The First Phone Call From Heaven: A Novel

by Mitch Albom

  Now he drove in the early-evening darkness, his headlights battling the thick mist that had descended. As he came around a bend and approached the outskirts of his hometown, he saw a line of red taillights that stretched for a mile.

  “Ahh no,” he said to himself. “God, no, no, no.”

  The broadcast had sparked a mass pilgrimage to Coldwater, and entry was slow and clogged. Sully felt adrift, locked out. He suddenly wanted to hold his son so badly, his eyes filled with tears. He remembered the cell phone in his pocket. He pulled off his glove, found it, and dialed his parents’ number. It rang twice, and then . . .

  “Mommy?” Jules’s voice said.

  Sully’s heart sank. The boy had been fooled too. He’d seen something, heard something, been told something. Sully’s voice caught in his throat.

  “Mommy?” Jules said again. Sully heard his father in the background: “Jules, give me the phone now—”

  Sully pressed the red button, disconnecting them.

  I don’t think you will, Horace had said.

  Could he have been right? Was the knowledge of a hoax of heaven as paralyzing as proof of heaven itself? Sully could hear his breathing accelerate. He stared at the line of taillights. He banged his naked hand on the dashboard. No. No! He would not lose to this creepy, delusional maniac. He flicked on his interior light and rifled through the papers on the passenger’s seat until he found a number and, fingers shaking, dialed it.

  “Jupes?” he said when the voice answered.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Sully Harding.”

  “Oh. Hey. I didn’t—”

  “Listen to me. It’s a hoax. The whole thing. I have proof.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Are you still there?” Sully said.

  “I’m listening,” Elwood replied.

  “It was computers. Software. The dead people left phone messages that were used to re-create their voices.”

  “What?”

  “It was a fake the whole time.”

  “Wait—”

  “You have to tell them.”

  “Whoa, whoa, hold on. Who did it?”

  “It was—”

  Sully stopped. He swallowed. He thought of what he was about to say. One sentence would change everything. He envisioned hordes of media sweeping down on the funeral home, police, too, and he realized that there was something he needed to find before they did.

  “I’ll give you everything when I see you,” Sully told Elwood. “I’m coming into town. The traffic is just—”

  “Listen to me, Harding, I can’t do enough here. We don’t even publish until next week. If what you’re saying is true, you need someone who can handle it right now. I know a guy at the Trib.”

  “Where?”

  “The Chicago Tribune. We worked together years ago. You can trust him. Can I call him? Can he call you?”

  Sully pressed the phone against his ear. He felt more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Have him call me in an hour. I have to do something first.”

  Christmas lights hung on nearly every house in Coldwater, but porch lights were now on as well. There was an animation to the streets, and revelers, bundled in their winter coats, went from home to home, ignoring the cold. There were no strangers. If you were in town, you were part of the miracle. Doors were flung open. Meals were served. Laughter was abundant, car horns honked, and many blocks heard the sounds of Christmas music.

  Although the broadcast had ended several hours earlier, the football field was still bathed in light, and hundreds of people milled about, not wanting to go home. The famous host was giving interviews, as was Jeff Jacoby, the mayor. Katherine Yellin had no fewer than ten state troopers around her, as people mobbed to yell her name or pepper her with questions. She spotted Amy Penn, looking up from below the stage.

  “Amy!” Katherine hollered. “Please! Will somebody let her up here?”

  Meanwhile, Jack Sellers had found Tess, and she stuck close as the crowds sucked into them, too, shouting everything from “Thank you!” to “God is great!” Despite his uniform, people were grabbing for Jack, to shake his hand, to rub his coat, to touch him in some way. Someone yelled, “Chief Sellers, please bless us!” Jack felt a hard grip on his shoulder, and he spun to see Ray, with Dyson standing beside him.

  “We got you,” Ray said.

  They each took a side.

  “I need to go home,” Tess said, leaning into Jack. “Please? This is too much.”

  “Come on,” he said, pushing through the crowd, and Ray and Dyson yelled, “Clear the way, please. . . . Clear the way!”

