Second Chances Read online

  Each New Year’s Eve, I hold a private celebration. I light a candle, and I thank God for getting me through another year. It has now been twenty years since that night I sat on the floor of the women’s jail, watching people in the streets have a great time and enjoy life. Sometimes after work, I walk out of Cab’s beautifully decorated, sophisticated office, and I drive home by way of the streets of my past. Some of the drug houses are still there, but a lot of them are gone. I remember them, and in my memory I still see the people. I can still hear them and see them, but the gift of time has made my memory not as clear as it used to be. This keeps me humble and keeps me grateful—grateful for people like Cab. I have learned there are few persons like him who genuinely take you for what you are, all the good and all the ugly, and are able to see beyond it and give you a second chance.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FORGIVING DANIEL

  You will know that forgiveness has begun when you recall those who hurt you and feel the power to wish them well.

  —Lewis B. Smedes

  Losing a child is something I would never wish on another woman. There is no comparable pain and no greater feeling of helplessness than knowing I can never have my son back. I’ll never play with him again. I’ll never see him grow up.

  Brett was five years old at the time it happened. I would let him play in the yard, on the sidewalk, and with any other children around. He could always find something amusing to do outside. I never once feared for his safety. We lived in a good neighborhood. I knew the people who lived around us.

  I won’t ever forget that day. Brett was out playing, and I was inside the house. A group of neighborhood children came to the door. I knew there was something wrong as soon as I opened the door because one of them was crying and sobbing. Another one of them screamed that a stranger had hit Brett with his car and had driven away.

  I ran out into the street and found Brett lying facedown, unconscious, in a pool of blood. I called 911. I cried and held him. He didn’t move. Oh God, that was the most awful feeling.

  In a few hours, I found out my child was dead. A person had recklessly driven through our neighborhood and struck and killed my only son. It was the most horrific day of my life.

  A neighbor had caught the license plate of the hit-and-run driver. His name was Daniel Helmsford, and he lived and worked in the area. He had a few warrants out for his arrest for driving while intoxicated. The police found him later that week.

  For awhile, I blamed him for the death of my son. I made him the cause of my suffering. I wanted the worst penalty for him. I wanted him to hurt in a way that was as bad as, if not worse than, the way he had hurt me.

  A few weeks before Mr. Helmsford pled guilty to manslaughter for killing my son, I spoke on the phone with my mother. My mother had always been the moral paradigm for our family. She had a warm but sensible way of dealing with everyone. Whenever she smiled at you, it was genuine.

  I told my mother about my feelings—even my more vindictive feelings about the hit-and-run driver. I told her I wanted him to hurt the way he had hurt me. She listened so well, as always. I asked her if she felt like I was justified in feeling that way, or if she even felt the same way I did.

  My mother was always able to explain things in poignant little stories. She told me she read a book one time when she was younger. The book was about a young man who was born a prince, but he gave it up for a life of poverty. The young man did this after seeing how poor people lived. He felt a tremendous amount of empathy for them. He realized that everyone suffers. He realized that if he chose the life of a prince, he would be burdened by his possessions. If he chose the life of poverty, he would worry about living to see the next day. He even realized at one point that he would become bored if he struck the right balance of wealth and comfort.

  I asked my mother the point of such a depressing story. She said the young man in the story realized we are all the same. No matter what our role, we all suffer. We all have worries, fears, anxieties, and people and things we love and would hate to lose. Through his journey in life, he experienced a profound, compassionate love for all people because he recognized we are too alike to judge each other so harshly.

  I thought about that story. I didn’t know how I was like Daniel Helmsford. He didn’t know what I was feeling. I still wanted him punished for killing my son. He deserved it.

  I went to court on the day the judge handed down Daniel Helmsford’s punishment. I had an opportunity to speak, but I decided not to say anything. He asked the judge if he could say something, though, to everyone and to me. He got up in court and said that he knew nothing he could say would undo what happened, but he had to tell me he was sorry. He became emotional as the words came out. He said not a day went by when he didn’t regret having been drunk and driving too fast where children played. He said he knew he was careless and that it was only going to be a short amount of time before his drinking put others in danger. He said he was glad the court had directed him to seek therapy for alcohol abuse in addition to his jail time. He said he’d been drinking and using drugs to escape the pain he felt after his wife died, and he knew he needed help. He said he knew it was not an excuse. He said that every time he thought about the pain he caused me, he would have this horrible feeling, and he wondered if the horrible feeling would ever go away.

  When he sat down, I didn’t know how to feel. The bailiffs took him out of the courtroom and straight to jail.

  Over the next few days, I thought about Mr. Helmsford’s apology. I thought about the fact that he had lost his wife. I thought about how emotional he was in the courtroom. I thought about how emotional I was after seeing Brett that day. I thought about how he was going to jail. I did believe his sorrow was genuine. I thought about the story my mother had told me a week or so before. Mr. Helmsford had lost his wife, he had lost control of his life, and now he had lost his freedom. What good would I be doing if I directed my hatred toward a person who didn’t have anything at all? I finally made a decision to do something affirmative. I decided I was going to forgive him.

