Wow, I'm so sorry for the delay, bet you all thought I'd give up. This one is a mammoth, was an absolute bear to write, but I suspect that was my own fault. I'm not too happy with it but hey, you be the judge.
The response to the last chapter was phenomenal, thank you all so much, although there was one interesting comment from someone who completely misunderstood what I was trying to say in one particular instance. Must try to be clearer.
So here goes... ... enjoy!
The chill in the air was on the icy side of bracing and he'd left his suit jacket in a crumpled heap in the back of Woody's cosy camper, but Jane hardly noticed the cold that was making the hairs stand proud of the goose pimples on his arms. He finally thought to roll down his shirtsleeves and button them snugly around his wrists; then he picked up the cup of hot strong tea and cuddled it safely, with both hands, to his chest. The warmth of the cup made his freezing palms sting.
He'd been sitting on the steps in the open doorway of the Airstream for over an hour since leaving Woody's company and felt no inclination to move, except to refill his cup, even though he was so sleepy he could barely function. He'd brewed his tea on autopilot, but that was something he did most days; the only facet of his ritual that required any attention being the choosing of the blend. The stock he carried in his mobile home was, as a matter of necessity, limited to just a few selected favourites, but even so, tonight, or rather, this morning, he'd just grabbed the first that came to hand. By chance it was a Ceylon blend, dark, rich and fortifying, with a softness that seemed to envelope him in a warm hug. Coincidence or a subconscious choice; it didn't matter a fig tonight.
Alone in the dark, Jane felt a surreal calm.
Once the tea had worked its magic, he let his mind float aimlessly and his eyes roam around the inky sky, following scrappy clumps of nebulous cloud as they scudded like little grey phantoms across endless miles of indigo velvet, hurried along by a teasing north wind that had blown in during the night. It was otherwise quite clear, so when the moon was briefly blotted out by a puckish cloud, if he concentrated hard and squinted in the dark there were a few feeble but still twinkling stars. They contrived unwittingly to make him forget for a while as he focused on their beauty. Almost invisible, yet so impossibly powerful.
The only sounds he was aware of were the occasionally disconcerting skitterings of small nocturnal wildlife. Jane smiled to himself, thinking that they reminded him of the multitude of negative thoughts that rushed frantically back and forth in his mind these days, as they had done throughout all the most taxing periods of his life.
Tonight was different though. He had come very close to baring his soul to Woody, or, on reflection, perhaps he had actually achieved it. It had been painful but cathartic, and as he sat there, soaking in the nothingness, for a few precious minutes, maybe hours with a bit of luck, the world seemed to have turned inside out … his worries free to skitter in the dark and inside his head was blessed peace.
At first when he'd realised his only piece of outdoor clothing was still in the van he had considered going to retrieve it. There was still a faint warm light visible between the folds of the makeshift curtains that fluttered at the slightly open window and he could detect a faint whiff of cannabis wafting on the breeze when a sudden gust carried it his way. Woody was still awake and indulging in his own solitary ritual.
It would have been awkward to interrupt though; having said goodnight, so the jacket stayed where it was, and Jane sat shivering with his third cup of tea. He let the night wash over him until the moon started to slide gradually behind the shadowy trees on the other side of the highway and the stars began to give up their meagre light to the inevitability of the approaching day.
At some point, a while before dawn began to break, an image of the friendly hippy came to mind, already logged in his memory palace; Betty parked in line with the vehicles of a few former carnie acquaintances, in a prime position next to Pete and Sam's big silver trailer. It was rare indeed, to find a man who could claim a place so swiftly among those he remembered with fondness, but Woody was one of those men.
So Jane turned his thoughts to this unusual man who had dragged him, kicking and screaming, out of his stupor tonight, had made him face his troubles head on and examine his past and probably more importantly the present, with a modicom of objectivity.
