The Lady Went Above and Beyond

By Dorlon L. Pond Jr.

When KATHY DUGAN dies during a bank robbery, she wakes up at the Pearly Gates. There, GIDEON, an angel, asks her to reflect on her past life. Her childhood is a tale of poverty and abuse by her parents and a stint in juvenile hall. But when she lands in the home of a rich doctor and his wife, things take an abrupt U-turn. Despite Kathy’s part in an attempted robbery at her new home, the doctor and his wife refuse to press charges.

Her life takes another turn, this time for the better. She’s reunited with her sister and helps with funding for research for cerebral palsy and, after joining the Army, is wounded. Kathy may have gotten off to a bad start to begin with, but she has tried to live a life to help others.

Will the good deeds she’s enacted be enough to convince Gideon to open the gates for Kathy to begin her eternal life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662422218

Book preview

Chapter One

2008

MY BODYGUARD PEERED out the rear window of my limo with alarm at the bank in Beverly Hills.

What’s the matter, Rubin?

I hear sirens getting louder. It worries me. He lowered the door window and still must not have seen anything because he stepped out onto the curb. Please stay in the car, Ms. Dugan. Let me make sure it’s safe.

I’d hired Rubin, a Marine veteran who stood six feet, five inches tall. He’s a wonderful family man, with a wife and three kids. His wife, Lisa, could almost be my younger sister, and their children are like my own grandchildren. The only difference is that they are Caucasian and I’m a five-foot-zero African American shrimp compared to Rubin.

Looking at my watch, it told me we’d arrived a few minutes after 9:00 a.m. I needed to be back at my office by eleven. A couple of hours didn’t give me much time before heading back.

While he looked around for any danger, I sat contemplating the few dozen things on my to-do list. On my next stop, I’d decided to go to the grocery store. I’d also squeeze in a visit to my adopted mom who’d just returned from the hospital after a heart attack.

I’ll be fine, Rubin.

Following him inside the bank, my mind was still on my mother’s health when a loud pop, pop, like firecrackers, rang out. My bodyguard fell back against me.

He collapsed. Rubin! What’s…

My first instinct was to dive for cover, but the closest counter, which stood against the wall to my left, offered no protection. This brought back my experiences in Vietnam. My attention then turned to the bank security guard a few feet away with an ever-widening pool of blood beside his head. My heart raced like it wanted to compete in the Daytona 500.

There were three robbers, all with ski masks and wearing dark suits.

The bad guy closest to me in front of the counter had on a blue tie and held .45-caliber pistol. Blue looked to be on the heavy side. His cohorts had already made their way behind the tellers’ cage, one with a red tie and the other a white tie. Did they call themselves the White-Collar Bandits?

Red looked up and snapped, Way to go, Blue.

The guy had a gun, Blue said as he glanced over his shoulder. What was I supposed to do? Let him shoot us?

My nerves, while quaking on a magnitude of 7.9, kicked in as I put my hand in my pocket and found only a couple of ninja Shurikens (Chinese throwing stars). I flung them at the bad guys who collected money. It gave them each a third eye. Bullseye times two. Blue turned toward me and raised his gun. At the same time, I ran at him to pinch off his windpipe. His brown eyes widened as he gasped for air. All at once, a sharp pain cut through my chest. It burned like hell, and we both fell to the floor where he died next to me.

Struggling to my knees, my eyes were ever watchful for whatever else was happening around the bank. Maybe it would have been better to have listened to Rubin; after all, he was paid to keep me safe. Maybe tomorrow would have been a better day.

A couple of frightened customers huddled near the tellers’ cage and were screaming or crying, along with some of the tellers. A young man stood next to the counter on my left where customers fill out deposit slips. His nerves shook like he’d seen a ghost at the sight of the dead victims. He ran outside, leaving the door wide-open.

Officer! Kathy Dugan has been shot!

