LOCKED OUT OF HEAVEN

Prologue

                                     
Year 2002

The sun was blazing hot, people without shades were squinting even though it was only eleven o' clock in the morning. The tiniest of breeze ruffled the women's hair.
As bright as this day was, there was a severe agony to it, an amazing silence, and all one could hear in the silence were birds, and even they were chirping quietly, there was an overwhelming smell of flowers.... lily of the valley, gardenias, freesia, buried in a carpet of moss.
But Ambrose sawyer saw none of it and he seemed to hear nothing at all. His eyes had been closed for several minutes and when he opened them, he stared for the longest time, almost like a zombie, looking colorless, so unlike the image everyone had of him.... There was nothing dashing or exciting or even handsome about Ambrose Sawyer this morning. He stood immobilized in the sunlight, watching nothing, he closed his eyes again almost too tightly, for a moment he wanted never to open them again, as she had not, as she would never again.

There was a voice, droning softly in the distance, saying something, sounding no different than the hum of insects buzzing near the flowers. And he felt nothing. Nothing? Why? Why did he feel nothing, he asked himself? Had he felt nothing for her? Had it all been a lie? He felt a wave of panic wash over him... he couldn't remember her face... the color of her eyes... the way she smiled... his eyes flew open brusquely, tearing the lids apart like hands that had been clasped. The sun blinded him in an instant, and he saw only a flash of light and smelled the flowers, as a bee hummed lazily past him, the pastor said her name Trisha Crémė Sawyer.
A woman standing next to him pressed his arm, he looked down at her, his eyes adjusting to the light again and suddenly he remembered. Everything he had forgotten was reflected in her daughter's eyes. The younger woman looked so much like her, yet how different they were. There would never be another woman like Trisha Sawyer. They all knew that, and he knew it best of all.
     Her daughter stood tall and sedate. She was plainer than Trisha had been. Was she truly gone? It seemed impossible, as tears rolled solemnly down his cheeks  a dozen photographers leapt forward to record his pain, to put on the front pages around the world. The grieving widower of Trisha Crémė  Sawyer. He was hers now in death, as he had been hers in life. The were all hers. All of them. The daughters, the son, the co-workers, the friends, and they were all there to honor the memory of the woman who would never come again.

The family stood beside him in the front row, they were all there in the end. They had come to pay homage to all that she had been. Actress, philanthropist, legend, wife, mother, friend. There were those who had envied her, those she had driven too hard and wanted too much from. She had expected too much of them, yet given so much in return, driven her self so hard, gone so far. Ambrose remembered it all as he looked at all of them, all the way back to that first time in Nigeria. And now here they were, each of them remembering her from their personal point of view.

It was a sea of faces in the bright Los Angeles sun. All of hollywood had turned out for her. A last salute, a final smile, a tender tear as Ambrose turned to glance at the beautiful family he had built with her. All of them so strong and beautiful.... as she had been. How proud she would have been to see them now, he thought, tears burning his eyes again... how proud they were of her... finally. It had taken a long time... and now she was gone. It seemed impossible that only yesterday they had been in Paris... the South of France... New York... Nigeria.