All He'll Ever Need

by Loree Lough

  The dim smile was back, but Pete’s eyes didn’t open.

  “I love you, you big goofball. You’d better pull yourself together, because . . .”

  She bit her lower lip, whether to keep it from trembling or to stifle a sob, Phillip couldn’t say.

  “. . . because I need you.”

  One eye opened, but just barely. “You’re tough.” He rested for a second. “Strongest person I know.” Another pause. “You’re . . . gonna be fine.” Pete lifted his head, scanned the room, and when he saw Phillip, he smiled, this time, with both sides of his mouth. “Gonna be fine,” he repeated, “’cause . . . that . . . big oaf . . . will take . . . good care . . . of you.”

  For the first time since she’d entered the partition, Emily met his eyes. Tears clung to her lashes and glittered like diamonds under the harsh overhead lamps. She extended her free hand, and like iron slides toward a magnet, he went to her.

  “Phil . . . ?”

  “I’m right here, Pete.”

  “I know you are. I’m a mess . . . but . . . I’m not . . . blind,” he said on a one-note chuckle. And then, his features relaxed and his voice faded further still. “You two . . . good for . . . each other. So . . . so don’t . . . be stupid and . . .” His eyes bored into Phillip’s. “She’s stubborn. Won’t . . . admit it but . . . she’s gonna need you . . .”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Phillip said, wrapping his free hand around Pete’s. “You’ve got my word on that.”

  Now, Pete zeroed in on Emily’s face. “When . . . when you tell . . . Dad and the . . . the others . . . Spare them . . . the gory details.” He squeezed her hand. “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “By the way?”

  “What . . .”

  “Love you, too.”

  Pete’s hand was cold, his skin a pale, eerie shade of gray.

  He struggled to lift his head, and this time, the nurse helped him. “Don’t say . . . don’t say I . . . didn’t warn you,” he said to Phillip. “Em is . . . stubborn.”

  Then the monitor went crazy, its ear-piercing beeps pulsing so fast that it almost sounded like one continuous note. The noise incited a whole new burst of activity, more shouted orders, additional personnel gathering around Pete’s bed. They asked her to move, and when she didn’t, told her to leave. But Emily wouldn’t budge. Refused to let go of Phillip’s hand, either. “Pete wants me here, so I’m staying. And Phillip,” she said, looking up at him, “is staying with me.”

  “We won’t leave you, Pete.”

  Eyes closed and lips slightly parted, Pete’s once animated face was now devoid of all expression.

  The nurse muted the monitor’s sound, but the bright golden line that had tracked Pete’s heartbeats was still visible, pulsating so quickly now that it reminded Phillip of Gabe’s very first drawing—thousands of sharp up-and-down Vs placed so close together that the blue crayon all but blotted out the white paper. More than three hundred beats a minute, the glowing numbers announced.

  Thirty seconds passed. A minute. And then? The line stopped moving, split the monitor’s screen in half.

  “Flatline,” said one of the nurses.

  “Time of death?” said another.

  “Eleven oh-five,” said the first.

  Through it all, Emily stood, silent and statue-still, squeezing Phillip’s fingers so tightly that the tips had turned white.

  The nurse stepped up beside her. “You know the routine, Doctor.”

  “Yes,” she said on a heavy sigh. “I know the routine.” And meeting the woman’s eyes, Emily asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Lauren.”

  Nodding, she said, “Thank you, Lauren, for . . .”

  Until that moment, she’d held it together. Now, the floodgates opened.

  Phillip guided her to the far side of the room, taking care to put her back to Pete’s bed and the now-whispering team. When Rebecca had died, they’d said, “You can stay with the body for a few minutes. Before we bring her down to the morgue.”

  He hadn’t stayed. Hadn’t wanted to. Why would he, when, for his whole life, he’d been taught that upon a person’s death, the soul left the body, and began the remarkable trek to Paradise. But his choice needn’t be Emily’s.

  Spying a tissue box on a cabinet beside them, she helped herself to one.

  “Um . . . Lauren? Do you need me to sign anything, or . . . or anything?”

