Love's Healing Touch (19 page)

"And now?"

"Now that I understand her better, I decided to look at the woman she is becoming instead of the person she was." He leaned forward. "I love her, Ana. I accept her completely. I hope you can, as well."

She had no choice. Her father had made that clear so she nodded. "Of course. What does the rest of the family think?"

"I haven't talked to them yet. I wanted to start with you because you were so close to your mother."

"But I'd never want you to be unhappy and lonely because Mama and I were close." She stood and walked across the room to sit on the arm of his chair. "I love you."

She hugged him and felt the tension leave his body.

"Thank you for understanding," he said.

"Are you going to get married?"

He smiled, a really happy smile. "That question,
mija,
is much too nosy."

N
o, Ana hadn't wanted to come to church; however, the service wasn't too bad after all. She sat next to Mike, which was worth the trip. Down the pew were Julie from the diner, Francie and Brandon, Tim, Tessie, in a dark blue and much more conservative but still-spangled dress, and Ana's father. Quite a group.

The music was nice, the sanctuary had lovely windows, and, well, she was with Mike.

Those qualities she'd noticed about him when they first met— the edge to his personality, a nervousness which made him a little intimidating, and, of course, that closed-off expression— had disappeared in this place. He was at peace. A changed Mike, but still as attractive.

Not that she should notice the magnetism between them at church. At church, she should follow his example, and he was completely involved in the service. So she stood with him for the opening chorus, bowed her head during the prayer, met and chatted with others during the greeting time and smiled when the children sang.

To her surprise, the sermon was thoughtful and interesting. She'd always thought they'd be long and boring with little substance. Probably the prejudice of a person who didn't go to church. Even in the large sanctuary, she felt an intimacy, as if the minister were talking to her, which she found a completely comfortable situation.

At the end of the service, many members of the congregation stopped to talk to Mike's family and introduced themselves to her. Everyone was friendly and invited her to return.

All in all, the morning was not horrible. If Mike asked her, she'd come back with him. If she came back to church just to be with Mike, did that make her attendance a sin? Perhaps God would like her to come back to church whatever the reason.

After Tessie had been painting for two weeks, the murals were the talk of the hospital. Patients and staff gathered to watch Tessie paint and to praise what she'd finished. She'd completed one with dogs and cats playing on a vibrant green background in pediatrics.

In the E.R. waiting room, using soothing colors, she was painting a mural of a garden. The receptionist said it not only calmed the patients and their families but made
her
feel a lot more peaceful.

Not that Tessie had limited her hours to twenty-five a week. "I can't," she'd explained to Mike when he reminded her how much time she was spending at the hospital. "Once I start painting, I don't want to stop and clean up. Once the creativity is flowing, I need to follow it." She stroked her hands through the air, her brush dripping ochre paint on the drop cloth. "I never know where the muse will lead."

In a structure built to alleviate pain, the paintings brought a healing influence. Joy lifted some of the sorrow and hope replaced a few moments of fear. Mike believed his mother was inspired, that God worked through her to heal, but he didn't mention it to her. Mom's faith wasn't ready for that yet.

One evening before his shift began, Mike entered the waiting room to see his mother putting the final touches to the garden mural, painting a deep shadow on the edge of a rose petal, a dab of white against the sky. As usual, she wore old jeans with one of his old shirts. And, as usual, Mr. Ramírez sat in a chair watching her every move.

"Isn't she talented?" He turned toward Mike, beaming proudly.

"I've always known she was."

His mother didn't notice either him or Mr. Ramírez, too wrapped up in her creations.

A week later, Ana searched in her purse for the key to her apartment. When she found it, Mike put it in the lock and opened the door.

"Thanks for a great lunch," she said.

He wished he could say something romantic and flowery. But every word seemed to stick in his throat and jam up in his mouth if he tried.

"Yeah. Great," he said instead.

She smiled. "I wish you didn't have to work the early shift, but I'll see you later."

He gave her a quick kiss.

