Promise Me

by Richard Paul Evans

“What do we do?” Jan turned back. “Roll her to her side.”

  Charlotte suddenly went limp. “Charlotte!” I screamed to Jan, “Tell them she passed out. Do I need to hold her tongue?”

  She repeated my words into the phone. “Is she still breathing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t put anything in her mouth. They say she’ll be all right. Put something soft under her head.”

  I took off my sweater, rolled it up and put it under her head. A moment later Charlotte moaned, then began to move. I said to her softly, “Honey, can you hear me?”

  She looked up at me and began to cry.

  I cupped Charlotte’s face. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here.”

  I heard the wail of a siren coming down our street.

  Fear thrives best in the shadow of the unknown.

  Beth Cardall’s Diary

  It was shortly after 10 P.M., and I was sitting next to Charlotte in her hospital bed when Roxanne arrived. Charlotte had been calm and sleeping for nearly an hour. Roxanne put her hand on my shoulder as she looked at Charlotte. “Praise God,” she said softly. She hugged me, then we stepped out of the room to talk.

  “What was it?” Roxanne asked.

  “She had a grand mal seizure.”

  “Do they know what caused it?”

  “No. By the time she got to the hospital, she was fine. You’d almost think nothing had happened.”

  “Is it related to the other stuff she’s been going through?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But whatever it is, it’s getting worse.” Tears began to well up in my eyes. “I’m just so afraid. What if I lose her too?”

  “Don’t even go there. You’re not going to lose her.”

  “I wish you could promise me that.”

  I started to cry and fell into Roxanne. She gently rubbed my back. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

  A few minutes later, when I could speak, I asked, “How’s Jan?”

  “She’s a little shaken up, but she’ll be okay. She’s never been through anything like that before.”

  “Did she tell you what happened?”

  “She said Char was just eating when she started talking funny. She asked her if she was being silly, and she said Charlotte just looked at her then started shaking.”

  I groaned. “Thank goodness she was there. I was in the bathroom getting ready when it happened, I wouldn’t have even known.” I choked up again.

  Roxanne put her arm around me. “She’s okay, that’s what matters.” After a few minutes she asked, “How did your date react to all the excitement?”

  “My date,” I said. I had completely forgotten about Matthew. “It happened before he got there. I don’t even have his phone number. He probably just thinks I stood him up.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. If he’s a keeper, he’ll understand. And if he doesn’t, you don’t need him.”

  “I don’t need him anyway,” I said. “I don’t need anyone new in my life right now. If tonight taught me anything, it’s that Charlotte needs me. She’s already lost one parent—I can’t divide my time any more than it already is. She needs all of me.”

  “Okay, okay,” Roxanne said, calming me. “I understand.”

  Just then a doctor walked into the room. “Mrs. Cardall?” he said, looking between Roxanne and me.

  “I’m Mrs. Cardall.”

  “I’m Dr. Hansen. Could I speak to you for a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  The doctor looked at Roxanne. “Alone.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “She’s family.”

  He nodded. “I just want to update you on where we stand. Clearly, she’s had a seizure, but we don’t think it’s related to her other health problems. I’ve gone back and reviewed her records, and I want to do a few more tests to see if we can’t narrow things down a bit more. I’m particularly concerned about all of the abdominal pain she’s been experiencing.”

  I was tired of hearing this. “Don’t you even have a guess what it could be?”

  “They’re just guesses, but I want to test for Crohn’s disease and Whipple’s disease.”

  My heart froze. “Are either of them terminal?”

  “Please, I’m not saying that she has either of those diseases. Some of the symptoms are there, but it’s way too early to tell. Whipple’s disease is a rare bacterial infection that affects the gastrointestinal system. Now, it can be serious without proper treatment, and if diagnosed too late it can cause irreversible damage to the central nervous system, but it has been successfully treated with antibiotics, typically over the course of one or two years.”

  I started crying. Roxanne put her arm around me.

