Your Healing Touch
Parts 5-6
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters. Darn it!
The birds outside the bedroom window begin to softly chirp before the sunlight makes its appearance. Sleepily, I force my eyes open and glance at the old-fashioned ticking alarm clock on the dresser. It’s before 7:00 a.m., and I decide that it would do me good to enjoy the coolness of the morning. Gliding out of the bed, I quickly pull Pilar’s lavender comforter back up the mattress and arrange the pillows at the head of the bed. I slept better last night than I have in months, and I know it must be because of the memory that resurfaced and the fact that I was finally able to write again.
Looking over my reflection in the mirror, I surmise that my hair must be dealt with before I venture out doors. True, no one will see me, but the humidity that’s sure to develop will wreak havoc on my hair. Last month, I made a drastic change in my hair. I cut my long, curly locks to short bob that falls just below my chin line, and I went from dark blonde with sun-kissed highlights to a deep auburn. I loved it immediately, but Rick nearly went through the floor. With all the other changes taking place in my life, both inside and out, I felt the need to make a change of a more personal nature. It gave me a heightened sense of control, and a "newness" that I hope will continue to inspire me.
However, the short hair-cut is not without its drawbacks. If I leave it curly, as it naturally is, it frizzes to incredible proportions, so my hair dryer and I have become much more acquainted in recent days. And after a night’s sleep, it is wild and unruly, as if it were involved in some sort major battle while I slept. So, I quickly grab a brush from my bag and commence brushing away the frizz. When my hair is as tame as it’s going to get, I search through my belongings until I find a turquoise blue bandanna, and quickly tie it around my head. Not the most striking fashion statement in the world, but it’ll keep my hair out of my face. Quickly pulling a pair of cut-off jean shorts up my legs and yanking a yellow tank top over my head, I make my way down the hall toward the kitchen.
After pouring myself a tall glass of orange juice, I once again find myself on the front porch swing. I watch as the sunlight begins to peek through the trees and marvel once again at how incredibly lovely this place is and how at home I feel here. If last night was any indication, this place is just what I need to get myself writing again, and the fact that it makes me feel somehow closer to my mother is an added bonus.
When I’m satisfied that I’ve seen as much of the sunrise as I’m going to see through the mass of enormous trees that surround the house, I make my way back inside. I’ve never been much of a breakfast eater, but I learned in college that if I was going to function productively during the day, I needed to eat something, even if I didn’t feel hungry. I find the dishes in the first cabinet I open, and I smile to myself when I notice the varying colors of "Fiesta Ware". Somehow, the idea of Miguel Santos and his children eating on Fiesta Ware at this house is humorous, especially when I’m sure that they eat off the finest china at their estate in Springfield. However, something inside me tells me that Miguel Santos was not a materialistic individual, a trait that he most definitely passed on to Pilar. As I mindlessly pour myself a bowl of shredded wheat, I find myself wondering if it’s a trait he passed on to Danny, as well.
After my breakfast, a shower seems like the next logical step, even though I don’t have any place to go. Retrieving my bag full of hygiene items from the bedroom, I make my way to the bathroom and close the door behind me. I find a generous supply of plush green towels in the linen closet, and quickly begin running the steaming water in the shower. Removing my clothes, piece by piece, I make a mental note to run down to the basement after my shower and find a laundry basket. Pilar told me that the laundry was downstairs, and I decide that it would be easier to keep a laundry basket upstairs and take it to be washed once it’s full than to cart my dirty clothes down there each day.
The steaming water feels incredible, and I feel as if I’m washing away all traces of Springfield and the frustrations I left behind. With every passing moment, I feel more like this house has become my haven, where I can finally begin to search for some peace within myself. Feeling totally refreshed, and not wanting to waste another minute of the day, I spring from the shower and begin the process of blow-drying my hair straight.
When my hair is at last free of kinky-ness, I quickly get dressed in the same cut-off shorts and yellow tank that I wore earlier. I decide against make-up, not wanting to take the time for even lip gloss, and bound through the kitchen toward the basement door. Sliding the chain-lock free, I start down the carpeted steps to the laundry room.
When I reach the bottom of the steps, the wide expanse of the laundry room, which is more like an all-purpose room, greets me. The washer and dryer are to my right, along with several shelves lined with various tools. A stack of white plastic laundry baskets sit next to the dryer, on the sparkling ivory linoleum that lines the floor. Walking toward the stack of baskets, I notice that the far left corner of the room is home to at least ten fishing poles, with three tackle boxes on the floor beside them. Yet another reminder of the happy times spent in this house, and the mountain of loss Danny must be feeling.
