Sweet Sanctuary (23 page)

Lydia held his gaze. “When Nic took him the first time, I told Nicky to remember Jesus was with him. He said he prayed every day for me to come, and that Jesus answered.”

Warmth flooded Micah's soul. The faith of a little child. “Then he knows Jesus is there and He cares. He'll be okay, Lydia. Remember? God's thoughts for Nicky are for peace and not evil. Trust. Everything will turn out for the good of all of you. You have to believe.”

Lydia opened her mouth to respond, but a wild thrashing from Nic's corner interrupted. Both Micah and Lydia jumped up and rushed to his side. Micah rolled Nic onto his back. Tears and mucus ran like rivers down his face. Micah pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned Nic's nose and cheeks. Nic trembled from head to toe, the shaking so severe his teeth rattled.

“It's b-bad, Doc. It's r-real b-bad.” He crossed his arm over his chest and moaned. “Oh, the pain . . . my b-back . . . m-my legs . . . hurts . . .”

“Massage his legs, Lydia.” Micah lifted Nic into a sitting position and began rubbing his shoulders.

Nic grasped his midsection with his good arm and retched, the spasms bringing up nothing from his empty stomach.

Micah encouraged, “Deep breaths, Nic. Take deep breaths and fight it off.”

Nic tried to comply, rocking forward, his head thrown back. Lydia knelt beside Nic's legs, working his muscles like a baker works bread dough. Her face was a study in concentration, her focus solely on Nic. Micah's heart swelled with pride for her—reaching out to this man who'd so wronged her closest friend.

The retching ended, and Nic's spine straightened, his whole body shaking as his legs began to kick spasmodically. “Uh-uh-uh-uh . . .” The repetitive sound seemed to fire from his throat without Nic's conscious effort.

Micah assumed an authoritative tone and spoke directly into Nic's ear as he continued to massage the tense muscles of his back. “Nic, remember what I read to you? Remember the words? God is your refuge, your strength. Lean on Him now. Ask Him to lift you to the higher place. Call on Him to help you through this.”

“H-help me, G-G-God.” Nic's eyes closed and his face twisted in agony. “P-please . . . help me . . .”

Lydia began praying aloud, her strong tone carrying over Nic's rasping voice. “God, touch Nic's back. Relieve his pain. Touch his legs. Take the pain from his legs, Lord. Give him rest—healing rest. Lift him from this prison of addiction. Please, Lord, heal his body. Help Nic, Lord.”

For long minutes they continued their ministrations, alternately praying for an end to Nic's suffering, while Nic clenched his jaw and uttered moans for relief. Eventually the cramps seemed to subside. His muscles relaxed. His whole body wilted as he rolled away from Micah's touch. He flopped onto his side and panted with relief. “Better . . . It's better . . . Thank You, God.” His eyelids fluttered, his jaw went slack, and he slept once more.

Micah slumped against the wall. He wiped beads of perspiration from his upper lip and forehead. “That's the worst I've seen. I think we're reaching the end.”

Lydia touched his arm. “Micah, I'll stay here tonight. You've got to get some rest.”

He looked at her, battling to keep his eyelids open. “No, Lydia, I'll be all right.” His argument sounded weak even to his own ears.

She stood and moved to the roll of blankets stowed next to the door. She flipped them out in the open space between the table and Nic's mattress, then covered them with a sheet. She pointed an imperious finger. “Lie down.”

Micah pushed himself to his feet, using the wall as a brace. The fatigue pressed at him, making him light-headed. He stumbled.

Lydia darted to his side and slung her arm around his waist. “Stubborn man,” she scolded as she led him across the room. “What else do you expect when you eat next to nothing and only grab snatches of sleep? God gave you good sense—use it and get some rest. I can rub Nic's legs and keep him warm or cold, as the need may arise. You've got to rest.”

Micah wanted to argue, but his head was fuzzy. He couldn't find the right words. He sank onto the pallet and covered his eyes with his forearm. Ah, such a relief to lie down. Something drifted across his chest, and he cracked his eyes open to see Lydia covering him with another blanket. A grin tugged at his lips. “Thanks, Ma.”

“Don't get smart,” she said, but he heard the smile in her voice.

“Thanks, Lydia.” He let his eyes drift closed.

“Now sleep.”

Without argument, he followed her gentle order.

27

M
icah awakened to the sound of pots and pans clanging. And Lydia's laughter.

“How do you light this thing, Nic? I've wasted four matches already.”

Micah opened one eye and peeked sideways. The sight snapped both his eyes open and brought him up on his elbows. Nic stood beside Lydia, twisting the dials of the gas range and instructing her on where to hold the match so the burner would light. Micah huffed in surprise, and the pair at the stove turned in unison to look at him.

Lydia's face broke into a smile. She brought her hands to her hips. “Well, good morning, sleepyhead. Sorry if we woke you, but Nic requested pancakes and eggs for breakfast, and he wasn't willing to wait any longer.”

