The Heavenly Heart

by Jackie Lee Miles

  There’s a message printed on the back, as well: The Lilac—one of nature’s most wonderful gift—needs rich soil, adequate drainage, direct sunlight, and regular pruning for an abundance of bloom, growth and vigor. This sounds quite lovely, and their choice of a moniker is no longer a puzzle to me.

  Tonight there are twelve people, three who are here for their very first time, including my mother. They begin by introducing themselves. Then they’re encouraged to give a short description of their loss and what they hope to accomplish by coming. The man sitting to my mother’s left says he is Wendell Warren and his son was murdered after being carjacked on a downtown street in Atlanta. The killers took his BMW, but first they took his life. Mr. Warren’s struggling with the reality that it is he himself who selected and purchased the vehicle as a college graduation gift. He’s convinced that if he’d purchased a Chevy Nova, or maybe a Ford Escort, like his wife suggested, his son would still be alive.

  I feel sad for him. He’s probably right. BMW’s or Beemers, as my father calls them, are very popular with crooks.

  The leader asks Mr. Warren if his wife will be joining them. Mr. Warren sits frozen like a deer captured in the headlamps of a car. But only for a moment, then, he bravely faces the group and says no. That is no longer possible. His wife killed herself a month after their son’s funeral.

  “She shot herself in the head, he says.”

  He found her in the bathtub, he whispers. “She was never one to make a mess,” he adds.

  I like him very much. His eyes are kind and filled with pain, yet they twinkle like no amount of anguish can ever fully extinguish what’s always been there.

  The leader says she’s very sorry and quickly moves on to my mother, who announces that she has lost her daughter in an utterly grotesque manner, doesn’t wish to ever speak of it, has absolutely no idea what she hopes to gain, but will enlighten them the moment that she does, thank you.

  After the session ends, Mr. Warren invites my mother to join him for a cup of coffee. There is a Starbucks he says in the new strip mall just around the corner. He is reverent and soft-spoken, such a gentle man.

  I think my mother should say yes. It’s the kindest thing to do. He is in so much pain. It would mean a lot to him, of this I’m sure. He offers a whisper of a smile while he waits for her answer.

  My mother responds as if he’s asked her to accompany him to the back ally and perform a sex act on the main appendage of his lower body.

  ELEVEN

  The Golden Window

  I’m dozing on the white satin pillow, too comfortable to even open my eyes, when I hear the knock at the door to my father’s hotel suite. It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for.

  My mother’s meeting at St. Benedictine’s is over. I pretend she was kind enough to accept Mr. Warren’s invitation and had a coffee and even a scone at Starbucks. Then I remember the look on his kind face when my mother rejected his invitation.

  But I forgive her. That’s how dedicated she is to my father. Now her devotion will be rewarded. My father has gone to great lengths to make this an evening she will remember. Surely my mother is flying to Savannah this very moment to join him.

  He still has on his Armani trousers, but he’s taken off his dress shirt and is wearing the green velvet smoking jacket she bought him for Christmas, along with the blue paisley ascot that has become her favorite.

  He looks like Paul Newman when Mr. Newman was younger, like the pictures featured on Biography, except that my father is older, of course, and has lots of gray resting at his temples. He’s forty-six but, if you didn’t know of his long history with heart disease, you’d think him to be the epitome of good health. Having recovered from his transplant, his face radiates a happiness I haven’t seen since I was little.

  But it’s my mother’s face I’m eager to see right now. I continue to rest on the soft pillow in the Golden Window, my eyes closed, savoring what’s to come. Anticipation mounts. I wait for the sound of my father opening the door. Soon, I hear the slight creak of the hinge.

  I snap to attention and open my eyes, wishing with all my heavenly being that I had a camera to capture this moment: the joy on my mother’s face when she sees what awaits her, the flowers, the champagne, the enormous bed with the crème satin coverlet, the down pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets with the exquisite gold piping.

  But, they don’t have cameras in Heaven.

  I tell Pete we have them on Earth that take pictures to last a lifetime. He is back from his job for the day.

  “Do they have ones that last for all eternity?” He replies.

  He licks his finger and draws a blue line on a nearby cloud like he has scored a point. I giggle and watch the cloud float off.

