Tears of Heaven - A Love Story

Tears of Heaven

A Love Story

J. Adams

Copyright © 2010 Jewel Adams
Jewel of the West Publishing
All Rights Reserved

To fly with the wings of an angel
would be a splendid feat,
to experience love's heavenly splendor,
the soul's unparalleled delight!
J.A.

Stockholm, Sweden
Glancing up at the round, metal clock on the wall, I rub my red eyes and sigh deeply. The numbness I'd experienced a few hours earlier is gone now, and in its place is a pain unlike anything I have ever felt in my life. You would think I'd be used to pain, that I would be immune to it. But as I sit in this sterile environment, I realize with agonizing clarity, that I am still human after all. I am still susceptible to the human condition. I can still feel, and it hurts. It hurts something fierce.
I close my eyes for a moment and listen to the rhythmic beep of the monitor as it plays an assuring cadence in my ears. Part of my mind reasons that the steady beep means all is well. The other part is connected to my heart and isn't so sure. And oh, how I wish I could be sure. How I wish I could know for sure that everything will be all right, that my heart, and my soul, haven't been shattered forever. But I guess that is usually where faith comes in. There is no better time for me to learn this than now.
I lift my arms and stretch my aching limbs, the result of remaining in the same position for hours. Then I return my hands to their rightful place–that place being, wrapped around his hand.
My eyes rest on the large corded hand in mine, and I marvel at both the strength and the gentleness of it. I press the back of it against my face, grateful for its warmth. My gaze slowly moves up the lean, muscular arm, taking in the cords of veins trailing up and down beneath lightly tanned skin.
As my eyes move to the smooth, broad chest covered with a thick bandage, I feel the all too familiar burning behind them. Then I gaze up at his face and hot tears once again blur my vision and spill down my cheeks.
I move forward, lifting one of my hands to his face, and gently caress the soft, dark hair lying against his forehead. I slowly trail a finger over his chiseled features, pausing a moment before tracing the outline of his full lips.
Not able to help myself, I lean down and tenderly, softly, gently, press my lips to his. I linger a moment, breathing in the intoxicating and familiar scent of him. Raising up, I smile.
Though he is one hundred percent Russian, to me, Sergei looks like a Greek god. He is beautiful and he is perfect, more perfect than any man I could have ever dreamed of.
But most of all, he is the man I love with all my heart and soul.
The man who's wedding rings I now wear on my finger.
The man I have made an eternal covenant to love forever.
He is the man who has shown me love beyond belief, has healed my once battered heart, and has given me everything.
Now he is lying in this hospital bed fighting for his life because of me.

One
Four months ago.
I examined my reflection in the full-length mirror a final time, sighing deeply at the young woman staring back at me. After a week, the bruises around my left eye and on my right cheek had faded some. Applying some foundation to those areas helped to conceal the spots so no one would notice the signs of what was now a painful part of my past. At least I hoped and prayed it is all in the past.
I smoothed a wrinkle from my peach polo shirt and tucked it into belted khaki trousers. I decided the outfit would work fine for a housekeeper. The only requirement my new employer made as far as a uniform went was that I wore something neat but comfortable. This outfit was both. After applying a little mascara to my lashes and smoothing some clear gloss on my lips, I pulled my long, black hair back into a ponytail and decided I was ready.
As I studied my reflection once more, my thoughts strayed to my parents. Whether he wanted to be or not, my father was responsible for my full lips and black hair. He had inherited his own from his Cuban father and black mother. My mother's Swedish blood provide me with my hazel eyes, which take on a violet hue at times, depending on my mood.
I sighed inward, thinking that it would have been nice if my parents had meant for me to have their features. It would have been nice if they had meant for me to be born at all. I think things definitely would have been different for me if they had.