  “What is Crohn’s?” Roxanne asked.

  “It’s a bowel disease that causes inflammation of the lining of the digestive tract. That would explain the abdominal pain she’s been having.”

  “Is it . . .” Roxanne looked at me and stopped.

  “Terminal? No. Crohn’s is painful and can lead to more serious ailments, but therapies can bring about relief and even long-term remission.”

  Neither sounded good. How much more did she have to suffer? I thought. “When will you do the tests?” I asked.

  “We’d like to do some of them now,” he said, “while she’s still in the hospital.”

  “We need to know what’s wrong. I can’t take this anymore.”

  “To diagnose Whipple’s we generally have to perform an upper endoscopy, and for Crohn’s a colonoscopy. We would like to recommend you to a gastroenterologist who will familiarize you with these procedures.”

  “Is it expensive?” I asked.

  “It should be covered by your insurance.”

  After Marc died, his work had put me on their COBRA plan, but I couldn’t afford the monthly premium and in January I let it lapse. “We don’t have health insurance anymore,” I said.

  Roxanne put her hand on my back. “Ray and I can help.”

  “You can’t do that,” I said. “I’ll get a loan.”

  The doctor looked at me sympathetically. “Let’s do this: We’ll first run another blood test to see if her anemia has improved. If it’s better, we might be able to rule out an upper endoscopy. We’ll put off the colonoscopy until we’re sure it’s not Whipple’s.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” Dr. Hansen said. “Have a good night.” He walked off.

  “I can’t stand this,” I said to Roxanne. I put my head on her shoulder and cried.

  It is not good fences that make good neighbors. It is good hearts.

  Beth Cardall’s Diary

  The next day the hospital staff ran another blood test. Despite the iron supplements Charlotte had been taking for the last few weeks, her anemia had not improved, indicative of both Whipple’s and Crohn’s. I had to remind myself that these were still just guesses. I made an appointment with the pediatric gastroenterologist Dr. Hansen had recommended. His soonest opening was two weeks away.

  Early Sunday morning I brought Charlotte home from the hospital. Between the nurses’ frequent visits and my worry for Charlotte, I had slept very little the night before, and I went right to bed. A little before noon our doorbell rang. It was my neighbor, Margaret, her daughter Katie, and one of her six sons. They came bearing gifts: a chicken broccoli casserole, a loaf of homemade wheat bread and an apple crisp. Katie brought a Get-well card she had made for Charlotte.

  “You didn’t need to do this,” I said.

  “Nonsense, that’s what neighbors are for. We just love your Charlotte. She’s such a dear little girl.” Margaret raised the glass dish she was carrying. “Can we bring these in for you?”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  Margaret and her son carried the food inside and set everything on the counter. Charlotte was on the sofa playing with Molly and lit up when she saw Katie. Katie handed her the card.

  “You made this?” Charlotte asked.

  Katie nod
ded. “I colored the pictures too.”

  “It’s pretty,” Charlotte said.

  The boy just stood there next to the food, polite but looking bored.

  “Did you find out what was wrong?” Margaret asked quietly.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

  Margaret touched my arm. “I’m sorry. Just know that you’re in our prayers, and just let me know if there’s anything we can do—I’ve got a house full of babysitters.”

  “You’re very kind,” I said, genuinely moved by her graciousness.

  She called out, “Come on, Katie, it’s time to go. Charlotte needs her rest.”

  Margaret shepherded her children to the front door, and once they were outside, Katie and her brother sprinted home. Margaret paused in the doorway. “By the way, just after you left Friday, a young man came by your house. He saw us in the yard, so he came over and asked if we’d seen you. I told him what had happened, about the ambulance and all, I hope you don’t mind. He seemed like a nice man. He asked me to tell you that he’ll come back next week. I think he said his name is Matthew.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “We had . . .” I suddenly felt embarrassed. “An appointment.”

