by Judy Fischer
Missy Loves René
Judy Fischer
Austin Macauley Publishers
Missy Loves René
About the Author
About the Book
Dedication
Copyright Information
Acknowledgments
Gentle Touch
Stranger
The Key
The Flat
Friends
The Job
Witness
The Escape
South
Road Trip
Hospitality
Seaside
The Family
Muse
Thanksgiving
Sidekick
Solo
Mentor
Dilemma
Tragedy
The Novel
Christmas
1980
Rolling
Hollywood, Florida
Published
Haven
Birthright
Lovers
The Heart
Montréal
Renovations
Chores
Doom
René Loves Missy
Renée
About the Author
Judy Fischer is a teacher turned novelist, born in Budapest, Hungary, in 1949.
She is Hungarian by birth but Canadian by choice.
Judy is a proud mother to two daughters and a stepson.
Presently, she lives in Pointe Claire, Quebec, with her husband.
She is a lover of dogs, an advocate of human rights and a passionate believer in justice and peace.
She is a former high school teacher, now retired, who has recently written several books of fiction. The departure from a full-time career as a teacher and a mother has given Ms. Fischer time to dive into a serious writing career. Life has given her a wealth of experiences from which she draws her stories. Her books are deep pockets, full of realistic characters, based on those authentic ones, who had once touched the very fibre of her soul.
She blends fantasy with reality, but maintains a human element to her tales that are not only believable, but plausible. Her romantic narratives are marked with symbolisms and metaphors about life’s complexities and adversities. "Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works" is her favorite quote of Virginia Woolf’s.
Recently Published:
He Fell from the Sky, Saguaro Books, 2017
About the Book
Melissa Drake only heard stories of love and passion as a child. Love became her guiding light and in 1978, this light shone down on a homeless boy. René came into Melissa’s life unexpectedly but a bond between them blossomed quickly. Together they set out on an adventure on which they found what they were seeking, truth and love everlasting.
As René found the blessing of selfless love in a young girl’s heart, they emerged from loneliness and despair to find the gift of gentleness and compassion.
Missy and René both found their identity and self-worth, which became their miracle.
Missy loves René is a story of redemption; it is also a tale of friendship, perseverance, fortitude, personal growth, forgiveness and human tragedy.
Follow Missy and René’s powerful story exemplifying the power of love.
Dedication
To Ivan and Irene Sheshko, you are my inspirations.
Copyright Information
Copyright © Judy Fischer (2018)
The right of Judy Fischer to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788784610 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781788784627 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781788784634 (E-Book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2018)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd™
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgments
Strange is our situation here upon earth.
Each of us comes for a short visit,
Not knowing why,
Yet sometimes seeming to a divine purpose.
From the standpoint of daily life, however
There is one thing we do know:
That we are here for the sake of others…
For the countless unknown souls
With whose fate we are connected
By a bond of sympathy. Many times a day
I realize how much my outer and inner life is built
Upon the labors of people, both living and dead,
And how earnestly I must exert myself
In order to give in return
As much as I have received.
Albert Einstein
Gentle Touch
My mother was reading A Prologue to Love, a romance novel by Taylor Caldwell, while slouching on a park bench in the middle of a fine day in July of ’62. The bench sat anchored under a magnificent oak, branches reaching out shading her space. Her feet were engorged and throbbing, hence one was resting on the seat in front of her while the other hung low to the ground. It was a hot day; skin melting, sweltering and crotch-chafing hot. Her sundress was a cotton print, loosely draped over her slender body. At 18, she kept a firm and slight physique. Her pregnancy was obvious but barely noticeable.
She let the pocketbook rest on her swollen belly as she read the words out loud. She knew the baby growing inside her was listening, and although the content was quite racy, soul-bending and laden with profound emotions, she read it to me, Melissa Drake, nonetheless. Carla Drake was young and unwed. She was a soft-hearted woman, peace loving and, yet, not a hippy. She was often called one, however, because of the clothes she wore, her nonchalant attitude and her bohemian lifestyle. Her long blonde hair hugged a daisy behind her ear and the image she portrayed was indicative of the times: the era of lovefests and of a pot-smoking generation. Everyone called it the ‘60s. It is not surprising I was born a lover. I am sure of it, for I had listened to the words of Taylor Caldwell and to eight other romance novelists filling my mother’s head with their idealistic words. There were stacks of books lying on the floor of her tiny apartment in the Plateau region of Montreal. The common theme of those books was love, some with happy endings, some with not. For every month of her pregnancy, another book was read. During the nine-month gestation period, I heard more words about love and loving, sex and lust than I did following my birth and throughout my formative years. However, I believe that somehow hearing those tender words of affection, devotion, unconditional adoration and passion had set the stage for my life’s story. ’Was it a curse or a gift?’ I could never determine the answer.
