"You beauties will have to stay in the closet from now on," she murmurs, then looks over at me. "Can I borrow your clogs?" She points at my closed-toe garden shoes with her finger.
With a mix of fascination and disbelief, I nod. "But they're way too big for you," I say even though I'm sure she's aware of that.
She shrugs and slips into the clogs. As soon as she puts them on, she strikes a model pose. "Looks great, doesn't it?"
Once again, I burst into laughter. The combination of my garden shoes, which look like cruise ship steamers on her miniature feet, the chic pleatedtrousers, and the stained top from cooking are just too funny.
"It can't get any better," I confirm, still chuckling. And although this situation is nothing special, I feel somewhat freer than usual. "Come on, Mrs. Clown."
She follows me to the workshop. I open the heavy door and let her enter. Most things are as I left them after the accident. I've only been able to do some sanding work here and there; my injured hand is not yet fit for more.
"Wow." Elina strolls along the aisle between the workbench and saw, stopping at the shelf where I store my small projects. "This is amazing," she says, taking one of the spoons from the wooden cutlery set in her hand. She lovingly strokes the handle. "The grain... and the elegant shape..."
Her enthusiasm touches me deeply. "Woodwork doesn't always have to be rustic," I say since I'm sure she believed that before. When a city girl thinks of wood, she envisions antique or traditional pieces. Old-fashioned stuff, basically.
She puts the spoon back and examines my other works. Some of them I design on commission, like the door sign she just discovered. She reverently runs her fingers over the delicate relief.
"There's an artist inside you," she says, lifting her head and looking at me as if she suddenly sees something in me that was previously hidden. "You're not..."
Now I'm the one looking at her questioningly. What did she think I was? Granted, I probably don't give off a friendly impression to outsiders. But that doesn't mean...
Her gaze becomes more intense, and suddenly, I realize she's not the only one with prejudices. I, too, have been blinded by her posh facade. What if she's completely different inside? What if she, too, prefers to hide what's going on inside her because no one in this world could ever understand?
Without taking her eyes off me, Elina steps closer. She stops just a few inches away from me. "You put so much love into these wonderful, unique pieces." Her hand twitches as if she wants to touch me and, at the same time, doesn't dare. "But you also need a little something for yourself."
I feel my expression darken. Perhaps it looks that way from her perspective. Because she doesn't know what happened. In fact, she doesn't know anything about me.
"Your blood test results are inconclusive, but they provide clues we can follow up on." Her penetrating gaze meets mine. "You're not well, that's obvious. Only if you let me find out what's wrong can I help you."
Why does she have to bring this up again? I'm just a little tired, that's all. At least, that's all I want to believe.
"There's no need to worry," I say, sounding harsher than intended.
"But your low platelet count worries me. It could be a sign of..."
I immediately raise my hand. She doesn't need to explain what a low platelet count indicates. "There's nothing wrong with me. Let it go."
She should back off based on my tone, but the opposite happens. She takes another step closer, her upper body touching mine, and the delicate scent of apple reaches my nose. "What are you afraid of?"
I swallow, but my throat feels tight.
As if she hasn't pressured me enough already, she now places her hand on my upper arm. "My best friend Maya always claims that every journey starts with the decision to take the first step."
My God, what can I say to that? Is there anything I could say to deter her from her plan?
"Trust me." She looks deep into my eyes for a moment that feels like an eternity. Then she lowers her gaze and slips past me to leave the workshop. "You know where to find me," she calls back before disappearing into the trees with my garden shoes.
I watch her pensively. Once the solitude of the clearing envelops me again, I feel torn inside. And the longer I imagine what could happen if she were to turn around and come back to me, the wider the chasm in my inner self becomes.
Because I sense the consequences it would have if she were to look at me again with her loving expression or make me laugh just one more time.
I would ask her to stay with me a little longer.
But if she were to scrutinize me with her piercing doctor's gaze or corner me with her precise questions, I would wish for nothing more than for her to disappear from my life as quickly as possible.
