Pamela Sargent - Not Alone

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Not Alone

Issue 10 of COSMOS, August 2006

by Pamela Sargent

Emrah Elmasli

I'd been waking in the middle of the night, paralysed with terror, wondering if anybody could be sure

of anything at all, thinking that maybe there was nothing else except us and the world and the rest of

space, that there was no meaning to any of it.

"I don't know about Jerome Sivan," Agnes Mead said, after I'd told her I'd already agreed to be one

of his subjects. "Saw him on a C-SPAN debate this weekend, and he just tore this minister apart.

The way Sivan attacked religion, he looked like a missionary in reverse." Agnes sounded worried,

almost frightened. "It's all superstition to him, just an adaptation we picked up in order to survive. He

says faith's totally outlived its usefulness."

The man she described didn't sound like the kindly professor type I had met. Jerome Sivan had

turned out to be a slightly plump bearded man in a rumpled jacket and baggy slacks. He'd smiled

warmly at me, ushered me to an armchair, then sat down behind his desk.

"You've read the material the receptionist handed you?" he asked.

I nodded, although the brochure hadn't told me much more than the newspaper ad, just that the

medical school needed subjects for a new study. Dr. Sivan had been doing his experiments for a

couple of years by then, as I found out later, but hadn't yet published any results.

"We're working on ways to lower tension and stress," he told me. That was supposedly the purpose

of the study, but I wouldn't have known the difference if he'd admitted he was doing something that

involved the brain and temporal lobes and magnetic induction and what-have-you. "Of course we'll

need your informed consent, but I don't expect there'll be any physical or mental problems later on."

I was a bit taken aback. "Oh, I didn't think..."

"Well, I don't expect problems, but there are no absolute guarantees. That's why you should take

your time to think things over." He sounded awfully reassuring, and there was also the fact that all his

subjects would get a small fee, which I could use since I was still looking for a new job, and free

medical follow-ups for at least a year after that. There weren't going to be any shots or experimental

drugs, either, so it was hard to see what could go wrong.

He didn't say anything about his personal beliefs, because that would have affected his results. I found

that out later. I found that out too late.

"I'll think it over," I said, even though I'd already made up my mind to go ahead.

"You do that," he replied.

I'd always thought of myself as religious. I went to Mass and said my Our Fathers and Hail Marys

and never doubted that God was around looking out for me, but I didn't really think about God that

much. Once in a while, it would occur to me that there had to be something more, something

overwhelming that could take me out of myself, make me actually see the face of God, but then the

next day would come, and I would forget about all of that. Maybe I'd have some kind of

overpowering mystical experience someday, but if I didn't, in the meantime I would just do the best I

could.

Better not to think about all of that, anyway, I decided, because I'd been waking up in the middle of

the night more often and lying there, paralysed with terror, wondering if anybody could be sure of

anything at all, thinking that maybe there was nothing else except us and the world and the rest of

space, that there was no meaning to any of it. That was just what Jerome Sivan believed, according

to Agnes. How could he live like that? How could anybody, thinking that we were alone, with no

purpose? That was the kind of idea that kept me lying there, awake in the dark with what felt like a

vice constricting my chest, unable to move until Tom snorted in his sleep or turned over on his side

and I could put my arms around him and fall asleep again.

I went to the medical school for my first session, not knowing what to expect. Jerome Sivan met me

at the entrance, told me to call him Jerome instead of Dr. Sivan, and led me down a long hallway to a

small room. The door had padding on one side, and the walls of the room made me think of a

padded cell. A console sat in one corner, and two lounge chairs with thick leather cushioning were on

either side of a table that held what looked like a transparent football helmet.

"Better put these on," Jerome said as he handed me a pair of ear mufflers. "You'll need them. It can

get kind of noisy in here, that's why we had to put the lab at the end of this wing."

That explained the padded walls. For a moment, I was tempted to leave, but I'd signed the release

and didn't like the thought of breaking my promise, so I put on the mufflers and settled myself in the

smaller chair. Jerome adjusted the helmet on my head; surprisingly, it was so light that I hardly felt it at

all. Two thin wires seemed to be resting just above my ears, under the mufflers.

Jerome left the room. I closed my eyes and waited. There was a low roaring sound as the floor began

to shake under the chair. I clung to the chair arms, wondering how this was going to help anybody

overcome tension and stress.

And then God was in the room with me. I not only knew it, I could feel it. God was with me and

inside me in the room and the air and the city outside the medical centre and everywhere. I felt God's

presence and the purest happiness I'd ever felt, ecstasy and wonder and joy and eternity and love.

This was what it would be like to be in heaven, I thought. I wasn't all alone, I'd never be alone again.

