Sweet Sanctuary

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Lydia leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper. “How long until the morphine is out of his system?”

  Micah dropped his voice, too. He didn’t want Nic to know exactly what could happen over the next few days or the man might change his mind about getting clean. “At least a week, Lydia. I don’t know when he last had some—he doesn’t remember—but he knows he’s had it twice since he took Nicky, so I’m guessing it hasn’t been more than two days.”

  “He actually took that stuff in Nicky’s presence?” Lydia’s face reflected her horror.

  Micah nodded, his own heart twisting at what Nicky must have witnessed. “But whatever Nicky saw while Nic was on morphine would be better than watching Nic trying to clear his system. The suffering will be intense. The symptoms will reach their peak in two or three days and run at that level for another two or three days before lessening. Nic’s got a rough row to hoe.”

  Lydia glanced at him again, and her expression softened. She shook her head. “I’ve been so angry with him, but right now I feel sorry for him. He got started on this pathway quite by accident, and now he’s trapped.”

  “Well, we’re going to untrap him,” Micah said. “I hope you brought my suitcase.”

  Lydia nodded. “It’s in the car, as well as cleaning supplies and some blankets to make a couple pallets on the floor.” She wrinkled her nose again. “But before I put my clean blankets on this floor, it’s going to get a good scrubbing. Do you think you can convince Nic to pace in the corner long enough for me to clean everywhere else?”

  “I’ll see if I can get him to help me carry in the rest of the things from your car, then I’ll try to keep him occupied while you scrub.” He balled his hands on his hips and frowned at her. “But you said a couple of pallets. We only need one. You’re not spending the night.”

  Lydia’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?” Her challenging tone sent a clear message. He’d have his hands full trying to persuade her to leave. But he wouldn’t argue with her now. He turned to Nic. “Hey, Nic, can you give me a hand?”

  “A hand . . .” Nic released a snort. “That’s all I got to offer.”

  Micah was exhausted. He’d been with Nic for three days and knew the man must be worn out, as well, because he never slept for more than an hour at a time. Even when he did appear to be sleeping, he thrashed and groaned, keeping Micah from resting fully. Nic went from hot to cold, throwing off his covers and flailing, completely drenched in sweat. Then minutes later he’d wrap himself in the same covers and shiver as if he’d turned to ice. He complained of muscle cramps, and Micah rubbed his back or legs to help relieve the cramping. Even though he ate little, nausea frequently overtook him and he retched until Micah feared he’d turn his stomach inside out. Watching was awful. But experiencing it had to be worse.

  He’d managed to convince Lydia to spend part of her day and all night at her own house by reminding her Nicky needed her. Even then she’d wavered, arguing that Micah would require assistance with Nic. But in the end she’d agreed, for which Micah was grateful—she wasn’t constantly exposed to Nic’s suffering. However, as Micah’s mouth stretched into a wide yawn, he realized he might need her to spell him one night soon or he’d be useless to Nic.

  He would give Nic credit for one thing—as often as he cried out in misery from the powerful effects of cleaning the morphine from his body, not once did he ask for the drug. The man shook and twitched and kicked his legs uncontrollably, but he gritted his teeth and didn’t resort to begging.

  In one of Nic’s more lucid moments, Micah had asked what made him decide to try to end the habit. Nic looked at Micah with eyes so dilated the irises were nearly swallowed by his pupils and choked out two words—“My kid.” Micah squeezed Nic’s healthy shoulder in understanding. Nicky had given Nic the motivation to come clean. And, Micah suspected, when all was said and done, the man would fight tooth and nail to keep the boy. He ached for Lydia’s certain loss, yet he admired the man for his determination.

  A gentle creak intruded. The door to the apartment opened slowly, signaling Lydia’s return. She didn’t knock anymore—the sudden noise aggravated Nic—so she just crept in as quietly as possible. Her brown eyes swept the room until she spotted Nic, bundled in his blanket, snoring in the corner, then found Micah at the table. She crossed to him. He admired the trim fit of her brown trousers and simple white blouse. Lydia looked stunning no matter what she wore.

  He shook his head, clearing those thoughts, then turned his attention to the small cloth-covered basket in her hand.