  At the county hospital, Elias sat alongside Pastor Warren. They had been mostly quiet since Diane Yellin’s words from heaven. At one point after the call had abruptly ended, Elias asked his pastor, “Does this prove what we believe?” and Warren softly said, “If you believe it, you don’t need proof.” Elias didn’t say much after that.

  A nurse changed the IV bag again and made a comment about the “the wonderful news.” She left, smiling. The two men watched her go. The heart monitor machine made a small humming noise.

  “Would you hold my hand, Elias?” Warren asked.

  Elias slipped his big palm over the pastor’s bony fingers and squeezed them tight.

  “You are a good builder,” Warren said softly.

  “You, too,” Elias said.

  Warren looked at the ceiling.

  “I’m going to miss Christmas service.”

  “Maybe not,” Elias said. “Maybe you’ll be out of here by then.”

  Warren smiled weakly. His eyes closed.

  “I will be.”

  Sully remained trapped in the long line of traffic entering Coldwater. It had been over an hour, and he had only advanced half a mile. The Chicago Tribune man had not called. Sully turned on the radio. Nearly every channel was reviewing the event, replaying Diane’s words. It was everywhere. One station. The next station. Up and down the dial, a dead woman’s voice.

  “In heaven we can see you. . . .”

  Sully snapped it off. He felt helplessly frozen—inside this car, inside this traffic, inside the knowledge of something the rest of the world did not have. He reviewed everything Horace had said in the basement, searching for some clue. Why did he choose Coldwater? What did this have to do with him?

  Then you read the deed?

  Yeah.

  Read it again.

  What was there to read? It was a legal document, full of complicated jargon, the same thing anyone would sign when buying a property.

  He thought about calling Liz. She might be able to read it to him. But something protective made him hesitate, as if, once he told her what he knew, bad people would try to pry it out of her.

  Instead he held up the phone and sent her a text.

  ARE YOU THERE?

  A few seconds later, his phone buzzed.

  YES. SO WORRIED. ARE YOU OK? WHERE ARE YOU?

  AM OK. DO YOU HAVE PROPERTY DEED?

  FOR HORACE’S HOUSE?

  YES. WHERE IS IT?

  A few seconds passed.

  I GAVE IT TO YOU.

  Sully froze. He read the words again. Then he grabbed the pile of papers on the seat next to him. He flipped and threw each one aside as he scanned their headings. Not that one. Not that one. Not that one. . . .

  There it was.

  Deed of Property. He held it up. Reading small print was difficult in the car’s interior light. Sections about recitals, provisions, description of property, lot numbers. How could any of this matter? He scanned to the bottom, a line for the seller to the left, one for the buyer to the right.

  Sully squinted to read the buyer’s signature.

  He read it again.

  A shiver passed through his body.

  The signature read, “Elliot Gray.”

  The car behind him honked, and Sully nearly sprang off his seat. He cursed. He read the deed again. A thousand t
houghts ran through his mind. Elliot Gray? Impossible! The name that had haunted him since the plane crash? Elliot Gray, the air traffic controller who, with a single blunder, had destroyed the best part of Sully’s life? Elliot Gray was dead! Why would Horace toy with him this way? Why did— His phone rang. He looked at the display. A number he didn’t recognize. Sully pressed the green button.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, this is Ben Gissen from the Chicago Tribune. I’m calling for Sullivan Harding?”

  “This is him.”

  “Yeah, uh, I got a kind of odd call from an old friend of mine, Elwood Jupes. He writes for a paper in Coldwat—”

  “I know—”

  “OK, good. So, he said you had some information about the phone calls thing? He said it was important. What really happened up there?”

  Sully hesitated. He lowered his voice. “What do you think happened?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not here to think anything. I’m just here to listen to what you have to tell me about it.”

  Sully exhaled. He couldn’t clear his head of Elliot Gray. Elliot Gray?

  “Where should I begin?”

  “Anywhere you want,” the man said. “Why not—”

  The line died.

