The Heavenly Heart

by Jackie Lee Miles

“The movie?” Pete says.

  “Yeah, this guy George got in trouble and wished he’d never been born. Then Clarence, this totally cool angel, showed him what life would have been like if he hadn’t of been.

  “Yes, yes, I remember,” Pete says.

  It affected so many lives you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Oh, I would believe,” Pete says.

  “So, I’ll be seeing—”

  “You’ll be seeing your life had you continued to live it.”

  “Right, the opposite of George Bailey,” I say happily. “He saw life as if he hadn’t lived it. I’ll see mine as if I had. Totally cool!”

  “Right,” Pete says and his eyes light up.

  “You promise?”

  “I promise,” he says. “But remember, just like ole George, you may not be happy with all that you see.”

  Of course, he’s wrong. What could be more wonderful than seeing a life that was cut short, go on? I’m ecstatic. I flit in and out the window as easily as a sparrow. I zoom around like I have wings. When I tire of that, I plop onto the soft pillow, dizzy with happiness. I stare at the endless expanse and the infinite colors that surround us and realize this is eternity. But something’s missing.

  People!

  “Where are all the others?” I ask.

  Pete points to the vast universe above us. It is a gold and purple haze that stretches far beyond what my eyes can see. I marvel as it shimmers and sparkles and wonder why I’m here and not up there.

  “You’ll go there next,” Pete says. Now I know he has a porthole to my thoughts. I hadn’t said a word.

  “When will that be?”

  “When would you like it to be?”

  I’m not sure, so I don’t answer. I’m resting next to him on the satin pillow that is softer than down feathers. It’s a totally cool window. It’ll take me back, if not to live my life, at least to see it firsthand, as if I had. It’ll be almost as though I never left! This excites me. Every part of me tingles. I lean deep into the pillow and close my eyes. I’m on the ascending rail of a magnificent roller coaster. Pete is beside me. We’re not at the top, yet, but close, very, very close. Swooooooooooooooosh! We plunge over the edge and roar down a descending track so steep it’s nearly impossible to hang on. I grab Pete’s hand. He’s my rock. We’re tossed out of the coaster, spinning like whirling dervishes. We fly past the sun. Down! Down! Down we go! We fall through clouds as gentle as rain. We soar through the bottom of the Silver Lining.

  “Here we go,” he says. “Hang on!” We’re hurled into the wind. It howls as we enter its belly.

  “Can you see?” he yells.

  “Yes!” I squeal. “I can!” I look beneath my feet as the wind tosses us into a gentle breeze. It rocks me like a baby. I lie in the sway of the tender gust that holds me until I’m able to catch my breath. My hands are shaking and something familiar is beating again in my chest. It feels like my heart! I can hardly wait for what comes next.

  “I see my parents! There they are!” I look back at Pete while I point.

  They are close enough for me to touch. I grin and turn once more to Pete. He’s reverent. I’m crazy happy and giggly silly.

  Then I look again. My mother’s crying. I’m standing beside her in the Ralph Lauren dress she bought me at Lord and Taylor. I never wore it and never planned to. The last time I saw it in my closet it still had the tags attached with little gold pins under one arm. It’s navy blue and has matching pumps and a purse with silver accents. Now, I’m wearing this gross outfit and I have on navy blue hose. Dorky! The leather purse is on the seat beside me.

  I look sort of grown-up, except for my eyes. They’re as swollen and red as a little kid’s who’s been crying for hours. I’m chewing my bottom lip like gum. It cracks and starts to bleed. My mother opens her pocket book and hands me a tissue.

  There are people gathered around us in a room I’ve never seen before. It’s got more flowers than a garden. My father’s lying at the front of this room in another little room, kind of a room within a room. His part has creamy carved wood all around it, and a very fancy arched doorway above it. The ceiling has three parts to it with each section a little higher than the one below it. It’s got this funky light directly over his head. It’s glued to his face. Bits of dust are floating in the light. They’re dancing around like it’s some kind of party and this is serious stuff. I brush the dumb dancers aside, but they never miss a step. My mother shakes her head, then, takes my arm and draws us closer. She places her hand on my father’s chest and gently rubs the folds of his suit coat. She leans over and kisses his cheek. I touch my father’s hands. They’re folded one over the other with his wedding band hand resting on top. They have make-up on them. They look like wax, but when I lift one up, it’s heavy.