  “I brought your supper,” she whispered, seating herself across from him. “Are you hungry?” Her gaze turned sympathetic. “You look awful.”

  Micah chuckled. “Thanks for your honesty.” He flipped back the cloth napkin to reveal thick sandwiches and shiny apples.

  “Well, you do. You look as if you haven’t had a wink of sleep.”

  “I’ve had a few winks,” he said, succumbing to another yawn. “I’ll be fine.”

  Lydia shifted sideways in the chair and watched Nic for several silent seconds. He shivered in his sleep, his feet moving back and forth as if running a race. “What about him?”

  “He’ll be fine, too.” Micah offered a silent prayer of thanks and then bit into a sandwich. The roast beef tasted wonderful. He bobbed his head in Nic’s direction. “I’m proud of him, Lydia. By now most men would be writhing in agony and begging me to give them something to put them out of their misery. But not Nic. He writhes, but he doesn’t beg. I’ve never met an addict who has worked so hard to come clean.”

  Lydia bit down on her lower lip. “And he’s not doing it for himself, is he?”

  Micah slowly shook his head, his appetite fleeing as tears pooled in Lydia’s eyes.

  “I thought about it the day I took Nicky home. If Nic is clean, he’ll be able to hold a job, and he’ll probably move into a better place, and then he’ll be able to keep Nicky. A judge would let him keep Nicky.” She blinked rapidly, removing the glimmer of tears. “Yet I’ve been praying for him, that he’d be able to be clean. I can’t wish otherwise. It’s so hard, Micah.” Her voice turned hoarse with emotion.

  Micah placed his hand over hers, wishing he could embrace her instead. “I know.”

  She sighed. “Father thinks I’m crazy for helping him. He says Nic deserves whatever he gets for forcing Eleanor into hiding and misusing a drug all these years.” Lydia looked again at the slumbering form in the corner. “But I saw something in his eyes when he looked at Nicky. I truly believe, deep down, he wants things to be different, but he’s caught.”

  “Oh, he’s definitely caught. But he’s fighting for his freedom now. And I believe he’s going to win.” Micah paused, then asked, “How’s Nicky doing?”

  A small smile teased the corner of Lydia’s lips, her eyes taking on a glow. “Nicky is doing well. He’s so happy to be back with us. I’ve never gotten so many hugs. At first I was afraid he would be angry with me for allowing Nic to take him, but he’s forgiven all of us and is our little ray of sunshine, like he’s always been.” She clouded for a moment. “He does ask each morning if this is the day he has to go back to ‘him’—he doesn’t use Nic’s name or the title ‘daddy.’ I told him he’d probably have to return here for a while, but that I would try to make it so he could come back and live with me always. Every night, I tuck him in and listen to him pray, ‘Jesus, let me live with Mama forever and ever. Amen.’”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, obviously fighting tears. “Oh, Micah, what happens if Nic takes him permanently? What will happen to Nicky’s faith? He’s so young and so trusting. I can’t bear to think of him being brokenhearted. . . .”

  Micah got up, rubbed his achy hips, and went to his suitcase. He bent over stiffly and removed his Bible, then returned to the table. “Lydia, let me share something with you.” He flipped to Psalms, the sixty-first chapter. “I’ve been reading to Nic. It seems to calm him. Let me read you what I shared with him early this
morning.” He put his finger underneath the words to focus his bleary vision and then read aloud, “‘Hear my cry, O God; attend unto my prayer. From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.’”

  He looked up, meeting Lydia’s gaze. “No matter where we are, Lydia, God hears our cries. Our prayers are never so far away that God can’t hear them and respond. Right now your heart is overwhelmed with worry. Nicky’s heart will be overwhelmed with sorrow if he’s forced to separate from you. But both of you can find your strength in the Rock of Christ Jesus. He is the rock that is higher than you or I. When we stand on His strong foundation, we have the strength to face whatever comes along. Teach Nicky to stand firm in Jesus’ strength, Lydia.”

  Lydia held his gaze. “When Nic took him the first time, I told Nicky to remember Jesus was with him. He said he prayed every day for me to come, and that Jesus answered.”

  Warmth flooded Micah’s soul. The faith of a little child. “Then he knows Jesus is there and He cares. He’ll be okay, Lydia. Remember? God’s thoughts for Nicky are for peace and not evil. Trust. Everything will turn out for the good of all of you. You have to believe.”