Jane could honestly admit he was far from being in possession of a solution, if there was one, but even so, tonight he was beginning to feel lighter and more optimistic about the moving forward, which was after all paramount; the future being something he'd always had trouble confronting, since he'd spent so many years telling himself he didn't deserve one.
He'd spent many lonely nights drowning in tumultuous thoughts of his past, but only ever in snapshots. Tonight though, Woody had led him carefully through the time line of his troubles and right up to the present. All his ducks now sat in a row. And he could see them clearly. With Woody's help to spur him on, perhaps he could determine which parts of the past to keep and cherish, and which to banish, as best he could, from his memory palace. He accepted that he would forever continue to reflect on those dark days whenever his mood turned to melancholy, but now it was time to find a clearer path to happiness.
At the moment there was only one path he wanted to follow; the one where he and Teresa walked happily together hand in hand with the past not forgotten … never forgotten … but put firmly in its place.
He just wanted them to be happy.
Happy ... ... he mused.
That word made him recall with dismay those horrible days when all he'd been able to say to Teresa was 'I just want you to be happy', when in reality his heart was crying out to him to say 'I want us to be happy'.
Us ...
One little word's difference. But his tongue had been disobedient for so long, and all he'd managed to do was make them both miserable.
Now he wondered if Woody was happy.
Certainly, the man seemed to be content, wandering from coast to coast, living frugally on slim pickings and dwindling savings, buoyed up by memories of truly happy times. But was his apparent contentment really nothing more than complacency and fear? Was he only living in the past?
The evidence was clear; his home was nothing more or less than a colourful shrine to the dream that didn't last. The essence of the soul mate with whom he'd embarked upon his romantic adventure pervaded every nook and cranny, every threadbare furnishing, every weather beaten, sun bleached inch of the colourful paintwork of their jolly dream machine. It was in the warm atmosphere of humanity and nostalgia that filled the air, in the melodies of the music he listened to and in the very way he moved around the van. Most of all it was in his charming frankness and compassion and in the soft crinkles around his dewy eyes when he spoke of her.
Elizabeth still lived with Woody. He hadn't moved on; he simply didn't acknowledge it.
Sitting there on the Airstream steps in the dead of night, Jane hoped, with a stinging pang of irony, that one day, he would.
Some time later; long after the final timid star had vanished, and the thready cloud had almost dissolved away to form a thin band of dawn tinted blush hovering on the horizon, Jane became aware of a cold dampness seeping through his trouser leg.
The hand that held his half full cup, dangling from the tips of its lifeless fingers, instantly jerked with reflexive life. Jane groaned. He yawned, groaned again and wiped at his tea soaked pants, then rose without thinking and put himself to bed with his face nestled in the fragrant folds of Teresa's unused pillow. He slept soundly til dawn.
The sun rose with shining enthusiasm, in a clear ice blue and cloudless sky and had soon transformed it to cheerful azure with its golden power. Now it thrust slender shafts of startling brilliance into the silver bucket and onto the face of the sleeping runaway.
Absently Jane brushed the intruder from his cheek and pushed back the blankets cocooning his curled up body; a body chilled to the bone and still in night damp clothes when he'd eventually hit the sack only a few hours ago. He stretched and rubbed tired eyes that ached from lack of sleep, then sat up and took stock of himself … a crumpled, slightly sweaty, fully clothed, sleepy mess, who needed a long shower and several cups of hot strong tea. Since ther was very little hot or even cold water left on board, full on shower wasn't an option, so he would make do with a wash and brush up and a fresh shirt, and major on more tea and some toast, if he could find some bread, to go with the last two eggs in the little fridge. Then he would go catch up with Woody.
First, shoes on and a cuppa to get him going.
Minutes later, cup securely in hand, he flung open the door and immediately tilted his head back and closed his eyes, the better to appreciate the sun on his skin. Standing there in the doorway, he sucked in a long deep breath. And let it seep back out slowly. The warmth of the sun after those couple of hours of precious and blessedly dreamless sleep soon filled him with unexpected optimism.