My mother had been twenty when she moved to the United States from Stockholm to continue her education. She had only been enrolled in South College in Knoxville, Tennessee for a few months when she met Jeff Greenlee. I guess he must have been quite the charmer, because before my mother knew it, she was living with him in a trailer park and pregnant. She didn't even share his name, only his bed.
A week after sharing the supposed blissful news of my eminent arrival with my father, he left home and never came back. Thirteen years later, my mother repeated his Houdini disappearing act by dumping me off on some friends and leaving to find herself. Evidently she must still be looking. It has been eight years and I haven't seen her since.
With both my parents abandoning me, I learned the meaning of rejection early in life. I knew in my soul my mother never wanted me. She'd never shown even an inkling of love toward me. I doubted she even liked me. I was a burden, one that she was anxious to rid herself of.
“What a sad situation!” I remembered people saying. “What a sad beginning! How will the poor young thing handle life with such a sad beginning? Poor Heaven. Poor, poor thing.”
I shook my head sadly as I thought about my name. Heaven. I found out later that the only reason my mother even named me Heaven was because a friend suggested it. I'm surprised she took the suggestion since she had never harbored any warm feelings toward God. If I learned anything when I was with her it was her religious views; she didn't have any.
However, two good things came from her abandonment; the love of a good family and an introduction to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Until moving in with the Copeland family, I had no real knowledge of God and His son. Receiving that knowledge changed my life.
Fastening my watch, I smiled as I thought about Shirley and John Copeland. They were two of the kindest and most loving people I had ever known. They willingly took me into their home, giving me as much love as they did their own two daughters. I couldn't help thinking that God had made a mistake placing me with a mother and father who never wanted me, and that I really should have been born to their family. But I soon realized that God doesn't make mistakes. There had to have been a reason. I wished I knew what that reason was. I wished that I knew the reason for my life, period.
When I turned eighteen I expressed a desire to Shirley to find my mother's family. She and John got the ball rolling, and a couple of weeks later, I had the opportunity to talk to my Swedish grandmother and grandfather for the first time.
Karl and Felicity Gunderson quickly became a part of my life. Gelina, my mother, had been their only child. When she left and eventually broke ties with them, it broke their hearts. They hadn't heard from her in years and didn't know if she was dead or alive. They loved her very much and worried about her a great deal, but they knew their daughter's fate was out of their hands. They still continued to pray that she would contact them one day. It was about all they could do.
I prayed for that as well, but for my grandparents' sake, not mine. Shirley was more of a mother to me than my own mother had ever been, and though I had forgiven her in my heart for leaving, I didn't need her. I sometimes felt a little guilty about my lack of feelings for her, but I couldn't help it. I didn't hate her. I didn't harbor any ill feelings toward her. If I felt anything for her, it was pity for what she missed out on.
I could never understand how my mother could treat her own family that way. And what was even sadder was my mother hadn't even told my grandparents of my existence, which provided me with another painful example of just how much she really cared about me. It was as if I didn't exist. I was their only grandchild and she didn't even have the decency to tell them about me. For this reason, they stayed in close contact with me.
I visited my grandparents a couple of times in Stockholm, and they came to see me in Knoxville. They repeatedly asked me to come and stay with them for a while, and I always gave them the same answer. Someday.
And now, here I was, twenty-one, single, and living with my grandparents.
I  straightened the furrow in my brow that appeared whenever I thought of my predicament. Someday. It seemed someday had come sooner than I'd expected, and under unfortunate circumstances.
I walked over to the window and absently gazed down the cobblestone street. My grandparents lived in Old Town, a charming and bustling section of downtown Stockholm. Their two bedroom apartment was directly over the bakery they owned and operated.
I smiled and closed my eyes as the scent of cakes, croissants, and other European pastries seeped into my room and tickled my senses. I mused that if I wasn't careful, my waistline would expand to the size of Grandma Felicity's, a sure sign of too many samplings of her own recipes.
Looking down the narrow street in either direction, I took in the many outdoor cafes and sidewalk restaurants. Seeing these sights on television travel shows was one thing, but actually living among them was pretty incredible.