  “No, not right now. You work here, so it isn’t like we don’t know how to find you. If you want to leave, go ahead.”

  She looked up, her teary eyes locked to his, and said, “Can you take me home?”

  “Yes. Of course. I’d be happy to. Sure.” Phillip would have added, It’s my pleasure, but he thought he already sounded enough like an idiot.

  One arm across her narrow shoulders, the other around her waist, he guided her to the exit. He’d parked on the far side of the lot, to save having to pay for a space in the garage. “Why don’t you wait right here while I get the truck.”

  “No. I’ll be alone soon enough.” Linking her arm through his, she fell into step beside him. “Thanks for being here. Don’t know how I would have gotten through that if you’d left, when I suggested it, I mean.”

  If he remembered correctly, she lived minutes from the hospital. Once he got her home, he’d borrow her phone and call Hannah. After explaining what had happened, he was sure that his sister would volunteer to go to his house, keep an eye on their mother, and on Gabe, too. For the first time in a long time, he felt blessed to have easy access to a loving family. If he made good on his silent threat to leave Pleasant Valley, he’d have to give that up, along with the farm, and the workshop, the beautiful Alleghenies—and Backbone Mountain—visible through all seasons, right from his front porch.

  Emily hadn’t said a word. Not as they crossed the broad parking lot. Not as she settled into the pickup’s front seat. He hated to interrupt whatever thoughts were tumbling around in her pretty head, but he needed her address.

  “Is it easy to find your place?”

  “Very,” she said. A sob had thickened her voice. “Follow Third Street to Lake. I’m the third house on the left.”

  She’d praised him, back in his workshop, saying she’d never known a more clean and organized man. When they entered her home, he could have paid her the same compliment. Plus, her taste in colors and furnishings was pleasing, soothing, and completely opposite from Rebecca’s. But then, his wife had spent her whole life Amish, and Emily, well, Emily personified the term Englisher.

  “I’m gonna fix us a cup of coffee. Unless you’d rather have tea.”

  She stood in the middle of her living room, elbows cupped in her palms, nodding. “Coffee sounds good. There’s ham and cheese in the fridge, if you’re hungry.”

  “I’ll eat, but only if you’ll join me.”

  He’d anticipated another agreeable nod. A “make yourself at home” comment. Instead, she half ran across the room, flung herself into his arms, and wept.

  Never in his life had he heard anyone cry this way. It seemed the sobs started all the way down in her feet, then swelled up, up, until they poured from her lips.

  Phillip guided her to the couch, positioned her on the center cushion. She surprised him again, because instead of curling up beside him, she climbed into his lap. And there she stayed until the tears stopped. He felt honored that she’d trusted him enough to shed some of her grief, right here in his arms. He’d promised coffee. A sandwich. But she’d dozed off, and to keep that promise, he needed to move her . . . the last thing he wanted to do.

  So there he sat, alternately stroking her hair and pressing kisses to her temple, listening to her soft breaths and very much aware that her loving heart was beating against his chest.

  He’d stay until dark—until morning—if that’s what she needed.

  Who are you kidding? he thought. It’s what you need, too.
r />   * * *

  Phillip had barely crossed the threshold when Sarah said, “You are late.”

  Yes, he was. Hours later than he’d said he’d be.

  Fists resting on her generous hips, she said, “Well?”

  “I was in the elevator, ready to leave the meeting when Emily got an emergency call on her cell phone.”

  “What meeting?”

  Oh. That’s right. He hadn’t told Sarah that, after seeing that kiss, a nurse had filed charges against Emily.

  “Nothing important.” And it wasn’t . . . anymore.

  “She had to rush away to care for a patient?”

  “No. It was . . . personal.” Very personal, he thought. “Her brother was in an accident. A bad one.” Relating the information in such a casual tone sounded cold. Sounded wrong. And reminded him that he should check in on the paramedics who’d collided with Pete’s car, in case Emily asked how they’d fared.

  “He seems like a nice young man. Very handsome. Not as handsome as you, but I am sure he has turned a few heads in his day.” She filled a mug with hot black coffee and put it on the table. “Sit. I will warm up your supper.”