I don't know how long I was there, but the feeling of joy stayed with me even after Jerome came

back into the room, removed the helmet, and helped me to my feet. "Feel all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

"Will you be able to drive home?"

"My husband's picking me up on his way home from work."

Jerome insisted on accompanying me to the lobby, but didn't ask me about any reactions, saying that

he'd get a full report from me next time. Maybe my face told him everything he needed to know.

Tom was over an hour late getting to the centre and muttered something about an accident on a

nearby road. "Sorry about that," he said.

"No problem." I hadn't even noticed how late he had been until I'd looked up at the clock near the

reception desk.

We drove home in silence. Tom didn't have much to say and I was content not to talk.

That deep happiness was still with me even after days had passed. Everyone around me - Tom, my

friends, the neighbours - all seemed like shadows, or ghosts. I would walk outside my house and feel

as though I was flying above it; my neighbours would greet me and I would suddenly have an almost

overpowering desire to share my joy with them. Days went by when I lost track of time, when I'd

begin to load the dishwasher or take out the vacuum cleaner and then forget what I was doing. I

would be going back to the medical centre in a week, and that was all that mattered. I'd be close to

God again, and all I'd have to do in return is tell Jerome exactly what I saw and thought and felt.

Tom said, "I'm worried about you." He had found me standing by the washing machine, my hands

resting on the laundry basket, and all I could recall was that I'd gone down there sometime that

morning. He led me up the stairs and sat me down at the kitchen table. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." Happiness welled up inside me. The feeling of love for Tom and our home and

our city and everything else in the world was suddenly so powerful that I nearly wept. I tried to tell

him what I felt, how I saw things now, what the difference was between just thinking something's true

and really feeling it inside yourself. I couldn't go on as I was, acting as though this world was all that

mattered.

"You hardly ever leave the house. You sit around with that vacant look on your face." He clutched at

my hands. "It's that study, isn't it, all those sessions with Dr. Sivan, that's what's doing this to you."

"You don't understand."

"It has to stop, do you hear me?" Tom's eyes were slitted with anger, his face growing red, but his

rage seemed like a distant storm that would soon pass. He couldn't see that our old life was

impossible for me now.

I went in for my final session, not knowing that it would be the last. I closed my eyes and felt the

room shake and reached out toward the light, but eternal joy suddenly turned into a sharp bright stab

of pain.

Jerome was leaning over me. I had never seen how ugly his face was before, how pitted and

pockmarked his forehead was. The air seemed thicker, harder to breathe, the padded walls drab and

dark. It was impossible for me to move. A feeling of dread came into me, worse than any of the fears

that used to haunt me in the middle of the night.

Jerome got hold of Tom, and somehow Tom got me home. The study was halted after that; there

would be no more sessions for any of the subjects. The medical school sent me a form letter

explaining that they regretted any unforeseen circumstances while pointing out that the release I had

signed absolved them of any responsibility. I wondered how many others had ended up the same way

- dead inside, with a soul that was no more than a burnt-out husk.

Jerome insisted on visiting me, even though I hadn't asked to see him. Tom met him at the door,

ready to throw him out of the house, but settled for glowering at him while Jerome explained the true

purpose of his study. It had nothing to do with relaxation techniques; what he was actually doing was

proving that he could produce mystical experiences in anyone, that it was just a matter of stimulating

the temporal lobes of the brain. Some subjects had felt the presence of God, and others would talk

about love or transcendence or an invisible presence, but any such sensations were the result of

electronic pulses and no more.

"What I didn't anticipate was that a few of you would burn out, so to speak," Jerome went on. "I

never intended anything like that to happen. But you have to see - this doesn't change anything, not

really. Think of yourself as being rid of a delusion. That's all your beliefs about God are, you know.

You can learn to live without them -you'll be better off in the end."

He couldn't see it, couldn't understand what I had lost. Without my faith, I was lost. That was what

I'd been taught and what I had believed, when it was simply something I had taken for granted, and

later on, after my experiences in the lab had convinced me of its truth. I felt nothing, and wondered if I

ever would again.

Without faith, I was damned. That had always been my assumption, faith was the buoy I had clutched

to keep from drowning in doubt. I stared at Jerome and realised then that not all emotion was lost to

me, that I could still feel rage. Damned I might be, but I would not be alone, not in this world or the

next. Jerome was damned, too. I clung to that thought, and felt a tiny flicker of joy.

Pamela Sargent is a Nebula-winning writer and editor whose anthologies (notably, Women of

Wonder and its sequels) celebrate the contributions of women in the history of science fiction. She

lives in upstate New York with her husband, writer George Zebrowski.

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