Without opening his eyes Jane automatically put his foot on the first step with the intention of sitting down. With a little gasp, however, he quickly drew the foot back and his eyes flew open. There was something soft under his shoe where it should be hard. His suit jacket!
He lurched suddenly back and few drops of tea spilled over the edge of the cup and landed on the cloth to match his stained trousers as he nearly dropped the cup, so he turned and put his tea on the shelf just inside the door, before he stooped to pick up the neatly folded garment. As he shook it out to hang it temporarily over the back of the passenger seat to dry, a sheaf of folded papers sticking out of the top pocket scraped crisply against the back of his hand. He looked at them suspiciously, then realised with a grin. He hadn't put them there. So he knew who had.
Jane picked up his now lukewarm tea and downed it in a few big gulps, he dragged the pages impatiently from his jacket and leapt down the steps to see what Woody was playing at.
Except there was no Woody.
No beautiful Betty. Just a big empty, sandy space and a few dusty tyre tracks.
His new friend and confidant was gone; had done a runner, skedaddled, fled the scene of the crime, gone awol … in short he was absolument disparu.
Jane stood, flabbergasted for a few moments. The morning had started with a reassuring flush of hope. Now he felt let down. The wandering shrink who'd welcomed him into his home and given so freely of his time and patience had left the job unfinished.
Jane was on his own.
Suddenly, standing alone in the middle of nowhere, with only his worthless self for company, he was once again filled with the familiar uncertainty.
After a minute or two of shuffling the sandy soil around beneath his feet like a little boy, the only instant cure that came to mind was the ubiquitous tea and eggs he'd promised himself, followed by a serious rethink of the plan he didn't have. First, though, curiosity demanded him to take a sneak peek at the mysterious bunch of paperwork clutched in his right hand.
As he turned to climb listlessly back into the van he started to read the first page.
Dear Patrick, he read …
I know you're gonna curse me for running out on you like this. Anyhow, I hope you'll forgive me for not stickin' around, but I realised I have some place I need to be. And it's all down to you, my strange friend.
I know you'll understand. I wish you the best of luck and a long life full of loving.
Enjoy your sleep, read this carefully, then, when you're ready, go get your girl, Paddy.
You'll be fine.
So long, Woody.
Jane read the page through twice with a slowly developing smile.
The rest of Woody's missive consisted of three pages of closely packed scrawl far too daunting in it's density for a man who'd yet to have his breakfast, although a glance at the first page already had Jane grinning in anticipation. It was topped with words written in double size, upper case letters, heavily underscored and carefully traced over to make them boldly black.
W. A. RUBENSTEIN MD … OFFICIAL HEADED PAPER
A much rejuvenated Jane shoved the pages gleefully under his arm and rushed back inside to rustle up his eggs. Something told him his taste buds would work just fine today … just the knowledge that DR. RUBENSTEIN had somewhere to go filled him full of renewed hope for his own mission to find a way forward.
Thirty minutes later a spruced up and less hungry mentalist sat outside on the steps of his Airstream, basking in the warm mid morning sun, drinking another cup of tea. He'd cheered up so much that the sadly neglected phone had found it's way back into his vest pocket. He hadn't yet found the courage to read his messages, much less check missed calls, but it no longer felt quite so threatening and his pocket didn't feel right without it. Having the phone on his person, although it stirred up guilt in his gut, felt like progress, and progress was progress, no matter how slow, he decided. He thought he'd finish savouring the bottom half of his delicious Assam and then he'd set to reading Woody's hopefully wise words, now snugly residing in his pants pocket. Not that it really mattered too much if the advice was wise or not, what he needed now were starting points to launch himself from and food for thought to keep him going.
Just as the final mouthful of tea rolled slowly around Jane's mouth, the grating noise of the phone interrupted rudely from his vest. Jane swallowed prematurely. He held his breath for a second or two, subconsciously making a note to change that irksome ring tone, then he retrieved the thing with two deft fingers and glanced with trepidation at the glowing screen.
