulet.

  The wind died down. The glow of the letters faded along with the whiteness of the linen. For a few moments, the only sound was the monotonous drone of the machines. Had it worked? She raised her eyes from the scroll to look at her son.

  His small body was still motionless.

  She felt all the energy drain out of her. Her knees buckled and she nearly fell to the floor. That was it, then.

  Out in the hallway, someone pounded on the door. Dr. Bauer jumped at the sound. “This door has to stay open,” a voice called from the other side. “And that TV was too loud.”

  “Just a second!” she called back, her voice faltering only slightly.

  She looked down at the twin wounds on her bloody hand, where the copper-tipped beetle wings had punched through her skin. She grabbed a handful of tissues and quickly — with one hand and one fist — put the scroll back in its hiding place. I’ve done all I can, she thought, her head buzzing with the enormity of it.

  More knocking.

  “Coming!” she called, trying to find some scrap of brightness to attach to her voice. But as she started toward the door, a glimpse of movement in the corner of her eye stopped her cold.

  She spun around. There it was again.

  It wasn’t much, just a twitch of Alex’s hand. A moment later, she saw a quick nod of his chin.

  She rushed across the room, tossed the chair aside, and threw open the door. “Quick,” she cried. “He’s awake!”

  Alex wasn’t the only one waking up.

  At a handful of spots around the globe, an unfortunate few would also bear witness.

  Of these, a boy named Hamadi Chaltoum was merely the most tragic. His family was making him go out and get water in the middle of the night. It was an annoyance but not a surprise. Still, couldn’t they at least wait till dawn? It would be there in a few hours, and then he could see where he was going.

  “The moon is up,” said his mother. “And you should know the way by now.”

  “Fine,” he said. He knew it wasn’t up for discussion. His baby sister was sick, and they needed to heat up more water. He would have to go to the well at the edge of the village. He took the bucket and headed out into the hot night. The moon was still bright overhead, not full but close to it. He took the main path. All around him the village slept.

  His footsteps were the only sound.

  This was a part of Egypt that outsiders seldom saw, in the far south near the border with Sudan. It was close to the famous tombs at Abu Simbel, true, but off the edge of the brightly colored tourist maps. Hamadi knew well that the tourists didn’t venture beyond those boundaries, beyond the little cartoon drawings of tombs and treasure. They wanted to dream of ancient rich people, not modern poor ones. When he was younger, his mother had taken him there. Not to see the sights but to beg. He was too old now, no longer cute enough. She’d take his sister soon, if she recovered.

  A sound reached Hamadi’s ears, and he whipped his head around. It was a dry sound, like the rustling of old wheat.

  It’s just the wind, he told himself.

  But when he turned back, his skin told him the truth. There was no wind tonight.

  Some little animal, then. Keep walking.

  He quickened his pace. As he did, he passed the edge of the village. There were no more houses now, just this dirt path, worn smooth by the feet of a hundred generations. He watched it carefully. The dangers out here were the old ones: cobras, scorpions. He swung the bucket. It felt heavy and reassuring in his hand.

  Friissshhhh. It was the rustling sound again, louder this time. And closer, thought Hamadi. He peered out into the open country to his left.

  It’s nothing, he told himself. Keep moving.

  He hadn’t made it two steps before he heard it again.

  Frrissshh-friissshhh!

  He shook his bucket and it rattled and plunked in his hand. He knew that small animals were skittish. It was quiet for a few moments, and he walked on. The well was just up ahead now.

  Frrrisssshhhh-friiisssshhhh-frrish!

  The well was just up ahead, but so was the sound.

  Whatever it was, it had passed him.

  Hamadi looked into the night, and the night looked back at him. He wanted to run. Desperately. But what would he tell his mother, that there was a sound? She would laugh and send him right back out, tell him that one little baby was enough in the family.

  But there was a sound. And it was getting closer.

  “Get back!” he said, swinging his bucket in front of him. “Leave me —” But the words caught in his throat, because now he did see something. By the weak light of the falling moon, he caught a glimpse of unspeakable horror.

  It was moving fast, impossibly fast.

  A withered hand flashed across his vision like a cobra striking.

  Now there was another sound in the night, but this was no dry rustling. This one was wet —

  Desperate —

  Choking —

  Still.