I watched various people as they lounged at tables, sipping espresso and indulging in pastries. I noticed as several fair-haired women walked by that clothing in Sweden is very fashionable. Of course, I didn't care for the immodest outfits, but the women donning total body coverage were lovely.
I had always considered myself a very modest person. Even before being baptized into the Mormon church, I never indulged in tank tops, short shorts, or plunging necklines. Despite my mother's lack of standards, I did have mine, and I wasn't willing to compromise them. That was one of the things Ross said he loved about me . . .
I turned away from the window and sighed, sitting down on the wooden chair by my bed. Ross. I could never escape my thoughts or memories of him. With time, I prayed that I would. After all, he was the reason I'd had to leave the states. He was the reason I felt that my heart would be permanently closed. And I continued to pray that, just like the bruises, the painful memories of him would soon begin to fade.
I was nineteen when I first started dating Ross Townsend. He had moved to Knoxville from Toronto, Canada, and had rented an apartment five minutes away from the complex in which I lived. I was an assistant manager at a department store in the mall, and he was working construction on a building across the street. He came into the store one day on his lunch break to buy a dress shirt and a pair of slacks for a dinner party he was planning to attend that night.
All it took was one smile and I was done in, completely taken with his blond-haired, blue-eyed surfer-boy looks. Evidently, he was pleased with me as well. We ended up going out that night, and every other night through the following weeks.
I learned that Ross was an only child from a very affluent family. His father was a doctor, his mother, a fashion designer. His parents still lived in Toronto but did travel to the states occasionally. The way Ross talked about his parents told me he looked up to them a great deal. In a way, I thought they sounded a little too perfect, but it only validated to me how much he loved them, which made me like him all the more. I envied the contentment that he experienced in his relationship with his parents. Somehow, things always seemed to come up and I never got the chance to meet them.
I thought Ross was wonderful. He did and said exactly the right things, and he could charm the heart of even the coldest of women. To me, he was amazing. He made me feel wanted and accepted.
I had never been in a relationship before, so I had nothing to compare it to. I was so inexperienced when it came to matters of the heart, and I thought everything was going as it should between us. John and Shirley also thought he was wonderful and frequently asked me to bring him over for dinner.
To my girlfriends, Ross was every woman's dream guy, every woman's fantasy. And he was.
Every woman that is, except for me.
Unfortunately, by the time I discovered he wasn't my dream guy, it was too late, for he had become my nightmare.
It began to happen slowly. Subtly.
At first it was just little things. Ross thought it would be better if I wore my hair up in a bun when I went to work. He told me it looked more professional and would attract less attention. I respected his opinion, so I took his advice.
Then he told me pantsuits would be more professional than the casual dresses and floral skirts I wore. These two things should have been my first clue that something was wrong, but as I said, this was the first time I'd ever had a boyfriend.
Soon, there were other things. If Ross stopped by the store to see me and found me helping a male customer, I would get the silent treatment for a couple of days. Then he would apologize and tell me he knew I was just doing my job.
If a waiter paid me a little too much attention when we went out together, it was my fault, and again I would get the silent treatment but no apology, as if I'd done something to encourage the attention.
At times when he would call my apartment and I wasn't there, he automatically assumed I was with someone else, and the harder I tried to prove to him that he was the only man in my life, the more jealous he became. I wore myself out feeling guilty about things I had no control over. And the more worn I became, the more my feelings for him began to fade.
Soon after, the pain began.
On the one year anniversary of our first date together, we went out to celebrate. We dined at one of the nicest Japanese restaurants in Knoxville. I had never been the place before, but I had heard that the chefs there put on quite a show, so I had been excited about going.
Throughout dinner, Ross was so pleasant and thoughtful, and I smiled the entire time, my heart suddenly filled with hope for us.
