Leap Of Faith

Chapter Fifteen

[photo by Tareq Ismail from Unsplash]

Topher

There are so many questions I want to ask, but I don't think I can actually form them into words. I'm stuck on the phrase: Healing was always just something I did. An instinct.

Leni absolutely believes she can heal arthritis.

I'm reminded of an article I once read—skim-read, if I'm honest. And only because Mum insisted. It was something to do with the science of miracles and she'd found it on the Internet. So naturally, I judged it accordingly. The point of the narrative was to emphasize that the Vatican does not confirm miracles solely on the basis of faith. They employ bona fide physicians to conduct a careful medical review of the miracle-recipient's prognosis and outcome. The conclusion of the report, simply stated, was that wondrous things happen for which there is no scientific explanation.

Leni bites into her bottom lip as she turns away from me. God only knows what my face looks like. I'm sure I owe her an explanation—and an apology. "I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to get in your car and never speak to me again," I say.

But this clearly confuses her. "Why, because you asked for my help?"

"You're initial reaction was less than exuberant."

"Well yeah. I'm not the biggest fan of hospitals."

She states this as if it should be obvious. And perhaps it should. I always feel as though I'm missing something wherein Leni is concerned.

"Can we finish this conversation while we walk?" she asks, pointing at the ocean. "I skipped lunch."

"And I promised you dinner ages ago." I gesture for her to go ahead. She pauses at the top of the stairs, lifts one foot behind her, plucking off her sandal, and then the other. Her legs are very long—and remarkably pale for someone who spends so much time on the beach.

Correction, for someone who's literally addicted to the ocean. I should ask what brand of sunscreen she uses.

Once in the sand, she heads straight for the water, wades in just shy of the point where the waves can reach her linen shorts. When she turns back to me, I nod my head in the direction of the restaurant and we walk along the shore: Leni, knee deep, me intent on keeping my shoes dry. Conversation is not an option and I get the feeling she prefers it that way.

We've nearly reached the restaurant when she decides to join me. "I can help your patient," she says, loud enough to be heard over the ocean, but not with the confidence of the resolute. "First, I need to know if..." Her teeth scrape over her bottom lip. "Did you tell her about me?"

"No. I swear to God, Leni. I haven't told a soul about you—and I never will."

"Okay. Thank you. Next question: how are you expecting this to happen—like, do you have a plan? Because I can't allow...your patient can't know about my secret."

"Right. Yes. I've ordered a sedative–which I'd have done either way. Emma hasn't been sleeping well."

Leni blinks a couple of times in rapid succession. That's the only indication she's taking in the information, internalizing it. That seems to be her process, so I leave her to it.

It's just as well. We're very nearly to the restaurant. "It's just ahead," I say, pointing. She lifts her head, finds the Crab Shack—which is a literal shack, squatting in the shadow between two towering hotels—and breathes out a laugh.

We queue at the thatch-roofed counter, place our order and grab the last available table, a high-top perched on the edge of a deck that defines the bar-area. It's a noisy crowd. It won't be easy to finish our conversation.