“You do realize,” Abbot Mortimer says to Ruth after she pleads Floyd’s case, “that we offer no medical facilities, nor do we have medical practitioners here? Surely he would be better off in a hospital.”
Ruth shakes her head. “Floyd, sadly, is beyond the help of doctors. And then there’s all the constant noise, the hustling and bustling everywhere. A hospital is no place for redemption.”
“What brought you to our abbey in particular?”
“I believe Floyd would respond well to your approach to Christian instruction. He loves space and stars and whatnot. He can always find all the Dippers in the sky.”
“Impressive.”
“Even more impressive… this place!” Ruth enthuses, sweeping her hands around her. “It’s spectacular. I’ve read nothing but positive things about your Order.”
“We have gotten some flattering publicity in recent months,” Abbot Mortimer trumpets. He gestures to one of the journal clippings on the wall. “Were you aware we received four crosses in Divine Places magazine?”
“Yes, I was. It was how I made up my mind to bring Floyd here.”
His vanity massaged, the Abbot manages a smile, but the moment is fleeting.
“I must admit, Miss Greenaway,” he says soberly, “while I respect your motives, I have my misgivings. For some, faith is an elusive prospect. Floyd may not have the… capacity for enlightenment.”
“Does that mean we deny him the chance?”
“He will not be judged the same as you or I.”
“I owe him to try, Father Abbott. I know that with the right attention, he can accept the Lord into his heart and revel in His glory. And that will best prepare him for his journey from this mortal plane into God’s heavenly ether.”
Abbot Mortimer regards Floyd, who continues to be enthralled by the Solar Christ sculpture.
“Floyd seems a curious young man.”
“He is,” Ruth attests. “I’m counting on that curiosity to help him see the Light.”
The Abbot nods, his decision reached. “Perhaps there is hope for him. He’s already quite blessed having you to guide him.”
Ruth’s eyes brighten. “Then, have you room for us?”
“Our adherent lodgings are presently occupied, but we do set aside a few guesthouses for our high-profile devotees. They often show up at their whim. But all these cottages are vacant at the moment, so you may stay in one of them.”
“Thank you, Father Abbot. Bless you a thousandfold!”
“For as long as you are here, both of you must follow our precepts. And should either of you become a burden on the community, or are unable to fulfill your spiritual and manual responsibilities, you will be asked to leave. Understood?”
“Yes. But I promise we won’t be any bother.”
“Very well then.” Abbot Mortimer rubs his hands together and rises from his seat. “Miss Greenaway, it is my pleasure to officially welcome you and Floyd to the Monastery of the Celestial Christ.”
Ruth stands. “This is wonderful! Thank you so, so much.” She turns to address her companion, still facing away from them gawking at the Solar Christ. “Floyd, did you hear that?”
Floyd doesn’t answer.
She steps toward him and taps his shoulder. “Floyd?”
He swivels his body around, a big giddy grin stretched across his face. The head of the sculpture’s Jesus figurine is stuck up his nose.
Ruth gasps and plucks the figurine from Floyd’s nostril. She wipes it on her dress and, frowning sheepishly, gives it to the Abbot.
“Sorry, Father.”
“It’s quite alright,” the Abbot says, unflustered. “I’m sure we’ll find a more proper means for our Lord to enter Floyd.”
*****
Floyd’s head x-rays were already arranged on the lightbox on the wall when Dr. Lieber ushered Ruth inside his office.
After they had wheeled Floyd away on a gurney, Ruth sat for hours in the waiting room of St. Luke’s Hospital’s emergency department. She’d left her Bible at work, so resorted to reading the arts & crafts magazines available on the end tables. She had just finished an article about how to design a mosaicked birdbath when Dr. Lieber came over and asked her to accompany him.
The doctor sported a royal blue yarmulke and the obligatory white lab coat. His salt-and-pepper beard had a green crumb stuck in it that Ruth at first found distracting, then came to focus on it while they spoke.