By the age of seven, I was reading Erich Segal’s Love Story and I bowed to love. It became my guiding light.
My formative years were ordinary, yet similar to every other young girl growing up in the ’60s; when the fall and relaxation of certain social taboos were lifted.
John F. Kennedy was the young president of the United States, filling the world with optimism and a joie de vivre, and my country, Canada, found its forever flag, the Red Maple Leaf. The ‘60s was also a time of rejuvenation
spread thick under a dome of love. ’Flower’ children represented the era with their music, their sexual freedom and their revolutionary ideas. And ‘Rock ’n’ Roll’ ruled their lives.
I was too young to follow the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and even Del Shannon. Their music, however, was my lullaby. My mother, the free spirited gentle lover who she was, continued to nurture me with affection; I only saw, felt and later imitated her passionate philosophy.
I grew up in the ‘Me’ decade. Never before the ’70s did life exist as it did from then on.
I survived the assassination of a beloved president, I endured the impeachment of another. I was shocked by the Munich Massacres, rejoiced with my mother when Margaret Thatcher became the first female leader of the free world. We wondered in awe when ‘man’ placed his footprint on the surface of the moon and we danced with joy when the end of the Vietnam War was declared.
To further load my heart with goodness, my mom played the music of the Doobie Brothers, James Taylor and Carly Simon during the formative years of my life. The continual feed of love songs to my brain did make an effective impact.
Carla Drake’s favourite singer was Otis Redding. His soulful renditions of love songs made her cry and her heart truly broke when the singer died an early death. I cried along with her. For weeks following his death, the sounds of his songs These Arms of Mine, Pain in My Heart, My Girl and My Lover’s Prayer resonated throughout my home uninterruptedly.
When I reached the age of reason, her efforts of moulding me into a loving individual started to manifest itself. As far back as my memory allows me to go, I remember loving animals. It didn’t matter what type of creature it was as long as it moved and breathed. Whether it was small or big, it did not matter. I can recall bringing home ants in jars, wayward garden snakes in bottles, abandoned guinea pigs in my pocket, stray cats and dogs in my red wooden wagon. I can remember and still mourn the death of an alley mouse I found one day, wounded and too lame to walk. I caressed its broken body, combed its matted hair and lay it in a matchbox before burying him in my back yard.
I cried for the pigeon that couldn’t fly, I wept for the squirrel whose tale was missing and I prayed for the tired old horses pulling the calèches down the cobblestone streets of downtown Montreal, on hot summer days. There was too much love and compassion in my little heart.
I adored the father who my mother found for me in 1963. Harry Nagy. Carla told me he was older, much older. But to erase the negative undertone, she also said he was wiser and more valuable than any other man she had ever known. And, he was all that and more. I used to rub his balding head and snuggle into his warm accepting arms before I went to sleep. The memories of my childhood were also warm and fuzzy because of him.
Stranger
In the year of my high school graduation, I turned 16. I was physically in sync with my age: a blossoming figure, raging hormones, capricious thoughts and embracing a constant hunger for righteousness. Whatever my parents told me, I said the contrary. Belligerence too and rebellion were qualities of my teenage years. To compensate for my occasional lack of patience, however, I did kiss and hug them with gratitude every night.
In 1978, in the 16th year of my life, I took a violent turn to the left; ‘1978 was the year the world never had it so good; perfect balance of wealth, work and happiness.’ It was also known as the year when the quality of life, as we know it, peaked. And so did mine. It peaked because I found the raison d’ètre, my purpose for living.
I remember clearly the time in my life when, through a rash choice of actions, I found myself drawn into the life of a young man who was the kindest and gentlest human being I had ever met. Mind you, I would not have allowed myself to assume such a reckless act, if that day had been today.
Presently, we live in a different type of world, a world in which we have too many doubts, fears and mistrust toward other people. Following the peak of 1978, unfortunately, the world began its decline toward a dimmer future. The world became less safe. Today, we are no longer open to letting random strangers into our lives, let alone into our hearts.
The urge to help the less fortunate, however, returned to me with a strength I could not control. The days of my yesteryears, caring for wounded creatures was over, however, my attention turned instead toward helping humanity.
In my reality, René was considered a homeless person, a vagrant, a street urchin, a drifter, but when I first met him, to me, he was a mere lad of 19 who might have been poor at the time, in the material sense, but he still had a richness of spirit, great merit, extraordinary worth, a true purpose in life and an amazingly charismatic personality.
