I've never been one for touching or being touched. Since Hoyt - and I hate the pause my brain delivers before his name – even more so. I am so self-conscious about the scars on my hands. I almost completely stopped touching anyone. They still touch me, hugs from Mom and Pop and Frankie, awkward pats on the back from my co-workers, but I rarely return them. I don't shake hands. I try to keep them out of sight. No one looks at them or touches them other than doctors and nurses and therapists.
Except Maura.
I don't know why I don't give her shit about it. She looks at them and knows exactly how much they hurt. She does things to them that make them hurt less. She holds my hands so I won't rub the scars, trying, I guess, to erase them, even though I know that won't erase my memories.
Her hands are the only thing about her that give away her job. They are smooth, soft, and strong. She can't hide that strength like she does the rest of hers, behind makeup and pretty dresses and nice manners. Her hands move bodies, cut them open, examine them. They direct a scalpel with surety and precision.
My hands, though, always give me away. They shake, and I still have these involuntary spasms, and they hurt. They always hurt, and the things I do for my job often make it worse. Typing. Shooting. Cuffing a suspect. Writing.
Other things that I used to enjoy make the ache worse, too. Playing the piano. Cooking. Folding laundry, although if I get it from the dryer while it's still warm, it isn't too bad.
Heat helps; cold intensifies the pain. Pills don't help, and neither does drinking, and neither does obsessing over everything.
Maura helps.
I don't understand the mechanics of it – that's her department, and she uses about a thousand really long words that I don't understand to explain it – but she does. She knows when and where they hurt the most, and she gently moves things around and the pain, well, it doesn't leave, but it's more tolerable. She doesn't look at me with pity before or after. During, she's completely focused on my hand, talking softly to herself, and when she's finished, she has this, "I did good, I'm so proud of myself" smile.
I have to smile back.
I've become accustomed to her touch. She's the only one who never makes me flinch. She has a long-assed explanation for that, too, one that makes me nod in agreement so she'll keep talking and I can keep watching her lips, thinking things about them I shouldn't.
I wonder if she'd still smile indulgently if she knew what I was thinking.
"You're not listening," she accuses.
"I am."
"You agreed to go to the petting zoo and get your picture taken on a pony," she answers, exasperated.
"Sounds fun."
"Jane," she says, and swats at me.
I laugh, but promise, "I'm listening now."
"I asked if you wanted to get dinner."
"Love to." I'm still smiling. So is she.