He looked up, over my head, at the sky. “My mamma would always say that was a sign of a life well lived. Stories to share with the world. And stories kept in the heart. Like secrets, ah?”
“I love that,” I whispered again. It felt right. This man wasn’t brittle, but there was something soft about him that made me feel like it was right to match his tenderness.
“She would have loved you. All the old ones would have.”
“I feel like I’m doing okay with all the new ones too—well, except for one.”
He met my eyes, and he seemed to know who I was talking about. Rocco’s wife.
He made a noise, like…ach. It came from deep inside of his throat. “There are some people we do better not getting approval from. These are the people who are not our people. My mamma used to say this as well. We do not pray for our people to come into our lives. We pray for the onesnotmeant to be in them to get kicked out.”
“Amen,” I said, having picked up the response from my soon-to-be mother-in-law.
He grinned at me. “My mamma did not use those exact words, but it is her point all the same.” He went quiet after that, his eyes moving to the stars again.
Sighing, I turned my head slightly, keeping an eye on them too. They were so real here. Touchable, almost. I lifted my hand, imagining I could feel their cold heat against my palm. After a few minutes, though, it felt like a tepid breeze had caressed the side of my face. When I turned, I could’ve sworn it was the old man’s eyes. He’d been watching me.
“Scarlett gets lost in the stars as well. They bring her comfort.”
“Me too.”
For whatever reason, we smiled at each other, as tender as our voices had been.
He lifted his hands, the flesh taut over the bones, touched with age spots. A bruise here and there from him probably accidentally hitting the brittle skin too hard. “When I was a young man, studying to be a doctor, my mamma had a talk with me. She said, “Tito, who do you think you are?” And the question stopped me from what I was doing. Cooking something for her, I believe. I thought about that for a minute or two, knowing my mamma well enough to know that she was not asking me who I actually thought I was, but who I believed myself to be. After those minutes, I told her who I believed myself to be. “A doctor, mamma,” I’d said. “A healer.”
“‘Are you doing the healing?’ she’d asked. ‘Who else?’ had been the response on my tongue, but I was a good Italian man who loved and respected his mamma. I had also valued my lips back then. She would have made them swell with that answer.”
I smiled and he smiled.
“‘Do not forget, Tito,’ she had said to me, “‘that your hands are only a tool. So is your mind. You know all these things, but when you heal, do not forget to heal the human spirit as well.” He looked away from me, toward the bedside table, where Scarlett had set up a pitcher of cold water with cucumber and lemon for me. Two glasses sat next to it, ready to be filled. Sprigs of fresh lavender, tied with silver ribbon, were placed next to them.
“Would you like some water?” I whispered.
He nodded, and I padded over and poured us each a glass. We sipped on it for a moment before he placed his between his legs to keep the glass steady.
“It took me time to understand her words. The human spirit is a powerful tool we have. Much more powerful than my own hands. The mind is also very powerful. What we believe can change the course of our fate, or so I believe. But I have seen it. A mind that believes the best, the mouth that speaks the best,will receive the best.” He took the last sip of his water, placing it between his thighs again. “Where is your soul, Stella?”
The question stumped me for a second, but I thought back to what he’d said about his mamma and decided to really think about what he was asking me. The only answer I had, though, was this one.
“Inside of my body.”
“Where?” he asked almost automatically.
“Does it exist inside of my heart, you mean?”
“Or in your mind. Or in your womb. Or even in your arm.”
My eyes flashed to his and he smiled, bigger than he had before.
I laughed some, but it was as light as the breeze. “I’m not sure.”
“Where do you feel your conscience?”
I closed my eyes for some reason, feeling around inside of myself.
“I think…my lower stomach,” I said, touching it. “My womb.”
“Interesting.” He rubbed his chin. “Most women I’ve asked that say the same, but some say their hearts. Most of the men I’ve asked touch the center of their chests.”
