Chapter 6 - FIND THAT BOYEli disappeared again.
This time with permission.
Grace had started the interview process.
Eli returned to St. Matthew’s.
Rosalie hated it.
“He should stay here.”
Dante almost laughed.
“You’ve known him three days.”
“He’s my friend.”
“Apparently.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I don’t know him.”
“You like everybody less before you know them.”
“That is statistically safer.”
Rosalie rolled her eyes.
Dante secretly liked that she argued more now.
Strength had returned first to her voice.
That mattered.
He sent a car to pick Eli up for therapy sessions.
Not because prayer was prescribed.
Because Rosalie wanted him there.
Eli sat quietly during physical therapy.
Never interfered.
Sometimes prayed beforehand.
Sometimes didn’t.
One day Rosalie failed to stand.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the fourth attempt, she was crying.
“I can’t.”
Eli said:
“Okay.”
She glared.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You said I could.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I said I thought prayer could help.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
Rosalie looked angry.
Dante watched.
Eli continued.
“You stood before.”
“So?”
“So today you didn’t.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because bad days don’t erase good ones.”
Rosalie looked away.
Ten minutes later she tried again.
She rose halfway.
Collapsed.
Then laughed.
“What?”
Eli smiled.
“You got mad enough to try again.”
Dante filed that away.
Later he asked Eli:
“Who taught you to talk like that?”
“My dad.”
Dante looked at him.
“Tell me about him.”
Eli became quiet.
“His name was Nathan.”
“What happened?”
“He got sick.”
“What kind?”
“Cancer.”
Dante regretted asking.
“How old were you?”
“Nine when he died.”
Last year.
Fresh.
Dante understood fresh grief.
“What did you pray for?”
Eli looked at him.
“For him to get better.”
“And?”
“He didn’t.”
Dante studied the boy.
“Then why do you still pray?”
Eli shrugged.
“I got mad.”
“At God?”
“Yeah.”
Dante almost smiled at the honesty.
“Then?”
“My mom said God could handle me being mad.”
Dante looked away.
Isabella would have liked that answer.
He could almost hear her.
Faith that cannot survive anger is only superstition.
She had said something like that once.
May you like
Dante had forgotten.
Maybe grief had made him forget too much.
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