The Lost Choice (27 page)

Darling,

I send you my love across the miles. It is early evening and I am on deck, alone with my thoughts of you and our precious little ones.

Anxious though I may be to share everything this instant, my own thoughts and emotions are jumbled to such a state that I must beg your patience. Suffice to say that a great revelation has now come into our lives. An object—an antiquity, if you will—has opened corners in my mind and heart that I scarcely knew existed.

The boys are young and will not understand, but somehow I feel it important that you read the enclosed letter to them now. Save it, of course, and I shall explain all upon my return.

My prayer, as always, is for your safety while we are apart and that you might feel my arms around you as though I'd never left.

Your adoring husband,
Alfred

Margaret sobbed as she held the note to her breast. She had been certain that there were no more tears to cry, but every day brought a new memory, a smell, or some tangible reminder of the man she had loved more than her own life. She was not sure she wanted to live without him.
Were it not for the boys . . .
she mused . . . and then, quickly banished the evil thought from her mind.

Shaking her head, Margaret drew a deep breath and wiped her eyes. Alfred had departed this earth having left behind more questions than answers. An antiquity? A great revelation in
our
lives? And how might an object open corners in one's mind and heart, she wondered.

Margaret had already read the letter meant for the boys several times to herself, and while beautiful and eloquent, it only added to her confusion. In it, however, Alfred had referred to “words” that had changed his life. Did these “words” have something to do with the object about which he had written? He had not said, but she noted with awe that she was strangely comforted by their presence in the letter.

The “words” were written in the form of a memorandum, and while Margaret knew they had been meant for the boys, she determined to copy them down for herself. She would read them over and over again, as Albert had instructed his children to do.
Might there be,
she thought,
a corner in my own mind and heart that can be opened?

She gazed up at the parlor's chandelier, spreading gracefully from the fourteen-foot ceiling. Closing her eyes, Margaret prayed for strength and hope, wisdom and courage. Then, to her husband, she promised to bring up their children as he would have wished. She told him that she would not be bitter about his physical absence in their lives. Rather, she would be grateful for the years they had lived and loved and laughed with each other. And she told him good-bye.

When Margaret opened her eyes, she found Alfred Jr. and George standing quietly beside her. George had placed his tiny hand on her knee. Smiling for the first time in a month, she scooped George onto her lap and kissed his face. With her left arm, she drew little Alfred close and kissed him too. Then, Margaret unfolded the letter to the boys and read it aloud.

My dear, sweet Ones,

My first thought upon rising this morning was of you, and my heart is full to the bursting. You may be surprised to hear that my last thought of the evening before was also of you. My voyage on this great ship has been slow and uneventful, and I miss your laughter and antics tremendously. The time alone, however, has given me occasion for reflection not often enjoyed under normal circumstances.

Never given to undue emotion, I have lately been overwhelmed with a feeling of love and responsibility for your future that drives me to tears. I feel somehow compelled to write down and send a specific message I have received for you. It was my intention to read the words to you in person, but time, I fear, is of the essence.

You are very young and will not understand these thoughts at this moment. No matter. They will be read to you for now. When you are older, you will read them yourself again and again. Then, again and again. Only when their meaning is imprinted in your heart will you realize their power and
your
purpose.

These ancient words, translated from an object in my possession, have most recently changed my life. Let them now direct yours. One day, when I am gone, the world will most likely babble on about the money you will have inherited. But more than anything, I want you to understand that the message of the following words are the most valuable legacy with which one could ever be provided. Here now is your true inheritance—the gift from a father to his son.

I made you different from the others.

On the planet Earth, there has never been one like you . . . and there never will be again.

Your spirit, your thoughts and feelings, your ability to reason—all exist in no one else.

Your eyes are a masterpiece, incomparable, and windows to a soul that is also uniquely yours.

A single strand of your hair has been created especially for you. Of the multitudes who have come before you and the multitudes who may follow, not one of them duplicates the formula with which I made you.

I made you different from the others.

The blood that flows through your veins flows through the heart of one whom I have chosen. The rarities that make you one of a kind,my child, are no mere accident or quirk of fate.

I made you different in order that you might make a difference.

You have been created with the ability to change the world. Every single choice you make . . . every single action you take . . . matters. But remember, the converse is also true. Every choice you do not make . . . every action you do not take . . . matters just as much!

Your actions cannot be hoarded, saved for later, or used selectively. By your hand, millions of lives will be altered, caught up in a chain of events begun by you this very day.
But the opposite is true as well. Millions of lives are also altered, caught up in an entirely different chain of events—if you choose to wait.

You possess the power of choice. Free will. You have been given everything you need to act, but the choice is yours alone. And beginning this very moment, you will choose wisely.

Now go. And never feel inadequate again. Do not dwell in thoughts of insignificance or wander aimlessly, lost, like a sheep.

You are powerful. You matter. And you have been found.

You are my choice.

Your Father

EPILOGUE

THREE YEARS LATER

MARK AND DORRY LIVE IN THE SAME HOUSE ON Autumn Ridge Circle, though they are currently contemplating a larger residence. Michael, a third grader now, is a proud “big brother” to Tracy Elizabeth Chandler, the two-year-old sister who worships his every move.

Dorry resigned from the
Post
when she became pregnant with Tracy. While she hasn't yet won a Pulitzer,Dorry maintains a heavy schedule of freelance work that includes pieces for
Atlantic Monthly
and
Newsweek,
as well as an occasional article for
USA Today.

