by Edward Fays
The next morning after church, Rosie hurried to her room, changed out of her red dress, and grabbed her skates. A moment later she was outside coasting down the block, a smile fixed permanently on her face. As she turned and headed up the block, she spotted her grandpa talking with his friend from across the street. “Grandpa! Grandpa!” she yelled out, “watch me skate over to you!” And she hopped off the curb, skating briskly toward him.
“Stop, Rosie! Stop!” Grandpa shrieked, but she didn’t hear him. She darted into the street, never seeing the bus barreling toward her. Grandpa ran screaming for her to stop. As the bus driver slammed on the brakes and the tires screeched and smoke from burning rubber drifted through the air, Grandpa reached Rosie and threw her out of the way. She tumbled back to the curb and watched in horror as her grandpa was struck by the bus and killed instantly.
Today, embedded in the sidewalk at the scene of that tragic accident is a plaque dedicated to the memory of Rosie’s grandpa. Rosie never skated again. She took the skates off that morning stained with blood and dirt and placed them back in the original box. Every once in a while she holds the box in her hands and remembers, with longing, the day she lost her grandpa, and the day he saved her life.
Inspired by BART COLUCCI
Integrity
The temptations were high in his neighborhood. Cutting corners in order to get by was the accepted method for growing up on his block. Unfortunately, his situation was common among the kids in that area. Drug abuse and alcoholism were his mother’s hobbies, and his father vanished when he was a baby. For the past six years, Trey had been raised by his grandma Reggie.
Reggie had lived in the neighborhood most of her life and knew the odds that a young man growing up there faced. A juvenile boys’ home and state penitentiary were haunting possibilities and became a reality for many of the neighborhood’s young men. The fight to stay alive often took precedence over strong principles and family values. But for Reggie, the moral fortitude of her grandson was the top priority. She expected Trey to have integrity and demanded nothing less.
Each evening they prepared dinner together, thanking God for the food on their table, that they had each other’s company, and for the battered secondhand stereo Trey bought for his grandmother with the money he saved bagging groceries and stocking shelves after school.
The racket from the streets was an intruder, shattering the intimate conversations they shared, the sanctity of their little home. Trey had thought a stereo and some of his grandma’s favorite music would help muffle the biting sounds of the street and keep her entertained while he was at school, even if the records were scratched and skipped sometimes.
Trey listened to his grandma speak about character, honesty, and trustworthiness as essential elements for a successful life. He heeded her advice, becoming a “big brother” for some of the younger kids in the neighborhood. She said those traits would catapult him out of that area, enabling him to get a good education and lead a prosperous life. But on the streets he saw things differently. The drug dealers with their fancy cars. People who lied and stole. They all seemed to be doing well. Trey saw “success” awarded to the people his grandma called “the base of humanity,” and couldn’t help but question if his grandma was right or just naive.
“Why do they have it all and I have nothing?” he’d ask in frustration. “I’m being honest and I don’t have a dime. People can trust me but I have no friends, except for the young kids on the block. You say you’re proud because I have character, but it’s not getting me anywhere.” Seeing others in his neighborhood prosper while he worked for petty wages at the grocery store only fueled his temptation to join them.
“I know you’re enticed sometimes,” Reggie said. “You see those boys on the street and think they have it all. But what do they really have? Not trust. Not love. They live in fear, one eye looking over their shoulder making sure someone isn’t sneaking up behind them.”
“But I have to watch my back, too, Grandma,” he countered.
“That’s the world we live in,” she explained. “But you can be sure those boys have made enemies, and enemies seek revenge. Many will not see their thirtieth birthday. That’s a high price to pay for a fancy car and expensive jewelry.”
She peered into her grandson’s eyes, and with his face braced firmly in her hands, she said, “You have integrity, and that is the foundation of all that is great with humankind. Those boys out there, they surrendered their integrity in exchange for some high-priced toys. You possess truthfulness and goodness; those qualities, along with a mighty will, are irreplaceable. They will carry you to any noble destination your heart desires. Strong character consists of two things—will and self-restraint. A strong will can move mountains. Self-restraint is what you need now to resist the temptations beyond that door.
“There is nothing the world esteems more than a man who stands by his convictions and is regarded as an honest individual. The person preceded by that reputation is welcomed with open arms wherever he goes. Men and women of every generation have chosen to die rather than forsake their integrity. Be stronger than you think you can be and your future will have wings, whisking you away from here, above and beyond your wildest expectations.”
For a time Trey heeded his grandma’s words, continuing work at the grocery store and spending time with the kids in his neighborhood. But he eventually quit his job and neglected his grandma, leaving her at the dinner table alone, spinning records on her old stereo, waiting for him to return home. Trey surrendered to the lure of the streets, shattering the relationship he shared with his grandma and telling the kids in the neighborhood that he could no longer be their “big brother,” unaware that the boys and girls who depended on him suddenly felt abandoned, unloved. He justified his actions saying, “My grandma has nothing. These kids growing up here have nothing. I have nothing. By making some money, real money, I can give my grandma some nice things and do the same for the neighborhood kids with their shabby clothes and beat-up shoes.”
