Carol Higgins Clark Mary Higgins Clark Read online

  He Sees You When You Are Sleeping

  Mary Higgins Clark

  Carol Higgins Clark

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

  are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

  resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely

  coincidental.

  Copyright © 2001 by Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark

  All rights reserved,

  including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SCRIBNERand design are trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc. used

  under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.

  ISBN 0-7432-3356-5

  Acknowledgments

  It is with gratitude we acknowledge:

  Our editors, Michael Korda, Chuck Adams, and Roz Lippel.

  Our publicist, Lisl Cade.

  Our agents, Gene Winick, Sam Pinkus, and Nick Ellison.

  Our copyeditors, Associate Director of Copyediting Gypsy da Silva and copy

  editor Carol Catt.

  Our home backup support, John Conheeney, Irene Clark, Agnes Newton, and Nadine

  Petry.

  And, of course you, our readers.

  Blessings one and all.

  We dedicate this book to the victims of the September 11, 2001, tragedy,

  to the families and friends who loved them,

  and to the rescuers who risked their own lives to help them.

  There’s nothing worse than listening to the sounds of preparations for a great

  party, knowing that you’re not invited. It’s even worse when the party is

  located in heaven, Sterling Brooks thought to himself. He had been detained in

  the celestial waiting room, located right outside the heavenly gates, for

  forty-six years by earthly count. Now he could hear the heavenly choir doing a

  run-through of the songs that would commence the upcoming Christmas Eve

  celebration.

  “Hark, the herald angels sing…”

  Sterling sighed. He’d always loved that song. He shifted in his seat and looked

  around. Rows of pews were filled with people who were waiting to be called

  before the Heavenly Council. People who had to answer for certain things they’d

  done—or not done—in life, before they received admission to heaven.

  Sterling had been there longer than anyone. He felt like the kid whose mother

  forget to pick him up from school. He usually was able to keep up a cheerful

  front, but lately he’d been feeling more and more forlorn. From his seat by the

  window, he had watched over the years as so many people he had known on earth

  whizzed past, on a nonstop trip to heaven. Occasionally he was shocked and a

  little irritated when some of them were not made to do time in the celestial

  waiting room. Even the guy who had cheated on his income tax and lied about his

  golf score soared blissfully over the bridge that separated the celestial

  waiting room from the heavenly gates.

  But it had been the sight of Annie that tore his heart. A couple of weeks ago,

  the woman he’d loved but hadn’t married, the woman he’d kept dangling had wafted

  past, looking as pretty and young as the first day they’d met. He ran to the

  information desk and inquired about Annie Mansfield, the soul who had just flown

  by the observation window. The angel checked his computer, then raised his

  eyebrows. “She died a few minutes ago, on her eighty-seventh birthday. While

  blowing out the candles, she had a dizzy spell. What an exemplary life she led.

  Generous. Giving. Caring. Loving.”

  “Did she ever marry?” Sterling asked.

  The angel pressed some keys and moved the cursor, much like a ticket agent at

  the airport, trying to find confirmation of a reservation. He frowned. “She was

  engaged for a long time to some jerk who strung her along, then was heartbroken

  when he died unexpectedly. He was beaned in the head by a golfball.” The angel

  pressed the cursor again and looked up at Sterling. “Oh, sorry. That’s you.”

  Sterling slunk back to his seat. Since then he’d done a lot of thinking. He

  admitted to himself that he had sailed through his fifty-one years on earth,

  never taking on any responsibility and always managing to stay away from the

  unpleasant and the worrisome. I adopted Scarlett O’Hara’s motto, “I’ll think

  about it tomorrow,” he acknowledged to himself.

  The only time Sterling remembered experiencing prolonged anxiety was when he was

  on the waiting list for Brown University. All his friends from prep school had

  received thick envelopes from the colleges of their choice, welcoming them into

  the fold and strongly encouraging them to send in their checks immediately. It

  was only a few days before school started that he got the call from an official

  in the admissions office at Brown confirming that there was room for him in the

  freshman class. It put an end to the longest four and a half months of his life.

  He knew that the reason he had only squeaked into Brown was that, although he

  was blessed with a keen intelligence and excellent all-around athletic skills,

  he had simply coasted through high school.

  A chill that was pure fear engulfed him. He’d finally gotten into the college he

  wanted, but maybe up here he wouldn’t be so fortunate. Until right now he had

  been absolutely sure that he’d make it to heaven. Sterling had reminded the

  angel at the door to the Heavenly Council that some of the people who came in

  behind him had been called and suggested that perhaps he had been inadvertently

  overlooked. He had been told politely but firmly to return to his seat.

