A Grandparent's Gift of Love
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A PRESENT FOR ALL TIME
A GRANDPARENT’S GIFT OF LOVE
GETTING PAID IN HUGS
JAKE was in the second grade when his parents told him they were throwing a surprise party for his grandpa who would be retiring. On the big day, Jake offered his special present to his grandpa. As Grandpa unwrapped the package, his cheeks grew moist with tears. Jake had given him official business cards with his new title: “Fulltime Grandpa.” There was no phone or fax number because now his time was his own. There was no business address because his new position didn’t require one. Jake said, “Congratulations on your retirement. Now your full-time job is just being my grandpa!” Wiping his tears with his hand, Grandpa asked jokingly, “Well, how much do I get paid?” With his bright eyes expressing total devotion, Jake responded, “As many hugs as you want each day.” Beaming with joy, Grandpa hugged Jake and buoyantly replied, “Well, I guess that means I’m a rich man.”
“There is a lifetime of wisdom and love compressed in each and every one of Edward Fays’s treasured stories. Some of them will make you laugh. Some of them will make you cry. All of them will gently touch the deepest part of your heart.”
—Fr. Medard Laz, author of Love Adds a Little Chocolate
“Feeling jaded or cynical about the world? This lovely potpourri of heartwarming anecdotes and stories will bring a lump to the throat and a tear to the eye and make you feel good about human nature. Pick it up whenever you feel down.”
—Humphrey Taylor, chairman, The Harris Poll
ALSO BY EDWARD FAYS
The Grandparents’ Treasure Chest
Some of the individuals in the book have asked me to respect their anonymity. Therefore, I have modified their identities and certain details about them.
Copyright © 2002 by Edward Fays
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.,
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
First eBook Edition: April 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56115-0
Cover design by Brigid Pearson
Cover photo by Kaz Mori / Image Bank
For the three most important women in my life:
my wife, Irina,
my mother, Jenny,
and my grandmother, Mary
You’ve shaped who I am today,
and you inspire me to strive and become
a better man tomorrow
Contents
A PRESENT FOR ALL TIME
Copyright Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER ONE: EMBRACING EVERY STAGE OF LIFE
CHAPTER TWO: POWER OF LOVE
CHAPTER THREE: COURAGE AND SACRIFICE
CHAPTER FOUR: BELIEVING IN OURSELVES
CHAPTER FIVE: HOPE AND SPIRIT
CHAPTER SIX: NOWING HOW TO LEARN FROM LIFE
CHAPTER SEVEN: PURITY AND INNOCENCE
CHAPTER EIGHT: HEALING A BROKEN HEART
CHAPTER NINE: GIVING OF OURSELVES
CHAPTER TEN: ESSENCE AND VITALITY
CHAPTER ELEVEN: UNDERSTANDING OTHERS
CHAPTER TWELVE: THE SIMPLE THINGS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: ENRICHING OUR LIVES
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: WARMTH AND WISDOM
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am deeply grateful and feel fortunate that this book found its way into the caring hands of my agent and friend Stacey Glick. Heartfelt thanks to Stacey and everyone at Jane Dystel Literary Management for nurturing this book and believing in me.
I am indebted to everyone at Warner Books. Thanks especially to my editor, John Aherne, for his passionate response and dedication to the stories in this book. Working with him has taught me that “The editor is always right.” Thank you to Megan Rickman who inspired me with confidence, made me laugh when I needed it, and always offered great advice. And genuine appreciation to Amy Einhorn for her foresight and conviction—she turned this manuscript into a book. Thank you.
A book that reflects on the wisdom learned from a lifetime of living comes from many personal lessons. I would like to thank the many people from whom I’ve learned and who have inspired, encouraged, and made me laugh throughout the years: Gary and Linda Thomas, Nick Lombardi, Dan Flora, Martha Sullivan, Lori Baxter—and family, Pete Kressaty—and the whole clan, Craig D’Egidio, Tony Lamanna, Teresa Klein, Lisa Daniele, Steve Dioslaki, Joe Esposito, Schmitty, Danielle D’Arecca, Gary Cichon, Andrew Duggan, and Mike, Rita, and Alia Ushakov.