  “Uuuuh!” I gasp and place the dead weight quickly back down. His fingers look like they’ve been carved out of wood and lightly stained. What have they done to my father’s hands?

  Up close, the spotlight staring at his face is creepy. I wish they’d turn it off. It makes me shiver. I’m crying, first just a little. Then something grabs me—a pain so bad I grab my chest. Now my tears are sobs. They run down my face and plop one after the other onto my dress. My mother places her arm around my shoulders. She pulls me tight and inches me close to where my father’s head rests on a really nice pillow etched in lace. I lean over and kiss my father’s cheek, just like my mother did. My tears spill all over him as he lays in his . . .his resting place. I can’t say the real word. It’s stuck to my tongue.

  A tall stately man whispers to my mother that they’re ready to begin the service. He’s wearing an elaborate gold name badge. It says Thurgoode Castle, Director in script. He guides my mother gently to her seat. He motions for me to follow, then nods to two other gentlemen who are now standing like guards on each side of my father. They have the same badges pinned to their suit coats, with different names engraved, of course. I look at Pete. He’s next to me, but I know the others can’t see him. I realize he’s right. There are things I don’t want to see. Oh, please! I watch as the guards close the mahogany lid. Please! Please! The enormous brass buckles are snapped firmly into place. A huge wreath of roses and lilies mixed with baby’s breath is placed on top; ribbons of black satin trail down the sides. Your Beloved Wife and Your Precious Daughter is stamped in gold and sits in the center. This is the silver lining.

  “It’s not what I expected,” I whisper to Pete, choking on the words.

  “No,” he says, “it’s life, Lorelei. And life here includes death.”

  And it sucks. I know Pete hears my thoughts. He winces.

  Sucks! Sucks! Sucks!

  “So there!” I say, and look up. My mother jumps. Pete takes my hand. He places his arm around me and lets me rest my head on his shoulder. He doesn’t breathe a word, just gently pats my back. I’m liking him more every second that I know him, and I liked him pretty much, to begin with. I don’t care that he is ancient and wrinkled. He’s warm and funny and I love his soul. It’s pure gold; it feels my pain. I know this.

  I look in his eyes and see that it’s written there, clearly, in a language called understanding.

  * * *

  “Why did he have to die?” I say. We’re on our way back and my heart is heavier than a baby elephant.

  “You weren’t there to give him yours.” Pete answers. “They were looking for another match when his gave out.”

  There’s a fluttering inside my chest. It quickly fades and what was beating leaves me, once again. Will my heart slip back and forth in place each time I make this journey? Pete says it will.

  “It’s safely back within your father, now,” Pete says. I’m relieved and sigh.

  “Remember Lorelei, the Silver Lining will not change anything, permanently. Everything you experience through it is temporary.”

  “I know that.” I tell him.

  Yet it felt so real when I was there, that I forgot.

  FIVE

 
; The Golden Window

  I’m chilling out in the Golden Window, recovering from our trip through the Silver Lining. I look below and see that my mother is sitting next to my father’s hospital bed. The doctor says he’s doing great with his new heart—my heart. No signs of rejection.

  Having been to his funeral, I’m relieved to see he’s very much alive. My mother states they’ll have to make arrangements for mine. They can’t put it off forever.

  I’ve decided not to go. Of course, my body will be there. What I mean is I won’t sit in this window and watch. I’ve seen enough of death to know I don’t want to see it again.

  Pete says it’s a good decision and asks if I’d like to “go upstairs”, like the place above us is, merely steps away.

  “It is,” he says.

  “I’m not ready,” I tell him. My heart is aching from our trip to Earth. Even so, I want to go back again and again. It’s like a drug.

