Love Heals

I sat up slowly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I let the cool air of the night wash over my naked sweat-covered skin. My breathing was labored, and I looked resolutely out the dark widow to the twinkling street lights below.

I could feel her movements through the mattress before her feet swung into existence next to me, and she slid up to sit beside me. Close to me, but not touching, an awkward distance already between us. I didn't want to look at her; I felt the pain already growing in my heart, as I knew it would.

Her voice was soft, barely a whisper then, "We'll be alright then?"

Such a simple question, and so heartfelt, and yet it cut me, pounding on my already inflamed heart. Unable to trust my voice I just nodded and continued to stare out the window, as if I expected to find the answers there. She fidgeted beside me, and I knew it was time to go.

I rose slowly and walked to the chair where I had carefully laid out my clothes. I dressed with my back to her, taking my time, listening to the bubbling of the fish tank across the room, and the dry rattle of the air conditioner.

"Thank you Brian. I...I'm sorry. If things had been different I could have loved you." Her voice was filled with pity, and with empathy.

I turned and looked at her now, as I knew I would. She was a beautiful woman, her skin tan and slightly flushed. Her large breasts hung down in beautiful curves to meet the rising swell of her large belly where her daughter slept, growing.

I could feel the love in my heart for her, the love I had so carefully cultivated that now pierced me. I nodded and tried to smile, a fake smile like a theater mask but it was all I could do. I turned and walked through the cluttered apartment letting myself out, and walking the long flights of stairs down to the street.

The night air was fragrant with the smell of the blooming spring trees, and the sounds of frogs chirped somewhere nearby. The apartments were on the edge of town, threatening the remaining wetlands that lay nearby, but it filled the air with that wonderful smell of green growing things.

A car door opened in front of me and I saw Michael, illuminated in the harsh glare of the dome light. His face was pained, a mix of restraint, fear, and anxiety. He rose from his car, and walked toward me at an even pace until he stood facing me. For a few seconds I thought he would say nothing, or that he might strike me, it had happened before with others. But instead he held out his hand to me, and when I took it, his grip was firm but not overpowering.

Then he was gone, rushing toward the building leaving only the faint smell of sweat and cologne that was his particular scent. My heart ached again as I wished it was I that was ascending those stairs to the woman above. I wished the child growing in her womb was mine, and not his. Once I had such a woman, but my gift, my curse, would not allow it to last. All the relationships never lasted, eventually I just stopped trying.

I looked up at the dark heavens and cursed god for the thousandth time in my life; cursed the universe in its majesty and frailty. 'God damn this place, this life.' I thought. Then like so many other nights I walked to my car, and drove to my empty home to pick up the gun again, to contemplate my pain and if it was worth it to go on. Like so many other nights I wasn't sure what my answer would be.

**************************************

1 month earlier...

Damn I was tired. I should have been in bed hours ago really, but like so many other nights I sat in front of my computer clicking through the endless miles of cyber trash looking for something.

The question that inevitably comes up, is what am I looking for? To be honest I am not really quite sure anymore. At first I thought I might find a cure, or a way to control my problem. Then I thought maybe I would find community, others like me or with similar problems. But I soon realized that there was no one else like me, and that every other person I met was a fraud, or insane, or worse.

So over time it just became a search. I figured I would know what I was looking for when I found it. I often felt like Neo from the original Matrix movie, driven to find something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

The websites I frequented were those for enthusiasts for paranormal events, psychic powers, UFO sightings and abductions, magic, and all manner of fringe new age crap. Frankly after ten years of looking at it, I had become convinced that there was no hope for me, that I was meant to be alone in all ways.

The small icon in the lower corner of my screen suddenly turned blue informing me of the arrival of new email. A few clicks brought it up, and I read through the short mail. It was a referral from a woman I had helped several years ago. They were usually easier then the ones I stumbled upon, for often they really didn't need my help. Sometimes though, they did.

She wanted to meet me tomorrow. I hesitated, thinking of the consequences, wanting for the thousandth time to just hide away from the world. Then I drew a deep breath and set up a meeting at a small but crowded coffee shop a few blocks from my home. It was a place I used frequently. It allowed me to see and be near the person without them seeing me. Often it allowed me to learn what I needed to know, and avoid talking to them if it wasn't necessary.

Her response was swift; popping up in a few minutes confirming the meeting. I could almost picture her sitting at her computer late at night. I am sure the woman I helped had told her all the gory details, and I wondered what devastation my aid might cause in her life. I rubbed my eyes, my head heavy. 'Why fucking me?' I thought for the millionth time in my life.

*************************************

It was hot for early June as I walked the couple of blocks to the coffee shop. It was one of the small neighborhood ones that had survived the Starbucks assimilation. Not that it had stopped Starbucks from building one right across the street from them, but all the locals refused to abandon the local shop.

It was called The Espresso Bum. I don't know how they came up with the name, but the owner, Mike and his wife Julie, ran the place and kept their customers as much through their personalities as through their good coffee.

