I glance at the sheet before handing it back. “Finding the Sun: Therapeutic Strategies for Pediatric Cancer Survivors. By Shai Bonaventura.”
I look at her face. “Shai, are you writing a book?”
“No!” She grabs the paper back and stuffs it under a box with the others. “I mean, yes. Well, I already wrote it.”
“All of those answers?” I grin at her.
She smiles back. “I wrote it already, and I’m editing it, actually. But it’s—I don’t know if it’s publication-worthy. I’m not a doctor, and I don’t have huge credentials. But I think it’s pretty good.” She ducks her head. “I printed it out at the local Kinko’s and I’m going to put it into a binder for red-pen editing. It’s not ready to send to a publisher, yet. Or an agent.”
“From the work you’ve done with Michael so far, and the way Allison and Dr. Chandler raved about you, all those awards you got, I’m sure you’re more than qualified to share your knowledge.”
She tilts one shoulder. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”
“Have you shown it to Allison? Or any peers?”
“No. Allison has published, like, ten books and some are bestsellers. I’m not sure I’m ready for her to read it. Because if she hates it, then it would be awkward. I do need to get beta readers in the field, and I need to figure out how to do that. And who to pick.” Her voice is tense. “I mean, obviously I do need to ask Allison at some point, because her feedback would be the most useful. It’s just that I want to perfect it before I show it to her. Or anyone.”
“Can I read it?” I’m not sure what compelled me to ask, but now that the words are out, I realize that I do want to read it.
“Seriously?” She puts one hand to her cheek.
“Not to edit. To learn.” I cross my arms. “Your advice, Shai? It’s good—really good. I could use more of that, I think.”
She blinks. “If you do read it, I’d want your honest feedback on what works and doesn’t work. If any of it’s any good.” She laughs, but it sounds high and forced.
“Don’t sell yourself short.” My voice is rough. “That’s my first feedback. Never start a conversation about your book by saying you don’t know if it’s good or not. You do know it’s good. You’re positive of it. You’re going to sell the other person on how and why. Sure, you’re looking for feedback and edits, but not because you think it might suck. Because it’s good, and you want to make it even better.”
She gives a one-shoulder shrug. “I’m not good at that stuff. Marketing.”
“Pride in yourself isn’t marketing. It’s self-knowledge.”
“I suppose that’s a good way to look at the situation.” Her voice is noncommittal.
The wind whips a sharp blast into our bodies and we both shiver. “Well, let’s get your car started.” I hook up the cables and it’s only minutes before her small vehicle coughs into life.
I think it over for a minute, check her battery again, and make a decision. “Shai, let’s go to the Auto Zone right now for a new battery. I’ll help you put it in. Natalie will stay with Michael.”
“Oh, no. You don’t have to. I’ll just go and do that myself. I can figure it out.”
“I know you can. I want to.” And I do. I want to help take care of her just a little, the way she takes care of Michael. And me.
“If you’re sure.” She adjusts her scarf. “I could just take it to the dealer tomorrow.”
“I am sure. Give me just a minute.”
I dash in to settle it with Natalie, then lead Shai to the store. It’s a two-car caravan, and it’s a different way of driving. First of all, I usually drive my Porsche, and now I’m in the SUV. Second, the polite way to describe my driving is defensive driving. I have to go slower with Shai on my tail, look to make sure she’s with me at stoplights and intersections. But it’s kind of fun to be the one looking out for someone. It feels good.
She pays for the battery; I install it. She watches, blowing on her fingers in the dirty parking lot, next to a slick oil stain that makes the grayed-out crumbling blacktop look wet and luscious.
I haven’t done this in years, but it’s like riding a bike, and I feel my chest swell with pride. Having her stand there, watching, with awe and gratitude in her eyes, that’s phenomenal.
When it’s done, I wipe my hands on some paper towels that Shai sweet-talked out of the store cashier, and slap the roof of her car. “All set. You’re safe to head home now.”
She smiles, then steps forward and gives me a hug. “Thanks. I appreciate it, Gabriel.”
