“She . . . flew off. The door must have been left open. Just one of those things.”
“Oh Patrick. I’m so sorry. I know you were fond of that bird.”
“Yes. Yes, I was.”
David looked around the trees. “Maybe she’ll come back. Have you looked for her? I could help.”
“No, David. Thank you. She’s gone.”
Patrick stepped on the porch and closed the door, then fiddled with the key to lock it. He was having trouble getting the key into the lock, so David covered his hand with his to guide it in and twist it. “These old locks can be tricky.” He handed the key to Patrick, who took it without a word.
David didn’t like the feel of this. Something wasn’t right and clearly Patrick wasn’t going to say what it was. He felt as if he was pulling teeth out of him to talk, the way conversations often went with his own children. What would Birdy do? Probably come at it from another angle.
“Patrick, now that you’ve been here a few weeks, I’ve been wondering what other things you’ve noticed about the Amish. Other things than quilt shops open on the Sabbath, that is.” He knew that Patrick took long walks around the countryside. He hoped he was seeing the best of the Stoney Ridge church members. The field work, the families working side by side to harvest the garden, the quilting bees.
“I have to admit, I keep coming across things I wouldn’t have expected.”
David’s stomach dropped. “Such as . . .”
“Yesterday, I saw a microwave hooked up to a generator on someone’s back porch. An Amish wife was using it to heat up her coffee. And then I saw a group of teenaged Amish girls with iPhones, making selfies. They even had a selfie stick. That surprised me.”
Selfies? What in the world was a selfie stick?
“Sometimes, to be honest, I don’t even know I’m among the Amish.” Carefully, holding on to the pole, Patrick stepped off the porch and lifted the empty cage. “I need to get this in the garbage. Makes me sad to see it in the cottage. Thanks for looking in on me, David. You’ve been very kind to me. You always make me feel . . . better about everything.”
David’s perspective about everything just went south.
In general, Jesse didn’t have much luck when he told others what to do, but tonight, when he found his dad and Birdy and little sisters in the living room, his voice held no room for negotiation. “Luke Schrock has to go.” He slapped his straw hat against the tabletop, just to add a touch of drama.
Everyone looked up, surprised by Jesse’s sudden appearance or bold pronouncement, or both. Birdy exchanged a look with his dad. She tried to scoop up the twins, but they executed a perfectly synchronized bob-and-weave to avoid her, Emily to the left, Lydie to the right—until David rose to his feet and they trudged upstairs to start baths, grumbling all the way that they were left out of everything good. Ruthie was over at Katrina and Andy’s, spelling Molly to give her a good night’s sleep, but that meant Molly remained in the living room, looking quite interested, until his dad gave her the look.
“What’s he done?” His dad sat back down in his chair.
Jesse glanced at Molly’s disappearing bare feet on the stairwell, waiting until she reached the top because he knew she had a talent for eavesdropping. He was glad Ruthie wasn’t here to hear this news. He lowered his voice. “He killed Patrick’s bird and left it on the cottage doorstep.” He bumped his fists together and split them apart. “Like it was a twig.” The whole thing made him sick. Literally.
“Oh no.” His father paled, stricken. “Why?”
“Who knows why Luke does what he does? All I know is that he’s kicked up his crazy a notch by killing Patrick’s bird. He’s skidding off a cliff. Dad, he’s gotta go.”
“Go where?” his father said.
“Anywhere but here. Everyone in this town has lost patience with him. No one wants to hire him. You won’t even hire him at the Bent N’ Dent! Galen won’t let him near his horses. His own mother has lost patience with him. Have you noticed how worn out Rose looks? Luke needs to go before something else happens and it’s too late.” He looked straight at his father and boldly pointed his finger at him. “You need to make that call. You’re the bishop. Luke needs to leave this town before he ends up knocking off a liquor store and spending the rest of his life in jail.”
“No way. Not possible.”
“Dad,” Jesse said, “when are you going to wake up and see Luke for what he is?”
“And what would that be?”
“A drunk,” Jesse said. “A selfish, self-destructive drunk.”