I start to climb the steps, when I see the door leading away from the laundry room. Knowing that I shouldn’t, but completely unable to stop myself, I sit the laundry basket on the bottom step and turn the door knob to open the door. Tip-toeing inside, as if someone might catch me and allowing my eyes to adjust to the unlit room, I focus on a small lamp that sits atop what looks like a desk. Carefully walking to the lamp, I find the switch easily, and the small light quickly illuminates the entire room.
"No wonder it was so dark in here," I whisper to myself. "There are no windows in here."
The lamp does indeed sit on a small desk, next to a digital alarm clock and a coffee mug full of pens and pencils. At the other end of the small room is a double bed, covered in a beautiful hand-made quilt. Admiring the deep reds and blues of the quilt, I walk over and sit down gingerly on the bed. I run my hands along the stitches that created this work of art, silently praising the hands that made each stitch. It’s then that I notice the picture on the small night stand. Sliding up the bed toward the night stand, I once again notice immediately that Pilar took the picture. It’s another one of Danny and Miguel, apparently taken the same day as the one upstairs in the den.
Grasping the picture tightly in my hands, tears involuntarily fill my eyes as I take in the joy on Danny’s face. Miguel has his very grown-up son in a head-lock with his left arm, and with his right hand balled into a fist, he’s giving Danny what most would call a "noogie". It’s obvious that Danny was trying to break free of Miguel’s grip, and the laughter on both their faces is truly a testament to their love for one another.
Suddenly, feeling as though I’ve worn out my welcome in Danny’s room, I replace the picture, turn out the lamp, and leave the room. After closing the door behind me, I linger there, leaned against its steadiness, realizing that Danny’s very presence is in that room, in this entire house, and it has invaded me on a very deep level. Aware that it’s a welcome invasion, I tell myself it is because we have both suffered the loss of the parent that meant everything to us, and for some reason, the hurt just will not go away.
Why is it that some people hold onto grief, as if it were a lifeline, and keep it bottled up inside? Surely it is better to share it with someone, so what compels the grief-stricken to keep everything to themselves? I decide these are very good questions to address in a rand new chapter of my book, so I quickly head back upstairs, laundry basket in tow, and make a bee line for my computer.
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Kris ran up the stairs to her bedroom and once inside, fell heavily to the floor. Her father’s words still pounded in her ears, like a loud, beating drum that would not go away. Clutching a soft, stuffed teddy bear that her mother had given her, the sobs that she’d been containing finally wracked her small, petite body, as the words that would change her life forever played over and over again in her mind.
"Your mother had a car accident, and she didn’t survive," Curtis Daniels explained to his young daughter. "Honey, Mom’s not coming back."
Like a flash of lightening, Kris bolted from her bedroom, down the hallway, toward her parents’ room. Flinging open the closet door, she grabbed various items of her mother’s clothing, piling them on the floor. Immersing herself in the pile of clothes that still contained her mother’s essence, she tried to force the words from her mind…"… she didn’t survive… Mom’s not coming back… she didn’t survive… Mom’s not coming back."
"NO!" she screamed, in a futile attempt to rid her ears of the vicious assault. "IT’S NOT TRUE!"
Clinging tightly to an ivory sweater that her mother had loved dearly, Kris rocked back and forth, an act of self-comfort that proved worthless, because the voices wouldn’t stop. "… she didn’t survive… Mom’s not coming back… she didn’t survive… Mom’s not coming back."
The wrenching sobs that emanated from her soul were those of a child who had been dealt the most devastating blow possible. Involuntarily, her shoulders and her chest heaved ferociously with grief, until she felt the contents of her stomach rising in her throat. Through eyes blinded by tears, she stumbled her way into her parents’ bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before the stinging vomit spewed from her mouth.
Coughing violently, the nausea finally subsided, and she stood to her feet. In one quick motion, she flushed the toilet and reached for the faucet on the sink, turning the cold water on full blast. Quickly bending down, she splashed the cool water on her face, and brought her hands to her mouth and let the fresh water rinse the taste of bile away. The spell of nausea had temporarily focused her attention elsewhere… that is until she looked up from the sink and saw her mother’s perfume… her mother’s hair brush… her mother’s hand lotion. Sinking to the floor of the bathroom the sobs once again overtook her tiny being.
It’s been several months since I wrote those words, and even though I know it’s necessary to read them again, it’s still quite a daunting task to relive those moments after I learned that my mother died. As awful as it was, I could not possibly imagine the depth of it all, for at that moment, I did not fully understand the circumstances surrounding my mother’s death. Knowing that I’m not yet ready to remember, in detail, the reason my mother was speeding her car down the country road, I decide it would be prudent to get some fresh air.