I slipped in the side door taking my usual table in the corner. No one ever sat at it since it was wedged in a nook by the side door, and had only one chair. I loved it. Julie saw me and smiled and gave me a nod. Mike and Julie were the only friends who knew about what I did, and they still cared for me. I had helped her sister. I hoped she never needed my help.

I sat and watched the crowd for a few minutes until Julie came over and put a mug of plain black coffee on the table for me. I smiled at her mustering as much sincerity for her as I could.

"New one today?" she asked cleaning her hands on her apron.

"Yes, maybe" I said and she nodded.

"Well if you need anything..." she let the sentence trail off and I nodded; my fake smile still firmly in place. She placed her hand on my shoulder for a moment before moving away.

The place was very busy as it almost always was, but I spotted her the minute she came in. She was too thin, and even with the nice wig I could see the ravages the Chemo had left on her body. She looked around the room, her eyes passing over me without slowing. I had always been one of those people others didn't notice.

Most of the time when people met me here they would buy a coffee, then sit watching the front door. This one was so nervous though she just sat at the nearest table, and stared at the front door. I often wondered what they expected I should look like, since they always seemed sure I was not here yet. Of course they usually showed up early, as she had, not counting on me to be here.

I rose then, draining my coffee and made for the restrooms, making sure to pass behind her by a few feet. I wove through the crowed tables and only slowing slightly as I walked behind her. It hit me immediately.

I have tried to describe the sensation many times, but I find it is like trying to describe the flow of water. Mutable and changing, and hard to understand if you don't see and feel it. Nonetheless, I will try again. It is like a combination of vertigo, nausea, and the extreme heightened awareness you get of things when you are in a life threatening situation. So in other words, it is like you feel in a car crash.

Well, at least that is the initial feeling, sometimes I think it is just to get my attention. Then comes the understanding. It isn't clinical, or diagnostic, or graphic, it just is. Suddenly I know, and there is no doubt, what is wrong with the person that triggered this response in me. The only people who trigger it for that matter, are ones who are very sick, deathly ill in fact.

I almost staggered as I walked by her, but too many years of this feeling had trained me to not be betrayed by it. She had Breast cancer, and it had metastasized. There were tumors in her liver, and in her lungs. But what she didn't know was that she was winning the war. She would survive through the chemo or whatever other regimens the doctors had her on. I don't know how I knew, but I did.

I used the restroom and headed for the door giving Julie the thumbs up. She smiled and headed over to the woman's table. We had arranged this many years ago; she would tell her I had seen her, and that I would email her. I headed home to tell her that she didn't need my help.

******************************************

The next day I thought I would walk across the street to the Albertsons and pick up some milk, and some dinner. The evening was beautiful, warm but not hot, and fragrant as spring was starting to come on. I was feeling lighthearted for a change since the woman in the coffee shop yesterday was not going to need my help. In fact I felt like I had been let off on probation instead of having to go to jail.

I wandered through the aisles, looking for something to appeal to me for dinner, and as usual ended up at the deli looking at the food I didn't have to cook. I stood there lost in thought, contemplating roast beef or pastrami on my sandwich when it hit me. It is always bad when I don't expect it. I stood and held my breath for a moment as the sensation passed and the knowledge came. She had walked up beside me and I heard her voice just as the knowledge of her impending death washed over me.

I turned to look at her as she asked the clerk behind the counter for a pound of organic cheese. She was tall for a woman at probably close to 6 feet, and wearing running shorts. Her legs were tone and muscled, and very tan. Her breasts were large and full in her tank top, but the most prominent feature on her was the swelling of her pregnant belly that was just starting to show.

I knew I would see that, for in this instance the feeling had told me. Both of them would die, god how cruel. I could see the beautiful ring on her finger from here. I could almost envision her husband at home excited about the birth of his little girl.

As always the doubts and the feelings of self loathing raged through me. Every time I wanted to retreat, to run away, to not face the pain again, yet every time I did. This time was no different. There were times that I had been unable to help, but that was early on when I had just learned a little of my fate. I didn't fully understand how it worked, and what was required of me. I do now, though that doesn't make it easier.

The next step was always the hardest, and the most dangerous. I have not been attacked or even caused a disturbance in a long time. Experience is the best teacher, and after more than ten years of this I had found what works and what doesn't.

I began to follow her around the store, at a distance and very discretely. She did not notice me pass her aisle or get in line behind her at the checkout counter. I watched her covertly as she paid for her groceries. After she paid I pretended to have forgotten something and left the back of the line, leaving my cart to follow her out of the store.

She walked to her car, and I called to her once she was getting ready to get in. I made sure I was on the other side of the car. I had learned this barrier and separation made people feel safer.

"Excuse me Ms.?" I said my voice steady over my pounding heart. She looked up, unafraid, but guarded as we all are of strangers these days. I walked to the edge of her car.

"I am sorry to bother you, but I need to tell you something important." I said slowly and carefully. Her eyes narrowed a bit now. I know this look, many think I am about to solicit for them to buy something, or ask for money. I charge ahead to avoid being cut off.

"I am an intuitive. You are gravely ill, and it puts you and your baby at risk. You need to go to the doctor immediately and have your blood checked. It could kill you both. " Her face registers shock, then anger.