  He so much wanted to be in heaven this Christmas Eve. The expression on the

  faces of the people who soared past the window, seeing the open gates ahead of

  them, had filled him with wonder. And now Annie was there.

  The angel at the door signaled for everyone’s attention. “I have glad tidings.

  Christmas amnesty has been granted to the following. You will not have to appear

  before the Heavenly Council. You will go straight through the exit door on the

  right that leads directly to the heavenly bridge. Stand and file through in an

  orderly fashion as your name is called… Walter Cummings…”

  A few pews over, Walter, a sprightly ninety-year-old, jumped up and clicked his

  heels together. “Hallelujah!” he shouted as he ran to the front of the room.

  “I said in an orderly fashion,” the angel chided in a somewhat resigned voice.

  “Though I can’t much blame you,” he murmured as he called the next name. “Tito

  Ortiz…”

  Tito whooped with joy and raced down the aisle, hot on Walter’s heels.

  “Jackie Mills, Dennis Pines, Veronica Murphy, Charlotte Green, Pasquale D’Amato,

  Winthrop Lloyd III, Charlie Potters, Jacob W
eiss, Ten Eyck Elmendorf…”

  Name after name after name was called as the pews emptied out.

  The angel finished reading from the list and folded the paper. Sterling was the

  only one left. A tear formed in his eye. The celestial waiting room felt

  cavernous and lonely. I must have been a terrible person, he thought. I’m not

  going to make it to heaven after all.

  The angel laid down the list and began to walk toward him. Oh no, Sterling

  thought frantically, don’t tell me he’s sending me to the other place. For the

  first time, he realized what it was like to feel completely helpless and

  hopeless.

  “Sterling Brooks,” the angel said. “You have been summoned to an extraordinary

  meeting of the Heavenly Council. Follow me, please.”

  A tiny whisper of hope flickered in Sterling’s being. Maybe, just maybe, he

  still had a chance. Bracing himself, he stood up and followed the angel to the

  door of the chamber. The angel, his face and voice full of sympathy, whispered,

  “Good luck,” as he opened the door and pushed Sterling inside.

  The room was not large. It was bathed in a soft, exquisite light, the likes of

  which Sterling had never experienced. The floor-to-ceiling window gave an

  awesome view of the heavenly gates and he realized the light was reflecting off

  them.

  Four men and four women were seated at a long table, facing him. From the halos

  shining around their heads, he realized immediately that they were all saints,

  even though he didn’t recognize them from the stained-glass windows in

  cathedrals he had visited while on vacation. The outfits they were wearing

  varied from biblical robes to twentieth-century dress. With the instinctive

  knowledge that was now part of him, Sterling understood that they were wearing

  the typical garb of the periods in which they had lived. The man at the far end,

  a grave-faced monk, opened the proceedings.

  “Sit down, Sterling. We’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  Sterling took the seat, acutely aware that all eyes were fixed on him.

  One of the women, dressed in an elegant red velvet gown and wearing a tiara,

  said in a cultured voice, “You had an easy life, didn’t you, Sterling?”

  Looks like you did too, Sterling thought, but held his tongue. He nodded meekly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The monk looked at him sternly. “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Her

  majesty did great good for her subjects.”

  My God, they can read my thoughts, Sterling realized, and he began to tremble.

  “But you never went out of your way for anybody,” the queen continued.

  “You were a fair-weather friend,” said a man in shepherd’s garb, seated second

  from the right.

  “Passive-aggressive,” declared a young matador, who was picking a thread off the

  end of his red cape.

  “What does that mean?” Sterling asked, frightened.

  “Oh, sorry. That earthly expression came into use after your time. It’s a very

  popular one now, believe me.”

  “Covers a multitude of sins,” muttered a beautiful woman who reminded Sterling

  of the pictures he’d seen of Pocahontas.

  “Aggressive?” Sterling said. “I never lost my temper. Ever.”

  “Passive-aggressive is something different. You hurt people bynot doing things.

  And by making promises you have no intention of keeping.”

  “You were self-absorbed,” a sweet-faced nun on the end said. “You were a good

  estate lawyer, tidying up little problems for the ultrarich, but you never lent

  your expertise to the poor unfortunate who was unfairly losing his home or the

  lease on his store. What’s worse, you actually considered helping out once in a

  while and then decided not to get involved.” She shook her head. “You were too

  much of a good-time Charlie.”

  “The kind who jumped into the first lifeboat when the ship was going down,” a

  saint in the uniform of a British admiral snapped. “A cad, by George. Why, you

  never once helped an old lady cross the street.”

  “I never once spotted an old lady who needed help!”