I hug her back with one arm, holding the rags away from her body with the other hand so I don’t get grease on her coat. “You’re welcome.” I want the hug to go on longer, but she steps away.
“I know my car is kind of imperfect,” she says, “but I’m attached to her. You know?” Her eyes search my face, as if my answer means something important.
I nod. “Yeah. It’s pretty normal to get attached to cars. Of course,” I can’t help but add, “if it gets to the point where the vehicle is unsafe, you might have to let her retire.” It’s probably inappropriate to ask, but I do anyway. Hell, I’ve kissed her—I can let her know I care about her safety, right? “Could you afford a new one if you had to?”
She frowns slightly. “I could. But why?”
I shrug. “So you could be more comfortable. Didn’t you say one time that the radio doesn’t work anymore?”
Her face closes. “So? My car is older, but it’s still safe and drivable. Just because something isn’t perfect anymore doesn’t mean it’s worthless. You don’t get rid of things because one part doesn’t work. Like a radio. There are other ways to get music.” She almost sounds fierce.
“Of course.” This means more to her than just a car, I think, but I won’t push—it’s not the time; not now with this chilly wind biting into us and in the parking lot of a busy auto supply store. But I’m curious.
“So, I guess I’ll head home now. Let you get back home to Michael.” She smiles, back to her usual sunny expression. “You’re a car genius.”
I scoff. “Not exactly. I wouldn’t use those words. This wasn’t rocket science.”
She clears her throat. “You never start a conversation about your car skills by showing your lack of knowledge. You’re a car expert! You know it, and you’re going to convince the other person it’s true.” She giggles.
I roll my eyes. “Touché.”
“Come on, you gave me the perfect opening.”
I want to make a perverted joke about her “perfect opening” and then take her home and fuck her good and hard. Instead, I ask, “So are you going to let me read your book?”
“If you want to.”
“I do. Want to give me that copy right there?” I point at her car. “I’ll take good care of it.”
“Um, okay. Sure.” She opens the door and removes the stack of papers. “It’s all loose and disorganized. You’ll need to make sure the pages don’t escape.”
“I’ll be careful with it,” I promise. I fold the paper towels over each other and stick them in my jacket pocket so I can take her book.
The thought of reading something she wrote is intimate and appealing. I want to get started, and that evening, after Michael’s in bed and Natalie’s gone, and I’m relaxing with a glass of scotch, I read the whole thing. And it’s fucking brilliant.
I think about how she’s helped Michael come so far, so quickly. How much she does for him. How I wish I could reciprocate. And before I can second-guess myself, I shoot an email to my friend Matthew Palmer, a publisher, telling him about this amazing new author he needs to check out.
“So I want you to meet Gabriel,” I confide, giddy, wanting to share all of my secrets and worries and wishes so she can share and fix and solve, or at least listen. “Do you want to?” I roll a pencil back and forth on the kitchen table, then draw a heart on the top of an envelope for a free credit card offer. “You can see what he’s like, so when I talk about him
. You know.”
“Yeah, I want to.” Kelsie’s smile comes on fast. “I’m eager to find out if he matches the picture I have in my mind.” She picks up the splash of junk mail and arranges it into a neat-edged pile. “See if he’s good enough for you.” She laughs. “Tell me, and then later on? You can show me his picture online so I can see if I got it right. Or send me a picture from your next date.”
I scoff. “We’re not dating, Kelsie.” But I’m pretty sure my cheeks are pink. I told her about the kiss. And how we still look at each other sometimes. How we flirt, even though it’s not appropriate. She knows how torn I feel about this; how I’m falling for him even despite the fact that it’s totally unprofessional. And she doesn’t care. I mean, she cares about me, and wants me to be happy. She doesn’t think I’m evil for kissing him even though his son is my patient. I might be making a huge mistake, but she’s still my friend.
“But you want to, right?” She fans the pile out, then straightens it.
“I’m his son’s therapist.”
