Chapter 13 - The Echoes of the Past
Summer arrived in Chicago with glorious warmth, washing away every memory of the icy, blood-soaked winter. The commercial docks along Terminal Four were bustling with legitimate international commerce, employing over eight hundred union workers who earned living wages and full medical benefits.
Every evening at six, I left my corporate office on Wacker Drive and drove down to the South Side to walk through the therapy rooms of the Toby Willis Center with Faith. My recovery was complete; the physical therapy drills she had forced upon me in the darkest hours of my depression had built an endurance in my lower limbs that surprised even the head orthopedic surgeons at Northwestern. I no longer needed a cane, a brace, or a helping hand.
Yet, there was one piece of unfinished business that lingered in the quiet corners of my mind.
On a warm Tuesday evening in July, I drove alone to a quiet, tree-lined street in the Englewood neighborhood. The modest brick bungalow with a small flower garden out front had belonged to Faith’s family for three decades—the very house where she had cared for her paralyzed brother Toby until the medical bills had forced the bank into foreclosure proceedings right before she answered the advertisement to become my private caretaker.
The foreclosure sign had been removed months ago when I purchased the mortgage through a blind trust, but the house had remained empty, frozen in time.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The air was warm, smelling faintly of old wood and dried pine. In the living room, Toby’s old manual wheelchair sat folded in the corner beside a worn bookshelf packed with worn mechanics manuals and science fiction paperbacks. On the mantelpiece sat a framed photograph of a teenage boy with Faith’s wide gray eyes and mischievous smile, wearing a South Side Little League uniform with a baseball mitt under his arm.
I approached the photograph, looking into the eyes of the boy whose senseless tragedy had ultimately saved my life.
"I didn't know you, Toby," I murmured into the quiet room. "And men who lived like I did were the reason you suffered. But I swear to you on everything I own, your sister will never shed another tear of grief as long as I draw breath."
"He knows that, Dominic," a gentle voice spoke from the doorway.
I turned around. Faith stood in the entrance, wearing a simple sundress, her hair tied back with a blue ribbon. She had followed me from the clinic after finding my note on her desk.
Her eyes drifted around the living room of her childhood home, taking in the familiar dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. Tears welled in her lashes, but they were tears of profound, healing closure.
"You bought the deed back, didn't you?" she asked softly, stepping across the threshold.
"The title is in your name, Faith," I answered, extending my hand toward her. "Free and clear. I thought... maybe you’d want to keep it as a retreat, or donate it to one of the clinic’s recovery programs."
Faith walked across the room, slipping her hand into mine. She looked up at the photograph of her brother on the mantelpiece, then leaned her head gently against my shoulder.
"Toby wouldn't want me looking backward, Dominic," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "He loved this house, but our lives aren't here anymore. Let’s turn it into temporary housing for out-of-town families whose kids are receiving treatment at the center. Let other families find shelter here, the way we found shelter in each other."
May you like
I looked down at her, marveling once again at the boundless grace and generosity of the woman beside me. Where I saw debts to be paid and territory to be managed, Faith Willis saw opportunities to heal a broken world.
"Whatever you want, Faith," I said softly, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "It’s yours."
