Chapter Twenty-Four

 

The white light is warmth turned into color. Or rather all colors. Isn’t that what they taught us in school? That black is the absence of color, and white is the combination of all colors.

A familiar voice calls to me. “Congratulations, Nanette. You’ve finished your angelhood.”

Slowly a shape forms before my eyes.

“Warren?”

He smiles. “You did an excellent job.” His white collared shirt and dress pants make him blend into his surroundings.

“I’m finished?”

“Yes.”

“And you made it too? Ms. Kitchin didn’t attempt suicide?”

“No. She found out the truth about me, and then she wept for a long time. She was thinking of taking her own life, but she went to the church where she left me and prayed that God would forgive her. She promised to rededicate her life to her students if that’s what God wanted.”

“Then how did she get hurt?”

“A few kids from the neighborhood snuck into the church, knocked her over the head, and took the cash out of her wallet. She was so deep in prayer, she didn’t hear them coming.”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“She’ll be fine. In fact, I hear she’s about to meet a very handsome doctor.” Warren smiles.

I look around. All I see is white still.

“So, what now?”

“It’s time to go home.”

“Home.” The word feels funny to say. I know home means heaven and God, and sainthood was all I’d been hoping for since learning I was assigned a Guardianship, but something feels off.

“Betsy talked of home when she saw the light, too.” I stop for a moment. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I always thought I’d feel happy about it like she did.”

Warren clasps his hands behind his back. “Do you miss your old home?”

I can’t stop the tears before they fall. “I was so stupid, Warren. Why did I give it all up? I could have done so much more with my life. I could have been there for my sister...and my mother...and,” I consider Vera and her dad, “maybe even my dad. I didn’t appreciate what I had. I even thought I was doing them some good when I died. I thought Cecille would go to ballet school. I thought I’d save them from pain.”

I wipe away the tears and look up. Warren is gone, and I am surrounded only by white again.

 

I can’t tell which way is up and which way is down, but I suddenly have the sensation of lying on my back. A middle-aged man with a graying beard appears on my right as if he were standing next to a bed I was lying on. He is dressed all in white like Warren was, but I can’t see any wings behind him.

He speaks, but most of his words sound like gibberish to me. Finally, I make out the word “name” among the foreign sounding ones.

“Name?” I say.

“Yes,” he speaks clearly now in English. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Nanette.”

The man holds up a clipboard and checks something off. “Last name?”

“Dunston.”

He nods. “What date is it, Nanette?”

Date? What in heaven’s name does he want to know that for? I want to ask him what is going on, but I fear if I answer the question wrong, they won’t let me past the pearly gates, which I’m sure must be just beyond my sight.

I wrack my brain for the date. Images of Vera surrounded by the death shadows haunt me. Then I recall her and her father in the living room. The date was important. It had been circled on calendars.

“November 2,” I reply. Or is it the third? How much time has passed?

The man with the beard frowns and walks away.

“Wait!” I call, but he’s gone, and I’m surrounded only by white again.

Moments pass. Will the man return? Will Warren?

Another face appears, this time on my left.

“I know you,” I call out, thankful to have another soul present. The woman smiles at me and takes my hand. She is the Guardian Nurse who’d helped me find Ms. Kitchin in the hospital. Her luminescent wings shimmer behind her.

“Hello, babydoll.” She gently squeezes my hand.

“What’s going on?”

“You’re almost there, sugar. Hang on.” She presses two fingers against my wrist like she’s taking my pulse.

“Almost where?” I ask. “Home?”

She smiles at me. “Yes, baby. You’ll be home soon.” She gives my hand another squeeze and then fades into the background.

“No!” I cry out. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me here alone. I’m frightened.”

Her wings shimmer in the distance, and then my world returns to white.

More time passes.

I don’t know how long I stay in the whiteness, but eventually I hear another familiar voice call to me.

“Nanette, Nanette, can you hear me? Mom, come quick, I think her eyelids fluttered.”

