by Mitch Albom
“This is my heaven,” Cleo said.
“Watching people come home?” Annie asked.
“Feeling the joy when they do. Souls reuniting. It’s something divine.”
“But it happens every day.”
Cleo tilted her head. “Don’t divine things happen every day?”
Annie watched the happy greetings with a twinge of regret. The afterlife, clearly, was to be filled with others; she could see that now. But her afterlife meant being without Paulo, the person she loved most. How could she ever be content?
“What is it, Annie?”
“My husband. I was trying to keep him alive. I don’t know if I did. All I remember is the operating room, a doctor’s hands on my shoulders, him saying, ‘See you in a little bit.’ But then, nothing.” Annie struggled with the words. “I’m all right with dying as long as Paulo lived. Just tell me my death wasn’t wasted.”
The old woman smiled.
“No act done for someone else is ever wasted.”
* * *
With that, Cleo nodded to a final door, and as it swung open, Annie saw her nine-year-old self jump off her bicycle and run to hug Cleo the day she thought she lost her.
At the same time, the old woman leaned in to Annie, and a sudden warmth oozed through Annie’s fingers and palms. Her wrists reappeared, then her elbows, biceps, and shoulders.
“My arms,” Annie marveled. “They’re back.”
“To hold what you love,” Cleo whispered.
Then, in Annie’s new grasp, Cleo’s womanly frame shrank down. Her coat tightened and became her fur. Her legs pulled in. Her ears and snout elongated. She was revealed as the puppy she used to be on earth, and she panted as Annie held her up and said, “There you are. Cleo. Cleee-o!”
Annie’s mind was flooded with memories: Cleo running alongside Annie’s bicycle, Cleo snapping pizza from Annie’s plate, Cleo rolling over as Annie tickled her belly. She felt a joy she had not known in years. After all this time, after all the disappointments and letdowns, Annie was holding her old dog again. Maybe Cleo was right; maybe reunion was heaven-sent.
“Good girl,” Annie whispered, feeling a grateful tongue lap against her cheeks. “Good girl.” She closed her eyes to revel in the old sensation.
When she opened them, her hands were empty, and she was alone in the desert once more.
SUNDAY, 11:14 A.M.
Tolbert was furious. He’d been calling Teddy, his assistant, for nearly an hour. No response.
How do you not answer the phone? What if I was a customer? Tolbert swore he would fire Teddy when he saw him, even though it wasn’t easy to find balloon pilots these days.
Tolbert himself had come to ballooning late, when he was fifty-two, after retiring from a naval career. He’d been a pilot early on, and even when they said he was too old to fly, he maintained his interest in aviation. A balloon wasn’t exactly a fighter jet, but it got him in the skies and employed familiar areas of expertise: wind and weather analysis, equipment inspection. And Tolbert liked that you could work by yourself.
Well, almost, he thought now as he stewed over Teddy’s irresponsibility, almost by yourself.
He turned his wife’s car down a dirt road, a few miles from the barn that stored the balloon equipment. He squinted. Then he slammed on the brakes.
Up ahead were four police cars blocking the road, their lights flashing.
An officer was waving Tolbert in.
The Next Eternity
Heavy winds blew the desert sands away and Annie felt herself rising into swirling shades of scarlet and rose. She spun like a pocketwatch on a chain. Then, for the first time in heaven, Annie fought back. She flailed as if trying to detach from a hook. Her legs had returned, and she used them to kick, until a final surge broke her loose and she fell.
She fell through open air and through coral-colored clouds, until she saw below her a large pink island, with five peninsulas jutting out like spokes. She braced for a hard impact, but at the last instant, she flipped over and landed softly on her back.
She was lying in pink snow.
“Hello?” Annie yelled, her voice echoing in a teenaged timbre. “Is anyone here?”