Shot? Did he just say I’ve been shot? I rose to my feet and dusted myself off. Is he crazy? What did he mean I’ve been shot? I don’t feel anything.

Police burst into the bank after making sure that this customer was not one of the bad guys. How’d they get here so fast? Maybe those were the sirens Rubin heard. Someone in the bank must have set off the silent alarm.

Once the police checked all the dead victims, they allowed the paramedics to pass. Where’d they come from? Were they also called? Anyway, I’m happy they came.

It’s about time you guys got here. Would you please check my bodyguard? He may be dying. I went over to talk to the paramedic who had knelt to examine Rubin. Will he be all right? Is he dead?

No answer.

Why won’t you talk to me? I’ve got to let his family know if he’s all right.

It was then that a paramedic turned his attention to a small body on the floor; I leaned over his shoulder.

WHAT! ARE MY EYES DECEIVING ME?

Hey, that’s me! What’s going on?

It’s Kathy Dugan, America’s Sweetheart and hero! the stunned paramedic exclaimed as he examined me. She’s dead. Look at the hole in her chest. It’s the size of a silver dollar.

What do you mean, I’m dead? I grabbed for his arm, but my hand went right through him. W-What just happened? What’s the matter with me? It’s like I’ve become another Casper the friendly ghost. Is my mind going crazy?

The paramedics picked up my body and put it on a gurney.

Hey…wait… Where are you taking me?

They covered me with a sheet and wheeled me outside to an ambulance. My nerves shook like someone had scared me as I climbed in with them.

When we arrived at my dad’s hospital, the emergency room physician on duty just happened to be my family doctor, Dr. Stephanie Hand. Her hands trembled as she examined my body.

I stood on the opposite side of the exam table to watch and smiled. Hi, Stephanie. We’d been friends since my teen years.

Oh no. What happened to you, Kathy?

A paramedic said, She was shot and died in a bank holdup.

Don’t believe him, Stephanie. I’m right here.

She placed her stethoscope just above the red hole in my chest and listened. I can’t hear a heartbeat.

That’s because I turned off the volume.

She ignored me like the paramedics had and, pale, turned to a nurse. Please page Dr. Williams and have him come to the ER, STAT! In the meantime, she tried to resuscitate me with the defibrillator to stimulate my heart.

Dr. Michael Williams, my adopted father, arrived a few moments later.

What’s so urgent? When he saw my lifeless body, his breath caught. He rushed over to me. Kathy? He pressed his fingers to my neck, to my wrist. What happened?

Twin rivers flowed down Dr. Hand’s cheeks. She’s been shot. I’m so sorry, Dr. Williams.

Hey, I’m right here, Dad. Look at me. Please tell Stephanie she’s wrong. I’m not dead, I pleaded and grabbed for his wrist. My hand went right through him. NO! NO! NO! Not again. What’s wrong with me? My tears fell and it made me feel sad.

His hand shook as he cupped my cheek. Tears welled in his eyes. What am I going to tell her mother and her husband? I’ll need to call the family.

No, Dad. Please don’t say that. I’m dead? I’m really dead. You can’t possibly mean that.

Like a flash of lightning, I’m now in the room where my husband rehearsed for his musical show. He had the dancers set up for their big closing number.

That was fast. I went over to talk to my husband to get his reassurance that I’m not dead. Just then, Tina, the wife of one of the performers, burst into the room.

STOP! Everyone, please STOP! she screamed as she ran over to my husband. Arthur, your father-in-law’s on the phone. He says it’s an emergency. It’s about Kathy.

Arthur ran out, and everyone followed. In the blink of an eye, we entered the stage manager’s office where my husband picked up the phone.

Dr. Williams? What is it? He paused to listen, and his lips began to tremble. He collapsed into a chair, buried his face in his hands, and said, I can’t believe it… Kathy’s d-dead.

You can’t believe it? I’d responded. What about me?

Everyone, including the performers, stagehands, and technicians rushed to surround my husband. The women cried as I’d been a friend to all of them.

