Chapter 12 - THE MAN WHO LEARNED TO SIGN
Rafferty began learning sign language seriously.
At first, he struggled.
His hands were too stiff.
His movements awkward.
He confused signs.
Forgot expressions.
And occasionally signed something completely different from what he intended.
Josie found this hilarious.
One afternoon, he attempted to sign:
Would you like more cookies?
Instead, he accidentally signed something that made Josie burst into laughter.
Fay covered her mouth.
Rafferty looked offended.
“What did I say?”
Fay laughed.
“You asked whether she wanted more chickens.”
Rafferty stared.
Then laughed too.
He practiced every day.
With Josie.
With Fay.
With a qualified instructor.
Slowly, he improved.
One evening, Josie approached him carrying a drawing.
It showed three people standing beside a river.
A tall man.
A woman.
A little girl.
Rafferty stared.
“Who's that?”
Josie signed:
You.
He smiled.
“And this?”
Mama.
“And the little girl?”
Josie grinned.
Me.
Rafferty's eyes filled.
She had drawn him as part of her family.
Not because he was rich.
Not because he was powerful.
Because he listened.
That night, Rafferty asked Fay to walk with him beside the river.
The Mississippi moved slowly beneath the moonlight.
He stopped near an old oak tree.
“Fay.”
She looked up.
“Yes?”
He took her hands.
“I've spent most of my life believing love was something people could take away.”
Her eyes filled.
He continued.
“So I tried to become someone nobody could hurt.”
He smiled sadly.
“But you taught me something different.”
“What?”
“That being loved is worth the risk.”
Fay began crying.
Rafferty reached into his pocket.
Not for a ring.
But for the faded blue paper boat he'd kept since childhood.
He placed it in her hands.
“I never stopped looking for you.”
She looked at him.
“I never stopped remembering you.”
Then he kissed her.
Gently.
Carefully.
May you like
As though asking a question.
And Fay kissed him back.