"How dare you try to frighten me, who do you think you are?" Her voice is rising.

"Just someone trying to help, that's all. I'm very sorry." I take a card from my pocket and deposit it under her wiper and walk away. She looks as if she is going to yell at me, but decides better of it and gets in the car. I hear the engine start and she drives away. I hope the card flies off her windshield, that she doesn't email me. The card is blank except for an anonymous email address, my email address. But they always write me. They always check into what I tell them. Always, and I am never wrong.

I think it is the fear that lives in all of us, that we are mortal, and that death waits crouching behind the next corner for all of us. I have talked in the past to others I have helped, and they said that when I told them they were sick, they didn't want to believe me, but some part of them knew they were.

We underestimate the power of our minds and our bodies. Most of them try to ignore the warning for a few days, but eventually it begins to nag at them. They have the long arguments with themselves about how silly it would be to go to the doctor because some nut told them they had colon cancer, or leukemia. But eventually they all go, that fear of the reaper overcoming their fear of being made a fool of. Later, they will email me, full of questions and fear. The pattern has become regular for me, like the swing of the pendulum as I lie on the torture table of my life.

***********************************************

I spent the next couple of days at home; waiting for the email I knew would come. It finally arrived on the fifth day and read much like many before it.

How did you know?

Jill

I sat staring at the screen for a few moments before I began to type my reply. I sometimes wondered if I should write a stock answer and save it for these first replies, but I had always felt that was not fair. For me this was the hundredth time I had done this, but for this lady it was her first. By slowing down and writing each person I felt it somehow humanized our interaction.

Jill,

When I was younger I learned that I had a gift, or a curse depending on your point of view. I am an intuitive healer. When I pass closely to those who are gravely ill I can sense what is wrong. I feel it is my duty to tell them. I am so sorry for your troubles and your pain. I wish you all the luck with your treatment. If I can help in any way please don't hesitate to contact me.

Brian

I hit the send button and waited, but no reply came that night. I had found it was better to let them explore all the medical options surrounding their condition and to realize there was nothing that modern medicine could do for them. Often then, they would write me again. I always used the word healer in my first email to them, and they remembered it. Funny that when faced with death even someone as crazy as a person who calls themselves an intuitive healer can appeal to us.

********************************************

I spent the next few days working on my next book, and trying to prepare myself for what would come next. There really was no way to prepare of course, what this really means is I spent more time at the coffee shop staring out the window moodily with my laptop in front of me.

I guess I should mention that I don't really have to work to support myself. I write romance novels, and have been successful enough at it that I could never write again and I would have enough money to retire and live comfortably in my small condo. When you have had your heart broken as often as I have I guess it gives you a unique ability to share the joy of love found, and the pain of its loss.

The Bum was a good place for me to hang out at times like this. Julie and Mike understood what I was going through, and they would give me some small comfort of friendship. Also, the wireless network allowed me to work, keep tabs on my email, or continue my search through the labyrinth of the internet for an answer to the meaning of my life.

A week later while I was still waiting to hear from Jill I stood to go to the restroom in the Bum, and passed behind a table with a young mother and her two daughters. The feeling hit me so hard that this time I did stumble. Julie and Mike looked up at me with concern before I shook my head at them and stumbled the final few steps to the bathroom.

I shut and locked the door before sliding down it to sit against on the floor. The pain rose up through me then and I began to sob. Not the clean tears of grief one feels at loss, but the great wracking sobs of pain that come from unending torture and duty. A pain that permeates through the entire being of a person so that when it explodes out it shakes them like a small tree in a hurricane.

One of the woman's daughters had bone cancer. She had looked to be about eleven or twelve, and she would be dead in six months. There was nothing anyone could do for her, not even me. I had tried to help a child in the early days, before I fully understood, but I could not do it. I am no pedophile, and no matter how hard I tried I could not love her in that way. I grew to love her as a parent might, but never as a lover, and without that connection, I knew I could not help her.

I had gone through the same pain with men as well. I felt their impending death, but I was powerless to help them. I did try, again when I was younger. I thought I could force it, but I was not capable of loving a man in that way. I loved them as friends, as brothers, even as fellow human beings, but not as a lovers.

Can you imagine the pain of seeing a father with his family and knowing he will die and there is nothing you can do to help him. Knowing that within you resides the power to help, but not the ability. Well in six months time the little girl out there would be gone and that beautiful mother would be plunged into despair so deep she will feel she can never climb out of it again, and I was powerless to help her.

So I sat on the floor of that bathroom and sobbed. I sobbed like a child without comfort, like a mother who has lost her child, or a man who knows he will die and leave his family behind. I sobbed for all the people I had helped and not helped. I cried out to god to take this burden from me, but the only answer I received from him was the knowledge of the little girl dying not ten feet from me.

The door handle jiggled and I jumped. I dragged myself to my feet, splashed some cold water on my face and dried it with one of the brown scratchy paper towels. My eyes were swollen and red, and my body still trembled as I turned and headed out the door. I passed the family again as I made a beeline for my stuff. I began jamming papers and computer into my bag as quickly as I could.