Heaven or Hell

by Roni Teson

  Her dad took a deep breath and cautiously sat down in the middle of the cloud, crossing his legs. “I’m trying to tell you, when I sobered up it was so easy to get real busy with my new addiction of helping people. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get here and be with you. I’m sorry.” He put his head in his hands.

  Angel sat with Kail in her lap and listened, which she was used to doing. She rarely had opportunity to interact with people, so out of habit, she sat and quietly listened.

  “I started helping people and I couldn’t stop. My personal penance became my saving grace, and maybe it worked—because I’ve lived longer than I was supposed to. Now, I’m ready to say good-bye to that tired old body and take my daughter home to her mother.”

  “How do I know for sure I’m Angela? Why can’t I remember?” Angel asked.

  “My Angel, relax, it will come. My best guess would be to follow your gut. Does it feel right?”

  “Yes, at this moment it does.”

  “You know my mother, your grandmother, gave all of her kids names that start with the letter ‘J.’ It seemed to be a family tradition. I was named after my Uncle Joe, and I think JJ was named after him too. Marion didn’t want to follow that naming convention. She was a strong woman, your mother. She said she knew the names of her daughters before both of you were born.” Her dad looked out at some distant place.

  “Why the name Juan? And why use it now?”

  “It’s my name. It was Uncle Joe’s name too. Juan Joseph Torres. I go by both Joe and Juan.”

  “When did I become Angel?”

  “I always called you Angel. Your mom wanted you to go by your name. She’d get so mad at me when I called you Angel.” He raised his voice to a shrill tone, “Her name is Angela.”

  Angel felt a tiny tickle inside her belly, like butterfly wings beginning to wreak havoc on her insides.

  “Angela, you’d be in your thirties right now if you were in the flesh, and I’m a granddad. It’s amazing—where did the time in between go?”

  The question bothered her though she couldn’t say where in her being she felt thrown off balance. “Instead of being thirty, I’ve been trapped for all these years. Don’t get me wrong, I love the girls and being with them, but for a long, long time, I’ve known that I’ve missed out by not moving forward. Maybe wherever my mom is there’s another life for me.” Her body deflated a little.

  “When you were ten you were teased by the kids at school because you insisted Santa Claus was real. Remember how I created a boot print going up the chimney, and you set out milk and cookies? Every year I ate the cookies and kept the mystery alive. Oh gosh, that part was fun.”

  Angel shook her head to signal no.

  “When you were twelve, you graduated from elementary school. The whole family showed up, including Uncle Joe. You graduated with straight As, and we celebrated with a huge barbecue at home. Teresa and your mother put a big banner up on the garage. In fact, years later, I think the idea for the bumper sticker came from that banner. Remember, the sign said: ‘Our Angela is an honor student!’ The whole thing was a huge surprise to you, and, Angel, you were so shocked and happy that day.”

  “No. I don’t remember,” Angel said. She felt strange—both herself and not herself.

  “Okay, the day of the accident. You were upset. Some girls were messing with you at school. Your mother was sick and you were trying to get by without asking for help. Your sister was busy getting ready to graduate from high school. Your clothes were wrinkled and not looking so good. It was Teresa’s idea …”

  “Okay, okay. Those mean girls, Sara and Nancy, made fun of my hair and my clothes. Oh no, Dad, they were awful.” Angel put her hand to her mouth and frowned. “It started as whispers and eventually it seemed like the whole school was in on it.”

  Angel felt a familiar pain in the pit of her stomach. She sensed this emotion was something she’d avoided for at least decades. Her head felt foggy, as if a dark cloud were putting pressure around her ears and on top of her skull. Oh gosh, it was so familiar, and now it was making her feel sick, but she hadn’t felt this way in years. The darkness was about those cruel, cruel girls and that time in her life as Angela.

