The Wish List

by Myrna Mackenzie

  It was probably better to stop thinking and just get back to work as Faith had asked.

  But even as Nathan flexed his fingers, clenched his fists and felt the strength that hadn’t been there mere weeks ago, a small thud came from the other room.

  Faith quickly excused herself and pushed up from the table, rushing away.

  Moments later, Nathan could hear the murmuring from the next room, the hushed, childlike sounds. He could hear the low, caressing tones of Faith’s voice.

  Faith came out and closed the door. She moved back to the table and took Nathan’s hands again.

  The silence lasted maybe two minutes.

  Then Nathan heard it, the faint, muffled, off-key tinkling of a tinny toy piano. The high, fragile voice of a little boy singing. Made up verses, not loud. Or at least not loud by kid standards. Nathan remembered that there was a difference in what an adult considered noisy and what a child did.

  “I am tired of being sick, but soon I’ll be better, yes, soon I’ll be better. My mommy said that I’ll be better really, really soon,” the little boy voice wailed, squeaky and off-key.

  Nathan looked up at Faith. Her eyes were wide with apology, her hands held tightly, her body frozen.

  The song was abruptly interrupted by a short burst of husky coughing. Then, “And when I’m better I can go outside, go outside, go outside. And I can go to the park.” The tinny tinkle of the piano keys went on, nowhere close to the melody the boy was trying to carry. “Not today, but real, real soon.”

  It was a silly song, a pathetically small song, soft and somewhat lispy and totally without musical merit. But Nathan could see that child as if the door were made of glass, as if he himself had developed X-ray vision. He’d bet money that Cory was swaying, playing, lost to any sense of the rest of the world as he sang on, taking the words as they came to him.

  It was a song that made Nathan’s heart hurt and brought tears to the back of his eyes. He’d had a child once who sang like that, who sang every day of her life. One he’d give his own life to hear again. But he wouldn’t hear her. Not again. Ever.

  Looking up, Nathan saw that Faith had come out of the statuelike shock Cory’s first words had cast on her. Moving quickly, she hurried toward the bedroom door.

  Nathan knew what she was doing. She was going to stop the music. She was going to ask her son to be quiet. To protect him, her patient, a grown man. A man who’d silenced another child’s songs once before.

  “Faith. Stop.” He held out his hand to her, even though her back was turned to him. His voice had been loud, louder than he’d intended.

  Slowly she turned around, a question in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Nathan. Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I’m just going to—”

  “I know what you’re going to do. But don’t. Come back. Now. Leave him alone. He isn’t hurting anything. He isn’t hurting me.”

  It was a lie, a whopper of a lie. Lord above, he was hurting with every single childish note. But it didn’t matter. He would hurt a great deal more before he’d silence that child. He wasn’t going to stop the little boy’s songs. He wasn’t ever going to hurt a child again—not if he could help it.

  His words must have made a difference. Faith’s too-tense face relaxed and she smiled. Clearly, she’d been worried about her child, and this situation hadn’t been easy for her, either. At least now that she knew the little boy’s presence wasn’t going to send him into some kind of a rage, she seemed more like herself. The weight was gone, and only Cory’s intermittent coughing tightened the muscles of her jaw. Twice she left to check on him.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow, Faith,” Nathan said, as he was rising to leave a few minutes later. He didn’t know where the words were coming from, or why. This was not the kind of day he wanted to repeat. “You shouldn’t have to be away from your son when he’s sick, and it’s clear that this thing’s going to last a few days. It’s the flu, after all.”

  She looked up at him as though he’d just dropped a bucket of gold dust in her lap. As if he’d just given her a gift. He wondered just how hard it was to raise a child alone. Obviously damned hard.

  But the exultant look on her face vanished in a heartbeat.

  “Yes, it is the flu,” she admitted. “I should never have let you in the door. What if you get sick? Heavens, I don’t know what I was thinking of today. My head must be on crooked. You should definitely not be here. There must be tons of germs here. I’m probably already infected, and you’ve been sitting across from me for the last hour. Maybe if you stay away tomorrow—”

  There she was, the ultimate therapist, worrying about him, putting his needs before hers again. Nathan knew that if he left her to her own devices, she’d be calling him in the middle of the night, sending Penny Damen or some other therapist, trying to protect him.

