Healing Stones (19 page)

“You weren't into remodeling?”

“I liked the house the way it was. Old—built in the early twentieth century—and it had all these nooks and crannies other kids' houses didn't have. And the backyard—now that was the best part. Old fruit trees that formed a canopy. My brothers and I climbed them, ate in them.” She came close to a smile. “We even had names for them.”

Sully nodded her on. He didn't want to interrupt the shimmer that was taking a chance on her face.

“The spring was the best. I made caps out of the blossoms and put them on my head and ran around like a wood sprite. Nathan— that's my younger brother—he followed me all around—I called him my sprite in training.”

“What about your older brother?”

She smiled off someplace. “Liam—that was short for William— he was as enchanted by the whole thing as we were. He always hid it from Daddy that he liked playing with us in the yard. It was like he was afraid that if Daddy knew he made up stories and songs for Nathan and me, he'd be packed off to military school.”

Sully felt his eyes widen.

“He wouldn't have, really,” Demi said quickly. “I know Daddy was disappointed that Liam wasn't an athlete, but Liam believes to this day that Daddy wanted him to follow in his footsteps and be an evangelist, and he doesn't have the preacher presence.”

“Do you think that's true? That your father was disappointed?”

She stared down an invisible line of thought. No wonder she was so successful at what she did. Sully didn't usually see that kind of focus in clients.

“I don't think Liam was meant to do the kind of work Daddy did, no, but that isn't a bad thing. He's a successful writer—he's had six books published—and he lives in New Mexico—has a darling wife—she's an artist. They have a daughter.”

Sully got into his cross-legged, digging-it position. “So your dad's disappointment in him could have been real, or Liam could have formed it in his own mind. What do you think?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I never got to know my father that way. I was only fourteen when he died.”

Sully tried not to fall out of the chair. Oh, by the way, one of the most important people in my life passed away when I was at a significant place in my adolescence. Didn't I mention that before as one of the losses I was enumerating in our last session?

“Now, Nathan,” she said. “He's an actor. He does well in regional theater in Seattle. He's celibate—I'm sure of that. And he's one of the loneliest people I know.”

“You don't know, of course, if your dad ever picked up on—”

“I don't know if Nathan's gay, if that's what you mean,” she said. “But he's not a man's man, and I know he felt Daddy was disappointed in him too.”

“What about you?”

“I'm not disappointed in either of my brothers. I think they're both amazing.”

Sully tugged at her line. “I mean, what do they say about your current situation?”

Her face took on that incredulous twist Sully was starting to like.

“You haven't told them?”

“Uh—how 'bout no! I'd like to keep them thinking
I'm
amazing, as well.”

That was about as telling a thing as he could think of right now— but Sully returned to the track she'd been doing so well with.

“So, back to your daddy,” he said. “What do you remember about him?”

She visibly focused again. “Even as a kid, I was aware that people respected him, that he was someone special.” She sighed. “Like I said, as an adult I've watched films of his talks, and I understand why. He was handsome, charismatic—but the thing is, he was genuine.”

“Define genuine,” Sully said.

“He never used God-talk, you know what I mean? He wanted people to come to the saving grace of our Lord, but he never did that one long word thing, ‘invite-Jesus-Christ-into-your-heart-and-make-Him-Lord-of-your-life.' He could unpack that and make it something people could embrace—and they did.”

Sully saw a spark in her eyes. He nodded her on.

“He never judged or criticized non-Christians. He was a man ahead of his time.” She stopped, probably at the shake in her voice. The poster child for self-control wasn't letting go easily.

“From what Ethan tells me,” Sully said, “it sounds like your theology— your whole life's work, in fact—is like your father's. True?”

“Definitely.”

He was sure she didn't realize she was now sitting up in the chair as if she were in the presence of something she could count on.

“He believed that God our Creator loves us, passionately, and that our hope in this world and the next is to have a deep relationship with Him—which goes beyond doing what God says in the Law. We're allowed to have doubts and fears and unbeliefs and take those to Him. Daddy always said the Old Testament was the story of God's relationship with His people—and that if we read it as our own individual thing with God—all the promising to stay close and the straying away and the coming back cowed but ready to be stronger—he said that was how the Bible should work for us.”

“And that's what you believe.”

“I do.” She looked down for the first time since she'd arrived. “You wouldn't know it from the way I've behaved, but I do believe that.”

Sully let her be for a moment. Then he said, “Where was Daddy on the New Testament?”

She took in a breath, as if she'd been forgetting to inhale. “He loved it. Loved Jesus connecting with people. Loved to talk about forgiveness.”

Sully waited for her to make a connection. She didn't.

“Would you go to your father with this if he were still alive?” he asked.

She jerked to attention. “You mean, tell him about my affair?”

“Yeah.”

She put a hand over her mouth. Sully watched panic shoot through her eyes.

“I can't even imagine it,” she said through her fingers. “He would be so disappointed.” She tightened her hand until her knuckles drained of color. “Why did you even ask me that? Now all I can think about is him out there in the everlasting, knowing all this hideous stuff about me.”

“But
not forgiving you?” Sully said.

Demi stopped. Her mouth worked, but no words came.

Ding-ding
, Sully thought softly. Hold it in your mind, Demi. Let it speak to you.

Let it shed Light.

When she still didn't say anything, Sully ventured into his next tender step.

“That's a lot to think about right now,” he said. “Especially when you can't know how he would respond adult to adult.”

He saw her swallow hard.

“I don't know what to do with it,” she said. “I don't know what to do with any of it.”

“Let's sit with that for a minute,” Sully said. “I want to ask you a few questions—these are easy ones.”

