Love Is More Than Skin Deep (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 4)

by Mary Crawford

  “I want to make sure that Shelby knows that there isn’t anything between you and I and there isn’t going to be, even if I come back. If I decide to do this, it’s only because I never stopped loving Ketki and I don’t want her to think that something awful happened to me.”

  “You know, a lot of guys hate their ex-wives but you keep doing these really decent, heroic things that make it terribly hard for me to hate you. Bizarrely, I’m inclined to give you a hug right now, which is pretty surprising since a few minutes ago I was ready to scream at you.”

  “Trust me Mr. Hotshot Lawyer, you weren’t the only one,” Tanyanita replies candidly.

  THE SECOND WEEK OF SCHOOL used to always be my favorite week of the year. By then, everyone has settled down and learned everyone’s name and is looking forward to everything new. The possibilities are limitless. I’ll never forget my first year of school after I was removed from my parents. I felt like the world had been given to me on a platter. There was so many new worlds open to me that I never even knew existed— science, social studies and language arts. I thought that new textbooks were some mystical gifts from the gods. Come to think of it, not much has changed. New books still fascinate me.

  As I sip my hot apple cider and curl up with some mystery-romance novel, which under any other circumstances would probably be truly gripping, I can’t help but mourn the loss of my dreams for this year. I can’t set foot in the classroom this year. Right now, I can’t really go anywhere. The chemotherapy has made me susceptible to enough random germs that they don't want me to be around a bunch of children. My new restrictions have even curtailed my volunteer work with Diamond at the library. It’s like one crushing blow after another. Just when I think I’ve got a handle on the scope of how much my life is going to be messed up by a few bad decisions I made as a teenager, Karma comes roaring back to remind me what a fool I was. I can’t even tell you how disappointed I am. Jessica, Diamond and I were so pumped up after the Promoting the Power of Prose training. I was ready to steer my life in a new direction and apply my degree and love of reading and writing to a new setting. Once again, my life seems to have come unraveled like a sweater from a rummage sale.

  I like Dr. Charleston, I really do. Yet, sometimes I wish he was a little less honest. No, I take that back. I don’t wish that. Sometimes, his honesty just hurts me to my core. When I started this journey, I really hoped that it would just be a matter of taking a few bad skin cells off. As time has marched, on they just keep digging deeper and deeper. I feel like my body is a battle zone. It looks like some sort of salvage map for fans of ghouls. Although I tried to tell myself that I was prepared for the worst, when Doctor Charleston told me that I was going to need some chemotherapy to deal with the fact that the cancer had spread to my lymph nodes, I just was not prepared for that blow. I’m not even thirty. How can I be dying from cancer? I don’t do any of the risky behavior that I associate with cancer. I don’t smoke, I never took drugs. I stayed away from all the food with preservatives and food coloring. I don’t touch food with artificial sweetener — okay, so, I’ll admit that I’m a little addicted to Diet Mountain Dew, but I had school and work at the same time. It’s pretty much my only vice.

  “The Dew” is my only vice unless you count Mark. It turns out that dark, witty, deeply spiritual barristers are my new vice. I take a break from my mini-pity party to eat one of the tiny quiches Mark served me for breakfast. When I mentioned that I loved these little delicacies from a bakery across town, but one of the spices was making me sick since I started chemotherapy, Mark contacted the owner of the bakery and asked her if she would make some just for me without the spice. Not surprisingly, she readily agreed and I now have my own supply of Shelby’s Sublime Quiches. I did not expect her to add it to her menu and give a donation to the Skin Cancer Foundation in my name. It was such an incredibly sweet gesture from a complete stranger that I have a hard time wrapping my brain around it. Yet, that seems to sum up my whole existence the last few months, almost perfect strangers have gone out of their way to help make my life better.

  I often wonder how many of the recent “miracles” in my life are due to random fate and how many of them are a result of the efforts of Mark Littleson. Sometimes, I think my man can move mountains for me. I swear that if he could take the cancer on himself, he would. He’s a force of nature like nothing I’ve ever seen. At first I thought he was like Reverend Pratchett, but now I’m not so sure. I don’t think the two men have much in common at all. Reverend Pratchett was big on making empty promises and delivering very little. Mark doesn’t say much about what he's going to do, he’s just solidly there when I need him.