She flapped her arms and legs to ensure everything was functioning. She rose to her feet. Annie felt older now, stronger; it seemed she was reconstructing her earthly body as she advanced through heaven. Her thoughts were maturing as well. An edginess had come over her, a young adult’s impatience. She wanted answers.
She looked down at the frozen pink surface.
Her imprint had created a snow angel.
* * *
Annie glanced around. Was anyone coming to greet her? She began to walk, then she jogged, then she ran, lifting her knees to shake the snow loose. She flashed on her childhood winters, and suddenly she was wearing her old fuchsia jacket, fur boots, and black ski pants, as if the memory had dressed her.
The snow went on as far as she could see. The sky was streaks of cinnamon light. Annie ran towards the peninsulas until she felt exhausted. She shut her eyes to gather her thoughts.
When she opened them, she saw the snow angel back in front of her. Only this time, where the head was indented, there were two eyes looking out.
Annie moved slightly. The eyes followed.
“Are you here for me?” Annie asked, tentatively.
“Are you here for me?” a voice echoed.
Annie looked around.
“Do I know you?” Annie said.
“Do I know you?” it echoed again.
Annie leaned in and squinted. The eyes squinted back. Annie recoiled. She saw these eyes every day in the mirror.
“You’re . . . me?” Annie said.
No response.
“Say something.”
The eyes stared upwards.
“What are you looking at?”
With that, the pink snow rumbled and the five peninsulas curled in like fingers. Annie realized she was not on an island at all, but inside the palm of a giant hand.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
Annie trembled. No, she thought, recognizing the voice immediately. She raised her eyes to where the angel’s eyes were looking, and the sky filled with the most familiar face of her life.
“Mom?” Annie whispered. “Is it you?”
Annie Makes a Mistake
She is twelve years old. She is starting middle school. She hopes it will be better than elementary school. By the time Lorraine finally enrolled Annie, it was midway through third grade. Annie was “the new kid.” On her first day, the teacher distributed art supplies, and, unable to grip tightly with her left hand, Annie dropped them in front of everyone. The other kids laughed.
“Now, class,” the teacher warned, “just because a student is different, that’s no reason to act differently towards them,” which Annie knew was an invitation to do exactly that. Her self-consciousness grew.
As the weeks passed, she tried to make friends, sometimes through gifts. She snuck bags of chocolate chip cookies from home and handed them out during recess. One day she heard some girls talking about Smurf dolls, and on a trip to the store with her mother, she shoplifted a box of them, hiding them under her sweatshirt. She gave those out, too—until a teacher noticed and called Annie’s mother, who was mortified and dragged Annie back to the store and made her apologize to the manager.
All through fourth grade, and much of fifth and sixth, Annie had to wear splints to keep her fingers straight. The ugly purple scars drew looks, and Annie developed a habit of hiding her left hand whenever possible—behind her back, in a jacket pocket, shielded by a notebook. She often wore long sleeves despite the Arizona heat.
Her mother insisted she do her rehabilitation exercises multiple times a day, making the thumb touch each finger, as if forming the OK sign. She did these at her desk, hoping no one would notice, until the time she got in an argument with a girl named Tracy.
“OK, Annie, OK!” Tracy yelled, mimicking the signs with her han
ds. Others laughed. It became Annie’s nickname, “OK Annie.” Most of the kids called her that now.
Paulo—the boy she met during leapfrog—never did. Annie felt safe around him. He smiled a lot and seemed confident. One day, in the cafeteria, he leaned over and lifted her hand into his, without even asking.
“It’s not that bad,” he said.
“It’s gross,” she replied.
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Where?”
“I saw a picture of a guy who got attacked by a bear. That was gross.”
Annie almost laughed.
“I didn’t get attacked by a bear.”
“You couldn’t. There’s no bears in Arizona.”
This time Annie did laugh.
“Would you change it back?” Paulo asked.
“You mean back to normal?”
“Yeah. If you could?”
“Are you kidding? Totally.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It makes you different.”
