The First Phone Call From Heaven: A Novel

by Albom, Mitch

  AMY: Stunning news from the town of Coldwater today. Kelly Podesto, a teenager who claimed her best friend had contacted her from heaven, now says she made the whole thing up.

  (Kelly at press briefing, cameras snapping.)

  KELLY: I want to tell everybody I’m sorry. I just really missed my friend.

  (Reporters yelling questions.)

  REPORTER: Why did you do it?

  KELLY: I don’t know. It made me feel good, I guess. All those other people were getting calls.

  (More yelling.)

  REPORTER: Kelly, did you just do this for attention?

  KELLY: (crying.) I’m really sorry. And to Brittany’s family, I’m really sorry.

  (Amy on Main Street.)

  AMY: There are still six others who, at a town meeting last month, claimed to have received phone calls from heaven. So far, none of them have changed their stories. Some, like Eddie Doukens and Jay James, felt sorry for Podesto.

  (Faces of Doukens and James.)

  DOUKENS: She’s just a kid. I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm.

  JAMES: It doesn’t change what happened to us.

  (Amy in front of Harvest of Hope Baptist Church.) AMY: Kelly told her parents the truth yesterday, after she was interviewed in advance of a national talk show. Her parents insisted she tell everyone. Now, some people are saying, “I told you so.”

  (Faces of protesters.)

  PROTESTER ONE: No, we’re not surprised. Been saying all along this whole thing is a sham!

  PROTESTER TWO: They never had no proof. I’ll bet you the other people admit it’s a fake by next week.

  AMY: But so far, others are holding firm.

  (Image of Katherine.)

  KATHERINE: There is nothing false about God’s love. If we have to show it to everyone, we will.

  (Amy walks on Main Street.)

  AMY: Katherine Yellin says she still plans to publicly air a phone call with her departed sister. We will continue our exclusive coverage of that story as it happens.

  (Amy looks into camera.)

  In Coldwater, I’m Amy Penn, Nine Action News.

  Jeff Jacoby asked his secretary to bring bottled water and snacks for his guests. He needed to reassure them in every way possible.

  “So, listen. I know this caught us a bit off guard . . .”

  He scanned the faces around the conference table. There were four men from the souvenir kiosks that had opened in town, three producers from the national TV show, two representatives from the sporting goods outfitter that sold tents and shelter gear out of the cider mill, three women from a religious merchandising company, and the guy from Samsung.

  “I want to assure you,” Jeff continued, “everything is fine—”

  “It’s not fine,” snapped Lance, one of the producers, a wavy-haired man in a black turtleneck. “We may have to cancel.”

  “I’d say it’s likely,” added his colleague, Clint.

  “But Kelly’s just a teenager,” Jeff said. “Teenagers do stupid things.”

  “It’s become a risk,” Lance said.

  “You don’t want to be duped,” Clint said.

  “He’s right,” said Terry, the Samsung executive. “It casts doubt on the whole thing.”

  “One teenager?” Jeff said. “You still have all the others.”

  “Just the same, we better put a hold on that billboard order. We want to see how this plays out.”

  Jeff bit his lower lip. Samsung had leased eight billboards from the town—part of an official “sponsorship” of Coldwater that Jeff had negotiated for a ridiculously high price. Now they were pulling out?

  He needed to save this. He took a breath. He was so furious at Kelly Podesto he could scream.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said, pushing up his most professional smile. “Do you really think all those other people would make this up? They’re not kids. They have reputations to protect. Anesh Barua is a dentist, for goodness’ sake. He’s not going to risk his patients. Tess Rafferty runs a day care program. Doreen Sellers was married to our police chief!

  “I really believe this was an isolated incident.”

  His guests were quiet. Some tapped their fingers on the table.

  “It may not be salvageable,” Lance said.

  “It’s gotten a lot of publicity,” Clint said.

  “Don’t they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity?” Jeff offered.

  “That’s for movie stars.”

  “Not news stories.”

  “Or selling phones,” added Terry.

  Jeff ground his teeth together. Think. Think.