  “Sssshhhh,” I say, and point to my father far below me.

  He’s about to usher my mother into his suite. I lie back and close my eyes once again. I hear the click of the cylinder and the soft swoosh as the door swings open. I hear the murmuring of endearments and the heavy muffled thump when the door automatically closes itself. I picture my father sweeping her into the room and taking her into his arms. I open my eyes and move to the edge of the Golden Window and peer closely. I’m frozen in place.

  My father kisses her passionately. Her face is radiant as the morning sun, her eyes brighter than crystal. Her hair is polished black silk—black? Huh? I snap my eyes closed. This can’t be! I look again. Her skin is flush with color, her lips swollen and sweet as ripe nectarines. Her breasts are pressed against my father’s chest. He fumbles with her buttons and gently lifts one from its cup.

  I’m overcome by their intense hunger. Each is a grand banquet the other will devour. I can’t describe it without using my mother’s words. Yes, that’s it. It’s glorious, this passionate resolve welling in their hearts. They cannot survive another moment outside the other’s body. Except! Except! Oh, don’t let it be. Pleaaaase! This is all that I pictured this moment to be. It’s all that I wanted it to be—except for one major thing. The truth that has been staring me in the face all along has arrived: It’s not my mother my father is undressing.

  TWELVE

  The Golden Window

  Pete’s busy with Miss Lily. She got here early this morning. I want to shove her aside and wrap myself in his arms. I want to tell him what my father’s up to. I want to spit it all out and see if he can fix it. Of course, I don’t. He wants me to let go of all this stuff and travel upward to the Purple Mist, to what he says will bring me joy. “Pure joy,” he says. Right.

  So, do I trust that he knows best? Nope. I keep going back. I keep hanging on. I’m causing all this hurt, but do I stop? Nope. I gotta see what’s left behind now that I’m no longer there. It’s my very own “As the World Turns”, and I’m hooked.

  I turn and watch Pete comfort Miss Lily. Her face is full of wrinkles but for an old lady she’s really cute. She’s confused. She tells Pete—insists really—that’s she’s not supposed to be here. Not yet.

  “I held Mr. Mann’s hand as he took his last breath,” she says. “He was to arrive first.”

  She’s referring to her husband, who Pete says won’t be arriving at all. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her.

  “Mr. Mann is below,” Pete says, and the tiny woman squints through the Golden Window to see if she can spot him.

  All that remains are the twisted cars of the commuter trains. They’re entwined like pretzels. They’re smoking mangled heaps of steel. The trouble started when a land rover drove onto the tracks directly in front of the train. The first train hurled itself against the vehicle and burst into flames. It derailed and collided with another going in the opposite direction.

  The car where Ms. Lilly and Mr. Mann sat was sliced open like a can of tuna. The roof disappeared. The interior crumpled. The steal of the exterior is all that remains. It looks like a big shiny fish that’s been badly filleted. Rescue workers race to the hospital. Some take their time and head to the morgue. Later the cranes will come and pull
the string of twisted metal apart and haul it away on freight trains. Some real smart guys will sort through it and try to find out what went wrong and who’s to blame. Earth’s very good at pointing fingers.

  The newspapers will carry the story for three thousand weeks. People will pick up the front page hoping to read about a grisly murder or a motorcycle accident or maybe car-jacking, or a freak accident, like a guy drives his car off the parking deck, anything that’s a fresh-kill, but nope, it’s the same ole story. Trains collide head on. Scores killed. Hundreds mangled. Well, it’s true, there aren’t many survivors, but you’d think journalists could tell it once and be done with it. Nope. They’re like a bunch of blood suckers. The have to get every drop. Give them a good story and they’re on it forever. Remember OJ? Bingo—two years worth of headlines taken care of. Hey man, OJ just offed his wife. You kidding? Check it out. He’s in the white Bronco running the cops ragged down Interstate 405. They rub their palms together. They’ll make a pile of money! Maybe win a Pulitzer. Now this train wreck. Can’t you hear them? We got a major train wreck! Cool! We’ll be knee-deep in headlines till New Years.

  Miss Lily squints deeper. “I can’t see him,” she says, and adjusts her glasses. She has tiny pink hands. They’re shaking. Her skin is transparent as lip gloss, her shoulders are sort of hunched and her hair’s a cap of cotton the color of silver.