Teresa stared back at him and his heart stopped.
A few moments spent waiting for his ticker to get moving again, and a few more fighting off scarily foreign waves of indecision, were long enough for the screen to fade to black and let him off the hook. Again.
Jane sat staring helplessly at the blankness where her face had been and was no more, while the warm prospect of Woody's words of wisdom slowly dissolved around his feet in familiar puddles of the old guilt and loneliness. He slipped the phone stealthily back into its pocket; but not before his wicked subconscious had made him switch the damned thing off. He hardly realised what he'd done. He just knew he still wasn't ready yet.
Almost as disturbing, though, was the fact that his cup was empty and he was out of fresh water for a refill.
How convenient.
Jane breathed a subtle sigh of unacknowledged relief.
Woody's words would have to wait in favour of practicality.
By early evening the Airstream was fully refuelled with gas and water and a few supplies. Jane had snacked again in a diner that served miraculously adequate tea and his Woody induced calm had returned; the drive having served to centre him somewhat, his body relaxing into the rhythm of the highway's sinuously hypnotic curves and the engine's gentle drone. Now he was parked up on a picturesque side road that overlooked the Grand Canyon.
The view was straight from the pages of a glossy travel magazine: spectacularly golden, the canyon floor wide and flat, the towering cliffs glorious multi faceted walls of red, russet, ochre and pale yellow, the sky vast and as blue as he'd ever seen, or thought he'd ever see. It certainly seemed to fit the brief.
Some place nice.
Not where he wanted to be, but very nice til he was ready. Whenever that might be.
Ruefully he wondered why he hadn't made a bigger effort to persuade Teresa to come with him, but in his heart he knew the moment had been wrong. Emotions ran to high. Both his and hers.
Sitting on the steps earlier this morning with the weight of the phone in his pocket resting heavy just beneath his heart, it hadn't taken long to decide on a course of action; his reaction to her call had confirmed that it wasn't time. An untimely return was nothing short of stupid; with no plan, his head a chaotic emotional mess and his belly still full of dread, it could only result in a continuation of the situation he'd had to escape … but potentially with the prospect of a furious, hurting and gun toting Lisbon, on the warpath and after his hide.
That's what he would face, if he went back now.
He could not and would not return without at least the beginnings of a plan, and he didn't have one yet.
The best he could offer her at the moment was a seed of hope conceived on an old hippy's virtual couch, and still far from bearing fruit, since the man had done a runner. Even the thought of explaining that to her over the phone was enough to make him shudder.
So, he would delay reading Woody's thoughts until tonight after he'd had his supper. He wouldn't pressurize himself. He would sit and drink in the energy of the sun until it hit the horizon again for the third, or was it fourth, night since he'd left, then he would perhaps be ready to take on board every word with an open mind, and would work out a way to fix this thing.
For now he sat and watched the specks of black that darted and swooped in elegant pirouettes and barrel rolls across the blue blanket of the sky; birds of prey that hovered high and plummeted suddenly, taking shape as they approached and fading back into the blue as they receded. Occasionally a car or truck would race or trundle past to break the spell and paint a smudge of black, or silver or green across his view of the magnificent cliffs that seemed to glow in a haze of amber, gold and copper in the late afternoon heat.
Jane thought he might sit here for ever, calm and untroubled in this beautiful present, with no conscious thought of a painful, guilt ridden past and no fear of an uncertain future.
But, as much as he tried to empty his mind and surrender himself to the healing beauty of his surroundings, in his heart of hearts he knew this unreal day would end; as on every other day, the bright golden orb of the sun would warm to orange, through vermilion and then to deepest, darkest crimson, eventually to set again.
Nothing gold can stay.
So he sat all afternoon delaying the inevitable, half excited but also scared that the pages wearing a hole in his pocket wouldn't hold any answers, until, as the evening cooled, he made himself a meal of ham and cheese sandwiches on cheap white bread and an apple with a bit of a bruise on the side and he drank a bottle of water.
