Mitch Albom - The Five People You Meet in Heaven

“Tell me something,” the Blue Man said. He pointed to a two-humped wooden roller coaster in the distance. The Whipper. It was built in the 1920s, before under-friction wheels, meaning the cars couldn’t turn very quickly—unless you wanted them launching off the track. “The Whipper. Is it still the ‘fastest ride on earth’?”

Eddie looked at the old clanking thing, which had been torn down years ago. He shook his head no.

“Ah,” the Blue Man said. “I imagined as much. Things don’t change here. And there’s none of that peering down from the clouds, I’m afraid.”

Here? Eddie thought.

The Blue Man smiled as if he’d heard the question. He touched Eddie’s shoulder and Eddie felt a surge of warmth unlike anything he had ever felt before. His thoughts came spilling out like sentences.

How did I die?

“An accident,” the Blue Man said.

How long have I been dead?

“A minute. An hour. A thousand years.”

Where am I?

The Blue Man pursed his lips, then repeated the question thoughtfully. “Where are you?” He turned and raised his arms. All at once, the rides at the old Ruby Pier cranked to life: The Ferris wheel spun, the Dodgem Cars smacked into each other, the Whipper clacked uphill, and the Parisian Carousel horses bobbed on their brass poles to the cheery music of the Wurlitzer organ. The ocean was in front of them. The sky was the color of lemons.

“Where do you think?” the Blue Man asked. “Heaven.”

No! Eddie shook his head violently. No! The Blue Man seemed amused.

“No? It can’t be heaven?” he said. “Why? Because this is where you grew up?”

Eddie mouthed the word Yes .

“Ah.” The Blue Man nodded. “Well. People often belittle the place where they were born. But heaven can be found in the most unlikely corners. And heaven itself has many steps. This, for me, is the second. And for you, the first.”

He led Eddie through the park, passing cigar shops and sausage stands and the “flat joints,” where suckers lost their nickels and dimes.

Heaven? Eddie thought. Ridiculous. He had spent most of his adult life trying to get away from Ruby Pier. It was an amusement park, that’s all, a place to scream and get wet and trade your dollars for kewpie dolls. The thought that this was some kind of blessed resting place was beyond his imagination.

He tried again to speak, and this time he heard a small grunt from his chest. The Blue Man turned.

“Your voice will come. We all go through the same thing. You cannot talk when you first arrive.” He smiled. “It helps you listen.”

There are five people you meet in heaven,” the Blue Man suddenly said. “Each of us was in your life for a reason. You may not have known the reason at the time, and that is what heaven is for. For understanding your life on earth.”

Eddie looked confused.

“People think of heaven as a paradise garden, a place where they can float on clouds and laze in rivers and mountains. But scenery without solace is meaningless.

“This is the greatest gift God can give you: to understand what happened in your life. To have it explained. It is the peace you have been searching for.”

Eddie coughed, trying to bring up his voice. He was tired of being silent.

“I am your first person, Edward. When I died, my life was illuminated by five others, and then I came here to wait for you, to stand in your line, to tell you my story, which becomes part of yours. There will be others for you, too. Some you knew, maybe some you didn’t. But they all crossed your path before they died. And they altered it forever.”

Eddie pushed a sound up from his chest, as hard as he could.

“What …” he finally croaked.

His voice seemed to be breaking through a shell, like a baby chick.

“What … killed …”

The Blue Man waited patiently.

“What … killed … you?”

The Blue Man looked a bit surprised. He smiled at Eddie.

“You did,” he said.

He is seven years old and his gift is a new baseball. He squeezes it in each hand, feeling a surge of power that runs up his arms. He imagines he is one of his heroes on the Cracker Jack collector cards, maybe the great pitcher Walter Johnson.

“Here, toss it,” his brother, Joe, says.

They are running along the midway, past the game booth where, if you knock over three green bottles, you win a coconut and a straw.

“Come on, Eddie,” Joe says. “Share.”

Eddie stops, and imagines himself in a stadium. He throws the ball. His brother pulls in his elbows and ducks.

“Too hard!” Joe yells.

“My ball!” Eddie screams. “Dang you, Joe.”

Eddie watches it thump down the boardwalk and bang off a post into a small clearing behind the sideshow tents. He runs after it. Joe follows. They drop to the ground.

“You see it?” Eddie says.

“Nuh-uh.”

A whumping noise interrupts them. A tent flap opens. Eddie and Joe look up. There is a grossly fat woman and a shirtless man with reddish hair covering his entire body. Freaks from the freak show.

The children freeze.

“What are you wiseacres doin’ back, here?” the hairy man says, grinning. “Lookin’ for trouble?”

Joe’s lip trembles. He starts to cry. He jumps up and runs away, his arms pumping wildly. Eddie rises, too, then sees his ball against a sawhorse. He eyes the shirtless man and moves slowly toward it.

“This is mine,” he mumbles. He scoops up the ball and runs after his brother.

“Listen, mister,” Eddie rasped, “I never killed you, OK? I don’t even know you.”

The Blue Man sat on a bench. He smiled as if trying to put a guest at ease. Eddie remained standing, a defensive posture.

“Let me begin with my real name,” the Blue Man said. “I was christened Joseph Corvelzchik, the son of a tailor in a small Polish village. We came to America in 1894. I was only a boy. My mother held me over the railing of the ship and this became my earliest childhood memory, my mother swinging me in the breezes of a new world.

“Like most immigrants, we had no money. We slept on a mattress in my uncle’s kitchen. My father was forced to take a job in a sweatshop, sewing buttons on coats. When I was ten, he took me from school and I joined him.”

Eddie watched the Blue Man’s pitted face, his thin lips, his sagging chest. Why is he telling me this? Eddie thought.

“I was a nervous child by nature, and the noise in the shop only made things worse. I was too young to be there, amongst all those men, swearing and complaining.

“Whenever the foreman came near, my father told me, ‘Look down. Don’t make him notice you.’ Once, however, I stumbled and dropped a sack of buttons, which spilled over the floor. The foreman screamed that I was worthless, a worthless child, that I must go. I can still see that moment, my father pleading with him like a street beggar, the foreman sneering, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. I felt my stomach twist in pain. Then I felt something wet on my leg. I looked down. The foreman pointed at my soiled pants and laughed, and the other workers laughed, too.

“After that, my father refused to speak to me. He felt I had shamed him, and I suppose, in his world, I had. But fathers can ruin their sons, and I was, in a fashion, ruined after that. I was a nervous child, and when I grew, I was a nervous young man. Worst of all, at night, I still wet the bed. In the mornings I would sneak the soiled sheets to the washbasin and soak them. One morning, I looked up to see my father. He saw the dirty sheets, then glared at me with eyes that I will never forget, as if he wished he could snap the cord of life between us.”