The Color of Heaven

by Julianne MacLean

  Exhausted and disheartened, I had no more fight left in me. My brain was shutting down. All I wanted to do was sleep.

  I held on for as long as I could until my eyes fell closed. The next thing I knew I was falling…

  Down, down…

  Slowly sinking toward my capsized car.

  I settled lightly on the steel undercarriage, beside the muffler.

  The rest of this makes no sense to me as I recall it, for my eyes were closed – I was not conscious – yet I was able to see what was happening from a location outside my body.

  The convulsions and violent jerking of my legs were disturbing to watch. It was a seizure caused by the lack of oxygen to my brain. I understood this with great clarity as I watched myself twitch and finally go still.

  Afterwards, I floated there for about twenty minutes, wondering if I should stay or go for help.

  In the end, I decided to stay, because I just couldn’t bring myself to leave my body alone, in the cold, dark water.

  A short while later, I squinted through the murky depths and blinked a few times, for I thought I saw Megan swimming toward me. How was this possible? As she drew closer, I realized that it was not a hallucination. It really was my daughter, and I was no longer alone.

  A heavy splash startled me. I looked up and saw oodles of tiny, sparkly bubbles floating around a shifting black shape. It took me a few seconds to grasp that it was a scuba diver with flippers and a tank.

  I darted quickly out of the way.

  With quiet fascination, I watched as the diver scooped me up into his arms and carried me to the surface.

  Megan was gone by then. She had said what she needed to say.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The ambulance ride was strange. I looked quite dead on the stretcher – my skin was ashen and my lips were blue – but no one was trying to revive me with CPR or anything like that. They were only trying to keep me warm.

  The female paramedic listened to my heart every minute or so with a stethoscope and kept shaking her head, but she told her partner that I wasn’t really dead until I was warm and dead. She also mentioned that her own dog had been accidentally shot in the woods, trapped in snow for over an hour, but had made a full recovery.

  I was surprised by that. I wanted to ask her more about it, but I knew she couldn’t hear me.

  The noise of the siren was startling. I wished the driver would shut it off.

  At last, we arrived at the hospital. The ambulance doors flew open. The paramedics pulled my stretcher from the vehicle and the wheels extended to the pavement.

  Suddenly there was a team of nurses and doctors all around me. With great efficiency, they rushed me inside.

  According to Wikipedia, clinical death is “the medical term for cessation of blood circulation and breathing, the two necessary criteria to sustain life. It occurs when the heart stops beating in a regular rhythm, a condition called cardiac arrest.”

  That’s what happened to me, almost a year after Megan passed from this world. I stopped breathing when I sank to the bottom of the lake, and I died there.

  My circumstances, however, were outside the norm, for the reduced temperature of the water caused my blood pressure to drop, and all my systems slowed. Everything except for my heart and lungs continued to function, including my neurological activity – which didn’t exactly explain why I was able to sit beside the paramedics in the ambulance and witness everything they said and did.

  I wasn’t questioning that, however. At least not while it was happening. It had all felt quite normal.

  I was not in any pain, and the panic was gone. It had subsided completely after I left my body. I was no longer afraid of dying. All I felt was an intense yearning to go back to the lake and search for Megan. I wanted to see her again, desperately so, but I just couldn’t seem to stray too far from my poor lifeless form on the gurney.

  As soon as I was wheeled into the emergency department, the doctors and nurses set about bringing my body temperature back to normal, then they began aggressive cardiopulmonary resuscitation. I watched all of it from an elevated location in the corner of the room, just below the ceiling.

  The head emergency doctor placed the defibrillator paddles on my chest and said, “Clear!”

  Everyone paused and watched the monitor.

  Perhaps that’s when I re-entered my body. I can’t be sure, but I do recall that I lost my breath for a moment. I zoomed through the air like a bullet.

  Here, my memory fails me. All I can say is that I was no longer an out-of-body spectator, staring down at myself on the gurney. There was only darkness and silence, and I could think of nothing but what Megan had said to me at the bottom of the lake.

  “There are things you need to do, Mommy. Questions you need to ask. You can’t be done yet. You need to forgive someone.”

  Who doesn’t, I ask you?

  Perhaps you should think about that, while you’re healthy enough to do something about it.

  Take my advice. Don’t wait until you’re dead.

  Going Home

  Chapter Twenty-two

  On the day I left the hospital, the air was misty, the sky overcast. I passed through the hospital’s sliding glass doors, crossed to the parking lot, and looked up at the clouds, which were hanging very low.

  Surely this was some sort of miracle. How else could I explain that I had died and seen Megan in the lake, and that she had spoken to me?

  Michael would never believe it. He’d probably call me insane, which was why I had no intention of ever telling him. Besides, I had business to attend to. Things I needed to sort out back home.

  An ambulance siren wailed somewhere nearby. It rang in my ears.

  I wondered if I should have called my sister to drive me to Camden. Surely I was in no condition to take care of myself.

  Or maybe I should have called my father...

