by Albom, Mitch
And then—impact! The car smashed down and spun backward. His body was tossed across the front seat and slammed into the passenger-side door, his head smacking the window, turning his world black. The car reeled on the ice in rotations, as if someone were using it to wipe the surface, around and around and around again, finally coming to a groaning rest—four thousand pounds of steel atop a few inches of frozen water.
And Sully, bleeding, slumped on the front seat.
What in life can love not penetrate? Mabel Hubbard, deaf since childhood, gave Alexander Bell a piano as a wedding gift and asked that he play it for her every day, as if his music could pierce her silence. Decades later, at Bell’s deathbed, it was his wife who made the sounds, saying the words, “Don’t leave me,” while he, no longer able to talk, used sign language to answer, No.
What in life can love not penetrate? Sully’s consciousness had lapsed into darkness; no earthly sound could have stirred him free. Yet somewhere beyond everything, as the ice beneath his car began to buckle, he heard the words of the first phone call ever made.
Come here. I want to see you.
What happened next could never be explained. But it was clear and real and would remain Sully’s most indelible memory for the rest of his life. He heard three words.
Aviate.
He felt himself lift from the wreck.
Navigate.
He drifted swiftly like a spirit through the darkness. He was suddenly inside his apartment, coming down the hallway and turning into the doorway of Jules’s bedroom. There he saw, sitting on the edge of the boy’s bed, his wife, Giselle, as young and radiant as she had ever been.
Communicate.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” came the sound off his lips.
“It’s only for a moment. You have to go back.”
Sully felt nothing but lightness and warmth, complete relaxation, as if lying in summer grass when he was ten years old.
“No,” he said.
“You can’t be stubborn.” She smiled. “That’s not how it works.”
Sully watched her lean over Jules.
“So beautiful.”
“You should see him.”
“I do. All the time.”
Sully felt himself crying inside, but there were no tears, no change in his facial expression. Giselle turned as if she sensed his distress. “What is it?”
“You can’t be here,” he whispered.
“I’m always here.”
She pointed to a shelf, where the angel urn containing her ashes now sat. “That was sweet. But you don’t need it.”
He stared. His eyes could not blink.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Why?”
“I wasn’t there when you died.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I never said good-bye.”
“Such a needless word,” she said, “when you love somebody.”
Sully trembled. He felt old wounds opening wide.
“I was ashamed.”
“Why?”
“I was in prison.”
“You still are.”
She came toward him then, close enough that he could feel a glow coming off her face, and in her eyes he saw every day they’d ever had together.
“Enough,” she whispered. “Forgive. I didn’t suffer. Once I knew you were alive, I was happy.”
“When was that?”
“At the start.”
“What start?”
“When I died.”
“That’s the end.”
She shook her head no.
And with that, Sully felt himself being jerked backward, as if someone had the tail of his shirt. Emotion was returning. A tingling cold. A distant pain.
“Don’t tell him, please.”
He had heard her say that before. Only now he realized whom she was talking about.
Their son.
She looked over at Jules, who rolled to his side, revealing the blue toy telephone snuggled beneath his shoulder.
“Don’t tell him there’s no heaven. He needs to believe. He needs to believe you do, too.”
“I do,” Sully said.
He added, “Love you.”
“I do,” she repeated, smiling, “love you.”
He felt her beside him then, around him, behind him, all over him, like the complete immersion of a crying child in his mother’s embrace. As the room became a blur of glows and darkness, he was whisked backward, beneath the most incongruous of sounds, the words pull and the handle.
The next thing he knew, he was falling out of the car. The cold air was bracing. He dragged himself along the snow-covered ice until he was a few yards away, and struggled, woozily, to get to his feet. His head was bleeding. He looked to the sky. He looked for any sign of his wife. He heard only wind and a distant honking.
“Giselle!” he rasped.
Just then the ice gave way with a roaring crunch, and Sully watched with a stunned expression as the Buick dropped into the dark water and began to sink.
The Next Day
NEWS REPORT
ABC News
ANCHOR: A startling development in the Coldwater, Michigan, story. Alan Jeremy reports.
(Alan in front of Horace’s property.) ALAN: That’s right. This has all come out in the last hour. According to local police, a man named Horace Belfin, who worked here as a funeral director, may have been involved in creating the phone calls that riveted the world yesterday—phone calls that so many believed were coming from the afterlife. Belfin was found dead in his home on Friday evening. Cause of death is still unknown. Jack Sellers is the Coldwater police chief.
(Image of Jack Sellers.)
JACK SELLERS: It appears that Mr. Belfin may have been involved in some kind of communications interception activity. We’re still piecing together the details. I can’t really tell you what was done—only that there was a lot of equipment.
ALAN: We’re told the federal authorities are involved. Why is that?
JACK: You’d have to ask them.
ALAN: Chief, you were the recipient of phone calls from your deceased son. How does this make you— JACK: My story is not important here. Right now we’re just trying to figure out what—if anything—was going on.