  Miss Lilly pulls her shawl tighter and points to a paisley bag still resting on the burgundy velvet seat.

  “There,” she says. “We were sitting right there. We’ve never been apart, you know,” she says. “Fifty-nine years,” she adds and Pete nods. He places his arm around her shoulder and leads her to a garden more opulent than Eden.

  “Is he below, below?” she says. Pete nods again as he takes Miss Lily’s hand in his.

  “Oh dear,” she says, and collapses on the platinum bench along side Pete.

  His eyes are pools of light, his shoulders wide and soft as rain. His arms are stronger than the ocean wind as he shelters her like a magnificent cave carved out of rock. He taps the air with his chin like a majestic maestro.

  She’s weeping like a willow. I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her to chill out. Everything will be alright, but I’m still hanging on to earth, so I’m not sure it will be.

  THIRTEEN

  The Silver Lining

  I’m in the Silver Window, but don’t want to travel through it right now. I’m perfectly happy—for awhile anyway—to stay where I am. It’s become my favorite resting spot when I want to hide out from what’s going on below. I can sit here in the Silver Window and view my life as though I live. I don’t have any trouble remembering that it’s the Golden Window that portrays what’s truly happening below and the Silver one that lets me pretend that I’m still there.

  Later when I am over the shock of what my father’s up to, I’ll curl up in the Golden Window and see what’s to become of him. And what about my mother, will she be okay? I’ll find out if that woman—the dark-haired babe sitting in the lounge at the Ritz Carlton—will destroy their lives. Obviously, she was the one who knocked on my father’s door. Like, duh! Who else?

  And my mother is none the wiser. She’s attending more meetings for parents of dead children, sitting quietly next to Mr. Warren, ignoring his kindnesses to her. Bad move. My father’s a philanderer, and my mother’s a fool. She should take that plate of happiness Mr. Warren has placed before her and savor it like an exquisite meal. She should relish every bite. Soon it’ll be too late. It’ll grow cold and solid as the winter blanket spread across the Colorado Mountains where we ski. It’ll be whisked away and gobbled up by the hungry disposal of time. Pity.

  FOURTEEN

  The Golden Window

  My mother is telling her support group of my father’s pursuit of those that have my organs. They don’t think it’s silly at all. In fact, one lady—whose daughter might have lived had they found a suitable bone marrow donor—suggested my mother should be comforted by the fact that though I died, others live.

  “Perhaps you could meet with one of them,” she said. “It may add some closure,” another added, and still another said, “Who knows? Maybe the experience will leave you knowing your daughter is at peace.”

  So now my mother is telling my father she’d very much like to see his list. She asks him who he’s met so far, and what he thinks. He seems reluctant to share the information. He’s acts like he owns the information. Just like him. But, my mother persists, which surprises me. I’ve never seen her stand up to my father before. Her cheeks are flush and she’s holding her head at a very nice angle to her body, with her chin tilted upwards. She looks great! Way to go, Mom!

  She explains that she’ll absolutely not take no for an answer.

  “Alex,” she says, “You’re being difficult again, but it’s not going to work.” My mother sits down in the wingback chair next to the one my father sits in each morning to read the stock report.

  “I have every right—”

  “Fine,” my father snaps, and puts the newspaper down. He opens the top drawer of his desk and removes a slim black notebook. He thumbs through the first few pages, his lips pressed tightly together. My mother clears her throat and brushes a lock of her hair out of her eyes with her index finger. My father simply hands her the notebook and leaves the room. The book has his initials in gold leaf on the cover. He has a stack of these in the cabinet next to his desk; one for every year of his adult existence. I scribbled in one once. I was maybe three years old and overwhelmed with the beauty of my artwork. My father was not impressed. “Lorelei,” he explained, “these are not to trifle with. You have your own books to color in.” But his were so inviting, such crisp white paper edged in gold—and the firm black cover with the matching gold embossing was extra special. Mine had Clarabelle the Clown in a multi-colored clown suit on the outside cover, and the paper inside was flimsy and yellow by comparison.

