The Next Person You Meet in Heaven(14)

Annie spun to see an elegant old woman. She looked to be in her eighties or nineties, with thick silver hair, a sloped nose, a tucked chin, and large, sad eyes. She wore a knee-length fur coat and a necklace dotted with colorful stones.

“Who are you?” Annie said.

The woman seemed disappointed.

“You don’t remember?”

Annie studied her smiling face, the skin wrinkled and sagging.

“Are you …”

The woman cocked her head.

“… my second person?”

“Yes.”

Annie sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you, either.”

“Well, you were having a tough time when we met.”

“When was that? What were we doing? If you were in my life, why does none of this make sense to me?”

“Hmm.”

The old woman paced, as if thinking of options. Then she stopped and pointed to the blue horizon, where a car was heading towards them.

“Let’s go for a ride.”



Instantly, Annie was in the passenger seat. She was alone. No one was driving. The car sped through cottony clouds and glaring sunshine. The old woman ran alongside the vehicle, peering through the window.

“Don’t you want to get in?” Annie yelled.

“No, it’s fine!” the woman yelled back.

Eventually (although Annie could not measure time in heaven—it felt like everything was happening quickly yet taking forever) the car stopped. Annie got out. The old woman stood beside her, breathing heavily. There was a one-story structure by a dirt parking lot. A blue-and-white sign read PETUMAH COUNTY ANIMAL RESCUE SHELTER.

“I remember this building,” Annie whispered. “This is where we got my dog.”

“That’s right,” the woman said.

“Cleo.”

“Uh-huh.”

“This was your place?”

“At the time.”

The old woman sat down.

“What else do you remember?”



What Annie remembered was this: after living her whole life in the same house, on the same street, she and her mother abruptly left—just got in the car and sped away, their possessions in suitcases or big black garbage bags, the trunk held shut by a bungee cord.

They drove for days, eating at gas stations or fast-food places. They slept in the car. They finally stopped in a state called Arizona, where, for a while, they lived in a roadside motel, which had pale green carpeting and a lock on the telephone.

After that, they moved to a trailer. It sat on large blocks in a treeless park, alongside other trailers. They slept, ate, bathed, and washed their clothes inside. Their only contacts with the outside world were visits to a supermarket, the local library (to get Annie books), and a nearby hospital, where Annie had her bandages replaced and her splints adjusted. Annie still could not use her left hand; sometimes she couldn’t feel the tips of her fingers. She wondered if for the rest of her life she would have to do what she was doing now, carrying everything one-handed, using her elbow to hold things open.

Meanwhile, the rules of life had battened down. Annie was not allowed in the park alone. She was not allowed to walk in socks (lest she slip). A skateboard was deemed too dangerous, as was tree climbing and most playground equipment. Alone much of the time, Annie read her library books, wedging them into her weakened left hand and turning the pages with her right.

One morning, Lorraine took Annie to a courthouse, where they had to sign papers.

“Why?” Annie asked her mother.

“We’re changing our name.”

“I’m not Annie anymore?”

“Our last name.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“When?”



She never got an answer. Instead, months passed at the trailer park and Annie grew miserable. It was always hot in Arizona and the people in the park were old and boring. Lorraine did not talk to the neighbors. She told Annie not to, either. At night, Annie heard her mother crying in her bedroom. It made Annie angry.

I’m the one who got hurt, she thought.

This was the start of a silent resentment. It made Annie feel more alone, which only increased her bitterness. The more Lorraine cried, the less Annie could think of to say to her.

For a while, the two of them barely spoke. Emboldened by her anger, Annie began defying the rules, slipping out when Lorraine was gone. She had read in a library book that you could grow new flowers by planting a leaf off an old one. So Annie snuck scissors under her T-shirt and snipped leaves from a neighbor’s garden. She put them in small holes and poured Dixie cups of water over the top of them. She did this for weeks, looking for any sign of life. If she heard a car approaching, she would duck back into the trailer.

But one afternoon, she moved too slowly. Her mother, coming home from work, saw Annie pulling the trailer door shut.

The next day, it was locked from the outside.

Things went on this way. One night, while eating in the trailer’s tiny kitchen, it was so quiet, Annie could hear Lorraine’s chewing.

“Am I ever going to school?” Annie asked.

“Not for a little while.”

“How come?”