  I made an appointment and went to the jail where he was held. I was put in a room where a glass window separated visitors from prisoners. There were little booths with telephones attached. Guards escorted Daniel Helsmford into the room and we both sat down. We picked up the phones and said hello. I told him I didn’t want him to be embarrassed but that I had come to see him because I realized we were the same. We both had lost a loved one. We both suffered. I knew, I told him, that he had pretty much nothing in his life now. I told him we could easily be angry with each other and blame each other for our conditions, but I knew that wouldn’t do any good. I knew he was sorry, I told him, and I had come today to say I had forgiven him. I told him that I didn’t want the hatred to go any further—that it didn’t make sense for me to judge him so harshly when we had so much in common.

  I don’t know if Daniel Helmsford felt any differently about what he did after that day. He left the room only to go back to jail. He pretty much just listened and nodded during our meeting. I didn’t aim to humiliate him, but that might have been what he felt. Maybe he didn’t think he deserved to be forgiven.

  I called my mother and told her what I had done. I asked her if she thought it was crazy to forgive a person who killed your child. My mother, always compassionate and understanding, told me she was proud of me. She said it was I who gained a second chance by forgiving Mr. Helmsford. I asked how that was so.

  She told me another story. She said there were once two monks walking through town. They came upon a woman standing in front of a puddle. She didn’t want to walk across it because it was a deep puddle. One of the monks proceeded to pick up the woman and carry her across the puddle and put her on the other side. As the two monks continued walking, the second monk became troubled. “We are forbidden from touching women,” he said. “Why did you carry that woman across that puddle?”

  The first monk turned to him and said, “My friend, it is y
ou who are still carrying the woman.”

  I realized immediately what my mother meant by this story. If I had not forgiven Daniel Helmsford, I might have spent years of my life living in the past—not grieving in a healthy way, but cultivating a desire for revenge. I would have been “carrying” him all that time, like the monk was still “carrying” the woman in the story.

  Yes, I definitely understood, I told her. My mother has since passed, but I will always cherish those little stories when I remember her.

  I will never stop thinking about what might have been had my son lived, what his life would have been like, how his personality would have unfolded. But no longer will I go forward thinking that another person’s suffering will somehow make mine less. Having forgiven Daniel Helmsford lifted a weight from me. I experience the pain of the loss of a child every day. It isn’t any less than it was that first day.

  However, I feel like I’ve earned another chance to move forward with my life. It is a very different life now—and a very sad one, too. But it may have taken this difficult undertaking to show me how to live without the vindictiveness and hatred that burdened me before.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SINGING A NEW SONG

  There are things that we never want to let go of, people we never want to leave behind. But keep in mind that letting go isn’t the end of the world; it’s the beginning of new life.

  —Unknown

  The following conversation is a re-dramatization of a recording from a WURS radio show, Sam in the Evening, taped on June 9, 2008.

  Sam: Hi, everybody. This is Sam, and you’re listening to Sam in the Evening on WURS. I’m here tonight spinning the classic hits, doing your requests, and listening to your stories of love, hope, heartbreak, and anything else you’d like to tell me or say to any loved ones listening out there. You know me—I’m always open to hearing your story. Let’s take a caller—Annette? Are you there?

  Annette: Hi, Sam!

  Sam: Hi, Annette. How are you tonight?

  Annette: I’m really well, thank you. I’ve been listening to your show for about ten or eleven years, since I finished school and moved here.

  Sam: That’s quite a while. I know we’ve gone through some changes since then.

  Annette: Oh, I know. It’s true. So many things are different now … that’s part of the reason I’m calling.

  Sam: Yes, please, Annette. Tell me about it.

  Annette: Well, when I got out of school, I met this fantastic guy, Scott, and he became the love of my life. We got married after a year of dating and settled down in the city—if you’d call it settling down! (Laughs.)

  Sam: (Laughs.)

  Annette: We were kind of party animals! Nothing dangerous, but we just had a really good time with one another. We weren’t thinking of having children or anything. All we needed was one another. We didn’t make a whole lot of money, just enough to keep a house and keep us entertained. We both had modest jobs, but Scott was thinking of applying to a technical college for awhile. We just had a whole lot of possibilities, and we always would stop to smell the roses. He made it easy for me to feel like, “Hey, I’m not waiting for my life to start—this is my life I’m living right now!”

  Sam: So you shared a joie de vivre?

  Annette: Well, I’m not sure I know what that is, but I’m sure we had it! (Laughs.)

  Sam: (Laughs.) Joy of life! You shared a joy of life!

  Annette: Yes, Sam, that’s exactly what we had, and I can definitely look back on the times now and laugh and smile—but …

  Sam: … but something happened to your relationship?

  Annette: Well, about four years ago, there was an accident. We were driving on a street that we had driven down hundreds of times before. A driver ran a red light at an intersection and hit the driver’s side of our car.

  Sam: Oh my God. Were you okay?

  Annette: Well, Scott was driving. I was perfectly conscious and had only a few scratches on me. But Scott was pinned between the steering wheel and the seat. There was blood on the dashboard, and his torso was twisted. (She pauses, starting to cry.)