  “Well, he seemed very concerned when I told him about Charlotte, so I figured you must be close.”

  “He’s just an acquaintance,” I said. “But thank you.”

  “I hope you enjoy the casserole. It’s my George’s favorite, but some people don’t care for broccoli.”

  “I love broccoli,” I said. “I should eat more of it.”

  “I tell my kids that. Doesn’t help that our new president hates broccoli.”

  “I guess not everyone’s a fan.”

  “I marked the dishes with masking tape. Don’t worry about bringing them back. I’ll send one of the kids by in a few days.”

  “Thank you. You’re very sweet.”

  “Just being neighborly,” she said. “Have a good Sabbath.”

  I watched her walk down the sidewalk, then waved again and shut the door. It was a real luxury to have a homemade meal that had been prepared by someone besides me. Outside of McDonald’s, or the hospital’s café, I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten someone else’s cooking.

  “Are you hungry, Char?”

  She shook her head. “My stomach hurts when I eat.”

  “Just have a little then, okay?”

  She walked over dutifully. “Okay.”

  I had just dished up our plates and taken a few bites when the doorbell rang. “I’ll be right back,” I said to Charlotte. I opened the door to find Matthew standing on our front porch.

  “Your neighbor told me there was an ambulance here,” he said. “Is Charlotte all right?”

  “Yes.” I brushed the hair from my face. “How did you know my daughter’s name?”

  “Your neighbor.”

  “I’m sorry about missing you the other night. We had to rush her to the hospital.”

  “I understand completely. What happened?”

  “She had a seizure.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

  “The thing is, if I hadn’t been here, I don’t know what would have happened.” I looked at him sadly. “I can’t take a chance with her right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sorry. I know I said I would go out with you, but it’s just not the right time. Not now.”

  Like before, he seemed unaffected by my dismissal. “How old is Charlotte?”

  “What?”

  “Right now, how old is she?”

  “She’s six.”

  “Six,” he said. “You don’t know . . .” he stopped mid-sentence. “Did she eat something before the seizure?”

  I couldn’t figure out why he was asking me this. “She was eating dinner.”

  “What was she eating?”

  “Ramen noodles.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Beth, you need to trust me, this is very important. I want you to tell the doctors that you think Charlotte has a disease called celiac sprue. Have you ever heard of that?”

  “No.”

  “Celiac sprue is an allergic reaction to gluten. The seizure could have been a result of eating the noodles. She’s probably been losing weight and doesn’t like eating lately, does she?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “It goes with the disease. Whatever you do, do not feed her anything with gluten.”

  “I don’t know what gluten is.”

  “It’s a protein found in grains like wheat, rye and barley. Just look at the ingredients on the package, it should say. Just don’t feed her anything with wheat, rye or barley. Promise me.”

  I looked at him quizzically. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, I just have a lot of experience with this.”

  I had no idea what to think of him. “I appreciate your trying to help, but you’ve never even seen my daughter. Several doctors examining her couldn’t tell what was wrong. They thought she might have Whipple’s or Crohn’s disease.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” he said flatly. “She’s celiac. Doctors misdiagnose this all the time.” His expression turned more serious. “Beth, don’t let yourself get in the way of Charlotte’s well-being. I’m not asking you to take any great leap of faith, here. Just try what I said for a couple days and see if she stops having problems. That’s it. If that works, then go for a whole week. You have nothing to lose—she has nothing to lose.”

  “I need to talk to the doctors first.”

  “Great, ask your doctors. Tell them that you think it might be celiac sprue and see what they say.” He took a pen from his coat pocket. “Do you have some paper?” Before I could answer, he spotted a flier for snow removal that someone had left on our porch. He picked it up and wrote on the back, spelling out the letters as he penned them, “C-e-l-i-a-c s-p-r-u-e. Celiac sprue.” He handed me the paper. “The doctors will know what it is. Trust me. Everything will be all right. I promise.” He looked at me for a moment, then said, “I’m going to be gone for a while. Maybe a few weeks. But I’ll be back.” He started to turn.

