Free The Sweet Spot by Laura Drake Page B

worked. Was that a Native American chant?”
    Rosa’s obsidian button eyes flashed. “Navajo. I was raised by my mother’s people in
     New Mexico.”
    Char cocked her head. “You’re obviously qualified, and my father must trust you to
     react like that. Though I’m curious, how did you hear about us?”
    Rosa’s glance flitted around the room. “I ran into Reverend Mike at Saint Luke’s one
     day, and he told me that you could use some help.”
    “Oh.” The blood rushed to Char’s head and pounded at the back of her knees. “We’re
     fine at night.” She recalled the pandemonium the woman had walked into and rushed
     on. “We are. I need help most in the mornings. If I leave him alone for more than
     ten minutes, I start worrying. Daddy really is fine most of the time. He recognizes
     his friends, and if you didn’t know him well, you might not even guess—”
    “No need to explain.” Rosa put her hand over Char’s. The skin felt smooth and cool.
     “I can see how much you love him. I’m sure your father is a wonderful man. It’s my
     job to be sure he is allowed dignity and is safe.”
    The woman’s touch delivered comfort and something like peace. Char’s heavy burden
     of responsibility shifted a bit. She cleared her throat, but the words still came
     out a choked whisper. “I’m so glad you came.”
    An hour later, Char smoothed cold cream onto her face as she walked from the bathroom.
What a day.
She’d been saying that a lot lately. She stretched, her tired muscles protesting
     the labor of the past weeks. On the upside, she’d been too busy to mope, and the siren
     song of Valium was easier to resist out of doors. She still struggled every day, but
     had weaned herself down to one pill, before bed.
    She turned off the overhead light on her way by the door and clicked on the lamp on
     the nightstand. Its yellow aura formed a warm oasis in the shadowed room. Her flannel
     nightie billowed as she sank onto the bed, the dregs of the day bitter at the back
     of her throat. She’d be wide awake until the pill took hold. The past crept out of
     the dark room in her mind to attack with slashing claws.
    Casting about for something to distract the beast, her glance fell on a paperback
     on the nightstand.
Healing Wisdom: Easing a Path through Grief.
A parting gift when she’d been asked to leave the grief group.
    She’d put the book down and forgotten all about it.
It’s probably some pompous load of cow pie.
Now she brushed the dust off, turned it over, and read the back cover. It appeared
     to be a collection of quotes, meant to soothe mourners. Char opened it and the first
     line her eyes focused on:
There are as many nights as days, and the one is just as long as the other in the
     year’s course. Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the
     word “happy” would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.
    —
Carl Jung
    It sounded like her well-meaning friends’ advice—time healed all wounds. What a load
     of crippy-crap! As if hearts and flowers sprinkled on blunt-force loss would help.
     Before she could stop herself, she read the next entry:
Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.
    —
Emily Dickinson
    Char snapped the book closed. Now, there was some wisdom she could get behind. She
     dropped the book on the nightstand, turned off the light, and slid into bed. The shiver
     that snaked up her body was only partially due to cold sheets. Maybe the pill would
     take hold faster tonight.
    The cold white light of a flashlight moon spilled in the window as she lay huddled
     on her side of the bed, staring at nothing. Would she ever get used to sleeping alone?
     She scooted to the middle of the bed and spread-eagled her arms and legs. It felt
     wrong, so she rolled back to her side of the bed. She ached for her charmed life,
     when her son dreamt little-boy dreams down the hall.
    Jimmy would slide in beside her and pull her into his arms.