It didn’t last long, however. The self-loathing backed up like a bitter swell in Trey’s throat, like cough medicine. Through the thin clapboard walls he listened to his grandma sobbing late into the night while he tousled the sheets and sat at the edge of his bed, his head bowed in shame. And when one of the kids he mentored started skipping school, he realized that his grandma was right. It wasn’t what he could buy, but who he was that mattered most to his grandma and to those kids in the neighborhood. He wanted out of the path he had chosen—but once he’d entered that world there was no easy way out. His actions had sealed his fate. The warning Reggie had given him about people prowling for revenge was an ever-present fear nipping at his imagination like a thousand tiny little teeth. Until early one Saturday morning, before dawn, as he stepped out the front door of his apartment house headed for work at the grocery store his fear was realized. A car lurched from the alleyway across the street, tires screeching as it headed toward him. A man hung out the rear window on the driver’s side and took aim. Trey was gunned down, his body collapsing at the steps of his building.
Reggie was awake and ran to the window when the booming sound of shots fired smothered the peaceful music emanating from her old stereo speakers. From her angle all she could see was a pair of sneakers, the ones Trey kicked off and left near the front door each evening when he came home.
She spent the following months sitting in the doorway of Trey’s room, contemplating the tragic loss. She never entered his bedroom again. Instead she just sat in the doorway staring at the picture sitting on his dresser, a photo taken of them at his elementary school graduation, forever a reminder of the hope destroyed and the life lost. She couldn’t bring herself to walk out the front door of that building either, refusing to step over the very spot where her only grandson lost his life. Sadly, she lived out the rest of her days brokenhearted, drowning out the noise from the street on her old stereo, and secluded from the world in her tiny apartment.
Inspi
red by GAYLE VANCE
More than a Second Chance
If you had the chance to save a life, would you? That’s the question my dad asked himself before making a very important decision.
He liked to joke and say that one day, he would donate his body to science. He’d flex his arm, suck in his tummy, and remark, “How could they pass up a body like this?” But my dad wasn’t joking. He sincerely hoped that someday his organs—or any part of his body that could help people in need—would be used to that end.
I cringed at the thought of my dad being used for “spare parts,” but I understood his motives. My mom had died of liver cancer and chances are she could have been saved if a donor had been found in time. My dad wanted to save someone from the anguish he endured, so he became an organ donor.
My daughter, Faith, was thirteen when my dad passed away. When I sat down to tell her the news, her lips and cheeks quivered frantically and the tears quickly plunged down her cheeks. We had discussed organ donation already, so she stammered, “I … I guess that means we have … we have to share Grandpa with other people now.”
“That’s right,” I whispered, holding her hands in my lap. “Hopefully your grandpa will make a sick person well and bring some happiness to a family in need.”
The few months following my dad’s death were wearisome. There were trigger spots everywhere reminding me of the wonderful times we’d shared together. My dad and I had spent many evenings in the backyard lazily gazing at the stars. Once he passed on, Faith took his place, and together she and I frequently sat out there sipping iced tea and babbling about life or whatever topic happened to arise.
One evening, as menacing clouds loomed in the sky, masking our view of the stars, we talked about Grandpa and his decision to become an organ donor. “Do you think Grandpa’s organs went to help some people?” she asked inquisitively.
“I think so,” I said. “But I don’t know for sure. There are long lists of people waiting for all different organs, so Grandpa probably did help someone.”
“Mom,” said Faith, “when I die, I want to donate my organs and help someone, too. I think what Grandpa did was a very generous and brave thing.”
“You’re too young to worry about that,” I said, uncomfortable with where our conversation was going. “When you’re much older you can make that decision.”
“No, Mom. I’ve already decided. I want to be an organ donor, like Grandpa.”
“Okay, Faith,” I said, anxious to change topics. “But you’re young and won’t have to worry about that for a long time.”
The following week basketball season began, and Faith was a starting guard. Her grandpa had been her number one fan, never missing a game. Now I felt the pressure to cheer extra loud. When the buzzer sounded at the end of the fourth quarter Faith’s team, the Stars, had beaten the Hornets, eighteen to fourteen. Faith contributed four points and fought gallantly for the rebounds under the net. I felt like my passionate cheering had paid off.
Only a dusting of snow had been forecast for the evening, but when we stepped out of the gymnasium doors an inch had already carpeted the ground. I’d never liked driving in the snow, and tonight I had to take Faith’s friend Charlotte home, too. We hopped into the car feverishly rubbing our hands together, trying to keep warm until the heat came on. The parking lot was jammed from the combination of snow and everyone exiting the gymnasium together. There was a chaotic array of red taillights and exhaust fumes wafting in the frigid night air as drivers tried to merge into a one-way exit at the south end of the parking lot. It took a few minutes, but by the time we were on the main road the car was toasty warm and I felt better. The busy traffic melted most of the snow on the main road, and we lived only a few miles away.
I was approaching Herring Avenue, where I needed to turn right, when Faith and Charlotte spotted the McDonald’s up ahead and asked if we could stop for some french fries. I smirked at both of them and said, “Okay. Since I’ve got the green light and you both played a great game, we’ll drive through.”