This is crazy. Now I’m back with Stephanie and her surgical team, heading to the hospital conference room for a news briefing. As she advanced to the podium, my idea was to butt in and get to the microphone first.

Contrary to what everyone says, I’m not dead. My voice didn’t come through the speakers. I tapped the mic, but just like when I’d grabbed the paramedic and my dad’s wrist, my hand went through it.

Is the microphone even on?

I stepped in front of Stephanie. Hey, Doc! I’m right here. Can’t you see me? Waving my hands in her face, she just passed through me and stepped up to the microphone to address the reporters and photographers. She spoke into the microphone, and her eyes overflowed. Her voice came through the speakers. Why didn’t mine?

I have the sad duty to inform you—she wiped her eyes—that Kathy Dugan, one of America’s most cherished and loved sweethearts… Her eyes flooded again. Died today at approximately nine-seventeen a.m. from a gunshot wound to the chest. According to police information, it’s my belief she gave her life to defend her fellow citizens at the Beverly Hills National Bank.

Now I’m in my office? Millie, my receptionist, entered the waiting room and turned on the TV. Then while she straightened up the magazines and put them in neat piles, a reporter appeared on the television screen.

We interrupt the regularly scheduled program for breaking news. During a robbery at the Beverly Hills National Bank, Kathy Dugan was shot and killed.

NO! Millie screamed in horror. IT CAN’T BE! NOT KATHY!

The others in the office ran to the waiting room from all parts of the large open-plan office. Crying, Millie pointed to the TV. I’d left C.C., who’d been with me the longest, in charge. The commentator repeated the announcement.

C.C. said, This office is closed as of right now. Then as her tears began to fall, she left this sad message on our phone system. Due to the untimely death of our beloved queen…the National Cerebral Palsy Headquarters is closed until further notice.

Now I’m standing next to my adult Korean daughter, Min Hee, in her home. She’d been watching a Korean channel as it blared the report of my death from the TV. Unbelievable. The news had spread like lightning around the world. What about greased lightning? Question: how do you grease lightning?

NO! They’re lying, Mini cried. Omma!

She started shaking, ran to the phone, dialed my office number, and listened to C.C.’s tearful message. Mini then dropped the phone and collapsed on the floor, body quaking with tears. I knelt beside her, wanting to comfort my daughter. When I tried to put my arm around her, it went right through her. This hurt me because of my love for her.

NO! This can’t be. Why can’t I even hug my daughter? Why? Why? This just made me lift my hands and eyes Heavenward. Why me?

As my tears fell, the remembrance of the deaths of my babies, Jimmy and Kayce, so many years ago came to mind. This just made me cry even more. I hope my other children don’t learn of this through the media: my two sons, my twin daughters, and their younger sister.

I’m back home now? How can I go from one place to another so fast? In less than an hour, expressions of sympathy and flowers arrived. Reporters too.

My husband stood in our front doorway with sadness in his eyes. He looked into the television cameras and pleaded with a shaking voice to anyone watching, Instead of flowers, please make a donation to the United Cerebral Palsy Foundation in Kathy’s name.

Security then whisked him back inside.

Sadness welled in me as I fell on my knees and looked to Heaven in prayer. "God, please tell me this is a dream. This is a dream, isn’t it? It can’t be happening, can it? Is this real?"

No answer. Tears streamed down my face. It just can’t be. My family needs me. Please let this be a bad dream.

Kathy?

A hand on my shoulder made me look up to see someone unfamiliar to me standing at my side. He wore a white robe and were those wings attached to his back. Was that a halo above his head?

Kathy, please come with me.

Who are you?

My name is Gideon. I’m an angel, he said. I’ve been sent here to hear your life’s story and determine if you are worthy to enter into Heaven.

Then are you telling me I’m d-dead without question…beyond a reasonable doubt? My stomach became queasy. I still didn’t want to believe I’d died.

Yes.

