The Next Person You Meet in Heaven(6)

This is my fault.

I made us go.

I did this.

I ruined everything.

The fall had left Annie bruised and sore, but Paulo, who dropped from forty-one feet in the air, had smashed bones, severed tendons, and damaged several vital organs. His legs, pelvis, jaw, and right shoulder were all fractured from the blunt force, but his lungs had suffered the most damage; they were lacerated and bleeding from the crushing of his chest wall. A breathing tube was inserted to keep him going, but the images showed that neither lung could be sustained. He would need a new one to live. The doctors whispered about national registries and transplant lists and who could be called on such short notice. Which was when Annie, her mouth agape throughout the conversation, abruptly spoke up.

“Take mine.”

“What?”

“My lung. You have to take it.”

“Annie, it’s not an option—”

“Yes, it is. It can save him!”

A debate quickly followed, as her uncle and others tried to convince Annie this was wrong. But she was screaming and resolute, and as a nurse she was versed in the minimum requirements for transplants, like blood type (which Annie and Paulo shared) and relative body sizes (they were the same height). She kept looking at Paulo through the doors of an operating room, surrounded by nurses and machinery. Paulo, who had saved her. Paulo, who was dying because of her.

“Annie, there’s a risk—”

“I don’t care—”

“Things can go wrong.”

“I don’t care!”

“He’s in bad shape. Even if we succeed, he may not …”

“What?”

“Live.”

Annie swallowed. “If he doesn’t, I don’t want to.”

“Don’t say that—”

“I mean it! Please, Uncle Dennis!”

She had been crying so much, she didn’t think there were any tears left. But she remembered how happy she and Paulo had been two hours ago. Two hours? How can life change this much in two hours? She repeated what Paulo had said in the back of the limousine, the words he had used to reassure her.

“We just got married …”

Her whole frame shook, and Dennis exhaled as if punched in the stomach. He turned to the senior surgeon, whose mouth was covered in an eggshell mask. He said a name they both knew, the top transplant expert at the hospital.

“I’ll make the call,” the senior surgeon said.



The rest of the details flew past like blowing rain. The rolling monitors, the wheels of the gurney, the alcohol wipes, the needles, the tubes. Annie ignored all of it, as if these were things happening to a shell around her. In the middle of a big crisis, a small belief can be your salvation. This was Annie’s: she believed she could save her husband. She could make up for her mistake. One lung each. We share. She focused on that, as intensely as a trapped miner focuses on a beam of light.

Lying on the operating table, Annie said a prayer. Let him live, God. Please let him live. She felt the anesthesia taking over, her body going limp, her eyes closing. Her last conscious memory was of two hands on her shoulders, nudging her gently down, and a man’s voice saying, “See you in a little bit.”

Then the world was spinning and darkening, as if Annie were being lowered into a cave. Out of the blackness, she saw something strange. She saw the old man from her wedding running towards her, his arms outstretched.

Then everything went white.





Annie Makes a Mistake


She is two years old. She sits in a high chair. A green sippy cup is in front of her, filled with apple juice.

“Jerry, watch,” her mother says as she removes the top. “She can drink from a straw.”

“Wowee,” her father mumbles.

“Kids her age can’t do that.”

“I’m busy, Lorraine.”

“You’re reading a newspaper.”

“That’s right.”

Annie bounces.

“She wants your attention.”

“I’ve seen her drink.”

“She can use a straw.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Please, Jerry? It’ll only take a—”

“That’s it. I gotta go.” He slaps down his newspaper. Annie hears the big noise he makes pushing his chair from the table.

“Well,” her mother says, unwrapping the straw, “let’s practice so we can show him next time, OK?”

She touches Annie’s soft cheek, and Annie, happy with the attention, swings her hand and knocks over the juice. It spills everywhere. She starts to cry.

“What’d you do to her?” Jerry yells from the hallway.

“Nothing!”

“Don’t sound like nothing.”

Her mother grabs a paper towel and wipes up the juice.

“It’s all right, sweetie,” she whispers to Annie. “Just an accident.”

She kisses Annie on the cheek. As the front door slams, she looks down. “Just an accident,” she repeats. “All gone now.”





The Journey




Normally, when we come out of sleep, we open our eyes and everything resets. The dream world vanishes; the real world takes its place.