  “Germs?” he asked, with a sudden grin. She’d used the word as a weapon, trying to chase him away.

  “Germs. Lots of them.” She crossed her arms, wearing that fierce expression he’d come to look forward to.

  “And you wouldn’t want me to take any chances?”

  “No. Definitely not.” She shook her head vigorously.

  “Well, then.” Nathan stepped closer, pinning her crossed arms against his chest as he took her lips with his own. It was a swift kiss, hard and crushing, then turning soft and gentle before he moved away. This woman drove him crazy, made him nuts, made him do things he knew he shouldn’t and that he’d absolutely promised he wouldn’t.

  “Germs,” he agreed. “Now I’ve got them, too. So don’t bother trying to palm me off on some other therapist, Faith. It’s you and me to the bitter end, or it’s no one.”

  He left her standing there, staring wide-eyed, shocked, her fingers pressed against her lips as though she couldn’t believe he’d touched her again. Hell, he didn’t believe it himself.

  But he had. He could still taste her on his lips, still feel the warmth of her soft body molded to his.

  It had been stupid to touch her again, and foolish to say that he was coming back tomorrow when tonight had been tough enough. If he had an ounce of brains, he’d call her and tell her he did want another therapist in spite of what he’d said.

  He should do that. Most definitely.

  Especially when, on the dark, night road, the memory of a small, wispy voice came to him. Faith’s eyes watching him. The little boy singing. It was dangerous to think of that. Scary. Wrong.

  But as he drove on, nearing his house, the place he’d hidden away in for so long, the voice followed him. He heard Cory’s voice over and over, small and soft and insistent.

  If he went back to Faith’s home, Nathan knew he’d have to learn to live with that voice, and with that little boy in the next room. It was the way of things. Kids couldn’t keep still and silent. They needed to squirm and gallop; they needed to try out their lungs. Nathan knew. He’d had his Amy.

  The thought of going back and facing that child again alarmed him. It sent razorlike chills chasing up and down his spine. But there was something else, too. Relief, a small speck of relief that even though Amy was gone, there was a child somewhere who brightened the heart of a woman. Somewhere, there was still a child who sang.

  Tomorrow he’d have to face Faith and her son head-on. He could no longer pretend that the boy didn’t exist.

  Nathan pulled into his drive, cut the engine, climbed out of the car and slapped his palm against the hood. Reality washed over him.

  Memories. Faith murmuring to her son with love. Faith standing there shocked when he’d kissed her. Faith. Cory. Together.

  And he’d be right there in the midst of it. Watching. Feeling, damn it, feeling.

  He was definitely going to send her flowers when it was all over. He would celebrate, glad when everything was done and he could—please, God—stop feeling again.

  Chapter Five

  The man had guts. She had to give him that. Faith watched Nathan try not to flinch as Cory called her for the third time
in thirty minutes.

  Still, he didn’t say a word, but just sat there tensing his fingers. Somehow Faith knew that this was less a form of exercise than a very real gut reaction to her son’s plaintive cries.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, sitting down again after seeing to Cory’s needs. “I thought he’d be feeling better today. But with that cough—well, he’s just not used to his body rebelling on him this way.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Faith,” he said, as though she were the one who was talking through gritted teeth, as though she were the one with an allergy to small children.

  “I should never have let you talk me out of getting an alternate therapist,” she said. “This can’t be helping you much, not when you’re so obviously tense about this situation.”

  His laugh, deep and laced with cynicism, caught her by surprise. “Faith,” he leaned forward and stared straight into her eyes. “I’ve been tense since the moment you walked into my house. And so have you. You open your mouth and I back you up against a wall. I argue with you and you lean into my face. And when we touch—”

  “Don’t,” she said suddenly, “I’ve explained that to you. It’s gratitude.”