Rising from my seat at the table and leaving my computer behind, I practically sprint toward the front door, grabbing the door knob and turning it with forceful purpose the minute I reach it. Darkness has already descended on this quiet place, so simultaneously, I reach for the light switch beside the door and quickly flip the front porch light on. As I pull the door open, the breath all but leaves my body, as I watch the light I just turned on illuminate the incredibly beautiful figure of Danny Santos, clad in a pair of well-fitting khaki pants and an unbuttoned denim shirt over a white tee shirt.
I’m stunned. He’s stunned. For what seems like an eternity, neither of us says anything. My hand grips the door knob tightly as I watch confusion spread across his face. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting to encounter anyone here at his family’s summer house, and I realize I simply must say something to explain my presence.
"Danny," I say, in a tone that’s more breath than voice.
My mind attempts to come up with the words to explain this to him, when I hear him ask, "Who are you?" I was certain that he would be angry and that his voice would be filled with contempt, but to my surprise, he sounds meek and gentle, as well as surprised.
"Pilar didn’t tell you?" I ask softly, not wanting to upset this delicate situation.
"Tell me what?" he asks tentatively, his eyes looking me over with a marked amount of curiosity.
Realizing that he is completely in the dark about Pilar’s request that I watch after the house this summer, I know I must fill him in. Opening the door wider so that he can make his way inside the living room, I begin. "I’m Michelle. Michelle Bauer. Pilar and I went to college together, and we became very close friends."
He steps inside and stands directly in front of me, so close that I can feel his breath on my face, as I look up into his questioning eyes and continue. "I was out of the country for a few months, so I didn’t hear about… uh… your father… until I got back."
I silently berate myself for bringing up his father’s death the minute he walked in the door, as I try to regroup and continue my explanation. "Pilar and I got together a few days ago and she told me that she was going to be in Calgary all summer. She asked me if I’d look after the house while she was gone."
Danny’s eyes soften even more, as he asks, "Why would she do that?"
Breathing deeply and choosing my next words carefully, I go on. "She didn’t think you would be using it this summer. She said that she asked you what she should do about the house and you told her to take care of it."
The memory of it must dawn on him, because I notice a small flash of recognition in his eyes, as he says, "And that’s why you’re here."
I nod slightly, powerless to stop myself from staring into the dark pools of his eyes. I silently pray that he’s not angry with me, as I say, "I know that this is a special place to you, so I’ll just get my things and go. I’ll call Pilar and tell her that I can’t…"
Danny cuts me off before I can finish my thought. "No, please don’t call my sister. If she knows I’m here she’s going to have a thousand questions, and I just can’t handle that right now."
Our eyes are locked together, as he pleads without words for me to honor his request. Just as I’m about to assure him that his secret is safe with me, the ringing of my cell phone interrupts us. I turn and walk hastily to the kitchen, where my phone is laying on the table, and Danny follows closely behind me.
"Hello," I answer.
"Michelle, it’s me," Pilar says, in her usually perky voice.
"Pilar," I say, as Danny’s face goes ashen. "I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again this soon."
Danny is at my side instantly, mouthing the words "please don’t tell her". Judging by the look on his face, the prospect of talking to his sister right now scares the hell out of him, and I well remember what it felt like to want to avoid the probing questions of well meaning family.
"I just wanted to make sure that you got settled in," Pilar says.
"Everything’s fine," I say. "This place is absolutely beautiful."
"Good," she goes on. "I’m glad. I hope it will be productive for you."
"Me too," I answer. "I really think it will be."
Danny visually relaxes a bit, as he realizes that I’m not going to spill it to Pilar that he’s here. He brings his left hand up to the back of his neck, and begins kneading his muscles, as he paces somewhat nervously.
"Well, I can’t really talk long," Pilar replies. "I was just checking in. I’m glad that you’re enjoying the house. Someone should enjoy it this summer."
"Take care of yourself, Pilar," I say.
As Pilar and I say our goodbyes, Danny quits his pacing and again stands beside me.
"Thank you," he says, as I lay my phone back on the table next to my computer.
"You’re welcome," I say. "Now, I’ll just get my things together and leave. You can let me know if you want me to come back and look after the place once you’re gone."
Danny’s presence at the house might be the first real step he’s taken in terms of dealing with his father’s death, and I don’t want my presence here to deter that in the least.
"You don’t have to go," he says, his shoulders slumping. "I was just going to stay a couple of nights."
"Then I’ll come back on Monday," I say, trying my best to give him some privacy.
"It’s a fairly good-sized house, Michelle," he replies. "You don’t have to go."
