Page 43 of Three
“Close your eyes,” she tells me after a few seconds, and I do. No questions asked.
I remain still, listening to the fire hissing and popping, enjoying the smell of burned wood.
The sofa is too hard, Meg’s silky shirt soft and cold, the socks around my feet tight.
A light brush on my cheek makes me jerk back. My eyes pop open, and I witness the shock and then the pure, undiluted happiness overflowing her eyes and wetting her eyelashes.
We’ve been waiting for this moment for so long.So long.Now we are laughing and crying at the same time. Her bony hand is gripping mine, while the other is delicately cupping my face.
“Are olfaction and gustation back as well?” she asks hopefully. I also detect curiosity in her voice, which shows her psychiatrist’s inquisitive mind.
I nod.
“What’s wrong?” Her hand drops from my face. Meg has the ability of reading people. As a renown forensic psychiatrist, it was her job to study people’s minds until she retired. But she still works as a consultant for the police, a few hospitals, and Raph and Sari’s company, and she offers us behavioral analysis on potential donors from time to time.
“I’m scared,” I confess.
“Ramiel, your sensory numbness was your way to cope with emotional and physical pain. A form of dissociation, an unconscious protective response to feeling difficult emotions due to your trauma. Your mind and body needed time to heal. Feeling scared when simultaneously regaining not one, but three senses after almost twenty years of brief appearances is a perfectly expected reaction.”
“The only thing I ever wanted was to feel, Meg. Growing up not being able to taste, smell, or touch made me feel wrong and so damn lonely.” I look down at the burn on my hand. “When I discovered how to wake up those senses, if even for a short time, I was thrilled. But it’s never lasted, and now I’m afraid to…hope. What if it’s just temporary? What if I go back to…being numb again? I don’t know if I can take it,” I choke out. The sting of my nails digging inside my palm makes me feel even more vulnerable than I already am. I love it, and I hate it.
“You’re strong, Ramiel. Your sensory numbness was your way of fighting back. What you went through when you were a defenseless kid should have killed you. Instead look at you.”
“That’s thanks to you. And Linda. And the others.” I could have never made it without them. I don’t remember my father much. But he was a drunk, and I would’ve been sent back to him if Meg and Linda hadn’t fostered me.
“No. We helped, but it was all you. You used that pain and turned it into a talent. And now you take care of all of us. Protect us with Serena, your cyber skills, andoverprotective instincts.” She gestures passionately with her hand, letting me know how much she means her words.
I force the grateful tears back and tighten my hold on her fingers. Hell, the contact brings such comfort. It stirs and warms my insides.
“You shouldn’t think about all the ifs. This calls for a celebration,” she cheerfully exclaims, pushing the intercom on the coffee table. “Ferdinand, can you bring some coffee and all the kinds of cake we have?”
I smile at her. Fuck! Cake is Meg’s addiction, one I could never share with her. Would I like it? All my bros seem to love it.
“Right away, Madam.” Ferdinand’s prompt reply comes through the intercom.
“While we are waiting, tell me how it happened. What was the trigger?” she asks.
“I don’t know if it’s a coincidence, maybe it was just…time. I was coming down from a pleasurable encounter, and the numbness never returned.”
“After sex you mean.” She narrows her eyes while pondering. “Was it just a one-off, or did the encounter have meaning?”
“Meg, I don’t domeaningful.But it wasn’t the first time with him, and we’re kind of working together,” I rapidly spit the words out.
“An informant?” Her gaze is laser-focused on me now.
“No, a P.I., he was attacked by my last donor, and now someone is trying to kill him. Maybe. I’m helping him out in exchange for his investigative skills.”
“Ramiel, you don’t need help, especially with your technical expertise. You like this person.” That’s the upside down of having a psychiatrist as a foster mother, you can’t hide anything from her.
“He’s interesting. Different,” I give her.
“Different how?”
Ferdinand’s knock on the door saves me from the Spanish Inquisition. He strolls in, pushing a cart filled with cakes and a pot ofcoffee. The air is soon saturated with the rich, dark, divine aroma, and I’m so damn eager to fully taste…everything.
It takes too long for him to pour the coffee into two cups. I don’t let him set mine on the low table, but grab it impatiently from his hands and take a sip. The first sensation is a burning one.Hot. Hot.My tongue is on fire, and then the sharp bitterness hits my taste buds.
“Ugh.” I open my mouth in disgust and pain.