“You won’t be that forever. Someday you’ll be just you again.” She raises her eyebrows.
Although I know this comment was meant to be helpful, I feel panic at the thought of losing Michael, even to positive progress. “Not for a long time.” My words are more emphatic than necessary. “It would be unprofessional.”
She shrugs. “I know. But people fall for each other sometimes, even if they’re not in appropriate jobs. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to let some kind of artificially designed boundary hold you back from someone who might be everything.” She pauses, and her eyes dart over to Anna, checking, before she turns back to me. “I mean, life has enough twists as it is, and it’s hard enough to hold onto the people you have. So if you meet someone special, I think you need to go for it.”
“You’re a rule-breaker,” I tease.
“No.” She’s serious now. “I always followed all the rules, Shai, and this…” she lowers her voice, “still happened. I did everything they say to do, and she still got sick. Sometimes the rules are just useless.”
“I don’t know.” But I know this: If he kissed me again, I’d let him.
“So tell me more about Gabriel.”
“What does he look like to you?” I ask her. I bring him up like a still shot from a movie. It’s a scene from the time he pulled off his coat and rolled up his sleeves to jumpstart my car. I remember the corded muscles, the way I could see his chest peeking through the top button. The intense look in his eye. His lips, full and kissable. Too bad I can’t send this image right into her brain.
“Well, you said he was tall with dark hair and green eyes, so I’m imagining a guy who’s tall with, you know, dark hair and green eyes.” Kelsie stops, then adds, “For some reason he has wings. I guess like the angel Gabriel. But they’re not sissy wings.”
I scream out a burst of laughter. “Wings! Oh, my God. No. He’s the furthest thing from that. He’s more like a Lucifer sometimes, with his attitude. All dark and snarky. But sexy. And he’s nice, under it. He’s just damaged by life and fate. But I think time will heal him.” My voice trails off and I forget about Googling him to show her.
“Maybe you’re the angel for him?” Kelsie suggests. “His guardian angel.” On the junk mail envelope she scribbles a stick figure guy and adds bird wings behind him.
“When we talk honestly, and he’s not prickly about Michael, or defensive, or his bitchy girlfriend isn’t there, we click.”
“He has a girlfriend?” She sounds disappointed. “Oh, Shai. I didn’t know that! I thought—but he kissed you?” Now her voice sounds angry. “That’s an asshole move, to kiss you if he’s dating someone else.”
“Arielle. Yeah, but—” I hesitate. “It’s almost like he doesn’t really like her. I know that doesn’t make sense. But when he talks about her, he doesn’t light up. When they’re together, I don’t feel that sexy attraction between them.”
Kelsie purses her lips. “Is this because you don’t want to see it? I don’t want to acid rain on your paper parade, but…”
“I don’t know.” Talking about Gabriel isn’t as much fun anymore. “But anyway. Maybe we can figure out a way to meet up.”
“Okay.” She calls out to Anna. “Ten more minutes, honey. Then we have to get going.”
“All right, Mama.” Without a playmate to tug at her gravity, Anna is free to agree. She floats into the kitchen with the coloring book. “Want to see what I colored? Shai, look. This one is for you.”
She puts the book onto the table and bends over the page, tearing it out, centimeter by excruciating centimeter, still managing to create a jagged edge. “It’s a fairy and a cat. I had to add the cat because the people who made the coloring book forgot to put one in.”
I magnet it to my fridge. “It will brighten my day every day.”
Anna looks at me with an expression that is at once disbelieving and sympathetic, then takes her book back to the front room and starts singing the theme song to a cartoon.
I think she wonders if I really mean that it will brighten my day every day, and if so—that her drawing will do that—then my life must be pretty pathetic. The idea that she can brighten a day with a picture is maybe troubling, because should she be doing it more often? Why does she, at such a tender age, have this weird brightening power, and does she need to be responsible for me now? And yet she’s also proud, because I see a little smile tug at her lips. Praise always feels good. This is true no matter how young or old you are.
“So you gave him your book to read, right?” Kelsie gives me a little smile.