An unexpected bond formed between René and me and what it was exactly at the start, drawing us together, really doesn’t matter now.
The fact is, through the course of several years, I shared a part of me, the better part, loving and caring for the unique person who found his way into my very soul. The day I am referring to, changed my life and his forever.
It was October 4, 1978, a typical cool, fall Tuesday evening in Montreal. Most of the leaves from the trees had already dropped to the ground, turning brown and brittle. The sidewalks were littered with those last remnants of summer. The flocks of Canada geese were in full formation in the skies above, flying as far south, away from our approaching Canadian winter, as was possible.
By then, the clocks had been turned back an hour, reminding us we were heading for a darker and bleaker time of the year; a time when daylight was a commodity, being offered far less freely and in smaller doses compared to the summer months.
I was still in high school that year, completing the final stretch before graduation. The realm of experiences I had as a 16-year-old girl lacked many fundamental skills I still needed to prepare myself for the world in which I lived.
My parents provided me with a comfortable lifestyle without spoiling me. Being an immigrant in Canada, my adoptive father instilled in me a good sense of European values. For that reason, I tried not to take things for granted. I was an only child and my parents brought me up to respect others and myself too. I spent most of my early years learning to become independent, mostly out of necessity. Harry and Carla worked long hours and thus, I had to find my way through many situations without too much parental guidance.
By 16, I had learned to navigate myself through life, relying on my own instincts and common sense. I’m not saying I had all the answers or even the ability to keep myself out of trouble. I’m only saying that I made many decisions on my own, without having to run to my parents to solve those everyday little problems I may have encountered. I saw myself as an individual who was independent and ready to make adult choices. I was naïve and maybe somewhat too self-confident for my own good.
We chose to live in Quebec and although there are two languages there, we made an honest effort to learn them both. It was a prerequisite to prosper and assimilate into the Quebec society. Having started my education there, learning both languages was just a normal part of my everyday school experience. I went to an English school, but I also struggled to make French my own. Back then, French was taught in a haphazardly fashion in schools, not allowing its natural acquisition.
It was only in my final year in high school when my parents finally sought the help of a tutor to help me better understand and speak French. The schools did teach it, but the emphasis was mostly on vocabulary, grammar and verb conjugation. That archaic method of teaching another language lacked one crucial element—speaking.
My tutor and I spent hours, twice a week, conversing in the language and reading French literature. In addition to the other skills I learned in school, she helped me to integrate all the elements of the language, therefore, providing the opportunity to speak it.
Mme. Houle was an elderly woman with unruly white hair, thin and frail, like she was. Her face revealed the brutality of age and weather; she looked much older than she probably was. As I was very young and because my mother had always taught me to be p
olite, I never asked for her age. If I were to take an educated guess, or even a wild estimate, I’d feel comfortable in giving her 80 years. She could have been 60, but the deep crevices and bent back said otherwise.
I used to ring her doorbell punctually at five and it took her forever to reach the door. Her fragile condition and lack of agility limited her movements.
Mme. Houle’s services were recommended to my parents by another couple who had found her style of tutoring very effective. Her style of teaching proved to be a successful intervention for their child. Mme. Houle didn’t have many students but those she did help, had always improved their school marks. It is also worthwhile to mention that all her students learned to speak French fluently, including me.
I liked Mme. Houle very much, even though, at 16, I resented my extra time out of school being allocated to additional studying. I craved for the social facet of my young life. Most of my friends hung out together after school to talk about boys and the music of the bands who were popular in those days, and I envied them.
However, when I was with Mme. Houle, she took me to places through literature where I had only dreamed of going. When we read Les Misérables, for example, she also taught me the words of the French national anthem. I sang it with her patriotically and proudly standing beside the small tea-stained coffee table. I truly felt as if I was transported to stand somewhere in France in order to see what the characters did in Victor Hugo’s classic tale.
She was an eccentric individual extremely gifted in teaching yet lacking the fundamentals of good house-keeping. There were books scattered throughout her tiny apartment, the dust lay thick on the furniture, there was an odour of mildew in the air and the tablecloth on the table, where we sat, was stained with drippings from her lunchtime meal. She was rough in her mannerisms too, but she had a kind heart and a free spirit. There was always a fresh pot of tea waiting for me and the stained tea cups in their saucers were set on the table where we did our work. My scheduled time to see her was on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school at five o’clock. Rain or shine, cold or hot, snow or hail, light or dark, I was there.
