by Mitch Albom
Mayor Jeff Jacoby, in an open-collared shirt and navy sports coat, stepped to the podium and put his hands on the microphone. His first words—“Good evening”—squeaked with feedback. People covered their ears.
“Hello? . . . test, test . . . is that better?”
The meeting was limited to Coldwater residents only. Driver’s licenses were presented at the door. The media was excluded, but reporters waited outside, sitting in their cars, engines running. People who’d been camping out were on-site as well, gathered under a streetlight in the parking lot, warming their hands by a fire in a metal trash bin. Ray and Dyson, from the police department, took turns walking the perimeter, although each of them wondered what they would do if the crowd got unruly, two officers against all these people.
Inside, the mayor had solved the microphone problem. “So,” he began, “I think we all know why we’re here. What’s happened in Coldwater—and with you, Katherine—has been remarkable.”
Katherine, sitting in the front row, nodded modestly, and the crowd mumbled agreement.
“But it has also brought many challenges.”
More mumbling.
“We now have to deal with visitors, traffic congestion, public safety, and the news media.”
Louder mumbling. Jack shifted in his seat.
“That’s some of what we’ll address tonight. First, Father Carroll, do you want to get us started?”
Father Carroll stepped to the microphone and adjusted its height. Pastor Warren watched and waited. He had told the mayor he did not feel comfortable addressing a secular crowd. Father Carroll was much better at that sort of thing. Even the way he moved. Almost regal, Warren thought.
“First, let us pray,” Father Carroll began. “May the good Lord bring us strength this evening . . .”
As people lowered their heads, Sully, sitting in an aisle seat, reached into his jacket pocket and felt the spine of the reporter’s notebook. Reaching in the other pocket, he pressed the record button of the small tape recorder.
“My friends, we do not always know God’s plan,” Father Carroll continued. “The Bible is full of unlikely heroes, reluctant to hear the call.
“Moses did not want to speak to Pharaoh. Jonah hid from the Lord. Young John Mark abandoned Paul and Barnabas. Fear is part of our makeup. God knows this . . .”
People nodded. A few yelled, “Amen.”
“What I ask here tonight is this: do not be afraid. You are among friends. You are among neighbors. Scripture teaches us that we are bound to spread the good news. And it is good news.”
Pastor Warren looked to his fellow clergymen, confused. Wasn’t Father Carroll only going to offer a benediction?
“And so, to begin, I ask . . . who among us has received a word from heaven? Or believes he has? Tell us who you are and how you have been blessed.”
A rumble went through the room. This was unexpected. A public roll call for miracles? People turned their heads left and right.
Katherine Yellin, sitting in the front row, stood up proudly, hands crossed.
“My sister,” she declared. “Diane Yellin. Praise God!”
The crowd nodded. Katherine, they knew. Heads turned, checking for others. Where’s Elias Rowe? Tess, sitting five rows back, looked to the podium. Father Carroll nodded. She closed her eyes, saw her mother’s face, inhaled, and stood up.
“My mother, Ruth Rafferty!” she announced.
People gasped. Katherine’s jaw fell open.
Then, from the left side, another voice.
“My son!”
Heads turned. Jack’s eyes widened.
“Robbie Sellers. He died in Afghanistan,” Doreen said.
She was standing, her hands clasped together. She looked to Jack on the podium, and he suddenly felt as if the whole auditorium were looking at him too. He glanced at Tess, who, upon meeting his gaze, looked away. The crowd whispered. Three? Now it’s three?
An Indian man rose near the front.
“My daughter called me! Praise God!”
A few rows back, an older man followed his lead.
“My ex-wife!”
Then a teenage girl.
“My best friend!”
A man in a suit.
“My former business partner!”
Each announcement drew louder reactions, like an organ in those old movie houses as the tension rises. Sully had the notebook out and was scribbling fast, trying to make mental images of the faces.
When the gasping stopped, there were seven of them, seven Coldwater residents, standing like high weeds in a field of low grass, each claiming to have done what was previously unimaginable: spoken with heaven.
The gymnasium fell silent. Jeff tugged Father Carroll to the side.
“My God, Father,” he whispered. “What do we do now?”
Four Days Later
NEWS REPORT
ABC News
ANCHOR: Finally, tonight we go to a small town in Michigan, where citizens are claiming to be reunited with loved ones in a most unusual way. Alan Jeremy reports.
(Images of Coldwater.)
ALAN: The population is less than four thousand. The most notable landmark is a cider mill. Coldwater, Michigan, is no different from thousands of small-town American communities—or at least it wasn’t, until people began getting phone calls that they claim are heaven-sent.
(Short sound bites.)
TESS: My mother has called me many times.
DOREEN: My son has been in regular contact.
TEENAGER: My friend died in a car accident last year. Three weeks ago, she called and said I should stop crying.
(Photos of the deceased.)
ALAN: The common denominator is that all the people calling are dead, some for years. The seemingly impossible has local clergy wrestling with the question.
FATHER CARROLL: We must be open to God’s miracles. Many people are returning to the church after learning of these calls. Perhaps that is God’s will.