To those people who have shared their feelings and inspired these stories. Allow me to share one thing with you …
What we share we keep, for it is in sharing that we are enriched. What we keep, we lose, for in keeping we are limited to ourselves. And when we die, all that we are is what we have shared…
Due to the unique circumstances with which the idea for this book came about, I’d like to thank the following people:
Jean Moore, for your love and support and for helping Irina and myself make it through such a difficult time. And to everyone at the Marin County and Tiburon Police Departments who worked tirelessly for justice, especially Sergeant Laura Judd, Ted Lindquist, and Paul Haakenson whose talent, skill, and passion humanized the legal system. To Suzi and Dr. Clark, for your wisdom, guidance, and friendship you showed Irina, thank you.
I’d like to recognize my family for their ongoing support and encouragement. Mom, Dad, Mike and Lori, Brian and Karen, and Gram—thank you for always believing in me.
Finally, I’d like to thank my wife, Irina, for her unyielding support, but most of all, for her love and friendship. With her at my side, somehow all things seem possible.
INTRODUCTION
The Compelling Story Behind
A Grandparent’s Gift of Love
Unique events become etched in our minds and in our hearts—weddings, anniversaries, birthdays, graduations, days when a loved one died, or a life-altering event occurred. Often we share the joy or pain of that day with family, our community, and sometimes even our country. These times compel us to pause and ponder what we gained or what we lost, and reflect on why that particular day marks such a profound turning point in our lives.
July thirteenth is one of those dates for me.
I was sitting in my brick-walled San Francisco office about eleven A.M. when my fiancée, Irina, phoned, letting me know she wasn’t feeling well and would be working from home. At the time she was relocating to a three-bedroom apartment with a friend and had scheduled a lunchtime appointment with a man who called about their ad in the classifieds for the third bedroom. She was eager to rent out the space, and I wished her luck before hanging up the phone and getting back to work. There are few moments when a subtle suggestion could alter the course of our lives—the seconds ticking by after that phone call marked one of those times for me, and for her.
Around two P.M. Irina’s friend Susan called, telling me to come over to her apartment immediately. “I’m busy right now,” I said.
“Eddie, you need to get up here immediately,” she commanded. “Irina was attacked by the man who came to see the apartment!”
Like bombs, her words detonated around me. I stood there, slack jawed, paralyzed, gloom creeping over me like a virus. My strength pouring out of me like water through a sieve.
“What?” I shouted, my pulse suddenly racing. “What happened?” The combination of shock and concern caused me to hammer my questions into the phone.
“The man she was showing the apartment to attacked her. Now get up here!”
Slamming down the phone, I groped for my keys under a mountain of papers and yellow sticky notes, casting much of them
to the floor. I hurtled down the stairs six at a time and dashed out the front door of the building, sprinting up the hill. The appalling look of fright that must have been on my face attracted bizarre glances from tourists strolling through the streets adorned in their San Francisco sweatshirts.
My mind bristled with thoughts of what had happened. He attacked her! What does that mean? I leaped into my car and at breakneck speed swerved recklessly through narrow city streets choked with traffic, thoughts of what I would find when I got there pelting me like ice balls in a hailstorm. The red lights were tediously slow and I lay on my horn, flailing my left arm out the window to urge pedestrians to get out of my way. Finally, unleashed from the confines of the swarming city, I sped over the Golden Gate Bridge and for a split second grasped the irony of the situation. Tourists strode lazily along the bridge snapping photos of Alcatraz, the cobalt water of the bay, and the orange towers of the bridge rising boldly into the diamond sky. And I knew that just a few minutes from that scene of tranquillity, my fiancée had endured a horrific experience. I pressed forward, keeping a heavy foot on the gas pedal, the scenery spinning by me in fast-forward.
