The Devoted

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

“I wasn’t angry,” Patrick said. “What’s the point of being angry? What good would it do? Luke was sorry. That’s the important thing.”

  How was he able to be so forgiving? Patrick saw things she didn’t see. He had such a calming effect on her; even lying there in a hospital bed with a bandage on his forehead, he radiated peace, an acceptance of whatever was coming at him. How? It mystified her. Patrick mystified her.

  The world had shrunken down to just the two of them. For the first time in Ruthie’s life, time felt like an hourglass, with sand that was running out. She felt tears prick her eyes and blinked hard to hold them back. She was trying not to cry. “Patrick, aren’t you frightened?” How could he not be? His present circumstances were monumental.

  “Of what?”

  Tears were falling now. “Of dying.”

  He honestly seemed surprised by the question. “No. I’m not.” He looked placid, almost philosophical.

  “But what . . .” She had to stop and brush away tears rolling down her cheeks.

  He waited patiently for her to continue, though she almost wished he would just interrupt her.

  “What about when you first heard you had MS? You must have been shocked.”

  “No. Even when I first got the diagnosis, I didn’t feel frightened. In some ways, I have even felt fortunate. Knowing my future is short, I know not to waste a minute of it. Maybe that’s why I can’t hold anything against Luke. That kind of negativity is just not worth it. I guess I have an appreciation for what’s really important in this earthly life that I didn’t have six months ago. I’ve learned to revel in every day. And then there’s another life to look forward to.” He rubbed the palms of his hands together as if he was cold. Or maybe excited? “Sometimes I feel like I’ve been given a rare glimpse of what lies ahead. As if I’m on my tiptoes, trying to peek over the windowsill to peer into the future.

  “One of the lessons I’ve been learning from this illness—the most important lesson, I think,” he said, “is that some of the best things in life come out of the worst.”

  The door opened and in swept the professionals. Dok, holding a file, Dr. Gingerich following right on her heels. They both pulled up chairs and sat down. “The results of the MRI are back.” Dok glanced at Ruthie and lifted her eyebrows.

  Ruthie caught her hint. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  “No, Ruthie,” Patrick said. “Stay put. You can hear this. I want you to hear it.”

  Dr. Gingerich clasped his hands together and settled back in his chair, then launched right in. “There are lesions in the brain that are running down the spinal cord.”

  “What does that mean?” Ruthie asked.

  “That there’s definitely a problem with the central nervous system.”

  Dok frowned at Dr. Gingerich. In a softer tone, she said, “Patrick, how long have you noticed something wasn’t right?”

  “Six or seven months ago. I started having anxiety. I’ve never struggled with it before. Nothing like that. Everything I did brought anxiety, worry, concern. It was difficult to do anything. I was having trouble keeping up with friends.”

  “Have you struggled with depression before?”

  “Ups and downs here and there, like anybody does. But not depression. Not anxiety. I went to my priest and he told me that I needed more faith. If I had more faith, I wouldn’t feel anxious. All I could think was, ‘Oh great, a new flaw in my character.’ But I tried. I tried to have more faith. I tried to manage anxiety through exercise, sleeping well, eating well. I did everything I could to keep a lid on it.”

  “When did the physical symptoms first present?”

  “About three months ago. I woke up one morning and felt some numbness in my pinkie toe. I thought that was strange. The next day, I woke up and my hands were tingly. I figured I had slept weird. Over the next several days, the numbness and tingly feeling spread up my arms and feet. I went to see a chiropractor and he gave me an adjustment. But it didn’t make a difference. That’s when I went to see a doctor.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That he wanted to do a bunch of tests, but he gave me the probable explanation.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That my symptoms and my age were pointing to multiple sclerosis.”

  Ruthie had to sit down but there weren’t any empty chairs. She went to the window and leaned against it. She felt dizzy, a little nauseous, an overwhelming sadness.

  Dr. Gingerich looked down, fiddling with the leather watchband around his wrist, as if he were in a hurry to leave.

