This one-shot is dedicated to my beloved husband Rick, with whom I have shared more than half my life, now, and 19 years of marriage as of February 24th. Every word here written from Teresa's perspective about Patrick could with equal truth have been said (or could now be said) by me about my dear love, and the relationship that we have built between us. I could rightly say that he has made me who I am, hence the title-Galatea was a statue made and loved by her sculptor, then brought to life. But in real life, as opposed to myth, the making is mutual. Or perhaps it would be better to say that we are both tools forming each other's best possible images in the hands of a much greater Sculptor.
The main characters of the Mentalist, never named here but implied, are not mine. And this story was made for love, not for money.
Galatea
If I had been the one planning this, it would have happened very differently.
It wasn't only his considerable charm, wit, and intelligence sweeping me off my feet that brought me here, either. In a white dress. Adorned with flowers. Meeting those startlingly blue eyes and as he gazes back warmly at me. The Suit he wears so well makes him stand out, sets him apart from every other man. He fills not just the vest, but the whole space with his presence. Striking. Dashing. And he wants to be mine. As I am undoubtedly his.
It should have been no surprise when he asked me. But after all these years, it's like one way glass between us. Without a word spoken, he knows me better than anyone. But I still can't seem to see him as clearly as I'd like. What I do see is breathtaking. Comforting. Terrifying. Exciting. Troubling. But I never feel quite sure which face is real and which is assumed, a trick of the light or a slight of the lips. I keep searching for a place to touch bottom, to feel secure in my footing.
There is so much that I want from him, but it is never available on demand. To be loved and desired. To be trusted and valued. To have his time and attention and conversation. To hear the words that turn in delightful, unpredictable ways on his tongue, at once casting and dispelling illusions, making the world a place of adventure and wonder and romance just for us.
To be his partner, his lover, in every way.
I can't ask for these things. Too often, the answer has been no. It's painful to approach with my heart on my sleeve and have it torn, turned aside, or just lightly dismissed. Even ignored. He does love me. Wants my happiness, has sacrificed much of his life to protect me and build me up. He wishes that he could give me more, but often his mercurial moods and shattered past get in his way. It's hard for him to trust, too. Though the risk of rejection from me could only live in his complex mind, life itself has struck him down hard too often. I can't demand from him the strength I barely have myself. And just when I despair of ever getting what I want, he lifts the lid on a silver platter, and it's mine. Not ever quite as I envisioned it. Often better. But I can only gratefully accept gifts offered by this man, himself in such need of love. It's the only kind of gift that I can give, too.
He's still an enticing mystery. As long as I've known him, I still only see what he wants me to see. But it's enough. Enough to love him fiercely. Enough to take gladly whatever he can offer.
He smiles (how I love his smile) as he takes my hand, leads me away from the crowd. I feel as if I could float away, light as a dandelion seed. Eager to share a moment with him. Shaky with nerves.
He has shaped so much of who I am, and sometimes it feels like the wrong words from him could tumble my world like a house of cards. I think of the times when he has left me. Even though he has always come back, so far, the very idea of a permanent loss is terrifying, heart-breaking. Only prayer and the call of daily duty kept me upright during those times. Prayer carries over where work fails me.
I wonder what my news will cost him. Will joy overcome his fear? Will the hope of new life underscore what he has already lost?
If only his smile could always be this peaceful, this contented, this full of joy. When he looks at me he lights up. The stars blush for shame. Yet I've seen him at his worst, when it seemed that nothing in the world could ever be right again. When he was ready to give up breathing. When he was ready to sacrifice every good thing to the anger and pain that consumed him. It would be foolish to think that I was the one who restored him. If he himself did not will, day by day, to persevere, he would be dead many times over.
How I thank God for not letting that happen.
Because he lived, because he became part of my life, I have grown in ways that I never could have grown, otherwise. He showed me things about myself that I wouldn't have guessed. Made me see the world in new ways, taught me how to remake the world as it ought to be. He gave me fun and laughter in unexpected places. Made me stronger and softer, sometimes at the very same time.
Still, just as he has shaped me, given me strength and confidence in who I am, given me success and opportunities that I would not have found without him, so I have shaped him, in turn. Between us we have shared structure and flexibility. Faith and reality. Grieving and rejoicing.
We have given form to one another's lives and dreams. And today we breathe new life into those dreams.
I take a breath and speak.