She nods and motions for me to sit again.
After we get settled, I take a deep breath, hoping she doesn’t think I’m imagining what happened to me. “When I was on the field and I was . . . dead . . . something happened. It wasn’t like a light at the end of a tunnel or some kind of religious experience like you see in the movies. It was strange and weird. I’m not into any kind of psychic stuff or woo-woo science or whatever you want to call this, but . . .”
“Interesting. What was it?”
“Visions, like I was on acid. I saw my brother, my parents, a girl I used to date, but the rest of it, the part that eludes me, or comes in dreams, I don’t know, was different, almost peaceful, like another possible life I could have had. The images are hazy, and if I concentrate hard enough, I might be able to see them, but I can’t.”
“Ah, very odd. Was there a feeling associated with it? Did you think it was heaven?” She gives me a smirk. “Hell?”
“No, nothing like that, but it made me want to wake up, like I had to come back because there was someone waiting for me . . .” I sigh. “I can’t explain it. My question is: Is it normal to see things when you’re clinically dead?”
She slides down her glasses and peers at me. “I do not talk to many people who have died. You are special like this. Gold star.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly.
“This is not my field of study, but in my opinion, it is possible it was your brain gasping, much like a computer shutting down, but instead of going black, it flashes with images from your life. We refer to this phenomenon as NDEs, or near-death experiences. People who experience them often say they see scenes from their childhood, even going all the way back to being in the womb, but again, it is hard to study because there are few people who this happens to, and it is also hard to believe people. Most of us want to discount this because it seems impossible. But I do not know. What you have in common with these people is two things: it usually happens after head trauma or cardiac arrest, and they usually occur in cases where emergency medical help is required to survive.”
She gives me a tiny smile. “Like I say, no therapy here. You will find many books about the topic, about people who claim to have experienced it. Are they true? I do not know. I cannot advise on what happened when you were clinically dead, but I believe you saw what you saw. It happened. It was your experience. It is valid. There are many things we do not know about the brain—or life—after we die. Was it a sign from a higher consciousness or lack of oxygen to your brain?” She shrugs. “I do not know, but I like this peace you described. That is something, yes?”
Maybe.
It just . . . feels important.
“I want to call you and check up on you soon. I’d like to know how you are doing. Also, I’m going to find some studies about CTE and send to you.”
I tell her to call me whenever she wants.
Later, I leave her office, my mind churning. She scared the shit out of me, smacking that brain around, but my scans are fine.
I’m not having anger issues.
I’m not forgetful.
My headaches are gone.
I’m fucking fine to play.
My phone buzzes with a call from Jasper, our quarterback. “What’s up?”
“Where are you?” he asks. “I’m outside your door to see if you wanted to hang, maybe grab some fajitas.”
I smile. “I get it. Since we’re neighbors now, you’re gonna be popping by my place all the time.”
He makes a scoffing sound. “If you’re lucky. Everyone wants a piece of me. Why would you be different? Besides, you’re my bestie. Me and you are lightning on the field, baby. Just don’t be like Tuck and get married. He left me, and I never see him anymore. Marriage is for pussies. Me and you, bachelors to the end.”
Tuck Avery was the Pythons’ star wide receiver, but he’d retired by the time I was traded to the team.
“I’m second choice?” I ask. “After winning the Super Bowl? You bought Tuck a friendship bracelet. Where’s mine?”
“Fuck right off. And you’re convenient, so don’t get a big head. Proximity is good for friendship. Are you in your apartment or not?”
I picture him stalking outside my door, curly blond hair sticking everywhere as he searches for a lunch partner.
Jasper grew up in a close-knit middle-class family from Utah. His four older sisters petted him rotten and lavished attention on him. Over Christmas, the entire family flew to New York to stay at his place, and he hired two interior decorators to make the place look like a winter wonderland. He had seven Christmas trees, each one adorned with decorations for every person in his family, including himself. He took them everywhere, the zoo, ice-skating, shopping. I tagged along when Brody and Cas were too busy for me and watched his sisters treat him like a precious doll, playing with his hair and feeding him special treats like an overgrown puppy.
“Are you ever alone, Precious?” I ask. “Do you do things by yourself?”
“I am fucking precious, so I’m not gonna fight you about the nickname. I’m a social animal. I love people. People love me. I’m pretty much a superstar. I am adored.”
“So last’s night date has already gone home, huh? Needing to feel validated?”
“Seriously, cut the shit—my stomach’s rumbling. Do you wanna grab a bite or not? I’m starving after my workout, which you missed. Where you at?”
I exit the office building, slip on my shades, and flip the hoodie back up. No way am I admitting I went to see another doctor. It would make me look scared. “Out.”
“Where is out?”
I huff out a laugh. “Do you ever give up? I’m at the dry cleaners.” I am walking past one.
“I call bullshit. You have your clothes delivered to you. What’s going on?”
I stop at the pedestrian crossing, my mind buzzing with thoughts of Dr. Moreau and all the what-ifs. I could get hit by a car today, be mugged, or come down with cancer. A subtle fear creeps in, of all the things that could happen that are out of my control, but I shove it away.
Life is about living.
Enjoying the moment.
And I don’t want to have a world without football.
Like a kid, I raise my face to the sun in appreciation and feel a slight breeze. I inhale the smells of the city, mostly oil and asphalt, but there’s also the subtle scent of flowers growing in windows and planted along the sidewalk.
New. Fresh. My injury is healed. The world is my oyster.
I cross the road, lightness in my step. I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m ready to tackle it head-on.
And . . .
There’s something else—someone—I can’t give up.
Emmy Darling is the one. My gut knows it. Perhaps I was too overbearing last night, but it was a slap in the face to see her again. Something about her . . . pricks at me, like a ghost dancing down my spine. I know her from somewhere.