  Dok kept asking questions. “Patrick, did you get any tests to confirm the diagnosis?”

  “No. I would have had to go into the city to get the tests. I’m not proud of this, but I went straight to the library and read up on MS and . . . I panicked. I decided that my life was ending and I was going to do the things I wanted to do before it was too late. I told my parents that I was going to Lancaster for a month.”

  “They have no idea that you’re not well?”

  “No. Other than the anxiety. They thought the trip might be good for me. They knew I always wanted to live among the Amish. They agreed to let me go for thirty days. They thought I should just get it out of my system. The Amish, I mean.”

  “Have the symptoms been progressing?”

  “They were actually better for a week or two, when I first got here. I thought that maybe the doctor was wrong. But last week, I had trouble trying to talk . . . stumbling over w-w-words.” He tried to smile. “Like now. I couldn’t even write my name. I couldn’t walk in a straight line. There were times when I could only shuffle. Yesterday m-m-morning I reached into my pants pocket for the cottage key and couldn’t tell if I was holding a coin or a piece of paper or keys.”

  Dok leaned forward in her chair. Softly, she said, “Patrick, were you trying to get yourself killed while playing chicken?”

  Patrick’s eyes went wide. “No! Not at all. I . . . couldn’t move.”

  Dr. Gingerich flipped the chart shut and rose to his feet. “We’re going to start you on steroids right away. That should help manage the more acute symptoms.”

  Dok took the chart from him and flipped through the pages, running her finger down the test results. Then her finger stopped. “His vitamin B-12 came back at .66.”

  “No, no way. Can’t be. Must be an error. It should be around 200–900 picograms per milliliter.” Dr. Gingerich glanced where she was pointing. “Let’s get a redo. Patrick, when did you last have something to eat or drink?”

  “I guess . . . a few hours ago.”

  Dr. Gingerich looked at his watch. “We can’t do a blood test until you haven’t eaten or had anything to drink for six hours.”

  “Patrick,” Dok said in a soft tone, “have you called your parents yet?”

  “No. Not yet. I wanted to wait until you had the test results.”

  “Would you like me to call them?” Dok asked.

  Patrick shook his head. “No. I need to be the one.”

  “Family can be good medicine.”

  The corners of Patrick’s lips lifted slightly. “It’s plain you haven’t met my mother. She knows what’s best for everyone.”

  A laugh burst out of Dok. “She sounds a little like my mother.” She winked at Ruthie.

  Dr. Gingerich held the chart in the air and pointed it toward him. “On a brighter note, once you get that blood drawn to redo the vitamin B-12 test and pick up your prescriptions, you’re free to go.”

  “I’m discharged?”

  “Yup,” he said cheerfully. “There’s nothing more we can do for you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Ruthie was surprised by the sharp tone in Dok’s voice, even more by the pointed look she gave Dr. Gingerich. His brusque manner thoroughly intimidated Ruthie.

  “Patrick, there’s a lot we can do for you,” Dok said. “We just need to get all the facts first. Getting discharged only means you don’t need to be hospitalized. We�
�re going to figure this out and help you manage the disease. I want you to have hope. There are medical breakthroughs happening every single day. Don’t give up hope.”

  As soon as they left Patrick’s room, Dok turned to Ed Gingerich, furious. “Why would you say such a thing to him?”

  “What?”

  “That there’s nothing more that can be done for him?”

  “I’ve prescribed massive doses of steroids for him, Ruth. Massive. Those should do the trick.”

  Massive doses of steroids. That’s how MS was combated. Patrick’s symptoms were severe. His strength was slipping away—Dok could see a difference from last night. “And if they don’t?”

  “Then, it’s best not to give him false hope.”

  She looked at him, dumbfounded. “Ed, there’s always hope.”

  He gave her a patronizing smile. “That’s what I love about you. An eternal optimist.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m late. I’d better dash. Let’s grab dinner tonight.”