  No. I wasn’t ready to see him. At least not yet. There were things I needed to do first. Questions I needed to ask. Megan had been very clear on that point.

  A blue sedan approached me, and only then did I realize I was standing in the middle of the parking lot. I stepped gingerly to the side, but the driver behind the wheel – an elderly man with thick glasses and white hair – took no notice of me as he searched for an empty parking space, spotted one, and carefully pulled into it.

  I watched him get out of his car, shut the door behind him, and shuffle to the hospital entrance. He disappeared through the glass doors, and again, I was alone.

  Panic came upon me suddenly. My heart jolted. I couldn’t breathe.

  Glancing back at the hospital entrance, I was half tempted to return and tell the nurses I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I had been through a terrible ordeal and probably required some sort of anxiety medication, but I resisted the urge to go back inside. I may not have known what my future held, or how in the world I was going to navigate through it, but I did know one thing: I needed to return to the place where I had once been happy, where I had been a hopeful, optimistic person before the ground gave way under my feet.

  I needed to return to my childhood home in Camden, where I would find the mother who had abandoned me twenty-three years ago. I needed to ask her the question I’d always wanted to ask, but had avoided all my life.

  I clung to the hope that her answer would save me.

  Megan told me it would.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Camden, Maine

  The morning broke in a menacing shade of grey, and the heavy scent of spring rain hung thickly in the air.

  Eyes downcast, I walked through the downtown core of the small seaside village where I had spent the early years of my childhood. Camden had been my home until I was fourteen, but after my mother left town, Dad, Jen and I did the same. It’s not surprising that Mom had now returned to our empty house. It was her birthright after all. She’d inherited it from her parents shortly after Jen was born.

  As I watched the cracks in the uneven side
walk pass by under my feet, it occurred to me that I was avoiding the sights and sounds around me. I suppose I didn’t want to bump into anyone who might remember me. I was in no mood to explain what I had been up to over the past two decades, or why I had stayed away for so long, much less what I was doing back here now, ready to confront the woman who had broken my heart so long ago.

  A motorcycle roared by, causing me to lift my gaze. Its engine sputtered foul-smelling black smoke. On the other side of the street, a chocolate Lab tied to a signpost barked at the obnoxious racket.

  A man in a baseball cap hurried by. His hands were buried in his pockets. He looked tense and shivery.

  Stopping in front of the soda shop, I moved a little closer to the window and cupped my hands to the glass. As I peered inside, I was suddenly affected by a wistful nostalgia, for almost nothing inside had changed.

  How vividly I could recall climbing up onto those red vinyl stools as a girl. My father would always order my sister’s favorite for both of us – root beer floats – though I preferred strawberry ice cream.

  I recalled also, in spectacular detail, the man who owned the shop. His name was Max. He had a thick black mustache and always wore a blue striped apron.

  At that moment, he emerged from the back room carrying a cardboard box. He, too, looked exactly the same. He bent to set the box on the floor, then reached for a cloth to wipe the countertop.

  I could have lingered there for quite some time, simply reminiscing, but I had come home for a reason, so I continued on my way.

  A short while later, I approached the house where I grew up – the white Victorian mansion that stood on a cliff overlooking the sea – and felt an uncomfortable stirring of emotion deep in my heart. I had been happy here once. When we were all together as a family, my world had been a place of joy and love.

  Again, I felt the nostalgia I had experienced in front of the soda shop, and it surprised me, for I’d expected to feel only resentment upon my return. But somehow, the happy memories – and there were quite a few of them – eclipsed the more difficult events that had come later. I found myself wanting to dash up the stairs and burst through the door to my old room.

  I worked hard to keep a clear head, however, and walked alongside the ivy-covered picket fence, pausing at the gate while I listened to the thunder of the waves crashing onto the cliff face below.

  Much had changed since I’d last stood here. What had once been a wide green lawn with a stone walk to the front stairs was now an English garden. There was a trellis covered in vines, though the leaves had not yet sprouted. It was still too early in the spring, and everything appeared lifeless.

  Such was the case with the large, rectangular flowerbeds, boxed in by rough-hewn logs with the bark scraped off. Nothing green flourished. There was only dark, wet soil everywhere, the occasional leafless shrub quivering in the fog.

  I had never been one for gardens. They were too much maintenance, and if you didn’t do the work, the plants died or the garden grew to chaos. There would soon be too much chaos here, I thought.

  At least the house looked well. Mom must have had it painted recently.

  What was she doing now? I wondered.

  My mother.

  What was she going to say when I knocked on her door? What was I going to say?

  Rubbing briskly at my arms to ward off the morning chill and prepare myself for what was about to transpire, I opened the gate. The hinges whined like an old cat as I entered the yard and started up the walk to the covered veranda.

  When I reached the door, I knocked. It opened almost immediately, and there stood my mother, Cora, wearing that old familiar pink bathrobe with the little pompoms on the belt. I remembered it well. Her blonde hair had gone grey, but her eyes were still the same.

  “Sophie.” She hesitated briefly, and placed her hand over her heart.

  Had she known I was coming? She didn’t seem surprised.

