Raphaela's Gift Read online

  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.

  Chapter Four

  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 sec
ond 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."

  "Of course I love him, lady!"

  "And you want to help him, too." She stepped forward. Garret respected her courage. She knew how to handle emotional parents, that was clear. She'd smoothed his ruffled feathers several times already.

  He lingered on the base of the steps leading into the building. Should he go in? He studied the rigid body of the man confronting her, looking for signs of threatening behavior. He would not stand by and watch any man strike a woman, but he was curious to see how she would settle the situation.

  "Of course I want to help him! He's my boy, for God's sake! Would you stop stating the obvious? You're really pissing me off."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Roberts. I'm certainly not trying to do that. Now, why don't you tell me what happened. What made you so angry this morning? Things were going so well yesterday."

  It sounded like she had things under control. Garret retreated from the steps, descending into the cool shade of a giant white oak where he could watch unnoticed. Leaning against its rough gray bark, he waited, wanting to hear more.

  "This morning, we went to the playroom, but I couldn't leave. I just couldn't do it. He was crying for me. So hard." The man's voice shuddered.

  God, did Garret wish his daughter would cry for him! He briefly recalled their first play therapy session, only moments ago. She had been completely indifferent to whom or what was around her. When he'd left her in the white-walled playroom, she hadn't noticed at all.

  Lost in a chasm between the present and the recent past, Garret shivered. He looked up, noticing a cottony white cloud had briefly extinguished the sunlight shooting through gaps in the canopy overhead. Was it the coolness of the air, or something from within that had chilled him--an arctic blast that shot through his heart every time he thought of his baby's retreat from the confusing world?

  "That's okay, Mr. Roberts. I understand it hurts to see him upset, but he needs to be focused on only one person at a time. He needs limited stimuli so his system can organize it. The simple fact that he is aware of you in the room is a big step, isn't it?"

  "Maybe. I don't know what to think about any of this."

  "Mountain Rise is a tough program. It takes a lot of courage to come here. And it takes even more courage to place your entire faith in the program. I understand that too, but I'm asking you to think long and hard before you pull Alex out."

  "And why should I listen to you? What do you get out of it?"

  Yeah, what do you get out of this, Faith LeFeuvre? Garret thought, still staring at the emerald leaves fluttering in the wind. A woodpecker drummed at the trunk high above him. He listened to the resonant knocking and waited for Faith's answer.

  "I get the opportunity to help one child. A brilliant, beautiful little boy who is loved and cherished by two wonderful parents. I get the opportunity to use my skills and education for something greater than myself."

  "Are you for real?"

  The man's question echoed Garret's thoughts.

  "Mr. Roberts, I can't make you believe me. I won't even try. I'm telling the truth, and that's all I need to know."

  "You're just here to make a buck," he said with a taunting voice.

  "If I wanted to be rich, I wouldn't be working here. The salary they pay is minimal."

  "Oh, so now you're some saint?"

  "No, I'm not a saint. You asked me a question. You made a comment. I answered them. Now, can I ask you a question?"

  Silence.

  Sliding his focus back to Faith, Garret waited for her question.

  "What do you want to gain from your time here?"

  "I want my son back, Miss LeFeuvre, that's all. I want Alex back." The man's voice had softened, the steel edge of anger eroding.

  "It's only been two days. Give us a chance. Give your son a chance."

  Her last words echoed in Garret's head as if she'd spoken to him. A silky feminine voice, delivering a hard message. He hadn't given the program much of a chance. Actually, if he were honest with himself, he'd admit he was doing more to assure its failure.

  And ultimately whom was he hurting?

  Raphaela's beautiful face flashed through his mind.

  His baby girl. That was who. By being such a stubborn jerk, by undermining the therapists' efforts to work with her, by refusing to give them his complete cooperation. What kind of father am I?

  He could do better. He could try to set aside his pessimism for her sake.