  Lydia opened her mouth to respond, but a wild thrashing from Nic’s corner interrupted. Both Micah and Lydia jumped up and rushed to his side. Micah rolled Nic onto his back. Tears and mucus ran like rivers down his face. Micah pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned Nic’s nose and cheeks. Nic trembled from head to toe, the shaking so severe his teeth rattled.

  “It’s b-bad, Doc. It’s r-real b-bad.” He crossed his arm over his chest and moaned. “Oh, the pain . . . my b-back . . . m-my legs . . . hurts . . .”

  “Massage his legs, Lydia.” Micah lifted Nic into a sitting position and began rubbing his shoulders.

  Nic grasped his midsection with his good arm and retched, the spasms bringing up nothing from his empty stomach.

  Micah encouraged, “Deep breaths, Nic. Take deep breaths and fight it off.”

  Nic tried to comply, rocking forward, his head thrown back. Lydia knelt beside Nic’s legs, working his muscles like a baker works bread dough. Her face was a study in concentration, her focus solely on Nic. Micah’s heart swelled with pride for her—reaching out to this man who’d so wronged her closest friend.

  The retching ended, and Nic’s spine straightened, his whole body shaking as his legs began to kick spasmodically. “Uh-uh-uh-uh . . .” The repetitive sound seemed to fire from his throat without Nic’s conscious effort.

  Micah assumed an authoritative tone and spoke directly into Nic’s ear as he continued to massage the tense muscles of his back. “Nic, remember what I read to you? Remember the words? God is your refuge, your strength. Lean on Him now. Ask Him to lift you to the higher place. Call on Him to help you through this.”

  “H-help me, G-G-God.” Nic’s eyes closed and his face twisted in agony. “P-please . . . help me . . .”

  Lydia began praying aloud, her strong tone carrying over Nic’s rasping voice. “God, touch Nic’s back. Relieve his pain. Touch his legs. Take the pain from his legs, Lord. Give him rest—healing rest. Lift him from this prison of addiction. Please, Lord, heal his body. Help Nic, Lord.”

  For long minutes they continued their ministrations, alternately praying for an end to Nic’s suffering, while Nic clenched his jaw and uttered moans for relief. Eventually the cramps seemed to subside. His muscles relaxed. His whole body wilted as he rolled away from Micah’s touch. He flopped onto his side and panted with relief. “Better . . . It’s better . . . Thank You, God.” His eyelids fluttered, his jaw went slack, and he slept once more.

  Micah slumped against the wall. He wiped beads of perspiration from his upper lip and forehead. “That’s the worst I’ve seen. I think we’re reaching the end.”

  Lydia touched his arm. “Micah, I’ll stay here tonight. You’ve got to get some rest.”

  He looked at her, battling to keep his eyelids open. “No, Lydia, I’ll be all right.” His argument sounded weak even to his own ears.

  She stood and moved to the roll of blankets stowed next to the door. She flipped them out in the open space between the table and Nic’s mattress, then covered them with a sheet. She pointed an imperious finger. “Lie down.”

  Micah pushed himself to his feet, using the wall as a brace. The fatigue pressed at him, making him light-headed. He stumbled.

  Lydia darted to his side and slung her arm around his waist. “Stubborn man,” she scolded as she led him across the room. “What else do you expect when you eat next to nothing and only grab snatches of sleep? God gave you good sense—use it and get some rest. I can rub Nic’s legs and keep him warm or cold, as the need may arise. You’ve got to rest.”

  Micah wanted to argue, but his head was fuzzy. He couldn’t find the right words. He sank onto the pallet and covered his eyes with his forearm. Ah, such a relief to lie down. Something drifted across his chest, and he cracked his eyes open to see Lydia covering him with another blanket. A grin tugged at his lips. “Thanks, Ma.”

  “Don’t get smart,” she said, but he heard the smile in her voice.

  “Thanks, Lydia.” He let his eyes drift closed.

  “Now sleep.”

  Without argument, he followed her gentle order.

  27

  Micah awakened to the sound of pots and pans clanging. And Lydia’s laughter.

  “How do you light this thing, Nic? I’ve wasted four matches already.”