  “You’re here.” She paused again. “It’s good to see you. I’ve been waiting a long time.”

  I found that hard to believe.

  Anger rushed through me. Why did she leave us all those years ago? How could she have done that?

  And why didn’t Dad fight harder to make her stay?

  For a brief moment, I was tempted to turn and leave before I started ranting. What was the point of this after all these years? Didn’t I have enough turmoil in my life?

  Something held me hostage, however. Perhaps it was Megan. She had told me to come here, and I couldn’t let her down.

  Also, I was curious. My five-year-old daughter had seemed to know a great deal about my life when she treaded water with me in the lake. She seemed exceedingly wise, more like a mother to me than a daughter.

  I suppose she had experienced something very profound when she passed away – something beyond the scope of what I knew of this world, or the next. She had been gone a whole year, while I had been dead only briefly.

  “Why?” I asked my mother, as I stood shivering on her front porch. I had come this far. I couldn’t fail now to ask the question that had haunted me all my life. “Why did you leave us? Didn’t you know how much damage you were doing?”

  Her expression darkened with concern as she gaped at me. “Why? That’s an awfully big question, Sophie. I think you better come inside so we can talk about it.”

  Taking a step back, she held the door open for me.

  It was about time.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  While my mother locked the door behind us, I glanced uneasily at the familiar floral wallpaper in the front hall, the mirrored bench with the tarnished coat hooks, and the ornately carved oak banister on the wide staircase to the left. It almost hurt to look at everything, for it took me back to the happy life I once knew, before it broke apart.

  The house was quiet. There was no radio or TV blaring anywhere, only the sound of the sea, drifting in through an open window in the parlor.

  I wondered how my mother could bear to live in this giant, old house all by herself, but remembered that she preferred to be alone, otherwise she never would have left us.

  “Come into the kitchen,” she said. “I was just about to make some tea. You look like you could use a cup.”

  Willing myself to behave in a civilized manner, I followed her.

  The kitchen was painted a sunny shade of yellow with restored cherry cabinets and a new granite countertop. Green plaid valances framed the windows. Near the back door, there was a tall built-in bookcase for her cookbook collection that hadn’t been there before. A few other things were different, too. Gone was the 1950s-era table with the sparkly white top and shiny chrome legs.

  “When did you get this?” I asked, running my hand over the antique pine gem. “It’s lovely.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” she replied. “I always thought this old house needed some traditional pieces.”

  She was right. It was a Victorian. Aluminum furniture had no business here.

  “Please sit down.” Mom turned the knob on the back of the stove.

  I rubbed my hands together and took a seat, wondering how long we would need to adhere to these polite rituals before she would answer my questions and talk to me openly about the past.

  For a few minutes, I watched her putter about. She found the teabags and rinsed out the pot.

  “It may surprise you to hear this,” she said, “but I’ve always known what was going on in your life. Your father kept me informed, especially when Megan was ill.”

  My heart lurched with shock at this news, not to mention the sound of Megan’s name upon my mother’s lips. “He did? You and he kept in touch?”

  He had never mentioned it.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I know how difficult it must have been. I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m also sorry that I never got to meet Megan when she was alive.”

  A painful lump lodged in my throat. I couldn’t speak. It still hurt to talk about Megan, and the fact that my mother had been absent all thes
e years and hadn’t even sent a card after the funeral when she knew what was happening… That didn’t help matters at all. I certainly didn’t feel any responsibility to assuage her guilt.

  She slanted a disapproving look my way. “I also know things have been awkward between you and your father. That you’re not close, and you never visit him.”

  I shut my eyes and stroked my forehead. “You’re a fine one to talk about not visiting someone, Mom. And please don’t speak to me as if I am a child who is misbehaving. You gave up that right as a parent when you left us. So it’s really none of your business how Dad and I feel about each other now.”

  Although that wasn’t entirely true. I had come here to gain a better understanding about the relationships in my life. I wanted to know why she left. Why everyone left – Michael, and Megan, too. I needed to understand what happened between my mom and dad.

  Why didn’t he love me like he loved Jen?

  I had an uneasy feeling that I already knew the answer to that. I’d always known it.

  But did I really want to hear it now?

  Mom set two mugs on the table and looked me straight in the eye. “I don’t blame you for being angry, but you came here looking for answers, so if you want to hear the whole story, that makes it very much my business, because I’m the only one who knows the whole truth.”

  I leaned back in my chair and glanced toward the window. Outside, the ocean continued to hiss and roar as the waves crashed against the rocks.

  “Did you know that he always disapproved of everything I did?” I asked. “He hated my friends. He told me I was too headstrong for my own good, and he never accepted the fact that I wanted to write. He wanted me to choose some other career. ‘Something less creative.’” I shook my head. “He never treated me the way he treated Jen. She could get away with murder. He would have walked through fire for her, but he didn’t feel that way about me.” I met her gaze. “But you… You were the opposite, so I never understood why you left. I blamed Dad. It had to be his fault. It couldn’t have been mine.”