The Heavenly Heart

After a fatal accident Lorelei Goodrow follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father who gets her heart. Her untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She is unable to move on without letting go and letting go is the last thing on her agenda.

Lorelei Goodroe’s father has her heart. She has many questions. First off, how did she end up on heaven’s doorstep? As hard as she tries, she can’t remember, not yet. Now that she’s there, Lorelei explores life below as it continues without her, first through a magnificent Golden Window—that portrays “what is”—and then finds she is able to view the same events through a parallel window—appropriately labeled the Silver Lining—as though she had never died (the “what if”). In doing so she makes some powerful discoveries, including the lovely adage that life on earth and what we do with it, of course, can make a difference, but so can death!

The Heavenly Heart

Jackie Lee Miles

ISBN: 9781618421746

ONE

Heaven’s Doorstep

My father has my heart. Seriously—he really
has
it. It’s beating in his chest. I’m floating high above and see it clearly; it’s thumping up and down like a hiccup.

This guy Pete’s right next to me. “Lorelei,” he says, “you won’t need it now.”

That makes no sense. My heart’s been with me a lifetime—sixteen years, two months and three days. And I was counting on it being with me for a very long time. How in the world did I end up here? I shake my head and try to remember, but it’s no use. My brain’s as blank as unused paper.

At least this place looks nice. We’re standing in a white window and the air that’s around us is tasty as rain. It’s pure as a waterfall. I gulp it down like I’ve been stranded in the desert for ages, instead of attending private schools, pretty much living a life of privilege, with nothing much to complain about.

“Take your time,” Pete says, and pats my shoulder reassuringly. “It doesn’t matter here.”

I don’t say anything. I’m trying to figure out what has happened to me.

 “Take your time,” he says again, like maybe I’m hard of hearing or something. “You have forever.”

What I
have
are questions. “Can I keep my name?”

“Would you like to?” he asks.

Yes, I would. I nod and step back and take a good look at him. He’s ancient and wrinkled, like he’s been around for a very long time. He’s got long bony fingers and acres of fluffy white hair. And his voice is nice. It’s warmer than mittens, so I try hard not to notice that his arms have more hair than my cat. I want to take him home and stash him with my stuffed animals.

“You can have what you want, Lorelei,” he says, and beams. “Anything
.
”  He looks like sunrise bursting into day.

One donated transplanted heart in exchange for anything. That sounds like a pretty good deal.

“For always,” he adds.

A
really
good deal. But, one of the doctors is taking my kidneys and others are taking my liver and corneas.

Pete’s eyes are larger than lakes. It’d be easy to fall into them.

“Anything?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

“Can I go back?”

TWO

The Golden Window

Pete doesn’t answer. I turn to look and he’s gone. I plop down on the edge of the window. It’s etched in gold with crystal panes. Inside is a giant white pillow. I bury myself in its folds and watch the doctors carve up what’s left of me. They must think I’m a garden. They’re snipping this and gathering that. They unearth what’s left of me and place my organs into Rubbermaid coolers. They’re working hard. They raise their arms and wipe the sweat from their brows. And they watch the clock like it’s the setting sun, so they have to hurry. Obviously, time matters there.

My body before them is full of organs. If I’m a garden, it’s a good crop. They take out the parts of me that are needed, but what’s left is rather gruesome. I flinch and look away. Too late—my last moments flash before me like a deck of cards. One by one they shuffle past, then poof! They’re gone.

At last, the doctors are finished.  There is the clinking and clanking of metal against metal as their tools are tossed aside. Next, the snapping of rubber and the crumpling of tissue as gloves are peeled from hands and paper robes are shed from bodies. The doors swoosh open. The surgeons and nurses meander off, speaking in hushed tones. It’s one a.m. Bodies in white rush in to snatch up the coolers. There’s a helicopter waiting. It flies the cooler to a jet that continues on to cities I’ve never been to. Ones my father flew to before his heart got this virus. I close my eyes and see his face. I lean back on my pillow and hear his words from long ago, rich as fudge and warm as sunshine.

“You’ll see all those places someday, Lorelei.”

He’s right.
Exceedingly
right, my mother would say. Her name is Grace. It means undeserved favor. She prefers words that add emphasis:
exceedingly, substantially, tremendously, horribly
. She says those words, and more, quite comfortably when others can’t. They sound perfectly normal falling out of her mouth, like they live in a grand house at the base of her throat and adore her.

I watch the doctors in another operating room close my father’s chest. When they finish, the one they call Dr. Harvey goes to my mother. He tells her my life is over, but plenty of others will have another go at it. Of course, he chooses just the right words when he does.

The hospital chaplain arrives and makes a silly proclamation like he’s the Pope and my mother has an audience with him.

“She’s giving birth to a host of lives whose destinies will forever be changed,” he says.

My mother’s head jerks to attention and nearly snaps off her neck. Her eyes open wide, wider than they’re supposed to. The clergyman has his closed. He’s nodding his head and pressing his lips together.

“Yes, a glorious birth,” he says, his milky-white hands folded in prayer.

He should stop praying—for the moment—take a good look around, and get with it. I’m their only child. Any fool can see that my mother finds the word “glorious”,
horrendously
inadequate for this particular occasion. I’m sixteen years old. My mother counted on my giving birth, eventually, but in a traditional sense.

“Stop it!” my mother says. She tells him it is utterly preposterous.  She will

absolutely, unequivocally not hear one more word of this
ludicrous
analogy.

