The Heavenly Heart

by Jackie Lee Miles

  Kirsten’s nods her head eagerly. She must be looking forward to some civilization once again. From there Ron says they’ll work their way down to Exumas and Bell Island, which is their final destination. It’ll take a week and a half, depending on the sailing conditions, maybe two.

  “But who’s counting?” Ron says.

  Me—for one! I won’t have any nails left. There are sharks out there, too. Kirsten just nods and smiles. I told you love does strange things.

  * * *

  Ron and Kirsten are in Marsh Harbour, Abaco, after spending two days at Green Turtle Cay. There’s no sailing for the moment.

  “Wind dead on the nose!” Ron explains.

  The rent a golf cart and go into New Plymouth. The town was incorporated in 1815 by American loyalists. There’s a nice old-fashioned sign that explains it all if you want to take the time to read it. It’s kind of long. When the wind picks up, they head South across the Northeast Providence Channel to Eleuthera, Exuma Sound, and then finally on to Bell Island in Exumas.

  Here they rest for two days in the lee of Elbow Cay waiting for some good weather so they can get over to the Exumas. The morning wind’s coming from the South—that’s the direction they want to go—and it’s blowing really hard, so they’re stuck where they’re at. Then a cold front comes through and brings enough rain to make a tsunami. It washes the salt off the boat which makes Ron quite happy. They take advantage of it by taking showers on the deck. Then Ron collects about five gallons of water for the tanks. Their water-maker works well, but Ron says, “Until I come up with an alternate energy source, let’s be stingy with the power.”

  They eat their dinner by candlelight—that’s real nice. Kirsten’s getting a beautiful tan and her black hair has all these sun streaks in it. She’s more beautiful than ever, but maybe love can do that all by its self. They make a really good-looking couple. Ron’s about six feet tall. He’s got dark-hair, but not as dark as Kirsten’s, and blue eyes. He’s kind of rugged looking, and he’s got a strong sailor’s body. He could be on the front of a sailing magazine, easy. If I had to describe him in one word it would have to be: dreamy. And if I had to use two: absolutely dreamy.

  Kirsten and Ron leave Elbow Cay in the morning. The wind’s still blowing hard and it’s foggy. To get out into the ocean they have to go through Tiloo Cut and Ron says it’ll be tricky business coming onshore. But, Ron’s a mighty good sailor and gets them there without any trouble. They try to find anchorages in Hope Town and and then Man ‘O War Cay, but they’re both very popular places. There’s no room.

  “Dang,” Ron says. “Wanted to show you Man’O War—it’s the boatbuilding center of the Bahamas.”

  Kirsten doesn’t look at all disappointed. She’s catching up on her reading and snoozing. Ron anchors off Hope Town Marina for a couple of days and restocks the boat. The best part of their stay is climbing up to the Hope Town Lighthouse. It was built in 1868, and the light itself was made in the nineteenth century. The most fascinating thing about it is that it’s one of only three lights in the world that still runs on kerosene. The lens is about eight feet in diameter and weighs like four-thousand pounds! It floats on a pool of mercury and turns when this weight falls slowly through the center of the lighthouse. It looks like a tower clock. The lighthouse guide explains that it runs on pressurized kerosene vapor, like Coleman lanterns. It can be seen for over seventeen miles. Pretty awesome; Kirsten looks impressed. After Hope Town, they sail on and anchor for a few days at Royal Island, near Eleuthera. It’s one of the best natural harbors in the Bahamas. Ron says it was some kind of palatial estate before World War II. Now it’s in ruins, but it’s still cool to look at, all these old buildings made out of stucco.

  Ron and Kirsten are lying on the beach by candlelight and nibbling on lobster and shrimp they cooked in this pit. When they finish eating, Ron kneels down beside Kirsten and takes her plate. He washes the dishes and the utensils in some water he put in a sandy hole a few yards away. Kirsten lies back on the blanket and looks at the sky, which is perfect for this kind of night. I swear it’s peppered with all of the stars that have ever been made. Ron’s finished with the dishes. He lies down beside her and slides his fingers into hers and nuzzles her cheek with his nose.

