Making Sense (23 page)

Freya reached out and took his hand. “Tell me what happened.”

He could feel the energy flowing through her as she tried to calm him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He had the same as Josh—acute lymphoblastic leukaemia, but it was very advanced. They’d left it far too late. I believe that what I do is aid the body’s natural ability to heal. The body needs energy to replenish itself, to rebuild damage and feed the good cells, and I can help a person to top up that energy supply if they’re too ill to do it themselves.”

He stood up, letting her hand slide from his, and walked over to the window, although he wasn’t seeing the view outside. “They brought him to my clinic. Michael was too ill to talk, so I meditated with him and scanned his body—that’s when I run my hands down to see if I can pick up where the energy field needs healing. It was then that I realised he was too ill to help. He was in a lot of pain, but he clung to life because he knew his death would destroy his parents.”

“Oh,” said Freya, and Nate realised she knew where this was going, but he carried on anyway.

“I explained to them that I couldn’t help him, but they begged me—his mother literally got down on her knees and begged me—and my Dad took me to one side and told me they were willing to pay a substantial amount if I could help Michael. That sickened me, and it made up my mind.
 

“I told his parents and my father to wait outside the room. And then I put my hands on Michael. I could feel he was ready to let go. So…I helped him. I told him that he wasn’t responsible for what happened to his parents, and that if he was ready, he should leave his earthly body—all that pain—behind and move on. He was so relieved. And he died there, in my arms. He couldn’t do it while his parents were there, see?”

“Oh, Nate.”

“When they came in and found out what had happened, his parents were hysterical. I tried to explain that it was just his time, but they went ballistic. Attacked me. Mum and Dad got them out of the house eventually—I think they called the police and an ambulance in the end, and they had to sedate Michael’s mother.”

He glanced over at Freya. Her face was white, but he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“You think you euthanized him,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Yes.”

He wondered what her views were on that. She was a nurse, and most nurses were vehemently opposed to it. He couldn’t read her thoughts, however. She just looked stunned.

“What happened afterward?” she whispered.

“They obviously weren’t going to let it rest there. They took me to court and sued me. I had top-level insurance, though, and Dad got a really good lawyer, who brought in a stream of doctors to swear that Michael would have died regardless of whether I was there or not. I was acquitted.” He shrugged. “Not that that mattered. By then it was all over. I wanted out.”

“But your father wouldn’t let you.”

“No. He played on the fact that all my patients would be devastated, and I owed it to humanity to use my gift to heal the sick, yadda yadda, but I knew it was all about the money. And that’s when I knew I couldn’t carry on. So I drew out half the money in the bank account and walked out one night.”

Freya came to stand beside him. “Do you really think you killed Michael?”

He met her gaze. “Honestly? Yes. I know I helped him to his death.”

“That’s not the same as killing a person, Nate.”

“Isn’t it?”

They studied each other for a while.

“You’re angry with your father because you feel he pushed you to it,” she said eventually. “You feel that if he hadn’t made that comment about the family paying you good money to heal Michael, you would have just told them you couldn’t help.”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Do you think Michael would have died anyway?”

“Yes, eventually.”

“Might he have died that night?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

“So how can you be so sure you had anything to do with his death?”

“I can’t explain it to you, honey. I’m not even sure you believe I can do what I do. And who knows? Maybe I’ve been kidding myself all these years and I can’t heal—maybe it’s all bullshit. But the fact is that
I
think I can heal, and
I
think I had something to do with that boy’s death at that moment, in my arms. And that’s what matters.”

She studied his face and nodded slowly. “Yes, you’re right. In the end, we have to forgive ourselves before we can forgive others.” She stepped closer to him then, reaching up a hand to touch his cheek. “Nate, do you believe you helped that little boy? Do you believe you helped him accept the fact that he was dying?” She brushed her thumb across his cheek, and he realised she was brushing away tears. He hadn’t even known he was crying.

“I…” He couldn’t answer her.

She smiled. “Do you think you’re the only person in the world who’s ever brought comfort to someone on their deathbed? Nate, nurses deal with the dying every day. I’ve worked in the ER, on the oncology ward, and on the geriatric ward. One of the biggest things a nurse has to learn is that you can’t make everyone better. Sometimes, it’s just their time to go. And all we can do, as human beings, is make those last few, precious moments of a person’s life as relaxed, pain free and comfortable as we can.”

She took his hands. “Honey, you didn’t euthanize him. You didn’t give him an overdose of drugs that took away his life. All you did was help him to understand that it was okay to let go, and to comfort him while he did. His parents’ reaction was understandable, but extremely unfair. I’ve seen it in the hospital—grieving families raging at doctors and nurses for not saving their loved ones.”

“Don’t forgive me,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t bear it.”

“You need to forgive yourself. You comforted a dying boy, Nate. That’s all.” She smoothed back the hair from his face. “Death is a concept that our society is very uneasy with. We put our elderly in homes, our sick into hospices, and when they die, we get them in the ground as quickly as possible so we can move on. When we find out someone has a disease, we help them to fight it to their dying breath, so much so that people often spend the last year of their life ill as much from treatments that aren’t going to prolong their lives by more than a few months at the most than from the disease itself. And what are those months worth if the patient is unable to get out of bed, sick to the stomach? We cling to life because that’s all we know, but we need to be able to accept death for what it is—part of a natural cycle. We should be helping those people to spend their last few months coming to terms with this next stage in the wheel of life and death.”

He stared at her. Then he took her into his arms and held her tightly.