“What a person does isn’t the same as who a person is,” his dad said. “There’s good inside of Luke.”
Only his father. Jesse glanced at him, impressed by his ability to try to find good in everybody even when there was no good in someone like Luke. Only his father could think like that.
“Tell me one thing, Jesse.”
Jesse lifted his eyebrows, all ears.
“Don’t you think it’s curious that a young man like Luke who fights so hard against being one of us . . . hasn’t left?”
It was a testament to Patrick’s character that he was still here. Ruthie would have thought he might have packed up and left Stoney Ridge for good after he found Nyna the Mynah dead on his doorstep. She kept Mim’s confidence and didn’t mention a word to him or to anyone else. Nor had Patrick volunteered anything, and she hadn’t seen Luke, which was just as well. She wasn’t sure what she would or could say to him. She didn’t usually let her temper fly, really fly, but when she did, she often had cause for regret.
Tonight, the sky was filled with colorful streaks of clouds. The sunset would be especially beautiful; her father and Birdy and the girls were over at Katrina’s to see the baby, so she asked Patrick if he’d like to go on a hike up the ridge to watch the sun set.
“I’d love to,” he said, when she appeared at the cottage door. In fact, it seemed as if he was waiting for her, but she often got that feeling when she was with Patrick. Like he had all the time in the world for her.
Instead of going straight up the hillside, she decided to take the road. It would be slower, but easier on Patrick. The recent rains had made paths muddy. The road meant fewer obstacles to maneuver, less chance of things that caused him to trip. She was convinced he needed glasses but wasn’t sure how to bring the subject up.
Patrick brought up a book he’d been reading, a book by Richard Foster called Celebration of Discipline, and was explaining to Ruthie about the discipline of prayer when they turned a corner and he breathed out, “Oh boy.” They had come face-to-face with Luke Schrock and a few of his friends. They stood on the side of the road, drinking beer from cans, leaning against Hank Lapp’s yellow golf cart. She could practically feel Patrick tense up. Even the air around them felt charged, like right before lightning struck.
“Well, well,” Luke said, his eyes looking mean. “If it isn’t Saint Patrick and the lovely Ruthie Schrock.”
Ruthie felt trapped. If she snapped at Luke the way she’d like to, it would only escalate his hostility. He wouldn’t lose face in front of his friends.
Luke pushed himself off the golf cart, his boots squelching in the mud, and strode up to Patrick. “Ever heard of a game called chicken?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Perfectly harmless game.”
“Perfectly stupid, you mean,” Ruthie said. “It’s a game where there’s nothing to gain and pride stops everyone from backing down.”
“Not true!” Luke said, eyes fixed on Patrick. “It’s a game to find out who is the bravest. We stand in the road and wait for a car to come around the bend. The first one who runs is the chicken.” He walked back to his friends in the golf cart and patted the front of it. “We can even practice. Let’s try it once while I drive the cart.”
Patrick drew in a quick hitching breath.
“Don’t let Luke goad you into anything,” Ruthie whispered. “Let’s leave.”
Patrick snapped his head toward her. �
��I don’t run,” he said, but he appeared to be trembling. Nearly imperceptible, but she noticed. And then he touched her face. He brushed the curve of her jaw with his fingertips, ever so lightly. He walked over, bold and confident, to Luke, sitting in the golf cart. She looked at Luke’s friends, hoping one or the other might stop this foolishness. But that was a foolish notion in itself. An old proverb danced through her mind: Verglaag der Deiwel bei seinre Schwieyermudder. Don’t expect help from the devil’s friends.
She stood rooted a moment, so that she had to hurry to catch up to Patrick.
A slice of fading sunlight fell across the well-scrubbed hospital waiting room. Luke stretched his legs out flat and leaned back on the hard plastic chair. “He should have moved. Why did he just stand there? It was like he was frozen. He should have just run.”
“Because Patrick is nothing if not brave,” Ruthie said. “He told you. He doesn’t run.”
“Well, somebody has to move or the game of chicken doesn’t work.”
