The First Phone Call From Heaven: A Novel

by Mitch Albom

  “Tell me about your childhood. Did you ever hear voices?”

  “No.”

  “Any visions or revelations?”

  “I never felt that connected.”

  “And your occupation?”

  “I run a day care center.”

  “For the poor?”

  “Some are. We take in kids whose parents can’t pay. It’s not smart business, but, you know . . .”

  She shrugged. Bishop Hibbing made his notes. He’d been skeptical of Coldwater as a church matter. There was a difference between the miraculous and the paranormal. Blood on a statue of the Virgin Mary? Saint Teresa of Avila encountering a spear-wielding angel? These at least involved sacred contact. Hearing from ghosts did not.

  On the other hand, there was one very serious concern with these phone calls. It was the biggest reason Bishop Hibbing had come, and why his superiors in the Catholic Church privately awaited a swift report.

  If people truly believed they were talking with heaven, how soon before they expected to hear from the Lord?

  “In these conversations,” the bishop continued, “does your mother talk of Jesus?”

  “Yes.”

  “And of the Holy Father?”

  “Many times.”

  “God’s grace?”

  “She said we are all forgiven. The calls are very short.”

  “What has she told you to do with your messages?”

  Tess looked at Samantha. “Tell everyone.”

  “Tell everyone?”

  “Yes.”

  He exchanged glances with Father Carroll.

  “May I see the phone?”

  Tess showed him. She played the old answering machine with the first message and her mother’s voice. They listened to it many times. At the clergyman’s request, Tess gathered several family photos, and the obituary that had been written in the Gazette upon her mother’s passing.

  After that, Father Carroll and Bishop Hibbing collected their things.

  “Thank you for your time,” the bishop said.

  “What happens next?” Tess asked.

  “Let us pray about that?” Father Carroll suggested.

  “Indeed,” said Bishop Hibbing.

  The two men smiled. They said good-bye.

  When they opened the door, a pack of TV reporters was waiting for them on the sidewalk.

  Life at the police station had changed dramatically. Ever since the town meeting, the phones had not stopped ringing. If it wasn’t crowd problems, noise complaints, cars parked on lawns, or out-of-towners calling for directions, then it was radio stations or newspapers asking Jack Sellers to comment on his ex-wife’s claims, or to ask her to speak at a church or a conference on the afterlife. Doreen’s number was unlisted, but “Coldwater Police” was easy to find.

  Jack had lied the first time they asked, “Have you been contacted, Chief?” After that, he’d had no choice but to continue the deceit. His days were a mix of personal and professional denials—telling people to scatter, to move, to calm down, all the while knowing that what they suspected was real. By the end of each day, he felt as wrung out as a washrag.

  What made it endurable—the only thing that made it endurable—was the sound of Robbie’s voice. The calls had continued, regularly, and Jack realized how much he’d missed talking to his son, how hard he’d tried to cover that pain since the funeral. Hearing him again was like patching a hole in his heart, covering it with fresh veins and tissue.

  “Son, your mother told everyone,” Jack said in their most recent call.

  “I know, Dad.”

  “The whole town was there.”

  “That’s so cool.”

  “Did she do the right thing?”

  “God wants people to know . . .”

  “To know what?”

  “Not to be afraid. . . . Dad, I was so scared when I was fighting. . . . Every day, afraid for my life, afraid I might lose my life. . . . But now I know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Fear is how you lose your life . . . a little bit at a time. . . . What we give to fear, we take away from . . . faith.”

  The words gave Jack goose bumps. Where was his faith? Why was he afraid to do what Doreen had done—to come forward? Did his reputation matter so much to him?

  “Robbie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You won’t stop calling me, will you?”

  “Don’t be afraid, Dad. . . . The end is not the end.”

  The line went dead. The end is not the end. Jack felt tears falling, but he did not wipe them away. The tears were part of the miracle too, and he wanted to keep both around as long as he could.

  Sully clicked the mouse. He rubbed his eyes. It was midmorning in the library, and he’d been here since dropping Jules at school. He was amazed at what he’d found just researching “contact with the afterlife.” There were so many claims! From voices that came through dreams to clairvoyants who professed to see the dead to “channelers” who wrote down messages from the spirit world. Many people insisted they had received phone calls from loved ones hours after they’d died, before the bodies had been discovered. There was also a great deal of research into this “EVP”—electronic voice phenomena—that ABC News had mentioned, in which the sounds of dead people are somehow captured through tape recordings or so-called ghost boxes. Sully read about a Swedish painter who was recording the sounds of birds half a century ago. Upon playback, he heard the voice of his dead wife.

  Sully clicked to something else.

  An hour later, he pushed back from the screen and sighed, staring again at the notes on his yellow pad. Seven people had stood in the gym—and he couldn’t get a foothold on any of them. All he had was a suspicion that these calls were not real. But if not, then what were they? And if heaven was not sending them, who was?