Then he carefully prepared his tea.
And at last he settled down with Woody's letter to figure out how to go back to Teresa.
Patrick, the first sheet began, in a scruffy, forward sloping hand, a little way beneath the thick black header, I won't bullshit you with all the usual psychobabble. I know you don't hold with all that stuff.
And I'm not going to beat about the bush; you're an intelligent man. You have all the answers, they are all there for you to see, in what you told me about your past and about Teresa's and in what you say you're feeling right now. If you think about it your problems are very clear, they present as three distinct issues, but of course they are closely and inexorably intertwined; you probably won't solve one without the others, and as I'm sure you realise, it's going to take time.
But have faith, my friend. You can do it. It's quite simple really.
First ask yourself these questions. I know the answers, but you must search your own heart to be sure, otherwise chuck this paper in the recycling right now.
Number one … and most fundamental … do you love her and does Teresa love you?
Two … If you are not there, will she still be in danger? Will your leaving keep her safe?
Three … If you were to pick up a newspaper, sitting far from here in a bar somewhere, months from now, and you read that FBI Agent Teresa Lisbon had been killed in the line of duty, would the pain be any less? Would you still feel the same loss? Would you feel like carrying on any more than you would if she had been the body in that box a few days ago?
Didn't take much thinking about, did it Paddy, my boy?
So that's decided then. Cutting loose isn't the answer. Like you said before, you're going back.
Now on to the meaty stuff … how to make it possible and make it happy.
Let's get to the practical stuff first, shall we. Both you and Teresa are in the same situation essentially; you feel you would have nothing without her and equally she feels she has nothing but her job …
Jane felt his jaw clench and his fingers tighten around his mug as he read those words. "She has me," he exclaimed quietly, but out loud, indignant and very hurt. It came as quite a shock to think that maybe Teresa didn't see their relationship in the same way he did, that she might not feel secure, might not be sure that she had reeled him in, hook line and sinker.
…I know, I know … I hear you. But to her you're like a will o'the wisp. She probably still feels you could just blow off into the desert in that silver cigar tube of yours like a big old bunch of tumbleweed. It's like that old beau of hers told you … all you're offering her is Patrick Jane.
Oh, I know, he's brilliant and exciting, loving and loyal, but he's mercurial, slippery as quicksilver and he comes dragging a sack load of burdens. It's both your attraction and the risk you bring. The whole enigmatic package that makes you hard to resist but harder to commit to.
She loves you, of course she does, but she needs something concrete from you. She needs to know for sure that if she were to lose her job … and yes, it is unhealthy to define herself that way …but if she couldn't work anymore, and that time will come, she needs to know she has someone to rely on, who won't drift away one night, on a whim; someone with roots. Teresa needs physical evidence Patrick, all bagged and tagged, that you'll be there if and when that happens. She won't commit to anything other than her job until you show her you're really here to stay, and give her a symbol of your commitment.
That's what you have to do …give her something more than words … that, and address the elephant in the room. The one on your finger. I know it means a lot to you Patrick, but do you ever think about how Teresa feels when she sees the man who says he loves her still wearing another woman's ring. It may be just an innocent reminder to you, I don't know, and I'm sure she understands how hard it must be to give it up, but to her it's probably still a physical barrier. She won't commit completely until you can take it off or at least talk to her about it … while you wear it she will always wonder.
Jane's mouth went dry. It was like someone stuck a dagger through his heart; his pulse raced and he suddenly felt panicky, smothered by that clammy cloak of guilt again. This time it encroached malevolently from both sides.
Did he take his ring off and betray Angela or did he keep it on and betray Teresa.
Or could he do right by them both? And how?