  She’d overslept that day and had forgotten she didn’t have any clean clothes. In a hurry to get to school, Angela pulled some wrinkled clothes out of the hamper and ran a cold iron over them. To make matters worse her hair was in tangles and needed to be cut and styled. She was a mess, and she hadn’t been shopping for new clothes since the previous school year. Her mother’s illness had changed things around the house, and her father hadn’t spent much time with them. Angela had come home crying—as much as she tried to hold it back, she couldn’t.

  Her dad nodded and for several minutes they sat and stared at each other. “And now, my daughter, we’re going to get all of you out of here.”

  CHAPTER 16

  JESSIE HAD SAT QUIETLY AT HER brother’s bedside for quite some time before she decided to pull out his journal and finish reading his crazy story. It seemed as if all of his life the man tried to be normal, but everything he touched was extraordinary—for better or for worse. Joe had a zest for life, but the pendulum rested on the far side of good or the far side of bad, with little balance in between. The man knew nothing about moderation.

  She flipped through the book to find her place and continued reading.

  Something or someone was making me face my demons. And yet I felt some pleasure from moving in silence and being with myself, facing my inner desperation. Later, I slept again and when I awoke I thought I was in the light. It was light, all right, the light in the hospital. And I was in a world of hurt—but I was grateful to be back, no longer in that other horrific and disorienting realm.

  I made a lot of deals on my walk through Hell—all the things I’d do if I got out. The deal I felt the most committed to was helping the helpless, the folks who were as bad off as me—with no hope and no one at all to reach out to them. For years I had been completely and totally hopeless in that way, adrift.

  I’m no saint, that’s for sure, and my intentions weren’t and aren’t altruistic. I made a deal, with my higher power I guess, and a deal is a deal. I got out alive, so I’ve helped as many people as I could.

  When I was fully awake in that hospital bed, I was surprised to see Father Benjamin at my side. I shared with him parts of my experience in my own private hell, and he told me he’d been watching me on my journey. I was out for a few days after the surgery, where they’d removed my gallbladder and left me knocked out. The doctor put me in some type of induced coma to get me through the DTs as easy as possible. The priest said it was the worst he’d ever seen. Hell, I don’t know how, but soon Father Benjamin became my friend. Who would’ve thought I’d be chummy with a priest?

  I didn’t share my whole life with the father, either. In my shame, I left out the family part. He didn’t know that my dead wife, Marion, was yelling in my ear, and that I had visions of my dead daughter, Angela, stuck in the clouds, haunting me. I conveniently left out the fact that I’d abandoned my only living child, Teresa, in the cold to fend for herself. He had no inkling that I had remaining family. Living the lie was easy, too. I was still out of it when he asked me, and I never confessed when I was able to. It never came up again and I wasn’t about to volunteer the information.

  The father helped me through the program, and he got me a place to live. I was diligent at staying sober and fixing the world—in fact, manic is a better word. Father Benjamin worked hard at keeping up with me. I put in a lot of time repairing things around the church so he made me the handyman. It’s odd I was sober and didn’t experience a single trigger from anything around me. The pit in Hell surely woke me up. I really went to work at making amends by helping these guys out on Skid Row, and ignoring the rest of my life.

  I learned quickly to go alone to the Row and find some h
elpless guys and bring them back to the church. If I brought one of my newfound friends home, well, sometimes it’d take an hour or a day, but they’d go back out. The drink, the streets were a pull to these folks who had known nothing else for so many years. And for the life of me, I can’t figure out why, because it stunk—really, really bad—with the odors of puke, alcohol, urine, and terrible hygiene. Who am I to judge, though? I lived in it for so long, too. Disgusting what we do to ourselves because of this evil disease.

  So I pulled a few guys out, and the next day they’d go back to their haunts. I’d return to bring them in, and do this over and over again. Then one day, a guy stayed on. At last, the feel of success, so I kept at it, going through the same routine repeatedly until another one stayed off of the Row. For every ten I lost, I’d keep one. Juan Torres, the saint, they’d say. I’d just smile and tell myself, “A deal is a deal.”

