The Heavenly Heart (17 page)

“Kirsten, will you spend the rest of your life with me?” he says.

Kirsten drops to her knees, too, and throws her arms around him. She’s laughing and crying and hugging his neck.

It’s an absolutely, positively, incredibly beautiful moment that
never
happened. This is the Silver Lining. It’s only what
could
have happened if I were still alive and my father had left her alone.

What a perfectly wonderful life Kirsten could have had. It’s just too sad to think about. And my father’s, he’s probably not thinking about it at all. He’s ruined Kirsten’s life—he’s ruined everything. He has my heart and he’s positively broken it in two.

FIFTY-TWO

The Golden Window

Me and Pete are having our little pow-wow. “Boy is he full of surprises. Now he thinks it’s a good idea for me to take another trip through the Silver Lining!

“I thought you wanted to dismantle it,” I say.

“I do, but there’s something in it I want you to see first.”

This makes me uneasy and I get this feeling in my stomach like maybe I should go eat something, you know, pig out, forget your troubles—that kind of eating. Because what is the big deal that he wants me to see? Exactly. That’s what I’m thinking and my stomach kind of turns over and says,
Oh boy
.

“Is it something good?” I ask

“Ah, let’s say it’s—it’s—” he answers, “of m—major importance. I’d very much like you to go.”

I could eat three entire pizzas this very minute.

Pete’s laying on a guilt trip. He says he won’t make me go. It’s just that he very much would like me to go.

“Maybe later,” I say, but I’m thinking something totally different. Like, not on your life. Whatever is sitting in the Silver Lining that he wants me to see can stay there. That dumb window hasn’t been very encouraging lately.

But Pete looks so forlorn. I search for something, anything to make him smile.

“I know what,” I say. “I’m going to go get Carla and explore the Steps to the Hereafter again. Wouldn’t that be great?”

So I won’t be a liar, I go get Carla. We head to the second step. It’s Step of Acceptance. This step I can get into. I very much want to accept all the things that have happened in my life—even the crummy things. Maybe I can even accept what I did to get here. Maybe when I take those last minutes and look them right in the face, no matter how horrid, maybe I’ll find the secret to letting them go.

“Oh, look,” Carla says. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

We climb the long staircase and pass through the door of Acceptance. Instantly we are bathed in a fine cool mist.  When we emerge, a gentle breeze tickles our skin. Before us there’s a beautiful beach thick with grains of sand as soft and fine as crushed dust. The breeze stirs up the granules. They pepper our bodies. We’re covered from head to toe. We look like sand-ghosts spun out of sugar. Each grain of sand brings back a memory from my life on earth. This time I’m not afraid to face these moments. Well, not at first.

“I had a pretty good life,” Carla says. “I don’t feel the least bit cheated anymore. She dabs at the granules of sand, revisiting each moment. They fall from her body and join the white sand spread out on the beach. She jumps into the water and rinses herself free of every last trace of the sugary granules.

“Come on in!’ she squeals. “The water’s divine.”

Her words don’t sound like her, but I’m happy to join her. I haven’t sorted through the grains of sand I’m covered in, but I want them off of me, pronto! These grains of memory will tell me exactly what happened in the end. I thought I wanted to know. I was wrong. I’m not ready. I dive into the water and splash around like a maniac and don’t stop until every grain of sand is gone.

“Isn’t it splendid?” Carla says. “I feel like an angel. Don’t you?”

Actually I feel more like a coward. I smile and say nothing. Carla turns and makes her way to the next staircase, the step of Attrition.

“Are you coming?” she says.

“Ah, I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m really not into these steps right now,” I add. “Let’s go back.”

“But, it’s so heavenly,” she says. See what I mean about her choice of words?

It scares me. Carla’s no longer herself. I beg her not to go any further, but it’s too late. She’s entering a glass door encrusted with pearls.

“Lorelei,” she says. “Please join me. You won’t believe this magnificent sight.”

“Carla!” I yell. “Come back!”

Too late; the door closes behind her and she’s gone.

FIFTY-THREE

The Porthole of Truth

Alex Goodroe

I’ve been trying to reach Kirsten for over a week. Candace says she’s out of the office—she insists she doesn’t know when she’ll be back. What a crock.