That’s the problem, Annie thought. Still, she appreciated Paulo’s compassion. As she got to know him, she learned he liked football and outer-space stuff. On a trip to the library, Annie rifled through the astronomy books until she found one with a chapter on the northern lights, something he talked about a lot. The next day, before class began, she put the book down on Paulo’s desk.
“Look what I found,” she said.
His mouth curled into a smile. “What?”
“Just something I’m reading.”
She flipped open to the chapter, and Paulo’s eyes widened and he said, “No way!” Annie felt warm inside, and she pushed the book towards him.
“For you.”
“I thought you were reading it.”
“I can read it when you’re done.”
“Cool,” he said, taking it. Then he added, “Thanks a lot, Annie.”
Not OK Annie. Just Annie.
* * *
With the two of them now in middle school, Annie hopes she can see Paulo more, but her mother continues to control her every move; she drops Annie off each morning, and every afternoon she is parked in front of the main entrance, beeping her horn. Annie lowers her head and walks rigidly to the car, certain she hears other kids laughing.
One day, with classes finished, Annie is standing in the front vestibule, looking through the glass. A group of pretty girls is just outside, all with purple backpacks slung over their shoulders. Annie hesitates. She doesn’t want her mother to honk while these girls are around.
“Waiting them out?” Paulo says.
Annie looks up, flushed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Come on. I want to talk to your mom.”
Before Annie can react, Paulo is already out the door. He strides confidently as Annie hurries to keep up. She sees the backpack girls staring.
When he reaches the car, Paulo leans towards the window and offers his hand. “Hi, Annie’s mom, I’m Paulo.”
Lorraine hesitates. “Hello, Paulo.”
“Now that we’re in this new school, I can walk home with Annie so you don’t have to drive her every day. I don’t live too far from you.”
Annie’s heart races. Paulo wants to walk home together?
“Thank you, Paulo,” Lorraine says. “But we’re fine. Come on, Annie, we’ve got errands to run.”
Annie doesn’t want to go. She doesn’t want to open the door. Paulo does it for her. She slowly ducks inside and reluctantly lets him close it.
“If you change your mind . . .” Paulo says.
They drive off.
“Bye!” he yells.
Annie feels her skin get hot. She had wanted nothing more than what Paulo just proposed, and her mother shot it down without a thought.
“Why did you have to be so mean to him?” Annie snaps.
“What are you talking about? I wasn’t mean.”
“Yes, you were!”
“Annie—”
“You were!”
“He’s just a boy—”
“God, Mom! Why do you have to be here all the time? I’m so sick of you! You treat me like an infant! You’re the reason I have no friends!”
Her mother squeezes her lips, as if biting back something she wants to yell. She shifts her hands on the steering wheel.
“Do your exercises,” she says.
The Third Person Annie Meets in Heaven
“Mom?” Annie whispered.
Her mother’s face laid claim to the sky. It was everywhere Annie looked. Annie realized how natural it felt saying that word, Mom, yet how long it had been since she’d felt it pass her lips.
“Hello, angel,” her mother replied, a phrase she had used when Annie was small. Her voice seemed to be pressed to Annie’s ears.
“Is it really you?”
“Yes, Annie.”
“We’re in heaven?”
“Yes, Annie.”
“Did you go through this, too? Meeting five—”
“Annie?”
“Yes?”
“Where is the rest of you?”
Annie looked at her hollow middle, visible now through the winter jacket. Her voice quivered.
“I made a mistake, Mom. There was an accident. A crash. Paulo. I was trying to save Paulo. Remember Paulo? From school? We got married. We had one night together. Then a balloon ride. It was my fault—”
Annie stopped and dropped her head, as if the weight of the story were draped on top of it.
“Look up, sweetheart,” Lorraine said.
Annie did. Her mother’s skin was flawless. Her lips were full, her thick auburn hair dark at the roots. Annie had nearly forgotten how beautiful her mother once was.
