Puzzles!: The Power of Love over Pain

By Nancy Miller

A young innocent girl suffers the unexpected death of her father, at the hands of a gunman. Her family and community pull together to get through this horrific experience. They share coping strategies. New life and boundless strength come from this tragedy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Apr 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665738057

Nancy Miller

Nancy Miller was a teacher for about forty years. She frequently made up stories throughout her instruction. She also listened when students came to her with their problems. After watching stories about mass shootings, she wondered who was there for the surviving children? Who was there to comfort them, and give them a shoulder to cry on? Who was there for the parents, who desperately looked for ways to help their child and themselves get through the loss? Nancy Miller wrote this book as one of many tools to start healing conversations.

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Copyright © 2023 Nancy Miller.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3806-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3804-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3805-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023903229

Archway Publishing rev. date: 4/24/2023

CONTENTS

1. THE PIECES FIT

2. THE PUZZLING PIECE

3. THE PIECE PUPPETS PLAY

4. PANCAKE PIECES

5. A PIECE GOES MISSING

6. TAKING THE PIECE

7. PUZZLE PICTURES

8. PUZZLE PACKAGES

9. THE HEART OF THE PUZZLE

10. A SHARED PUZZLE

11. A TOUGH PIECE

12. LINKING PIECES

13. SHARING A PIECE

14. REST AND THE MUSICAL PIECE

15. FUNNY PIECES

16. THE PUZZLE SHIFTS

17. PUZZLING PLANS

18. PIECES LOOK BRIGHTER

19. PIECES STRONGLY CONNECTED

20. A PIECE IS RESTED IN PLACE

21. GATHERING BROKEN PIECES

22. LOOKING AT PIECES IN NEW WAYS

23. THE PUZZLE TABLE SHAKES

24. THE POPCORN PIECE

25. SOME PUZZLE PIECES ARE EXPLAINED

26. TOO MANY PIECES

27. MORE PIECES CHANGE

28. AN IMPORTANT PIECE FALLS

29. PRIORITIZING PIECES

30. THE PIECES ARE DEFENDED

31. THE BRIGHTEST PIECE

32. SHIFTING PIECES

33. REMEMBER THE PIECES

34. PIECES DO SOME SHIFTING

35. MORE PEOPLE MORE PIECES

36. THE WRONG PIECE

37. UNPREDICTABLE PIECES

38. CELEBRATING THE PUZZLE

39. THE PUZZLE KEEPS GROWING

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PUZZLES!

Dear Reader,

This book is a fictional account of an innocent young girl forced to grow up suddenly, following the senseless murder of her father. The people he saved represent the people whose lives each of us impact and the ongoing admiration that we have for those who have positively changed the course of our lives. The girl with the transplanted heart represents both the gift of organ transplantation and the undying love we carry when a loved one is taken from us. The challenging birth illustrates the difficult struggle to continue with life, following a heart-wrenching death. Through the gift of the playground, a father is telling his daughter that it is OK to smile, even after he is gone.

This book was written to generate conversations and thought about gun violence, which unfortunately has become a pervasive problem in our society. Although this is a work of fiction, the gut-wrenching emotions experienced by the characters are too real for so many people. As part of the healing process, some people use support groups, art, sports, or other outlets. This family members leaned on each other and their community to struggle through their pain. If deep pain has taken hold in your heart, reach out and get whatever support you can. Tap into the strength of others, until you find your own inner strength. Allow yourself to cry and find positive ways to release that bottomless sadness, before it eats away at your soul.

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CHAPTER ONE

The Pieces Fit

Each person has a unique life puzzle to build. Some are more challenging than others. The more difficult the pieces, the greater the delight when each one is individually inserted. I used to envy people with predetermined easy designs. Where there is a box with an ordinary picture, and they know how their life puzzle will turn out. When life gives them a difficult piece, they hand it to someone else to determine the solution and blindly make that decision their own. I thought for a while I was one of those people, until the day my life was shaken up. My life went from peacefully predictable, to a cluster of chaotic confusion. I wasn’t sure any pieces would ever fit again, or even if there was any value in adding new pieces.

I guess things were blissfully fine when I was born. I started out with a beautiful picture, full of colorful pieces and endless possibilities. There was sunshine in every corner of my life. My parents gave me Angel for my middle name because I was an angel. I’m Emilia Angel Murphy, but everyone calls me Emmi. My Mexican mother, my Irish father, and I lived in a cute, little, old house that looked like it came from the pages of a fairy tale, on a peaceful, tree-lined street, with a beautiful butterfly garden in the backyard.

We never had tons of money, but each day was flooded with laughter. My father told corny jokes, made up funny songs about common things like pencils, and left sweet notes with silly faces in different places for me at random times, especially when I needed cheering up. My mom came up with the most fun games, and she found ways of making common tasks fun by working to music or making a game out of it. She also created the most fascinating stories on the spot. I think I laughed a lifetime in those first eleven years.

My mother and I both keep pictures of those innocent times before everything erupted, altering the landscape of our lives. We were always smiling, not knowing what was to come. Looking at those pictures used to bring torrents of tears to our eyes, now they’re just heart-warming memories, sometimes sprinkled with sadness. We keep them on flash drives and on a file in the cloud. I used to believe that maybe my father, my angel, could see them. Mom used to wrap herself in his favorite sweater, which she said smelled like him. I couldn’t smell a thing. She also liked humming a weird oldies song that brought her back to their earliest times together.

