He had been sitting on the edge of his desk, talking about what? Macbeth? Subjunctive clauses? "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"?

"If I ask a question like 'What is the Yorktown?'-a.s.suming you're not Mr. Wojakowski-the L+R pattern involves the selection and discarding of possibilities and is much more complex. It's also broader, since it's searching through a whole variety of memories for the information. Is it a place? A battle? The name of a movie? A racehorse? The pattern has a much higher degree of apparent randomness."Joanna squinted at the screen, trying to follow what he was saying, her headache getting worse by the minute. "And that's what the pattern in the scans resembles?"

"No," he said. "However, Dr. Jamison reminded me that Dr. Oswell also did a series of experiments on image interpretation. He showed his subjects an abstract-"

"Do you have any food?" Joanna interrupted.

Richard turned and looked at her.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but I didn't get any dinner. Or lunch, now that I think of it, and I thought maybe you-"

"Sure." He was already reaching in his pockets. "Let's see, I've got a Mars bar," he said, examining the items as he pulled them out, "...some cashews... Listen, we could go get some real dinner if you'd rather. I don't suppose the cafeteria's open at this hour?"

"The cafeteria's never open."

"We could run to Taco Pierre's."

"No, I've still got to go see Maisie," she said, taking the Mars bar. "This is fine. You were saying?"

"Oh, yeah, well, in a separate series of experiments, Oswell showed subjects a scene in which objects and shapes were kept intentionally vague and abstract."

"Like a Rorschach," Joanna said.

"Like a Rorschach," Richard said. "The subjects were asked, 'What is this a picture of?' Here's an orange." He handed it to her. "In most cases the pattern was similar to that of the open-ended L+R with increased activity in the memory cortex, and the subjects described the pattern as being...

Skittles... and a package of cheese crackers with peanut b.u.t.ter. Nothing to drink, though, so maybe peanut b.u.t.ter's a bad idea. I could get you a c.o.ke from the vending machine-"

"I'm fine," Joanna said, peeling the orange. "They described the pattern as being?"

"Just what you'd expect," Richard said. "A big white oblong object on a blue background with a round blob of pink off to the right. However, in some instances, the subjects answered, 'It's Antarctica. There's the ice and the sky. And there's the sun setting.' In those cases, the subject had searched through long-term memory to find a scenario that explained not only the separate images, but a metaphor for all the shapes and colors the subject was seeing."

A metaphor. Something about a metaphor. That's what triggered the feeling at Dish Night, Joanna thought, Vielle's saying something about a metaphor. No, Vielle had called optioning Richard a simile, and she had corrected her, had told her a simile was a comparison using "like" or "as" while a metaphor was a direct comparison. Mr. Briarley taught me that, she thought, and tried to remember exactly what he had said. Something about fog."...with an abstract scene, the scans showed an entirely different pattern," Richard said, "one that was much more scattered and chaotic-"

Fog. Ricky Inman, she thought, asking Mr. Briarley about a poem. "I don't get it," he'd said, rocking back in his chair. "How can fog come on little cat feet?"

And Mr. Briarley, picking up an eraser as if he were going to throw it and sweeping it across the blackboard in wide strokes, searching for a stub of chalk, printing the words in short strokes. She could hear the tap of chalk against slate as he printed the words. "Metaphor. [Tap.] A direct or implied comparison. [Tap.] 'This is a nightmare.' [Tap.] As opposed to simile. [Tap.] 'Silent as death.'

[Tap.] Does that help, Mr. Inman?"

And Ricky, rocking so far back he threatened to overbalance, saying, "I still don't get it. Fog doesn't have feet."

"The mathematical formula for the frontal-cortical activity is identical," Richard said. "Your mind was clearly searching through long-term memory for a unifying image that would explain all the sensations you were experiencing-the sound, the tunnel, the light, figures in white. And, as you said, it all fit. The t.i.tanic was that unifying image."

"And that's why I saw it," Joanna said, "because it was the best match for the stimuli out of all the images in my long-term memory."

"Yes," Richard said. "The pattern-"

"What about Mercy General? Or Pompeii?"

"Pompeii?" he said blankly.

"Mercy General fits all the stimuli-long dark walkways, figures in white, buzzing code alarms-and so does Pompeii. The people wore white togas, the sky was pitch-black from ashfall,"

she said, ticking the reasons off on her fingers, "it had long covered colonnades like tunnels, the volcano's erupting made a loud, hard-to-describe sound, and Maisie talked to me about it not two hours before I went under."

"There may be more than one suitable image in long-term, and the one that happens to be accessed first is chosen," Richard said. "That wouldn't necessarily be the most recent memory.

Remember, acetylcholine levels are elevated, which increases the brain's ability to access memories and see a.s.sociations. Or the brain may only be able to access memories in certain areas. Some areas may be blocked or shut down."

