Healing Ruby: A Novel

by Jennifer H. Westall

  “It’s such a shame, really,” he continued. “He was such a faithful child. Why, I remember his baptism like it was yesterday.”

  Mrs. Cass walked over to his side and laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sure your words were just what God wanted him to hear. We’ll all pray he comes around soon.” Then she turned back to Mrs. Doyle. “Thank you again for your hospitality.”

  “It was no trouble at all.” Mrs. Doyle’s polite smile was thin at best. “You’re welcome any time.”

  That was when I noticed Brother Cass looking at me funny, like I was an itch in the back of his mind he couldn’t scratch. “Who’s your friend here, Mary?”

  Mrs. Cass cleared her throat and leaned into Brother Cass. “You remember the Graves boys from Good Hope, I’m sure. This here’s Abner’s little girl, Ruby.”

  His face turned hard, and I thought I felt a shiver. “Ruby, hmm.” His gaze seemed to take me in like it was painful. “Graves, you say?”

  I knew he could see right through me, right down to the shame in my bones. He knew by looking at me that I was a liar and unworthy of the kindness being shown to me by the Doyles.

  Mrs. Cass gave a tight smile and shook his arm. “You remember how they used to cut up at the meetings. They were always into some kind of trouble.”

  “Yes. I do remember the trouble.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off me, but Mrs. Cass pulled at him until he turned to the door. “We’d best be going,” she said.

  They all left the kitchen, and Mary waved her fingers at me as she let the door close behind her. I stood frozen to the floor, still covered in that shroud of shame and lies.

  When I finally got myself together and stepped into Matthew’s room, I found him in his chair by the window, a sign that he was having one of his better days. That was good, cause his bed needed changing so bad I could hardly keep down my biscuits. As usual, he didn’t acknowledge my existence, staring out the window at only God knew what. I pulled the blankets off the bed and laid them aside, and then I tore off the sheets to take down to the burn pile. He’d gone through three sets in as many weeks.

  I walked around the end of the bed over to his side to examine how bad it was, thankful I didn’t see any new stains on the floor or the wall. As I turned to fetch my bucket I’d set inside the door, I caught him looking up at me. It shouldn’t have given me much pause, since I’d finally gotten used to him watching me clean his room without saying a word. But the despair on his face that day weighed on my mind. He’d long ceased looking human to me, more like a skeleton than anything—a skeleton with dead eyes that followed me around the room. The first day or two it had made my skin feel itchy, but I thought I’d gotten used to it. But there was something different that day, a tiny spark behind his eyes that, along with his furrowed brow, seemed angry.

  “It’s Ruby, right?”

  His voice startled me. It was weak, not much more than a whisper, but it was definitely colored with anger.

  “That’s right. Do you need something?”

  “You’re not wearing your mask today.”

  I lifted my hand to my face. I’d been so distracted I’d forgotten it. “No, I guess not.”

  “You ain’t scared? You best go get it before you catch your death.”

  “I’ll be all right this one time, I’m sure. Besides, you seem a little better today. Haven’t heard you cough once yet.”

  “Won’t last. I’ll be spewing out pieces of lung all night, you’ll see. Never let’s up for long.”

  “You must be exhausted.”

  He studied me before turning his gaze back to the window. I assumed he was done talking with me, so I got the bucket and started cleaning. I could glance along the wall and see him while I washed. His frown seemed permanently etched into the lines around his mouth and above his brow. I wondered what it felt like to be close to death when you hadn’t really had a chance to live yet. It was one thing for Daddy to face death. He almost seemed like he was welcoming the relief of it. But Matthew looked like he fought the devil himself on a daily basis.

  He shifted his gaze back to me, and I realized I’d stopped cleaning and was just all out staring now. I jumped and started wiping again, but I knew I was caught.

  “You religious, Ruby?”

  I kept washing, not wanting to look at him anymore. “I guess. I pray. I go to church. I believe in Jesus.”

  “What I mean is, are you saved?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Do you think God put tuberculosis on me?”

  “What?” Now I did stop washing. I stood and walked a little closer, dropping the rag in the bucket. “Whoever put a dumb idea like that in your head?”

  He blinked and looked down at the floor. “Preacher says it. Every time he comes here he says, ‘Matthew, you have to be patient. God put this sickness on you for a reason, and he’s gonna bless you because of it.’ I can’t stand to listen to him no more. He just talks out of both sides of his mouth. God loves me.” He shook his head. “God afflicted me, but somehow he loves me too.” He looked up at me then, right in the eye. “I don’t care for serving a God like that.”

  I stood in silence, not sure what I was supposed to say. I sensed that same black, empty presence I’d feel whenever I cleaned his room, some kind of darkness that slid in around everything, suffocating hope and light right out of the place. I prayed for wisdom, for some truth to share that might lighten Matthew’s burdens.

  “You could still get better. I wouldn’t give up yet.”

