Little Faith, page 10
(16)
SHILOH WAS HAPPY WHEN SHE WAS NEAR STEVEN, AND THESE were the times when Lyle or Peg might casually volunteer to babysit, saying, “Aw, you two kids go out to dinner. Drive up to Red Wing. Or even Stillwater. Heck, take a couple days. Go on up to the Boundary Waters. Has Steven been up there? Pretty soon it’ll be too cold. Go on. Your mom and I will be fine with Isaac. You’d be doing us a favor.”
Lyle tried to play it cool, tried not to push too hard. It was a tactic that had allowed him the space to escort Isaac to choir practice, where Lyle quietly delighted in sitting toward the back of the theater, listening to that collection of small voices rehearse, giggle, and generally fidget as their director tried desperately to corral them, organize them, harness their impossibly erratic focus. And yet, if he could have, Lyle might’ve suggested, ever so subtly, that Shiloh and Steven take a trip to the Gobi Desert, or far up the Amazon River, perhaps a leisurely camel ride from one extent of the Sahara to the other . . .
“Dad, are you sure? I don’t want to inconvenience you . . .” Lyle, Shiloh, and Steven stood on the driveway, all three of them shifting their weight from foot to foot, kicking at little stones, tracing cracks in the cement with the toes of their shoes.
He shook his head. “Shiloh, he’s our only grandchild. Go on. Have fun.”
Steven had proposed to her a few weeks earlier, and though they were not yet openly sleeping together, the so-called impropriety of a weekend spent in the same motel seemed somehow lessened. Certainly, Lyle asked no questions in regard to their sleeping arrangements. The fact was, he didn’t care to think about his daughter’s sex life; still, he found their charade as phony as a three-dollar bill.
“The Boundary Waters might be fun . . . ,” Shiloh said. “We could rent a canoe, do a little camping. Might be a fun, cheap trip . . .”
“There you go,” Lyle said. “Though, if you hear any fiddle music, promise me you’ll turn back.”
Shiloh looked confused.
“Sorry,” Lyle said. “That was just a little Deliverance joke.”
“That’s okay, Dad,” Shiloh said, shaking her head, “you’re fine.”
THEY LEFT ON A MONDAY IN EARLY AUGUST, THE BED OF STEVEN’S pickup truck brimming with camping accoutrements, both of them looking as tickled as two teenagers in love. Steven honked the horn as they pulled out of the driveway, but Isaac was already running into the house, Peg hot on his heels, the plan for the evening that they’d make pizza from scratch, watch movies, and drink root beer. Lyle waved lazily at the lovebirds, then walked into the house.
* * *
THEY HAD A FANTASTIC FEW DAYS, DRIVING UP TO MINNEAPOLIS to sit in the new Minnesota Twins baseball stadium, Isaac marveling at the city’s humble handful of skyscrapers. They spent a night at the St. Paul Hotel and in the morning, walked to the farmers’ market, the children’s museum, and the science museum, where Isaac marveled at the few dinosaur skeletons on display. Before leaving the Twin Cities, they stopped at Mojo Monkey’s, a funky little doughnut shop, and they sat near the front window, Lyle savoring his coffee as Isaac gawked at the steady line of loyal customers banging into and out of the bakery.
But that night, the night they came home from St. Paul, something was wrong with Isaac. He was tired. Lyle and Peg chalked it up to all the driving, and the excitement of the trip. The boy asked, actually requested, to crawl into bed at five that evening, and the next morning, he didn’t wake up until after ten, and then only when Peg sat beside him, to mop the sweat off his boiling brow.
“He’s got a fever,” Peg said worriedly. “I don’t know. Should we call Shiloh? Or just take him to a doctor?”
“For a fever? I don’t think we need to bother her if it’s just a fever, Peg. Let’s see how today goes.”
The boy spent all of the afternoon on the couch in their living room, and this despite the beautiful weather outside.
“We could go visit Charlie,” Lyle tried. “Or head out to the orchard? I bet Mabel would make you a caramel apple. We could go fishing. Wouldn’t you like that? Go down to the river and watch the barges?” He rubbed at the boy’s shoulders. “What do you say, kiddo?”
Isaac’s eyes were dull, his face sallow.