Like Mr. Briarley's memory, Joanna thought. "That isn't why I saw the t.i.tanic," she said. "I know where the memory came from."

"You do?" Richard said warily.

He's still afraid I'm going to turn into Bridey Murphy at any moment, she thought. "Yes. It came from my high school English teacher, Mr. Briarley.""Your high school-when did you figure this out?"

"This afternoon." She told him about recording her account and remembering that the steward had said Mr. Briarley's name. "And I remembered he'd talked about the t.i.tanic in cla.s.s."

Richard looked delighted. "That fits right in with the mind's attempting to unify everything into a single scenario, including the source of the memory. Your mind did an L+R, searching for a unifying image that would explain the outline of figures in a light and an auditory-cortex stimulus, and-"

She shook her head. "That isn't why I saw it. There's something else, something to do with something Mr. Briarley said in cla.s.s."

"Which was?"

"I don't know," she had to admit. "I can't remember. But I know-"

"-that it means something," Richard finished. He was looking at her with that maddening superior expression.

Joanna glared at him. "You think this is the temporal lobe again, but I told you I recognized the pa.s.sage, and I did, and I told you I knew the memory wasn't from the movie, and it wasn't, and now-"

"Now you know the t.i.tanic wasn't chosen for a unifying image because it fit the stimuli,"

Richard said.

"Exactly. I was right the other times, and-"

"And when you discovered what the pa.s.sage was, the feeling of almost knowing should have disappeared, but it didn't, did it? It transferred to the source of the memory and now to Mr. Briarley's words. And if you're able to remember his words, the feeling will transfer to another object."

Was that true? Joanna wondered. If Kit called right now and said, "I asked Uncle Pat again, and he said what he said was..." and told her, would she transfer the feeling to something else?

"How the feeling of significance factors into the choice of scenario is one of the things I want to explore," Richard said. "Also, does the scenario remain the same, or does it change depending on the stimuli, or the initial stimulus?"

"The initial stimulus? I thought you said-"

"That the unifying memory fit all the stimuli? I did, but the initial stimulus may be what determines the choice of one suitable image over another. That would explain why religious images are so prevalent. If the initial stimulus was a floating feeling, there would be very few suitable memories, except for angels."

"Or Peter Pan."

Richard ignored that. "You didn't have an out-of-body experience. Your initial stimulus wasauditory."

So I saw a ship that sank nearly a hundred years ago, Joanna thought.

"If the initial stimulus changes, does the unifying image change? That's one of the things I want to explore the next time you go under."

"Go under?" Joanna said. He wanted to send her under again. To the t.i.tanic.

"Yes, I'd like to schedule you as soon as possible." He called up the schedule. "Mrs.

Troudtheim's scheduled for one. We could do yours at three, or would you rather switch with Mrs.

Troudtheim and do yours at one?"

One, Joanna thought. It's already gone down by three.

"Joanna?" Richard said. "Which one will work better for you? Or is morning better? Joanna?"

"One," she said. "I might need to go see Maisie in the morning if I can't get in to see her tonight."

"Which you'd better go do," Richard said, glancing at the clock, which said eight-thirty. "Okay, I'll call Mrs. Troudtheim and reschedule. I hope she doesn't have a dental appointment. And if you have any time-tomorrow, not tonight-I'd like you to go through your interviews and see if there's a correlation between initial stimulus and subsequent scenario."

There isn't, she thought, going down to Maisie's. That isn't what the connection is. It's something else. But the only way to prove that was to get hard evidence, which meant finding out what Mr.

Briarley had said.

But how? Even if Mr. Briarley didn't have Alzheimer's, he probably wouldn't have remembered a stray remark he'd made in cla.s.s over ten years ago, and his students were even less likely to. If she could find them. If she could even remember who they were. I need to call Kerri, she thought again.

But first she needed to go see Maisie, who she hoped wasn't asleep.

She wasn't. She was lying back against her phalanx of pillows, looking bored. Her mother sat in a chair next to the bed, reading aloud from a yellow-bound book: " 'Oh, don't be such a gloomy-gus, Uncle Hiram,' Dolly said. 'Things will work out all right in the end. You just have to have faith,' " Mrs. Nellis read. " 'You're right, Dolly,' Uncle Hiram said, 'even if you are a little slip of a girl. I shouldn't give up. Where there's a will- Maisie looked up. "I knew you'd come," she said. She turned to her mother. "I told you she would." She turned back to Joanna, her cheeks pink with excitement. "I told her you promised you'd come."

"You're right, I did promise, and I'm sorry I'm so late," Joanna said. "Something came up..."

"I told you something happened," Maisie said to her mother, "or she'd have been here. You said she probably forgot."

I did forget, Joanna thought, and even worse, shut my pager off and was out of touch for hours,hours during which something could have happened to you.