Irina’s new apartment was next door to her friend Susan’s, and as I approached my heart galloped in my chest and my palms grew slick with sweat on the steering wheel. Moments after exiting the highway I veered impulsively into the parking lot, screeching to a halt before a barricade of three police cars, a news van, ambulance, and fire truck. That cluster of vehicles relayed the message—the situation was worse than anything I had imagined.
I sprang out of my car and scrambled toward Susan’s apartment. Two fully armed police officers standing shoulder-to-shoulder blocked my path.
“Are you Eddie?” asked the stony-faced officer on the right.
“Yes. Yes, I am. What happened?” I urged, my chest heaving deeply.
“Irina was attacked. She’s doing okay. You can go see her now.” Their shoulders separated as if opening the gate to let me pass. I burst through, bounding up the steps three at a time. I was greeted by two more police officers in the entryway.
“Is your name Eddie?”
“Yes,” I said, my mouth arid, pasty as I spoke.
“I’m Sergeant Judd. Irina needs you to be strong now. She’s been through a lot,” she said in a professional yet thoughtful manner. She prodded the front door open, letting me step inside.
The scent of despair engulfed the room, lying across my shoulders like a slab of concrete. Immediately I saw Irina, the woman I love, squatting on the edge of the couch hugging herself self around her waist. The coffee table cluttered with tissues, Irina’s tears. Two plainclothes detectives towered above her; another police officer and Susan, her friend, were at her side. I had raced frantically to get there, but at that moment I edged forward cautiously, unsure of what to say and fearing what she would tell me. The left side of her face was crimson, stained with tears. All eyes turned toward me as I inched closer, and I was impaled by a staggering vision. Her right eye was swollen shut, her face severely battered, the vestiges of what happened after coming face-to-face with evil. I couldn’t breathe. Feeling like I’d been struck in the stomach with a steel-toed boot, I sipped fast shallow whispers of air, my heart thundering furiously against my chest. Leaping forward, I wrapped my arms desperately around her and we buried our faces, crying together.
Within seconds we lost ourselves, drifting on the periphery, isolated from the rest of the world. She braced her soft finger under my chin, my tears pouring over her trembling hand as she raised my eyes so they gazed directly into hers. I peered searchingly into her eyes, the right one swollen shut and blistering, her skin raw from his violent hands. Her eyes begged to be rescued, for time to be reversed, for this to be just a bad dream.
I swabbed the tears from her left eye; they felt warm, vulnerable. I watched the teardrops trickle down my cheeks, but I could not feel them. My face, my body was numb, as if I were shielding myself from the pain.
“I’ve never seen you cry before,” she said, her voice low and defeated, her lively spirit extinguished.
Speechless, all I could do was hold her, shuddering in disbelief. “What happened?” I asked, mopping the tears from my cheeks with my right shoulder. Her tears erupted again; she clenched her hands in mine, lacing our fingers together, and fought uttering each word, as if she couldn’t fathom the truth of what she was saying.
“He tied me up and raped me. He made my worst fears come true.”
Her words, anchored by the weight of an abysmal sadness, floated in the air like a cold, still breath. I wanted only to shun them like a trivial comment, as if what she’d said were untrue. But I couldn’t do that so I grabbed her words, took them into my heart, and together we cried a raging stream of tears. My skin rippled with chill bumps, like a snake slithering in a burlap sack. The room swirled around me as if I were on a dizzying corkscrew roller-coaster ride that had no end. It was hazy, surreal, and all I could do was hold her and hold on. Guarding her visions and whisking her to a place where evil had been banished and where she felt safe and loved was all I desired. I prayed that she would find it right there, nestled in my arms.
Everyone dispersed, leaving us alone to comfort each other. We talked, cried, hugged, and cried again.
The gummy remnants of duct tape around her wrists, mouth, and neck remained—a vicious reminder of what she had just endured. Few situations in life eclipse all our concerns, forcing us to draw deep from our faith and harness our emotions into surviving that one moment. Together Irina and I were enveloped in a chasm where our minds and hearts were adrift until the subtle interruption of the police sergeant alerted us to the painful reality we had yet to face. It was time for Irina to go to the hospital.