“Sweetheart?” Lyle said, looking more closely at his grandson. “How do you feel? Are you okay? Can you talk to Grandpa?”
The boy’s lips were chapped and so Lyle dabbed his finger in his pot of Carmex and spread it over Isaac’s lips. Made the boy sit up and offered him a cold glass of water.
“I’m just really tired, Grandpa. Is it okay to just keep watching TV?”
Lyle sat beside him on the couch and they watched one of the Harry Potter movies before Lyle realized the boy was asleep. Lyle picked him up off the couch and carried him downstairs to his bed and sat beside him, the worry mounting.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING THEY DISCOVERED THAT ISAAC HAD WET the bed; the sheets were soaked with pungent urine, but even this hadn’t woken Isaac up; he lay there, so groggy he couldn’t speak to them.
“We’re taking him to the hospital,” Peg said now.
“What about Shiloh?” Lyle asked.
“There’s no time for that,” she insisted. “This isn’t right.”
Lyle knew the route to the ER all too well from chauffeuring Hoot, but he took the roads faster this time, and when they pulled below the vestibule of the hospital, he carried the boy to the admitting desk and some nurses came out and took him away, with Peg following right behind, and Lyle was left to complete the paperwork.
After about an hour, Peg emerged from the ER, holding her elbows and looking exhausted.
“How is he?” Lyle asked.
“Dehydrated,” she said. “Lyle, he’s got diabetes.”
“Diabetes? I don’t understand.”
“They’ve got him on an IV drip and they’re going to pump him full of liquids but . . . that’s what it was. Poor guy.” She collapsed into Lyle’s chest. “It’s why he’s always so thirsty. It’s why he wets the bed all the time. Diabetes.”
“But . . . I mean, did Shiloh know about this?”
“I don’t know, Lyle. Does it matter? We know now, and we’re going to have to talk to her about it. I’m going to call her cell phone right now and let her know what’s happened.”
TEN HOURS LATER SHILOH STORMED INTO ISAAC’S ROOM where Lyle and Peg were sleeping in reclining chairs; it was well before dawn. Steven was just behind her.
“Who told you to bring my child to the hospital?” she roared. “Did you even think to call me? Or is this just some kind of power play? Get me to leave town so that you can steal my son?”
Two nurses hustled into the room just as Peg was rising from her chair, her eyes wide with confusion and horror, Lyle still utterly groggy, and Isaac asleep in the bed somehow, though suddenly tossing and turning.
“Shiloh!” Peg said, rushing to her. “We didn’t have a choice!”
“I’m going to need you all to calm down,” a nurse said forcefully, insinuating herself between Shiloh and Peg. “All right? Everyone hear me? I’m going to need you to calm down right now or I’ll call the police.”
“Call the police,” Steven said evenly. “And ask them how this child came to become so sick.”
Lyle rose out of the chair slowly, though now he was well awake. “Excuse me?” he said.
“Who are the parents of this boy?” the nurse asked.
“I am,” Shiloh said. She took Steven’s hand. “We are.”
The nurse held her hands out, palms down—stay cool. “All right then,” she began. “Ma’am. Sir.” She looked from Peg to Lyle. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, please.”
“I don’t understand . . . ,” Peg began. “We didn’t mean to . . . Can’t we just . . . can I at least kiss him good-bye?”
“Ma’am, please come with me,” the nurse said.
And with that, Lyle and Peg were led out of the ER, toward the hospital’s entrance.
“Wait a minute,” Lyle said, stopping in the hallway. “We didn’t do anything wrong. That boy is our grandson. Our only grandson. He was sick. We didn’t even know he was diabetic. How could we have known? No one told us that. Did our daughter even know he was diabetic? What’s going on here? How do we know he’s going to be safe?”
The nurse sighed deeply. The hallway in which they stood was quiet—not a doctor or nurse or janitor in sight—the cheap terrazzo floors bright and shining with a fluorescent glare from the ceiling lights. Far off, the drone of a floor polisher could be heard.
“Look,” she said, “our hands are tied. I can see that you’re good people. I can. You did everything right. But there’s nothing I can do. We have to follow protocol. We have to follow the law. My advice? Go home, get a good night’s sleep. Give your grandson’s mom time to cool down, and then regroup. This happens with a lot of parents. Especially younger ones. They’re just wound too tight.” She looked around the hallways again, and then gave Peg a quick hug. “Look, you didn’t do anything wrong. Go home. Your grandson is going to need you again, I’m sure of it.”
