The Heaven Trilogy Read Free Page A

paid that day.
    She could see the heavens opening.
    And above all she could hear the song. “The Martyr’s Song,” penned now and sung throughout the world by many devout believers.
    That day had forever changed Jan Jovic’s life. But it was only the beginning. If you knew how to listen, the Martyr’s Song could be heard today, still changing lives. Helen’s life, for example. And then her daughter Gloria’s life. And now Spencer’s life.
    When Jan had died Helen was still quite young. She’d been left alone to find solace with God. And nothing seemed to bring her that solace like the hours she spent shuffling about the house, hounding heaven, drawing near to the throne. The shuffling used to be pacing, an insistent pacing that actually began many years ago while Gloria was still a child. Gloria would often kneel on the sofa, combing the knots from her doll’s hair, watching her mother step across worn carpet with lifted hands, smiling to the sky.
    “I am an intercessor,” Helen told her young daughter. “I speak with God.”
    And God spoke to her, Gloria thought. More so lately, it seemed.
    Helen sat flat footed, rocking slowly in the overstuffed green rocker, her hands resting on the chair’s worn arms. A perpetual smile bunched soft cheeks. Her hazel eyes glistened like jewels set in her face, which was lightly dusted with powder but otherwise free of makeup. Her silver hair curled to her ears and down to her neck. She was not as thin as she had been in her early years, but she carried the additional fifteen pounds well. The dresses her mother wore were partly responsible. She could not remember ever seeing her mother wear slacks. Today the dress was a white summer shirtwaist sprinkled with light blue roses that flowed in soft pleats to her knees.
    Gloria glanced at her son, who sat with his legs crossed under him the way he always sat, Indian style. He was telling his grandmother about the upcoming trip to Disneyland with wide eyes, stumbling over his words. She smiled. They had finalized the plans last evening at Antonio’s while dining on steak and lobster. Kent would leave for Miami Friday morning and return Saturday in time to catch a 6 P.M. flight to Paris. The short-notice tickets had cost the world, but the fact had only put a broader smile on her husband’s face. They would arrive in France on Monday, check into some classy hotel called the Lapier, catch their breath while feasting on impossibly expensive foods, and rest for the next day’s adventure. Kent was finally about to live his childhood dream, and he was setting about it with a vengeance.
    Of course, Kent’s success did not come without its price. It required focus, and something was bound to give in favor of that focus. In Kent’s case it was his faith in God, which had never been his strong suit anyway. Within three years of their marriage, Kent’s faith left him. Entirely. There was no longer room in his heart for a faith in the unseen. He was too busy chasing things he could see. It wasn’t just an apathy—Kent did not do apathy. He either did or he did not do. It was either all out or not at all. And God became not at all.
    Four years ago, just after Spencer had turned six, Helen had come to Gloria, nearly frantic. “We need to begin,” she’d said.
    “Begin what?” Gloria had asked.
    “Begin the knocking.”
    “Knocking?”
    “Yes, knocking—on heaven’s door. For Kent’s soul.”
    For Helen it was always either knocking or hounding.
    So they had begun their Thursday morning knocking sessions then. The door to Kent’s heart had not opened yet, but through it all Gloria and Spencer had peeked into heaven with Helen. What they saw had them scrambling out of bed every Thursday morning, without fail, to go to Grandma’s.
    And now here they were again.
    “Delightful!” Helen said, flashing a smile at Gloria. “That sounds positively wonderful. I had no idea there was more than one Disneyland.”
    “Heavens,