They Almost Always Come Home

by Cynthia Ruchti

  No movement. No sign of life. The fabric has a smoky cast, as if someone once lit a fire inside.

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  CYNTHIA RUCHTI

  It has to be Greg’s tent, doesn’t it? I step closer, overdosing

  on adrenaline. God help me with this. Help me handle it if he’s not here. Or . . .

  As I approach, I survey the campsite area. The logs form an

  ankle-high fence around the perimeter. This isn’t the work of a sane man. Not Greg. Who would build a fence only four inches high? Or tackle a landscaping project here?

  I’m in over my head. A possibility we hadn’t considered is

  a madman serial killer camped in the woods, stalking people like Greg—cereal purchasers. That is so not funny.

  I should wait for Jen and Frank. But I won’t.

  “Greg?” I call out softly, then more insistently. “Greg?”

  Nothing.

  A couple of strides from the tent door, I call out again,

  “Greg?”

  “Libby?”

  I stop and fall to my knees where I stand. How far has

  imagination taken me this time? I thought I heard his voice. “Libby?”

  An unseen hand unzips the tent flap from the inside.

  “Greg? Oh, dear God! Greg, what happened to you?”

  I watch him ease his body through the tent opening, his

  movements tortured. Jumping to my feet, I rush forward to meet him as he emerges. What is that expression on his face? He’s turned slightly away from me. Why can’t he look me in the eye? What’s going on?

  It doesn’t matter right now. By the grace of God alone, I

  found him, and he’s alive. I press my embrace upon him, hug- ging gingerly. He seems so thin and frail. My strong rock of a husband nearly collapses in my arms.

  “Libby, I can’t believe it. How . . . how did you find me?”

  His words hold the quality of a message forced through a

  drinking straw. Pinched. Laconic.

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  They Almost Always Come Home

  “I would tell you that Frank and Jen and I did it together, but truth be told the Lord deserves all the credit for this one. I saw your flashlight.”

  “Sparky?”

  “What?”

  “Would you tell it I’m sorry?”

  I pull back from Greg without letting go and search his eyes for some confirmation that he isn’t as unstable as he sounds. He looks intently at a stretch of my forehead. I brush at the spot, wondering what is so fascinating up there.

  He’s alive. Talking. Not making sense, but he’s making words.

  “Do you still have Sparky?” he asks.

  I reach into my pants pocket and pull out the now lifeless beacon.

  “Do you?”

  “Greg, it’s right here. Can’t you s—”

  The dazed look on his face. His slightly off-target gaze. The logs—not a ridiculously low fence but guide markers. “Greg?” “Libby, is it daytime?” He steps to his right three short paces and with effort lowers himself to an ottoman-shaped rock. “Or is it night again?”

  My intestines tighten. What horrific ordeal has he been through? “It will be night soon.” I choke back the question I’m aching to ask, one for which I already know the answer. Instead I scrape together a few splinters of courage and say, “I don’t want to leave you, but I have to tell your dad and Jen that we’ve found you. Will you be okay if I’m gone for just a couple of minutes?”

  He clutches his stomach and rocks forward. “I . . . I don’t think so.”

  I kneel beside him. Hold him. Cry with him.

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  He cradles my head in his hand and burrows his face in

  my neck.

  “Oh, Greg, I smell like a—”

  “Like a little breath of heaven,” he whispers into my skin.

  “Actually,” he says, pulling back slightly, “you kind of smell like fish.”

  “Long story. Doesn’t matter now.” Ignoring its abrasive

  quality, I cup his face and stroke his McScruffy cheeks with my thumbs. “I need to know your story. What happened?”

  He encircles one of my hands in his, then lifts it away from

  his face and kisses my palm. His answer floats into my lifeline wrinkle. “Heart transplant.”

  “What?”

  He presses his lips together in a thin line that quivers, as

  does his voice when he finally speaks. “It never occurred to me you’d come looking for me.”

  “It didn’t occur to me either. For most of three years.” My

  throat tightens. I stroke his damp eyelids with my fingertips. “No matter what happened to you, or what this means for our future, we’ll get through it together.”

  His lips lean toward mine. I move my head to the side and

  lift my chin so as not to miss the connection.

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  Libby?”

  “I’m here, Greg.”

  He knows that. He can feel my back curled into his chest, my arms drawing his tighter around me.

  “Did you need something?” I whisper into the dark.

  His fingers play my ribs like piano keys. Pianissimo. “Found it.”

  I don’t know how Frank and Jen had the energy to back- track to our canoes and haul our tent and packs here so we could camp—together—along the place where Lacy Falls once flowed. Joy has a way of recharging a person’s batteries. Before night had a good hold on our world, we’d fed Greg and ourselves a hot meal and settled in. I intend to kiss the inventor of satellite phones when we get back to civilization. We’re too far in for a float plane to land. And darkness doesn’t help. On our own for another night, we’ll head toward an open spot for rescue in the morning. All of us. “Libby?”

  “I’m here, Greg. Try to get some sleep.” “I thought I was dreaming.”