“Why are you so big?” Annie whispered.
“That’s how you saw me on earth. But it’s time you see me as I saw myself.”
Her giant hand lifted, then tilted down towards her face. Annie stumbled forward, into her mother’s eyes, which opened like a deep well, swallowing her whole.
* * *
Children begin by needing their parents. Over time, they reject them. Eventually, they become them.
Annie would go through all those stages with Lorraine. But, like many children, she never knew the backstory of her mother’s sacrifice.
Lorraine was only nineteen when she met Jerry, who was twenty-six. She worked in a bakery; he drove a bread truck. Lorraine had never traveled more than thirty miles from her small town, and she dreamed of escaping its boredom and the stiff, high-cut uniform she wore every day. One evening, Jerry showed up in a suede jacket and engineer boots and suggested they go for a ride. They drove through the night, and didn’t stop until they reached the East Coast. They drank. They laughed. They splashed barefoot in ocean waves. They used Jerry’s jacket as a blanket on the sand.
Three weeks later, they were wed, in a civil ceremony in a downtown courthouse. Lorraine wore a paisley dress. Jerry wore a maroon sports jacket. They toasted each other with champagne and spent the weekend in a beachside motel, going for swims and drinking wine in bed. Their passion was strong, but like most passions, it burned fast. It was already waning when, a year later, Annie was born.
Jerry was not present for the birth. He was out of town on an overnight truck run that somehow turned into five days of absence. Lorraine’s brother, Dennis, drove her home from the hospital.
“I can’t believe he’s not here,” Dennis grumbled.
“He’ll come,” Lorraine said.
But as the days passed, he did not. Lorraine was getting calls, friends wanting to visit, asking the baby’s name. Lorraine knew the name she wanted. It was inspired by a woman her grandmother used to talk about, Annie Edson Taylor, who, in 1901, when she was sixty-three, climbed into a barrel and became the first person to go over Niagara Falls and survive.
“Now that old gal had courage,” her grandmother marveled. She said “courage” like it was something rare and precious. Lorraine wanted that for her child. She wished she had more of it herself.
When Jerry finally did come home, it was a Tuesday night and he reeked of alcohol. Lorraine cradled the baby. She forced a smile.
“This is our new daughter, Jerry. Isn’t she beautiful?”
He tilted his head.
“What’re we gonna call her?”
“Annie.”
Jerry snorted.
“Like the movie? What for?”
* * *
From that moment on, Lorraine felt as if she were raising Annie by herself. Jerry took longer truck runs. He’d be gone for weeks. When he was home, he wanted his sleep undisturbed, his food on time, and his wife’s full attention when he was ready to pay some to her. If Lorraine looked up at her daughter’s crying, Jerry would grip her jaw and turn her face back towards him, saying, “Hey, I’m talking now.”
His anger increased as the months passed. So did his physical force. Lorraine was ashamed at how afraid she’d become of him, and how quickly she responded to his demands, hoping to avoid his grabbing or pushing. They never went out. She was constantly washing clothes and dishes. There were times when she wondered how, in just a few years, her life had gone from so open to so shut. She often thought about a different path, if she hadn’t worked at that bakery, hadn’t met Jerry, hadn’t gotten in his truck that night, hadn’t been in such an impetuous rush to get married.
But then she’d scold herself for imagining a world without her daughter in it, and she would lift Annie and feel her small bulk lying against her and Annie’s buttery cheeks and the way she slid her arms around Lorraine’s neck, and it erased any thought of another life.
This is the disarming power of children: their need makes you forget your own.
* * *
By Annie’s third birthday, Lorraine sensed her marriage would not last. By Annie’s fourth birthday she was sure of it. Jerry’s absences were no longer just about work, and when she confronted him over other women, his violence erupted. Lorraine tolerated him out of misguided guilt and the belief that her little girl needed a father, no matter how bad he was.