As I crossed through the intersection a car came speeding through from the right side. Faith screamed, “Mom, watch out!” I panicked, slamming the brakes with both feet. The car collided into our right side, ramming us into the telephone pole on the left side of the intersection. Stunned, my first reaction was to move, but my legs were pinned under the steering wheel. Faith’s upper body was thrust onto me. Blood was streaming from her forehead and she appeared unconscious. The passenger’s-side door was demolished and the dashboard had collapsed, trapping her legs underneath.
“Help! Somebody please help us!” I screamed.
Charlotte was shrieking in the back and jumped from the car in a panicky fit. Within seconds other cars stopped to help, but Faith and I were trapped.
“The ambulance is on its way,” someone yelled. A moment later I heard the piercing sound of sirens; knowing they were coming for us made the situation all the more terrifying. It was surreal. I was getting claustrophobic, and though my legs were stuck, I started squirming in a mad panic to get loose and help my daughter. “This can’t be happening,” I bantered, trying to convince myself that it was just a dream. “Faith, honey, please answer me,” I begged. “Faith!” She said nothing.
Suddenly a team of firefighters, police, and EMTs barricaded us. It was a chaotic scene and I felt utterly helpless. “Please take care of my daughter,” I pleaded.
“We’ll get you both out,” assured a fireman. “You’ll both be okay.”
“My legs are trapped, and my daughter’s are, too!”
“What’s your name?” he asked. His calm, self-assured manner was the polar opposite of how I was feeling and I couldn’t help but notice it.
“Joan. My name is Joan. My daughter’s name is Faith,” I muttered.
“My name is Roger, and I need you to remain still. The more you squirm, the harder it will be. Stay calm and we’ll get you out. All right?”
“Okay. Okay,” I mumbled, gulping down each breath. “How is Faith?” I asked, fearing his answer.
“There’s a team of people helping her right now,” said Roger. I reached out and grabbed her hand. It was eerily still, and I urged them, “Please, take care of my little girl!” They unbolted my seat and wriggled it backward, allowing me to extend my legs and slip them out from under the steering wheel. My forehead was cut and my body was trembling uncontrollably as I ran frantically to the passenger’s side to be near my daughter.
Charlotte was crying and being treated for some minor abrasions in the back of an ambulance. The firemen brought out a saw and shaved through the front passenger’s door. Sparks were soaring, lighting up the night sky, and I couldn’t fathom what was happening. It was maddening. I turned and saw a police officer directing traffic and the onlookers’ faces gasping in horror when they saw my daughter trapped inside. All I wanted was to awaken from that nightmare and then I heard someone shout, “We need the Jaws of Life over here!”
The procedure was agonizingly slow but ultimately they slid Faith out of the car and onto a board, stabilizing her neck and back before rushing us to the hospital. She was unconscious and bleeding severely. I clenched her right hand in both of mine as the ambulance raced toward the hospital. “We’ve got a young girl, thirteen, in critical condition, head trauma, possible broken back, multiple lacerations,” I heard the driver alerting the hospital. My stomach wrenched knowing he was talking about my Faith.
A surgical team greeted us upon arrival, whisking Faith into the emergency room. I was asked to wait outside. In a precarious state of mind, I ran to the bathroom. Staring at myself in the mirror—my clothes torn, my forehead cut, blood on my hands, and my body shivering—for the first time it felt more like reality than a harrowing dream. I splashed cold water on my face and came out of the bathroom asking for some news. Nothing yet. They were still in the operating room, but I was assured they were doing everything they could. “Your daughter is in the best of hands,” said the nurse, trying t
o comfort me.
I was frantically pacing the hallway when the police said they would like to ask me a few questions. “I can’t think straight right now,” I blurted. Then, in a burst of manic energy, I grilled them about what happened. “What caused the accident? Who was driving that car?”
The officer calmly replied, “A drunk driver ran a red light and broadsided you at the intersection.”
My mind flashed to the appalling stories of people being killed by drunk drivers—two girls going to rent a movie being killed on their way home because a drunk driver ran a red light; a drunk driver striking a young boy walking home from school … the list goes on.
The sight of the doctor emerging from the operating room ruptured my thoughts. He looked weary—stained with blood and holding the surgical mask in his hand. The look on his face told me the news I couldn’t bear to hear. “She was bleeding badly and suffered severe head trauma. I am sorry.”
“No! No! Please. I want to see her!” I wailed. “I have to see my baby!”
The doctor said nothing and simply took my hand, escorting me into the operating room. There on the table, her clothes bloodied and torn, lay my Faith, my thirteen-year-old daughter, my baby girl. Suddenly I remembered the night just a week earlier when we were sipping iced tea on the deck in the backyard. We spoke about Grandpa and how much we both missed him. She said that she admired him for being an organ donor and that someday—when she died—she wanted to donate her organs to help people. I told her she was too young to think about that. Sobbing profusely, I thought of how fast life can change and how fragile life really is. Do I honor her wish? Do I want my baby being taken apart?
