XI.
Against all odds, he had good days. Days when he thought about her, because he did it all the time, and although her absence hurt a lot, he could see that good things were happening around him. Like the pregnancy of Fred's daughter and the joy of the man with his grandson, or Tim excited when he knew that his father would attend one of the classes with the Cubs.
However, while he could put on a cheerful face for others, he knew that inside his soul, everything was wrong.
Tim checked the mail, he always did it because he was curious and wanted to know who were the ones who communicated with his father. There were no distant cousins or uncles, therefore, when his son exclaimed that there was a letter with his name, he thought the boy was joking. But it wasn't like that, there was a letter for Tim. There was a sign of life.
She didn't choose him, she chose his son, and while Tim read and admired the watercolor, he felt anxious to know more. It wasn't the right thing, but he wanted to rip the envelope from Tim's hands and read it himself, see if there was a minimum hint. His son read quickly, it was not a long letter, so he immediately removed his doubts.
"His kind letters." That's what she called them. Did that mean she read them? Did she say it out of pure courtesy? Did she read all the letters?
He dared not think about the last ones he sent. They were written with the heart in the hand, and as he wrote them he sent them, without stopping to read once more and regret what he did.
His son looked at him curiously. Tim needed to know what "in due course" meant and if he was honest with himself, he also needed to know the same.
Why did she respond that way, as if it were in code? Why didn't she speak clearly? He rebuked himself for his selfishness, she had limitations, there were things she could not say or feel.
Overwhelmed by what was running in his mind, he decided to fire Tim, sending him to school. He was still a bad father, at least he should say goodbye to the boy, kiss him and wish him a good day, but he needed to be alone, trying to tidy up the maelstrom he felt in the head and in the heart.
She answered. Even, she painted a small drawing. One more thing he didn't know about her, one more piece of his favorite puzzle. He tried to imagine her painting, frowning in concentration, like when she was working on a difficult birth. Then he tried to imagine her reading the letters, but decided to avoid that image at all costs.
But it was so hard not to do it, because he lived thinking about her, thinking about how beautiful she always looked, whether she was angry, worried, sad, or jumping with joy. She was always beautiful and sweet, and for a second he had the luxury of imagining what her hair would be like, what her name would be like, how she would be herself, without limits and without restrictions. Every part he imagined, he fell in love more.
He knew it was wrong, that it was always wrong, but it was useless to try to avoid it. He did not know for which divine punishment he loved her, and at the same time, he could not consider it a punishment. Loving her was a gift, noticing every part of her and her character was a privilege. It didn't matter if his silly dreams of a life with her were never fulfilled. He had to focus on her being well, she was alive, she was healing. Why ask for more?
He thought about how things would be when she returned to Poplar. She would be healed and strong, but in no way would he let her work. He would make sure to take care of her, even if she returned like a nun. And if it wasn't, he would too. Even if she ignored him, even if she came back with a man, he would always take care of her. From afar, and in silence, without expecting anything in return, only the happiness of seeing her healthy.
"Promise me you'll be on time."
He looked at Tim and smiled. The boy was excited, he had even told all his friends that his father would go to class and not to talk about burns, sprains and medical things. Many parents had gone to demonstrate their skills as carpenters, welders, and other "extraordinary" things according to his son, so he would help him to be no less than the other children.
"I have all my schedules strictly organized so that nothing interrupts my frog class."
Tim smiled satisfied as he settled again the painting that Sister Bernadette sent him.
The truth was that he wanted to throw it in the trash. Seeing it on the counter, or in the window, or on the piano, or in any of the places that his son considered best for "Sister Bernadette's work of art" was like a stab of reality, it was a reminder that she was there and at the same time, she was not.
But, he knew that he wouldn't throw away the paint even if he was pointed with a gun. It was a piece of her, something she did with dedication, something her fingers touched. It was a small hope, an indication that she, for a moment, had remembered him.
Timothy ate hurriedly and after reminding his father again about his obligation in the afternoon, he went out to meet the Cubs. Patrick had to make some visits to the patients and then, proud of himself, he arrived perfectly in time to see the flock of children with Chummy and Fred. Tim son shone when he saw his father and Patrick felt, finally, someone valuable to the child.
He knew that the other children looked at him strangely. He was not someone who sat on the floor, roll up the sleeves and started folding green papers. He was always a bad news, because with him he carried disgusting medications, injections, and strange words. Sometimes, too, he carried little siblings.
But this time he was not a doctor, but a father. It felt good, a little oasis in the desert where he lived.
For the umpteenth time, he remembered her. She stepped on these tiles, it would not be strange that in a meeting of the Cubs she was helping. What would she say if she saw him, teaching how to fold papers and turn them into frogs? She would surely laugh, with that laugh of little bells.
Chummy approached, visibly worried. In fact, she had been since Dolly entered the parish hall. In effect, she didn't have good news. His medical side must have emerged, although he did not want to. He was busy being happy with and for his son, and suddenly the doctor had to return, and the class was suspended. All the children went home with their family, except Tim, because he didn't have one. Like so many times, Patrick had to leave his son for more important reasons.
He taught him to be independent, but at the same time, he was a child, he could not always manage alone. He imagined all the claims Tim would make him as soon as he saw him again.
Why always, when he had a littleflash of sun, his road turn misty again?
