Through the glass, he sees her check the numbers of the wooden
cribs. She moves past one, not his, another, not his, another, not his,
another, not his.
She stops. There. Beneath the blanket. A tiny head covered in a blue
cap. She checks her clipboard again, then points.
The father breathes heavily, nods his head. For a moment, his face
seems to crumble, like a bridge collapsing into a river. Then he smiles.
His.The Journey
EDDIE SAW NOTHING OF HIS FINAL MOMENT on earth, nothing
of the pier or the crowd or the shattered fiberglass cart.
In the stories about life after death, the soul often floats above the
good-bye moment, hovering over police cars at highway accidents, or
clinging like a spider to hospital-room ceilings. These are people who
receive a second chance, who somehow, for some reason, resume their
place in the world.
Eddie, it appeared, was not getting a second chance.
WHERE...? Where...? Where...? The sky was a misty pumpkin
shade, then a deep turquoise, then a bright lime. Eddie was floating, and
his arms were still extended.
Where...?
The tower cart was falling. He remembered that. The little girl—Amy?
Annie?—she was crying. He remembered that. He remembered lunging.
He remembered hitting the platform. He felt her two small hands in his.
Then what?
Did I save her?
Eddie could only picture it at a distance, as if it happened years ago.
Stranger still, he could not feel any emotions that went with it. He could
only feel calm, like a child in the cradle of its mother's arms.
Where...?