  “Did you enjoy your dinner, Mrs. Riley?” he says.

  Ohmidgosh! They’re married! And this is their honeymoon and I never even knew! The must have gotten married before they ever set sail. This is so romantic. And to think, I’m part of it. I mean it’s my kidney that has made all of this possible. I’m tap-dancing on the clouds and managing to make noise! My father was right. Kirsten’s going to be fine.

  NINETY

  The Golden Window

  I’ve said good-bye to Mona and Kirsten. I can’t say goodbye to Garrett and my father. They’re already here, waiting for me to join them above—probably having the time of their heavenly lives. I thought about checking in on Mr. Powell to see if he’s making better use of my corneas, but decided not to, in case he isn’t and it’d be so depressing. I’ve decided before I face my greatest fear, I’m going to visit the Memorial Garden up-close and personal. This is the memory garden in Richmond that Mona and Rita took the children to. My name’s engraved there in the Garden of Sorrow and Joy. It’s right next to all the other donors and recipients. I’m hoping it’ll help me let go. I’ll see all the good that’s come out of my death.

  But first I’ve got to see how Clarence and Onetta and my mother are doing. And I need to say goodbye to Christopher and let him know he’ll be alright.

  * * *

  Miracles of miracles—Clarence’s having a spiritual awaking. It’s happening during an AA meeting. They’re reading from the Big Book. This is not the Bible. It’s the AA bible. The speaker is reading this long passage:

  We hope we have made clear the distinction between the alcoholic and the non-alcoholic. If, when you honestly want to, you find you cannot quit entirely, or if when drinking you have little control over the amount you take, you are probably alcoholic. If that be the case, you may be suffering from an illness which only a spiritual experience will conquer. To one who feels he is an atheist or agnostic such an experience seems impossible, but to continue as he is means disaster, especially if he is an alcoholic of the hopeless variety. To be doomed to an alcoholic death or to live on a spiritual basis are not always easy alternatives to face, But it isn’t so difficult. About half our original fellowship were of exactly that type. At first some of us tried to avoid the issue, hoping against hope we were not true alcoholics. But after awhile we had to face the fact that we must find a spiritual basis of life—or else. Perhaps it is going to be that way with you. But cheer up, something like half of us thought we were atheists or agnostics. Our experience shows that you need not be disconcerted. If a mere code of morals or a better philosophy of life were sufficient to overcome alcoholism, many of us would have recovered long ago. But we found that such codes and philosophies did not save us, no matter how much we tried. We could wish to be moral, we could will these things with all or might, but the needed power wasn’t there. Our human resources, as marshaled by the will, were not sufficient; they failed utterly. Lack of power; that was our dilemma. We had to find a power by which we could live, and it had to be a power greater than ourselves. But where and how were we to find this Power? Well, that’s exactly what this book is about. Its main object is to enable you to find a Power greater than yourself which will solve your problem.

  The speaker talks about this drunk who found the courage to take life one step at a time. He turned his life over to a higher power and this power did for him what he couldn’t do for himself. When the speaker sits down, Clarence pops up like a Jack-in-the-box.

  “My name’s Clarence and I’m a drunk!” he says.

  That in itself is not so amazing. I mean he’s just standing there and speaking the truth. But what happens next is totally awe inspiring.

  “I want a higher power! I want to be clean and sober.�
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  And then Clarence starts crying like a baby. He’s choking on his sobs. Rudy places an arm around his shoulder.

  “We’re here for you Clarence,” Rudy says, and the group gathers all around him.

  “One day at a time,” one older man says and pats Clarence on the back.

  “Easy does it,” another says.

  There’s something at work in this room. It’s done the impossible. It’s reached Clarence. That’s like a major miracle. Clarence’s been drinking since before I was born. And now he’s willing to let it all go. Or at least try to. And to start with, all he had to do was to believe in a power greater than himself.

  Clarence walks to the front of the room. Today is his first day he’s declared his sobriety, so he gets to pick up a white chip. Later he can exchange it for different colors to mark the days he stays sober. He’s been here a month. And of course he’s been sober all that time. They don’t serve any alcohol. They can’t even have mouthwash that’s got it mixed in.