  “That’s it in a nutshell,” they said in unison. “You were too smug and

  self-absorbed to really notice what was going on around you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sterling said humbly. “I thought I was a pretty nice guy. I never

  meant to hurt anybody. Is there anything I can do now to make it up?”

  The members of the council looked at each other.

  “How bad could I have been?” Sterling cried. He pointed toward the waiting room.

  “In all this time I’ve talked to a lot of the souls who have passed through

  there. None of them were saints! And by the way, I saw someone who cheated on

  his income tax go straight to heaven. You must have missed him!”

  They all laughed. “You’re absolutely right. We were on a coffee break. But on

  the other hand, he donated a lot of that money to charity.”

  “What about his golf game?” Sterling asked eagerly. “I never once cheated the

  way he did. And I got hit in the head by a golf ball. As I was dying, I forgave

  the guy who did it. Not everyone would be that nice.”

  They stared at him as his mind filled with images of all the times in his life

  when he’d let people down. Annie. He was too selfish to marry her, but he always

  let her keep hoping because he didn’t want to lose her. After he died, it was

  too late for her to have the family she always wanted. And now she was in

  heaven. He had to see her again.

  Sterling felt wretched. He had to know his fate. “What are you telling me?” he

  asked. “Will I ever get to heaven?”

  “Funny you should ask,” the monk replied. “We’ve discussed your case, and we’ve

  decided that you seem to be the appropriate candidate for an experiment we’ve

  been weighing for some time.”

  Sterling’s ears pricked up. All was not lost.

  “I love experiments,” he said enthusiastically. “I’m your boy. Try me. When do

  we start?” He realized he was starting to sound like a jerk.

  “Sterling, be quiet and listen. You are being sent back to earth. It is your job

  to recognize someone with a problem and help that person solve it.”

  “Sent back to earth!” Sterling was dumbfounded.

  The eight heads nodded in unison.

  “How long will I stay?”

  “As long as it takes to solve the problem.”

  “Does that mean if I do a good job I’ll be allowed to enter heaven? I’d love to

  be there for Christmas.”

  They all looked amused. “Not so fast,” the monk said. “In the jargon of the day,

  you have a lot of frequent flier miles to earn before you achieve permanent

  residence inside those holy gates. However, if you complete your first mission

  to our satisfaction by Christmas Eve, you will be entitled to a visitor’s pass

  for twenty-four hours.”

  Sterling’s heart sank a little. Oh well, he thought. Every long journey begins

  with one small step.

  “You’d do well to remember that,” the queen cautioned.

  Sterling blinked. He’d have to remember they were mind readers. “How will I know

  the person I’m supposed to h
elp?” he asked.

  “That’s part of the point of this experiment. You have to learn to recognize

  people’s needs and do something about them,” a young black woman wearing a

  nurse’s uniform told him.

  “Will I have any help? I mean, anyone I can talk to if I’m not sure what to do?

  I’ll do anything to get the job done properly, you understand.”

  I’m babbling again, he thought.

  “You are free at any time to request a consultation with us,” the admiral

  assured him.

  “When do I start?”

  The monk pressed a button on the council table. “Right now.”

  Sterling felt a trap door open beneath him. In an instant he was hurtling past

  the stars, around the moon, through the clouds, and then suddenly whisking past

  a tall, brilliantly lit Christmas tree. His feet touched the earth.

  “My God,” Sterling breathed. “I’m in Rockefeller Center.”

  Marissa’s dark hair cascaded around her shoulders as she twirled around the rink

  in Rockefeller Center. She had started taking ice-skating lessons when she was

  three. Now that she was seven, skating was as natural to her as breathing, and

  lately it had been the only thing that eased the hurt that filled her chest and

  throat.

  The music changed, and without thinking she adjusted to the new, softer rhythm,

  a waltz. For a moment she pretended she was with Daddy. She could almost feel

  his hand linked with hers, could almost see NorNor, her grandmother, smiling at

  her.

  Then she remembered that she really didn’t want to skate with Daddy or even talk

  to him, or to NorNor. They had gone away, hardly saying good-bye to her. The

  first bunch of times they phoned she had pleaded with them to come back or to

  let her come visit them, but they had said that was impossible. Now when they

  called, she wouldn’t talk to them.

  She didn’t care, she told herself.

  But still, she closed her eyes whenever a car she was in happened to drive past

  NorNor’s restaurant; it hurt to remember how much fun it had been to go there

  with Daddy. The place was always crowded, sometimes NorNor played the piano, and

  people always asked Daddy to sing. Sometimes they’d bring over his CD and ask

  him to sign the cover.

  Now she never went there. She had heard Mommy tell Roy—he was Mommy’s husband