(Scenes of crowds praying.)
ALAN: Coldwater is fast becoming a mecca for believers, with impromptu services being held in parking lots and open fields. Local police are taxed.
(Face of police chief Jack Sellers.)
JACK: We’re a small department. We can’t be everywhere. We just ask folks to respect privacy and to hold their prayers at decent hours, you know? None of the midnight stuff.
(Archival footage.)
ALAN: From clairvoyants to Ouija boards, people have long claimed to converse with the dead. Researchers into electronic voice phenomena believe Coldwater is not the first time voices have been heard from the other side.
(Face of Leonard Koplet, paranormal expert.) LEONARD: We’ve seen a history of tape recordings that capture a dead person’s voice, machines that sweep radio signals and pick up the strangest things. But this is the first time the telephone has been used so regularly. It’s just another step in our connection to the other side.
(Image of Samsung billboard.)
ALAN: Even Samsung has gotten on the bandwagon. This billboard—a rendering of clouds, the phone used by one of the lucky recipients, and the word DIVINE—now hangs on Route 8.
(Face of Samsung executive Terry Ulrich.) TERRY: We didn’t design the phone for this purpose, but we’re glad it has been “chosen.” We’re honored and humbled. And we’ve made the model widely available.
(Image of scientist at his desk.)
ALAN: As you might expect, critics have been quick to dismiss the Coldwater claims. Daniel Fromman is with Responsible Scientists International in Washington, D.C.
(Close-up of scientist, talking to Alan.) FROMMAN: Phone service is a man-made activity. The satellites are man-made. The routing devices are man-made. The contact these people are suggesting is not only impossible, it’s laughable. This just isn’t something people should take seriously.
ALAN: Then how do you explain the calls?
FROMMAN: You mean the calls people claim to get?
AL
AN: Are you saying they’re lying?
FROMMAN: I’m saying people in grief can imagine many things. It makes them feel better. It doesn’t make it real.
(Alan, standing by large tent.)
ALAN: Nonetheless, believers are flocking to Coldwater.
(Face of silver-haired man.)
SILVER-HAIRED MAN: This is a sign. Eternity exists, heaven exists, salvation exists—but folks had better get right with the Lord! Judgment Day is coming!
(Close-up on Alan.)
ALAN: Real or imagined, something is happening as winter approaches in this small midwestern town. But what exactly is it? Many here said . . . they need to pray on it. In Coldwater, I’m Alan Jeremy.
(Back to studio.)
ANCHOR: From all of us here at ABC News, good night.
The Tenth Week
By the first of November, Coldwater was overrun. Cars clogged the streets. There was no place to park. Long lines were common in the market, the bank, the gas station, and any place to eat or drink.
On Tuesday night, Sully hurried by crowds on Lake Street with his hands dug into his pockets, passing a group of young people sitting on a car hood, singing spirituals. He was heading to the Coldwater Public Library, a single-story white brick building with an American flag by the front entrance and a swinging sign that featured a different message each week. This week it read: GIVE THANKS! DONATE A USED BOOK FOR T’GIVING!
It was nearly 8:00 p.m., and Sully was glad to see the lights still on. With no Internet service of his own, and the computers at the Gazette being out of the question (he didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing, least of all reporters), this was his best and only option for doing research; a place where he once wrote grade-school book reports.
He stepped inside. It seemed deserted.
“Hello?”
He heard shuffling from a corner desk. A young woman—maybe twenty years old?—leaned into view.
“Cold out there?”
“Freezing,” Sully said. “Are you the librarian? Do they still call them librarians?”
“Depends. Do they still call them readers?”
“I think so.”
“Then I’m the librarian.”
She smiled. Her hair was dyed an eggplant shade with a streak of shocking red, cut in a short pixie style. She wore light pink glasses. Her skin was creamy and flawless.
“You seem kind of young,” Sully said.
“My grandma had the job before me. She was more the old librarian type.”
“Ah.”
“Eleanor Udell.”
“That’s your name?”
“My grandmother’s.”
“I had a teacher growing up here, Mrs. Udell.”
“Coldwater Elementary?”
“Yeah.”
“Third grade?”
“Yeah . . .”
“That was her.”
“Oh, God.” Sully closed his eyes. “You’re Mrs. Udell’s granddaughter.”
“Guess I’m really young now, huh?”
Sully shook his head.
“You guys have a computer, right?”
“Um-hmm. Over there.”
He looked to the corner. A beige tower model. It looked ancient.
“Is it OK to—”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
He took off his coat.
“Liz, by the way.”
“Hmm?”
“My name is Liz.”
“Oh. Hey.”
Sully moved the mouse on the desk—a wired mouse, he noted—but nothing happened on the screen.
“Is there a trick to this?”
“Hang on. You have to log in.”
Liz rose. Sully did a double take. Although her face was the picture of young, attractive health, her left leg was bent and she walked with a severe wobble that came down hard on her right foot. Her arms seemed slightly short for her body.
“Here,” she said, edging past, “let me get it.”