  Over Ed’s shoulder, she saw Matt standing with Luke by the exit, patiently waiting for her. “I can’t. There’s someplace important I need to go today and I probably won’t be back until late.”

  Ed turned to see what had caught her attention. “Where are you—”

  “Don’t forget to get that vitamin B-12 test redone,” she said as she started down the hall. “Call me the minute it comes back.”

  22

  Ruthie’s dad arrived at the hospital just as Patrick was finishing up getting discharged. He had the taxi wait so that the three of them could be driven back to the Inn at Eagle Hill. Her dad had to help support Patrick as he walked from the taxi to the cottage porch. As Ruthie unlocked the door, her dad said he wanted to go up to the house to talk to Rose for a few minutes.

  “Go ahead, David,” Patrick said. “I can manage.” He put a hand on the porch railing to steady himself.

  David hesitated, but Patrick was insistent. “Okay,” he said, looking at Ruthie. “I’ll be right back. Just shout if you need help.”

  Ruthie unlocked the cottage door and opened it. Patrick had to lean on the porch railing just to slowly make it up the three steps to the threshold. After all he’d been through, she wasn’t surprised he was feeling wobbly. “Do you want to go right to bed?”

  “No,” Patrick said. “Not to bed.” But his voice was slow and drifting.

  “You shouldn’t be up at all,” she said. “What Dok will think, I can’t begin to imagine.” Yet even as she was protesting, she was helping him into a chair. He lurched when he went to sit in it, so that she had to help him, and for a moment they were side by side, her arm around his waist. But then he was in the chair and she had taken a step back from him.

  He reached his hand out to take Ruthie’s hand and gave her a little tug so that she crouched down beside him. “You’ve been a wonderful friend to me.” He held her eyes and smiled at her, and her heart fell to the bottom of her stomach. “Thank you,” he said, measuring each word.

  The sight of him fighting to form words pierced her heart.

  “My parents are on their way to Stoney Ridge. They’ve come to take me home.”

  “Away from Stoney Ridge,” she said.

  “Away from here.”

  “Away from me,” she said.

  “Away from you.”

  “But,” Ruthie said cautiously, eyes on their hands, “you do like me.”

  He leaned forward, so that their foreheads were almost touching. “Oh, Ruthie,” he said, “I more than like you.”

  Ruthie could feel her ears flaming red.

  After Patrick’s parents arrived at the cottage, David and Ruthie walked home. They were both exhausted. He was so proud of his daughter. Despite her fatigue, she was a steadfast caretaker for Patrick. Calm and steady. He wouldn’t have expected to see the gift of caretaking come out of his Ruthie.

  “So, Dad,” she said, as they started up the steep driveway to their home. “You sent Luke away.”

  “Just for a short time. He’ll be back.”

  “He might not come back.”

  “I think he will.”

  “Why would you think that? He was always trying to convince me to leave.”

  “If Luke really wanted to leave, why hasn’t he gone by now?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Money, I guess. No job.”

  “Then why didn’t he take the GED with you?” David felt the same assurance about Ruthie. If she was going to go, what was stopping her? He hoped it was because, deep down, she didn’t really want to go.

  “But nobody wants him in Stoney Ridge.”

  “I do. I want him here. It might surprise you, but I see something remarkable in Luke.”

  Ruthie gave him the wishful-thinking look.

  “He has a rare leadership ability.” As long as David had known Luke—four or five years now—he had seen how boys tagged along behind him, looked up to him, did what he said, acted the way he acted. Why, a few of them even adopted the unique Luke Schrock swagger in their gait.

  Ruthie’s face went blank. “Leadership? Luke? Dad, you’ve always said that if you want to see who is a spiritual leader, look around and see how many spiritually minded people are following a man.”

  “True. That’s one of the ways I’ve known who to vote for when it’s time to choose a leader for the church. But it’s also true for any kind of leadership. If you’ve got the goods, people follow.”

  “What kind of goods does Luke have? The types that follow him are lowlifes. Felons-in-training.”

