The Heavenly Heart (5 page)

“Way to go!” he says.

“Sweeeet,” I tell him.

“Sweet what?”

“We don’t say
way to go
anymore. We say
sweeeet
. It means awesome, great, wonderful.”

“Sweeeet,” he repeats, and grins. He joins me on the first step. “Let’s roll!” he says.

Now he’s getting the hang of it. “But I’m not ready,” I remind him.

“I’m just giving you the grand tour,” Pete explains. “You don’t have to stay.”

He guides me slowly up the staircase. It’s wide as the Mississippi. Entire regiments could climb these stairs side-by-side, with room left over for their leaders. I think of all the wars from the beginning of time and of the thousands who’ve died in perhaps the very same battle, and realize some of them most likely have—climbed these stairs together.

 “Here’s the deal,” Pete says. There are five steps to the Kingdom—”

“You mean like in AA?” I ask.

I am familiar with the twelve-step program to recovery. I did a report on it. And I saw the movie “My Name is Bill” that starred James Woods. He’s my favorite older-man actor. Annalise and I watched it together. Mr. Woods was very convincing as an alcoholic.  Annalise says it’s obvious her mother is one. She acts just like Bill in the movie, even though she doesn’t drink.

“Your mother’s a dry drunk,” I say, remembering a tidbit from my research.  Annalise looks confused.

“She’s not really an alcoholic,” I add. “She just acts like one.”

“Is that any better?”

Pete asks if I’m still with him.

“Heaven to Lorelei!’ he says.

“Present!’ I reply.

“As I was saying, there are five steps to the Kingdom. This first one is the Step of Denial.” He counts the others on his fingers like I might lose track. They others have lovely names and each has an entire floor of the universe all to itself.

“What are they for?”

“To help you make your way from there to here,” he points to earth, “and from here to there,” and points upwards.

“Why can’t we just walk up the steps and be done with it? When we’re ready, that is.”

“It’s not that easy,” he says, and explains that most people find it difficult to make the transition from one life to the other.

“In fact, there are some who never do.”

“What happens to them?” I ask, fearful I might be one of those.

Pete has a disturbing look on his face. I picture myself floating around in the cosmos, bumping into space explorers, fending off discarded space rubbish, getting smashed in the head by stray meteorites, perpetually colliding with all the other banged-up, mixed-up lost souls orbiting out there along with me.

“They stay on the floor adjacent to the step that gives them comfort,” Pete says.

I’m relieved. The steps are great. The space surrounding them must be equally nice or perhaps even better. Either way I’m covered. 

“But,” Pete says. “They are locked in a portion of eternity that has limitations. It’s not what the big guy has in mind for you. He points his thumb upwards like he’s flagging a cab.

I look at the stairs. They reach higher and higher, then, disappear.

“They’re endless,” I say.

Pete insists they’re not. “But they are difficult to navigate alone. It’s my job to help you up the staircase so you reach your final reward.”

“But you said some people get stuck. Don’t you do your job well?”

“As well as I’m able. They have one to do, too,” he says.

The light up here is brighter than a Georgia sun in August. I cup my hand and shade my eyes and notice Pete’s hair glowing like a fluffy white halo.

“You included,” he says.

I’m afraid to ask what that might be, but Pete has no problem filling me in on the details.

“It’s your job to find the keys to each of the steps and unlock the gates that lead to the others.”

I look around to see if I can spot where they’re hidden so I can get to them quickly if I decide, indeed, I do want and need them.

“You won’t find them outside yourself, Lorelei,” Pete says. “You must look deep within your soul, into the very essence of your being.”

I stare at him, my eyes wide as Onetta’s mixing bowls. That could be a problem. I’ve always had a hard time just looking into the mirror.

NINE

The Golden Window

My father’s flying to Savannah. He’s going to meet the young attorney that has my kidney. She’s a junior partner in the law firm of Simpson, Bartholomew, Anderson and Broughton. Their offices are downtown on this cute square which makes up the center of the city. I watch my father check into the Hyatt Regency on Bay Street overlooking the harbor. He has a reservation, the Plaza Suite, which is naturally the best room in the hotel.