(Alan standing by the protesters.) ALAN: Reaction from nonbelievers was swift.
PROTESTER: We told everyone! What did you people think? That you could just pick up your phone and talk to dead people? It was so obviously a hoax. Right from the start!
(Aerial view of Horace’s property.) ALAN: Belfin lived here on this five-acre farmhouse property. He purchased an interest in the Davidson and Sons Funeral Home less than two years ago. He was unmarried and, according to government sources, had no family. This is all we know at this time. We’ll have more reaction from people here as the day goes on. But right now, it seems the “Miracle at Coldwater” may be in doubt. . . .
Two Days Later
A dusting of new snow fell on Christmas morning. Here and there in Coldwater you heard the scrape of shovels on church steps and saw smoke wafting from chimneys. Inside houses, children tore open their presents, oblivious to the melancholy looks on their parents’ faces.
A midmorning holiday service was held at Harvest of Hope Baptist Church, which also served as the memorial service for Pastor Warren. A eulogy was given by Father Carroll. The other clerics paid their respects. Elias Rowe made his first appearance since that day he stood up in the sanctuary; he stood once again, this time to declare, “No matter what anyone says, I know Pastor’s in heaven today.”
Katherine Yellin attended the service, along with Amy Penn, whom she introduced as “my friend.” For the first time in four months, Katherine kept her phone in her purse and did not check it every few minutes.
Tess Rafferty hosted a houseful of visitors, more people than her mother had ever assembled for a holiday. But the tone was subdued, and as they handed out plates of pancakes together, Jack caught Tes
s glancing at the silent phone in the kitchen, and he gave her a smile as she blinked back tears.
In the living room of his parents’ house, Sully Harding watched Jules open the last of his presents—a pack of coloring books from Liz, who sat on the floor next to him, her streak of pink hair now dyed a Christmas green.
“You feeling OK?” Fred Harding asked his son.
Sully touched the bandage on the side of his head. “Only hurts if I think,” he said.
After a few minutes, with Jules fully engaged in his gifts, Sully entered his childhood bedroom and closed the door. His parents had converted it to a guest room, but still kept his varsity letter certificates and a few football photos on the wall.
Sully reached into his pocket and took out a crinkled envelope. His name was typed on the front. He thought back several nights to the lake and the spinout and the way he’d wobbled to the shore, slipping and sliding as the Buick slowly disappeared beneath the icy surface. He fell into a snowbank, exhausted, and lay there until he heard the siren of an ambulance. Someone had called 911, and Sully was taken to the hospital, stitched up, and diagnosed with a severe concussion. The emergency room doctor could not believe he’d regained consciousness quickly enough to escape the car’s sinking. How long could it have been? A minute?
Sully stayed overnight for observation. Early the next morning, still groggy, he opened his eyes to see Jack Sellers enter the room and close the door behind him. He was wearing his uniform.
“You gonna be OK?” he asked.
“Think so.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Who?”
“Horace.”
“Not much,” Sully lied.
“He was into a lot of stuff,” Jack said. “He had equipment I’ve never seen. And twenty minutes after we get there, about a dozen Feds show up. They told us to keep quiet about everything. They took it all.”
“How did you find him?”
“He called us.”
“He called you?”
“At the station. Friday afternoon. He said there was a dead man at his property. When we got there, we found him in a hidden ‘safety’ room in the back of the basement. He was lying on the floor.”
Jack paused. “The dead man was him.”
Sully leaned back into the pillow. He felt dizzy. None of this made sense. Dead? Horace—Elliot Gray?—was dead?
“Look,” Jack said, reaching into his pocket. “I’m breaking about a million laws here. But I found this in his desk before anyone else and, well, I took it, because if I didn’t, they would have. I took it because whatever he was doing to you, he might have been doing to me, too, and some other people I care about, and I want to know and I don’t need the whole world to know with me, you understand? This has been hard enough.”
Sully nodded. Jack handed him an envelope. He folded it in half.
“Don’t let anyone else see it. Read it when you get home. And then . . .”
“What?” Sully said.
Jack blew out a mouthful of air.
“Call me, I guess.”
Sully had waited until after Christmas morning. He kept seeing Giselle in his mind, on the bed, sitting next to their son, smiling.
So beautiful.
You should see him.
I do. All the time.
He’d wanted to be with Jules every minute since then, as if being alongside him brought the three of them together. He had turned away the Chicago Tribune reporter and Elwood Jupes, telling them he was wrong, he’d been drunk and confused and upset about the broadcast. They finally gave up on him and chased other leads. But now, with Jules’s laughter coming from the next room and his trusted new playmate, Liz, keeping him company, Sully felt ready for whatever was in this dead man’s envelope, perhaps an explanation of the madness that had shadowed Sully for months.
He tore it open.
And he read.
Dear Mr. Harding,
I beg your forgiveness.
