The Next Person You Meet in Heaven
Mitch Albom
For Chika, the “little girl” of our lives,
who is already brightening heaven
And for all the nurses out there—
who, like those who cared for Chika,
touch our souls more than they know
Note from the Author
This story, like The Five People You Meet in Heaven, was inspired by my beloved uncle, Eddie Beitchman, a World War II vet who thought he was “a nobody, who never did nothing.”
When I was a child, Eddie told me of a night he nearly died at a hospital, and rose from his body to see his departed loved ones waiting for him, at the edge of the bed.
From that moment, I viewed heaven as a place where we encounter those we touched on earth, and where we get to see them again. But I recognize this is my view only. There are many others, along with many religious definitions, and all should be respected.
So this novel, and its version of the afterlife, is a wish, not a dogma, a desire that loved ones like Eddie find the peace that eluded them on earth, and realize how much we all affect one another, every day of this precious life.
The End
This is a story about a woman named Annie, and it begins at the end, with Annie falling from the sky. Because she was young, Annie never thought about endings. She never thought about heaven. But all endings are also beginnings.
And heaven is always thinking about us.
At the time of her death, Annie was tall and lean, with long curls of butterscotch hair, knobby elbows and shoulders, and skin that reddened around her neck when she was embarrassed. She had flashing eyes of a light olive shade, and a soft, oval face that coworkers described as “pretty once you get to know her.”
As a nurse, Annie wore blue scrubs and gray running shoes to her job at a nearby hospital. And it was at that hospital where she would leave this world—after a dramatic and tragic accident—one month shy of her thirty-first birthday.
You might say that is “too young” to die. But what is too young for a life? As a child, Annie had been spared from death once, in another accident at a place called Ruby Pier, an amusement park by a great gray ocean. Some said her survival was “a miracle.”
So perhaps she was older than she was meant to be.
“We are gathered here today …”
If you knew you were about to die, how would you spend your final hours? Annie, who did not know, spent hers getting married.
Her fiancé’s name was Paulo. He had pale blue eyes, the color of shallow pool water, and a thick mop of raisin-black hair. She had met him back in grade school, during a game of leapfrog on an asphalt playground. Annie was a new student, shy and withdrawn. As she tucked her head, she repeated to herself, I wish I could disappear.
Then a boy’s hands pushed down on her shoulders, and he landed in front of her like a dropped package.
“Hi, I’m Paulo,” he said, smiling, a forelock falling over his brow.
And suddenly, Annie didn’t want to go anywhere.
“Do you, Annie, take this man …”
With fourteen hours left to live, Annie took her wedding vows. She and Paulo stood beneath a canopy by a blueberry lake. They had lost touch as teenagers, and only recently had reunited. The years between were hard for Annie. She endured bad relationships. She suffered much loss. She came to believe she would never love a man again, and certainly never marry.
But here they were. Annie and Paulo. They nodded at the pastor. They took each other’s hands. Annie wore white and Paulo wore black and their skin was tanned from hours in the sun. As she turned to face her future husband, Annie glanced at a hot air balloon floating above the sunset. How lovely, she thought.
Then she focused in on Paulo’s grin, as wide as the horizon. There was nervous laughter as he struggled to get the ring on. When Annie held her finger up, everyone yelled, “Congratulations!”
Thirteen hours left to live. They walked down the aisle, arm in arm, a newly married couple with all the time in the world. As Annie brushed away her tears, she saw an old man in the last row, wearing a linen cap and a jut-jawed grin. Annie felt as if she knew him.
“Paulo,” she whispered, “who is that man—”
But someone interrupted, “You look so beautiful!”—a teenaged cousin with braces on her teeth—and Annie smiled and silently mouthed, “Thank you.”
When she looked back, the old man was gone.
Twelve hours left. Annie and Paulo took the dance floor, beneath strings of white bulbs. Paulo raised an arm and said, “Ready?” and Annie remembered a night in a junior high school gymnasium, when she marched up to Paulo and said, “You’re the only boy who talks to me, so tell me right now if you will dance with me, yes or no, because otherwise I’m gonna go home and watch TV.”
He’d smiled at her then as he smiled at her now, and they connected once again like puzzle pieces. A photographer jumped in and yelled, “Look here, happy couple!” and Annie instinctively hid her slightly smaller left hand behind Paulo’s back, the hand that still bore scars from the accident more than twenty years ago.
“Beautiful,” the photographer said.
Eleven hours left. Annie leaned on Paulo’s arm and glanced around the ballroom. The celebration was winding down. Pieces of cake were half eaten, and women’s high-heeled shoes were kicked off under the tables. It was a small affair—Annie didn’t have much family—and she had chatted with nearly all the guests, many of whom had gushed, “Let’s see each other more often!”