  I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel twitchy. I can’t seem to settle properly anymore. It’s almost as if the cancer has made me hyper aware of every cell in my body. Some days, it seems that even my hair hurts. So far, I’ve managed to keep most of my hair. It’s a little thinner than it was, but it’s there. I don’t know why I’ve become so invested in keeping it, because I’m not a really big fan of my hair. I’ve always hated it’s color and kinky, curly texture. Yet, somewhere along the way my battle to keep my hair has become symbolic of my battle to be victorious over cancer. I’ve tried every trick that I’ve read about on the Internet. I wash my hair in cold water and even ice my scalp down when I take my chemotherapy treatments.

  I even went as far as getting a prescription medication for hair growth. Dr. Charleston told me that the evidence is mixed about whether it actually helps, but he was willing to allow me to try it. The whole thing is really a stupid matter of pride and I know it. Yet, it doesn’t stop me from fighting the battle. I don’t know why it’s become such a focal point for me. Maybe it’s just easier to focus my attention on a minuscule, scalable problem that I can tangibly define, rather than the uncertain prognosis of my cancer. I just don’t know. At any rate, I appear to be winning the fight to keep my hair — or at least that’s what my analysis of my hairbrush allows me to believe. It’s one small positive in a wasteland of negatives so, I take a moment to celebrate.

  I’m holding my hair up in pretend hairstyles and vogueing in front of the mirror while I sing along to Pink with absolutely no filter. I wasn’t kidding when I told Ketki I have no singing skill. The key to having fun at this is wearing high-quality earphones and having the volume turned up really high. I can’t hear my own really wretched singing.

  When the song ends, I jump about three inches in the air when I suddenly hear clapping erupt from behind my left ear. I spin around on my heel, but trip over the laundry basket of clothes I was folding and end up in Mark’s arms as he reaches out to catch me.

  As he steadies me and helps me stand up, I ask, “What are you doing here? Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “Nope. I was doing a court-appointed and my client had to have an appendectomy,” he answers with a somewhat smug grin. “The judge rescheduled the whole song-and-dance for this time next month.”

  “So what are you going to do, Mr.-I-live-by-my-calendar? Do you even know what to do with free time?” I tease.

  Mark looks pensive for a moment before he answers, “I’m not sure I know the answer to that. I can’t remember having any free time in the last decade and a half. First it was college and law school, then Ketki. I’ve been working like crazy to keep Hunters Crossing up and running. Huh… I guess I haven’t really slowed down enough to process how much effort it really takes to keep everything going. I took a little time to go to Paris to retrieve Callum’s body, but that wasn’t a vacation by any stretch of the imagination.”

  I grimace as I respond, “No, I imagine not. My brother has been gone for a decade and a half and I’m still not over it. I can’t imagine losing him under the circumstances you did. How are your parents doing?”

  “Funny you should ask about my parents, because my mom would like to meet you,” Mark answers. “In fact, my mom has summoned us to the house. Apparently, my cous
in is participating in his first pow-wow in a while and my mom would like us to be there.”

  I gasp as I gesture over my body which is barely covered by my robe. “Mark, I am in no shape to meet your mom. I’m in no shape to meet anybody’s mom, but especially not your mom.” I respond self-consciously, “Have you looked at me recently?”

  Mark gathers me gently against him being careful not to touch any of my sore areas. He thoroughly kisses me before answering, “Yes, I see you every day and to me you just grow more beautiful.”

  I shake my head as we sit stuck in traffic. “I still can’t believe you talked me into coming. What about the fact that I’m not supposed to be around a ton of people?” I question.

  “Immokalee, I’ve been protecting you for months now. I’ve already given my mom a heads up. She doesn’t want anything to happen to you either. I don’t think you quite understand what a huge deal it is that my mom has extended an invitation to you,” Mark advises.