  “All right. Gratitude,” he agreed. “And I don’t want to discuss this any more than you do. I just want you to know that I’m taking it. All of it. That little boy in the next room—” Nathan lowered his voice. “This is his territory, his home. I’m the intruder, and I’m dealing with the situation.”

  But at the next tiny little moan from Cory, Faith couldn’t help looking into Nathan’s eyes. She saw the too-deep breath he took, the way he swallowed convulsively.

  “Mom?” Cory called.

  She bit her lip and cast Nathan an apologetic glance.

  He slid his hand on top of hers. “Go to him, Faith. He’s your son. You don’t owe anyone, least of all me, an apology for wanting to protect him. He’s sick and he needs his mother with him and his things about him—including his teddy bear.”

  Faith nodded at the last words. She’d thought she’d managed to snatch the small, grubby bear up from the couch and hide it behind her back before Nathan had noticed. The little bear had kid smudged all over its worn-out fur. How foolish she’d been to think that Nathan wouldn’t have honed in on something like that with the speed of a heat-seeking missile.

  “All right. I’ll try to stop feeling like a guilty parent,” she promised.

  Nathan turned her hand over, palm up. He traced her lifeline with the pad of his thumb. “Then there’s no problem,” he said softly. “Go on, now. I’ll bet the fever is making him thirsty. Take your time. I’ll still be here.”

  Slowly Faith withdrew her hand from his. She moved away, then turned back slowly. He was watching her. His eyes locked with her own.

  Swallowing, she took one small step backward. “You must have been one hell of a wonderful father,” she whispered.

  And whatever light had been in his deep green eyes died. The shutters were down. Nathan’s jaw tightened. “I was a terrible father.” His voice was cold and clipped. “A terrible husband, too. I was hardly around for Joanna and Amy at all. Furthermore, when that car broadsided us, I was at the wheel. If I’d been paying attention, if my mind had been on my wife and child’s safety the way it should have been, I might have avoided the accident. I could have gotten us out of the way, or at least whipped the wheel and turned the car, taking the brunt of the impact myself. I could have saved my wife and little girl. So no, don’t give me credit I never earned. Just get out of here and go to your son. Now.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Nathan watched Faith slip from the room. He listened to her murmuring soothingly, calming the fretful little boy. His gaze followed her when she moved to the kitchen. He heard the slam of the refrigerator door, the rustle and clang of dishes. And beneath the cover of noise, he heard the small, anxious voice. “Mo-om?”

  Another clatter followed, pans falling. The phone rang. A muffled “Oh no!” and then a long, low sigh from Faith. It was clear she couldn’t hear her son’s call. It was also abundantly clear to Nathan that the stress of worrying about Cory, and about himself as well, was taking its toll on Faith. There were circles beneath her eyes, her face was drawn, her lips tight. He’d bet the bank that she’d barely gotten any sleep last night.

  “Mom, you there?” The voice echoed again, followed by the creaking of the bedsprings.

  Nathan looked toward the kitchen. He knew he should call her; she’d want him to do that. But one glance around the kitchen doorway, at her slender, bowed back was enough. One glimpse of the exposed curve of her neck bent in resignation as she held tight to the phone, picking up the things she’d dropped, and he knew he wasn’t going to call to her. She needed a break.

  And he could give that to her—maybe. If he could just force himself into that bedroom, if he could just steel himself to see what the boy wanted. It wouldn’t take much. Really, it was such a simple thing to do, wasn’t it? So, why was he shaking? Why was his heart tripping along like a clock gone haywire?

  Taking one step toward the door, then another, Nathan moved slowly, so slowly. The room seemed too far away and yet too close at the same time.

  Another step. Just a few more and he’d be there.

  The bed creaked again. If he didn’t stop him, the child would be running around, bare feet and all, forced to go search for help when help was standing here shaking on the wrong side of the door.

  His breathing was shaky as he pulled his shoulders back and clamped down his jaw. Somehow he forced himself past the threshold. He ordered himself to look toward the bed.

  His eyes locked with a pair of small, dark ones. Suspicious eyes.