And then she realized the truth. A terrible feeling came over her, a feeling that had been poking at her for weeks but she hadn’t wanted to face it, to even think it. Her entire body began to tingle as if she were being slowly submerged in boiling water. Slowly she looked up. She had to swallow twice before she could speak.
“Luke, a few weeks ago, were you playing chicken on Old Spotted Horse Road?”
He gave her a deer-in-headlights look, then he slipped on his charming rascal’s smile again, but it didn’t quite work. He rolled his broad shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t remember.”
“I think you do remember. I think you’re the reason that man drove his car off the road and ended up having a heart attack at the inn.”
Luke’s smile dimmed. He straightened up and crossed his arms against his chest. His face became subtly guarded. “Ruthie, honey, I know you’re upset, but that’s a pretty nasty accusation.”
She kept her eyes fastened to his. He had a way of making himself look all innocent, a way of making his eyes go sweet and soft as if he were nothing but a mischievous schoolboy. “You did it, didn’t you? And you didn’t wait to see if the driver was all right. You just ran off with your friends. You left him there, alone. He had hit his head, his car had a flat, and you . . . just . . . left.”
“Is that how little you think of me?” He looked over at her now with eyes that were hard and black, staring down at her as if she was nothing more than an annoying insect. “And I think your logic is scrambled because you’ve got a crush on Saint Patrick.” He added a mocking lilt on the last two words.
Patrick had said he didn’t run. She wanted to run and keep on running, out of the hospital, away from Stoney Ridge, and to the ends of the earth.
“If Patrick dies, that means you will have caused the death of two people. Do you realize that, Luke?”
His pulled his hat brim to hide his eyes, and his mouth was set hard. “You’re talking crazy. I’ve had enough.” He got up and started toward the exit.
“Even if Patrick survives, you could be facing years in jail. Years and years,” Ruthie said, but she was talking to Luke’s disappearing back. Before he reached the double doors of the exit, she yelled, “Luke!”
Her shout startled him. He spun around, his eyes filled with fury.
She knew she should stop, but she couldn’t. “You can’t just keep avoiding the truth!”
He stormed back and grabbed her upper arms, their chests inches apart, so she had no choice but to look directly into his face, veins bulging everywhere, his features distorted with rage.
“Let go of me,” Ruthie said as calmly as she could with a pounding heart.
“Quit telling me what to do!”
“Then stop doing such stupid things!”
“Stupid?” he said, ratcheting up his grip another notch.
Wincing now, “Luke, that hurts. Let me go!”
She was conscious, suddenly, that he smelled of beer and sweat and blood. Patrick’s blood.
19
Ruthie paced nervously in the waiting room of the hospital. What was taking so long? Patrick had to be all right. He had to.
After Luke stormed out, she called her aunt Dok to come to the hospital. Dok asked a few specific questions: Was Patrick conscious when he was brought into the emergency room? No. Did he have a pulse and heartbeat? Ruthie thought so but wasn’t sure, and Dok responded by saying she would be right over.
It was all so chaotic and jumbled—Luke ran the golf cart straight at Patrick, expecting him to jump away at the last minute, but he didn’t budge. As the golf cart hit him, Patrick crumbled, hitting his head hard when he fell. Then . . . panic! Luke’s friends disappeared into the woods like rats scurrying to a rain sewer. Ruthie stayed with Patrick while Luke ran to the nearest phone shanty and called for an ambulance. She cringed as her mind replayed the awful crash, over and over. It all went so fast, yet at the same time, so slowly, like a bad dream. She felt weighted down with nausea, as if an anvil had replaced her stomach.
After calling Dok, she had left a teary phone message on the phone shanty that was shared with the Inn at Eagle Hill, and hoped, hoped, hoped that her dad would remember to check messages when he came home from Katrina’s. But Rose Schrock must have heard the message, because she was the first to come.
Rose arrived at the hospital and found Ruthie in the waiting room. Her eyes were swollen from crying. “No news?”
“No news.”