* * *
IT WAS THREE DAYS BEFORE THEY SAW ISAAC AGAIN. SHILOH wouldn’t answer her telephone, wouldn’t respond to texts or e-mails. Lyle hadn’t been working at the orchard, preferring to stay home in case Shiloh suddenly stopped by, unannounced.
Lyle was at the kitchen table when he heard the front door ease open. “Hello?” he called. By the time he turned in his chair and was about to stand up, Shiloh was walking toward him in the narrow hallway.
“Sweetheart,” he said quietly. “We’ve been trying to call you.”
She nodded wordlessly.
“How is Isaac? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine,” she said, her voice weak, her eyes aimed at the ground.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Lyle asked. “How can I help?”
“You don’t believe, do you?” she asked. “You don’t believe in God.”
Lyle sat down again, and sighed deeply. He felt very heavy, sitting on that small kitchen chair, the wicker and wood groaning beneath him. He peered out the window and saw Peg in the backyard, pinning laundry to the line.
“I don’t know,” Lyle allowed. Then, “No, I suppose not.”
“Well, Dad, I hate to say it, but you’re the reason Isaac was sick. Can’t you see that?”
“No,” Lyle said, utterly dumbfounded. “I don’t understand. How could you think that? Or say that?”
“It’s easy enough to parse out, though, isn’t it?” Shiloh continued. “You’re the sickness, the weakness. It’s through you that Satan found Isaac. It was in this house where he fell sick. I shouldn’t even be surprised. You’re so focused on the air-conditioning when you should be worried about you. Your soul.”
Lyle knew not what to say so he looked at the kitchen floor, the old linoleum. He was barefoot, and so he stared at his toes. Stared at his toenails, now yellowed with time, thick and gnarly as a broken wooden shim. He thought of Peter just then, that little boy, and could almost feel the child’s minuscule weight in his arms, feel his soft new skin, so smooth, and the little gurgling sounds he made.
“I love you so much,” he said. “You and Isaac both. More than you’ll ever know.”
“Well, I’m going to collect the last of our things. Isaac starts school in a couple of weeks.”
“How’s he doing?” Lyle asked.
“Dad, I really don’t want to hang out and talk right now. But he’s back to usual, okay? It wasn’t long after we came back he started to feel like normal. And that’s the power of prayer, isn’t it? Satan can’t take hold when Steven and I are right there. Especially a man as strong in his faith as Steven.”
Lyle nodded his head. “Of course.”
“We haven’t given up on you yet, Dad,” Shiloh said. “Steven’s sure that if you pray with him, he can bring you back. He even talked to me about baptizing you again.”
The room fell silent and then Lyle said, “Please don’t forget about that dinner for Hoot. Next weekend.”
“We’ll be there,” Shiloh said, and then disappeared into the basement, where Lyle could hear her rummaging through drawers and then, in a closet, freeing the last few garments from their hangers. Then the rhythm of her feet on the steps as she moved back upstairs, and the detached, resigned sound of her voice saying, “Bye, Dad. Oh, and one other thing.”
“Yes, darling?”
“I don’t think I want you anywhere near Isaac, Dad. Not until you’ve really changed. Not until you’ve come back to God.”
(17)
THEIR BACKYARD WAS SMALL BUT OVER THE YEARS THEY’D shaped the space into a kind of courtyard: brick pavers, a modest fountain, and through the seasons a steady parade of gentle blooming: hyacinths, ferns, hostas, irises, and lilies. In the deep shadows close to the house, Lyle liked the thick, cool green moss that grew on the rocks he collected from various road trips and brought home, one of his only hobbies, really, geology. At either property line grew a row of mature lilac bushes that draped out over the lawn and, in spring, exploded in extravagant purple perfume. To the north, where the backyard ended, an old limestone wall rose up the hillside, and here, in the only part of their backyard that drew much sunlight, Peg planted patches of herbs and succulents, sprays of coneflowers and daisies.
