Promise Me

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 nodded. “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.