Sully moved out of the way, too quickly.
“I have MS,” she said, smiling again. “In case you thought this was a new dance move.”
“No . . . I know . . . I . . .”
Sully felt like an idiot. She typed in a password, and the screen came up full.
“You researching the afterlife?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Come on. Coldwater is like 1-800-HEAVEN now.”
“I’m not here for that.”
He reached for his cigarettes.
“Can’t smoke in a library.”
“Right.”
He pushed them back in his pocket.
“You go to that meeting?” Liz said.
“What meeting?”
“The one at the high school. It was insane. All these people getting calls from dead relatives.”
“You believe it?”
“Nah. Too weird. Something’s up.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno.”
She moved the mouse, watching the cursor dart across the screen. “It would be nice though, huh? If you could just talk to everyone you lost?”
“I guess.”
He pictured Giselle. She’d been about this girl’s age when they met, a Thursday night, at Giuseppe’s Pizza, just off campus. Giselle worked there as a waitress. She wore a tight, purple uniform blouse with a black wraparound skirt. She had such beautiful life in her eyes that Sully asked for her number in front of all his friends. She laughed and cracked, “I don’t date college boys.” But when she handed him the bill, he saw a phone number on the back, with the words “unless they’re cute.”
“Anyhow . . .” Liz tapped her hands twice on her thighs.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“What time do you close?”
“Nine tonight and Thursday. Six the other nights.”
“OK.”
“Holler if you need something. Although officially, you’re supposed to”—she dropped her voice—“whisper.”
Sully smiled. She returned to her desk. He watched her painful limp, the awkward twist of her young body.
“Sully,” he said. “My name is Sully Harding.”
“I know,” she said, not turning around.
Hours later, alone in her bedroom, Katherine pulled back the covers and slid beneath them. She stared at the ceiling.
She began to cry.
She hadn’t gone to work in days. She hadn’t addressed the worshippers on her lawn. She felt violated. Betrayed. What had been a private blessing was now a circus. She could still see the crowd at the gymnasium, moving past her, swarming around others who claimed to receive heavenly contact. It was loud and confusing, and the mayor kept yelling over the microphone, “Another meeting will be scheduled! Please check with the village office!”
The scene outside was even worse. The bright glare of TV camera lights; the cacophony of yelling, praying, excited conversations; people pointing, nodding, grabbing one another to share some new detail they just heard.
Six other people? Impossible. They were clearly envious of her contact with Diane and had concocted their own stories in desperation. Look at Elias Rowe. He made a claim, then disappeared, probably from embarrassment at his lie. A teenage friend? A business partner? These were not the blood bonds that heaven would honor. Katherine wondered if any of these people even went to church.
She listened to the sound of her accelerated breathing. Calm down. Dry your tears. Think of Diane. Think of the Lord.
She closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell.
And her phone rang.
The next morning, Tess stood by the mirror, pulling her hair into a plastic clip. She buttoned the highest button. She skipped the lipstick. Meeting a Catholic bishop required modesty.
“Does this look OK?” she asked, entering the kitchen.
“Fine,” Samantha said.
Samantha stayed with Tess much of the time now. She listened for the phone if Tess was drawn away. Since the
calls no longer only came on Fridays, Tess worried about missing even a single ring. She felt silly, being consumed by a telephone. But when she heard her mother’s voice, the most blessed sensation would wash over her, the bad of life rinsed away.
“Don’t be burdened by this, Tess,” her mother had said.
“Mom, I need to tell somebody.”
“What’s stopping you, honey? . . . Tell everyone.”
“I called Father Carroll.”
“That’s a start.”
“I haven’t gone to church in so long.”
“But . . . you’ve gone to God. Every night.”
Tess was startled. She said private prayers before going to sleep—but only began after her mother died.
“Mom, how did you know that?”
The line had gone dead.
Tess looked at Samantha now. They heard a car door slam.
Moments later, the doorbell rang.
Father Carroll entered behind his companion, Bishop Bernard Hibbing from the Roman Catholic Diocese of Gaylord, a broad-faced man with ruddy skin, wire-rimmed glasses, and a pectoral cross. As she let them in, Tess noticed a crowd across the street. She quickly closed the door.
“Would you like coffee or tea?” she asked.
“Thank you, no.”
“We can sit here.”
“Very good.”
“So.” Tess looked at them. “How does this work?”
“Well, the simplest way,” Bishop Hibbing began, “is to tell me what happened. From the beginning.”
He sat back. It was the bishop’s duty to investigate alleged miraculous events—and to be skeptical, as most proved to be coincidences or exaggerations. If he believed something divine had truly taken place, he was to promptly report it to the Vatican, which would turn the investigation over to the Congregation for the Causes of the Saints.
Tess began with her mother’s sad demise from Alzheimer’s. Next, she detailed the phone calls. Bishop Hibbing listened for clues. Did the woman see herself as “chosen”? Did she believe she had initiated this phenomenon? Both were red flags. The few true miracles seemed to choose their witnesses, not the other way around.