Pancakes? And eggs?
Nic?
Micah shook his head. Was he dreaming?

Nic ambled to the edge of Micah's pallet and grinned down at him. The man's face was clean-shaven, his eyes clear, and his skin held a healthy pallor. Nic's grin widened. “Pancakes okay with you, Doc?” He held out his good hand.

“Pancakes? Sure.” Micah allowed Nic to tug him to his feet, then stood uncertainly, his gaze drifting from one amused face to the other. He blinked at Nic. “You must be feeling better.” He realized how foolish it sounded, but he couldn't find anything else to say.

Nic laughed—a genuine laugh. His eyes twinkled. “Yeah, Doc, I do. Better than I've felt in years. An' I owe it all to you an' that Higher Power of yours. You make quite a team.” He held out his hand again, his green eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Thank you, Micah.”

Micah shook Nic's wide, dry hand, his heart filling with gratefulness. “You're welcome, Nic.”

“Okay, you two, I'll have breakfast on the table in five minutes. Micah, go wash up. Nic, set the table.” Lydia's mild orders broke the tension of the moment.

Nic chuckled, giving a sheepish shrug. “You heard the boss.”

Micah shrugged, too. “That I did.” He scuffed to the sink, still a little fuzzy from his deep sleep. As he soaped his hands, he winged a silent prayer heavenward, thanking God for the miracle he'd been privileged to witness. This morning, Nicolai Pankin was a new man. Both inside and out.

Lydia couldn't eat much of the breakfast she'd made—she was too entranced by Nic sitting straight and tall in his chair, carrying bites of pancake dripping with butter and syrup to his mouth. His thick hair, freshly washed and combed, glistened in the sunlight spilling through the window. During his battle, they'd kept the shades drawn, shielding his eyes from the glare. But the sunbeam of a fresh day landed on Nic's form and seemed to announce a fresh start to his life.

Looking into Nic's clear eyes, examining his erect frame and
steady hand, Lydia imagined how a judge would see him. Thin, yes, but strong. Capable of working and earning an honest wage. Capable of parenting a child.

I can't let Nicky go, God. I can't!

Micah's advice whispered in her memory.
“When we stand on His strong foundation, we have the strength to face whatever comes along.”
Closing her eyes, she sent up a frantic, silent prayer for God's strength to uphold her if the judge gave custody of Nicky to his father.

“Lydia?”

Nic's voice broke through her internal reflections. She opened her eyes and found him holding out his plate, his lips tipped in a hopeful grin.

“Can I have another pancake?”

Quirking one brow, her thoughts still on Nicky, she responded automatically. “May I . . . ?”

His lips twisted for a moment, a scowl marring his face, but then he gave an amused snort. He sent a smirk in Micah's direction. “Is she always this bossy?”

Micah placed his fork on his plate and draped his arm over the back of the chair, his eyes twinkling. “Yep.”

Lydia huffed. “You two! Honestly . . .” She grabbed Nic's plate and marched to the stove, where she'd left a covered plate of pancakes warming. She flipped a cake onto Nic's plate and then clunked the plate on the table before him.

“Nothing ever tasted as good as these pancakes,” Nic declared, drowning the flapjack in syrup. He lifted his head and met her gaze. “Thanks, Lydia.”

As she looked into his sincere, open face, she received a beautiful glimpse of how he must have appeared before his accident, before securing morphine became the driving force of his life. She wanted to remain indignant, but something in
his expression—something good and alive and warm—melted her resolve. Yanking out her chair and plopping into it, she forced a terse reply. “You're welcome, but that's the last one you're getting. Your stomach might rebel if you put too much in it at once.”

Nic's lips twitched. “Yes, ma'am.”

He went on eating, his satisfied “mmms” between bites both elating and stinging Lydia. Unable to watch him any longer, she shifted her head and discovered Micah examining her. The serious expression on his face sent a shaft of apprehension through her middle. She licked her lips. “Micah?”

He cleared his throat, flicking a glance at Nic. He rose. “Lydia, while Nic finishes his breakfast, could I speak with you . . . outside?”

Nic looked up, his fork midway between his plate and his mouth. “Somethin' wrong?”

Micah chuckled, but the tense set of his shoulders juxtaposed the lighthearted sound. “Yeah. Feelin' penned in after so many days in this apartment tending to your stubborn hide.”

Nic blasted a laugh. “Well, go on, then.” He waggled his brows. “While you've got her outdoors, I can sneak into the rest of them pancakes.”

Lydia supposed she should play along and tease back, but her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. She managed to offer Nic a weak grin, then followed Micah down the stairs and into the grassless yard. A crowd of rowdy kids ran back and forth, chasing one another with sticks in some sort of wild sword-fighting game, so Micah guided her between the tall buildings. An unpleasant odor permeated the area, but the children's voices were muffled, giving them an opportunity to visit without shouting at each other.

