When a Soul Walks

By Lauren DiTullio

Just when he thought his life ended, something else began.  

Lauren DiTullio's When a Soul Walks tells the story of Edward Long, a brilliant

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885046916

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

LIGHT BULBS

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WORLD ONE

My name is Edward F. Long. I was a thirty-five-year-old neurosurgeon, with a wife and four-year-old daughter, when the cessation of my heart and brain functions determined I was dead—by legal standards. The name Edward honors a grandfather I’ve never met, and my middle name stands for absolutely nothing. It’s just the letter F, given to me by my father. In some of my darker moments, I convinced myself it stood for failure because it’s what he told me I’d always become. He wasn’t around long enough for me to show him otherwise. I wish it didn’t matter, but I, like most of us, have this constant need to prove myself to the wrong people. My last name holds the most irony because for a Long family, we really didn’t live that long.

I was on the path of becoming a really good neurosurgeon, to the point where I thought I could change the world. I should be more modest, simply because it’s what society expects of me, as it does of all people who achieve things. But when you grow up with a father who shares your profession and says you won’t come of anything, well, I think I can say whatever the hell I want about myself and my expertise.

I grew up in Lobridge, Pennsylvania, a large town and, like the name, it had some of the tallest bridges that stretched for miles. You could look out and see the city of Pittsburgh and the emissions continuously steaming off it. When I first experienced symptoms of a brain tumor, I thought it was the air pollution getting to me. I was too busy back then to notice the warning signs, or at least that’s what I tell myself. The headaches that accompanied me each day at work got increasingly worse, as they do, and my vision began fading in and out. It got to the point where I’d look at my daughter, Suzy, and see double, like there were two versions of her standing in front of me, like a body and its soul.

My wife, Celeste, was the first person who suggested I get checked out.

Honey, can you pass me the— I snapped my fingers, pointing to the water glass on the counter.

Celeste picked it up. The what, Edward? She crossed her arms and leaned up against the counter.

Yes, that, right there, I said, holding my hand open, while keeping my eyes on my stem cell research laid out on the table.

What’s this called? she protested, pointing to the cup just out of my reach.

I don’t have time for games, I said. Can you please pass it to me? I remember taking her reading glasses out of the basket on the table and placing them on my face.

What do you need those for? she asked, setting the glass down next to me.

My eyes have been foggy lately, I said. Just stressed. I tapped her hand gently, as she rested it on the table.

She placed her hand on top of mine and sat down. I’m worried about you, she said. I kept my eyes on the scattered papers, ignoring her concerns. She pulled my research out from under my gaze, Edward, she said, trying to find my eyes.

What? I complained.

She leaned back and scrunched her eyebrows. I want you to get checked out, she said.

For what? I sighed.

Oh, I don’t know, she said, making a face. Maybe because you’ve been extremely forgetful lately. Or maybe it’s because you’re wearing my cheetah print reading glasses even though you’ve had twenty-twenty vision your entire life. She leaned her elbow on the table and gave me a look that said, I know I’m right.

I’ve been stressed, you know how busy work has been, I said, pulling my chair closer to the table.

Too busy that you can’t even answer my simple questions? she argued.

"What’s so important that you need to ask me right now while I’m clearly busy with work?" I snapped.

Celeste shook her head and pulled her hand off mine. I called Cristos and scheduled an appointment for you today at two o’clock, she said.

You did what?

It’s not like you’re going out of your way, she added. You practically live at that hospital.

You think I’m having neurological problems? I snapped. Who is she to tell me there’s something wrong with me?

Can’t you tell? she asked, as her eyes cut into me. She was worried. And so was I.

The truth is, I could tell, and I knew it was bad. The symptoms of this type of cancer didn’t develop until the tumor was too far gone, and I wasn’t ready to find out how bad it was. I placed my wife’s glasses on the table and took her hands in mine. Fine, I’ll get looked at, I said. But once I do and they find nothing there, I don’t want to hear any more of this from you. I stared at her until she agreed.

She pulled me in as close as she could and squeezed me, Thank you, she whispered.

The aura around Lobridge was always dark. The sun would come out once in a while, but a gray ring would circle the sky regardless. The people in the town became accustomed to it because it’s all we’d ever known. I’d travel to other cities in Pennsylvania, to compare research with other neurosurgeons or do the occasional lecture, and that was the only time I’d notice the ring disappear beyond the town lines.