  The boy coughed once, then bit down on his lip, snuffling his pajama sleeve across his nose. “Are you the doctor? The ‘portant one?”

  Nathan twisted one side of his mouth up in a quick grimace. “I don’t know about that important stuff, but I’m a doctor, all right. Looks like you’re one pretty sick guy.”

  Cory studied Nathan suspiciously. “I got the flu,” he agreed. “I wanted my mom, cause my sheets is all crooked and I can’t find my bear. But you should go now. The flu is ‘tagious, and my mom says you’re afraid of boys like me, anyway.”

  The child frowned and turned away, hunching his skinny little shoulders as if Nathan would disappear if he wished hard enough. It was clear that he wanted nothing to do with the “portant doctor.” And that if Nathan was smart, he would take this golden opportunity to back away. It was also clear that the child was one miserable little tyke. His cheeks were too rosy, his eyes big, bright hollows of darkness. His fever was readable without even using a thermometer.

  Nathan crossed his arms and slid his hands into his armpits. “Your mom said I was afraid of you, did she?” He could hear Faith’s steps as she moved from the kitchen tile onto the muffling carpet.

  “Nathan? Cory?” Faith’s voice was worried. In just a minute she’d be here. Nathan took one more look at the anxious child caught up in the tangled sheets, then his gaze passed over the room. It was brightly decorated, cheery, yet small, very small—and boxy. He felt he was sucking up all the space just by standing in the doorway. A room this size made a man want to bust down walls with his fists. He wondered if the boy felt the same.

  He stared down at the small, tousled head of hair, noticed the tiny pink toes that had come untucked from the dinosaur sheets. The bed seemed narrow, too tiny a space to have to stay in for long. Shut up in here, the child would be alone, sick, lonely...

  Nathan frowned at his own thoughts. He shouldn’t have come in here. Faith had been right to keep the two of them separate. Looking down into the boy’s dark, anxious eyes and seeing the miniature hand that fisted around a bunched-up bit of sheet, Nathan knew he didn’t want to be around this kid. It would be torture. Even now his heart was thudding painfully, trying to push back the memories of other little fists that had clutched his neck tightly. He remembered hugs and squeals of laughter, and
soft little-girl, raspberry jelly kisses.

  The boy sucked in his lower lip, an utterly childish gesture that brushed at Nathan’s memories. A small cough started up, shaking the fragile little body and holding him in its frenzied grasp.

  Faith rushed in at that moment, smoothing her hand in slow circles over the child’s back and then hugging him close when the angry coughing finally ceased. “You okay, Cory? Better, love?”

  Small hands slipped around her waist, the child’s face hidden against her body.

  Faith looked up at Nathan, tilting her head. “Nathan? Are you—I—I wondered where you’d gone to. I—”

  He shook his head. “No apologies, remember? You couldn’t hear him when he called. I figured I was capable of helping out a little, anyway.”

  Her cheeks pinked slightly at his words. He knew that she was feeling guilty again. But she simply nodded. “Thank you.”

  When her gaze locked with his, and he looked into those huge blue-green eyes Nathan felt the room shrink even more. His chest felt tight as though some of the air had been sapped from the meager supply available in this tiny space. What air remained seemed highly charged.

  He felt the change when the boy turned to look from him back to his mother. Pulling on Faith’s sleeve, Cory stared forlornly down at his messed up sheets. “I losted my bear,” he said sadly.

  Faith smoothed her hand across her son’s hair. She slipped to her knees beside the bed and helped him straighten his covers, hunting out the bear that had slipped off the far side. Kissing him on the forehead, she snuggled him close for one brief second, then looked back at Nathan. “I’m sorry I’m so disorganized today. Let me just get Cory set up here and then we’ll get back to your session.”

  She pushed one tense hand through her hair, sending a wayward curl flopping down onto her forehead. Nathan noticed the spot of spilled juice on her pale peach blouse, the fact that her whole body was stiff as if it would dissolve and melt away if she let up on herself for one second. He saw the way the boy’s eyes grew worried when his mother mentioned leaving him alone.