It’s possible that I have ruined Kirsten’s life. I realize seeing her will only complicate matters, but somehow I must make her understand. There’s no way I can divorce Grace. It’s out of the question.

FIFTY-FOUR

The Golden Window

Carla’s back, but she’s not the same person. She’s full of smiles and has this funky glow around her. Not to say it’s a bad thing. In fact, I feel really calm when I’m with her. It’s weird, like she’s exhaling serenity into the air and it wraps itself around me like it’s got arms.

Miss Lily’s caught up in it.

“I must come with you on your next journey, my dear,” she says. “You are like a little ray of sunshine,” she says.

Pete’s all smiles.

“Yes, yes,” he tells Miss Lily. “By all means you must go with her. Very good! Very good!” he says, then turns and cocks his head at me.

That’s his way of saying, “Lorelei, what about you?”  For once I really don’t want to go anywhere. I’m afraid to see what’s happening to Garrett and I don’t want to know what’s up with Kirsten. Obviously, she hasn’t not jumped out of any windows—I mean, she’s not here, so duh! That’s a given. I could check in with Page and Annalese, but we always manage to get into trouble. That’s when I realize it would be nice to check in with my mother. She’s still attending her recovery classes and has made many friends. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll lie in the Golden Window and see what she’s up to. First I’ll order spaghetti and meatballs. I’m dying for some good Italian food and they have the best this side of heaven.

I watch Carla and Miss Lily meander off with Pete all happy go lucky and wonder if I’ll be here forever. Thousands of people will make their way above and shake their heads when they walk by me. Poor soul, they’ll say, she can’t let go. She’s been here for ages; just hanging on for dear life.

Maybe I’ll order two servings of spaghetti and a pizza. I yank my velvet cord.

*      *       *

There’s something about my mother’s speech that’s changed. Where, before, she’d say, “I beg your pardon?” she now says, “
Reeeally
?”

And she’s acting like a school girl. It’s weird. Maybe she has a fever, or some terrible disease, or something. But she’s with Mr. Warren and it’s so interesting to watch them. If I didn’t’ know better I’d say my mother’s in love. If it’s true, that should upset me big time, because of my father and all, but then his behavior’s not any better.

My mother’s telling Mr. Warren that she suspects my father’s having an affair!

“I’m almost certain,” she says. “But I can’t blame him. Things have not been well with us since—since—”

My mother’s face turns pale.

“Grace, are you alright?” Mr. Warren sits up very straight and reaches for my mother’s hand. He’s the dearest man, I’m telling you.

And then my mother does something that I haven’t seen her do since my father’s funeral. She starts to cry. This really upsets Mr. Warren.

“Grace, what is, it?” he says. “Please tell me.”

My mother leans against his chest. He hands her his handkerchief.  I probably should just leave them alone, but I want’ to hear what my mother’s saying. In words barely above a whisper she begins to tell him of the night my father’s business partner forced himself on her! And my father believed his partner; that it was consensual. Of course, I know she’s lying. Onetta said so in the Porthole of Truth.

“I couldn’t, just couldn’t have the baby—”

“Grace, please don’t upset yourself; I understand,” Mr. Warren says.

“But now,” my mother says, dabbing at her eyes, “with Lorelei gone, I’m filled with grief. It was a little boy, and of course, one child never takes the place of another, but—”

My mother starts to sob.

Mr. Warren places his arm around my mother’s shoulder.

“Grace, listen to me,” he says and rocks her gently. “Don’t torture yourself anymore. Please, dear, sweet Grace. I can’t stand this.”

And then Mr. Warren starts dabbing at her tears. My mother’s face is positively glowing. I’ve never seen her face so pretty or her eyes so gentle. If only my father knew what he was missing. But it’s sad my mother is lying and couldn’t have told Mr. Warren the truth, that she was a willing partner when she made my brother.

FIFTY-FIVE

The Golden Window

My father
does
know what he’s missing. He’s hired a detective to follow my mother. Probably because he thinks my mother’s up to exactly what he’s up to—basic psychology. We studied it in Psychology 101 at Westwood Academy. One always suspects the other is doing exactly what they are doing.