  “These are for my appointments,” my father said, thumbing through the pages to show me the entries. There was at least one notation on each page. He placed the notebook in the étagère, along with the others. They’ve been there ever since, the stacks growing taller with each passing year. If my father’s ever accused of a crime he has detailed data to prove he was elsewhere.

  My mother’s thumbing through the notebook, gliding her fingers slowly across the page. My father’s notes are easy to read. For sure he’d get an A in handwriting. There’s is a list of names with a slash next to each, and the name of an organ—in caps—next to that. It’s kind of creepy—the organs listed are mine! There’s: Mona Scott/KIDNEY. She has three children and lives in Texas. Prior to the transplant she’d been on dialysis daily. Her prognosis without the transplant was dim. My father’s notes include the postscript: very dim. My mother’s fingers linger on these words. She takes a deep breath. Her eyes are watery, but the corners of her mouth are tilted slightly upward. She seems quite relaxed. It’s very possible her support group was right. Pursuing what my father already has, may do her good.

  I want to meet this Mona and her children. I’ve got a bunch of questions. How old are they? Are they girls? Boys? Both? Did they know how sick their mother was? Have they always lived in Texas? Are they rich like us? It’ll be an adventure! I want my mother to propose to my father that she meet with Mona. But I see that she’s pouring over my father’s notes on the next entry. It’s also a woman with the word KIDNEY next to her name. Kirsten Lankford it says, Attorney-at-law. She’s twenty-nine, soon to make junior partner. She’s single and lives in Savannah.

  Yep. She’s the one my mother wants to meet with. My father’s reluctant; pointing out that a trip to Texas might suit her well.

  “Texas?” My mother exclaims. "Why in the world would I want to go there?”

  My father says it’s where Ms. Scott lives with her husband and children. He taps the notebook next to her name.

  “Perhaps later,” my mother says. “This young attorney is in Savann
ah. You know it’s one of my favorite places. And she’s closer in age to Lorelei. I want to meet Ms. Lankford.”

  My father looks very unhappy. He’s a strange man to figure out. What difference does it make which one on his list my mother meets with?

  Right now, my father’s spending the weekend with the black-haired babe. They’re having dinner in the fancy-schwanzy dining room at the Ritz Carlton. She travels to Atlanta on business a lot and is prettier than ever. I call her Black Beauty, but her skin’s more like Snow White’s. Pete’s not amused. He says nothing good can come of my snooping and invites me to come see the baby rooms.

  “Now there’s a lovely pastime,” he croons. “Such angels—babies, babies, everywhere!”

  “In a minute,” I say. I absolutely love babies, but I want to hear what’s up with my father and Black Beauty first. They have their heads together and are whispering in earnest. I can’t hear anything they’re saying, and it looks very serious. My father’s quite solemn and Black Beauty’s cheeks have lost all their color.

  “It’s going to be fine,” my father says, and signals the waiter. “You’ll see.”

  Black Beauty nods, but the look on her face says, “No way, Hosea.”

  * * *

  My father’s packing to go out of town again. He’s headed to Texas to visit with Mona Scott.

  “Kidney,” my father says—which is to say she has one of mine.

  Mona lives in Sugar Land, Texas. It’s a suburb of Houston. It’s all there in my father’s daily planner, letter perfect notes, listing specifics:

  Mona Ruth Scott, age thirty-eight, homemaker, KIDNEY

  Husband: Robert Allen Scott, accountant

  Three children: Allison, Robert, Jr. (Bobby), and Bradley

  Below that are pages of notes outlining the circumstances which led to her needing one of my kidneys. You’d think a person living in a place called Sugar Land would lead a fairytale life. And maybe now, Mona does. But, prior to her transplant, she was near death and receiving dialysis three times a week to have the toxins removed from her blood. My father’s notes are quite specific. Mona was experiencing end stage renal disease, commonly known as kidney failure. She was high on the priority list to receive the next available match. But, she got sicker with each passing day, regardless of the dialysis treatments, which meant she was in danger of not only losing her life, but of losing her place on the priority list. If she wasn’t considered healthy enough to survive a transplant, those in charge could move someone ahead of her who, was. It’s great to think that one of my body parts was a perfect match, but eerie to realize she got it only because I croaked in the nick of time. I’m anxious to see what she’s done with her life, now that she has one. I lean back in the Golden Window, eager for my father’s journey to begin.