Faking It. Dorie Graham

Jack said, putting the tone of authority into his voice that their father had used all those years ago and that Jack had perfected when he’d stepped in to fill his father’s shoes.

      “A guy can’t have any fun around here anymore.” Bobby cast Deloris one more look filled with longing, then followed Jack to the door. “Your timing sucks.”

      “You’re welcome,” Jack said as he slid into the car.

      “Okay, thanks for giving me a ride.” Bobby grinned, oblivious to all but the pretty brunette as he craned his neck to catch one last glimpse.

      “You can pick up where you left off when you come back to get your car,” Jack said.

      “If she happens to be working then.”

      “I have never known you to have trouble getting a date.”

      “True.” Bobby cranked up the radio as Jack drove to his brother’s apartment.

      A short while later Jack dropped off Bobby, then sped toward the interstate, his pulse pounding through the dull ache in his chest. The light ahead turned yellow. Jack floored it, rubbing his chest in an effort to relieve the growing pressure there.

      The radio disc jockey announced the time and Jack swore. He was going to be late, even if he hit all green lights. He should call his client. Steering with one hand, he reached into his briefcase for the file with the client’s contact information. The file spilled as he yanked it from the briefcase, scattering its contents over the front seat and floor.

      The ache radiated from his chest, with a sharpness that took his breath. Grimacing, he pressed his hand to his heart as the pain escalated to agonizing proportions.

      A horn honked. He glanced up, then jerked the wheel hard to the right to avoid an oncoming car. The road veered off to the left as the car careened over the shoulder. He braked hard, fighting to maintain control of the wheel. All the while, he clutched his chest and gasped for breath through the bone-numbing pain.

      His car hit an embankment and stopped. Adrenaline pounded through Jack as he peered at the back of the other car as it continued up the street, apparently unscathed. The pain eased, though his heart hammered and sweat beaded his brow.

      That had been too close for comfort. He could have been killed.

      This fatigue and these chest pains are your body’s way of warning you that all isn’t as it should be.

      Jack bowed his head, his hands still gripping the wheel. Dr. Carmichael was right. Jack needed to cut back.

      If he didn’t want to end up like his grandfather and father before him, he had to face that he could no longer be everything to everyone. It was time to help his family learn to stand on their own feet. Without him.

      He’d been wrong not to take his condition seriously.

      A FEW DAYS LATER, smoke curled from an oil burner on a shelf in the small but tidy shop. Jack wrinkled his nose, but the smell had a surprising appeal. Sunlight filtered through a window set above shelves of jars, boxes and packets of things he tried not to contemplate. He took in a deep incense-filled breath and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to relax.

      “Chamomile.” A woman with rosy cheeks smiled from behind a stack of books. “It’s good for lots of things, like insomnia and stress.”

      He nodded, not quite sure how to respond. He’d had his share of both in recent months, among other symptoms. He cleared his throat. “Do you have any books on alternative healing?”

      “Sure.” She gestured for him to follow her between two book-filled aisles. “Here you go.”

      He glanced at the assortment of titles. “I want something that’s more informational, not a how-to. I’m studying alternative healing methods—what they are.”

      “I see.” She peered at him through narrowed eyes. “This is for your personal use as opposed to research, right?”

      Unease rippled through him. “Yes.”

      Her face split into a smile. “You’ll be okay. Spirit gives us only what we can handle.”

      He laughed, a small strangled sound. Right, he could handle a bad heart and the near certainty of a shortened life. He rubbed his chest as though doing so might relieve the constant pressure there. “Thanks. Can you make a recommendation?”

      “Is there a particular type of healing you’re interested in?”

      “I don’t know. I’ve been to countless doctors. Have been poked, prodded and peered into more times than I care to admit.” He stopped.

      Why was he telling her this? He hadn’t breathed a word to his family. Yet something about the woman put him at ease, loosened his tongue. “A good friend suggested that I look into alternatives. She mentioned several things. I’m not sure where to start.”

      “Hmm, let’s see.” She ran her fingers across the book spines, muttering to herself. “Why don’t you try this one?”

      He took the book and read the title. “The Beginner’s Guide to Alternative Healing Methods. I’m certainly a beginner.”

      He scanned the contents page. “Acupuncture—I tried that last week. Aromatherapy—think I need something with a little more kick to it. Cellular release, etheric pulse—never heard of them. Hypnotherapy, reflexology, reiki—already have an appointment for that. Tantric healing—what’s that?”

      “Oh, tantra could possibly be the most powerful healing of all.”

      “Really?” He flipped to the section indicated, then drew back at the picture of a couple entwined in a lovers’ embrace. “Are they talking about sexual healing?”

      “Like I said, one of the most powerful forms of healing. It’s an ancient practice.”

      He stared at her. “You have to be joking.”

      “Not at all.”

      “But…people actually practice this?”

      Her eyebrows arched. “Some do. I think I could help you find a local practitioner.”

      “That’s okay. I’ll pass.” Lifting the book, he said, “I’ll take this and read up on some of this other stuff. Maybe I’ll find something helpful.”

      He tamped down on the frustration that threatened to overwhelm him. He was grasping at straws. What would his family say if they could see him now?

      As he followed the woman to the register, he shook his head. His poor mother would be even more confused than he’d already made her when he’d given her the number for a handyman. Jack had tried to ignore her hurt look when he’d insisted he didn’t have time to help her any more this week, but the guilt of letting her down and lying to her weighed heavily.

      “Is that going to be all for you?” the woman asked.

      “That’s it.”

      The issue wasn’t so much his time but his need to help his family become more independent. Not to be there for them was just as hard on Jack. He’d been holding them all together for so long, he had to fight the urge to run to the rescue any time his mother needed something fixed or his brother needed advice. They had to learn to stand on their own feet, though.

      What would they do if he wasn’t around?

      The woman handed him a bag with the book in it. “Receipt’s inside.”

      “Thank you.”

      “It would do you a world of good.”

      “I’m sorry—what would?”

      “Tantra.”

      “Oh, that. I don’t know. Seems a little…personal.”

      “Any kind of healing is going to be tailored for the healee.