  The ultimate test came the day the old guy we called the General sobered up. He started talking smack about a hit and run he’d been involved in years ago. Well, it might not have been smack, but it pissed me off because in my mind it was Teresa and Angela’s accident. He went on and on about it during my meetings when I first became a counselor.

  The General said he woke up after a night of drinking and his car was wrecked, but he couldn’t remember what had happened. Memories of an accident came to him over several weeks in small fragments. He didn’t know where it had happened or what other car was involved, but he knew he’d gotten in an accident and somehow he’d made it home—a place he couldn’t remember now.

  I’ve always thought it strange that the General claimed to not know his own name but he could remember this accident. He insisted it was because this event drove him over the top, and the more time that went by, the greater the torment—though he continued to be too scared and too drunk to do anything about it. He drank to forget the accident, and instead he forgot everything else, including his name.

  Of course, I obsessed over this guy, the General. I thought of the irony of him showing up at my program, and he’d be the one who killed Angela. I got everyone on the staff to try to find the General’s identity under the guise that this old guy’s family should take care of him. We all did a ton of research. My team is good at finding families and identifying people, but we found nothing on the General. As weeks turned into months, the old guy and I sort of became friends. I could relate to his experience, more than I wanted to.

  To this day, we don’t know who the General really is and if he actually was involved in a hit and run. Eventually, I did confront him, and as a result he’s one of few people who has some knowledge of my past. When I heard about his accident and couldn’t find out a single thing, it was just too much for me to handle. So he and I had an ugly confrontation, which we eventually worked through.

  As bizarre as it sounds, the General soon became a link to my family. First I wanted to kill him, and then I wanted to make him my family.

  Here’s the other thing I find fascinating about this situation: Most of these guys can’t keep their tongues still about things they’ve heard—and well, the old guy kept his mouth shut about my girls’ accident (which was really all I told him about, not about Teresa or Marion).

  The General would come and go, and sometimes he’d come back sober and physically clean. But for the most part, the General was a mystery. He’d dry up—this wasn’t an easy task—and then a few months later he’d be back at the bottle again. Over this last year, his health kept getting worse. When he’d go missing, we’d head out to the streets and bring him home.

  Thoughts of the General weigh heavily on my mind, and as I sit quietly and think about it, the old guy might have Alzheimer’s disease or some form of dementia. I think he’d sober up and forget he sobered up, and then he’d start drinking again. I also believe this plays a part in his having no memory of who he is.

  Now we’ve been trying to find the General for the last few days. I’ve got a dreadful feeling about him going missing this time. I believe I’ll never again see the old guy alive.

  Jessie closed the book. She stood up and stretched as she approached her brother’s bed, where he lay asleep with tubes still attached to various parts of his body.

  “Joe, you sap. How could you not call or see your daughter before this?” Jessie spoke in a tone just above a whisper.

  Her brother had always attracted messes into his life, but his wife Marion was different. She was the best thing that ever happened to him, and for several years they’d lived with their girls like the perfect family. Could it be that Marion was strong enough to reach across the grave and get to Joe? Well, if anyone could do it, it would be Marion. What about Angela? She’d had such a hard time at school and dealing with the other kids. That little girl was smart, for sure; her sad life and her death were a genuine tragedy.

  Joe coughed, and his eyelids flickered.

  “Are you waking up?” Jessie asked.

  He turned his head toward her and opened his eyes with a squint. “It’s bright in here,” Joe whispered and coughed.

  Jessie moved to the doorway and dimmed the switch. “It doesn’t seem that bright to me, Joe. I think your body’s sensitive.”

  “Ya think?” Joe said.

  “Okay, smarty pants. You want some water?”

  “Please.” Joe’s face shined over with a mist of perspiration on it and his breathing appeared shallow and too fast.