She surprised him with an attempt at a smile. “The thousand dollar questions,” she said, “as opposed to the million dollar ones.”

Sully smiled with her and leaned on his knees. “What are you doing to take care of yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you eating, getting rest?”

She nodded and pointed to her shirt, the same Daily Bread top she'd worn to their previous session. “My new employers are feeding me—they're my landlords too. And they're my shoulders to cry on.”

There was a relief. That accounted for her still putting one foot in front of the other.

“Anything else?” Sully said. “What do you do when you're not working and hanging out with them?”

“I'm trying to get my family back,” she said, a little fiercely.

“By doing what?”

She bunched up her lips.

“You're going to think this is crazy,” she said.

“Crazy is my business.”

“I go to the Victorian Teahouse and I sit in the window and write letters to my family. Sometimes I write them at work when I have a break—but mostly I go to the tearoom.”

“Do you get any response?”

She actually laughed. “No. This is the insane part—I don't actually send them. I just say what I wish I could say to them.”

Sully could no longer hold himself back. “Ding—ding-ding-ding-ding!” he said.

“Why did I know you couldn't get through this whole thing without doing that?”

“I love it! Do you know psychologists go to school for years to learn to suggest letter writing to patients? Girl, you have instincts for healing.”

“Then why aren't I getting any better?” she said, again, with fist-clenching fierceness. “Why isn't my situation changing?”

“Maybe you are getting better, but you don't feel it yet. That happens— or maybe you're writing to the wrong people.”

She shook her head. “I don't get it.”

“Maybe this is who you need to be writing to right now.” He pointed to the pixie-haired child in the picture. “Write a letter to little Demi—tell her whatever you want to tell her.”

“Why?”

“Because she's the only one who goes far enough back with you to help you see how you got here. By the way . . .” He tapped the picture playfully. “Have you asked her what she believed about herself?”

“No,” Demi said. “I had a hard time justifying a conversation with a snapshot when my husband has just hired a lawyer.”

“Priorities.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Sully steepled his fingers under his nose. “You have two things going on here. You have to deal with the current, concrete situation— and yet in order to do that, you have to also devote some time to figuring yourself out. Where are you with God right now?”

She looked at him as if he'd just brought in the Rockettes.

“Are you talking to God?” Sully said. “Hiding? Shaking your fist?”

“None of the above.” Once again, the eyes went to the lap. “As much as I've taught and written about God loving us and wanting a relationship with us—I can't face Him right now. I know it's ridiculous— but I see Him standing there in line with everybody else, ready to throw a rock.”

She looked straight at Sully, as if she were defying him to contradict her. Sully looked straight back.

“I can completely see why you'd feel that way,” he said. “Just because you ask for God's forgiveness—or at least dump on Him— doesn't mean you're instantly going to feel better. Especially with everybody else gathering stones.”

She tightened. Sully thought she went a bit pale.

“Rich is doing more than gathering stones,” she said. “Or maybe a lawyer is one of them.”

“A weapon to punish you.”

Again the panic went through her eyes, and Sully felt a need to center her before she grabbed onto her own anxiety and let it haul her off.

“This work we're doing here,” he said, “isn't theoretical stuff to explain you to yourself. Understanding is going to be so much a part of your dealing with the things you can't control.” He softened his voice. “Like Rich consulting an attorney.”

“If I could only do something.” She jerked her chin toward the picture Sully still had in his lap. “Besides write a letter to someone I used to be.”

“Then do this first.” Sully disengaged from the chair and picked up the river rock from his desk. “Make a list of every person who seems to have one of these in his or her hand ready to throw it at you. Include people who aren't even around anymore.”

“Like my father.”

“Or your mother. We haven't even gotten to her yet.”

“Uh, nor do we want to,” Demi said.

Sully tried not to relish too much the thought of turning to the plastic lady in the photo.

“Try making the list,” he said. “Even if it makes you cry, ticks you off, makes you want to ball the thing up and flush it down the toilet— do it.”

“Okay, but tell me . . .” She pulled both hands straight back through her hair. “Give me a hint how this is going to help me.”

“It's going to help you see exactly what you're dealing with,” Sully said. “If you're going to win this—”

“Here we go.”

“You have to know your opponents. This is going to help you focus. Trust me.”

That
trust me
was an automatic addition, but he could see her reaching out to grab it and examine it.

“I can't even trust myself,” she said. “How can I trust you?”

“Start with trusting God. Go through the motions if you have to. Tell Him you're making the list for Him—you're tattling about all the people who aren't doing what He said we should do.”

“You are a bizarre individual, do you know that?” she said.

“I've been told that. But bizarre or not, I'm telling you the truth you have to be patient with yourself in this work.”

“Do I have time to be patient?” she said.

He let a grin spread across his face, and he watched her roll her eyes.

“Okay,” she said. “Go with the game show thing. You've been holding back this whole time, I can tell.”

“Truth or Consequences,” he said. “Remember that one? If you don't tell the truth, you get the consequences right away, right?”

“Right.” She winced. “I got that part.”

“But when you don't
know
the truth, you have to wait for the consequences—and those consequences aren't necessarily bad.”

“I'm looking for the truth,” she said.

“Yes.”

“The truth I didn't have before.”

Even before he said it she spun her hand in the air.

“Ding-ding-ding—”

“Ding-ding,” she said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

O
ne for Rich Costanas,” Sully said. “One for Christopher Costanas. One for Jayne. One for Kevin—”

Sully dropped the last stone into the burlap sack with the others and shook his head. Why couldn't he ever get that guy's name straight? St. Bernard was all he could ever think of—which at least made Ethan laugh, a rare thing these days.