I struggle to focus on the image before me. Cecille is on my right. My mother on my left. I must be lying down. On a bed maybe. The ceiling is white.

“Honey, can you hear us?” My mother’s voice is soft. She does not wear a headscarf. Her hair looks as I remember it.

On my right, Cecille comes into focus. Her hair is long, and she looks twelve again. She looks like she did when I was alive.

Alive.

The thought lingers as my mother and sister whisper soothing words.

“It’s all right, sweetie. You’re in the hospital, but everything’s fine now.”

In the background, a machine beeps regularly, marking the passage of time.

Cecille raises a hand to her face and wipes away a tear. Could it be? Am I alive again? Or are we all dead, and this is heaven?

I must speak.

The words don’t want to come at first. My lips barely move.

“What…”

“It’s okay, honey.”

“No, Mom. Let her speak.”

“What...happened?”

Mom and Cecille exchange concerned looks.

“You don’t remember?” Cecille asks.

I lick my parched lips.

“Give her some water, Cece.”

My sister grabs a nearby cup and holds a straw to my lips. I feel like I’ve never tasted water before, but I can only swallow so much.

I release the straw. “I shot myself.”

Another look between Mom and Cecille.

“Why am I not dead?”

The corner of Cecille’s mouth turns up in the slightest of smiles. “Because you have terrible aim.”

I raise an eyebrow. Or at least I think I do. It’s hard to tell right now.

My mom leans in close. “The bullet didn’t go straight into your head. It fired at more of an angle and skimmed your skull. You lost a lot of blood. You were in a coma, and you’ve slowly been coming out of it. Do you remember anything from the past couple weeks?”

I shake my head. A couple of weeks? I thought nearly two years had passed. I was with Vera for at least a month.

Mom’s face is only a foot or so from mine. I lift my hand. I have to touch her to know she’s real. I reach up and brush my fingers against her golden hair.

“Not a wig,” I say.

Mom draws back in surprise. “Of course not. Why would I be wearing a wig?”

“You don’t have cancer?”

“No.” Eyebrows furrow.

“What about Aunt Tippy?”

“What do you mean?” asks Cecille.

“Does she have breast cancer?”

Both of them stand with their mouths open. Finally, my mom says, “She was diagnosed two days ago. How did you know?”

I swallow. “Just a funny dream.”

“Maybe you are remembering things you heard us say during the coma,” my mom suggests.

“Have you been tested recently?” I ask her.

“For what?”

“Breast cancer?”

“No.”

“Get tested,” I say.

“Oh, honey, I’m sure I’m fine.”

I shake my head. “You need to get tested.”

“Nanette—”

“You had stage four breast cancer in my dream.”

Cecille’s eyes are wide. “What about me? Was I in your dream?”

“Yes,” I say, “and you were perfect. Don’t change a thing. Keep dancing.” I lift my head a bit and look around the hospital room. “Where’s Dad?”

My mother bites her lip before responding, “He hasn’t been around much. He was the one who found your note. He figured even if—when—you came out of the coma, you wouldn’t want to see him. Nanette, he feels terrible about not supporting your dreams.”

“Can you call him? I want to talk with him.”

My mother nods. “I’ll call him right now.” She grabs her purse from the chair and pulls out the phone. “I should probably let the doctors and nurses know how alert you are.” She heads for the hallway. Cecille and I are alone in the room.

“I am so sorry, Cece.”

“For what, Nan?”

“For everything. For not being there for you. For letting you find me...like that. No sister should have to see that.”

The tears well up in Cecille’s eyes again. “I thought I’d lost you for good.”

“I’m sorry I put you through that, and I promise, from now on, I will always be there for you. And if I can’t, I’ll pray the angels watch over you.”

Cecille smiles. “Angels? You really did get hurt in the head.”

I smile too. “Maybe I’m finally getting things right in my head.”

Cecille wipes away the tears. “I don’t know anything about angels, but I’ll say this: Thank God, you’re a terrible shot.”

“Amen to that, sister.” I grin. “Amen to that.”