  “Hello?” Sully said. “Hello?”

  He looked at the phone.

  “Damn it.”

  He held the display up to the small light. There was still battery power.

  He turned it over in his hand.

  He waited.

  He waited.

  Moments later, it rang again.

  “Sorry,” Sully said, answering. “Did I lose you?”

  “Never,” a woman’s voice said, softly.

  He stopped breathing.

  Giselle.

  What do you do when the dead return? It is the thing people most fear—yet, in some cases, most desire.

  He heard his wife say, “Sully?” It sliced through him, cut him open, he bled sadness and joy. So clearly her voice. From her mouth, her body, her soul. Her voice.

  But.

  “I know it’s not you,” he mumbled.

  “Baby. Don’t.”

  “I know this isn’t real. I know Horace is doing this.”

  “Please. If you love me. Don’t.”

  Sully swallowed. He could not hold back his tears. He did not want this conversation, but he so longed for a conversation.

  “Don’t what?” he finally whispered.

  “Tell him,” she said.

  And the line fell silent.

  The next few minutes were a private hell for Sully Harding. He buried his face in his hands. He screamed. He pushed his fingers into his hair and yanked it so hard he felt the roots cry in pain. He grabbed the phone. Threw it down. Grabbed it again. He hollered his wife’s name, the sound bouncing flatly off the car’s windows. The cruelty of this Horace! The depths of his lie! He felt violated and sick, as if something were rising from his gut and he would choke on it if he didn’t swallow it back.

  When the phone rang again, Sully physically shook—he grabbed his elbows as if he were freezing—and it rang twice more before he answered with the barest of whispers.

  “Who?”

  “It’s Ben Gissen. Mr. Harding?”

  His body deflated. Even knowing it was a deception, he wanted to hear Giselle again.

  “Hello? It’s Ben Gissen? We got cut off?”

  “Sorry,” Sully mumbled.

  “So, OK, go ahead—you were gonna tell me something?”

  Sully stared at the car in front of him, his eyes refocusing, as if awakening from sleep. He saw the shape of heads in the backseat. Children? Teenagers? He thought about Jules. He thought about those people in Coldwater being manipulated, as Horace was trying to manipulate him now. Something ugly began to stir inside.

  He told Ben Gissen, “Can you get here in person? I don’t trust talking over the phone.”

  “You really have proof this is a fake? I can’t get all the way up there just to—”

  “I have proof,” Sully said flatly. “All the proof you need.”

  “I’m in Chicago. It would take a few hours—”

  But Sully had already hung up. He steered his car off the road, made a U-turn in the snow, and headed the other way.

  Elliot Gray, I will kill you, he thought.

  He slammed the accelerator.

  Jack opened the squad car door and helped Tess get out.

  “Watch the ice,” he said, taking her arm.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The ride to her house had been noticeably quiet. They shook their heads or occasionally mumbled, “Maaaan,” or “Unbelievable,” the way people do after surviving something calamitous. On the streets, countless strangers were celebrating and singing behind blue barricades. The car’s headlights briefly illuminated their faces—under parka hoods or ski caps—then left them behind in the dark.

  “I used to recognize almost everyone in Coldwater,” Tess said.

  “I used to know where they all lived,” Jack added.

  Now, as they walked to her door, it was the quiet that felt strange. They reached the porch. They looked at each other. Jack’s walkie-talkie squawked.

  “Jack, you there?” a man’s voice said.

  Jack pressed a button. “Yep.”

  Static. “Can you talk?”

  Button press. “Give me a minute.”

  Jack hooked the device back on his belt. He sighed and looked again at Tess. It felt as if something were coming to an end.

  “I’m so tired,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You must be even worse. God. You’ve been up for how long?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t remember.”

  She shook her head.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking about tomorrow.”

  “What happens tomorrow?”

  She looked away. “Exactly.”

  Jack knew what she meant. He’d had this nagging feeling all evening that by having told the world about Robbie, he had somehow completed the task.

  “Didn’t your mother say it wouldn’t last?”