  Faith spoke again. He liked her voice. High, but soft. Definitely feminine. Not at all like Marian's grating, nasal tone. And she looked so delicate. How had she grown so strong?

  She was a fascinating creature. From what he'd seen the past two days, she was an odd combination of feisty stubbornness, delicate femininity and quiet intelligence. But he sensed there was still more. In the spark of doubt he saw in her eyes, the slight quiver of her voice and the slouch of her shoulders, he knew there was a side of her she protected fiercely.

  She would be a good role model for Raphaela. If anyone could draw his daughter from her protective world of snapping fingers and empty stares, Faith LeFeuvre could.

  Or at least, he hoped she could.

  Hope.

  The man talking to Faith nodded. His head bowed, and his shoulders slumped. He'd acquiesced to the grief Garret was confidant had fed his anger, and Faith looked upon him with eyes full of warm empathy.

  Despite her lack of credentials, she was indeed a remarkable woman and therapist. Swallowing a mountain of pride, Garret realized he wished he could connect with his patients as well as she did.

  Was that what his pessimism was really all about? A professional face-off?

  The man turned toward the door, and suddenly feeling like a peeping Tom, Garret slithered around the tree. A set of footfalls scuffed down the three steps then settled onto crackling pine bark and twigs. They traveled past the tree Garret hid behind and continued around the corner.

  Garret waited another minute and then slipped back toward the door, glimpsing Faith, whose back faced him, her head bent, her shoulders quaking.

  She was crying.

  She wasn't as strong as he'd thought. That whole scene had been an act--an admirable one. His regard for her heightened. And something else heightened as well, shocking him.

  Raw, acute affinity.

  He'd known this woman for little more than two days, and he already wanted to throw his arms around her and comfort her. She'd done well with that man. Very well.

  Her back to him, she ran her hands over her hair, gathering the lustrous locks at the nape of her neck. The ponytail, which skimmed the middle of her back, swished back and forth, as she slowly rocked on her feet. Then she lifted it high and released it. The golden mass cascaded down her back like a tropical waterfall. Even in the dark
ness of the room, they flashed rich and glossy.

  And in the breadth of a minute, affinity changed to desire.

  His back pressed against the tree, he chastened himself. He couldn't touch her. Wouldn't touch her, no matter how much he wanted to. Despite his willful thoughts, his arms burned to feel her softness within their clutch. He ached to feel her body pressed against his.

  What was wrong with him? He had never thought that way about a woman before, not even Marian. Not even in the beginning, when they'd both been young adults lusting for life. And especially later, after they'd been married for a while and the feel of each other's bodies in an embrace grew discomforting rather than nourishing.

  Yes. This was different. Strange and threatening. Not just desire, this feeling was more urgent and completely uncontrollable, like an unseen energy or natural force. It defied explanation or logic and frustrated him in its intensity and insistence. He was an adult. He should be able to control his urges.

  Whew! My thoughts are all over the map today.

  Wrenching his thoughts to more pleasant matters, he pushed aside the regrets of his failed marriage and concentrated on what he would say to Faith.

  Should he tell her what he'd seen or pretend he hadn't seen anything at all? Feigning ignorance might be the easy way out, but he didn't want to take that route today. Not again. Not with her.

  He wouldn't let avoidance be his game.

  He would tell her he'd seen everything, thought she'd handled the situation with admirable bravado. Even that would be an understatement, but it was better than what he would have done only a few days ago.

  After watching her handle that angry parent, he knew why Mountain Rise had hired her. The camp's owners were not the fools he'd originally thought they were. She was a remarkable therapist. Truly gifted.

  If they'd been wise enough, discerning enough, to hire Faith LeFeuvre, he wondered whether the program was the joke he'd believed. Granted, they had some unusual ideas about how to treat autistic children: the playroom concept, shielding the child from the world, forcing them into total isolation. And their interpretation of an autistic child's behavior was equally unexpected, certainly different from what he'd believed.