After dinner, Ross said he wanted to take me dancing. I told him I wasn't comfortable going. He wanted to know why. I looked at him and thought, Because so far, this night has been perfect. If we go dancing, it won't be perfect anymore because you will find some reason to fly into a jealous rage. Instead of bravely fessing up, I smiled and gave in. I mean, he was trying. I figured I could at least give him the benefit of the doubt. It had been a good evening so far.
Returning my mind to the present for a moment, I leaned forward and rubbed my temples, a familiar tension building inside me as I again relived that night. I remembered every single second of it, as if it had just happened.
The ride home had been silent. Ross wouldn't even look at me. Of course, I was too naive to realize I was sitting next to a ticking bomb. If I had known, I would have tried harder to find a way to defuse it. When we reached my apartment, he walked me to the door and asked if he could come in for a few minutes. Like normal, I said sure.
Once we were inside and I closed the door, he began pacing back and forth. Occasionally he would stop, look at me, then begin pacing again. It was almost like watching a caged animal. Finally, I walked over to him, took his hand in mine, and asked him what was wrong. Since I was wearing three inch heels, my five-feet-seven inch height was elevated slightly and put me almost eye to eye with him. He wasn't a very tall guy.
He looked at me, the muscles in his jaw twitching slightly. “You really shouldn't draw so much attention to yourself, you know that?”
The statement had rendered me speechless. Whoa! Where in the world did that come from? I wondered. I managed to smile and moved closer. “The only attention I try to draw these days is yours.”
Ross pulled his hand away abruptly and said, “Well, you sure have a hell of a way of showing it!”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Suddenly, I had had enough. I hadn't known that this wasn't the smartest moment to come to that conclusion, but I was tired. I was tired of giving and giving in our relationship and coming up empty. I sighed and looked into his eyes sadly.
“Ross, I care for you a great deal, but I can't do this anymore.”
He glared at me with those piercing blue eyes. “What do you mean?” he asked, an increase of anger showing in his expression. “You want to break up with me?”
Then before I had the chance to respond or even think, the back of his hand landed hard against my face.
I was completely stunned. I immediately pressed my hand to my throbbing cheek, a menagerie of emotions flowing through my mind and heart as tears quickly filled my eyes. When they began to trickle down my cheeks, the hardness in Ross' eyes completely diminished, and in its place was a look of remorse.
When he moved closer to me, I flinched, afraid he would hit me again. Surprisingly, I saw his eyes fill with tears. He began expressing his sorrow over what he had done. He said he didn't know what had come over him and that he had been so afraid of losing me, he'd lost it. He continued to apologize profusely and promised me it would never happen again. He promised that things would be different from now on, that he would be different.
And like a fool, I believed him and gave him another chance. Why I did it, I'll never know. I guess I thought there was still hope for us. I had to at least try.
Looking back now, I think deep down, I was trying to prove to Ross I was worth loving, and  having his love was worth whatever I had to endure. I could take the pain if it meant not being alone. At least he wanted me. What a misguided soul I was.
I was never one to be a glutton for punishment, but six months later, I began to learn with certainty that abuse never stops with the first hit or slap, and there is almost always a second time.
As time passed, I slowly began to be comfortable in our relationship again and was even considering marrying Ross, thinking he really had changed. He had become so attentive and loving to me, making me feel like I was the most important thing in his life. I thought things would go on that way. But I was wrong. All it took was one hug given to me by a male co-worker at a party to set the ticking bomb off once again.
And thus, the cycle had begun; a continuous pattern of abuse, then apology, only now stalking had been added to the mix. I had become so afraid of him, I didn't know which way to turn. Yet I was afraid of losing him too, so I never told anyone what was happening. I kept everything hidden away inside, hoping that someday he would change.
I managed to avoid John and Shirley whenever the bruises were  too visible to cover up. I even called in sick to work a few times. I had practically altered my life and myself to the point that I didn't even recognize me anymore.