  Sam: Annette, it’s okay. It’s okay.

  Annette: I know, it’s just hard to think about him in that condition, is all. (She takes a deep breath.) Anyway, EMTs showed up on the scene. They had to use the jaws of life to get him out of the car. They put us in an ambulance, and I held Scott’s hand all the way to the hospital. He only communicated with me once, in a whisper. Before we got to the hospital, he lost consciousness … and that night I lost the person I thought would be my one and only love forever.

  Sam: Oh, Annette, I’m so sorry. That’s horrible. How old was he?

  Annette: Twenty-eight. We were twenty-five and twenty-eight at the time. Sam, it was awful, but I’m calling tonight because this story has a happy ending. Well, it might have a happy ending.

  Sam: Well, how is that?

  Annette: Scott and I always used to listen to you, Sam, most nights. He even spoke to you before to request songs—songs for me.

  Sam: That’s a pretty heavy idea, Annette, that he was very important in your life, crossed my path while you were still together, and now has passed. That’s always sad for me to hear when it was a person who had direct contact with me because of the show. I always feel a sense of community with my listeners, and I want you to feel the same way.

  Annette: I do, Sam. I love your show, and I think you do an awesome job. That’s why I felt comfortable calling you tonight to tell you this.

  Sam: Tell old Sam what the happy ending might be, Annette.

  Annette: Well, it’s been four years since Scott’s passing. Obviously it was traumatic, and there were parts that were so difficult for me to stop remembering, or for me to remember in a positive way.

  Sam: Yes.

  Annette: But I’ve managed to carry on, even though it hurt inside to get up some days, knowing that I was alone in the world, knowing that I could never have that one special, favorite person back in my life. I want that to be over now, though.

  Sam: I want it to be over for you too, Annette.

  Annette: Well, Sam, I’m calling because I’ve met someone new recently.

  Sam: Oh?

  Annette: We’ve been going for about two months. His name is Frank, and he’s nothing like Scott. Well, I wouldn’t want to compare them, but what I mean is that he has just completely changed my perspective on life in so many ways. And he’s a good person, he’s thoughtful—you know, he’s the buying flowers and making special phone calls type of guy. (Chuckles.)

  Sam: Well, Annette, that’s wonderful! Do you think you are in love?

  Annette: Well, Sam, it hasn’t been a really long time, but I am kind of falling for him.

  Sam: Do you think you are ready to embark on a new adventure with a new companion?

  Annette: Sam, I am. Yes, Sam, I am. (Laughs.)

  Sam: (Laughs.) “Sam I am”—ha ha!

  Annette: (Laughs again.) But Sam, I thought it was important for me to call your show because there is still kind of this conflict inside me. I told Scott I would love him forever, and now he’s gone. I met someone and want to fall in love again. I don’t want to live in the past anymore …

  Sam: … but you want to have the feeling that Scott would have said it was okay?

  Annette: Yes, I do. I want his blessing.

  Sam: Do you think Scott would approve of your new love?

  Annette: Well, I think that he and Scott would have been friends in another world. They are different, but both are compassionate and understanding.

  Sam: Sure.

  Annette: But that’s not the important thing, whether they would have been friends or not. I wanted to call tonight to tell you my story and to ask you to play this one song for me that Scott and I used to listen to, to celebrate our relationship. When you play this song, I will think of Scott and the love we had one last time. When the song is over, it will symbolize the end of my grief and the end of living in the past. Fro
m this night on, I’ve decided that I will only look forward to a new life with new adventures and new wonderful experiences. It’s time for me to give myself a second chance at it.

  Sam: Annette, that’s a fantastic idea. What a strong person you’ve been throughout this difficult process. I want you to know I’m praying for you and I want the best to happen to you in your new life, Annette!

  Annette: Thank you, Sam. You are so awesome!

  Sam: Don’t mention it, Annette. This is my job! I wish you all of the love that you deserve! What song can I play for you, Annette?

  Annette: I think it’s called “I’ll Stand by You”—you know, by The Pretenders?

  Sam: I know the one.

  Annette: Thank you, Sam. Before you play it, I want you to announce it as the last song that will ever be for Scott and me together. I want it to be our last dedicated song.

  Sam: A song from which you might emerge a new woman with new beginnings.

  Annette: Yes! You always know just what to say, Sam! I’d give you a kiss if I were there.

  Sam: (Music starts to play.) Aww, shucks, Annette! I’m sure all of the listeners out there wish you the best, and I know by talking to you that you deserve to find love, and that you deserve to be happy. Godspeed, Annette!

  Annette: Thank you, Sam. Have a great night!

  Sam: Good night, Annette, and don’t hesitate to call and check in with me!

  Annette: I will, Sam! Good night!

  Sam: Now, here are The Pretenders with “I’ll Stand by You,” the last song that will ever be dedicated to Scott and Annette, to commemorate a past romance, but also to symbolize a new beginning for Annette, a wonderful and faithful person.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A FIREFIGHTER’S BEST FRIEND

  The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.