  Tomorrow my mother’s coming to pick him up .He’s being discharged. He’s completed the thirty-day program.

  “Ninety in ninety, buddy,” the speaker says to Clarence and hands him a white chip.

  Ninety in ninety means he’s supposed to attend ninety AA meetings in ninety days to get off to a good start. Clarence takes the chip and holds it to his chest like it’s made of pure gold.

  “You can do it, man,” Rudy says, wiping the tears from his eyes. Rudy’s had a relapse. He went on a home visit last weekend and smoked some cocaine. He’ll be staying for another thirty days.

  I hope Rudy makes it. I hope Clarence makes it. I hope they all make it. They’re running out of chances.

  * * *

  Christopher’s having his favorite lunch—pizza. Mine, too. It must run in the family.

  “I have to go away,” I say.

  “Will you be back?” he asks,

  I stroke his blonde hair. He’s so beautiful, each and every part of him. I love his little slanted eyes and the flattened bridge of his nose. He’s perfectly adorable in all his uniqueness.

  “I’m going upstairs to that part of Heaven,” I say and point to the gold and purple mist that dances above us. “I’ll be gone forever.”

  “Okay,” he says. “See you later.”

  Forever’s not a scary word to him.

  “I’ll stay here by my friends,” he says.

  He puts his arms around my neck and gives a hug. I hug him back and take in the sweet scent of his hair one last time. I’ll miss him.

  Children are so special, so innocent—so blessed. They don’t understand forever, or for always. They only know today.

  NINETY-ONE

  The Memorial Garden

  I’m at the Memorial Garden in Richmond, Virginia, the tribute established by the United Network for Organ Sharing. Maybe if I experience the emotional transformation they speak of in their brochure I can finally let go. You might remember there’s three rooms here: Hope, Renewal and Transformation. The Wall of Sorrow and Joy is in the Hope room. My name’s behind the slow stream of water that runs over this stone wall. I’m using the AA slogans as I walk through the rooms. Keep it simple Easy does it. One step at a time. They’re not just for drunks.

  There’s a slew of people here. I blend right in. I go to the Hope room and locate the Wall of Sorrow and Joy. It takes me a long time to find my name, but it’s there. It’s on a wall that’s been newly constructed. The stone is lighter than the others. It looks so pretty. Lorelei Goodroe it says in this really nice script. One angel donor. That’s me—one angel donor who doesn’t really want to be one. Nothing’s changed inside me. I still want earth and all it was. I watch the stream of water pouring over the stone wall. It’s supposed to honor the tears of those who’ve lost their loved ones. The water’s also supposed to be a tribute to the joy that’s received knowing the gift of life was given after death. I’m a gift! That’s cool. A gift for Mona and for Kirsten who are both doing good. I dry my eyes and go to the Butterfly Lawn which represents Renewal. It’s just like the brochure describes. It’s filled with light with layers and layers of plantings that have attracted thousands and thousands of butterflies. They remind me of our garden at home and all the attention Mr. Daniel, our gardener gave to it. The butterflies are to symbolize renewal. They’re a bronze plaque that explains it. It reminds me of home and all that I’ve lost. I think I’m feeling worse. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, my coming here.

  I head to the kiosk across the way which has the online tributes. I find the one that Mona’s written about me. It says a tragic accident took my life and gave her one in return. Much love to you my always angel, it says. I’m an always angel. That sounds pretty cool. That should make me happy. So why am I crying again? But I blend right in with all the other people who are here crying, too. Maybe some are crying for happy. Could be—there’s happiness here, too.