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  CYNTHIA RUCHTI

  I lift his hand and press it to the beat of my heart. “Did you

  feel that?”

  “Yes.”

  My elbow to his stomach. Gently. “And that?”

  “I’m not paralyzed. I’m blind.”

  I hate that word already and I’ve only dealt with it for a few

  hours. What vile thoughts must he harbor against it?

  “Greg, we have a long couple of days ahead of us.” To say

  nothing of the ones through which we’ve just clawed our way. “We need sleep.”

  “I’m afraid of the dark.”

  “Good one.”

  “I am, Lib. Not of the night. Of the dark. This edgeless

  black.”

  One of us is trembling. I can’t tell where he ends and I

  begin in our conjoined fetal position. If he’s afraid of the dark, so am I. “Can we talk about this in the morning?” And the morning after that and the next and the next as we adapt to this strange new life?

  He shifts away from me. Not far, but someone could defi-

  nitely slide a dollar bill between us now. “I’m not sure I can do this. The blind thing.”

  I close the gap. “I’m sure enough for both of us that you

  can.”

  Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. I’m barely sure enough for

  me, much less him too. I trust my husband. I don’t trust the world in which he’ll have to feel his way. You helped us find him, Lord. Now help us find our way home. All the way home.

  He’s playing with my hair. Like a toddler would rub the

  satin binding on his favorite blanket. I didn’t realize how much the blanket benefited from the arrangement.

  Is it just me? Do all women race ahead in their thinking?

  Planning funerals for husbands whose bodies haven’t been

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  They Almost Always Come Home

  recovered? Making lists—the pros and cons of selling the house? Wondering what life’s supposed to look like
with a husband who can’t see?

  I hope he sleeps sooner or later. Me? I’m mentally rearrang- ing the family room so he won’t stumble and wondering if it’s worth it to learn Braille at his age and contemplating the red tape of filing for disability and praying that our insurance cov- ers laser surgery or whatever he needs. “Libby?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Just checking.”

  How many unsung heroes hover just offstage in the Bible? I remember reading about blind men whose sight was restored by Jesus. I don’t remember reading about their mates. Heroes? Victims? It’s a fine line sometimes. I’m both, I suppose. I found my husband, but lost part of him. I’m not the one with the dis- ability, but I am disabled. He’s the one who can’t see. I’m one of the things he can’t see.

  Am I the worst belly-creeping slug for thinking of myself at all? We’re one. Divine design and all that. Part of me can’t see. And it’s killing me. He doesn’t deserve this. I probably do. We’ll get through this. Together. I’ve said the words a dozen times since he stumbled out of the tent and into my arms. It’s my theme song for Jen too. I should tattoo it on my forehead. Do they do Braille tattoos? And ewww if they do! “Libby?”

  “Greg, I’m right—”

  “Move, will you? My arm fell asleep.”

  Ah. So sleep is reserved for appendages only. Minds are off-limits.

  I scoot away a couple of inches. My back chills instantly. I’m not so much afraid of the dark as I am afraid of reacting badly to the darkness he knows. What if I’m a lousy caregiver?

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  What if I caregive when he’s capable of more than I think? What if I guess wrong about who needs me more on any given day—Jen or Greg?

  An acrid smell tickles the hairs in my nose. Smoke. It’s his

  sleeping bag, the one opened underneath us. Not cool. All I need to induce sleep is a reminder that Greg could have died when the lightning used him as an outlet.

  I slide back toward him, and by the Braille method discover

  he’s lying on his back. His chest rises and falls in a deliriously comforting rhythm. I think I’ll spend what’s left of the night trying to match my breathing pattern to his.

  It’s so much like the rhythm of my paddle in the water.

  Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Smooth. No splashing. More efficient that way. Stroke. Stroke. All the way home.

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  I feel it before I see it. Warmth in the palm of my hand. Pressed there by a loving husband who still thinks a cup of coffee holds healing powers.

  “Thanks, Greg. What am I going to do if—?”

  “Shh,” he says, laying one broad finger on my trembling lips. “Let’s just see.”

  See. Yes, let’s. Let’s all just see.

  Waiting room coffee. Miserable stuff. Not decaffeinated but de-taste-inated. The vending machine somehow extracts the flavor and ramps up the bitterness factor. Or is that my imagi- nation? Maybe the coffee’s fine and my stomach acid is the culprit.

  He’s here. Beside me. The husband I wished away. The sight of him medicates me.

  Frank would be here, too, but his surgeon understands prostate cancer far better than he understands a man’s need to be supportive so soon after the scalpel removed what it could. God bless Pauline Holden. She’s watching Brent’s girls so he can drink waiting-room coffee and pray.

  EPILOGUE

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  EPILOGUE

  Greg must have forgotten that my peripheral vision is stel-

  lar. Does he not know I can see him slip off his dark glasses and rub his eyes?

  We’re supposed to be at the awards banquet tonight, but

  we won’t make it. Even when the doctor walks through those doors to pronounce a verdict, it’ll be too late to drive all the way to Minneapolis. Too late to find silver-shimmer pantyhose to match my all-sparkle-all-the-time gown. Too late to pick up the tux we rented for Greg. Priorities dictate that we’re in jog- ging suits now. My hair’s in a ponytail. Not my most flattering look, but how can that matter?

