Fields of Heaven

Angel of Mercy

Andrew

            There was much to teach little Madison.  Of course, I was unsure as to why I was placed on duty with a seven year old, but nothing was ever clear in purgatory; you are given an assignment and hopefully it would be the one that allowed you to ascend.   I completed four thus far—the first was with Mrs. Meyers, an elderly woman who died a horrible, fiery, death.  She awoke in a field, much like Madison’s, but there were no daisies.  The grass spanned for miles, but I could only watch her from the distance; she had to feel completely and totally helpless to let me in.  When I approached her, she yelped, like a hurt kitten and shed tears that shown like diamonds.

“Who are you?”  It was the same question, time and time again.

“I’m Andrew, and I’m here to help you find your husband again.”  The elderly woman stared at me for a long time before she spoke.  I could tell that she was beautiful, once.  The wrinkles that tattooed her soft skin showed signs of happiness past.  Her hair, white as snow, was tucked neatly in place in a high bun, which in turn, drew the eye to her large doe-like brown eyes.

“Are you Jesus?” She asked.

“No, but I am a friend who’s willing to help you meet him.”

 The woman frowned, but then straightened up and dusted the front of her white suit jacket. “Well then, let’s get going.”

                 The second assignment was with Joe Spinelli.  He nearly took my head off when I approached him in the train yard; he died after a heart attack while watching a Red Sox game.

“Who the fuck are you!?”

“I’m Andrew, and I’d like to help you make things right again.”

                  The third was Patrick Diddery, a construction worker who committed suicide by jumping off of scaffolding in mid-town Manhattan.  He was the least accepting of my presence and I followed him for three earth years through a vast dessert where he contemplated suicide, again.  Finally, there was Jessica Singletary; she was a neurotic, alcoholic who was murdered by her schizophrenic ex-boyfriend.  I found her by a lake, sunbathing in a bikini.             

           Each assignment was more difficult than the last, but somehow I managed to help every one of them ascend.  They gained closure and in the end, thanked me and told me that I was ‘truly an angel’—but I’m not.  I died, just like the rest of them, but instead of waking up in a faux fantasy land that they’ve been graced with, I was forced to walk the earth—voiceless, stuck in the in-between.  Slowly I began to experiment with my lifeless form; if I concentrated really hard I could move a small item or be heard no louder than a whisper by the living—but it was when I was frustrated, angry or enraged when I could fly a chair across the room.  If there was one thing that I learned about being stuck in the in-between, is that human emotion still exists, and it still hurts when you’re all alone.

                   A few days after my death, I realized that life on earth was moving a lot quicker than I anticipated.  I first noticed as I watched my mother from the shadows, in the corner of my old living room, while she sipped her evening tea; her hair was a halo around her face, but its bright red tint was slowly beginning to fade.   Every day that I watched her, she grew more and more fragile, until it occurred to me that I could look at a calendar; it read, 2012

Five years.

Five years had passed since my last breath warmed my lungs and yet it only felt like five days!  To me, each day the sun rose and set, blanketing the city in its darkness—but in reality, the leaves were changing colors, the snow was falling, the buds were blooming and the stifling heat of the summer’s sun returned once more.  I watched my mother for three days after—three years and she grew weaker each time morning had come.  When I could no longer stand to watch her, shrivel away at the loss of me, I finally drew up the courage to leave; my home, my world, my life behind.

I concentrated.  Staring at the doorknob that I had turned thousands of times before, I thought: solid.  After a few failed attempts with my translucent hands passing through the knob, I finally latched on and pulled; that is when I met my first assignment.