  I want to see more and more of what would have happened if I hadn’t been so stupid and irresponsible the night my life ended. Of course, that means my father will be dead, but only for the time I’m there. It’s all sort of creepy and selfish, no doubt. Even so, I can’t help myself. I want to know what happens next. And like Pete said, my father won’t really be dead. Pete’s constantly reminding me that the Silver Lining is “what if.” The Golden Window is “what is.” And he’s very concerned I won’t keep it straight. I promise him I will. He’s not so sure. I cried for hours when we got back. He told me every joke he knew. There was absolutely no consoling me, until the last one cracked me up.

  “So,” Pete says, “I meet this guy at the Pearly Gates who heads this HMO and I tell him of course he can stay. But only for three days, then he’s out of here.”

  With that, I am out of my funk.

  “Why do you look old, try to talk cool and act young?” I ask.

  “I don’t,” he says. “That’s how you hear and see me,” he says. “Everyone perceives me differently.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “It wouldn’t be heaven without that provision,” he says, “What if they thought the real me was a jerk, and they were stuck with me for all eternity?”

  “I thought that was eternity?” I say, and point to the purple and gold mist above us.

  “It is. But so is this,” he says.

  I’m confused.

  “Lorelei, up there’s the living room,” Pete explains. “This here’s the front porch. It’s all the same mansion.”

  I laugh. Pete has answers for everything. I lie back on the pillow and stretch my legs. Maybe I’ll take a nap. I never used to like naps, but here they’re nice. And you can take as many as you want. No one calls you to dinner or asks you to water the plants or answer the door. We set our own schedule. We do what we want, when we want. You want to sleep till noon? Hey—no problem. That part of Heaven is heaven. But I miss what’s going on below me. And I know I’ll never be ready to go upstairs until I no longer do.

  * * *

  I curl up in the Golden Window and peek in on my parents. I see that they’re trying to go on with their lives and I’m relieved. Magazines and talk shows are full of stories where tragedy strikes and alcoholism, divorce, and addiction take over.

  My father is home and taking long walks. He’s getting stronger every day. His cheeks have so much color it’s hard to believe it’s really him. He’s been sick for as long as I’ve known him. Now he looks younger and leaner. I never really noticed when I was down there, but now I see that he’s very handsome, with sandy hair and deep blue eyes. Of course, his hair is graying at his temples, but on him it looks really cool. My mother says it isn’t possible for him to be more appealing, and thank God for that. She’s always thanking God, but it sounds like she could substitute any name, Harold or Joe or Bob, and it would be the same.

  “Thank God. I thought they’d never leave,” she might say. That would be in reference to the Hillermans, business friends of my father. My mother finds them especially boring. They bring scads of photos from their trips around the world.

  Or, “Thank God, Onetta will be here early today,” she will say, usually on a Monday, since there is always a weekend of messes to clean up by then.

  Onetta is our housekeeper. Before that, she was my nanny. She took me from my mother’s arms the very day my parents brought me home. My father said my mother needed rest. My mother said, “I certainly did!”

  I’m told it took too many hours for me to get here and my mother nearly died, and Onetta cared for me until my mother felt up to it, and tried to, but never did.

  So it’s Onetta’s face I remember most—the one who made my heart leap and my legs jounce and my arms dance, each and every time she leaned over to take me out of my crib. She was sun and I was morning.

  She and her family are African-American, but my parents call them Negroes. I told them they didn’t want to be called Negroes anymore. My parents said they didn’t care.

  Onetta’s skin was rich and creamy, shiny and black as tar. I noticed when I was little that mine was white and pasty. It didn’t shine at all. It made me very sad. I spent hours rubbing baby oil on my arms until they glowed. The oil rubbed off and stained my clothes. My mother saw and asked me why in heavens name I would do such a thing.

  “I want to have pretty skin like Onetta,” I said, and dumped even more oil on my arms. She snatched the bottle of Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Oil out of my small hands.

