Your Healing Touch
Parts 7
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters.
Danny is still sitting rather motionless as I clear the plates and glasses from the table. I stack them in the sink and make a mental note to wash them first thing in the morning. I quickly return the food to the refrigerator, as Danny scoots his chair away from the table and stands up.
Still trying to be gracious, I say, "If you want to be alone, I can take my computer to the bedroom and work in there."
He looks at me, with deep brown eyes that seem abundant in softness, and says, "You’re not bothering me. You don’t have to hide in the bedroom, unless you need the privacy to get some work done."
Ignoring the voice in my head that’s telling me to get myself as far away from him as possible, I reply, "I don’t really think I’d be able to write anymore tonight. Sometimes it’s just better to quit while I’m ahead."
He nods slightly, his tender eyes still following me around the kitchen. My heart is racing faster than a thoroubred at the Derby, and I can’t seem to fill my lungs with enough air. I had no doubt that Danny was a good man - Pilar’s feelings for him were enough to tell me that - but after meeting him for myself, I’m completely astonished by him. His voice is so gentle when he speaks to me; his eyes are soft and tender, and when he looks at me, I feel emotionally naked in front of him.
I’m ripped from my thoughts by Danny’s sweet voice. "I’m going out to the front porch. Do you want to join me?"
Nodding, I follow behind him as he makes his way to the front door, and then to the porch swing. I take a seat in a lounge chair on the opposite side of the porch, and immediately my eyes find their way to the stars, bright and shining in the night sky. For a long moment, neither one of us speaks, until the silence becomes somewhat tense.
"Danny," I say, almost a whisper. "Why do you want to share this place? Especially with someone you don’t know."
He tears his eyes from the trees in front of the house, and looks back in my direction. Though it’s dark, I can feel the heat from his stare from across the porch. "Pilar obviously trusts you a great deal, if she asked you to look after the house this summer. And the first thing you did when I showed up here was offer to leave. Not to mention that I asked you not to tell Pilar that I was here, and you didn’t."
"That doesn’t explain why you want me to stay," I say, fearing that perhaps I’m asking too many questions.
He sighs deeply, and says, "Being here is hard, but I know it’s necessary. If I was here alone, I’d be tempted to get in my car and leave, rather than stay here and deal with… with things."
Knowing that’s about as much as he’s capable of admitting right now, I simply reply, "Sometimes it’s easier to trust a stranger than someone who knows you well."
"You’re so right, Michelle," he says, somehow sensing that I’m empathetic to his feelings.
"Well, I’m sure you don’t want to talk about yourself," I say with a slight giggle, not sure where to take the conversation from here. As much as I want to be out here with him, it is a bit awkward.
Fortunately, Danny has his own ideas about our conversation. "So, what’s your book about?" he asks in a genuinely interested tone of voice.
"It’s about a girl who… um… well…," I stammer, knowing that the premise of my book is going to hit rather close to home for him. "Well, it’s about a girl who loses her mother at a very young age, and the struggles that she goes through growing up without her mom, and how that journey changes her life."
He looks at me with shock in his eyes, as I continue. "Yes, I know, a little too realistic for you."
"No, it’s o.k.," he says. "You don’t have to censor everything you say to me."
"I just don’t want to make things any more difficult for you," I reply, leaning forward so that I can see him more clearly and gauge his reaction.
He smiles softly, and says, "I don’t think that’s possible." His smile grows wider as he goes on. "Now, about your book… your family must be very proud of you, landing a book contract and all."
"Yes and no," I answer honestly. "They always thought I’d go to medical school and become a doctor, and for a while I did too. My dad and my brother are both doctors, and I just realized one day that my medical aspirations were more about pleasing them than about what I wanted for myself. So… they’re kind of disappointed in my decision. I don’t think they’ve accepted the reality of it."
"Surely reading your writing must make it more real for them," he says, relaxing a bit as the conversation steers away from him and his loss.
"They haven’t read it," I answer. "They haven’t asked to read it, and I wouldn’t let them even if they did."
"Why don’t they want to read it?" he asks, seemingly baffled by what I just said.
"Like I said, they still haven’t accepted that I’m not going to medical school," I reply.
"And you don’t want them to read it?" he questions further.
"You’re full of questions, aren’t you?" I tease.
"It’s better than small talk," he replies with a smile.
"Do you want the truth?" I ask. "The truth about why I don’t want my family to read my writing?"
"Only if you want to give it to me," he says. "I’m not trying to be nosy."
I take a deep breath before beginning, because I know that I’m about to broach a subject that will bring up his grief once again. Silently however, I hope that my revelation about the pain we have in common will make him want to know me better. "In theory, my story is fiction, but in reality, it’s true. I changed the names and some of the circumstances and embellished here and there, but pretty much, it’s my own story. The girl who lost her mother is me."
His eyes lock with mine, as he studies the depths of my soul with his glance. "You’re mother is dead?" he whispers.
I nod affirmatively and quietly continue. "A lot of the story isn’t pleasant, obviously, and I’m really trying to be brutally honest about what I went through and the way my life has been shaped by it. Parts of it are going to be hard for my family to read, and that’s why I don’t want them to read it until it’s finished. As it is now, there’s no resolution… no healing. I haven’t written those parts yet, and I don’t want them to get the idea that I’m still stuck in my teen-age years when I was angry and bitter at the entire world."
He stands up from the porch swing and walks over to where I’m sitting. He kneels beside the lounge chair and gently takes my right hand and covers it with both his hands. "I’m sorry," he says softly. "About your mom."
"It’s o.k.," I say, my breathing shallow and my hand on fire from his touch. "It was a long time ago."
"Does it go away?" he asks, silently begging me to give him the answer he wants to hear.
I can only speak to him honestly, from my heart. "I don’t know. All I know is that life goes on, and you adjust."
He smiles slightly, knowing that I’ve answered him as honestly as I possibly can. "Well, that blows my idea of asking you if I could read your writing all to hell."
"You want to read my story?" I ask, not sure whether to be flattered or concerned that it would be an exercise in self-punishment for him.
"I’d love to," he says, still holding my hand in his. "If you’ll let me."
Looking down into his face, as he kneels beside my chair, gripping my hand and making my heart swell, I know that it would be futile to refuse him this, or any other request, so I don’t even try. Somehow, the thought of Danny reading my most personal thoughts doesn’t frighten me in the least.