Excerpt from The Wrong Heaven by Amy Bonnaffons, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

My students looked relieved, even hopeful; Ms. McClosky's class was "gifted."


When I got home, it was dark already. I poured myself a G&T, drank it standing up, and then poured another. I went outside and plugged the statues into the outlet at the base of the porch. They lit up against the darkness.

"I saw what you just did," said Jesus. "I saw how strong you made that drink."

"You are loved," said Mary. But she sounded a little strained.

"I was just a normal human like you, and I got through life's trials without stimulants or depressants," said Jesus. "Do you need to see my hands again?"

"You don't need to keep reminding people," said Mary.

"It was very traumatic," said Jesus.

"Look," I said. "I'm a mess. I admit it. And the worst part is, I'm supposed to be guiding people."

"How can we help?" asked Mary, smiling and spreading her hands.

"Well," I said, "for starters, I would feel better if I just knew that there was a Heaven. That Billie Holiday was in a better place. And the caterpillars, and David G.'s baby brother."

"It's not so much like that," said Jesus. "It's not really another place."

Mary cleared her throat. "Let me explain it to you," she said. "Think of caterpillars. Hedgehogs. Carrots. Dogs. Babies. There's a Heaven for each one, and they all exist in the same airspace, like all the radio signals from all the world flying through the air, constantly. But you need the right equipment. Is your Heavenly Radio tuned to the right station? You might be picking up Carrot Heaven, or Hedgehog Heaven."

"The radio is a metaphor," said Jesus. "The metaphors are given out at birth, like names. Some people get the wrong ones. You can get another, at Customer Service, but there's no escalator. This is the only body you've ever had. Use it, and walk up the stairs. You get to Heaven by willpower and thigh muscle."

"Call this toll-free number from a touch-tone phone," said Mary, "if you believe you've selected the wrong Heaven for your species, gender, socioeconomic status, and weight class. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved."

"Possibly," said Jesus.


I turned and walked inside, without unplugging them. I lay on the couch and felt their faint glow through the curtain. I couldn't believe that Jesus had mentioned my thighs.

Outside, Mary softly murmured the toll-free number, over and over and over. I got up and called it.

It was busy.

I went into the kitchen and opened up the freezer. I took out the gin bottle, but it was empty. I stood there with the bottle in my hand, tapping its cold heft against my thigh, trying to decide whether it was worth a trip to the liquor store. Then my eyes fixed on Billie Holiday.

I thought about how we used to spend time here together, doing the dishes. I'd taught her to stand on the counter with a clean towel wrapped around her; I'd rub the dishes against her towel-clad body to dry them. She loved to help out. She loved the attention, and the togetherness.

No one knew about that but she and I. No one but me could remember. The responsibility was mine, and no one would help me with it: not even Our Lord and the Holy Mother. They might know about the various levels and frequencies of Heaven, but I was the only one who could lay my friend to rest in the earth.

I knew what I had to do.


When I got to the store, its door was shut and the lights were off. But when I peered through the glass door, I could see one light on in the back—probably in some sort of storage closet—and the silhouette of someone moving around.

I rapped strongly on the door. The silhouette stopped and stood still. I knocked again, and in a few seconds the green-eyed man was at the door.

He turned the lock and opened it. "We're closed," he said.

Excerpted from The Wrong Heaven by Amy Bonnafons. Copyright © 2018 by Amy Bonnafons. Excerpted by permission of Little Brown & Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.