  “Look. I want to put your minds at ease. I’m the mayor. What do you need from me?”

  “To be honest?” Lance looked around the room. “They say they’re talking to heaven? We could use some proof.”

  The others nodded. Jeff nodded with them.

  His thoughts turned to Katherine Yellin.

  The quiet of a small-town room is different from the quiet of a city room, because the quiet of a city room disappears when you open a window. In a small town, passing from inside to outside is often indistinguishable, except maybe for the sound of birds.

  It was something Pastor Warren always enjoyed about Coldwater. But today he was awakened from a morning nap by something he had never heard in his small-town room before: people screaming outside his window.

  Opposing groups were squaring off by the church, apparently incited by Kelly Podesto’s confession. At first they stood with signs, glaring at each other, and then chants started, and eventually someone yelled something, and someone answered back, and now the group with signs that read, REPENT: HEAVEN IS REAL! was within spitting distance of the group with signs that read, PEOPLE WHO HEAR VOICES ARE USUALLY CRAZY.

  Insults spilled into insults. Threats followed threats.

  “Leave us alone!”

  “You’re all frauds!”

  “Praise the Lord!”

  “Do it somewhere else!”

  “We’re trying to help mankind!”

  “You’re letting people kill themselves!”

  “This is America! We have the right to our religion!”

  “You don’t have the right to force it on us!”

  “God is watching!”

  “Liars!”

  “Save your souls—”

  “Frauds!”

  “God’s angels—”

  “Shut up!”

  “Going to hell—

  “Insane—”

  “You’re insane!”

  “Get away from me!”

  Someone swung, someone swung back, and the groups engaged like water spilled from two glasses, running messily into each other and forming a new shape. Signs fell. Screams became incomprehensible. People pushed and ran—some into the fray, some away from it.

  Pastor Warren hobbled outside with his hands on his head. “Please, stop! All of you!” A police car whirred, and Jack Sellers jumped out, running with Dyson and screaming, “Break it up! Everybody! Right now!” But there were too many of them, at least several hundred.

  “Do something!” Jack heard someone scream. Then, “Help us! . . . Over here!”

  He looked left and right. The worshippers were mostly hunched over, the protesters more aggressive.

  “Call Moss Hill and Dunmore!” Jack yelled to Dyson. They would need way more officers for this. In larger cities, police have shields, vests, helmets, riot gear. But here was Jack in his winter parka, a billy club on his waist, and a holstered gun he would never wave in a crowd like this. Over the blur of people shoving and jostling, he saw TV reporters and cameramen approaching from the street, running with their equipment.

  “BACK AWAY!” he screamed as he waded into the mob. “BREAK THIS UP!” It was useless. Jack went for his club, but as his fingers gripped it, he thought about Robbie. He suddenly felt as if his son were watching him, judging his every move.

  Pushing through people, trying to determine which side wa
s which, he saw a young man in a tan jacket—he looked to be about Robbie’s age—put his elbow in front of his face and chant, “Save me, Father. Save me, Father!” Jack hurried toward him—then felt something hard clomp him on the head. He stumbled to the ground and landed on all fours, his vision blurry, his scalp bleeding, as the screaming noise rose into the air of once-quiet Coldwater, like smoke from a pile of burning leaves.

  Samantha pulled bread out of five different toasters and carried a plateful over to the den, where Tess sat on the floor with several dozen worshippers. Ever since Thanksgiving, Tess had been inviting them inside each day for breakfast. They came in shifts, ate something, went back outside, let others take their place. Some of them now shopped at the market for bread and jam and boxes of cereal.

  At first it was an awkward dynamic. Although Tess wore old sweaters and jeans, the people saw her as blessed, a chosen one, and she noticed them staring at her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

  But their real interest was in Tess’s phone calls, and when she shared what her mother was telling her, they were rapt.

  “Don’t work so long and hard, Tess.”

  “Why, Mom?”

  “Take time . . . to appreciate God’s creation.”

  “How does time pass in heaven?”

  “Time was made by man. . . . We are above the sun and moon . . .”

  “Is it light there?”