We had steel mills here since the late 1800s, which is around the time when the ring appeared, go figure. Every year since then it’s gotten darker. The mills have been out of use for some time now but the soot in our lungs remains. I lost a few great-aunts and uncles due to cancer of the lungs caused by the air pollution. Back in their day, it was hard to see the person you were standing next to, nevertheless walk up a flight of stairs without passing out before you got to the top.

When I got into the car under Celeste’s orders, I saw gray clouds outlining the sky. A patch of blue broke through above my house. I’m not religious, but I took it as an omen. The hospital was fifteen minutes down the road, and in those few minutes, the sky went from clear to torrential downpour. I kept my raincoat in the back seat because these sorts of spontaneous storms weren’t uncommon. When I got to the hospital, I was pelted by a mix of rain and hail. My sneakers were soaked as I made my way in through the emergency room entrance.

A bit wet out there is it? said Cristos, as I walked in. I shook the arms of my sopping wet coat to try and soak him. Hey! he yelled, shielding himself. Do you want the patients to slip?

Oh yeah, make me the bad guy, I groaned, hanging my coat up on the rack. You’re the one having secret phone calls with my wife. The people seated in the waiting room looked up from their magazines.

You really are losing it now aren’t you, Eddie, he whispered, nudging his elbow into me.

Let’s get this over with, I said, walking to the examination room.

Oh, please lead the way, he chuckled.

I sat on the examination table and took off my wet sneakers. He walked in with a clipboard he would use to evaluate me for the neurological exam, like I was one of his patients. He was the only person with the power to tell me what was wrong inside of me.

Nothing like the smell of wet socks to start off my day, Cristos mumbled, placing the clipboard on the counter.

Don’t test me, I’m feeling irrational, I said.

This was one of our ongoing jokes. As kids, we dreamed of becoming neurosurgeons, especially after watching my father do it. We grew up surrounded by diagrams of the brain and weird jars of fluid my father stored in the basement. We would make up questions to ask our future patients like, Are you feeling irrational? We didn’t know what the word meant at the time; we just heard my father use it while speaking to my mother. Everything he said was smart to us.

Let me grab some restraints, he said. I can’t have you near me with those feet.

We acted like children when we were together. Even throughout the exam we had to find a way to poke fun at each other.

What’re your symptoms? Other than annoying, he asked.

Headaches and blurry vision, I said. From you constantly running your mouth.

He rolled his eyes. Any numbness or tingling in your arms or legs?

Nope.

Change in behavior?

Nope.

Fever, seizures, slurred speech, weakness, tremors, fatigue?

Nuh-uh.

Alright, stand up for me and close your eyes, he said.

I felt dizzy as I gripped the table to steady myself. I could feel Cristos’s eyes on me so I moved my wet sock across the tile. A bit slippery, I said.

You can take them off, he sighed.

I took off my socks and tried to find my balance.

Now close your eyes, said Cristos.

So I did.

What happened next was my first visit to the Waiting Room. Not the hospital waiting room, drenched in rain from my coat sleeves, but more like a purgatory, an in-between life and death. Typically, when a patient loses consciousness, they don’t recall the experience. Their eyes close and open as though no time had passed at all. There’s a similar effect to anesthesia. You don’t dream or imagine anything; you go under and then resurface. When I first entered the Waiting Room, I was underwater. I’d find out later that it wasn’t water, but amniotic fluid. A light from a ceiling cut through the center of the room, revealing the fluid’s yellow tinge and thick bubbles. I was suspended in the air as I recall my legs dangling above a wooden table with two chairs tucked into it. Another light cut across the table. One coming from the ceiling and the other coming from a distance that I couldn’t see. I was there for some time, until the liquid in the room trembled and a faint voice surrounded me. Cristos’s voice.

His BP is sixty over forty. Let’s get his legs raised, he said.

The fluid continued to shift, but I remained still. Something I always found interesting was that humans often fear dying, the feeling of it, the pain that accompanies such a final act. We worry about the absence of those we love, having to remember what could’ve been if we were still alive. But, in this moment of suspension, I felt nothing. I floated between life and death, and I wasn’t thinking of anything. The Waiting Room sucked all my senses out of me, except for sight. And although I was able to see tangible things like furniture and light, and the fluid that encased my body, it didn’t matter. My thoughts were at peace.

I wasn’t scared until I opened my eyes and saw Cristos and my colleagues peering down at me. I could tell Cristos was nervous by how tightly he was squeezing my forearm. I’d be given my expiration date only a few days after my first visit to the Waiting Room. The way Cristos told me wasn’t special. He showed me the brain scan taken after I fainted during the physical examination, and I determined the length of time I had left. Like I would with any patient. I nodded and ripped the blood pressure cuff off my arm. I patted Cristos on the back, before making my way to the door.