Mostly he didn't think about his ring, wasn't even aware of it, except in times of stress, when he needed reassurance and comfort, and those occasions were becoming increasingly infrequent; but it always niggled slightly on the periphery of his minds eye. He'd known for ages that one day he'd have to confront his feelings about the most important symbol in his life; the one whose strength he'd drawn on through all those dark days spent struggling to scrub the influence of that other dreadful symbol from his world. True, the deed was done at last and he'd even had a brief dalliance with living without the ring, but that experience had unnerved him, so he'd shoved the issue aside and ignored it for so long now that he wasn't sure he knew how he felt about it any more.
It was also true that in just the past couple of weeks both Sam and Pete had challenged and encouraged him, but he'd still managed to deflect when the subject of the ring came up. Sitting here on his own though, with nothing to use as distraction, Woody's stark analysis of it's significance in his relationship with Teresa, brought Jane down to earth with a bang. It was time to man up about the ring. Time to think about how to do the right thing: for Angela, for Teresa, and most importantly for himself … for himself because if he didn't feel comfortable about his decision, he couldn't expect his lover to.
As he began to relax again and sat quietly sipping his tea, Jane thought about the journey his ring had taken.
His journey.
It had been given to him as a symbol of eternal love, had been the spur to urge him on in his quest for revenge, had kept away some of the loneliness during his exile, and he knew he didn't want to let it go entirely, it was part of him, but now he had to plan for it's future.
A future with Teresa Lisbon.
He had an inkling of what he'd like to do, but he wasn't sure if she would go for it. Wasn't sure if he dare suggest … if it was even appropriate … he'd have to give it some more thought … he was hopeful … and the idea gave him a warm glow inside, even brought a glimmer of a smile to his lips, imagining …
But for now he had a letter to finish reading.
Now to your great bottomless pit … Woody's letter went on.
That one's not so easy, but I guess you know that, it's the reason you're so terrified.
There is no way to build an instant safety net Patrick, because these things are made of people: friends, relationships, colleagues, responsibilities, commitments. Most of those things are a two-way deal, my friend, and it seems to me you've spent the years since you lost your family … Jane cringed and substituted 'since my family was murdered', then re read …spent the years since your family was murdered pushing people away, denying yourself any closeness. I'm guessing you don't feel like you have any friends, apart from Teresa, don't feel like you're part of law enforcement, after all you're 'only a consultant' and you never intended to stick around, did you?
"Huh," grunted Jane. "Till Abbott and his bogus five year contract showed up ... "
You still feel like an outsider, but I'd be prepared to stick my neck out and say that despite all your efforts to make things difficult and despite all the baggage you come with, there are people out there who would consider themselves your friends, people who would put their lives on the line to help you.
Think back, Patrick. I think you'll find it's true.
As much as you still like to deny it, don't think you deserve it, you do have backup. It's just that no backup would ever be enough, would it?
While you're still consumed with fear.
That's what we have to tackle … that thing that's festering in your head. What you feel. What you believe. Not what actually is. It's the tough part, yeah … but the only part that really matters.
The first practical thing you should do is take a step back. Avoid what scares you. If you can't bear to watch Teresa place herself in danger, don't do it.
I know you'll say that's cowardly, but it's not, it's pragmatism. Your bosses want you to close cases. You can't do it if you drive a wedge between you and the team by interfering and you can't to it if you worry yourself back into an asylum. They know that, so take some time out of the front line, get a hobby, start a project …I don't know what, but concentrate on something else. And if that something is for you and Teresa, so much the better.
I know what you're thinking. She's still in danger and you're still terrified and yes that's true, but it's a start.
Don't worry though, it's not so daunting, 'manning up' … you do realize you've already taken the first steps?
You don't?
Then ask yourself another question.
Do you think you're weak, a coward, do you think you're unworthy ?
If the answer's yes, you need to ask yourself some more questions.
Jane instantly dismissed the first part of the challenge, the answer a painfully obvious yes.
The second gave him pause for thought; two women had loved him, and they weren't stupid women. The first had loved him without reserve and had borne him a beautiful daughter, the second had taken the very worst he could throw at her and still come up smiling all over with her love for him, and she hadn't done that lightly.