At forty-one years of age, Mark Chandler became the youngest chief of police in Denver's history. By the time city fathers made the appointment,Mark had already received four commendations from different states recognizing his part in saving the lives of missing children. The first commendation was awarded by Colorado's own governor for Mark's actions in rescuing the brother and sister he had located in Chicago, though at the time of the ceremony, Mark was still on suspension for “disobeying the order of a superior officer.”

Abby and Dylan have become the Chandlers' babysitters of choice. They announced their engagement to be married last spring and now consider the time with Michael and Tracy to be “practice.” While Dylan remains in his position at the Denver Museum,Abby went back to school and is now finishing her doctoral program in archaeological chemistry.

The couples have become best friends, meeting for lunch regularly or for dinner and a movie. When together, they often discuss the mystery that brought them into each other's lives. Before the Adams' piece was returned to the Smithsonian, Abby created a ceramic cast of the object. Often, the four friends will lay the reproduction out with the other two relics and theorize about the missing base.

They talk of the proof they've already uncovered that one person, by his or her own hand, can change the world. They discuss the changes in their own lives—their missions, their life's purpose—brought about by the simple lessons inscribed on the three relics. Yet, there is always an undercurrent of frustration—evidence of the many questions remaining unanswered.

Mark, Dorry, Abby, and Dylan have come to their own individual, unshakable convictions about the origin of the cup. And to a person, they believe that the base of the cup, when it is found and understood, will provide hope, and a specific message, to a world of people seeking answers of their own.

The
Lusitania
still rests at the bottom of the Irish Sea. Eleven-and-one-half miles off the green cliffs of Brow Head in County Cork, near the town of Cobh, the oncegrand ocean liner lays on her starboard side beneath 312 feet of water. Vast schools of fish circle the vessel, using the same routes over and over again, as if to guard the memories buried there. Her bow thrusts upward at a forty-five-degree angle, the outline of her name still visible.

The seabed is littered with broken plates, bowls, and large chunks of coal. The ship's triple-toned whistle rests by itself on the sea floor, near the crumbled and collapsing bridge, while a bathtub sits upright near the stern. The pipe and showerhead rise above it, still attached, as if waiting to be used.

Sadly, however, it appears as though the last piece of the puzzle—the medallion, the cup's base—might never be recovered. The object still remains inside the jewel box. No longer purple, the expensive material that gave the box its color has long since decayed. The case is exactly where it was left so many years ago, resting in the upper left-hand corner of the closet, nestled against the wall in an ever-increasing blanket of sediment. Regal B-65 and 67, a starboard-side suite, is now, due to the wreck's position, at the very bottom of tons of disintegrating steel.

The
Lusitania
is collapsing in on herself. Time and the ocean's relentless pressure have done more damage than Schwieger's torpedo. Unexploded depth charges, the remaining vestige of an Irish naval exercise in the 1940s, are scattered all over the wreck. They are extremely dangerous and, coupled with the fragile condition of the structure itself, make any exploration of the ship's interior virtually impossible.

The life of Alfred Vanderbilt has continued to be a source of speculation throughout the decades as inquisitive historians and proud descendants seek to make sense of his extraordinary final act. Thousands of articles in newspapers and magazines all over the world have been written about his courage that day. And each printed story has been clipped and meticulously filed in a private vault in the western United States. There, a records repository of the Vanderbilt family is maintained that begins with the first journal notes of Alfred Vanderbilt's great-grandfather, Cornelius, as a young man in 1832. Established before Cornelius' death, this is the collection of a family whose sense of its own history is proud and complete.

With monthly entries submitted over the lifetimes of what are now more than one hundred descendants of Cornelius and begun before the advent of modern record keeping, the files are vast and physically enormous. The vault includes every conceivable particle of each family member's life, from financial records, personal notes, invitations, and newspaper articles to birthday cards, grocery lists, and receipts from the veterinarian. Insisted upon by the patriarch of the Vanderbilt family and intended as a preventive measure against the possibility of frivolous lawsuits, it also serves as an incredibly comprehensive family history.

And so, there is still hope that the power of the message inscribed so carefully on the base of the cup will one day be revealed to the world. In a wooden cabinet on the sixth row, indistinguishable among the racks of identical cabinets lining the huge vault, the second drawer from the top holds an envelope whose paper is stained with seawater. It was submitted to be filed in the Vanderbilt family repository on April 25, 1927, by Alfred's youngest son, George, and has never been removed.

The only existing translation of the relic is labeled PYA42563.And just like the other three pieces of the cup, it is hiding in plain sight.

The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you are likely to see.

**—WINSTON CHURCHILL

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ANDY ANDREWS is a best-selling novelist and speaker whose combined works have been translated into nearly twenty languages and have sold millions of copies worldwide.
The Traveler's Gift,
a featured book selection of ABC's
Good Morning America,
was on the
New York Times
bestseller list for seventeen weeks. As a speaker and corporate entertainer for the world's largest organizations, he is in constant demand. Andy has spoken at the request of four different United States presidents and toured military bases around the world, speaking to troops at the request of the United States Department of Defense. Arguably, there is no single person on the planet better at weaving subtle, yet life-changing lessons into riveting tales of adventure and intrigue—both on paper and on stage.

Find out more about a man one
New York Times
writer called “a modern-day Will Rogers who has quietly become one of the most influential people in America” at
www.AndyAndrews.com.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

IN AN UNDERTAKING OF THIS SORT, THE LIST OF people to whom gratitude is owed can be overwhelming. I am blessed to be surrounded by friends and family who have become a team of which I am thrilled to be a part. If one perceives me as a person who makes good and informed choices, it is only because of my reliance on the counsel of these people.