  “I am a little confused. Your mom doesn’t know me from Adam and the parts she does know probably seem like really bad news. I’m not even sure why she wants to meet me,” I confess.

  “I can answer that in a single word. Ketki. Shelby, you are amazingly good to my daughter,” Mark replies emphatically.

  “Mark, how would your mom even know that? Who wouldn’t be amazingly good to your daughter?… Oh, never mind.” I let my speech trail off. “Still, how would your mom know about me?”

  “Remember how you once described Ketki as more tenacious than a tabloid reporter?” he responds. “Ketki and my mom are active friends on Facebook. Ketki sings your praises often.”

  “That was incredibly generous of Ketki. I adore your daughter,” I declare.

  “I don’t think you quite understand what a huge favor Ketki did for you. In our culture, a mother’s decision is everything. Without my mother’s invitation, you would not have been welcomed into her home.”

  I nervously fiddle with the bandage under my bra. It’s the one area that I can’t seem to get healed up. Well, I have two areas but the one on my back I can’t see, so unless it starts itching or the searing pain strikes, it doesn’t come as readily to my mind as this one under my breasts. Finally, I take a deep breath and decide there really is no way to delicately address the situation so I decided to tackle it straight on.

  “I respect your mom’s right to do that, but it’s one thing to bring you and Ketki into all of this, it’s a whole other thing to bring your entire family along for the ride. You know that I’m not completely out of the woods yet. What if meeting them is a mistake?” I ask, chewing on my lip. “You know that they’re going to think you’re crazy for dating someone who has cancer? Come to think of it, I think you’re a little crazy for dating me —” I confess.

  Mark shakes his head violently as he protests, “Shelby, skin cancer is something you have, it isn’t who you are. You were a person before you found out about the skin cancer, and you will still be a complete person after you beat this thing.”

  Mark’s words leave me speechless. It’s such a simple little statement yet so profound. It’s the reason he can accept me as I am — so freely without reservation. I wish I could turn my brain off and just accept it for the beautiful gift that it is. Somehow I just can’t. The analytical part of me has to push it just a little further. “Mark, there is a chance I might not make it, what then?”

  The sound Mark makes is low and guttural as he sighs and moans at the same time. Finally, he pulls the car over to the side of the road. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve and then meets my gaze as he responds, “Honestly, those thoughts torment my dreams, but love is more than skin deep and when you love someone, you have to be able to take the hard times. If it comes to the worst, I will be forever grateful you touched my life, however briefly you are in it.”

  If I thought I was stunned into speechlessness before, I’ve got no words now. This is the kind of grand declaration of love I had always hoped that I would hear — I envisioned being completely happy and healthy when I heard it. I want to be able to say, “I love you too.” Yet, without knowing even if I have a future, I don’t know what to do. Cancer sucks.

  I freeze in place as I try not to cry out as Mark’s mom inadvertently tries to rearrange my spine in the process of giving me a hug. I try to cover the expression on my face, but Mark catches my grimace.

  “Easy, Mom! Shelby is a little sore, remember?” Mark cautions as he carefully untangles me from his mother’s arms.

  “Oh, that’s right. I remember now. Ketki told me all about it. Although, your yoga is so beautiful that I forget how sore you must be,” she comments as she looks me over.

  I suck in a breath as I ask, “My yoga? How did you see my yoga?”

  “That granddaughter of mine is so clever, she wears a camera on her head and shows me all sorts of things in life,” she explains proudly.

  “She’s also pretty sneaky. She didn’t tell me she was actually filming. She told me she was just getting used to wearing it,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Is Ketki here yet?” Mark asks looking around.

  Mark’s mother playfully pushes him in the stomach as she remarks, “I think you’ve been working too hard. Don’t you remember the whole reason your daughter is riding with your sister today is because she picked Ketki and her kids up from school? They’ll be up later.”

  Mark snickers as he says, “I figured with Leoti’s tendency to have a lead foot, she might actually beat us here.”

