The Cloud Atlas

Or-

One balloon could result in the only World War II civilian casualties due to enemy action on mainland U.S. soil.

And one did, on May 6, 1945, in an Oregon forest, where it intrigued children on a church outing. It exploded, killing all five, plus a young woman, pregnant, who'd been watching over them, while her husband, the reverend, was parking the car.

Or-

One balloon could carry a small life from one world to another.

It is this last balloon that carried me into this life, into this hospice, to this bedside, this mumbled confession.

Or it was all ten thousand.

It's simply a question of what you believe, or what proof you have, and I might have asked Ro

“NO MORPHINE.”

CHAPTER 2

IT'S STILL WEDNESDAY. I'M STILL IN THE HOSPICE. IT'S NOT clear where Ro

I hadn't gotten too far into my monologue when Ro

Within five minutes, I had heard her life story, up to and including that very moment. She worked for a company called Travel Nurse; the company sent nurses around the country, even the world, helping facilities fill gaps.

Fortunately, nothing about her monologue required a reply, or even much of a reaction, so I sat mute, my thoughts gone to fuzz while she talked. As she left, though, she suddenly turned.

“You can hold his hand, you know,” she said. “Sometimes, when patients-sorry, loved ones-are too tired to talk, or even listen, you can, well, communicate with them just by holding their hand.” I watched as she lightly picked up Ro

“Ro

But if he was, he made no sign of it. I settled back in my chair, but then a sound at the door made me start. It was just the nurse, checking to see if we were holding hands. We exchanged a smile again, both of us trying to out-pity or -patronize the other, and then I adjusted my chair so that I could better see the hallway. It wasn't the nurse's return I feared; I'd become jumpy at the thought that those coming for me would arrive two days early, and find me at the scene of the crime.

THE FIRST TIME Ro

Fats Haugen was about to achieve what his behavior suggested he'd always sought-death by drink. There were those of us who wished him well in his quest. A Virginia native whose first name was made even worse by the fact that he'd chosen it for himself, he'd come to Bethel in the 1950s, taken a Yup'ik bride, Mary, and acted wretchedly- especially to her-ever since.

But Mary was a saint. And beautiful. And it was because of her that I often attempted to reach out to her husband, to get him counseling, treatment, time, space-whatever he needed to return to huma

But she never could or would, and so I loved her dearly and knew I would do anything for her. That's why, when she knocked at the rectory door late one night, eyes full of tears, and asked if I would come and “pray over” her husband in the hospice, I did not hesitate. And when she asked, mumbling, eyes averted, if Ro

Which is how we came to find ourselves holding hands, Ro

No, it isn't easy for men to hold hands. Fats squirmed, though he hardly seemed to have the strength to. I felt anxious, too, watching Mary divide her desperate looks between me and the door, where I'm sure she thought the devil would appear.

I prayed for Fats, but I must also admit that I prayed for Mary, for Ro

And then it happened. Fats stopped squirming; his eyes shut and his mouth opened, releasing a low moan.

“Tell me how he died,” Ro

Mary cried out: “Frank!” A perfectly lovely name.

“Come,” said Ro

I checked the monitors. Ro

Ro

“Who's not here?” asked Mary. Fats moaned once more, soft again.

“No one-” I started.

“My tuunraq,” said Ro

“Father!” Mary hissed, letting go of our hands. I nodded Ro

He'd stopped moaning, which wasn't too much of a surprise. While Ro

When Fats opened his eyes, I paused. And then I made the sign of the cross and Mary followed suit, and then, much to our joint surprise, Fats did as well. “Pray with me, Fats-Frank,” I said, not because he would, but because I knew it was Mary's heart rate we then needed to ease. I began a Hail Mary. And then Fats, God bless him, was finally moved to speak.

“Father,” he said, “I want to confess…”

And that, to me, was magic.

I SAT THERE AFTER she left, Ro