Chapter 1 – Anastassia 2011
Autumn 2011. I wonder if he’ll come. About 25 people are seated around the perimeter of the room, deep in private conversations – all seeking answers – some anxious, some sad, some alone like me. We wait.
Walter, my favorite grandfather, has been gone for about 10 years. Gone, meaning dead. A lingering sorrow for me, he passed suddenly in Connecticut, a few hours drive away from where I live in Massachusetts. I wasn’t there to say goodbye and the thought of it rends my heart. My grandfather was everything to me – in many ways, more like a father. He and my grandmother provided a safe and loving haven for me, their home a place of endless delight. Lots of happy memories.
My mother, my aunt, my uncle – everyone in my family it seems – tell me that Grandpa comes to them in their dreams. They all feel so much better now that he has let them know he’s alright.
Grandpa, why don’t you come to me? I thought I loved you best. Didn’t you know that? Where are you? I need that contact – to say goodbye, to thank you, to tell you I will always love you. So I am here tonight with the others.
Something else is on my mind. For the last two years, I’ve had the smell of cigarettes in my nose. All. The. Time. It won’t go away. Ever. I don’t smoke. Nobody in my family smokes. Yet the smell is persistent. Unpleasant and nasty. My doctor runs the usual diagnostics – CAT scan – MRI – no abnormality. A phantom smell. It happens, they tell me. What’s going on here? Am I haunted?
I have to know. I have to find peace.
Online, I find Anastassia Grace, a spirit medium, niece of the famous medium Maureen Hancock. They say she’s very accurate. She and I correspond by email a few times and I decide to come here tonight. She gives me enough evidence that I want to believe her, though I remain skeptical.
Anastassia guarantees a reading to everyone in the group.
We’re at Hope Floats in Kingston, Massachusetts.
Anastassia Grace walks in and warmly greets the audience. At once, she channels spirit messages and interacts with different people in the room. As the evening goes on, I become frustrated that she hasn’t come over to me.
Grandpa, where are you? I so want to hear from him, and if there’s any truth to this stuff, it’s going to come out tonight. If not Grandpa, at the very least, Uncle Bill. He passed away just weeks ago, dead within a month or so of his lymphoma diagnosis. Anastassia even mentions him in one of her emails to me.
These two men are all that’s on my mind – my beloved grandfather and uncle.
Eventually, Anastassia comes over to the section where I’m seated. She says to the woman next to me, “Who’s Nicky? Who’s this girl Nicky?” The woman doesn’t know, nor does anyone else around us.
Anastassia tells us earlier that spirits communicate things in symbols, and not always gender specific. For example, “grandfather” may signify an important man. And you can’t always tell male or female. We need to keep an open mind and see how things fit.
Well, nothing is fitting for me. I want my grandfather. I want my uncle.
Some of the things Anastassia talks about could be as true for me as for anyone else in the room – someone who killed himself and left the family in trouble – a drunk driver fatality – anyone can easily read something into these general statements. I remain guarded.
Our evening at Hope Floats is nearly over when Anastassia comes to me. “I feel your pain, I didn’t forget you.” She tells me to hold her hands and I do. She says, “I’m hearing loud and clear that somebody wants to talk to you. He’s saying, ‘Where’s my ring? Where’s my ring?’” Anastassia looks at my hands, at my rings – “Where’s my ring?”
Exasperated, I start to cry. This is all so discouraging. Neither my grandfather nor my uncle left me a ring. What is she talking about? The night is over. My loved ones didn’t show up.
Anastassia tells me to stay after. I wait a while, but everyone crowds around her at the end. Can’t blame them. They believe. I don’t. My young children wait at home and I want to get back to them. Disenchanted and defeated, I put this night behind me.
In the morning, I continue to stew in my disappointment over last night’s failed reading. I’m going to send Anastassia Grace an email. I’ll be polite, but I have to get this off my chest. Weeks before, she had told me a couple of things that inspired me to go to the group reading in person. I had hope. I spent $100 for nothing.
At my computer desk, I start to type. I’m aggravated. OK, I’m pissed off. Where’s my ring? Where’s my ring?
Wait.
I lean back in the chair staring at the words.
Stunned.
Oh my God… the ring.