But…but…

Gideon quieted me with a wave of his hand. Kathy, please come and sit over here.

I followed him and sat where he indicated on a small white bench.

Where are we? Everything looked white.

We are in the clouds. Kathy, your time on Earth is over. God does not make mistakes.

I understand that. Wh-what happens next?

Now in your own words, please tell me your life’s story.

Why?

Before you can enter Heaven, you must give an account of your life. For the record, please start with your name, where you were born, and when.

Chapter Two

1942

MY NAME IS Kathy Dugan.

Gideon frowned.

Okay, I whimpered. Dugan is my married name. At birth, my parents named me Kathy Bowman on July 4, 1942, in New York City. Is that better?

He nodded.

At least that’s what I’ve been told. I vaguely remember the first four or five years of my life. It’s hard for me to remember my fifth birthday and a small white cake. My family was African American. My biological father went by the name of Lucas Bowman, a big burly man who loved his beer. He cared more about his beer than for any of us. He had a diagonal scar on his left cheek almost a foot long, a big black mustache, and bad temper.

My biological mother, Georgia, a petite woman, also had a temper with a low boiling point.

My only flesh-and-blood sister, Joyce, was five years older than I, and we lived in a ghetto.

Where in New York City was this ghetto? Gideon asked.

I’m not sure. It might have been Harlem, but my memory just isn’t the same as it used to be.

Continue.

Anyway, my father never asked me to do anything. He always ordered me to do it. He’d say something like, Kathy, get me another beer and be quick about it. My mother also ordered Joyce and me around. She made my sister do almost all the cooking and made me watch.

We were poor and lived mostly on welfare and handouts. I’d befriended a couple of girls in my apartment building, Leslie and Mitzi. They were African American like me and about my age. When we played together, we were often very silent.

Once, Mitzi’s mom said, Since you all are so quiet, I think I’ll call you the Three Mouseyteers. She, along with Leslie’s mom, cared more for me than my own mother.

You can’t mean that, Kathy? asked Gideon.

Yes, Sir, I do mean that.

Sometimes I’d forget to tell Leslie or Mitzi’s mom when it was time for me to be home, which meant I’d be late. I hadn’t learned to tell time yet.

Whoa! Gideon interrupted with a wave of his hand. Didn’t you just say you don’t remember very much about Harlem?

It’s true. My memory is more about my friends than where we lived. I’d stayed in our apartment when I wasn’t with them.

He nodded. Go on.

Anyway, I’d get a beating for not getting home on time, and Joyce received one for not looking after me. My father got in Joyce’s face and shouted, Why did Kathy come home late?

Joyce cowered against the wall. I don’t know.

He backhanded her across the mouth, and she escaped into our room crying. Then he turned to me.

My thought was, Uh-oh! I’m in trouble now. I’d better run. Too late! He caught me and slammed his fist into the side of my head, which made me dizzy and walk like a drunk. I’d bump into things until I landed on my bed, all the while crying.

Once, my father beat me with a belt which made me wet my pants. He beat me again for that. In those days, the law agreed that to spank your child the way the Bible says was okay. Today, it’s considered child abuse.

My father couldn’t hold on to a job for more than a few weeks. One time, he told my mother he’d been fired.

You got fired again, Lucas? You’ve got a family to feed. Now what are you going to do?

Don’t worry, woman. He slapped her face. I’ll get money even if it means stealing it.

She responded through her tears, You’ve got to forget about that gang mentality of yours if you want to keep a job.

Shut your mouth, woman. Or I’ll shut it for you.

Another time, he bragged to my mother about a gun. He robbed a man and the guy tried to fight back. The gun went off, and the man died. Where the gun came from and what happened to it after the crime, he never said. The next thing Joyce and I knew, our entire family was turned upside down, like a pineapple upside-down cake. My father feared the police and packed us into the car in the middle of the night. Almost a week later, we arrived in Los Angeles. My father found an apartment in a poor neighborhood.

Where in Los Angeles? Gideon asked.