My parents actually met because of a single shooting star, at least that’s what my father would say. This is my favorite story. I’ve heard it a million times. They met on a Saturday evening at a local observatory, where each month a huge group of amateur astronomers set up their telescopes to share their love of the universe with passersby. My mother had the largest telescope there, and my father stepped up to take a peek. He was looking at the North Star when a shooting star whizzed right by. He reacted with joyful excitement. My mother was able to see it without a telescope, and she was visibly unimpressed.

They looked at each other, and my father boldly declared, I just saw a shooting star, immediately closing his eyes to make a wish. He knew it was a magical moment.

My mother was less than enthusiastic. She let out a deep sigh of disapproval and explained that it was just a small piece of a meteor. He should be grateful it wasn’t big enough to hit Earth.

At that moment, my father felt a wave of emotion. His knees started shaking, yet he said nothing. Not knowing what else to do, and with a long line of people waiting, he nervously stepped away from the telescope while still observing my mother. Feeling awkward, he quickly decided to go look through other telescopes so as not to seem weird. Although he did keep glancing in her direction. As soon as he saw her packing up, he approached her saying, Would you explain shooting stars to me over a cup of coffee?

My mother, feeling quite tired, replied, Make it a drink, and you’ve got yourself a deal. That brought a smile to my father’s face, and he helped her pack up her equipment.

He knew exactly where he wanted to go, a quaint Irish pub overlooking the river. They had a group of musicians playing a variety of instruments. There were additional instruments on the wall behind the bar. Those were for anyone eager to join in, and that is exactly what my father did. After ordering two pints of Guinness, he grabbed an Irish bouzouki mandolin, sat down beside my mother, and started playing and singing along with the other musicians.

Once the pints were empty, he gave back the instrument, and they walked slowly along the river. It was there that she explained the facts about what looked like shooting stars and pointed out several constellations. She admitted jokingly that there was absolutely nothing to the foolishness of wishing upon a moving rock traveling in space.

My father smiled and said, That is only one opinion. I tend to disagree.

But there is no scientific proof!

It might not be scientific, but I do have some proof.

OK, tell me your proof, she said with a hint of superiority.

I wished on that star. I wished you’d go out with me. And here we are! He was grinning like you do after opening the best present ever.

My mother’s heart melted. She said she fell in love with him at that very moment. She saw what looked like stars sparkling in his eyes. They spent the whole night walking, talking, and laughing. As the sun was starting to rise, he took a tin whistle out of his jacket pocket and played an Irish love song. My mother still carries that whistle with her, even though she’s never learned to play it.

Their love was full of magic. They even had a special way to say farewell. Just as one of them was leaving, the one walking away would say, I love you to every galaxy and back!

The other would yell, Let love be the North Star that guides you home!

Then they both would sing out, My universe is better with you in it! If they were in the same room, they would hug and kiss no matter who was watching. That was how they said goodbye to each other all the time. I feel tingly when I remember those times. They were so sweet that it was embarrassing to watch.

It was a syrupy kind of love that usually sticks people together. But life isn’t always usual. I guess love can stick to your heart, even if the other person is gone. A peaceful stream can make unexpected turns, and it’s in those turns where life gets interesting, and sometimes frightening.

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CHAPTER TWO

The Puzzling Piece

When I was eleven years old, my father walked out of the house to go to work and never came back. I hear the story of that day every April 10, which is the day it all started. It was an ordinary day, part of an extraordinary life full of our special kind of love.

It was a Friday morning. I know that because we were having french toast, which happened every Friday. Those were our special french toast Fridays. That was the one day each week my father made breakfast and let my mother sleep in. Every Thursday night my mother would go out with her friends in her old neighborhood. She’d come home too tired to make breakfast on Fridays. During the rest of the week, my parents made breakfast together like a freestyle dance, while quizzing me on subjects I should know for school and beyond. They would cook and ask me questions while I sat on my special observation stool, where I had perched myself every morning since I was two.

Before he left for work on Fridays, my father would put food out for the butterflies, or caterpillars, water the flowers, and then go upstairs to brush his teeth and wake up my mother. He started their conversations with quiet whispers, which got increasingly louder until she begrudgingly got up. That morning he yelled quite a bit, first about baseball, and then about politics. That always got her riled up.

She didn’t get mad at him for yelling. She knew she had to go downstairs, and he had to go to work. If I didn’t have to go to school, she probably would have spent Fridays in bed.

She stumbled down the stairs behind him, looking quite tired. My father handed her a huge cup of decaf coffee. She avoided caffeine because she was pregnant. He then turned and gave me a big hug. I gave him a kiss and a face full of maple syrup. He gave my mother a kiss and spread the syrup around. You would think that with all that syrup we would have all stuck together.

He wiped the sticky stuff off his face as he talked about big news at his office. We might have a sensational celebration tonight! he declared with an excited Cheshire-cat smile. He seemed deliriously happy that morning. My mother said she might have a surprise of her own. Then he gave me one more hug, kissed Mom’s belly, and they said their farewells. He danced toward the car still smiling and then drove away. Those moments seemed so ordinary at the time. Memories of ordinary moments sparkle like stars during the darkest of days.

Once my father left, I quickly finished my french toast, and my mother started on her second cup of coffee while cleaning up the kitchen. We both got dressed, and she drove me to school. She used that day to get