"I told Maisie you were very busy," Mrs. Nellis said, "and that you would come and see her when you could. It was so nice of you to drop by with all the other things you have to do."

And dropping by was clearly all it could be with Maisie's mother in the room. She said, "I was wondering if it would be all right if I came back tomorrow morning, Maisie?"

"Yes," Maisie said promptly. "If you stay a really long time."

"Maisie!" Mrs. Nellis said, shocked. "Dr. Lander is very busy. She has a great many patients to see. She can't-"

"I promise I'll come and stay as long as you want," Joanna said.

"Good," Maisie said, and added meaningfully, " 'cause I have lots of stuff to tell you about."

"She certainly does," Mrs. Nellis said. "Dr. Murrow's got her on a new antiarrhythmia drug, and she's doing much better. She's completely stabilized, and her lungs are sounding better, too. Which reminds me, sweetie pie, you haven't done your breathing exercises this evening." She laid the book down on the bed and went over to the counter next to the sink to get the plastic inhalation tube.

"I'll be here first thing tomorrow morning," Joanna said, looking at the book. Written in curly green letters was the t.i.tle, Legends and Lessons.

Legends and Lessons. Her English textbook had had a t.i.tle like that, Something and Something. She had a sudden image of Mr. Briarley sitting on the corner of his desk, holding it up and reading from it. She could see the t.i.tle in gold letters. Something and Something. Poems and Pleasures or Adventures and Allegories or Catastrophes and Calamities. No, that was Maisie's disaster book.

"When tomorrow morning?" Maisie was asking.

"Ten o'clock," Joanna said. Something about a trip. Journeys and Jottings. Tales and Travels.

"That's not first thing in the morning," Maisie said.

"Sugarplum, Dr. Lander is very, very busy-"

V. It began with a V. Verses. No, not Verses, but something like that. Vases. Voices.

"Dr. Murrow says he wants you to get the ball above eighty, that's this line, five times," Mrs.

Nellis was saying, indicating a blue line on the plastic cylinder, "and I know you can do it."

Maisie obediently put the mouthpiece in her mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow, kiddo," Joanna said and hurried out of the room and down to her car. V. What else began with a V? Victorians.

Vignettes. Voices and Vignettes. No, that didn't sound right either, but it definitely began with a V.

She got in her car and pulled out of the parking lot. The windshield immediately fogged up. Sheswitched on the heater and slid the bar to "defrost," peering through the foggy window at the traffic.

Vantage. Mount Vesuvius. Visions. Voices and Visions. No, that sounded like one of Mr.

Mandrake's books.

She stopped at a stoplight, waiting for it to turn green. What color had the book been? Red?

No, blue. Blue with gold letters. Or purple. Purple and gold. You're confabulating, she thought. It wasn't purple. It was blue, with- The car behind her honked, and she looked up, startled. The light had turned green. She stepped on the gas, stalled the car, and fumbled to get it into gear. The car behind her honked again.

You're not only confabulating, you aren't paying attention to what you're doing, she thought, turning the key in the ignition. The car finally started, though not before the car behind her had roared around her, dangerously close, the driver shaking his fist. And not, Joanna hoped, a loaded gun.

Stay alert to your surroundings, she thought, and tried to concentrate on her driving, but the picture of Mr. Briarley, sitting on the corner of his desk, kept intruding. He was holding the book up.

It was blue, with gold letters, and there was a picture of a ship on the cover, its bow cutting sharply through the water, throwing up spray. She could see it clearly. And how did she know that wasn't a confabulation? Or maybe it was the other way around, and she'd confabulated the t.i.tanic from the ship on the cover of her textbook.

But it wasn't that kind of ship. It was a sailing ship, with billowing white sails. Mr. Briarley had shut the book with a clap, as if he'd finished reading something aloud. And if it was from a story or a poem, it wouldn't matter that Mr. Briarley had no memory of it. She could simply find it in the book. If she could find the book.

They wouldn't still be teaching from it. It had been out of date when she'd had it, and, as Mr.

Briarley said, they taught a whole new curriculum now, but Mr. Briarley might have a teacher's edition. From the looks of those overflowing bookshelves, he hadn't ever thrown a book away. But he wouldn't remember where it was.

Kit might, though, or might be able to look through the bookshelves and find it, if Joanna told her what it looked like. I know it had a sailing ship on a blue background, she thought, and it was called...

She squinted, trying to see the gilt letters, and found herself sitting at another green light, staring at the 7-Eleven across the street. "Marlboros," the sign read. "$19.58 a carton."

Luckily, there was no one behind her this time, or coming across, because she managed to stall the car again halfway through the intersection. This is a good way to get yourself killed, she told herself, starting it and pulling through the intersection, and then you won't have to wonder what Greg Menotti was trying to tell you and why you saw the t.i.tanic. You'll be able to find out firsthand.