Our Heart (34 page)

When we met, Sarah was busy working at the phone company, but her secret love was the time she spent painting. Her paintings were full of life and emotion. In the summer of nineteen fifty an art dealer with a gallery in Chicago saw one of the paintings Sarah had painted and given to a friend as a wedding gift. The couple had been so impressed with it that they had taken the liberty to show the dealer her work. He was en route to Denver, Colorado, and made a purposeful stop in town to visit with Sarah. They talked and spent two days straight together and, when he left town, your grandma was never the same. She threw herself more and more into her paintings, and I continued to work until I dropped at night. The time we spent together began to dwindle, and neither of us paid attention, letting it happen until it became too late.

That winter, the art dealer from Chicago called Sarah and asked her to be a part of a collection he was showing at Christmas time for new and aspiring artists. She would need to bring several of her paintings and plan on spending the holidays in Chicago. She would need to be available there and would be gone for several weeks. I let anger and my selfish pride dictate how I handled the situation. Because of the current state of our relationship, I let her leave
, even when I had serious doubts
. She promised to be home after the show and to call me every night. We talked for the first week, but I could already sense that I was losing her to the glamour of the art world, maybe even to someone else. I tried to reason with her, beg her, and finally demand that she come to her senses and come home. All it got me was the silence at the other end of the line. When she spoke, her voice conveyed finality, as she said a last goodbye. My heart stopped and panic raced through me. What had I done?

The next two days I phoned, but my calls went unanswered or were received by someone else who promised to deliver my message. I got mad again and let another week go by. I figured if I didn’t call her, then surely she would eventually call me. She never did, and I felt the emptiness in my heart and the growing shame at what I had let happen between us. I took all the money I had saved in the bank and borrowed a truck from a friend at the mill and drove to Chicago to find Sarah. I knew that the Gallery’s name was Cannelli’s and I found it easily enough after several inquiries. When I walked in I could tell that I was in another world altogether. There were amazing paintings everywhere, and I had never felt so small-town as I did that day. I stammered as I tried to ask the associate working there where I could find your grandma. I think he could see the indecision in my eyes and more so the hurt and desperation within them. Unwillingly, he confirmed my worst fears: Sarah wasn’t there. She had left with the dealer to attend a showing in New York and then their itinerary included a flight to Paris before returning to Chicago in mid February.

As I walked out the door and into the snow that had begun to fall, I found a new resolve within myself. I realized just how important the feelings I had for Sarah were and how my life would never be the same if I didn’t go after her. I really believed that she still had those same feelings for me. They couldn’t have completely left her, and I was sure that, upon seeing me, I would be welcomed back into her arms once more. The bond between our hearts had always been strong, and once together, I was certain we would be connected again. Only my love for Sarah mattered now.

I prayed every mile that I drove in that old truck for it to get me where I had to be. I was lucky enough the snow cleared once I crossed into Indiana. I would drive until my eyes refused to stay awake, and then I would find an off road stop and bury myself in some old blankets to sleep for a few hours.

I could sense that I was up against the clock and trying to fight uphill all the way. I made it into the heart of New York City in less than thirty-two hours; today you could do it in half that amount of time. The closer I got to New York City, the more rejuvenated I felt.

My excitement didn’t last and my hope turned disparagingly sour. With much patience from those whom I sought out for help, I located the art show the associate from Cannelli’s had informed me of. It was housed in a large building near Central Park on Manhattan Island. Leaving my truck, I booked passage on the ferry, hoping against odds that I still had time. Once the ferry docked, I walked forever with my coat buttoned against the cold chill in the air. I tried my best not to let the dampness enter my heart, but it was difficult. I somehow knew that I was too late. When I stopped in front of the building, I could see that the show was long over. There were still signs hanging on the door and in the window. They announced the dates and the artists on display, but the show had ended two days past. I was able to look through a window and could see only a few paintings scattered here and there, still hanging on display. The doors were chained and locked and my heart sank deeper.

I sat down on the steps and prayed for guidance. Not once did I even think about giving up. One thing had rung true in my soul; your grandma was worth every effort that I had to give and then some. Call it fate or divine intervention, but as I sat on the steps, a discarded newspaper fluttered by and wrapped itself around the wrought-iron railing at the bottom of the steps. If you asked me why I reached for it, I would have no answer for you, but I did. When I opened it there was a picture of the
Queen Elizabeth
ocean liner. The headline was a notice for workers needed. The ship was scheduled to leave for England the following day. I had enough money to purchase passage, but I wouldn’t nearly have enough to stay overseas or even get home. It didn’t matter,
and
I thanked God for his help.

It took me less than two hours to make it to the dock and only ten minutes with a sympathetic interviewer to land one of the few remaining jobs. It was a four-day trip to cross the Atlantic Ocean, and I shared bunk space in the crew quarters with five other men, all of us cramped into a small cabin with one chest of drawers to hold all our shared belongings. My only possessions were the clothes on my back and a second shirt that I bought before leaving port. I was hired to work in the kitchen and rarely was able to leave to go topside and breathe in the fresh air of the open seas. It was hard work and I applied myself with determination and hope.

As the crewmembers disembarked in England, we were handed our wages. We were asked to sign a work roster if we would be returning to America on the ship when it sailed in two weeks. I signed it, and by doing so, set my resolve to find Sarah and bring her home with me. I did not want to think of the alternative, returning after giving my search everything I was capable of and exhausting all avenues to no avail. I had made friends with one of the other minor cooks on board the ship. He traveled with me, helping me get to Paris and finding the two of us a place to stay with an old acquaintance of his. Without his help and compassion for my situation, I would have run out of money and maybe even hope.