  “Always light . . . but not how you think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember when you were a girl, Tess? Were you afraid of the dark . . . when I was in the house?”

  “No. I knew if you were there, you would protect me.”

  “Heaven . . . is the same feeling. . . . No fear. No dark. When you know you are loved . . . that’s the light.”

  Worshippers dropped their heads when Tess said that. They smiled and took each others’ hands. It was clear that Tess herself was moved when quoting her mother. For the final year of her life Ruth had sat in a wheelchair, a living statue, allowing Tess to brush her hair, button her blouse, occasionally slip on a necklace. Tess fed her. Bathed her. She yearned to hear her speak. So often, we push away the voices closest to us.

  But once they’re gone, we reach for them.

  “Your mother,” said a Spanish-accented woman, wearing a small cross around her neck, “she is a saint.”

  Tess pictured Ruth at this very table, creating finger sandwiches of ham or egg salad.

  “No.” Tess smiled. “She was a caterer.”

  Sully left the furniture store with a check in his bag. On his way out the door, a saleswoman said, “Merry Christmas.”

  The holiday was still three weeks away, but homes and businesses around Coldwater were draped in colored lights. Many had wreaths on their doors. Sully started his car and flipped on the heat, rubbing his hands together. He checked his watch; still two hours before Jules got out of school. He drove toward the Dial-Tek store, where he was scheduled to meet Elias Rowe.

  He thought back to last week, the night Elias showed up at his door. Sully had offered him a drink, and they sat at his kitchen table.

  “It’s my first time back here in weeks,” Elias said. He’d been staying at his cabin in the Upper Peninsula, avoiding “all the crazies” who’d been trying to contact him. He’d only come home for Thanksgiving to be with his brother’s family. But seeing the town—the cars, the vans, the campers, the crowds—seeing how it had swelled into something almost unrecognizable, he felt compelled to find Sully before he left.

  “I keep going back to that day you ran up to my truck. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, wondering if I shouldn’t have just kept my mouth shut. . . . Anyhow, I’m sorry if I caused any trouble with your son.”

  Sully glanced toward Jules’s bedroom. He thought about showing Elias the blue plastic telephone tucked beneath the boy’s pillow.

  Instead, he asked, “What made you leave?” Elias told him about Nick Joseph, their history, Nick’s troubled death. He told him about the phone calls asking “Why did you do it?” and about throwing the phone in Lake Michigan.

  In turn, Sully told him his belief that this was all a hoax and his discovery that six customers had shared the same phone plan. Not surprisingly, the one who did not was Kelly Podesto.

  Elias dropped his head back. “Oh, man. I had that same plan, too. A couple of years ago.”

  “That can’t be a coincidence,” Sully said.

  Elias shrugged. “Maybe not. But it doesn’t explain how I was talking to Nick.”

  Sully looked down. That was the problem.

  “But you’ve had no contact since, right?”

  “I had no phone.”

  “Would you be willing to try something? To prove this one way or another?”

  Elias shook his head. “Sorry. No way. It felt like I was messing with some powerful magic. To be honest, it scared the hell out of me.”

  Sully ran his hands through his hair. He tried to hide his frustration. People were either hypnotized by speaking to heaven or terrified of it. Why did no one want to expose it?

  He noticed Elias looking over his shoulder. He turned around to see Jules, standing in the hallway, rubbing his eyes.

  “Daddy?”

  The boy leaned into the doorframe and lowered his chin to his chest.

  “What’s the matter, kiddo?”

  “My stomach hurts.”

  Sully went to him, picked him up, and carried him back to bed. He sat with him for several minutes, stroking his hair until he fell back asleep. When he returned, Elias had his big hands clasped together, his forehead leaning into them.

  “He misses his mom?”

  “Something fierce.”

  “You really think this is a hoax?”

  “It’s gotta be.”

  Elias sighed. “What do you need me to do?”

  Sully almost smiled. “Get a new phone.”

  Amy pulled into a highway gas station and parked next to an air pump. She left the engine running. Phil got out of the car and stretched like an awakening bear.