  “Thanks, Maemm, but I’m not hungry.”

  Frowning, she clucked her tongue. “Did you have a restaurant meal with Dr. White? That sort of spending needs to stop, Phillip. The hospital bills will begin arriving soon, and we cannot afford such extravagances.”

  “You’re right, of course. But we didn’t eat in a restaurant. Didn’t eat at all.” He sat down, wrapped his hands around the mug, and struggled to get the words out. “Pete is dead, Maemm.”

  Eyes wide, she laid a hand against her bosom. “Oh, that is a terrible thing. I pray he did not suffer.”

  As a matter of fact, his last minutes had been pure torture. Phillip had seen that glassy-eyed look too many times. In his father’s eyes. His brother’s. Horses and cows, and even a goat or two. Rebecca, thankfully, had slipped away peacefully. He’d seen a book in town once, with the picture of a beautiful, sleeping princess on its cover. Rebecca’s last minutes had always reminded him of that.

  “It is sad, but sometimes, God’s will is like that.” She poured herself a mug of coffee and sat in the chair beside his. “How is Emily taking it?”

  “Not well.” He thought of the way she’d clung to him. The warm tears that had seeped through his shirt were dry now, but if he concentrated, he could still taste them on his lips.

  “Will you attend the funeral?”

  He was a little surprised that she even had to ask. “Yes, definitely.”

  “And the burial?”

  Again, he said, “Yes, definitely.”

  “Will you allow me to attend?”

  That she wanted to go surprised him so much, he was left speechless for a moment.

  “If you like.”

  “Then it is settled.”

  “I’m sure Emily will appreciate seeing you there.”

  “She is English by accident of birth, but I like her. And not only because she saved Gabe.”

  Coming from his mother, that was high praise.

  She finger-dusted the stains on the front of his shirt, and when they remained, Sarah said, “You eased her tears?”

  He sipped his coffee and she shook her head. “Pretty girl like that does not need mascara. I hope it will wash out in the laundry.”

  Sometimes, he was astonished by the way her mind worked. It seemed she believed that if a thought came into her head, she should free it, immediately, even if it caused ruffled feathers or hurt feelings.

  “I suppose there will be flowers in the funeral parlor.”

  “Pete was a well-liked guy. So yes, I’m sure his friends will want the family to know how much he meant to them. Especially those who live too far away to attend the services.”

  “The Plain way is the better way.”

  Phillip wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t need to know that. It seemed sad that loved ones weren’t allowed to express their grief through eulogies, by singing the deceased’s favorite hymns, and decorating otherwise sad and bleak chapels with colorful floral sprays to celebrate the transfer from earth to Paradise. He pictured Rebecca’s marker, carved from sandstone of the same height and width of the others that stood behind the church, identical, so that no one would get the idea that her life—or her loss—meant more than anyone else’s:

  REBECCA BAKER

  WIFE OF PHILLIP BAKER

  BORN MAY 5

  DIED NOVEMBER 21

  “I will need to take an iron to my mourning dress and bonnet ribbons.”

  By his count, she’d worn it eleven times. After Pete’s funeral, he hoped, she could hang it behind her other dresses—six in all, sewn from pale shades of gray, blue, yellow, and pink—for a long, long time.

  Phillip noticed her latest quilt project, neatly folded in a wicker laundry basket near the parlor entry. “That’ll bring in two hundred dollars or more,” he said. “But life is short, Maemm. Why don’t you make one like it for your bed and for Hannah’s?”

  “It saddens me that you even have to ask. The designs are too bright, the fabric too fine to lay upon an Amish bed.”

  He’d heard it all a hundred times before. One of his fondest wishes was that sooner, not later, she’d admit he was right, and that she deserved to warm herself with something that wasn’t plain. At least once in a while . . .

  Phillip doubted it would happen.

  She claimed to be happy, living without color, forgoing ruffles and lace, avoiding makeup and stylish hairdos. But he’d often asked himself . . . if the Plain life was as satisfying and fulfilling as she professed, wouldn’t she laugh and smile and enjoy herself more?