With a rollerball pen, Dr. Lieber pointed to a dark blotch on the CT scan image of Floyd’s skull.
“This spot here shows a malignant growth in Floyd’s ethmoid sinus. That’s what caused his nosebleed. It appears to have spread from this area.” He circled the tip of his pen around a larger, darker patch covering a sizable portion of the brain. “It’s what’s called a glioblastoma multiforme, or GBM for short. It’s a primary tumor that, unfortunately, is inoperable and, due to its advanced stage, untreatable by radio or chemotherapies.”
“You’re saying Floyd has cancer?” Ruth asked.
The doctor nodded grimly. “I’m afraid it’s terminal.”
“He’s—” Ruth’s breath caught in her throat. “Floyd’s going to die?”
“I’m sorry.”
“How long… does he have?”
“Anywhere from one up to, possibly, six months, depending on the cancer’s rate of progression.”
For a moment, Ruth had no idea what to say. She’d never before experienced the passing of one of her wards. It was very distressing and somehow disgraceful, as if she herself had failed Floyd.
“Is there no hope, doctor?”
Dr. Lieber stepped toward his desk and sat on the edge of it. He motioned for Ruth to take the chair opposite him. The doctor offered her a box of Kleenex, which she declined.
“We can prescribe a corticosteroid to reduce intracranial pressure. That will help prevent symptomatic headaches. But you can expect him to exhibit loss of memory or changes in his personality. His being developmentally disabled may either aggravate or mitigate this.”
“The poor thing… I don’t know what to do.”
The doctor asked if Floyd had any relatives she could contact.
Ruth shook her head. “Both his parents were killed in a boating accident years ago. I’m all he has. Just me and the other caregivers.”
“How many individuals with special needs do you look after?”
“Seven right now.”
“Be aware,” Dr. Lieber cautioned, “it’s not easy caring for a terminally ill patient in and of itself. It’ll be even more challenging when combined with your responsibilities for your other wards. I can recommend a hospice for Floyd. It’s more cost effective than staying here, and they can offer the best treatment for someone in his condition, as well as the most comfort.”
Ruth regarded him defiantly. “He’s most comfortable with us,” she said. “We’re his family.”
*****
Brother Guiseppe silently escorts Ruth and Floyd to their accommodations, a tiny hand-hewn timber cottage separate from the main building to provide a semblance of privacy for its typical VIP occupants. Two other monks are already there when they enter, unfolding a rollaway cot in the spartan room. It reminds Ruth of the cabins she stayed in on church retreats as a teenager, except for the slate tile floor, globe lamps, and the circuit board crucifix on the wall with a silver, skyward-staring Christ.
Ruth and Floyd bring in their own luggage. She sets her suitcase down on the floor. Floyd drops his duffel bag with a thud and sits on the regular bed, putting his headphones back on while he takes in his new surroundings.
The two monks finish with the cot and leave, never speaking a word to anyone.
“These will be your living quarters for the duration of your stay,” Brother Guiseppe explains to Ruth. “We do not normally lodge two persons in the same chambers, but the Abbot has permitted it in your circumstances.”
“And we are very grateful to him for being so accommodating. Aren’t we, Floyd?
”
Floyd peers out the casement window offering a view of the courtyard garden.
The monk points to a tall, ornate cabinet in the corner. “In the armoire there are your ecclesiastic robes, which are to be worn at all times when outside your cell.”
“Okay.”
“Our morning vigil begins promptly at five-thirty in the church. Attendance for guests is encouraged, though optional. Breakfast is served at six-thirty in the refectory. If you are late, you do not get to eat until lunch at noon. If you are late for that, your next meal is supper at six in the evening. Should you miss that, you are to be without your daily bread.”
“That will not be a problem,” Ruth assures him.
“As of now, the monastery and its doctrines are your way of life until you depart. Therefore, you are expected to forfeit all cell phones, radios, computers, or any other device that exposes you to the world beyond our walls. Do you have any such items?”
“No sir,” Ruth answers.
“What about that?” Brother Guiseppe inquires, referring to Floyd’s cassette player.