They stood there like that for ages. He could feel their auras circling, blending, like two pots of paint spilled and left to mix. He’d thought he was the healer, but at that moment he could feel Freya lending him her energy, refilling his well, making him whole again.

When they eventually pulled apart, her anger and frustration had vanished. His had nearly gone, but there was still one more thing he had to admit.

“Freya.” He stroked her hair. “I have to tell you. When I left home, I changed my name.”

She looked up at him. “Nate’s not your real name?”

“It’s my middle name. After my grandfather.”

“What was your real name?”

“Simon,” he said, swallowing. “Simon Nathaniel Travers.”

She blinked, studying him. “You don’t look like a Simon.”

He smiled, the knot in his stomach easing. “I don’t feel like one anymore either. You’re not angry with me?”

She sighed. “Is that all your secrets?”

“Yep. Every single one. Nothing else to tell you.”

“Then no, I’m not angry. It makes sense that you changed your name. I’d have done the same.”

Awash with emotion, he kissed her hand. “What a pair we are,” he said, feeling like a wrung-out rag. “Living half lives.”

“But between us we make a whole.” Freya linked her fingers with his. “You complete me, Nate. I feel like one of those corny necklaces—you know, with the heart broken down the middle, but when you bring the two halves together, they fit. Maybe that’s our secret. Alone, we’re weak, but together we’re strong.”

He met her gaze. “I love you,” he said tenderly, slipping his hand into her hair.

“I love you too.”

He kissed her, but even though he enjoyed the touch of her lips, his mind obviously worked furiously, thinking about what she’d said.

Eventually, he pulled back. “I do love you,” he said, knowing she’d be able to hear the surprise in his voice.

She smiled. “I do love you too.”

He blinked. “No, I mean, I
really
love you. I want us to be together.” He frowned, touching the back of his fingers to her cheek. “And I know what that means. We’re going to have to deal with our problems before we can move forward. But maybe, if we do it together, we’ll be able to manage.”

Chapter Nineteen

Freya rang the doorbell. It was raining again, and she pulled her raincoat close around her neck to stop the drips running down it. In her left hand, she held an envelope. Her right hand grasped Nate’s, who stood there silently, his dark hair wet and shining.

He squeezed her fingers, and she squeezed back.

Footsteps sounded from behind the door, and Freya’s heart began to pound. But she made herself keep calm, waiting as the person behind fumbled with the lock, then opened it.

“Freya!” Sarah stared at her daughter, pressing shaking fingers to her mouth. “Oh God, I’m so glad you’re here.” She moved forward to kiss her daughter, only then noticing Nate standing to one side. “Oh.” She blinked at him. “Is this…”

“My boyfriend,” said Freya. “This is Nate.”

“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.” Nate extended his hand, and Sarah shook it.

Freya nodded down the hallway. “Can we come in?”

“I…” Sarah glanced over her shoulder. “Your father’s not in the best of moods…”

“I want to talk to him.” Freya stepped forward, and Sarah automatically moved backward to give her entrance. Freya strode forward, still holding Nate’s left hand tightly, so glad he’d come with her.

She walked into the living room and stopped as she saw her father sitting in his armchair. He had a beer in one hand and sat staring at the TV, although his eyes were glazed, half-lidded, and she suspected he wasn’t really listening to the programme.

“Dad.” She waited for him to look up at her. “We need to talk.”

He stared at her for a moment and then looked over at Nate. “Who’s this?”

“My boyfriend, Nate.” She linked her fingers with Nate’s, reassured by his warm hand, knowing he was sending her calming energy. “Mum, Dad…I have something to say.”

Her father pushed himself slowly to his feet, and they both looked at her expectantly.

Freya held out the envelope. “This is for you. It’s a cheque for eight thousand dollars. It’s all I have, and it’s the last money I’m ever going to give you. What you do from now on is your own responsibility. If you take the money out of Mum’s bills tin, Dad, then you won’t be able to pay the rent, and you’ll likely get thrown out of the house. And if you let him, Mum, if you don’t force him to find help, you’ll end up without a home, without anything to call your own. And it will be your fault. I’ll find you a support group, and if you decide to try and make it work, I’ll help, but I’m not giving you any more money.”

Her mother went white; her father turned red. He looked at Nate, his brows drawing together. “Is this your doing?” he snarled.

“No, sir.”

“No, it’s mine,” said Freya. Her heart pounded, but she tried to keep her voice as calm as Nate’s. “I know you don’t believe that, because you don’t think I can stand up to you.”

“Freya!” Sarah clutched hold of the chair in front of her as if she might fall over. She looked horrified, her eyes darting to Harry in panic.

Harry took a step toward her. “How dare you talk to me like that?”

Freya stood her ground, some small part of her aware that Nate had moved protectively closer to her, although he kept quiet. “It’s the truth, Dad. All my life you’ve bullied me—not physically, but emotionally. Made me believe you had a right to demand I support you in your addiction.”

Harry glowered at her. “I don’t have an addiction.”

“Yes you do. And you won’t get better until you admit that.”

He walked closer to her. Nate’s hand tightened on hers, but still she refused to move. Her father’s eyes were hard, cold. “I do what I do because I enjoy it. I’m not addicted.”

“Dad, people are rarely addicted to something they hate. Alcohol, cigarettes, drugs—they take them because they like how they make them feel. You
are
addicted to it because you can’t stop.”

“I can stop any time I want,” he snapped.

“Can you?” She met his gaze boldly. “I don’t believe you.”

His eyes shone like flint. “I will not have my own daughter talk to me like this in my own house.”

“You’re angry because you can’t face the truth.”

Harry drew back his arm and threw his beer can across the room with a roar. “I am not an addict!”