Without bothering to take the elevator, he just ran down the stairs filled with happiness and energy. Life was terrific. Tim had gone to the recruiting office last week, taken a test and was pretty much set to leave for basic training in four months. Before that, he had to meet with the recruiting officer to set things up, but it sounded as if Tim's life and plans were set for a few years.

His mother's creations filled several walls of the hospital. On top of her success, she'd received a raise and an increase in hours to thirty a week. She and Mr. Ramírez were happily courting. When Mike'd asked her if they were getting serious, she'd laughed and waved her hands but given no information. A true Fuller.

The best part, what made him happiest, was Ana. She'd gone with him to church for two more weeks. He knew she'd gone with him the first time to please him, but
she
had reminded him last week to pick her up Sunday. More surprisingly, they'd discussed faith a few times. She was still skeptical but had been willing to listen and ask questions.

All in all, life was good. His family seemed on the right track and he was in love.

Yeah, no use denying it. He was in love and very pleased about it. She was the right woman for him: smart, pretty and caring. Their interest in medicine gave them a strong tie. When he looked back, he realized how shallow the relationship between him and Cynthia had been, based on her beauty and his future. He'd liked to show Cynthia off, amazed that a woman like her could love little Mike Fuller, son of an ex-con. She liked to say, "Mike's in medical school."

Ana accepted him as who he was— well, except that one thing. He didn't communicate well. He'd never been able to, but, as long as life was good, he didn't have to dwell on those old hurts or hide those parts of him he didn't want to share with anyone. He could bury them deep where they wouldn't bother anyone.

He believed Ana cared for him. They were together as often as they could work out. They had fun, as well as interesting conversations. And he really, really liked to kiss her.

By the time he saw Ana at work that evening, he wasn't feeling nearly as great as he had earlier. His head was pounding and his joints felt as if he'd been stomped on by a herd of orderlies. Did he have a temperature? He thought so but didn't want to know. If he did have one, he'd probably feel worse.

Ana didn't let him off as easily. She watched him during staff change, then charged toward him when she saw him in the hall.

"Stand still." She put her hand against his forehead. "Olivia, get Fuller's temperature."

He was running a fever of 101.

Ana put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Why are you here? Don't you realize your illness jeopardizes both patients and staff?"

"But I can't go home. I need— "

"Listen, Fuller, I'm speaking as Dr. Ramírez so you have to listen to me. Go home now."

Not strong enough to argue and knowing he'd lose anyway, he nodded, went into the staff locker room and got his billfold and keys.

"Okay, what's the matter with you?" Ana entered the room behind him. Now she was both the professional Dr. Ramírez and his girlfriend, a difficult balancing act.

"Headache." He put his hand on his forehead. "Weak and achy."

"Go home. Drink plenty of water and sleep. Take some aspirin to bring down the temperature if your stomach can handle it." She shook her finger in front of him. "Don't come back until you're not contagious and," she said in a softer voice, "until you feel a lot better."

She glanced around the room, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "Go on. Get in bed and get well."

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said in an effort at humor that didn't work at all. He gave her a pathetic grin and headed for the parking lot.

It was almost midnight when he got home. As he drove down the street, he saw a movement in the bushes next to the window of the bedroom he and Tim shared.

Was someone trying to get in? Not that they had anything worth stealing, but Mom and Tim were in there. He wished he had a cell phone, but his was in the house for everyone to use.

He turned off the headlights and pulled up a few houses past theirs. Making as little noise as possible, he opened the door and slid out. Ignoring his shaky legs, he hunkered down and crept silently around the neighbor's yard and through his backyard.

When he could see between the houses, the shadow moved and became a person. He sneaked closer to the figure of a man who looked a few inches shorter than he and about thirty pounds lighter. He could probably take him if he had to. Well, maybe if the intruder was also suffering from the flu and had the strength of lettuce, Mike could take him.

Mike slid behind a crepe myrtle to see if the man was breaking in, but he had to lean against the wall to rest for a few seconds first.

