The Rescue - Nicholas Sparks [80]
Taylor nodded, beginning to grasp just how difficult all this must have been. “You must have the patience of a saint,” he said.
“Not always.”
“But to do it every day . . .”
“I have to. Besides, look at how far he’s come.”
Taylor flipped through the notebook, toward the end. From a nearly blank page with only a single word on it, Denise’s notes about the hours spent with Kyle now covered three and four pages at a time.
“He’s come a long way.”
“Yes, he has. He’s got a long way to go, though. He’s good with some questions, like ‘what’ and ‘who,’ but he still doesn’t understand ‘why’ and ‘how’ questions. He doesn’t really converse yet, either—he usually just makes a single statement. He’s also got trouble with the phrasing of questions. He knows what I mean when I say, ‘Where’s your toy?’ But if I ask him, ‘Where did you put your toy?’ all I get is a blank stare. Things like that are the reason I’m glad I’ve kept that journal. Whenever Kyle has a bad day—and he does, quite often—I’ll open this up and remind myself of all the challenges he’s made it through so far. One day, once he’s better, I’m going to give this to him. I want him to read it, so that he knows how much I love him.”
“He already knows that.”
“I know. But someday, I also want to hear him say that he loves me, too.”
“Doesn’t he do that now? When you tuck him in at night?”
“No,” she answered. “Kyle’s never said that to me.”
“Haven’t you tried to teach him that?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to be surprised on the day that he finally does it on his own.”
During the next week and a half Taylor spent more and more time at Denise’s house, always dropping by in the afternoons once he knew she’d finished working with Kyle. Sometimes he stayed for an hour, other times a little longer. On two afternoons he played catch with Kyle while Denise watched from the porch; on the third afternoon he taught Kyle to hit the ball with a small bat and tee that Taylor had used when he was young. Swing after swing, Taylor retrieved the ball and set it back on the tee, only to encourage Kyle to try again. By the time Kyle was ready to stop, Taylor’s shirt was soaked through. Denise kissed him for the second time after handing him a glass of water.
On Sunday, the week after the carnival, Taylor drove them to Kitty Hawk, where they spent the day at the beach. Taylor pointed out the spot where Orville and Wilbur Wright made their historic flight in 1903, and they read the details on a monument that had been erected to honor them. They shared a picnic lunch, then waded in and out of the surf on a long walk down the beach as terns fluttered overhead. Toward the end of the afternoon Denise and Taylor built sand castles that Kyle delighted in ruining. Roaring like Godzilla, he stomped through the mounds almost as quickly as they were molded.
On the way home, they stopped at a farmer’s road stand, where they picked up some fresh corn. While Kyle ate macaroni and cheese, Taylor had his first dinner at Denise’s house. The sun and wind at the beach had worn Kyle out, and he fell asleep immediately afterward. Taylor and Denise talked in the kitchen until almost midnight. On the doorstep they kissed again, Taylor’s arms wrapped around her.
A few days later Taylor let Denise borrow his truck to head into town to run some errands. By the time she got back, he’d rehung the sagging cabinet doors in her kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, wondering if he’d overstepped some invisible line.
“Not at all,” she cried, clapping her hands together, “but can you do anything about the leaky sink?” Thirty minutes later that was fixed as