I’m camped out in the Golden Window munching on an assortment of Godiva chocolates. They have no calories here (nothing does), and regardless of how many I devour the box they come in never empties. Cool!

And there’s no chocolate mess. Like M&M’s they don’t melt in your hands. Here it’s impossible for food or drink to cause trouble. It’s a mother’s paradise.

I select another piece of candy from the box and watch my father sign the guest registry. A bellman dressed in a gray suit with burgundy piping and a matching monkey cap promptly takes his bag. I follow them through the lobby to the elevators.

Along the way we pass a piano bar stuck in a corner where a young woman is sitting on a pink and gold tapestry chair sipping a glass of wine. She’s a babe with jet-black hair like silk, Japanese hair my father calls it. I know it’s the kind that turns him on. My mother said so once. What she said was he finds that kind of hair irresistible. It’s the same thing. It turns him on. My mother dabbed at her eyes so her mascara wouldn’t run down her face, and asked how she could possibly compete with that? I didn’t answer. I was nine. I had no idea how, or why she’d even want to. It’s so much clearer now.

I, too, am in awe of such a beautiful hair. It’s tied loosely at the base of her neck and looks totally hot. She’s wearing a black suit and a white tailored shirt with cuffs that look like they cost more than a few bucks. She removes her jacket and leans her head to one side and unties the ribbon that’s holding her hair. It’s like watching a dance. She’s as graceful as a swan. She looks like Isabel Adjani, that Italian actress voted the most beautiful woman in the world. I would die to look like her.

Pete looks at me and chuckles, then, wanders off to find Mr. Noble, an elderly gentleman who’s made it past the Step of Denial, but can’t make it to beyond the Step of Discovery. He’s been stuck there since before I was born. Pete’s hoping to help him make progress today. The poor man has been walking in circles for years. They’ll be gone for hours.

I lean back on my pillow and study my father who’s ogling the beautiful woman who’s sipping her wine. He takes his time. He acts like he’s eating a good meal. But, I forgive him. He’s a man with eyes, remember, and she
is
drop-dead Hollywood gorgeous.

They glance directly at each other for just a few seconds. Then they both look away. She has a little smile on her face. It’s the type that could easily unfold like an orchid, given the right encouragement.

Her lips are full and
pouty
like the ones plastered in magazines, like the ones you’d kill for, that oodles of older women try to get back by having painful collagen injections, only to end up looking like fish.

Not this girl-woman. She’s for real. She’s wearing a cool shade of pink lip-gloss. Her lips shimmer, I’m telling you. They look like the ones in the television commercials, those that say these are lips that will get kissed and kissed often.

Maybe my father won’t notice. He turns his head slightly and looks at her again. His eyes watch her like a wolf, like he’s ready to throw back his head and howl. He’s tall and very tan. He’s a golden-haired lion standing on a marble floor, a floor made specifically for him so he can survey the pride below. His back is taunt, his muscles firm. He’s king of this jungle, ready to pounce. His pupils glow with a strange fire I’m sure he should save for my mother.

It’s making me very nervous. I put down the chocolates and pick up a bottle of Coke Classic. There is a crystal tumbler full of ice for me to pour it into, but I drink it straight from the bottle like a person on a bender, all the while my eyes riveted on my father below. He is whispering to the women with the beautiful hair! I can’t make out what he’s saying. He turns and enters the elevator. Whew! What a relief.  I pour the soft drink into the glass. I relax and watch it fizzle. The bellman proceeds to escort my father to his suite.

I slip into the elevator beside the bellman as he presses the gold bar marked
Penthouse
. The doors silently close and the cab glides upwards as if on air.

The penthouse suite has a great view of the downtown skyline. It’s eight o’clock and the sun is falling off the edge of the horizon. The last few rays of light reach out. They grab the top of a building across the street and hold on like they’re lovers and can’t bear to be apart for the night.