  “Oh, stop picking on your little sister. You know she was only trying to catch the eye of that handsome law man who was giving her tickets.”

  “Uh-huh. I could never figure out why you always believe everything she tells you. I don’t know why no one realizes that I’m actually the good kid.”

  “If you’re the good kid, why haven’t you bothered to introduce me?” she challenges.

  Mark blushes as he responds, “This is Shelby. Shelby, these are my parents. This is my beautiful mother, Hialeah and my father, Adahy.”

  I try to remember all of the lessons my foster mom taught me in her little Miss Manners boot camp and as I straighten my spine and try not to mumble, “It’s nice to meet you.” It’s hard not to squirm under the scrutiny as Mr. Littleson examines me from head to toe.

  He turns to Mark and comments, “It’s not like you to bring someone home — especially an outsider. It is clear that this one comes with much pain and suffering. Why don’t you bring her to the powwow tonight to see Waholi? It would seem Western medicine may not hold all the answers for her. Perhaps it is time for her to consult a didanawisgi.”

  A look of frustration crosses Mark’s face. “Dad, I appreciate the suggestion, but Shelby and I haven’t even had a chance to talk much about the ways of the Cherokee. I have no idea whether she even wants to entertain the thought of consulting a medicine man, much less at a public event like a powwow. Can’t we just have one night of enjoying ourselves as a family before we have to deal with her cancer?”

  Mark’s mother has tears in her eyes as she interrupts the conversation, “Oh, nothing much has changed since you were a little boy. You were always my child who was filled with optimism and hope. You must remember that simply pretending the problem does not exist does not make it go away.”

  Whatever else happens on this trip, I know that I’ll have no trouble bonding with Mark’s mother. She and I both identified the key weakness with Mark’s strategy with my disease. You cannot wish, cajole or bully cancer away. Even so, I am not above trying new — or at least new to me — approaches. Chemotherapy is kicking my butt and maybe ancient and traditional is the way to go.

  I smile at Mr. Littleson as I respond, “Fate has brought Mark and I far in this relationship. Who am I to doubt it now?”

  MY DAD HAS BROWN PAPER spread out over the top of the kitchen table and he’s showing Ketki how to properly reassemble a vintage 35 mm camera. Sadly, after forty years in the business, this is a dying art. Eve
rything is digital these days. Shelby is deep in the mix with them, chatting a million miles an hour about f-stops, apertures, filters and depth of field.

  I walk up behind Shelby and kiss her on the back of the neck as I say, “If I would’ve known how easy it was to win your heart, I would’ve used my inside connections to get you a tricked out new camera.”

  She squirms away from me as she giggles. “You, are a silly, silly man. You’re also not very observant if you think a new camera is the one that’s going to make my heart go pitter-patter. It’s the old stuff that makes me the happiest. I used to have a camera just like the one your dad is tearing down for Ketki right now. Savannah and I found it in a garbage dumpster with a bunch of other broken camera equipment behind a university. Savannah wanted the one that was all fancy with the buttons and bells and whistles, but I wanted the one that looks like the news reporters in National Geographic.”

  “Somebody just threw away a camera?” Ketki asks, incredulous.

  Shelby laughs, reminding me why I call her Immokalee. Her laughter is like water in a tumbling creek in the springtime – light, tumbling and speckled with sunshine.

  “No, not even almost,” she recalls. “There were just camera parts around. I was pretty good at putting puzzle pieces back together so I took a stab at putting it back together. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. I was profoundly disappointed because I’d worked so incredibly hard to clean everything up and straighten up crooked parts. One day, we traveled to a new town in search of help for Owen and at one of the homeless shelters, I met up with a veteran who served as a war correspondent. He was fascinated with my camera. He’d worked in the field for so long he seemed to have about a dozen different fixes for every problem. It took about a week and a half, but soon we were able to scavenge together enough parts to make my camera operable. Harvey “The Ghost” McCade did his best to turn me into a top-notch photojournalist at the age of eleven — and he was off to a pretty good start. Unfortunately, our stint in that town lasted less than a couple months.”