Peg had seen photographs in a design magazine, or maybe it was a movie, and had a grand vision for Hoot’s “last meal,” which was what they were secretly calling it, though certainly no one hoped that would be true. And so for a week Lyle stood clumsily at the top of a ladder, stringing white Christmas lights in crisscrossing patterns above the lawn, from lilac to lilac, with Peg advising down below, pointing here and there, a hoe in her hands as she helped guide the lights just so.
When he wasn’t hanging up lights, Lyle had been at work in his garage, ever since Hoot had mentioned the idea of the dinner, really, building a long rectangular table from barn boards he’d scavenged from area farms. The table, four feet wide and twelve feet long, had taken him dozens of nights’ worth of work out in the garage, listening to the Milwaukee Brewers or Minnesota Twins on the radio, swatting away the moths and june bugs that came curiously toward the hanging fluorescent lights of the garage. He’d spent many days planing all the boards, and then sanding them smooth before applying two coats of clear veneer made from a mixture of pine tar and linseed oil.
Peg would come out to the garage before she went to bed, and Lyle would remember those moments for all the remainder of his days. His wife, this woman he’d known forever, it seemed, standing on the driveway in her bare feet, or perhaps her old beaded moccasins, gripping her elbows, as she stared at him from the darkness, and then smiling at his table, and coming to him, and wrapping her arms around his belly and pressing her face into his shoulder blades, and once she said, “I’m so sorry, Lyle, I’m so sorry you’re losing your best friend.”
He set his paintbrush down then and touched her hands, and they stood that way a long time, swaying to some unknowable music until finally he said, “You’re my best friend.”
“It’s different though, isn’t it?” Peg said. “I think a person can have a few best friends. I mean, I really don’t care to drink beer with you the way Hoot does. Or watch Packers games, or talk about old cars. I’m happy you’ve got a friend for those things. Just like I’m sure you don’t want to go shopping with me, or play Scrabble.”
They were quiet a moment.
“Time feels like . . . like it’s moving too quickly,” Lyle said. “I can’t seem to hold on to things. Can’t seem to slow anything down.”
“I’ll hold on to you,” Peg said.
They kept swaying there, in the summer night, the cement beneath their feet warm and damp, and in the corners of the garage, mice moved furtively, and frogs creaked and croaked in the unseen tree branches, and down near the river, a train was blasting north through the night, and they could feel it, could feel the ground trembling, see the light in the garage flicker and quaver, and Lyle wanted to say I’ll miss him but he was afraid that if he even spoke those words out loud, he would begin to cry; so he kept them, behind his lips, where they swelled and expanded, and his skull felt heavy, and his heart felt fragile, and so he closed his eyes and felt his wife’s arms wrapped around him, the way a child might embrace a tree, and he squeezed her tighter still.
“Your table is beautiful,” she said at last.
“You think so?” he asked.
“I do,” she said, walking to the table and running her hand across its smooth surface. “The wood is beautiful.”
“That wood’s probably a hundred years old. It’s not all from the same barn, but I tried to make sure to pick only hickory.”
“Did you have a plan or something? A schematic?”
Lyle shook his head. “We had one like this when I was a boy.” He shrugged. “They’re called harvest tables and at the end of the season, when the crops had been harvested, my dad and his brothers used to haul a table like this out in the field and we’d have a big dinner.”
“You never told me that before,” Peg said, moving a strand of hair off her forehead and behind an ear.
“One of my best memories was of my dad, after baling the last of the year’s hay.” Lyle sat down in an old chair beside his crowded tool bench. “It was very hot. Late August, I think. Maybe even early September. It was dusty, and we were all out in the fields, throwing bales into the wagon. It was too hot to wear a shirt, and I remember that, all of us out there beneath the sun, sunburned, and we were working together, and my mother kept bringing us ice water with slices of lemon, and how wonderful that water tasted, and looking out over the field and there were my uncles and cousins, and they were singing, and when we finished, it was late afternoon, and my father said, ‘Let’s go for a swim, boys.’ And then he took off all his clothes except his underwear, and I’d never seen him like that before, you know? Never seen his stomach, for example, or really, his knees, even, and then he ran toward the creek, and I remember him diving in, and we were all just so stunned, so surprised, because we’d never seen him like that, so happy. And we all followed him into the creek and we were splashing each other and our mother was watching us from the bank and she was laughing, too.