I had no idea where to begin the search for your grandma. I wandered around Paris all day and many of the nights. I was in and out of any place that looked like it had anything to do with painters and artists. Many times, my friend Thomas, from the ship, would search with me, as would Sebastian, his acquaintance in Paris. He helped me with the language and became a necessary and valued interpreter. I had no luck at all during the first week; no one had seen an American female artist or even recognized the name Sarah Peterson
or Cannelli. I was beginning to feel that I had made the trip in haste and that she was somehow still in New York or back in Chicago, maybe even home. At the end of the first week, I made an overseas call back to her brother in Cedar Junction. He said she had not called or contacted them. I could tell he was shaken on the other end of the line when he learned I was in Paris trying to track her down. All he was able to say to me was, “bring her back home.” I promised I would and ended the call.

Every night during the two weeks I was in Paris, I would find my way to a pretty little park surrounded by street artists and cafés. It was the only place where I was able to think and feel any sense of hope. I would study everyone who walked by, scanning their faces, looking for Sarah’s eyes. Her spirit was so embedded within my mind I could only hope she would somehow sense the presence of my heart reaching out to her. As the end of the second week approached, I slept less, spending every last moment I had searching for Sarah. Many times, I would run the streets chasing after someone who would catch my eye from afar. Every night, I would return to the same park and sit on my bench.

The last night, which I had given myself to continue the search for your grandma, came and went; the ship would be leaving from London the following afternoon, and I would need to make my way there during the morning hours. I didn’t sleep at all and walked the streets all night long. I prayed more that night than I had my entire life, and I also challenged my faith more than once, too. I decided to spend the sunrise at the park and say my last goodbyes, preparing myself for the trip back home and what the future would be without Sarah in it.

I was long past the point of exhaustion and hadn’t shaved or bathed in several days. I know that I must have looked like one of the vagrants that moved within the city. I sat on the same bench that I’d sit on every time I came to the park. From here, I would be able to watch the sun crest over top of the buildings and erase the shadows of the night surrounding me. This morning, I was unaware of the people moving around me; my thoughts had turned inward and I only wished to be home once more with Sarah by my side.

The morning sun was just beginning to peak over the top of the buildings when I felt that tug from within my heart. I was sure I would never again love the way I loved your grandma, and my heart was trying to empty its pain. I let the tears come and welcomed their embrace as they wet my cheeks, then silently fell to the ground. The hurt was more than any pain I had ever endured in my life, and I began to sob uncontrollably. I’m sure I must have been quite the spectacle. I could barely see through my swollen eyes, as a silhouette started moving towards me from out of the sun. I was lost so deeply within my grief that I didn’t even hear her call my name.

Sarah came to me and knelt before me. It took me a moment to comprehend what was happening. I was crying throughout my whole body and was only aware of the arms wrapping around me, providing me comfort. Soon, I began to register her voice, as she whispered softly in my ear, “I’m here, Jake…I’m here.” All I could do was cry harder and she held on to me as tightly as she could, until I was able to settle the tremors raging within me. I found the strength to embrace her back and I fell on to my knees bringing her as close to me as I could. We stayed that way in silence for a long time, both of us afraid of letting go of the other. When we finally did break our hold, it was her turn to let loose of her emotions, and I became the comforter as she could no longer contain her tears.

Jason, there are times when you are stripped of all you believe to be true and are laid bare with only pure faith to guide you. For the entire time that I was in Paris, your grandma and I sat on that same park bench every day. She would come in the morning, and I would be there at night, each of us drawn to the park and neither of us knowing why. She told me how she found comfort in just sitting there and how she would pray with all her heart every morning for me to be thinking of her. She would ask God to help me find a way to save her and forgive her for the mistakes she made and the shame she felt inside at what she had done. I asked for her forgiveness, as well, and in the morning sunshine, I asked her to marry me as we sat on our bench, in the park, together for the first time.

When she said yes we allowed the tears of happiness to wash away the hurt and desolation we had let root deep within the both of us. I never asked your grandma about any of her time away from me, and when she wanted to tell me, I would only smile and raise a finger to her lips, shushing her and saying that it was all in the past. What is important now is having her in my present and keeping her a part of my future. She would nod her head and hug me close for as long as it took to qualm the fears rising inside her.

Love and life are journeys that sometimes walk hand in hand and, at other times, feel like they are divided by the widest oceans and highest mountains. Once you scale the mountains and cross the ocean, life becomes the fulfillment of all that you ever dreamed it could be. Love is the cornerstone to that life. It’s time to build the foundation of your life and put the pains of the past behind you. You have all the strength you need within your heart.

All my prayers and love,

Grandpa Jake

I lost track of all time as I sat in the glow of the lights and the familiar smells of the old bathroom. The story my grandpa had written on the pages stabbed at me. Reading it from his own hand, I let myself hear his voice in my mind. He spoke softly, a narrator, and I was transported back in time watching his story unfold like an old-time movie. When I was finished reading, I had to set the letter aside. It took everything inside of me just to read it through once. So many thoughts were pulling at my emotions from different directions. I sat silently and, without movement, my eyes fixed on the wall in front of me, but they were not really seeing. It was my mind’s eye that was racing through the collection of memories stored in my brain and picking out snapshots of all the moments and places I had been, bringing them back into focus once more.