Love Beyond Borders

Realistic Fiction

Being an independent woman, living in and running a business out of a grand Tudor style home in a tranquil countryside, life felt good…

Until two of my editors decided to open up the magazine to other-worldly tales. They invited blogger Amber Dane to talk about her experience as a mom who had a dream visit from her twelve-year-old dearly departed daughter, Miranda, and how that helped her cope with grief.

I mean, seriously, how many people believe one can be touched by the beyond? I opposed but gave them a month to prove me wrong.

That same day, the phone call came in about my dad…

And my life, my skepticism, and my views changed forever.

Author’s Note: This is a fictional tale, although aspects of the story are based on actual events and happenings that happened to me.

Love Beyond Borders © 2021 by Lea Schizas

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the author.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.

Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events,

is coincidental and not intended by the author.

www.thewritingjungle.com

Cover Art © 2021 by TWJ Design

Layout and Book Production by Lea Schizas

eBook ISBN: 978-1-77392-093-1

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-77392-094-8

Dedication

To my dad...

love you always toso toso poli.

To all who have lost a loved one,

remember that they will always be a part of you.

Thank you to my family for your patience and understanding that as a writer, my passion forces me to sit by the computer, typing away, allowing my characters to get their stories out of my head and onto paper.

To my fans, once again, huge thanks for your support.

Prologue

There are times I wonder how many others who think like me exist in the world. Were they also told by caring family members they were just a tad too nutty? That perhaps torrential, hidden emotions were just the beginning of a raging storm brewing within, suggesting seeking professional help before lightning and thunder took control?

No…I’ve looked through that peephole of questions and now realize they (family and friends) were afraid of losing their skepticism as I had. After all, it’s not easy to convince people to believe in something when their minds are made up. I know because I used to be one of those people.

Getting off the bed, my butt found a spot on the floor, and I soon realized I was rocking back and forth.

Shoot! Forgot that stupid camera’s watching my every move.

Tilting to the side with one hand holding my balance, I tucked the knee-length gown and pillow under my behind for extra padding. Doc asked me a couple of days ago why I preferred the cold floor over the comfy bed. The truth: the hard surface irritated my behind, yes, but at the same time, it grounded my thoughts. The way a soldier needs a weapon to fight a war, this surface allowed me to focus and mentally prepare for my final day here in this facility tomorrow.

Mentally. I laughed out loud, then glanced up at the camera, and said, Sorry. Inside joke.

At that moment, the distant ringing of a phone somewhere in this self-help facility knocked my senses back to the past…where my woes and transformation all began…

Before they declared me broken.

Chapter One

My sister called from Greece to say Dad was being tested for an unusual bump on his right nipple. I joked, saying just like him to have a horrible chest disease and be different. A chill dragged its way down my spine. Not because of the weather—March in Montreal always brought cooler temperatures. The silence on the other end of the line told me baby sis didn’t appreciate my cool manner. Immediately, I regretted the ill-timed joke. The strain in her voice should have warned me she was worried. That happy-go-lucky, cheerful tone I loved to hear was absent.

Unfortunately, living in a country far from my parents and Calli (short for Calliope, which she hates, and used only when I’m really pissed at her), I absorbed the news with my normal nervous humor. It’s one thing to be close to family, to judge situations with your own eyes, and another to be separated by vast waters. All sorts of horrible diagnoses swerve in and out like a driver out of control. And I was that driver right now but kept a cool head for the sake of my sis. What would be the point of cluing her in that my brain raced with the worst-case scenario? No point whatsoever. And I’m sure the same scenario must have crossed her thoughts, to sound as upset as she was.

I desperately needed my morning cup of French Vanilla right about now.

Several things swirled in my mind before she called, such as the upcoming staff meeting with the editors. Wasn’t looking forward to it at all. My mood reflected and amplified those feelings the longer the conversation went on.

I had spaced out at one point and missed what Calli said. Sorry, can you repeat? We seem to have a bad connection. Horrible lie but…

I said, so far no other symptoms. There was a sizeable pause on the other end. Listen, seems like you’re preoccupied right now, so I’ll call you as soon as I get Dad’s results, okay?

Thanks, Calli. Anyway, don’t worry. Gut tells me Dad’s going to be okay. It was a reaffirmation to her that Dad was a tough man for his age. Everyone other than me worried too much. No, that’s not true. I just hold emotions at bay most of the time until invisible walls crumble, and then I let loose. Right now, there was nothing to worry about and tried to get that message across to her. It was a pimple, most likely scratched and infected. No need to overreact.

With some light laughter easing the long-distance anxiety, we declared our sisterly love, and the call ended. Now it was time to face my staff. And I still hadn’t had my morning cup of French Vanilla yet. The bloody thing was like an addiction.

I picked up the reports for the meeting from my desk then headed out. Random flashes of Dad, Mom, and my siblings at various events and holidays swarmed me unexpectedly while walking the short distance down the main hall.

Memories strayed to one particular Christmas time when Dad took me along to go up north with two of his friends. I must have been five or six, but the memory stuck. The ride there was majestic. Light snow tumbled as we made our way to a cabin. The type of snow to make any kid want to be outside, tongue sticking out, lapping at that snowy wonder. The purpose of the trip was to surprise Mom and get her a real tree to replace our fake one. And boy, Dad hit the mother lode. Securing it on the car’s roof, we headed back home later that afternoon, after I was treated to hot chocolate. I was no help to him lugging that monstrosity up to the second floor where we lived. But he managed. This memory stuck with me because I’ll never forget Mom’s face when Dad pulled it into the apartment and straight to the living room. Bits of the tree landed everywhere. Mom, Missus-Obsessively-Clean, stood there mortified. And Dad just smiled, and said, Surprise! Thinking back, I don’t believe we ever had another real tree since then.

A longing to see and hug them sliced along the pit of my stomach. It’s been a while since I had seen Calli in person; solely on Facetime. It was on rare occasions that all four of us, my sis and two brothers, were able to get online at the same time because of our work schedules and time zones.

Swallowing back memories, I walked into the meeting, steely boss attitude intact.

It was hard not to notice the boardroom resembled a funeral parlor. As I walked to the front of the conference table, somber eyes and small frowns etched on many of the staff members’ faces arranging their paperwork glanced my way. They knew I was upset, no question about that. After brooding for a few seconds on how to begin to express this deep disappointment with everyone, I decided to simply go with the usual blunt approach.

"White Rose of Sane Insanity, the name of our publication. Does anyone here remember what we intended our stories to be?" I looked around, watching their long faces sneak glances at one another. They looked like lost sailors at sea. Normally, the boardroom was hustling and bustling with glee, not this atmosphere of uncertainty. I waited for a response to my question. No one but our trusted Editor-in-Chief, Rosie Madison, whom I’d known for a very long time, had the guts to answer.

"Romance for the White Rose part of the magazine, and tales of the other-worldly kind as a sub-genre for Sane Insanity," Rosie said, with a you-know-that look on her face. Her tone was more like plaster bubbling over, hot with a warning for me to cool down. She knew my moods ricocheted between a rainstorm and torrential downpour at times.

I took a deep breath, acknowledging the unsolicited, silent advice. Not once had anyone accused me