“That’s just his tape player. He likes music. It calms him.”
“Be that as it may, to err on the side of caution, I think I should confiscate it.”
The monk reaches toward Floyd to seize the device. Floyd barks “No!” and recoils against the headboard of the bed.
“Don’t worry,” Brother Guiseppe says to him. “It will be returned to you.” Again he attempts to take possession of the player, grabbing it by its plastic handle, but is unable to wrest it from Floyd’s near-death grip.
“No! No! No!”
“Is this absolutely necessary?” asks Ruth, conflicted between responsibility for her unruly ward and adherence to the abbey’s rules. “They’re just his silly songs.”
Brother Guiseppe, committed to his task, ignores her.
“Young man, don’t be difficult. Let it go.”
Snarling, the monk jerks the player from Floyd’s hands. Floyd kicks out his heel, battering Brother Guiseppe squarely in the groin. “Oof!” he exhales and doubles over.
“Floyd!” Ruth thunders.
Floyd snatches his player back and lies on the bed in a fetal position, protectively curling his body around the device.
Ruth cups her palm over her gaping mouth. Brother Guiseppe returns to an erect posture and takes a stiff step backward. He shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, tolerating the pain—is he reveling in it?, Ruth wonders—for a few passing moments.
“Are you okay, Brother Giovanni?”
“Yesssssss,” he hisses, then composes himself. “And it’s Brother Guiseppe, miss.”
“Yes. Of course. Guiseppe. Sorry.”
“All right.” The monk glares at Floyd but does not endeavor further to extricate the player from him. “I shall ask the Abbot if he is willing to overlook yet another of our hallowed precepts for you.”
“We don’t mean to be such a bother.”
Brother Guiseppe grumbles, sounding like a little earthquake has triggered in his throat. “Tomorrow after breakfast,” he proceeds mechanically, “Prior Weston shall give you a tour of the grounds, as well as familiarize you with our protocols of worship and provide you with an itinerary of your monastic duties.”
Ruth claps her hands together. “My goodness, this is very exciting.”
The monk’s face remains stoical. “Goodnight, Miss Greenaway.”
“Thank you, Brother Guiseppe.” She smiles. “You’ve been an excellent host. I’ll be sure to compliment you to the Abbot.”
The monk nods, then exits.
“Well, this seems cozy enough,” Ruth says upon evaluating the room. “What do you think, Floyd?”
“It’s very quiet here,” he says, still lying on his side in a half-moon.
“Silence is good for the soul. Do you remember what a soul is?”
Floyd shakes his head.
Ruth takes a seat beside him on the bed. “A soul is the most precious thing you have, because God gave it to you. It is your connection to Him. Do you understand?”
Floyd nods blankly.
“It’s been a long day, and we have to be up before the crack of dawn. We should get some sleep.” Ruth rises and crosses the room to the rollaway. “You can have that bed and I’ll take the cot.”
Ruth tests the cot’s slice-of-bread-thin mattress by pressing her palm down on it. It creaks.
“This will do. Nothing fancy, but that’s not what we’re here for, is it?”
Floyd starts snoring.
She tiptoes back to his bed and kneels by him, clasping her hands in prayer.
“Thank you Lord for lighting my way,” she whispers. “And for letting your servants here recognize the promise in Floyd to become a true-hearted believer in You. Amen.”
She gently kisses Floyd on his forehead, causing him to stir but not awaken. She switches off the globe lamp on the night table next to him, steeping herself in the brightest darkness she’s ever known. For the first time, she believes with all her heart that God has called her, and that she is answering Him.
*****
Ruth only broke into tears after she had exited Dr. Lieber’s office. As she walked through the hospital halls, she kept her head down to mute her crying. But she needn’t have fretted. Even if she were outright bawling at peak decibels she doubted it would disturb anyone around her. Everybody’s attention was directed elsewhere—doctors and nurses on their patients, patients on their medical woes, patients’ families on each other (or their cell phones).
