Raphaela's Gift (5 page)

Faith watched Garret struggle with his feelings. The battle was plain on his face, as was the depth of his love for his daughter. If only he could reach deeper, beyond his sense of parental duty and loyalty. Sure, those were amazing qualities. He was committed, willing to work hard to help his daughter, but he was still missing the mark. She yearned to draw him from his hardened shell, yearned to keep him from hurting his daughter the way her parents had hurt her.

Even now, after decades, and with hundreds of miles between them, she could hear her mother's voice echoing in her mind.
Oh, Faith, you're such a dreamer! Why would people want to pay money for your artwork when they can go to the Louvre and see real masterpieces? Why can't you do something worthwhile with your time? Look at your brothers. Mark is an accountant and Gary is a doctor.
Time and distance had done nothing to bind those old wounds. They remained open, sore, and bleeding. And worse, like a newly formed scab, she picked at them over and over, never allowing them to heal.

She refused to let another child suffer that pain. Yet, an overwhelming part of her screamed, "Danger." She couldn't exactly put a finger on what troubled her, besides the obvious conflict between her desire to remain professional, and her fear of revisiting those festering doubts and insecurities. A tiny voice echoed in her head, a beacon flashing like a yellow caution light. Was it Garret? His ex-wife? Or worse, her unexpected attraction to him? She couldn't tell, but she suspected she'd figure it out soon enough.

He stared at her for a few moments, his features hewn of granite: a square jaw, deep hollows under high cheekbones, narrow nose, and lips neither too thin nor too full. Blue eyes, fringed by long, dark lashes, flashed with frustration and pain.

Her gaze moved to his hair, glorious, flirtatious curls, which danced over his head, directly contrasting with his otherwise subdued nature. They made her smile especially after one flopped down over his forehead.

She realized at that moment, she'd admired his remarkable good looks from their first meeting, even attributed her grievous error with Raphaela to having been distracted by how his shoulders, wide and muscular, looked under the taut t-shirts he wore. And his khaki shorts exposed long, powerful legs.

Overall, he looked fit, tight, but not like he lived in a gym. Perfect. She was a sucker for men like him: tall, dark, and handsome. But…

He glared at her, challenging her to say something, but she'd forgotten what they'd been discussing.
Darn lust--no, loneliness.
She was flighty enough, but whenever he was around, she lost all her wits.

"Are you finished? I'd like to go in and see if my daughter has painted the next Mona Lisa."

God, was he sarcastic. She cringed, and then motioned for him to return to the studio. Marian was right. He might look like a god, but he was definitely all-human. Even so, sneaking a peek at his tight buns as she followed him into the studio, he sure was fun to look at.

What was wrong with her? She'd never been so outrageously attracted to a man before, especially one with so many personality flaws: judgmental, quick to anger, and a defensive shell that wouldn't crumble, even with the aid of kryptonite-- exactly like her mother. She dragged her gaze from his form, forcing her attention back to Raphaela, who remained at the easel.

Upon returning to the little girl's side, Faith watched Raphaela's wide eyes squint while she worked on her picture, the jerking motions, hand flapping and lurching gaze abandoned as she concentrated. Faith peered at the painting, an exquisite self-portrait. Most amazing, the pain in the subject's eyes. Raphaela had placed the emotion in the painting intentionally. Faith had no doubt.

She stared at the portrait and could feel the little girl's struggle to break free of her disability. She was tied to this child, their spirits connected.
I’ll help you. You won't have to hide in there much longer.

Garret and Marian stood next to their daughter, watching closely. Faith could see Garret's speculation lifting as Raphaela wielded the paintbrush like a master artist, his smug expression softening, transforming to awe.

Then, as though someone flipped a switch, the little girl stopped painting, dropped the brush on the floor, and wandered away. Her work was complete. The message revealed. Raphaela, a glory, with her father's curly hair and bright eyes, retreated deeper into her world, the tenuous connection broken.

Marian and Garret looked at Faith with expectation. Marian was the first to speak, pointing at the painting and whispering, "What does it mean?"

Faith walked around from behind the easel. "First, you can see from the way she behaved as she worked, she is capable of controlling the snapping and jerking when she needs to," she said softly. Then, pointing at the painting, she added, "Second, from the content of the painting, you can see she wants to tell you something but doesn't know how. You can see her pain and frustration here. Perhaps she's afraid, even." She motioned toward the portrait's shadowed eyes.

Garret crossed his arms over his chest and listened, but didn't speak. She guessed from his expression he was not convinced of either the validity of her interpretation, or the purpose of the exercise.

Faith bit her lip and fought the urge to call an end to the session and retreat to the safety of her office. Instead, she forced herself to face his disbelief head on. Sarcasm and criticism were tough for her to take, always stirred an excessive dose of defensiveness and oftentimes an abundant river of tears, too. "What do you think, Doctor Damiani?" She regretted the question the minute the words slipped from her mouth. The beginning twinges of a headache struck her temples.

His voice low, he answered, "I still think this is a bunch of bullshit. How is painting supposed to help her learn to talk, to look people in the eye? She's as much, if not more, wrapped up in her solitary world as she was before."

Staring out the window and watching a squirrel race up a tree, Faith swallowed hard several times and tried to calm her pounding heart. She knew she was over-reacting to his disapproval, knew she was taking his criticism too personally. She always did, but she couldn't stop herself.

"Garret, can't you lay off, for God's sake? Look what Ella's done! Isn't that enough? Isn't anything ever enough for you?" Marian said, her voice low, but far from calm.

Faith bristled as Garret neared, and a flush heated her cheeks. She wondered at her reaction--was it his proximity or the argument?

