Free The Color of a Dream by Julianne MacLean Page A

from
above as the paramedics warmed her up in the ambulance. Later she
witnessed the medical team shock her back to life in the ER.
    As I read the book, I couldn’t help but
wonder if my donor had had a similar out-of-body experience when he
died. Had he watched from above as the doctors removed the working
heart from his body and placed it into mine?
    It all seemed very far-fetched, and Sophie’s
story read more like a novel. Surely it had to be fiction. But when
I found myself standing in the bookstore in front of her table,
looking down at her as she smiled up at me, I knew she wasn’t some
New Age quack. There was an intelligence about her. She seemed
grounded.
    “Hi there,” she said, reaching for one of
the books on the table and opening it to the title page. With her
pen poised and ready, she said, “What’s your name? Would you like
me to make it out to you?”
    I felt rather awestruck because she was a
bestselling author, yet at the same time I felt I knew her, that we
shared a personal connection. Though I supposed everyone who read
her book felt that way, because she had shared something very
personal and intimate with all of us.
    “That would be great,” I said. “My name’s
Nadia.”
    While she squiggled a few words and signed
her name, I said, “I already read it as an eBook because I was
interested in what happened to you. I’ve been having some strange
out-of-body experiences myself.”
    She closed the book and looked up at me.
“Really?”
    Nervously, I continued. “Yes. I had a heart
transplant eight months ago and I keep having these recurring
dreams that I’m flying. Sometimes I’m flying over the hospital
where the transplant surgery was performed.”
    She tilted her head to the side. “That’s
interesting. I’ve never spoken to an organ transplant recipient
before. Lots of NDEs, but your story’s a bit different.”
    I nodded. “I’m not really sure what to make
of it. I don’t know if I’m just dreaming, or if it’s a memory of
what I did and where I went while I was on the table. Or maybe…” I
paused.
    “Maybe what?” she asked, leaning forward
slightly.
    I felt silly suggesting it, which was silly
in itself because the person I was speaking to claimed publicly to
have traveled to heaven and back. She even wrote a book about
it.
    “Tell me,” she said, handing the autographed
book to me.
    I hugged it to my chest and spoke quietly.
“I wonder if it’s the person whose heart I have inside of me. Maybe
it’s his soul flying around and we’re connected somehow. Or maybe
he had some unfinished business and he can’t leave to go wherever
it is we’re supposed to go after we die.”
    Sophie stared at me for a long moment, then
reached down to pick up her purse. She dug into it for a small
notepad and jotted something down.
    “This is a book you should read,” she said.
“It’s about cellular memory and there are some references to organ
transplants. I met the author at a convention once. He’s a smart
guy and has done a ton of research. He has a website so you can
contact him if you want to. He might be able to answer some of your
questions, but more likely, he’ll want to pick your brain.
You should also look into astral projection. That’s something
different, but maybe in your case it’s some sort of combination of
the two.”
    She handed me the piece of paper and I
realized I was holding up the line. There was still a large crowd
of readers and fans behind me.
    “Thank you,” I said. “This has been really
helpful.” Mostly, I was grateful to talk to someone who didn’t
think I was completely delusional.
    “Good luck,” she replied, “and
congratulations on getting that new heart.”
    I smiled at her. “I appreciate that. I feel
very blessed.”
    * * *
    Over the next few days, in between Ellen’s
bottle feedings and walks to the park with the stroller, I
researched the subject of cellular memory and read a few memoirs
written by people who had