Surely, no matter what he thought of himself, he couldn't be totally undeserving, not so unworthy, if he was good enough to have won their love.
He answered both parts of the question with a definite yes though, he was coward, and yes, definitely unworthy, and went on to the supplementary questions, because the guilt that still often popped out to sit on his shoulder, told him to.
Does a coward spend a quarter of his precious life searching for his family's killer?
Does a coward follow through on the promise he made and succeed against all odds?
Does a coward consider ending his own life, but make the decision to live on?
Does a coward who thinks he isn't worthy, chase down a plane and make an ass of himself to declare his undying love to the woman who just told him the bitter truth about himself?
And, tell me, how does a man who is unworthy win the love of two women in one lifetime?
Jane allowed himself a wry chuckle, he could see Woody was in full flow, digging little holes and tossing the earth into Jane's big pit to make his fall that bit softer.
'I think I already answered one of those … you're waffling Woody, my man,' he thought, although he didn't allow himself to feel too satisfied, he just read on.
Does a coward admit that he was not such a good man and spend years seeking redemption?
And does a coward admit that it's okay to be afraid?
Still think you're a worthless coward Patrick?
I don't think you are, but I don't know what you think, so I'm going to assume that you're not won over yet. I'm going to tell you to embrace your cowardice … only call it a healthy respect for life.
That's all fear is.
Its what keeps us alive, what tempers the dangerous decisions that bravery or rashness make for us. And I'll tell you one thing, a man without fear is a fool, and very likely on the way to becoming either a dead fool or an unhappy fool. You did some foolish things my friend, some worked out, some didn't, but you did them when you weren't afraid. But you know the difference.
You, Patrick Jane are no fool and no coward.
On a personal note now, if anyone in the world is entitled to be afraid that life might come back to bite him in the backside, after what you've told me, it's you. You believe in Karma and you're still scared it'll catch up with you. I know what happened before is what's eating you up inside, but being able to admit that you may not be psychologically equipped to cope with loss is the biggest step in confronting that fear and dealing with it.
So fear got a little bit out of hand again.
You're entitled.
You've lived that nightmare before. You know what its like. And struggling to handle it is nothing to be ashamed of, doesn't make you any less of a man. Being afraid doesn't make you a coward … did I say that before? … it makes you human and being human means you have the capacity to love and to be loved.
That's Karma too Patrick.
I can see you, in my mind's eye now, getting uncomfortable, thinking ' the man's going all 'love and peace' hippy dippy on me', so I'm gonna throw caution to the wind, cos it's nearly daybreak and I need my bed. I'm gonna quote from a song, Nature Boy, written by a guy called Eden Ahbez in 1947, way before hippies grew their hair and swapped shoes for sandals. Listen to the Nat King Cole version when you have a moment …good for the soul …would have played it for you if I'd given it a thought …goes like this …
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love … and be loved in return."
That's it. Pure and simple.
That's really all I have to say. You've talked to me. Now go back to Teresa and talk to her. You've told her you don't want to lose her, but you haven't talked to her. Make her listen. Set aside some private time each week, a few hours away from work. Talk about anything, talk enough and the hard subjects will come up, don't force it, but don't let her deflect, and don't be scared.
Go back and fill your life with so much love and fun that you forget your fear and she forgets that her job is who she is.
Fill your lives, and talk, talk, talk.
Sounds a bit nebulous doesn't it, and it won't be an instant fix, but if you really love her, I promise it will work.
In the meantime …
Give her the physical evidence.
Accept and embrace your fear.
Take a step back and start a project.
Fill your life with something else.
And talk.
There will be a short homecoming and follow up chapter, which I will get out before Christmas. PROMISE.
Then I intend, if any of you would be interested, to pick up and continue my long neglected story Roll Like a Stuntman.
In the meantime, hope you enjoyed this chapter.