It’s in the area that’s now called South Central, came my reply.

This place looked about as bad as the ghetto we’d just moved from. Filth covered everything.

Joyce and Kathy, clean up this pig sty, our mother ordered.

Meanwhile, our father’s drinking became worse, and the beatings were almost daily. He smelled of beer most of the time. Our mother knew not to interfere, lest she’d receive our father’s wrath.

At least Joyce cared about me. She never hit me. We shared everything.

Glancing at Gideon, I hesitated. It looked like he his mind was elsewhere.

I began to sing, In 1814, we took a little trip down the mighty Mississip—

The angel smiled. Kathy, please return to your story.

Shortly after my seventh birthday, Joyce sobbed in our room, and I’d gone to investigate.

Joyce, why are you crying?

I scratched Father’s face and threw a flowerpot at him. It hit him in the side of his head and knocked him out. When he wakes up, he’s going to kill me.

Kathy, didn’t you call your father Dad or Daddy or maybe Pop? Gideon asked.

No. He insisted we call him Father because before his days as a gang member, he wanted to become a priest.

Please continue.

Kathy, I can’t take it anymore. I’m leaving and I’m never coming back.

Why?

I’ve got to go now before he wakes up. Give me a hug, Joyce said. We hugged.

Take me with you, I begged.

Sorry, kid. I’ll be alone and don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do. I won’t be able to take care of you.

To me, this meant I’d never see her again. Joyce ran out of our room, and it brought tears to my eyes. How could my sister leave me like that?

When my father, still in a daze, heard me cry, he came into my room. What’s your problem, you little brat?

Joyce ran away.

She WHAT! he angrily asked.

My sheepish repeat, Joyce ran away?

You guessed it. He beat me for Joyce running away, and it wasn’t even my fault.

Later in the day, my mother said, Kathy, now that we don’t have Joyce to cook for us, it will be your responsibility to prepare our meals just like she did. You watched your sister cook, so now it’s your turn. I’ll give you one lesson for each meal and then you’re on your own.

She taught me how to make eggs and bacon, macaroni and cheese, meat loaf, and spaghetti with meat sauce.

When I’d repeat the lesson and make mistakes with the ingredients or cooking times or temperatures, she would yell at me. Then she’d beat me. She’d often say hurtful things to me like, Kathy, you’re a hopeless idiot. Can’t you do anything right? How could I have given birth to such a stupid daughter?

How could she expect me, a little girl, to be so perfect? It made me feel worthless, and I’d retreat to my room with tears in my eyes. Every time I cried, I’d get smacked. My parents said I needed a reason to cry, so they’d provide one.

My hatred of my parents grew with every beating. Their welfare checks meant more to them than me, their own daughter.

My parents caused me to miss a lot of school due to all the bumps and bruises they gave me. They didn’t support my education because they told me the school should do all that. The possibility that they couldn’t read, never entered my mind.

Sometimes, the teacher would call on me to answer her questions.

Kathy, what’s in the picture I’m holding up?

It’s a cat? was my guess.

My classmates all laughed, and it made me feel stupid.

Later, at recess, some of my classmates, especially the white students, made fun of me.

A white boy said to my face, What do you know, it’s the dumb twit. Don’t you know the difference between a skunk and a cat, you stupid idiot?

Take that back.

Make me.

I’m not stupid, Wacky Jacky.

What’d you call me, Twit? He punched me in the stomach. It made me double over, crying. A moment later, while he and his friends still laughed at me, it gave me the chance to give him a hard kick in the shin. He cried to the playground monitor and claimed I’d kicked him for no reason.

I did not. He punched me in the stomach.

When it came time to tell my side of the story, his friends all stuck together and blamed me for starting the fight. No one would tell the truth. Because of this, I’d stay away from the other children and had no friends. My parents were called, and when we arrived home, they beat me for fighting.

My parents told me to lie about my bruises at school and did so out of fear of another whipping.