  “I don’t care about getting better anymore. If I’m gonna die, I wish it’d just happen already. I ain’t got nothing left I can do. I sit here every day—no, I lie in that bed every day—just waiting to die.” He coughed, covering his mouth with the handkerchief in his hand. “Tell, me Ruby. What’s patience gonna do for tuberculosis?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t say I’m much for having patience.” I paused, afraid of saying something to make him feel worse. “I hate to disagree with a preacher, especially one as respected as Brother Cass, but I don’t think you need patience. You need hope, and faith that God can heal you.”

  He laughed and coughed again. “Heal me? You mean like some kind of miracle or something?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. That’s what I pray for every day. For my daddy…and for you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t waste your prayers on me. Besides, you don’t know me. I ain’t worthy of prayers, especially ain’t worth no miracle.”

  I turned and looked out the window with him, watching life coming into bloom all around the outside world. No wonder everything seemed so bleak from in here. I reached for the bottom of the window.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I pushed on the pane, but it wouldn’t budge. “I’m trying…” I pushed harder. “To get…” I hit it a couple of times. “This window open!” I finally shoved it hard enough, and dust flew up as the window slid up about half a foot. I dusted my hands on my apron and turned to him. He didn’t exactly look pleased. In fact, he looked a little nervous.

  “Doc says the damp air ain’t good for my lungs.”

  “Nonsense. It hasn’t rained in over a week, and the sky is as blue as it gets. Some fresh air would do you good.”

  “So you know better than a preacher and a doctor?”

  He coughed again, this time several coughs in a row. I started to rethink my decision.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. Just seems like when I was sick and cooped up for a while, I always felt better with a little sunshine on my face and some fresh air in my lungs.”

  “Hey, at this point, it ain’t gonna hurt nothing.”

  “Isn’t,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Sorry. It’s just…well, never mind. Enjoy the fresh air for a while. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  I gave his arm a gentle pat and grabbed my bucket off the floor. I went back to my washing, and he went back to his staring.
Only, I noticed his frown lines had smoothed out some, and the sunshine had chased away the darkness from his face, from the whole room for that matter. Maybe I’d finally hit on my purpose for being here. Maybe I was supposed to bring Matthew a taste of hope.

  Chapter Four

  The next day I was standing in front of the stove shaving soap into a pot of boiling water when Mrs. Doyle snuck up on me and about scared the skin right off my bones. I guess in her defense, she wasn’t exactly sneaking, more like walking as normally around her own house as any regular person would. I was just lost in my thoughts as I looked out the back window at the hills behind the Doyles’ house. Although it was a beautiful sight, I couldn’t help but wonder what was on the other side of them. I wondered if my chance would ever come to leave this town and see the wonders I’d only read about. I was picturing myself on an ocean liner, stretched out on the deck with a book in one hand and a tall glass of sweet tea in the other. I could almost feel the heat of the sun on my face and hear the wind rustling around the deck, and I closed my eyes to imagine it. That was when Mrs. Doyle simply said hello, and I jumped so high I knocked the pot of water onto the floor.

  “Oh, Ruby! Are you all right?” she said, grabbing for a towel from the sink.

  I almost grabbed the pot with my bare hands before I remembered how hot it was. Instead, I reached for the towel I’d been using earlier that was still sitting on the other side of the stove. “I’m so sorry! I’ll clean this right up.”

  “No, no. Don’t worry over it. It’s just water.” Mrs. Doyle knelt down beside me and helped soak it up. “I’m so sorry I startled you.”

  “It was my fault, really. Mother’s always fussing at me about daydreaming when I should be paying attention to my work. I hate it when she’s right, even when she’s not around to tell me.”

  Mrs. Doyle smiled at me. “Well, like I said. There’s no need to worry over it.”

  We finished sopping up the water and wrung out the towels, the room growing quiet again. I could tell something was on her mind. She looked just as weary as ever, but she managed a peaceful sort of half smile most of the time. As she hung the towel back over the sink and turned to me though, she frowned and mashed her dainty eyebrows together.

  “Matthew mentioned you opened the window for him yesterday.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He was looking outside like he was so miserable. I just wanted to bring him a little joy is all.” I realized I was fidgeting with my hands again and shoved them behind me.

  “Well, I appreciate your wanting to lift his spirits, and I must say he did seem a little more cheerful yesterday evening. But I’m not sure it’s the best thing for him. I would appreciate it if you’d wait until I have a chance to speak with Dr. Fisher before we do it again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Matthew was up all night and all morning coughing, and though I’m sure you didn’t cause it, I’m hesitant to expose him to the outside air for now.”

  My stomach dropped. If I’d made him worse, then I was about the most awful person in the world. “I really am sorry.”

  “Well, like I said. It’s most likely natural. He’s getting worse nearly every day now.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “It may not make a difference anyway.” She cleared her throat and stood there looking so sad I felt like I had to do something. But I couldn’t think of a single thing to say or do to help lift her burdens. “Well,” she finally said. “I don’t want to keep you. Why don’t you go ahead and start another pot of water, and I’ll get back to the garden.”

  I watched her head for the back door, still searching for something to say. Finally I blurted out, “I think Matthew’s going to be all right, Mrs. Doyle.”

  She turned around and lifted her eyebrows. “You do?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I pray for him every day while I clean, and I believe God has something special for him. Don’t lose hope.”

  She almost smiled. “Thank you, Ruby. You’re very sweet. I hope you’re right.”