My real name, as you now likely know, is Elliot Gray. I am the father of Elliot Gray Jr., my only child, with whom you are also tragically familiar.
On the day of your plane crash, it was I who destroyed the flight recordings at Lynton Airfield, a relatively simple task for someone with my background.
I did so in a foolish attempt to protect my son.
We had been estranged for many years. His mother died young, and he did not approve of my occupation. In hindsight, I cannot blame him. It was clandestine, deceitful work that often took me away for long periods of time. I did it in the name of country and government, two things that mean surprisingly little to me as I write this.
That morning, because he refused to take my calls, I arrived unannounced at Elliot’s home. I had come to settle affairs with him. I was sixty-eight years old, and had been diagnosed with an incurable cancer. It was time to resolve our differences.
Unfortunately, Elliot did not receive me well. We argued. It is a father’s naive belief that he can always make things right in the end. I could not. Instead, he rushed out agitated and angry. An hour later, he gave you the wrong clearance.
On such moments do lives turn.
I believe it was my presence that put him in a distracted state. I knew my son. He had his weaknesses. But his work, like mine, was impeccable. I had driven to the tower to hand him a letter that contained my final wishes. I could have left it at his home, but I suppose, deep down, I wanted to see him once more. I arrived in time to hear the faraway sound of your jet crashing.
There are no words to describe that moment. My training prepares me for controlled behavior in chaotic situations. But I’m afraid my son panicked. I found him alone in the tower’s control booth, yelling, “What did I do? What did I do?” I told him to lock the door and let me handle things as I moved quickly to erase all data—thinking, like an operative, that with no flight recordings, he could not be proven at fault.
For some reason, as I did this, he fled the facility. To this day I do not know why. That’s the thing when people leave us too suddenly, isn’t it? We always have so many questions.
In the confusion that followed, I left the tower undetected, another thing I am trained to do. But after learning of Elliot’s car crash, his death, and your wife being left in such terribly fragile condition, I was consumed with regret. I come from a world of checks and balances. My son, I am responsible for. You and your wife were strangers, crossfire victims. I became desperate to make amends.
A few days later, at Elliot’s funeral, I witnessed friends I didn’t know he had. They spoke lovingly about his belief in a better world after this one. They said he trusted in the grace of heaven. I never knew he felt that way.
For the first time in my life, I wept for my child.
I came to Coldwater to settle my debts—to him and to you. With access to your military records, I was able to study your background. I tracked your return here, how you’d moved your son in with your parents as you dutifully visited your wife in the hospital. When I learned of the charges you faced, I felt grave concern, knowing no evidence would be found to defend your actions. The ongoing case meant Elliot’s death was constantly in the news. My conscience found no rest.
I have always been a man of action, Mr. Harding. Knowing my life was drawing to a close, I purchased a nearby home, took on a new identity (again, a simple matter with my government background), and, by fortuitous accident, met Sam Davidson, who was hoping to retire from his life’s work at the funeral home. As you approach death, its mystery takes on a mournful appeal. I bought an interest in his business, and discovered that the grieving of others gave me comfort. I listened to their stories. Listened to their regrets. Nearly all of them had a single desire—the same desire, I suppose, that led me to the airfield that day: to speak with their loved ones at least once more.
I decided, for a handful of them, to make it so. To make my last act one of empathy, and perhaps give you and your son something hopeful after your wife’s pas
sing.
The rest—how I did it, the eight voices, the timing, the details—I am fairly sure you will have figured out by this point. Do not count on discovering much evidence. My former employers will cover any important tracks. When you do what I did for so long, you are never truly retired; as my identity could be an embarrassment to them, they will reduce my significance and ensure I remain mostly a mystery.
But I am sharing this with you, Mr. Harding, because to you I can never repay my debt. You may think someone with my background would have no belief in God. That would be inaccurate. It was with fierce belief in God’s support that I justified my actions all those years.
I did what I did in Coldwater as penance. I will die, as all of us do, without knowing the outcome of my works. But even if my methods are revealed, people will believe what they choose to believe. And if a few more souls have come to faith because of these calls, perhaps the Lord will show me grace.
Either way, by the time you read this, the mystery of heaven will be solved for me. If I could truly contact you and tell you of its existence, I would. That would be the smallest of debts I could repay.
Instead, I end this as I began it, asking your forgiveness. Perhaps, soon, I will be able to seek the same from my son.
Good-bye—
Elliot Gray Sr., aka Horace Belfin
How do you let go of anger? How do you release a fury you’ve been standing on for so long, you would stumble were it yanked away? As Sully sat in his old room, holding the letter, he felt himself lifting off from his bitterness, the way one lifts off in a dream. Elliot Gray, an enemy for so long, was now seen differently, a man forgivable for his mistake. The missing flight recordings had been explained, as had the elusive deception that had consumed Coldwater for months. Even Horace had become humanized, a grieving man trying to make amends.