  Jessie found the fresh water pitcher, cup, and straw that Willa had placed on the ledge by the window. She poured a cup for Joe and held the straw to his lips so he could drink. Joe placed his free hand over Jessie’s hand holding the straw.

  “We need to talk,” Joe said with a stronger voice now, a few steps louder than a whisper.

  Jessie nodded. “Yes, we do.”

  He sipped the water and moved his nose toward the table. Jessie got the hint and placed the cup down but continued to stand next to her brother in silence. He blinked his eyes and appeared to be trying to move his body. Jessie frowned at her brother’s self-inflicted condition. If only his life hadn’t gotten so out of control. She pulled the remote up from the side of the bed and placed it on Joe’s chest.

  “You’ve got quite the imagination, Joe,” Jessie said as she waved the notebook in front of him.

  Joe held the bed remote in front of his eyes to examine the settings but turned to look at the notebook and nodded toward Jessie. He then squinted again at the remote and pushed a button. His feet moved up. “Oops,” he muttered and continued to push buttons until he’d positioned himself as upright as possible.

  “I don’t have much time.” Joe’s voice was almost inaudible.

  Jessie nodded.

  Joe continued, “I’m not good at talking about any of this. I didn’t have enough time to finish that notebook.”

  “It looks like an unusual attempt to give your daughter an excuse for your actions. What really happened, Joe?” Jessie asked.

  “I’ve seen and talked to Angela, too. Since I’ve been in this coma, I mean. My daughters are stuck. Both of them, and it’s my fault.” Joe closed his eyes.

  “Wake up and talk to me.” Jessie didn’t recognize her own strained voice.

  His eyes opened. “I’m awake. I’ve just seen better days.”

  “I bet,” Jessie said.

  Joe smacked his lips. “I’ve been hearing things for years, and when I meditate quietly I can speak to Marion.”

  “Are you crazy? That’s what you’re going to tell Teresa?” Jessie felt a splash of heat on her cheeks.

  “It’s the truth.”

  “The truth? Joe, I think you don’t know the truth.” She frowned.

  “Let me explain. I know you’re angry, and you’ve every right to be …”

  Jessie interrupted. “You’re a son of a bitch. After all this time, you offer a tall tale. Did it ever occur to
you that you were hallucinating?”

  “I’ve had hallucinations, and that’s not what this is.” Joe swallowed. “If you’ll listen to me—this is real. More real than the moment we’re sharing now. My little girl watched you and Teresa visit the church. Angela saw the picture of her and Teresa—you know the one with the boots. The photo in my office, you saw it too. She watches Teresa get ready every morning, and she’s been at Teresa’s side for years. Angela knows JJ. I didn’t make this stuff up. I wasn’t there. She told me herself.”

  “Well, the priest was there, and he certainly could have described our visit to you. So your knowing what happened doesn’t tell me much.” Jessie pursed her lips together.

  “Father Benjamin will tell you—he hasn’t said a word to me about this.”

  “Come on now, Joe. I find this hard to believe.” Jessie shook her head.

  “I know.” Joe sighed.

  Jessie pulled the chair closer to her brother’s bedside and sat down. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I’ll be gone soon, and I’m going to take Angela home to be with her mother. For some reason I find it necessary to communicate this to Teresa. Marion is insistent that Teresa has missed out on a lot during her life. She says both of our daughters are stuck, just in different ways.”

  In reality, though Jessie had challenged Joe quite harshly, to some extent she wished she could accept his version of events. She wanted to forgive her brother for the heartache he’d given them. But his so-called “experience” wasn’t very believable, and right now all she could hope for was to prevent him from doing any more harm.

  “Teresa has a successful business and raised her son—on her own. She’s not on the streets, no drugs, no real suffering other than the pain you inflicted, and the damage you’re about to create after all these years. Why now, Joe? We spent years trying to find you. You broke that little girl’s heart. I can’t believe any of this is about her. It’s about you, isn’t it?” She needed to show him how selfish he was being in trying to convince them of this crazy story.