  Silence finally fell over the southern desert, and dawn rose. The village began to stir, not from the outside in or the inside out, but here and there, everybody waking at his or her own pace.

  This was true of even the longest sleeps.

  In the heart of the village, one family hadn’t slept at all. At first, a sick baby had kept them up.

  Now they waited for a boy who would never return.

  Alex woke up.

  He woke up in the dark to the feeling of being pushed around. Another push, a quick pull, and his eyes finally blinked open.

  He coughed and gasped and felt huge gulps of air enter his lungs, and opened his eyes the rest of the way.

  He shut them immediately against the sudden flood of light. The single image he had at that moment, snapped like a photograph, was of his mom standing over him, face pale, with blood on her hand.

  He woke up again to another tug-of-war. He couldn’t say if it was an hour or a minute later, just that this time a nurse was trying to pry a paperback book from his hand.

  The third time he woke up, it was to voices. He felt better this time, more alert. He slowly opened his eyes. The room was dark, with only a little dim light leaking in from the hallway. Two doctors were standing by the bed and whispering.

  “This is the one I was telling you about,” said one. “This kid was clinically dead. Called it myself.”

  “How long?”

  “Two minutes was the longest, but it was the machines doing the work after that.”

  Alex heard the words clearly, but his mind struggled to process them.

  Dead? he thought. Like dead dead?

  “And now?”

  “Totally normal. BP, vitals, everything.”

  Alex drifted off again, but he remembered the words clearly the next morning. He certainly felt normal. In fact, he felt better than he could ever remember — no pains, no pinpricks. He was waiting for his mom to arrive so he could tell her. A nurse was buzzing around the room, and the TV was on above them.

  “It’s a strange day, indeed!” said a newscaster with impressive hair. “Reports of unusual events are coming in from several locations. None more unusual than what happened in England, just after sunrise.”

  A graphic appeared at the bottom of the screen. THAT BLOODY RAIN IN LONDON, it read in large red letters.

  “Several reputable sources confirm seeing, and in some cases feeling, what seemed to be blood falling from the sky in England’s capital. The red drops turned back to rain before any quick-thinking Brits could get a sample of the sanguine stuff, but witnesses are standing by their gory story.”

  The screen flashed to an elderly man. “Oh, it was blood, all right. I was a medic in the army, so I know what it looks like, don’t I? Could even smell it. Has a coppery smell. Very distinctive.”

  The screen flashe
d back to the anchor. “Now we’re taking you to central Egypt, where an unidentified light source briefly turned night into day over a large swath of the Sahara desert …”

  Alex’s eyes flicked from the TV to the door.

  “Alex, honey,” his mom said, rushing into the room.

  “Hi, Mom,” he croaked.

  He could feel tears in his eyes, but he wasn’t even embarrassed, and he didn’t push her away when she covered his mussed-up hair with kisses. The nurse retreated tactfully. And then his mom heard the TV: “We now take you to the Egyptian capital, Cairo.”

  Her head whipped around. Her piercing eyes quickly scanned the screen and the headlines scrolling across the bottom.

  “It can’t —” she began, but she abandoned the sentence. Her mouth hung slightly open as the live report continued.

  “Mom, the news says —” Alex began, but she cut him off.

  “Oh, don’t listen to this silly stuff!”

  She fumbled for the remote and clicked the TV off.

  The room was silent, just the two of them again. Something had changed — Alex could still see the love in his mom’s eyes, but his heart sank just a fraction as he saw the old worry lines deepen around them once more.

  They ran test after test, but by Saturday morning, they could no longer justify keeping a clearly healthy boy lying in an adjustable bed wearing a paper robe. When his mom took him home, for some reason Alex couldn’t get over how familiar everything seemed. The way his mom had to jiggle the key in the lock, the dinged-up mailboxes in the entryway … it was as if nothing had changed, as if he hadn’t even been away.

  As if I didn’t die and come back. The words flashed through his mind, and he shook his head fiercely to clear them.

  “Oh, don’t do that, honey,” his mom said, like always. “You know it’s not good for you.”

  His mom was just as upset at home as she had been at the hospital. She sat down at the computer to fire off an email only to pick up her phone and rush out into the hall to make a call. She abandoned sentences halfway and riffled through the thickest and oldest books in the bookcase.