  As he had done in his military days, he collected information and analyzed it for a pattern. Be methodical and systematic, the navy had taught him. Back then it was maps, weather, aircraft failure, intelligence data. Here he gathered the seven names, searched their addresses through county records, found most of their phone numbers using the library’s Internet, and, through a casual lunchtime conversation with Ron Jennings at the Gazette, collected a good deal of personal information. He jotted all this on the left side of his pad, then made a category on the right labeled CONNECTIONS?

  Were they related to each other? No. Did they live on the same street? No. Did they all attend the same church? No. Were they all in the same business? Hardly. Same sex? No. Same age? No. Did their last names start with the same letter? Did they all have children?

  No. No. No. No.

  Sully ran his pen aimlessly across the paper. He glanced over at Liz behind the desk, earbuds stuck in her ears. She caught him looking and smiled, giving an exaggerated head nod to the rhythm of whatever music she was listening to.

  Buddeladeep! . . . Buddeladeep! . . .

  It was Sully’s cell phone. The Gazette had given him one and told him to stay in touch, most likely to ensure he wasn’t goofing off on their time—as he was right now.

  “Uh . . . hello?” he said, keeping his voice low.

  “It’s Ron Jennings. Where are you at?”

  “Just paying for some gas. What’s up?”

  “I forgot to put one client on the sheet. Can you get to them this afternoon?”

  Sully hadn’t even gone to the three he was supposed to visit this morning.

  “Who is it?”

  “Davidson and Sons.”

  Sully paused. “The funeral home?”

  “You know it?”

  “I was there once.”

  “Oh, God, right. . . . I’m sorry, Sully.”

  An awkward silence.

  “It’s OK,” Sully said. “I didn’t realize they advertised.”

  “One of our oldest clients. Ask for Horace.”

  “Is he the tall guy? Kinda pale?”

  “That’s him.”

  Sully
shivered. He had hoped not to see that man again.

  “Tell him about the ‘Heaven Calling’ special edition. See if he’s up for a full page.”

  “OK, Ron.”

  “You know the rate sheet?”

  “Got it with me.”

  “A full page would be good.”

  “I’ll try, Ron.”

  “Gotta go,” Jennings said. “Got a TV reporter waiting outside the office. Crazy, huh?”

  He hung up. Sully rubbed his forehead. Another TV reporter? A special edition? The funeral home?

  “Hey. No cell phones.”

  Sully looked up. Liz was standing by the table.

  “It’s a library, remember?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Do I have to confiscate it?”

  “No, ma’am. I’ll shut it off.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “We’ll forgive you this time.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Under one condition.”

  “What?”

  She sat down, resting her small hands on the table. She looked at her fingertips.

  “What?” Sully said again.

  “Tell me what happened to you.”

  Sully looked away.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, I work in a library. I read stuff all day long. You’re from here. Your parents still live here. People talked about it when it happened. When your plane hit that other plane. You having to go to jail.”

  “Yeah? What did people say?”

  She hooked her hands. She shrugged. “They felt sorry for you, mostly. Your wife and all.” She looked straight at him. “What really happened?”

  Sully took a deep breath.

  “Come on. I won’t tell anyone,” she said.

  He rapped his knuckles on the table.

  “I’ll just shut the phone off, OK?”

  What really happened? People had asked him that from the day of the crash to the day they put him behind bars.

  Lynton Airfield was a small Ohio facility, used for both civilian and military airplanes. It was Saturday morning. Sully was coming in for a landing. He had grabbed Blake Pearson’s assignment to fly the Hornet F/A-18 jet across the country because it gave him a chance, during his two weeks of mandatory reserve duty, to stop and see Giselle for a few hours. Then he’d fly on to the West Coast, where the plane was expected by nightfall.

  Clouds enveloped the aircraft. Sully checked his gauges, tucked inside the cramped single-seat cockpit—like sitting in a high, tight canoe. A thunderstorm was approaching, but not close enough to threaten his flight pattern. He radioed in, speaking through his oxygen mask and the small snoutlike tube that hung from it.

  “Firebird 304 checking in for a full stop,” he said, transmitting his landing clearance request.

  There were only a few people on duty that Saturday morning, and most were finishing a midnight shift, getting ready to go home. Elliot Gray, the air traffic controller, had just come in. He had a reedy, nasal, high-pitched voice, the kind of voice you would not want to hear singing.

  Sully would never forget that voice.

  It cost him everything.

  “Firebird 304, roger,” it said quickly. “You are established for twenty-seven right.”

  “Firebird 304, copy,” Sully answered.

  It was routine stuff, Sully being cleared for the right runway. He lowered his landing gear and heard the rumble of the wheels extending. He thought about seeing Giselle in a few minutes.

  I want to see you.

  I want to see you, too.

  Maybe they could go to that pancake house near Zanesville. Jules loved waffles with ice cream.

  “Lynton Tower, Firebird 304 on final five miles twenty-seven right,” Sully said.

  “Firebird 304, roger. Cleared to land on twenty-seven right . . . Traffic in the pattern for twenty-seven left.”

  Sully slowed his speed. With the landing gear locked, the ride changed, from a smooth rocket to a flying tank. He adjusted the trim, adjusted the throttle, and established himself on the glide slope for the landing approach. Nothing outside but soupy clouds.