For the life of me, I can’t understand why he’d want to share this place with a complete stranger. The confusion must show on my expression, because he quickly relents and says, "The truth is, I don’t know if I can stay here by myself."
Knowing what he means, but not wanting to push him, I decide that if it means he will stay here, then I’ll stay as well. Through Pilar’s description of his grief, and the pictures of him that I’ve stared at since arriving here, I’ve come to care about Danny, and I do want him to find his way out of this pain.
"O.K.," I say, looking up at his handsome face. "I’ll stay."
A look of immense relief sweeps across his face, and a slight smile forms at the corners of his mouth. "Thanks," he says quickly, before he diverts his gaze to the floor.
"I was just about to eat some dinner. Do you want something?" I ask.
"I guess it would be a good idea to eat something," he replies, and this time he looks up from the floor and smiles at me.
Knowing that I’m about to pass out from the intensity in the room, I quickly make up an excuse to leave for a moment. "You know, it gets a little chilly here at night, so I’m going to go get myself a long-sleeved shirt." I turn and begin walking down the hallway, and then turn back toward him. "There’s plenty of soft drinks in the refrigerator, if you want one."
"Thanks," he says, as he turns and looks down the hallway at me.
Finally reaching the bedroom, I rush inside and almost collapse onto the bed. >From his pictures, I knew that Danny Santos was an amazingly handsome man, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the drop-dead-gorgeous creature that’s now standing in the kitchen. I finally admit to myself that my intentions are not purely honorable, and that a part of me wants to stay in this house with him, not only to help him through his grief, but also to get to know him better. I’ve convinced myself that somehow, Danny and I are connected by our similar journeys through the pain of losing a parent, but I know that a large part of it is simply my hormones, running out of control.
"Get it together, Michelle," I whisper to myself. "Put those thoughts out of your mind and help the man get over his father’s death. If anybody has experience in grieving the loss of a parent, it’s you."
Grabbing a soft green cardigan, I quickly pull it over my yellow tank top and head back toward the kitchen. My bare feet begin to slide on the hardwood floor, and before I know what’s happening, they fly out from under me and I land on my butt in the middle of the hallway.
"Are you all right?" Danny asks, quickly coming around the corner out of the kitchen.
"I’m fine," I answer, completely and utterly embarrassed. I can feel my face turning beet red as I go on. "Grace is not my middle name."
He reaches his hand down to me, and I take it willingly, allowing him to help me to my feet. "I’ve taken a spill on these hazardous hardwood floors plenty of times. They’re an accident waiting to happen."
Thankful for his sweet attempt to lessen my humiliation, I follow him back into the kitchen, and begin removing things from the refrigerator. As I set honey-smoked ham, a head of lettuce, a ripe tomato, and a jar of mayonnaise on the counter next to a loaf of whole wheat bread, Danny asks, "So what’s in this for you?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, not sure of his line of questioning.
"Spending the summer completely removed from civilization can’t be your idea of fun," he replies. "I was just wondering why you accepted Pilar’s request."
"Civilization is not all it’s cracked up to be," I answer, as I retrieve two plates from the cabinet.
"I’ll have to agree with you on that," Danny says with a smirk. "But really, why did you agree to spend the summer here."
"Well, Pilar knew that I needed some peace and quiet, and some time away from my family, so that’s why she asked me."
"I can understand that," he replies. "But don’t you have a job?"
"This may sound stupid, but I’m writing a book," I admit. "I have a book contract with a publisher, and I’m supposed to have my first rough draft ready to show to my editor by the end of August. Ever since I came back from Europe, I haven’t been able to write much, and Pilar thought that this place would be just the thing to help me overcome my writer’s block."
"So, that explains this," he says, gesturing to my computer and my make-shift office on the small kitchen table.
"Yeah," I say, as I quickly save and close the open file, and move my laptop from the table, making room for Danny and I to eat. As I gently place my computer and the photograph of my mother on the opposite kitchen counter, I continue. "This was a good arrangement for both of us, since she couldn’t look after the house this summer. I’m sure if she knew that you wanted to use it, she wouldn’t have asked me."
"I never intended to come here," Danny says quietly, as I set the dishes and the sandwich makings on the table. "I just got in my car and ended up here. I haven’t felt close to my father in a long time, and I guess somewhere in my subconscious I thought I might find that here."
I’m sure this is as honest as Danny has been, with himself or with anyone else, since Miguel passed away four months ago, and I don’t want to alienate him, so I don’t ask any questions.
"I hope you do, Danny," I say softly.
We eat in silence, and I find myself stealing glances at him, studying his face, his gestures, his breathing. He’s magnificent, truly breathtaking, and regardless of my efforts otherwise, I find myself hoping that his stay here lasts more than a couple of days.