Edward, he mumbled. He reached for me but I brushed by him.

I walked through the emergency room exit, over my trail of storm water, and got into my car. He followed me outside like a decent doctor would, knowing their patient was in no condition to drive, especially after the episode I had.

He knocked on my window but I didn’t acknowledge him. I watched the rain pelt my windshield, until the storm cleared and the clouds tore apart, revealing sunshine that made the racing water droplets shimmer. I turned my car on and rolled down the passenger side window.

Cristos stuck his arm inside the car and manually unlocked it to let himself in. He opened the door, and we sat in silence for some time.

The weather here never made much sense to me, said Cristos, breaking the silence.

How’d you figure that? I asked.

I mean, it’s raining one second, then the clouds part and it’s a seventy-degree day, he said, tapping his finger on the door handle.

I didn’t respond.

All I’m saying is that I have no idea why you stuck around here for so long, he protested. Cristos was staring at me now, but I wasn’t ready to look at him. I was afraid tears would start to unintentionally form in my waterline, and once that happened, it was hard to control. I focused on the trees to distract myself. It’s always been hard for me to maintain eye contact, especially after receiving bad news. It’s like I was giving people access to my soul. To see inside and witness the depths of how I was truly feeling. But I managed to mask my emotions.

What does the weather have to do with me living here? I questioned.

I don’t know… I just don’t think you should spend your time— I looked at Cristos as his voice trailed off.

You don’t think I should be at home when I die? I asked.

The words came out of my mouth before I could even process what I was saying. Cristos’s eyes widened as though I had deeply offended him. He grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut. Why would you say that? he yelled. We haven’t even talked about it.

Talk about what? I laughed. Potential treatments? You’re acting like we don’t see these brain scans all the time.

Since when do we assume it’s anything more than benign? he argued.

We’ve seen these tumors before, I assured. And bad news usually follows.

Patients are often diagnosed with a brain tumor after experiencing chronic headaches or slurred speech. Those are two of the most common side effects. If I diagnose my patients with a brain tumor in the temporal lobe, similar to my own, I suggest chemotherapy to try and shrink it. But, in my experience, when you think the chemo is starting to work, things take a turn for the worse. As sad as it may sound, I often suggest treatment to simply bring emotional hope for the patients and their families, knowing the success rate is minimal.

Cristos rubbed his forehead. I don’t know why you’re assuming the worst, he said.

I knew something was wrong. I had known for months, maybe even years. I sensed something inside of me. And today’s the day I was finally honest with myself. But of course, once we take that step of identifying the tumor and its severity, it’s almost always too late. Emphasis on almost.

I could go into how I walked back inside the hospital and how they ran further tests and scheduled my biopsy, but that’s not what this story is about. My story starts after I die because that’s when my life ended but something else began. Let me start here, with the last memory I recall from my first life, in World One.

*  *  *

Suzy raised her squishy four-year-old finger to the sky, Light bulb, she whispered, as though it was a secret. She wasn’t confident in her observations. I nodded and repeated, Light bulbs, you’re right, Suzy. I wish I could say I was around long enough to see if she ever grew out of that constant need for reassurance.

You know how they say dogs can sense when your body chemistry changes? How they know when something happens inside of you that you can’t see or even necessarily feel? Well my Suzy was the one who felt it first. She crawled onto my lap and squirmed until she was comfortable like small children do, resting the back of her neck on my forearm. Her baby hairs tickled my skin as she adjusted her head, propping it up toward the sky. I remember how gently she placed her head down, as though I was so fragile I could break with any ounce of pressure. This was unusual because at this hour she preferred being bundled in her ladybug sheets, wrapped in a special cocoon only I knew how to make. I watched the planes with unknown destinations pass as I recited stories of the people inside them.

… The planes transform into tiny rocket ships and the people inside land amongst the stars, I said. I looked down expecting to find a sleeping face, but instead I was met with chestnut eyes full of worry too big for her innocence. She poked at my chest, right below the heart, pressing her ear against it as though she were listening for something more than a heartbeat. She reached up, spreading out her fingers as wide as she could, motioning for me to rest my forehead in her hand. As though she already knew.

I was sentenced to six months. It took me in three. No treatments. No surgeries. No help. Thirty-five years of life built up to my finale. I made a career out of filling