  “Whoa, it’s cold!” he declared, turning his stretch into a rigorous elbow rub. “Do you want a coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Cream?”

  “Black.”

  He darted off.

  Amy was bringing Phil—at his insistence—to Coldwater, where she had been rooted for the last two months. This proposed broadcast of a Katherine Yellin phone call was something he felt he should oversee personally. Amy didn’t mind. Actually, she was happy Phil was coming. He could see how much she’d been doing for the station, virtually living in this tiny backwater town, ingratiating herself with Katherine. It was only thanks to Amy that Katherine had refused to go on the upcoming national TV show, only thanks to Amy that Katherine had agreed to let Nine Action News have the first shot at broadcasting a call from her sister. Phil would see that on this trip. If nothing else, the Coldwater phenomenon would be Amy’s ticket out of weekend news. She was already on the Monday-through-Friday broadcasts more than any other reporter at the station. They jokingly referred to her as “Coldwater Amy.”

  She took her phone and dialed Rick, her fiancé.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me,” Amy said.

  “Yeah, hi,” he said, his voice dropping into annoyance.

  Alexander Bell may have created the phone, but he never had to endure its peculiar effect on relationships. Because Mabel, the love of his life, was deaf, she never held the other end of the receiver, and Bell never heard her voice go flat, or dull, or distant, never suffered that discomfort when we hear but cannot see our loved ones and must interpret their disappointment with a single question: What’s the matter?

  Amy had been saying it for weeks, calling Rick from Coldwater after she’d filed her TV reports. He’d grown withdrawn. Irritated. Last night, in a rare visit to her own apartment, she found out why.

  “Is this really what you want to do?” Rick deman
ded, his voice rising into argument mode.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Milk people for their weirdo stories?”

  “It’s called the news, Rick. It’s my job.”

  “It’s an obsession. You sleep there. For God’s sake, Amy, I know CEOs that put in less time.”

  “I don’t tell you how to do your job!”

  “But I come home from my job! I’m willing to talk about something else. Every one of your conversations is about Coldwater, what Katherine said, what ABC did, what the newspapers have, how you’re going to beat them, how you need your own cameraman. Amy, don’t you hear yourself?”

  “I’m sorry! This is how it works, OK? Everyone who makes it has one story that puts them on the map!”

  Rick shook his head, his mouth half open. “Listen to you. On the map? What map? There is no freaking map! You haven’t once talked about you and me. We’re supposed to get married. What about that map?”

  “What do you want me to do?” Amy snapped, her face tight with anger.

  It was more of a threat than a question.

  The Fifteenth Week

  Back when they were married, Doreen used to visit Jack at the police station. It was less than a mile from their house. Sometimes she and young Robbie would bring roast beef sandwiches for the guys, and the junior officers would show Robbie their guns, which fascinated the boy and annoyed his mother.

  Since the divorce six years earlier, Doreen had not set foot in the place. So all heads turned when, on Monday morning, she appeared at the front desk and unwrapped her scarf.

  “Hello, Ray.”

  “Hey, Doreen!” Ray said, too enthusiastically. “How have you been!? You look great!”

  “Thank you.” She was wearing an old red winter coat and not an ounce of makeup. She knew she didn’t look great. “Can you tell Jack I’m—”

  “Come on back,” Jack said, standing in his doorway. It was too small an office not to know your ex-wife was there. Doreen smiled tightly and walked to the back. She nodded at Dyson and two men she didn’t recognize. Jack shut the door behind her.

  “Mel didn’t want me to come here,” she began.

  “Um . . . OK,” Jack said.

  “I was worried about you. How badly are you hurt?”

  “It’s nothing.” He touched his head. He had a bandage on his temple and a half-inch scar underneath it. During the church skirmish last week, someone had hit him with a sign—unintentionally, it was determined—but it left him on his knees, a sight captured by the TV cameras. The image of the town’s ranking police officer down on all fours sent panic through the community, prompting the governor to assign six state troopers to Coldwater for an indefinite period. Two of them—the men Doreen didn’t recognize—sat outside the office now.