  Alex promised to send pictures of the ceremony on his

  cell phone. Am-Can Nature Photographer of the Year. Greg’s spread in North America Wild magazine clinched it for him. For us.

  I wish I knew my Bible better. I can’t recall an incident of

  a half miracle, but maybe there is such a thing. When Greg’s vision returned, it didn’t make it all the way. He sees shapes without details. I see details without shapes. We’re better together than apart. Both of us.

  A half miracle. No.

  “What do you see?” Jesus asked the blind man at

  Bethsaida.

  “I see people, but they look like tree trunks,” the man said

  after a touch from the Healer.

  “Good enough,” Jesus answered and walked away.

  No. That’s not how it ended. Jesus touched the man again

  and restored his sight completely.

  Why not Greg?

  Is the other half of our miracle yet to come?

  Will the complete return of his vision depend on another

  lightning bolt during a late summer storm? Will it steal into our bedroom in the middle of the night? Will it serve as a glo-

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  Epilogue

  rious aftereffect of a sneeze? Will it pour down on him while his face and hands are raised to heaven in worship of the God we call Rescuer?

  I shift in the vinyl chair I’ve occupied too long. Greg reaches over to grab my hand.

  “No matter what, Lib, we’re going to make it.”

  I don’t want to argue with him. I want him to be right. Brent left the room long ago, with our blessing. Maybe the doctor will let him bring us the news. Brent deserves some- thing happy to report.

  As long as we’ve waited, I’m caught off-guard when I see him standing in the doorway. He’s shaking and crying. A grown man like that. Greg sees clearly enough to know we can’t stay seated. We move to either side of him, acting as his human crutches as he stumbles farther into the room.

  “It’s . . . a boy,” he whispers. “He’s small, but healthy, as far as we can tell.”

  I can’t form a word, much less a sentence. “And Jen?” Greg manages.

  Brent’s face contorts, then returns to the grace-shape it usu- ally wears. “Holding her own. Her obstetrician turned her over to the oncologist. They’ll up her pain medicine now. Then, we’ll see.”

  Does the birth of this child mean God knows Jen will live to raise him? She says they took every precaution to ensure her cancer treatments weren’t in danger of compromise from a pregnancy. A pregnancy that happened anyway and that resulted in a “small but healthy” baby boy who is going to need his mother. Almost as much as I do.

  Greg extends a hand toward Brent, then reaches with his other arm to embrace the new father. “Congratulations, man. A son. What an amazing gift.”

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  EPILOGUE

  The sound of my husband’s voice—my husband, being

  normal—anchors my runaway thoughts. Life. What a gift. The breath of life.

  “Then, we’ll see,” Brent repeats.

  Yes. We will.

  Discussion Questions

  1. What lies did Libby believe about her marriage, her

  husband, her daughter’s death, her faith? How did

  those lies cripple her, blind her?

  2. At what moment in the story did Libby realize her

  vision of the truth was skewed? Was it a moment or an

  unfolding?

  3. All creation seems designed to endure hardship. We

  humans are included in that plan. We’re designed to

  persevere and push through solid rock to give glory to

  God. What situation in your life right now seems like

  a “through solid rock” experience? What comfort can

  you draw from realizing you were built for endurance

  and tenacity?<
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  4. In some ways, Libby was a “motherless child.” How did

  that influence her attitudes toward her children? Her

  mother-in-law? Her best friend?

  5. Symbolically, lightning played both a subtle and an

  in-your-face role in the book. How did it affect Libby’s

  relationship with her daughter?

  6. The many references to “bathroom breaks” in the wil-

  derness may have seemed crude, but represented both

  Frank’s distress and the harsh reality—no matter what

  the crisis, the necessities of life persist. If you’ve lost a

  loved one, even temporarily, you know the added pain.

  Laundry and meals and mortgages and dirty dishes

  and bathroom breaks don’t stop for your grief. How

  has that raw reality played out in your own life?

  7. Imagine finding yourself marooned in unfamiliar ter-

  ritory, your resources and resourcefulness drained.

  Not only are you in trouble, but no matter how brave

  or inventive, you cannot save yourself. The author

  intended that as a symbol of humanity’s desperate

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  need for a Rescuer. In the story, God’s Word became

  an umbilical cord, pumping pulses of hope until res-

  cue arrived. And even then, it was a long trek home.

  When have you been most conscious of your inability

  to provide your own rescue?

  8. Strength is made perfect in weakness, according to

  the Bible. Libby discovered she was stronger than she

  knew, weaker than she realized. In some respects, each

  of the characters made the same discovery. What drew

  them to those conclusions? What draws you?

  9. What compelled Jenika to risk so much to stay by

  Libby’s side?

  10. Do you think Frank’s heart would have softened toward

  faith issues if Libby hadn’t struggled with her own?

  How was her battle key to his awakening?

  11. In the pre-wilderness relationship between Greg and

  Libby, how did the grief/blame cycle hamstring their