Flanked by two police officers, she was escorted hastily out the front door, a white towel draped over her head concealing her identity from the TV camera. The assault occurred in Tiburon, California, a quaint little town of sweeping hills dotted with lush foliage, picture-frame views of the San Francisco skyline, and hemmed on all sides by the turquoise water of the billowing Pacific. News of this sinister attack spread quickly, jolting everyone living in that normally tranquil community.
The police needed a few words with me, so I stayed and watched transfixed as the ambulance lurched forward, finally vanishing beyond the brow of the hill. “The assailant stole her car and purse. Could you give us a description of the car?” The officer’s question tugged on my thoughts like a leash around a dog’s neck, yanking me back to reality.
“Yes. I know the car well,” I offered, eager to help in any way I could.
During the next few minutes the officers peppered me with standard police procedure questions about the make of the car, the contents of Irina’s purse, and other details before letting me rush to the hospital. Upon arriving at the emergency room, I was told that Irina was being treated and to wait. Reeling with nervousness and questions of What if, I paced the waiting room, a skittish bundle of nerves. What if I’d told her to wait until later when I could go with her to show the apartment? What if someone had heard her? What if …? What if …? I was talking aloud to myself and could feel people staring at me, wondering what had happened. Their eyes darted away when I glanced in their direction. The clock above the TV read four-oh-six P.M. and I thought of how much had changed in the past couple of hours.
Frenzied, and needing to talk, I called my parents. No cell phone, no change, I dialed collect—a sign that something was wrong. “Dad, oh, Dad.”
“Eddie, what happened?” he asked, hearing the devastation in my voice.
“Irina was raped and beaten,” I said, panting. “How could this happen? She’s kind, gentle, little,” I wailed, the tears pouring down my cheeks. Sergeant Judd emerged from behind the ER doors, and I quickly gave my father the name of the hospital, telling him I had to go.
“Irina’s parents have been notified,” she said, rubbing my left arm. My skin swam with goose bumps as I thought of what
they must be feeling living three thousand miles away—helpless was the only word that came to mind. I hugged Sergeant Judd, wrapping my arms around her steel-belted body. Her bulletproof vest felt shocking and rigid against my arms, reminding me of the dangers lurking in society.
Waiting, pacing, impulsively exiting and entering the hospital doors in a vain attempt to escape the vivid images of my imagination and the relentless questions plaguing my mind was how I spent the next three hours. Wrapping my thoughts around what had happened and how together we would make it through tomorrow, next week, and next month was hard, like swallowing a pocketful of spare change. I gagged just thinking about it. And then finally, sometime after seven o’clock that evening, I was allowed in to see her.
She is petite—just five-foot-one—and as I inched toward the room I saw her curled up on the examining table, lying partially under a thick cherry-red blanket. She looked pitiful, her dark brown puppy-dog eyes drooping, her snarled hair lying rumpled over her left cheek, and her toes crimped up in a razor-thin pair of blue plastic clinic slippers. Wearing a scant blue hospital gown, her hands were clenched together and tucked under her chin, and her eye was bandaged. All I wanted was to scoop her up and cuddle her in my arms.
I tiptoed into the room, and before uttering a word she asked in a soft, weary voice, “How are you doing?” Her question knotted my stomach muscles like a rope, forcing a pathetic whimper out of me. I couldn’t believe she had asked how I was doing when she was the one suffering.
I wheeled a stool over to the bed and dropped down beside her, weaving my fingers into hers. Each moment that ticked by was abrasive, like fingernails scraping along a blackboard. I wondered how many excruciating moments we would endure before things returned to normal, angry with myself for entertaining those thoughts.
I asked about the tests, and she pinched her eyes shut, struggling not to think about their obtrusive nature and the personal questions she had to answer. The nurse popped in to say that Irina was doing great, but she offered those encouraging words more for Irina’s benefit than for mine. It didn’t matter. As I gazed at her bandaged eye and rubbery pink skin, all I could do was wonder how one person could administer that much pain upon another human being.