“It won’t,” I promise her with words while I hold her in a stare.
She’s not convinced. There’s a look resonating in her eyes, but every few seconds it changes slightly or mixes with another emotion. There’s lust and pain and fear and shame.
“Faith.” I never knew one word could hold so much hope, but her name does. I can’t explain it, but I feel like my future depends on it. My sanity depends on it. My heart depends on it. “Please talk to me. You can tell me anything.”
She pinches her lips together painfully until their rosy shade blanches the color away and she shakes her head. “Not this, Seamus. My past is hideous. I made bad choices and bad things happened.”
“Everyone makes bad choices. You don’t think I’ve made bad choices? Jesus, I was married to a bad choice for twelve years. Enough said. I hold an advanced degree in bad choices and oversight.” I’m calmly pleading with her. “Close your eyes,” I say as I close mine.
“Why?” she questions.
“I’m turning off my judgment and your filter,” I’m whispering. “Are they closed?” I ask from behind closed lids.
“Yes.” Her voice. That voice. So close. So trusting. So soft in the darkness.
“Tell me anything. Tell me everything. I want all of you.” I do. So much.
I’m met with drawn out silence, but it’s not threatening. I can feel her resolve building and apprehension fading in front of me.
“How about we both share?” I coax. “You tell me about your past, and I’ll tell you how I feel about you.”
“Do I want to hear it?” I feel her warm words on my face, there’s a faint glimmer of a smile in them.
I’m nodding, even though she can’t see me. “Probably not as much as I need to say it.”
She begins and if it’s possible her voice is even softer and raises goosebumps on my arms. “I was raised in foster care. You already knew that. The last family took me in at sixteen. I left when I was almost eighteen.” She pauses. “Your turn.”
I don’t know if my heart can take the story she’s about to unfold in the air around us, but I wait because that’s all that my life is at this moment, words suspended in darkness. Words I’m determined to make count. “My life is easier when you’re in it,” I offer, “and harder when you’re not. Your presence eases a tension inside me that I’ve carried all my life. You make me hurt less, physically everything’s more tolerable when you’re near.”
“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.