So Much More(88)

“I’m a placebo effect.” She sounds doubtful.

“No. You, your goodness is very, very real. And very healing. Believe me. You made me realize that, though I have MS, I am not my disease. You see me, despite it, and you accept me. That makes everything easier. I don’t feel broken.”

“You were never broken,” she whispers, “You were always Seamus.” I can hear her breathing, deep, measured breaths and when she’s ready, she continues with her story. “The couple was odd. The woman stayed at home and didn’t work. She prided herself being a foster parent, wore the title like sainthood. She wasn’t a saint. She was selfish and vindictive. She ran her house like a dictator. He was a drug dealer. She pretended not to know. He pretended not to watch her mistreat us.”

I know I should keep quiet, but I have to ask, “You told me before your foster homes weren’t bad?”

“Most of them weren’t. I lied about the last one. The truth is ugly.” It’s an apology. “Your turn.”

My turn to take deep breaths. A deep, anxious ache is settling in my chest and creeping up my throat, but I push it away to share. Faith, the present here and now Faith, is what matters and she needs to know. “When you laugh, I feel your joy. It’s a presence that I pretend is all for me. Your eyes sparkle and the smile that takes over your lips is the definition of happiness, radiantly reckless in its bold and heartfelt intent to spread pure joy. You never hide behind laughter, it’s always transparent and true. I love that about you.”

“Can I hold your hands? I need to hold on to you, Seamus.” Words are processed within my mind. But those words bypassed and proceeded straight to my heart. I heard that plea in my heart.

“Yes. Please.”

Her fingertips find my arms, skimming down, and she twines hers with mine. Her grip is tight. She’s preparing herself for what she’s about to share. “He was also an addict. And after nine months in their home…so was I.” The shame in her voice is unbearable.

I lean forward and kiss her forehead. And then I inch down and kiss each eyelid, they’re wet with tears like I knew they would be. It breaks my heart. “When you cry, I want to erase from existence whatever brought you sadness.”

“I don’t remember much of my last night with them. She was gone, and he and I got high while the other kids slept. Cocaine. It was my drug of choice. He wanted to go to the park a few blocks away, even though it was past midnight. Normally, I would’ve said no, we didn’t hang out. But he insisted, and I was antsy, so I agreed. I drank an orange soda he gave me while we walked. The last thing I remember was sitting on the rusty, old merry go round listening to it squeak in protest with each revolution.” Her grip on my hands is tight, so tight, by squeezing it’s releasing the hate and hurt that’s building inside her.

I tell her something she told me months ago, “Give me your hate, Faith.”

She’s crying. “I can’t, Seamus.”

“Give me your hate, Faith,” I repeat. My voice is rising, begging her to purge this admission. “Please. You need to get it out. I can take it. Yell at me if you need to. Give me your hate.”

It’s several seconds before her hate shatters the silence in ragged, hurried, whispers, “I hated him, Seamus. I hated her. I hated myself. I hated my addiction. I hated my life.” She pauses before she blasts the next sentence in angry sobs, “I just hated; it’s what I did to survive.”

The words tear me apart. She’s not hate. She’s not her past. Damn them for tainting her. I release her hands and hug her. She responds immediately. The hug is a mutated version, strength driven by rage from both of us.

Just when I think the adrenaline coursing through her is going to grant her the strength to split me in two, her grip lessens to her normal loving squeeze, and she sniffs. “We. You and me. We should be standing on your doormat, Seamus.”

I smile through the anger, eyes still closed, and kiss her on the forehead. “We should. Later,” I add because all I want to do is take her home with me and never let her go.

She hugs me tighter and sniffs again. “Promise?”

“Always,” I promise.

“It’s your turn, please. I need something good before I finish this. The end isn’t pretty.”

“Your hugs have the power to change people. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. You have a genuine kindness about you that’s so rare and pure, it brings me to my knees. I could live in your arms forever.” I rub her back and hold her, willing her to relax. Her story is housed within her muscles creating tension. She needs to relax to let it out.

It’s quiet for a long time before she begins. Her voice sounds tired like she’s already exhausted from the secret she’s about to share. That’s the thing about secrets, they’re heavy. Getting out from under them requires strength and work. It’s not easy. “The doctors and detective filled me in when I woke up in the hospital. It explained the pain and fear I felt. Along with the drugs I’d willingly ingested, they also discovered Rohypnol in my system.” Her voice is calm, too calm for the knots in my stomach. “He knocked me out…and then he stripped me and raped me. We were found under a tree like discarded trash by a man walking his dog at dawn. I was naked, and he was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”