  When I reached Matthew’s room, my confidence in my bold prediction wavered. He was lying in the bed on his stomach facing the wall, and even from across the room I could see the fresh blood spatters. I walked around to his side of the bed where there was a large pot on the floor, and his arm hung limply over the side of the bed above it. He opened his eyes and looked at me, but he didn’t move at all.

  I knelt beside him. “Do you need anything?”

  “No,” he moaned.

  “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have opened the window yesterday.”

  “Nah. Not your fault.” He started to push himself onto his back, but his face pinched into a grimace, and he dropped his hand.

  “Want some help?”

  I reached toward him, but he put up his hand to stop me. “No. Don’t. You’ll get sick. Just let me be.”

  I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Stubborn.”

  “Me? You’re the one with no mask again today. You’re determined to test fate.”

  He closed his eyes again, so I turned to the wall to get it cleaned before my water cooled off. It only took a few minutes to clean the wall, but the floor was a bloody mess. I tried not to think about what it meant as I wiped it away—tried not to think about how I was wiping away his lungs, his life, bit by bit. But something about cleaning makes your mind sit on things, and it’s difficult to control stubborn thoughts.

  When I finished the floor, I looked up and he was watching me again. The anger from the day before was gone, leaving behind a defeated mess. I met his gaze but then had to look away from the suffering in his eyes.

  “Ruby?”

  “Yes?”

  I went back to wiping the floor next to him, even though I’d already scrubbed it as clean as it was going to get.

  “What’s your father like?”

  I scrubbed a little harder. “Daddy? I don’t know. He’s like most fathers, I suppose.”

  “Are you scared for him?”

  “Yes,” I said, barely able to push the word out of my throat. My knuckles started hurting.

  “What are you scared of?”

  “Not quite sure. I just know I don’t want him to go.” I met his gaze again. There was something haunting, and at the same time comforting in those eyes. He understood.

  “You ever been to the gin?” I asked.

  “Nah. What’s it like?”

  “Daddy hardly ever takes me down there, but he lets me go on opening day every year, and it’s something to see. Wagons and trucks lined up for nearly a mile, and little wisps of cotton float around on the breeze like snow. When I was little, I’d play with all the kids coming through, and we’d sneak around to the big pile of cotton and throw ourselves into it.”

  “Don’t it itch you?”

  “No, it’s soft. Like jumping into a cloud. We’d get away with it for a while, but then Daddy would come find us and bawl us all out and tell us to go find something useful to do. So then we’d all go get coca-colas and watch Earl working the huge vacuum that sucked all the cotton up out of the trucks. I used to wonder what it’d be like to get sucked into that huge machine. Daddy would tell us awful stories about little kids getting sucked up in there and no one ever seeing them again. I knew he was just trying to scare us kids, but I couldn’t help that little part of my mind that was terrified.”

  Matthew grinned, and it made my heart warm to see it. He pushed himself over, grimacing again, but making it onto his back this time. He coughed, and tiny droplets of blackened blood landed on the blanket. I couldn’t hardly stand it anymore.

  “Doesn’t anything help you feel better?” I asked.

  “No. So stop fussing over me.” He coughed again. “Ain’t nothing nobody can do anymore.” He must’ve seen the agony on my face cause his seemed to soften. “But it’s nice to have someone to talk to. My friends don’t come by anymore. Say it’s too much, too hard. I guess I don’t blame ’em.”

  I sat back against the wall and pulled my k
nees to my chest. “I know what you mean. People used to come by to see Daddy pretty often, especially on Sundays, but not as much anymore. This one group of people came all the way over from Georgia. I guess someone in our church knows someone from theirs. Anyway, they came and prayed over Daddy like I’ve never heard people pray before, calling on the Holy Ghost to heal him. His whole face lit up, and he looked so happy. Even though he wasn’t healed, I was glad for them coming.”

  “You believe in healing?” he asked.

  “Sure. Don’t you?”

  He balled his fists by his sides and turned his gaze to the ceiling. “I’m sure there’s healing out there for folks, but God don’t have much use for me. I ain’t hoping for no miracle or nothing.”

  I pushed myself up from the wall and grabbed my bucket from beside his bed. “Well, I’m not giving up hope yet. I pray for miracles for you and Daddy every day. And you’re both still here, so maybe God’s listening.” I straightened the blanket around him and wiped away the blood as best I could. I felt his eyes following me, like he was wanting to say something that was stuck inside him. I stopped at the end of his bed. “Don’t give up hope yet. God can heal you. You got to have faith.”

  “What about you? Do you have faith?”

  “Absolutely. You’re going to do great things in this world, Matthew Doyle.”

  He closed his eyes and half stifled a cough, or maybe a laugh. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Then he coughed again, and again. And suddenly it sounded different, more violent and frightening. He groaned and rolled toward the side of his bed, hacking into the pot on the floor. I rushed around the side as he slid off and landed on all fours over the pot. I reached for his back just as he spat out a mouth full of bright red blood. He cried out in pain and glanced up at me.

  “Back…up.” His eyes were fierce as they held mine for only a second. Then he lurched into the pot again.