  I wander out to the Memorial Grove which represents Transformation. Holly trees are everywhere. It’s an awesome place. There’s a bunch of white benches to sit on. They’re scattered everywhere and there’s clusters and clusters of trees. The water that flows through this room forms a huge waterfall that pours down into the Gift of Life Fountain in the garden below. It’s like a mini-Niagara Falls. My knees grow week. I find a bench off to myself and bury my head in my arms. I want so badly to be transformed, to be glad for all the good things that have come from my death. I want to let earth alone and go on my way and be done with it, already. I cry until I’m sure there can’t be any tears left in me. That’s when it hits me—the memory of the night that ended with my no longer being part of this earth. I look at the waterfall. It’s a giant screen right before my eyes. The night I’ve been avoiding, the night I died—there, I’ve said it—is on that screen. It starts out the same as in the Silver Lining. I’m waiting for my mother to turn her light out and fall asleep. The problem is she’s reading a book—Water for Elephants. It’s a New York Times bestseller. It must be one that deserves to be. She’s been up reading for hours. It’s almost eleven thirty and her light’s still on. I tiptoe down the stairs and through the kitchen and out the back door. I make my way to the portico where the Land Rover is parked. I look up and see that my mother’s light’s still burning bright. I’ve got to hurry if I want to be on time to pick up Paige and Annalise. If I’m late, they’ll think something’s wrong. Annalise will call to see if I’m still up and ask my mother if I might come to the telephone. She’ll say she’s sorry to call so late, but it’s very important that she speak with me. My mother will go to get me and find that I’m not in my room. Oh boy, from there it will only get worse. Soon she’ll find that I’m not anywhere in our house and she’ll call the police, just like last time!

  Why didn’t I tell Annalise, never, never call my house if I am late. Wait for me to call her! But I didn’t and knowing Annalise, she’ll call. My mother’s light’s still on. My mother usually goes to sleep promptly at eleven. It’s now eleven thirty. I can still just make it if I hurry. If she’ll turn off her light, put on her sleep mask, and go to sleep!

  Finally, there’s no light in her window. It’s totally black. I wait fifteen more minutes, then, climb in the Land Rover. I don’t put the headlights on until I’m out the driveway and onto the main thoroughfare. I take the shortcut to pick up Annalise first. It will take me past the public high school and the old cotton mill next to the train tracks. I have the CD player going full blast. One of my favorite songs is playing by Fergie: Big Girls Don’t Cry. I’m pounding the steering wheel, keeping time with the music. And I’m driving too fast. I’m on my way to pick up Paige and Annalise, just like I was in the Silver Lining. I’m sixteen years old without a care in the world. I think I’ll live forever. I have no fear. My foot leans even harder on the gas pedal. I’m going eighty. The road is narrow and dark. The music builds to a crescendo. I’m giddy. We’re going to have so much fun. The music puts me into orbit. Now I’m doing ninety. I’m almost th
ere. It’s one second to midnight—I’ll make it just in time! I fly over the tracks, Fergie’s clear voice is roaring in my ears.

  I don’t see the train. It slams into the Land Rover on the driver’s side and slices it in two. Then it careens off the track and into the path of the oncoming Amtrak train on its midnight run to Atlanta.

  There’s an elderly lady who’s tossed out of the car like a rag doll. Her face is peaceful in sleep, her silver hair barely out of place. She looks like a broken porcelain doll. I know that lovely, delicate face.

  It’s Miss Lily.

  NINETY-TWO

  The Step of Denial

  I leave the Memorial Grove with the magnificent Holly trees and make my way to the Step of Denial which holds my own forest of trees that are covered with leaves that list every minute of my life. I run through the forest and find my last tree. It’s the tree Carla poked around in the day we first came here.

  I’m not here to deny that this tree exists. I’m here to claim it. To make it all mine. Because my mother was reading her book, I was late in picking up Paige and Annalise. In the Silver Window the train hit the passenger side of the Land Rover right at midnight. But that was the Silver Window, which portrayed the circumstances that would have unfolded if I’d lived. But, I didn’t live. I was on my way to get Paige and Annalise, running late, all because of that wonderful book Water for Elephants which kept my mother reading well past her bedtime. This time the train slammed into the Land Rover right at midnight, too. But I was going to get Paige and Annalise, not coming back. So the train hit the side I was sitting on. I didn’t kill Paige and Annalise. I never even got to them. They were saved by that book—I could kiss that author.