His eyes captured hers as he whispered, "I know you're doing what you think is right. I don't blame you. Maybe I'm judging this whole thing too harshly, but I came here to help my daughter learn to speak, to communicate like a normal child. Was I expecting too much? Probably, but the Mountain Rise brochure claimed the program could do that."

She nodded, trying to remove the giant knot from her throat. After coughing into a cupped hand, she said, "I understand, and if you give her a chance, I think you'll get what you're looking for. This is a giant first step."

"This isn't a step. It's a trick. Autistic savants don't connect with the world with their skills. They hide behind them."

"Maybe they do, sometimes…" She forced her eyes from the tree and looked at Garret.

"Then you agree with me," he said.

"No, I don't, at least, not in Raphaela's case. She isn't counting things, or calculating days. She is communicating with you through her painting. I've never seen anything like it. She's spectacular, and you're a stubborn pain in the ass!" There. She'd stood up to him. He didn't know everything, even if he was a famous psychiatrist.

Garret studied her for a moment, and she thought she saw the hint of a smile. Did he think she was funny? Another wave of self-consciousness shimmied up her spine and washed her face in warmth.

Then, tearing her gaze from his, she watched Raphaela wander around the studio to study the paintings on the walls. "I think we've done enough for today, but I'm looking forward to our next session. Raphaela has made some amazing progress, Garret and Marian," she said, making sure to include Marian in the conversation, since she was a loyal supporter. "I have no doubt the other therapists will have equal, if not more, success. You will leave here at the end of the two weeks with a daughter much more in touch with you." She looked at Marian, who was smiling.

"God, I hope you're right, Faith. It's been my dream since the day we learned about Ella's condition."

Garret stood, arms crossed, biting his lip and staring at his daughter. The smile Faith had seen earlier was gone, replaced by confusion and anguish. Her heart went out to him. If she accomplished nothing more in her job, she wanted to give him what he wished for--his daughter. "Doctor Damiani?"

He jumped as though she'd startled him, and blinking, looked at her with stormy eyes. "Yes, like you said." His vague answer suggested he hadn't heard a word. His gaze slipped back to Raphaela.

Faith touched his arm. "I know you love her. We're going to help her. I promise."

He nodded, still staring at Raphaela. "I wish I could believe you. I really do." He paused, and looked at Faith, his eyes revealing the depth of his desperation.

Embarrassed, she jerked her hand away, ripped her attention from him, and looked at Marian. "I guess we should call it a day."

Marian, resembling a child who'd lost her best friend, simply nodded.

Guilt immediately dug a hole in Faith's stomach. Had her touch on Garret's arm and their locked gazes looked that bad? All she wanted was to retreat to her office and enjoy some solitude, get away from the confusing situation.

Garret, who'd clearly regrouped, approached Raphaela and coaxed her toward the door. Marian followed them, but paused before exiting to sneer at Faith.

I guess it had looked bad.

She didn't have the energy to deal with Marian's anger today, and her headache had matured into skull-shattering misery. She would address Marian's problem at their session tomorrow. Maybe by then, Marian would cool off, become distracted by the other activities.

Had she truly done something wrong? After all, she was supposed to counsel not only Raphaela, but also both parents. If Marian didn't understand, she might need to recommend a new counselor.

After their voices faded, Faith left the studio, locked the door, and headed for the shack she'd chosen for her office. She'd purposefully selected the tiny outbuilding because it was at the back of the camp, far away from the lodge and the studio. She needed a private space.

She slipped the key into the lock and pushed open the door, stepping into the near-darkness. The tiny building was cool, shaded by giant trees, and peaceful. Not bothering to flip on a light, she turned to close the door.

As she reached for the knob, a man bounded up the step, brushed past her, and stood in the middle of her office. His gaze swept over the room, scrutinizing its contents and then he looked at her. She recognized him immediately, the father of a small boy named Alex.

Frightened and puzzled, but wanting nothing more than to force him from her space, she asked, "Mr. Roberts, can I help you?"

His face flushed bright red, and he balled his hands into white-knuckled fists. Staring at her, he said in a gritty voice, "Funny you should ask me that question."

Her stomach lurched.
Damn! Not now.

Garret watched Raphaela through the one-way window for a few moments as she played with Frankie, her play therapist. The playroom was an odd set-up, unlike anything he'd seen before. The room was stark, everything white, sterile.

Marian stood next to him, her posture stiff, her gaze set as she watched Raphaela. He did his best to ignore her, avoid another useless confrontation, and as soon as he was confident Raphaela was settled in the playroom, he nudged past Marian and left the lodge.

Thankful for the solitude, he followed the path that wrapped around the side of the building. Within his mind, he rehearsed the apology he intended to make to Faith.

As he neared the second bend, a sound echoed through the forest, muffled and haunting. He froze. Was something howling--or someone shouting? He turned the corner and ran around a tiny outbuilding with peeling white paint and green-shingled roof. The voices grew louder as he followed the building's side, but not loud enough for him to make out what was being said.

A low, gravely voice drifted to him on the pine and earth-scented breeze. Sentences were brief, tones clipped and clearly anger filled. The white paneled door hung open as he found the front of the shed-sized structure, allowing the sound of the heated conversation within to escape into the woods. He paused at the door, not sure if he should intercede. Reluctant, he peered in through the doorway.

Faith stood with her back to the opposite wall, and he had a clear view of her wide eyes and pale face. Her gaze was fixed to the man ranting before her.

The man's back was to Garret, but Garret could tell from his tight jerky motions and strained posture that he was enraged. Faith calmly responded to the man's angry outbursts in a smooth, soft voice.

The fear, still heavy on her face, lost its edge while she spoke in fluid tones. "I understand your frustration, Mr. Roberts. I know you love Alex. He's a sweet boy. If you didn't, you wouldn't be here."