  Micah opened one eye and peeked sideways. The sight snapped both his eyes open and brought him up on his elbows. Nic stood beside Lydia, twisting the dials of the gas range and instructing her on where to hold the match so the burner would light. Micah huffed in surprise, and the pair at the stove turned in unison to look at him.

  Lydia’s face broke into a smile. She brought her hands to her hips. “Well, good morning, sleepyhead. Sorry if we woke you, but Nic requested pancakes and eggs for breakfast, and he wasn’t willing to wait any longer.”

  Pancakes? And eggs? Nic? Micah shook his head. Was he dreaming?

  Nic ambled to the edge of Micah’s pallet and grinned down at him. The man’s face was clean-shaven, his eyes clear, and his skin held a healthy pallor. Nic’s grin widened. “Pancakes okay with you, Doc?” He held out his good hand.

  “Pancakes? Sure.” Micah allowed Nic to tug him to his feet, then stood uncertainly, his gaze drifting from one amused face to the other. He blinked at Nic. “You must be feeling better.” He realized how foolish it sounded, but he couldn’t find anything else to say.

  Nic laughed—a genuine laugh. His eyes twinkled. “Yeah, Doc, I do. Better than I’ve felt in years. An’ I owe it all to you an’ that Higher Power of yours. You make quite a team.” He held out his hand again, his green eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Thank you, Micah.”

  Micah shook Nic’s wide, dry hand, his heart filling with gratefulness. “You’re welcome, Nic.”

  “Okay, you two, I’ll have breakfast on the table in five minutes. Micah, go wash up. Nic, set the table.” Lydia’s mild orders broke the tension of the moment.

  Nic chuckled, giving a sheepish shrug. “You heard the boss.”

  Micah shrugged, too. “That I did.” He scuffed to the sink, still a little fuzzy from his deep sleep. As he soaped his hands, he winged a silent prayer heavenward, thanking God for the miracle he’d been privileged to witness. This morning, Nicolai Pankin was a new man. Both inside and out.

  Lydia couldn’t eat much of the breakfast she’d made—she was too entranced by Nic sitting straight and tall in his chair, carrying bites of pancake dripping with butter and syrup to his mouth. His thick hair, freshly washed and combed, glistened in the sunlight spilling through the window. During his battle, they’d kept the shades drawn, shielding his eyes from the glare. But the sunbeam of a fresh day landed on Nic’s form and seemed to announce a fresh start to his life.

  Looking into Nic’s clear eyes, examining
his erect frame and steady hand, Lydia imagined how a judge would see him. Thin, yes, but strong. Capable of working and earning an honest wage. Capable of parenting a child.

  I can’t let Nicky go, God. I can’t!

  Micah’s advice whispered in her memory. “When we stand on His strong foundation, we have the strength to face whatever comes along.” Closing her eyes, she sent up a frantic, silent prayer for God’s strength to uphold her if the judge gave custody of Nicky to his father.

  “Lydia?”

  Nic’s voice broke through her internal reflections. She opened her eyes and found him holding out his plate, his lips tipped in a hopeful grin.

  “Can I have another pancake?”

  Quirking one brow, her thoughts still on Nicky, she responded automatically. “May I . . . ?”

  His lips twisted for a moment, a scowl marring his face, but then he gave an amused snort. He sent a smirk in Micah’s direction. “Is she always this bossy?”

  Micah placed his fork on his plate and draped his arm over the back of the chair, his eyes twinkling. “Yep.”

  Lydia huffed. “You two! Honestly . . .” She grabbed Nic’s plate and marched to the stove, where she’d left a covered plate of pancakes warming. She flipped a cake onto Nic’s plate and then clunked the plate on the table before him.

  “Nothing ever tasted as good as these pancakes,” Nic declared, drowning the flapjack in syrup. He lifted his head and met her gaze. “Thanks, Lydia.”

  As she looked into his sincere, open face, she received a beautiful glimpse of how he must have appeared before his accident, before securing morphine became the driving force of his life. She wanted to remain indignant, but something in his expression—something good and alive and warm—melted her resolve. Yanking out her chair and plopping into it, she forced a terse reply. “You’re welcome, but that’s the last one you’re getting. Your stomach might rebel if you put too much in it at once.”