The most amazing thing is he’s totally jealous and wants my mother back! I know this from The Porthole of Truth. My father’s flipping out. Now, he’s wild about my mother. Paige once did a report on commitment-phobic men. The research she did explained that some men draw away from the object of their affection until the object gets too close to another object, whereby they do an about-face. This would all be fine if we were talking about magnets or pitchers of water, but we’re discussing human beings. My mother’s hardly an object.

But, I’m happy that my father’s going after my mother—except maybe not so happy about what will happen with Mr. Warren. He’s so nice. But, still, having my father and mother together just feels better.

My father’s taking my mother to dinner at her favorite restaurant—
Dante’s Down the Hatch—
in Atlanta. It’s a fondue place. Don’t ask me why it’s her favorite place to eat. You have to cook every little tidbit of shrimp, or steak, or lobster in this pot of oil they bring you, and then you have to wait for it to cool, before you can taste it to see if you’ve done a good job. We always managed to go there when I was major hungry and the waiting drove me crazy. And then sometimes I didn’t cook the stuff long enough and it wasn’t any good, plus you could get food poisoning so I don’t even know why it’s allowed. The government puts their nose in everything. You’d think they’d do something about places where you cook your own food, but no. It’s allowed.

“Alex,” my mother says. “I’m thinking of going out of town for a few days next week. To the mountains; it’s beautiful this time of year.”

My father says it’s a great idea. He’ll join her. My mother nearly chokes on a piece of crab meat.

“Oh no,” she says. “I really want this time alone.”

My father doesn’t say anything. He clears his throat and pulls a small portfolio out of his sport coat.

“Paris,” he says, and lays the packet next to her plate.

“Goodness,” she replies.

“We leave in ten days. Perhaps you should stay home and rest before the trip.”

“Well, I don’t know—” my mother stammers.

“We’ll be gone for two weeks. You’ll need to pack and make arrangements for the mail—”

“I—I’ve made plans—”

My father places his hand on top of my mothers and motions for the waiter. When he arrives at the table, my father asks him to send for the wine steward.

The restaurant’s dark and romantic and on the lower floor of the building; it really is down the hatch. The steward’s at their table in a half a second.

“Your best bottle of champagne,” my father says.

“Dom Perignon?” he says.

“Excellent.”

The waiter hurry’s off to get a bottle. He looks very excited. He must get a bonus. It’s a hundred and forty-five dollars a bottle, but the restaurant is charging three hundred and twenty-five dollars. That doesn’t faze my father.

He turns to my mother. “It’ll be like a second honeymoon,” he says. “You love Paris.”

“I do—I d—do,” she stutters. “But—”

Then it’s all settled. We leave on the fifteenth.”

The waiter returns with their champagne. He’s wearing white gloves. He holds the bottle up to my father, who nods. The waiter then expertly uncorks the bottle.

“Dom Perignon 1999 Brut Champagne—it has a high-toned minty accent on the aroma with a hint of citric edge on the palate,” he says. “Very nice,” he adds, and pours a small amount into the champagne flute.

He waits to be sure my father approves before offering a glass to my mother. My father rotates his wrist—but holds the rest of his arm still—and gently swirls the wine. It’s to release the wine’s aromas to the top edge of the glass. I know this because my father explained it’s importance when tasting fine wines, the first time I witnessed this silly demonstration at my parent’s fifteenth wedding anniversary.

Next, my father takes a deep sniff. He waits a few seconds and sniffs again. He passes his nose lightly over the wine glass, then takes a sip. He rolls it over his tongue for several seconds before swallowing. He is sure to exhale through his nose as he swallows so his taste buds and sense of smell will work together. I learned that too at their anniversary party—it’s the proper way to taste wine. It gave me the giggle fits. My father makes a big show of it, just like he did then. It looks so stupid.

When he’s satisfied, he takes a second sip, which he swishes around in his mouth and then swallows, again exhaling through his nose. Finally, he nods his final approval, and the wine steward fills my father’s glass to about one-third of the flute and does the same for my mother. With that, he bows slightly and retreats from the table. The wine steward’s performance is almost worth the amount they charge for the champagne.