  Something about his promise made me angry. “You can’t promise me that everything will be okay,” I said sharply. “That’s not a promise you can keep.”

  He turned back with a peculiar, knowing smile. “You’d be surprised at what promises I can keep.”

  He walked out to the curb where his car, an old VW Beetle, was parked. I stood on the porch, silently watching him go. He opened his door, then shouted to me. “Trust, Bethany. Trust.” He climbed into his car and drove away.

  How did he know?

  Beth Cardall’s Diary

  I suppose I felt like King Naaman in the Bible being told by the prophet Elisha to wash seven times in the river Jordan and be healed. Honestly, I didn’t know what to think. I had no reason to trust this man, none whatsoever, but I was taken by the forcefulness of his conviction. I shut the door and went back inside. Charlotte was at the table clumsily buttering a piece of bread. I looked at her a moment then said, “Honey, let’s not eat that.”

  “How come?”

  “I just want to try something. We’re going to be very careful about what you eat the next few days. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me get you something else.” I looked at what Margaret had brought. Casserole, bread, dessert. Everything had wheat. I opened up a can of peaches and poured them into a bowl. “Here you go, honey.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  While Charlotte finished eating, I went to my bedroom, shut the door and called the hospital. Dr. Hansen, who had watched over Charlotte on Friday, was on shift, but he was with a patient. I left my number with a nurse. It was several hours later, as I was putting Charlotte down to bed, that the phone rang. I kissed her goodnight, then answered the phone. It was Dr. Hansen returning my call.

  “Doctor, I don’t know if you remember me. I came in Friday night with my little girl, Charlotte. She had
a seizure.”

  “Of course. How is she?”

  I suddenly felt a little awkward. “She’s been about the same. I hope you don’t think I’m crazy, but a friend thought he knew what might be wrong.” I looked at the paper Matthew had written on. “Could she have celiac sprue?”

  The doctor was quiet a moment. Then he said: “That would explain her stomach and weight problems. There are even some studies that suggest a link between celiac sprue and seizures. Your friend may be right.”

  Honestly, I hadn’t expected this response. “Oh. So what do I do?”

  “Celiac sprue is an autoimmune disease that’s triggered by the protein gluten, which is pretty common in our diet. It’s found in things like bread, pasta, cookies—anything made with wheat, barley and a few other grains. If I were you, I would go a week without giving her anything with gluten and see what happens. Do you have a pediatrician?”

  “Yes. Dr. Benton at the Mid-Valley Clinic.”

  “He can tell you more about the disease. Let’s hope that’s what it is.”

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a good night.” He hung up.

  Didn’t expect that, I thought.

  Monday, Charlotte and I stayed home again. I sat down and made a list of foods she could eat. Designing a menu without gluten was like building a house without wood—it can be done, but it takes some planning.

  Charlotte didn’t have a stomachache the entire day and that evening seemed to be more active than usual. The next morning I woke to find her sitting up in our bed. It was the first time in more than a year that I hadn’t had to wake her. “Can I watch cartoons?”

  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, surprised to be woken by something other than my radio alarm. “How long have you been awake?”

  “I dunno.”

  I looked over at the clock. It was eight minutes before seven. “How are you feeling, honey?”

  “Good.”

  “No headache or tummy ache?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Can I?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  I got up and turned the television on for her, then shut off my alarm clock before it went off. After showering and dressing I made Charlotte breakfast. Out of habit I put a piece of bread in the toaster but stopped myself and scrambled an egg instead. As she was eating, I called Dr. Benton’s office. The clinic didn’t open until nine and I had expected to just leave a message, but fortuitously Dr. Benton was in the clinic early that morning and answered the phone. I briefed him about our emergency run to the hospital and then, a little more confidently, asked him if Charlotte’s ailments could be celiac sprue.