  He heard a crackle on his radio, a few garbled words. Maybe the traffic from 27 left, the other runway. He waited for more, but there wasn’t any.

  Three miles from the airfield, Sully brought the Hornet out of the mist. He saw the earth below him, cut into huge squares of crop fields, trees, and farm properties. He caught sight of the runway. He was right on course. Ten more minutes, and he’d be talking pancakes with his wife.

  And then.

  Currrromph!

  A jolting thud from below. A huge shake. The plane bumped wildly.

  “What the hell?” Sully said.

  It was as if he’d run something over—eight hundred feet above the ground.

  Aviate. Navigate. Communicate.

  That’s that they teach you when you learn to fly. It is drilled into your head by every instructor, the time-tested blueprint for trouble in the air.

  Aviate. When a problem occurs, first keep flying the plane.

  Navigate. Next, figure out where you need to go.

  Communicate. Finally, tell the ground what’s going on.

  Do any of these out of order, you’re in deep. So before he could even make sense of the thudding impact, Sully increased power and tried to level out.

  Aviate. Fly the damn plane! Within seconds he realized that was impossible. The warning panel was flashing red. The gauges were winding down. The steady bleat of beep-beep-beep was in his ears. Seven hundred feet. He was losing power. The airframe began to shudder. Six hundred feet. Even through his helmet, Sully could hear the engine noise weakening, the pitch beginning to lower and die.

  Navigate. Could he still reach the airfield? He checked his glide slope, looked out the windshield, and realized he could not make the runway, and with the plane’s damage, another pass was out of the question. Five hundred feet. He was dropping too fast. With no safe place to land, the choice was clear: point the plane away from population and kiss it good-bye. Four hundred feet. He spotted an empty clearing maybe half a mile from the airfield and steered that way.

  Communicate. “Firebird 304 declaring emergency!” he yelled. “Aircraft uncontrollable. Initiating ejection.”

  He had practiced this once a year in a simulator on a naval base and, like every pilot, prayed that was as close as he would ever get. His heart pounded; every nerve was electrically charged. He was suddenly sweating. He set the controls for the plane to dive, then let go of the stick and slammed his back against the seat, lest he snap his neck from the force of the ejection. He reached both hands over his head for the handle.

  Pull!

  A rocket exploded beneath him. In an instant he was through the glass and into the heavens.

  Aviate. Navigate. Communicate.

  Evacuate.

  There was snow on the porch of Davidson & Sons Funeral Home. Sully removed his ski cap, stomped on the mat, and let himself inside. He was hoping maybe Horace would not be there, but of course he was, stepping quickly out of his office, with his wispy straw-colored hair, his long chin, his dour, sickly expression.

  “Hello again,” Sully said, offering his hand.

  “Hello.”

  “Do you remember me?”

  “Mr. Harding.”

  “Call me Sully.”

  “All right.”

  “Ron Jennings says hello.”

  “Tell him the same.”

  “I’m in a different capacity this time.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m working with the Gazette.”

  “Ah. You like newspapers?”

  Sully inhaled. Actually, he wanted to say, I hate them.

  “Your advertising contract is up at the end of the month—”

  He paused, hoping Horace would say, “Oh, yes, here’s the check.” But the man stood straight as an upright knife.

  “Ron mentioned you’r
e one of the longest advertising customers the Gazette has, so . . .”

  Still nothing.

  “So . . . would you like to renew?”

  “Yes, of course,” Horace said. “Come with me.”

  Finally. Sully followed Horace back to his office, where he produced an envelope typed and ready.

  “There you are,” Horace said.

  Sully put it in his bag. “Oh, also, Ron wanted me to mention they’re doing a special section on . . .” He paused. “On what’s been going on in town.”

  “In town?”

  “The phone calls? People talking to the . . .”

  He swallowed before saying “dead.”

  “Ah,” Horace said. “Yes.”

  “‘Heaven Calling.’ That’s the name of the section.”

  “‘Heaven Calling.’”

  “Maybe you’d like to take an ad?”

  Horace touched his chin.

  “Does Ron think it’s a good idea?”

  “He does. Yes. He thinks a lot of people will read it.”

  “What do you think?”

  Sully hated this. He wanted to say the whole thing was a crock. He couldn’t even look Horace in the eye.

  “I think Ron’s right. A lot of people will read it.”

  Horace stared at him.

  “Probably a lot of people,” Sully mumbled.

  “How big an ad?”

  “Ron suggested a full page.”

  “Very well,” Horace said. “Have him bill me for it.”

  As they walked out, Horace remembered something. “Can you wait here a moment?”

  He came back with another envelope. “Could you also bring Ron this check for the obituaries? I was going to mail it, but since you’re here—”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  Sully took the envelope. “If you don’t mind my asking, what do you mean by ‘the obituaries’?”

  “It’s a service we provide.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Most people who come to us are understandably upset. They don’t want to talk to just anyone. We have a wonderful woman, Maria, who gathers all their information and puts it together for an obituary. The Gazette runs them every week.”

  “Oh.”

  “They often run nice photos.”