ressurection vs reincarnation

The corridor he found himself in was paneled in dark chrome from wall to wall, broken only by the steel-rimmed windows on each of the five doors. The doctor strode down to the end of the long corridor; Shirley Cohen was in the last room. He peered through the small glass window on the door. The girl was sitting quietly on her bed and staring blankly at the walls of her cell. He was careful not to disturb her meditation, for that was what he thought she was doing. Rosenfeld fumbled with the keys in the lock, slid the dead bolt over to the right, and opened the door.

Shirley was sitting quietly on her cot, her back toward the door. In a patient, quiet voice, the doctor spoke. ―My name is Dr. Rosenfeld. You can call me Ira.‖ ―Ira,‖ she repeated, and Rosenfeld immediately knew he was talking to Shirley herself— no alternate personalities, no haunted doppelgängers. This was Shirley. ―I‘ve got to ask you a few questions, Shirley. Is that okay?‖ he asked in the kindest voice a heartbroken man could manage. ―Everyone wants to ask questions—so many questions,‖ she muttered. ―Why ask questions when I can already answer them? I‘m feeling okay. I don‘t have many childhood memories, but I remember watching lots of television. The usual reality TV they have nowadays doesn‘t interest me. I never indulged in too many sweets, never used food to assuage my anxieties. My father‘s a rabbi. Who is my father? He‘s a great man, a leader—not the divine Lord but almost … thereabouts. And yes, the weather is good today. I can see the sun through that little window up there, through that steeple—strange place for a steeple, but I can see it through the ceiling.‖ As her bony finger trembled upward to point to the thick brick wall above her, Rosenfeld felt a chill run up his spine. She had answered every question he had thought of; she had simply plucked them from his mind.

Suddenly, she cupped her hands and presently brought forth a handful of Lorna Doones. ―My favorite,‖ said the doctor, surprised that she had offered him his favorite cookie.

Steady, Ira, he cautioned himself. Don’t start jumping to farfetched conclusions of telepathy or magic. In states of deep concentration, people have been known to conjure up extraordinary skills and lose them just as fast as they get them.

His thoughts were stopped from branching any further when Shirley uttered, ―You skinned your knee playing tennis the other day. You must look after it; it is becoming infected with streptococcus.‖ Dr. Rosenfeld now gave Shirley his full, rapt attention. He looked down at his knee, but there was no discerning the large scab through his dress pants.

Shirley‘s face seemed to distort, and she appeared to become a whole new person. Her eyes thinned at the edges; her cheeks grew wider, and her mouth became wider. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but Rosenfeld would swear in any court that her hair had momentarily lightened and that she had aged at least fifteen years. She looked almost like a different person.

When she spoke, he realized that her voice had also changed. It was deeper, but not necessarily more masculine. It was raspy and thick and seemed to throw out perfumed air with every aspiration: ―Hello, Ira. My name is David. Would you like to ask me some questions, too?‖ ―David?‖ Rosenfeld felt as if he had been stabbed in the heart. ―Hello, David,‖ he croaked. ―And who, exactly, are you?‖ ―I‘m insulted, Ira! You don‘t recognize your own brother? It‘s been a few decades, sure, but it‘s not like I‘ve aged!‖ It laughed then, and Rosenfeld recognized the laughter immediately.

It was that of his brother. ―But it can‘t be you!‖