Rose looked up and down the hall. “Where is my son? Please don’t tell me he didn’t come with you.”
“Luke was here, but he left. A little while ago.”
Rose sat down beside Ruthie. “I don’t know what to do about Luke. Galen said he doesn’t want him in the house after this. He says I’m too soft on him. That I’m too soft on sin.” She wiped tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Luke is tearing our home apart. He’s tearing our lives apart. The worst thing is that I don’t think he even realizes it. And if he does, I don’t think he cares. He was always difficult, even before his father died. He tries to blame it on Dean’s death, but he was born not wanting to be tethered or tamed. I should have done a better job with him, but I didn’t know how.”
Whoa. This felt like more information than Ruthie could handle. She was only seventeen! Right now, she felt like a child. She wanted her father. “Soon, my dad should be here. You can talk to him. He’ll know what to do. He always does.”
Rose nodded. She leaned forward in the chair and covered her face with her hands. “I love my son. I love him so much. But I don’t know how to manage him.”
From the way Rose was sitting, with her elbows raised above her abdomen, Ruthie suddenly realized Rose was pregnant—quite, quite, quite pregnant. How had she not noticed before? No wonder Galen wanted Luke out of the house.
When Ruthie had prayed for God to open her eyes, she hadn’t meant she wanted to see all this.
And then she saw Dok come out of Patrick’s room with a very serious look on her face. Ruthie had a moment of tingling, a premonition of something terrible.
Experience had taught Dok to save some good news to give after the bad, so she searched her mind for something positive to deliver to her niece Ruthie. But what? This was pretty devastating news.
During a consult with Ed, together they reviewed the results of some of Patrick’s tests and came to the same initial conclusion, which Patrick confirmed.
She went out to find Ruthie in the waiting room. Rose Schrock was with her, but politely excused herself for a moment, which Dok appreciated. She sat next to Ruthie. “Patrick is resting right now. He’s going to be admitted so we can run some tests.”
One delicate tear trailed down Ruthie’s face. “How badly hurt is he?”
“Actually, he’s not hurt badly from the crash with the golf cart. A few cuts and bruises, maybe a mild concussion. His forehead was stitched up.”
“Then . . . why are you admitting him into the hospital?”
“Ruthie, have you ever noticed that Patrick has some problems with large motor control? Tripping, shuffling his feet, dropping things.”
“Well, at times. Not all the time, though. I thought maybe he needed glasses.”
“No, he doesn’t need glasses. Patrick gave me permission to tell you that, a few months ago, he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.”
“Multiple sclerosis,” she repeated. “I’ve heard of it, but I’m not really sure what it is.”
“It’s a disease in which the immune system attacks the myelin sheathing of nerves. It eats away at the protective covering.”
“How do you get it? How can you get rid of it?”
“No one really knows why anyone gets it, or what triggers it. It might be hereditary. It tends to present about Patrick’s age. Ed is going to run more tests on Patrick. An accurate diagnosis can be difficult to make, because there’s no one surefire test that confirms MS, and many other diseases have symptoms that mimic MS. But there’s no cure for MS. Not yet. Damage is irreversible. Eventually, Patrick will lose the ability to walk independently.”
Ruthie had been digesting this information in silence. Dok waited to see if she had more questions, but then her niece surprised her. Surprised and pleased her.
“He never complained. Despite all that, he never complained.” Ruthie wiped away tears, took a deep breath and said, “What can I do to help?”
Dok reached an arm around her to give her a hug. “He needs a friend and I can’t think of anyone better than you to be by his side right now. Let him know he’s not alone. He’s going to call his parents to come, but he wants to wait until the morning. And . . . do the most important thing of all. Pray.”
Ruthie kept her chin to her chest. “Dok, it’s not good, is it?”
“No, honey.” Dok sighed. “It’s not good.”
As soon as Patrick was settled into his hospital room, Dok insisted that Ruthie go home and get a few hours of sleep. Ruthie only relented after she promised to pick her up in the morning, first thing, and take her right back to the hospital.
The Devoted Page 20