  “Stop that!” she said. She was very angry and I wondered why. Onetta could wash my clothes. But Mother was on a tirade. She was spitting out words that didn’t make sense. She grabbed hold of my arm.

  “Silly child,” she said, and gave it a good shake. “You are not to do that! Ever! Do you understand? Do you? You will never be like Onetta!” she screamed. “You are never to try to be. Do I make myself clear?”

  I was hiccupping and crying, but nodded that I did. She let go of my arm and went to the sunroom to make notes for a dinner party she and my father were planning.

  I ran to the kitchen to find Onetta and hid behind her backside, which was wide enough that I could. I’d be safe until mother calmed herself. I told Onetta what I’d done. She laughed and picked me up.

  “Chile, you be wasting your time. Come sit down and eats this lunch I makes you.”

  It was always something delicious. Food was putty in her hands. She could prepare a vegetable you hate and make you beg for seconds.

  “The good Lord give you the kind skin he wants you be have,” she said and tied a dishtowel around my neck. She smelled like lavender and honeysuckle.

  I settle back in the Golden Window and realize I miss her more than all the others. She is the kindest, hardest working person I know.

  Onetta came every day, but Sunday, the Lord’s Day, she said. It’s wasn’t negotiable she added, when my mother mentioned New Year’s Eve fell on it some years. They always had a grand party. My mother said it was to welcome in the New Year with joy, and to say goodbye to the old one with respect.

  If my mother’s conscience could speak, hers would have said she was lying. Hers would have said, “Good riddance, you pathetic year.” There were many, but my mother pretended they belonged to other people. The privileged are required to have good ones, she said, or it’s a waste.

  I was happy that Onetta came each day. I loved everything about her. She talked to me while she cooked and worked around the house.

  “Don’t bother Onetta,” Mother told me later. “She’s here to work. It makes our lives easier.”

  It must have made hers very difficult. She had four children who had no father. I mean, they had a father at one time. Onetta didn’t hatch them like eggs. But she didn’t mention him, except to say his name was Clarence and he was friends with the Devil, and she was waiting for Jesus to bring him back into the fold.

  “Will that be soon?” I asked.

  I knew it must be hard for her to feed all those children on a maid’s salary. And she needed a n
ew car. Hers was very old and moaned like Marley’s ghost come back to haunt us.

  Mother had her pull it completely around back from the circular brick driveway and park it next to the gazebo which was surrounded by trees.

  “It’s closer to the kitchen,” she chirped gaily to Onetta.

  But I knew it was so the neighbors wouldn’t notice. Onetta knew that, too and winked so only I could see.

  “Such an eyesore,” Mother whispered and shook her head.

  I didn’t respond, but I wanted to. I wanted to say, “If it’s such an eyesore, why don’t you buy her one that isn’t?”

  They could have easily done that. My parents were rich. But I kept that thought to myself, next to all the others I stored up through the years. My mother said what a sweet child I was—she wanted to absolutely, positively gobble me up. I was adorable, just adorable, she said, and smothered me with kisses.

  Actually, I was a frightened child, who thought she would never love me like that again, if I told her how I really felt. I was a coward. But her love was very important and her kisses were equally delicious. I felt I must have them for always. I couldn’t risk it. I stayed mute. I didn’t stand up for Onetta. It burned a hole in my chest.

  I prayed to Jesus to make me strong, to say what was right and why. Nothing happened. I was as fearful as ever. I told Onetta my prayers didn’t work. They didn’t get answers. She said, “The Lord be working in his own good time.” I told myself she was probably right. She knew a lot about working.

  “You got to get some that patience, Miss Lorelei.”

  I was four years old and had no idea what patience looked like, or where it could be hiding.

  I set out to look in the back of the enormous hall closet. If it was there I could grab a handful while no one was looking. It wasn’t, but I stumbled upon my Easter basket which wasn’t due to be there until Sunday. I sat wondering how it got there so early. I climbed out from under my mother’s furs and my father’s cashmere trench coat and slipped on a family of dust bunnies.