  David smiled. “For now. At this time in Luke’s life, he’s all about action without wisdom. Knowledge without discernment. But that might change. He was willing to go to the facility.” He still couldn’t believe that Luke had agreed to go. That was another sign to him that Luke’s defiant posture was only skin deep, that his heart was still pliable. “Let’s hope the best for Luke while he’s at the facility. He said he started to drink after his father died, that alcohol helped him not to care. He also said he wanted to die, that his life wasn’t worth anything.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Pray for him, Ruthie. Pray for him every day. He’s in urgent need of our forgiveness, our love, our prayers. Luke has a long haul ahead.” A very long haul.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll say a prayer for him, but I don’t want anything more to do with him. I’m done.”

  David would never say it aloud, but that was the best thing he’d heard all day. Even better than Matt’s news that Hank and Edith’s yellow golf cart was damaged beyond repair.

  A nasty headache descended on Ruthie, only it was a headache that included the heart, not just the head. She was tired, she was worn out, and she was in the worst emotional pain she’d experienced since her mother’s accident.

  She remembered the cold nights in their home when she was a girl—how her mother piled quilts on top of her and Molly. How peaceful it seemed under the quilts. Then it seemed like sleep was one of the most wonderful things in life.

  Now, she lay in bed dreading the long night ahead. Morning would come in less than six hours, she’d barely slept more than a few hours the night before, yet she didn’t feel at all sleepy.

  She couldn’t believe how life had gotten so tangled and sad. Patrick was seriously ill. He was leaving Stoney Ridge.

  And then there was Luke the Drunk.

  As infuriating as Luke could be, she didn’t want him to suffer. He looked so pitiful today in the hospital. Beaten, that’s how he looked.

  She had no idea that he had been so affected by his father’s death in such a way. Dok said that whenever someone started on the road to addiction, it meant that his emotional maturity was arrested at that age. Luke was, in his head—where it really mattered with judgment and common sense—stuck in adolescence.

  Dok said that Luke had told him he wanted to die, that his life was worthless. He acted like he wanted to die too. Reckless, devil-may-care, foolhardy.

  What a contrast to Patrick. He valued
life so much. Yet Ruthie could see his strength ebb away, practically hour by hour. Tonight, his words started to slur, as if forming words clearly took more effort, more control of the tongue, than he could give.

  Ruthie couldn’t imagine the kind of life that Patrick was facing, and yet somehow, he found God’s grace in the most horrible events. How was Patrick able to see the divine in everything?

  She had asked him how he had the courage to come to Stoney Ridge when he knew his health was in jeopardy. “There was a point when I had to decide whether my fears or my hopes should matter most.” But then they were interrupted by the arrival of his parents and he never told her which he’d chosen. But then, maybe she knew.

  She tossed and turned, completely distraught and distracted. She couldn’t bear the thought of a world without Patrick Kelly.

  She wanted light to spill into her darkened mind, she wanted something luminous to see by. All these thoughts tumbled around in her head. She finally gave up on sleep and went downstairs.

  In the kitchen, she found Birdy at the table, eating a snack.

  She looked up in surprise as Ruthie stumbled into the kitchen. “Can’t sleep?”

  Ruthie shook her head and slipped into a chair.

  Birdy pushed a plate of crackers toward her. “Want one?”

  Ruthie took a cracker but only ran a finger along its sharp edges. She glanced at Birdy, who was polishing off the rest of the crackers. “Birdy, help me make sense of this. Luke wants to die and Patrick wants to live.”

  Birdy put her hand over Ruthie’s and squeezed. “My gut feeling is that it will be just fine,” she said. “Hold on to that, Ruthie. Everything is going to be all right. I promise.” She threw out the empty box of crackers and kissed Ruthie on the top of her head before she went upstairs.

  It will be just fine. Ruthie had to admit that Birdy’s instincts were often uncanny. Sometimes it seemed as if she could see certain things before they happened.

  Everything is going to be all right.

  What did that mean? Did it mean that Luke would overcome his alcoholism? Would he finally get his life together?