How could a man so right for me in every way have done something so wrong?
I gazed at Carter as he dozed in front of the muted television set.
He'd told me more in the last few hours than I could possibly take in, and I was glad enough that his medicine had finally made him nod off. Taking hold of his hand, I faced the truth: I loved a murderer. And as much as I didn't want to, this realization forced me to face another truth--about my mother.
I'd taken on the private nursing job as a way to make money while I sent my resume to hospitals, doctor's offices, and clinics. I never believed that I'd become involved with my patient. After all, he'd been badly wounded, and he'd killed a man.
Carter had seemed so hard, so indifferent, and so closed off that I'd told myself not to think of him as a man. But that was easier said than done. Even though I was tempted at times to show my impatience with his cynical attitude, I knew that he was becoming special to me. Now I sat next to him still shocked by the revelations that he'd finally allowed to pour out.
Before she died, my mother told me that there are no coincidences in life. Now, I wondered. Was I somehow destined to meet and fall in love with this man who didn't want anything but the skill that I brought to him as a nurse? In the two months that I'd been Carter's live-in nurse, my pity had turned into something stronger. A poet once proclaimed that pity and love were close kin, and I sure believed it.
I hadn't found much time for love in my twenty-six years. My father left when I was twelve, leaving Mama to raise five kids by herself. We'd scraped by, though. Sometimes I'd sacrifice lunch in order to buy school supplies and I seldom spent money on movies or even a Coke and hamburger. My lack of fast food funds probably helped me to maintain my lean figure, which was the envy of some of my fellow nurses in training. My mind only thought of necessities, and I didn't expect to find love.
