Free All We Know of Heaven by Jacquelyn Mitchard

again with the pain.
    “Take it easy,” said the tall, pretty black woman with the clipboard. “We’re going to make this okay. I have to go and

    call some folks now. Don’t worry.”
    She slept. She dreamed of Danny, sitting in the chair, his blond hair falling in a tangle over his forehead, his sleeves rolled up deliberately to reveal his powerful fore arms. She dreamed of Danny kissing her every night and saying, “That’s my girl.” His smell, of some peppery shav ing junk and the bubble gum he was never without. She felt her stomach lurch in her sleep.
    Back in her office, Neely looked at the clock and wrote down “8:20 AM .” A random thought from grade school drifted through her mind. Some dimwit teacher had told them that clocks on display for sale were set at that time not just to show off the hands to best advantage but be cause, in legend, this was the time of day when Abraham Lincoln died.
    It must have seemed bizarre to Dr. Styles. How could he understand that people didn’t examine the dental patterns of someone whose life they were trying to save every min ute of every day? Someone who wouldn’t wake up from a coma? They’d barely been able to clean her teeth because of the damage to her mouth.
    Now, in addition to Dr. Styles’s report they had some close observation and questioning of the girl by Dr. Park, and the blood tests. It was pretty conclusive.
    She knew that the O’Malleys wouldn’t hear a word she said after she told them that there was a very good chance that Maureen was still alive—that she, not Bridget, had survived the crash.

    They wouldn’t hear her when she talked about the long road Maureen faced, or the real likelihood that she would never be the girl they had raised. They wouldn’t believe that a brain-injured kid might be rude. She might sexually misbehave. She would probably ask for the same thing ten times in sequence, forgetting that she’d asked five minutes earlier. She might burst out in displays of rage and might require classes for the mentally challenged.
    And that was if things went well.
    But they wouldn’t hear or accept anything like that for weeks. That burst of absolute, blinding, unexpected ela tion would carry them through the first shocking moments of disillusionment they would certainly experience. Neely had seen it over and over, although never with this set of circumstances.
    She dialed the O’Malleys’ phone number. Answering machine.
    Damn it!
    Okay. Mrs. O’Malley worked . . . where? She worked at the church, at Holy Mother of Sorrows. Part-time. Okay. Neely would call her there. But how would she get her to come to the hospital? How would she . . . Should she call Mrs. Flannery before the Flannerys got to the hospital? No. The O’Malleys were the principals here. Should she call the coach first?
    Neely looked up the number for the rectory.
    Jeannie O’Malley answered on the first ring. Neely crashed.

    “Hello?” Jeannie said. Neely said nothing. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
    “I need to speak to Father Genovese, urgently,” she said.
    “Is this the hospital? Aren’t you the social worker?” Jeannie asked.
    “Yes, I . . . just really have to talk to the father. I do.” “Well, Neely, I can have him call you in . . . about five
    minutes. Mass is just ending.”
    Of course. Mass was every day, not just Sunday. Neely bit the bullet.
    “Mrs. O’Malley, you have to trust me on this. I really need to ask you, the father, and your husband to come to my office now. I know this is unexpected, and I really can not give you details over the phone. There’s been a misun derstanding regarding your daughter Maureen’s care. . . .” “Oh, Neely. Is this about the organ donations? We signed off on that. It gave us some measure of peace. We know everything was done that could be done. We never even thought about a lawsuit or any of those terrible things. Of course, we’re still . . . I don’t think we’ll ever be the same. The parent