I nod. “Last week. Yes.”
“And?”
I shrug. “Well, he said it was good.”
“And?” She tilts her head. “Details, Shai!”
“He said…” I pause and flush. “He told me it was brilliant and that it was equal to anything else published on the New York Times nonfiction best seller list. He said he has an agent friend who could look at it.”
“That’s fantastic!” Kelsie’s whole face breaks into a smile, but she checks it when I don’t smile. “Wait, why aren’t you happy about that?”
“I don’t know why. I hope he’s not just saying it because I work with his son, or something.” I grab the pencil and roll it on the table from hand to hand, like a log rolling in a river from bank to bank.
“Seriously? People at his level don’t say things just to be sweet. You just finished telling me how he’s not all that nice, even. No serious business person would ever connect up someone as a favor if that person sucks. It wouldn’t be good for their reputation.”
“This is what I want, so badly, and what if the publisher doesn’t like it?”
“You have to start somewhere. If they don’t like it, you find another place.” Kelsie frowns.
I know she’s right. I’ve read statistics on how many publishers and agents and rejections typical writers in my field go through. I’ve learned about editors and revisions and beta readers, and I’ve made good friends on some writing boards online. I know I can do it. But taking the first step is a scary thing.
“Didn’t you say you have more books ready, too?”
I nod. “Yes. I have a series on the therapy topic. I also have a children’s book I want to publish, in both English and Spanish.”
“Can I read it?” Anna pops back into the room. “I can tell you if it’s good, Shai. I’m a good reader. Does it have pictures?”
Kelsie and I look at each other, startled, then we both giggle. The conversation wasn’t secret; it won’t kill Anna to hear it, but I suppose neither of us realized she was paying this sharp attention even while coloring, singing and narrating a story to herself.
“Um, it does have pictures. I drew them.”
“What’s it about?” Anna comes closer and puts her hand on my arm. “Your shirt is so soft. It’s like petting a bunny.” She grins at her mom. “Someday you’ll let me get one, right? One with long ears.”
> “Maybe someday.” Kelsie shakes her head, smiling. “If your dad says yes. But bunnies are messy.”
“It’s about—well, it’s about a little girl who gets sick and how she gets better. And how even when she’s better, some things still scare her. And it’s about how she is able to be brave even when life is tough.”
“Oh.” Anna thinks this over. “Is the girl cute, in the book?”
I smile. “I think so.”
“Can you add in that she gets a bunny?” Anna widens her eyes at me and tilts her head. “Because I think that kids would love a book about a girl who gets a rabbit of her own.”
“Anna, Shai already wrote it. Maybe you can write one about a girl who gets a bunny.” Kelsie grabs her daughter in for a quick hug and drops a kiss on top of her head. “You’re a good writer yourself.”
“Will you show me?” Anna nestles into her mom’s arms and shoots me her charming grin. I can tell she feels safe and happy.
My arms tingle, wishing for my own child to hug, but I push that thought away. “When it’s ready, you’ll be the first kid to see it,” I promise.
“How come you’re going to write it in Spanish, too?” she asks, reaching up to hold a piece of her mom’s hair in her fingers.
“I grew up speaking it when I was a little girl,” I tell her. “I think there are other little girls who might have an easier time reading in Spanish, like I did.”
“I’m learning Mandarin at school,” Anna informs me. “I can count to a hundred and ask to use the bathroom, but I don’t know how to say bunny.”
“I’ll call you soon, okay?” Kelsie stand up and starts arranging coats, gloves. When she and Anna leave, I smile, then, on a whim, I put the drawing she made of a cartoon Gabriel beside the drawing from Anna. These things will brighten my day. Knowing I have friends who love me matters.
Someday I can explain it to Anna in a way that lets her know that a day is so full of struggles and joys, that even the little flickers of happiness can mean a great deal, and it’s beautiful to give those to each other, not sad. She’s not responsible for the brightness of my day, but when she does something that adds to it? That’s a special thing.
A Handful of Fire Page 9