Ruth found the entrance to the hospital’s chapel, a wide white door at the end of a corridor, tucked into its own small wing away from the incessant commotion of the institution. Upon entering, she discovered a simple yet sublime room of worship. It even featured stained-glass windows depicting, due to space limitations, six of the fourteen stations of the cross. A “Best Of” representation, Ruth concluded.
She took a seat in the empty pew nearest the altar, in front of a shiny brass cross, and began to pray for Floyd. She couldn’t beseech God to heal him, could she? The doctor said he was beyond hope, and if taking Floyd was the Lord’s will, then His will would be done.
But she had to do something. Why would God leave her helpless, powerless, only there to watch Floyd die? It didn’t feel right to her.
So Ruth prayed for guidance.
Behind her she heard labored breathing, a half rasp, half whistle. She turned her head toward the brittle, pitiful sound. Parked in a wheelchair in the left aisle was a person bandaged head-to-toe, mummy-like, wheezing through a small opening over his mouth. Beside him, a chubby black nurse dozed in the pew, producing her own guttural sleep-rattle, a trickle of drool hanging from her bottom lip.
Ruth resumed her prayers, trying hard to tune out the other visitors. Before long, a gaunt middle-aged man in a patient’s gown entered, rolling an IV in with him. He sat down in the pew adjacent to Ruth and promptly burst into a fit of wet, hacking coughs, unrelenting thunderclaps that made Ruth’s bones tremble.
The serenity of the chapel shattered, Ruth rose and fled, scooping up a saddle-stitched Book of Psalms from a console table on her way out. She returned to Floyd’s semi-private room on the third floor. He lay asleep in the adjustable bed closest to the window, which offered a dreary vista of the hospital’s rooftop—assorted antennae, turbine vents, and an industrial A/C unit. The other bed was occupied by a liver-spotted elderly man, also snoozing peacefully.
Ruth drew the blue curtain between the beds and pulled up a chair beside Floyd. She opened the booklet she’d borrowed to Psalm 34 and read it aloud to him. She had heard that a person can learn a new language by listening to it in their sleep. Perhaps Floyd might likewise absorb the Word of God. She hoped so. What else could she do?
Then the gunshots started.
Ruth whirled her head toward the torrent of bangs, squealing tires, and macho yelling. She flung back the dividing curtain. The racket blared from a TV installed on the
wall in front of Floyd’s grizzled suitemate, now sitting up in his bed holding the remote. Ruth figured he must have had it up at full volume.
“Sir,” she said, raising her voice to compete with the ear-jarring cop show. “Could you please lower your TV?”
The old man didn’t respond.
“Sir!”
This time he heard her, and saw her, and said, “Huh?”
“Can you lower your TV? It’s very loud.”
“Sure can,” he croaked, smacking his chapped lips. “If you let me squeeze them titties of yours.”
Aghast, Ruth huffed and yanked the curtain shut. She banished the odious geezer from her mind and again faced Floyd. He was awake and crying.
“What’s wrong, Floyd?”
He sniffled. “I dreamed I was made of air and I could go anywhere I wanted to and then I tried to go into outer space but I couldn’t ’cause there’s no air in space and I was sad.” Floyd wistfully gazed upwards at the ceiling. “I wanna go up there so bad.”
Ruth smiled at him, caressing his head.
“You will, sweetheart,” she said.
And he would, she was certain of it, because now she knew what God intended for her to do.
*****
Ruth does not sleep well that first night at the Monastery of the Celestial Christ. She dreams of monstrous demons and burning skies and walls dripping with blood. Though these are not the worst dreams she has had lately.
A whimpery, nasally voice ekes into her subconscious. “Rooof.”
She opens her eyes. When her vision adjusts to the pale early dawn light seeping through the window, she realizes Floyd is standing over her. Blood gushes from his nose.
“Mercy,” Ruth gasps, jolting upright on her cot. She grabs her pillow, slips the case off, and wads it up, pressing it to Floyd’s face.
Everyone Is a Moon Page 7