Micah leaned against the brick wall and slipped his hands into his pockets. He heaved a huge sigh. His pants and shirt were
rumpled, his hair stood up in untidy tufts, his cheeks sported at least three days' worth of whiskers, and dark circles marred his striking blue eyes. Yet despite his disheveled appearance, Lydia found him attractive. Longing to settle herself securely against his muscular frame and rest in the strength he radiated nearly overwhelmed her. She'd never known a more appealing man than Dr. Micah Hatcher.

Dropping her gaze to the discarded tin cans around their feet, she pushed her errant thoughts aside. “What did you want to say to me?” She braced herself, certain another heartache was about to be forced upon her.

“I didn't want to say anything in front of Nic—didn't want to discourage him—but he's still got a big fight ahead of him.”

Lydia braved lifting her face to look into Micah's tired eyes. “Isn't his system clear?”

“Sure it is. For the first time in years.” Micah freed one hand and ran his fingers through his hair. He grimaced. “But he's spent the past eight years using morphine to make himself feel good. It's been his crutch to ease his pain, to bolster his moods, to calm his temper. Sure, he's been addicted, but he's also developed a habit of relying on morphine. Just because he's clean now doesn't mean the habit's been eradicated. There will still be times—lots of times, I'm afraid—he's going to want to reach for a packet of white powder.”

Lydia's heart took up a mighty caroming in her chest. Once again, her emotions teeter-tottered between wanting Nic whole and wanting him to be found unstable so she could have Nicky to herself. She stifled a groan.
Father, help me do what honors You!

Micah tapped a rusty can with the toe of his shoe. “As much as I hate leaving the clinic in someone else's hands any longer, I think I'll make a few calls and see if I can stick around for another week. Help Nic establish healthy habits to replace the
bad one. Had to do that with a few fellows in Oahu after the bombing—they got too reliant on morphine, too. It happens.” He fell silent for a moment, his brow crinkled in contemplation. Finally, he added, with a gentle hesitance, “I want to make sure Nic's on good footing before I leave him alone.”

“That's very good of you.” Despite Lydia's efforts to maintain an even tone, her words snapped out on a sarcastic note.

Micah arched a brow. His disapproval, although he spoke not a word, was as easily heard as the angry argument between the children on the lawn.

Lydia bit her lower lip, battling tears. Shame washed over her, making her body tremble. “I'm sorry. It's just . . .” How could she explain something she didn't understand herself?

He pushed off from the wall, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. Tenderness glowed in his eyes. “Lydia, you're bound to be apprehensive about Nic's recovery. I know what you stand to lose.”

Tears distorted her vision. One escaped and dribbled down her cheek to her chin. She brushed it away and nodded miserably, her tight throat prohibiting speech.

Micah caught her by the upper arms and dipped his knees slightly to peer directly into her face. “Listen to me. My mama has a little plaque hanging above her kitchen sink. Says something like, ‘Only one life will soon be past; only what's done for Christ will last.'” He rubbed her arms, the touch gentle and rough at the same time. The Texas twang crept into his voice. “What'd we do here? We helped Nic. Bein' set free of his addiction's done him worlds of good. And it stands to do Nicky some good, too, to have a daddy who isn't a threat. But mostly what we did, Lydia, we did out of love. Not out of love for Nic—truth be told, I don't even like him all that much.”

A short, unexpected snort of laughter escaped Lydia's nose.

Micah grinned and continued. “But love for Nicky, 'cause
we want what's best for him. And mostly—at least for me—for love of Christ. Doin' right because He's called us to reach out to the lowly and downtrodden.”

Lowly and downtrodden. Micah's description certainly fit Nicolai Pankin. Lydia sniffled. “I know. And I . . . I want to honor Christ. That's what I kept praying when we were in Nic's apartment—‘Father, let me honor You.' But inside . . . in here . . .” She placed her trembling fingertips against her chest. “I'm so afraid of losing m-my son.”

Micah swept her into his arms, cradling the back of her head with one strong hand and rubbing her shoulders with the other. She shook with silent sobs, her face buried in the curve of his neck.

“I know. I know.” His sweet Texas accent eased out like honey on an oven-warm biscuit. “But what you gotta remember, darlin', is that when we do what's right for Christ, especially when it goes against our human wants, we open up doors to blessing beyond anything we could possibly imagine. Trust, Lydia.”

He gave her a tight squeeze and then set her aside. Hands still gently gripping her arms, he smiled his Micah-smile—crinkled eyes, lips crooked slightly higher on the left—and winked. “Wait an' see. Things'll work out for you an' for Nicky. Remember that higher ground I read about to Nic? You got your own higher ground, Lydia, where Jesus is waitin' to give you everything you need. You just gotta trust.”