The minister opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. That’s good. He should just stand there and be quiet, not only out of decency for my mother, who is suffering, but for his own safety.

My mother’s angry. The vein at the side of her
exquisite
forehead is pulsing. Soon a cloud will form on her brow. It’ll gather strength like a summer squall. Before it subsides, a tirade will pour forth from the
voluptuous
mouth of that storm. An explosion of words will erupt from an Estée Lauder pink volcano and spew lava down to devour him.

Better yet, he should go off in a corner and read the latest New York Time’s bestseller,
What to Say and When to Say It.

His words are foolish, but they’re powerful, too. They smash the window of denial and open the door to reality. They remind my mother that I am, that is to say I
was
, their only chance for a future generation. If this man-in-black thinks my mother will take comfort in my body birthing destinies instead of grandchildren, he’s
undeniably
stupid.

He should read that book twice.

THREE

The Porthole of Truth

Pete says I
can’t
go back.

“But, let’s say you could?” he adds. “Perhaps I’d have you choose your gender, then spin a wheel like this,” he says, and spins this enormous dial like Bob Barker on “The Price is Right”.

“Let’s pretend it would give you a body and a birthplace,” Pete explains.

Sounds good to me. I watch with interest.

The wheel whirls round and round like a giant top tipped on its side. Every place in the world is on that wheel. I watch to see where it’ll stop. The excitement mounts. England! Spain! Italy! France! Slowly it careens to a halt, but it comes to rest on a city I’ve never heard of.

“That’s in Siberia,” Pete says.

“Siberia? I was thinking of something nicer, like Switzerland or even Colorado. I really like to ski.”

“So, you would be taking quite a chance, wouldn’t you?” Pete says.

“Couldn’t I spin more than once?”

He shakes his head. “Afraid not. It there
was
a choice, you would get one spin.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want a new body,” I point out. “And I wouldn’t want a new birthplace. I might end up in Bangladesh. I might be born mentally challenged, or without arms, like the Agent Orange babies!”

Pete nods. “You see my point.”

Sadly I do. “But—what if—”

“Lorelei,” Pete says softly, “You can’t go back. Your body is no longer available.

Well, duh! Obviously, I’ve seen for myself through the Golden Window with the pretty white pillow that it’s
not
in very good shape. I should be screaming like a baby. Instead there’s a strange peace inside me.

“Were you
able
to go back,” Pete says. “It would have to be in the body of another.”

“I don’t want a new body,” I say, more to myself than to him.

I’ve always been very comfortable with the body I have. I look like my mother, not completely, but sort of. And she’s very beautiful. Since first grade, I’ve told myself I’d grow into a stunning creature
precisely
like my mother, with a neck as delicate as a swan and skin soft as spun silk. I’d have cheekbones like hers that would be the envy of all my friends and long slender legs. And full breasts, definitely full breasts. Not the kind you buy from a doctor, but real ones, like hers, that rest in beautiful lace cups, that jiggle when she moves, that peek out of her favorite black evening dress, and swell up and down each time she breaths. And I was nearly
there
on the breasts; I even checked them off my list. And I was patiently waiting, confident of the rest when I did something
incredibly
stupid, something irrevocable and
totally
irresponsible, without giving one thought to the consequences.  That’s what my mother says teenager’s do. We don’t comprehend that things can turn deadly. She insists that we are totally unaware of the dangers involved that surround our life.

“It’s what youth is,” she says. “An inconsiderate mass of hormones raging out of control, with thoughts of immortality stored in your brains and branded on your hearts.”

That’s a very scary thought and now I know she’s right. I’ve ended up here. I touch my face and examine my hands and arms carefully. They feel and look the same. I’m completely whole. How can my body no longer be available?

Pete rambles on. “That is why there
is
no going back. There is the glory of
going forward—
to eternity. That’s the part that matters,” he says as he wags his finger and points upwards.

I look above me and wonder what’s there. I want to be angry. “You said I could have anything.”

“Ah yes,” Pete says, “anything, but not
eeeeveryyything
.”

I laugh. It comes out as music. Pete joins in. We’re an ensemble making heavenly sounds. I laugh even harder and it’s as if a philharmonic orchestra’s joined us. I twirl around and around, enjoying this new way to experience mirth. My steps are lighter than feathers have ever been on air. My body spins and glides with ease. I’m floating! It’s a sensation above all others. It’s incredible! I dance figure eights around Pete and wonder what else awaits me.

“What’s that?” I ask. There’s an opening with a beam of light so bright it dazzles. I’m drawn to it like a hummingbird to nectar.

“That is the Porthole of Truth,” Pete says somberly “It is where we view the hearts of those below. We can see and feel their thoughts.” 

“Cool,” I say, and walk closer. I want to know what David thinks. He’s tall and very hot—a senior—and the captain of the football team. I’ve been in love with him for months. He has a girlfriend that looks like Reese Witherspoon, who I want to hate, but she’s extremely nice, so I’m never quite able to. They hold hands and kiss in the hallways and have their lunch together at the cafeteria. They nibble on each other’s sandwiches and speak a secret language that doesn’t require words.

Even so, David stares and smiles at me in the hallway and I’ve always wondered if it meant something, or if he stares and smiles at others in that exact same way. I want to know. I
need
to know. Now, I
will
know!  I’m delirious. Now I can stop wondering. Pete stares at me intently.