  Tess nodded and closed her eyes, as if exhausted. She leaned forward into his shoulder, rested there for a moment, then opened her eyes and kissed him lightly on the lips. His walkie-talkie squawked again.

  “Sorry,” he grumbled. “What did we do before we had these things, huh?”

  Tess smiled. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for seeing me home.”

  She entered her house and shut the door. Jack returned to his car. He knew he needed to call Doreen—explain the calls from Robbie, why he’d kept them a secret. It was only right. First he pressed the button on the walkie-talkie, a wireless device that would have impressed even the great Alexander Bell.

  “Jack here,” he said. “I’m clear.”

  “Jack, you need to get up to Moss Hill fast.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “You need to see for yourself.”

  Desire sets our compass, but real life steers our course. Katherine Yellin had only wanted to honor her sister. Amy Penn had only wanted a big career. Elias Rowe had only wanted to run his business. Pastor Warren had only wanted to serve God.

  Desire set their compasses, but the events of the last sixteen weeks had steered them far off course.

  So Katherine, Friday night, was hustled from the giant stage, wondering why she had never heard Diane call her “sweet sister” before.

  Amy Penn was trailing behind her, staring at the media as if coming out of a cult.

  Elias Rowe now felt obligated to Nick Joseph’s son—a boy he’d never met.

  And Pastor Warren, whose church had grown too full for his mission, would meet the Lord alone, after taking his final breath in a hospital bed late Friday night.

  Sully Harding had one desire as well: to kill a man named Elliot Gray, or Horace Belfin, or whoever he was, to make him pay for the ways h
e had haunted Sully’s life. He drove four miles at a breakneck speed with this fury burning inside him, his muscles taut, his hands ready to do the deed, every breath in his lungs oxygenated by revenge.

  But when his Buick pulled down the street, real life changed his course. He slammed the brakes. He recoiled.

  Red lights were flashing silently. The house was surrounded by police cars. There were troopers walking the perimeter, and a cluster of dark, unmarked vehicles that Sully figured for government.

  “Jesus,” he whispered.

  Desire sets our compass, real life steers our course. Sully Harding would kill no one tonight.

  He shifted the Buick into reverse.

  After Midnight

  The Coldwater celebration continued into the night, and Lake Street was as crowded as a parade route. The mill served free cups of hot cider. Plates of pies and cookies were laid out on bridge tables. A church choir stood in front of the bank, singing an old hymn:

  High in the heavens, eternal God, Thy goodness in full glory shines . . .

  Two miles out of town, Sully Harding, who had once again been halted by the inbound traffic, surrendered his last ounce of patience and yanked the wheel harshly to the right. He steered the Buick out of the long line of cars, then hit the gas, speeding along the rocky shoulder between the road and Lake Michigan. He had to get home. Had to get to Jules. Had to find some answers.

  What had all those squad cars been doing at that house? Did the police know that he’d been there? Was everything going to come out? Would they be looking for Sully next?

  Why Coldwater?

  Because of you.

  Me? What do I have to do with this?

  You really don’t know?

  Who was Horace? Was Elliot Gray alive? It can’t be Elliot Gray! Sully tried to focus, but his head was pounding and he was unable to string more than two thoughts together. As the car sped along, he began to perspire. His neck hurt. His throat was dry. He heard the words you should slow down in his brain, but they were like something yelled from far away.

  He blinked hard, then blinked again. His car bounced, and a rock flew up and cracked the windshield with a sharp thwock. Sully lost focus for an instant. The road curved left, and when he steered that way, his headlamps threw light onto three people—man, woman, child—who had gotten out of their car to gauge the traffic. They froze. Sully’s eyes widened in horror. He jerked the wheel as he slammed the brakes and the car swerved wildly to the right and skidded uncontrollably before flying off the bank, soaring over low brush that poked up from the snow. For a brief and silent moment it hung in the air, more airplane than automobile. Just before it crashed onto the frozen lake, Sully’s instinct was to reach over his head and eject.