A bottle of champagne is chilling in a silver bucket. Fresh flowers are on the table next to the sofa. The bellman calls my father by his surname and asks if there is anything else he can get for him. My father says no
that
will be all. He reaches into the pocket of his grey Armani trousers for his gold money clip. It’s got too many hundred dollar bills for me to count. There are several twenty’s and lots of fifty’s. He peels a fifty away from the others and hands it to the bellman who nods his head. “Thank you, sir”, he says. He’s very pleased. He clicks his heals together and prepares to leave.

I want him to go. I want him to shut the door and turn and lock my father in this room. So he’ll have to stay there. So he can’t possibly go back down to the lounge near the lobby where the black lacquer piano, and the pink and gold tapestry chairs are waiting. Trouble’s lingering there.

It’s slithering around like a serpent.

*     *     *

My father hasn’t left his room! And the bellman had nothing to do with it.

What a relief. I watch him open the closet and hangs up his suit coat. He places the champagne goblets in the small refrigerator. He looks at his watch. It’s his Cartier. He has several Rolex’s, too. He has all the things that tell people he’s important.

He immediately picks up the phone. Great! He’s probably phoning my mother to surprise her! He’s been treating her exceptionally well, lately. They are, in fact, getting along splendidly, as my mother would say. All that stuff about calling his cell phone if she needs him was just for show! He’s planned the perfect getaway. It’s totally romantic. I can just see her face when she opens the door and finds out what’s waiting! They’ll toast each other with champagne. They’ll tell themselves that though I am gone, they have a life to get back to, maybe a better one. My death has brought a beauty to their marriage that’s been missing all these years. Yes, that’s it. My death has saved them.

My father will call room service and request that a four-course dinner of all my mother’s favorites, Escargot, Caesar Salad, Lobster and filet mignon and Créme Brule, be delivered to their suite precisely at nine p.m. He’ll order the best wines for each course. Afterwards, Espresso will be served with fruit and cheese, whether they are able to eat another bite or not. It will look great on the platter. My mother will love the pampering my father’s showering on her.

She’ll suggest they arrange for breakfast to be delivered to their suite the following morning. My father will say that is exactly what he had in mind

He’ll take her in his arms and tell her she’s the reason he breathes. He can’t understand why they slipped apart. My mother will say it no longer matters. The important point is that their lives have changed irrevocably. That losing me has been their greatest tragedy, but they’ve weathered the storm, and now it will bring their greatest joy. They must make arrangements to renew their vows immediately. She will look in phone book for a minister the minute they arrive home.

My father will agree it is exactly what he wishes to do, and quickly sweep her off her feet. He’ll carry her to the magnificent bed with the carved headboard and the crème satin coverlets. He’ll gently peel her clothing from her body. They will make mad, passionate love like they did years ago. Of course, I’ll leave before that happens. I don’t want to invade their privacy again. I once saw them, you know, doing it. I came into their room the night before my eleventh birthday when a bad lightening storm scared me awake.

I stood in the doorway of the master bedroom and saw my father latched to my mother like a plug in a socket. They pounded the mattress like their bed was the ocean and they were the waves: crazy, powerful waves. They kissed each other in places I didn’t think they should. They explored spots I didn’t know they had.

I inched backwards towards the door of their huge bedroom, remembering Onetta’s velvety face, her buttery voice with the gentle lilting words she spoke when I was five or maybe six. I asked her the handful of questions that nearly turned her brown face white. We went to the library. She plucked a small book from the shelf and found a quiet spot in the corner. She opened the delicate pages with the watercolor pictures scattered on every page and motioned for me to come sit on her lap. I gladly climbed into the soft cradle that had rocked me countless time and listened to her read of the mystery of life.

That memory firmly in place, I knew what it was I was seeing that night before my birthday. I eased the door shut and tiptoed, wide-eyed, back to he safety of my room—no longer fearful of lightening or thunder, or bad storms—fully aware that I had witnessed the miracle of creation!

Onetta’s little book described it as a pleasurable experience for mommies and daddies, like sneezing or being gently tickled. Whoever wrote that little gold book with the birds and the bees drew a dozen pretty pictures, but they must not have had any first-hand experience. It was more like riding a bucking bronco or maybe jumping off Niagara Falls.