No, the prowler had placed the screen against the house— had he already been inside?— and was moving away from it. He had nothing in his hands, but he could have hurt the family. Should Mike check inside the house or chase the man? He'd never catch him, not with his legs still shaking. He couldn't climb in the window due to his painful joints, so he watched.

As the figure reached the front yard, a car drove up, a dark SUV with silver flames on the side. When the man ran toward it, Mike recognized the jacket in the illumination of the streetlight. It was his. Then he recognized Tim's familiar lope and ran after him as fast as he could, which matched the speed of an arthritic snail.

"What in the world do you think you're doing?" Mike said as Tim opened the door of the SUV. "Tim, get back here."

Tim froze. Mike hadn't ever seen anyone freeze like this except in a movie. It was as if the words had fallen over his head and down his body like a blanket of ice.

"Tim, come here."

Tim turned toward his brother but didn't move closer.

"Hey, are you coming?" a male voice asked from the SUV.

"Go on." Tim closed the door and waved toward the driver. "Get out of here."

The tires squealed as the car took off. Step by hesitant step, Tim moved closer to the house. Mike expected him to say, "I can explain," but he didn't.

"Do you want to tell me what's going on?" Mike asked.

He was beginning to feel even worse. With the adrenaline rush when he believed his family was in danger, he'd been able to function. Now the headache throbbed so much he felt as if someone were driving a spike through his eye. He was so weak he had to hold on to the porch column to stay on his feet. Slowly he sank to the ground.

"Hey, what's the matter?" Tim leaned over his brother.

"Don't change the subject." Mike stared up at him from his position on the grass and made an effort to sound intimidating. "Where were you going?"

Tim put his hand on Mike's forehead. "You're hot. You're really sick."

"Where were you going?" He wished he could go to bed instead of carrying on this conversation. Sweat dripped down his forehead and body. When a light, warm breeze hit him, it nearly knocked him over. He shivered.

"You should be in bed."

"Tell me the truth. I'd rather be in bed, but I'm not going to do that until I find out more." Although he feared he might die first.

"A bunch of us were going for a drive."

"A ride after midnight? Don't kid me. Why did you climb out of the window?"

Tim didn't answer immediately. He shifted from foot to foot, an action Mike could see very well from his seat on the ground.

"I didn't want Mom to hear me close the front door. It has a really bad squeak."

Mike's body slowly listed to the left until he allowed himself to lie prone, hardly the most threatening position. "Why?" he murmured.

"You need to go to bed."

"Tim, why?" he forced the words out.

"Rudy wanted to do some stuff."

"Rudy? The kid with the juvie record who lives two blocks over?"

"Yeah, but he's really a nice guy."

"Guns?" He couldn't talk enough to form a complete sentence.

"No, no guns." Tim sat on the ground next to his brother. "Just some fun."

"Knocking over mailboxes? That kind?"

He thought Tim nodded but, of course, with his eyes closed, he couldn't see the action. "When I'm feeling better, you're in a whole lot of trouble." After a few minutes of silence during which Mike almost fell asleep on the ground, he said, "For now, help me up." He reached out his hand for Tim to grab and pull him to his feet. They limped into the living room where Mike collapsed on the sofa, unable to go another step.

As he fell asleep, Mike had an unnerving thought. His brother had felt the call of the wild again, the terrible gene of danger that wandered through his family and had destroyed several of them. What was Mike going to do to stop that?

Obviously nothing tonight.

Three days passed before Mike was able to get to his feet for longer than a few minutes. Ana had visited the day after he'd left the hospital sick. First she greeted his mother, who was hovering over Mike and driving him crazy.

As a doctor, Ana checked on him, diagnosed the disease as a virus, and told him to keep forcing liquids and stay in bed. Then, as Ana, she gave him a bunch of flowers and kissed his forehead. Nice. On the second day, she read the newspaper to him while his mother cooked his favorite food to try to tempt his appetite. It didn't work, but he appreciated the effort more than he had her pillow fluffing.