I couldn't eat, so I lost weight.
I couldn't sleep, so there were permanent dark circles under my eyes.
I had become afraid of my own shadow.
I was an utter mess, feeling completely trapped in a hopeless situation and afraid to try and do anything about it.
“Poor Heaven! Poor child!” The voices of my youth had begun to visit me frequently.
Then came the straw that finally broke this camel's back.
I had come home one night after going out with a girlfriend and found Ross sitting in his car in front of my apartment waiting for me. I don't know why I felt I owed him an explanation, but I did. I started to tell him where I had been, but before I could even get a word out, he got out of the car, took my arm, pulled me into the apartment, and laid into me.
This time, however, there was not the usual apology at the sight of my tears afterwards. But he did leave me with a suggestion.
“Listen, baby,” he said softly, pulling my hand away from my swollen eye and forcing me to look at him. “There's only one way you can prove your love to me now. And you know what way that is.” He smiled at my astonished expression and added, “I think I have waited long enough. I suggest you make an appointment at the clinic and take care of yourself . . . because I will finally have what's mine.”
I stood looking at him with frightened incredulity. Ross wasn't Mormon, but he knew I was. He also knew where I stood when it came to the subject of intimacy, and he had never attempted to cross that line. Suddenly he was ready to enforce a change of those rules, one that I had no intention of letting him enforce.
When I said nothing, he added, “And don't even think about running, because I will find you.”
I felt my eyes grow large. I remained fearfully silent and he smiled again. Then he kissed my bruised cheek and left.
That night, after explaining everything to John and Shirley, who both shed angry tears over the whole situation, I  began to pack. I had already lost my self-esteem and my trust in men. I had even lost faith in my own judgment. My virtue was the only thing I had left that belonged to me, and I wasn't about to let Ross take that the way he had taken everything else–the way I had allowed him to take everything else.
Beginning to formulate a plan, I picked up a flower pot that had been knocked over and set it back on the table. As I knelt down and began cleaning up the dirt, I paused a moment, holding a handful of dirt. I made a fist and watched it as it slowly crumbled through my fingers.
And so goes my life, I mused tearfully. It's falling apart and slipping right through my fingers.
“Poor, poor child!” The voices were back again.
I angrily brushed the tears away from my sore face. “No more 'Poor Heaven,'” I declared. “No more.”
I knew I had to leave, but where could I go that he wouldn't come after me?
The next morning I called my grandparents, cleaned out my bank accounts, and left.
* * *
Pulling my thoughts forward, I sighed. And here I am.
I checked the time and decided I had better put away the painful memories and get going. I was beginning a new life now. A safe life. Hopefully. It wouldn't do to be late my first day on the job.
Heading to the door, my eyes fell on a small framed picture of my mother that sat on a wicker chest. The picture was taken in front of the Royal Palace. With her pale-blond hair, hazel eyes, and ballerina figure, she was stunning. I supposed my grandparents placed the picture there thinking I would probably want some tangible memory of my mother.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I shook my head as I closed the door. Poor Gelina. Poor, poor Gelina.
 * * *
Walking through the bakery, I couldn't help but smile as I watched my grandparents put an order together for a customer. If I'd had more time, I would have hung around the bakery for a while and kept them company. But I knew stalling for time was not an option, which is really what I would have been doing.
Truthfully, I was still a little nervous about meeting my new employer. My grandmother had arranged the job for me a couple of days after I arrived. She and my grandfather had become acquainted with the man last year when he began to be a frequent customer in their bakery Since I'd only been in Stockholm for a week, I hadn't had a chance to meet him.
Grandma Felicity told me Sergei Petrenko was a retired hockey player from Russia. He spend a  year in the US. before making his home in Stockholm. Grandma described him as a quiet man who enjoyed his solitude, something I could definitely understand and relate to. I guarded my privacy as well, so I figured we would get along great. Besides, I was going there to do a job, not socialize.