  Yet while he was with Emily, he’d come to a stunning conclusion: Yes, there were some unappealing elements to the Amish way of life. But if he walked away, he’d have to leave the good with the bad. The realization was eyeopening, because for the first time, he considered the possibility that others in the community felt exactly as he did—perhaps felt it even more deeply. The difference? They’d carried the load without complaint, without talk of quitting, like a spoiled child. He thought again of what he’d told Emily, about the way the community always rallied round, anytime a member was in need. They were connected by faith in God. Almost as important, they were connected by an invisible family bond. He loved Emily, but left to choose between her and this life?

  His mother’s whispered prayer penetrated the fog of his thoughts. Sarah prayed for him and Gabe, for Hannah and her family, for other members of the community. Prayer, he decided, was where she found joy and solace. He’d often entered a room and found her at the sink, at the stove, at a window, eyes closed and lips moving as she talked with God. Once, he’d come home early, and overheard the bishop scolding her for spending too much time with her Bible. “Too much study can make you arrogant or confused,” Fisher had said. “I know too many people who decided to leave the church after reading something they did not understand. Better to bring your Bible to church, where the elders and I can guide you.” Phillip had wanted to applaud when she replied, “And how am I to know that you are the teacher God has chosen for me?” Fisher left in a huff, and he’d never second-guessed Sarah again.

  Sarah whispered, “Amen,” then said, “I prayed a special prayer for you today, Phillip.”

  “Oh?”

  “I asked God to change you back into the faithful follower you were before Rebecca died. I do not care what clothes you wear or whether or not you shave. I only want to know that my son is right with his Maker.”

  They’d had this discussion five times, ten, even. But she refused to accept that death after death had shattered his faith long before he’d lost Rebecca.

  “It would make me happy to see you get rid of those leather belts and Englisher caps, and go back to looking and talking like one of us. But if this brings you comfort, so be it.”

  “Maemm, I’ll always be one of you, no matter what I wear or how I talk.”


  “Have it your way, then. Your stubbornness is teaching me patience, if nothing else.”

  Smiling, he quoted from the book of James: “‘Be patient, therefore . . . See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth? . . . you also be patient . . . ’”

  “My son the Bible scholar.” She blew him a kiss. “A word of warning . . . do not let Bishop Fisher learn that you have memorized verses!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The funeral director had to open the partition separating Pete’s viewing room from the one beside it. As the staff set out chairs and arranged vases and potted plants on the tables, Emily stood, transfixed by the digital photo display her sister had put together. Pete chewing the railing of his crib. Painting his face, hair, and high chair with spaghetti sauce. Crouched by the Christmas tree, mouth agape as he unwrapped a Superman costume, that year’s had-to-have-it gift. Then, Pete in his Little League uniform and playing the sax with the junior high brass ensemble. On horseback. Riding the too-big-for-him bicycle that it took him two summers to grow into. Cap and gown. Paramedic uniform. Suit and tie for a homecoming dance. Jeans and a plaid shirt, chopping wood for their dad’s fireplace. Orioles cap and Cal Ripken shirt at Camden Yards. White tux as a groomsman in Miranda’s wedding. Her sister had programmed his favorite song into the slideshow, and Louis Armstrong’s raspy version of “What a Wonderful World” played softly in the background. Emily’s tears flowed freely.

  “Did the guy ever frown?” Phillip asked, dropping a hand on her shoulder. “That smile . . . it followed him all through his life, didn’t it?”

  “I’d be hard-pressed to cite a time or place when he wasn’t happy.” Plucking a tissue from one of the end tables, she dabbed at her eyes. “Well, that isn’t entirely true. He cried buckets when my grandparents died. And when we lost our mom.” Just then appeared an image of Pete, arms around the neck of a big fuzzy dog. “What a mess he was when the vet diagnosed Stinker with Cushing’s disease!”

  “Stinker?”

  The memory made her ask herself . . . is it possible to feel joy and melancholy at the same time? “Let’s just say that pup had a very sensitive gastrointestinal system.”