Why hadn't Carl listened to him? He had said, very clearly, he thought, that he had not wanted to talk to a priest. So, what had Carl done? Sent him a priest. At least it wasn't the hospital chaplain; someone he would have to face on a daily basis at work (when - someday - he returned to work), but an outside priest. Father Anthony had been here, he told him, to give Last Rites to a dying patient. Dr. DeRaad had thought, perhaps, Luka would like to speak with him for a while - he had some troubling spiritual concerns?
And Luka had been trapped. He felt unable to tell the priest to leave, so he had spoken to him. He'd talked a little bit about his pain; about his feeling that God had not been there for him when he had needed Him most. And in return he'd gotten, just what he expected, platitudes. "God was there, Luka. He heard your prayers, answered them the way He knew best. We sometimes cannot understand ..." and if he had been physically able, Luka knew it would have been a struggle for him to have not thrown the priest bodily from the room.
That had not been what he'd wanted to hear. That wasn't the answer he needed. Not now. When he had been dying in Kisangani, the empty comfort from Father Francois, the belief that he could trust God to help him, do what was best for him, had been helpful. It was what he had needed when facing death, preparing himself to die. But now he was facing life. A life full of memories, of fears. He needed more than empty comfort now. He needed to understand. He needed to find his own strength again, and this time it wasn't going to come from God, not if this was the best the priests could do.
The orderly was there with the wheelchair. "Time for PT, Dr. Kovac."
"Can't I walk? It isn't far."
"Sorry, not until the Doc okays it."
Luka levered himself into the wheelchair. It was ridiculous, he thought. He'd ride in a wheelchair down the hall, then he would spend half an hour exercising and walking on a treadmill - and then ride the chair back to his room.
But the PT was helping. He was definitely stronger now, physically. He could walk easily with the walker now, his arms were strong enough to support his weight. When he looked in the mirror he could see that he was regaining some muscle, putting on some weight. He was getting better. With or without God's help.
The physical therapist was waiting for him, smiling. "Ready for your next step, Dr. Kovač?" she asked. She was holding a pair of crutches. And Luka's memory flew back a few weeks. What had Allenson told him the very first day? "As soon as you can be up and getting around on crutches, you should be able to go home."
"I've been ready for weeks," he told her, meeting her smile.
"Ok. Let's give 'em a try."
Back in his room half an hour later, Luka sank wearily into his chair. Crutches were a whole different ball game from a walker. He'd known that, of course. He was a doctor. They were less stable, required different muscles, better balance. His leg, still casted from ankle to hip, seemed very heavy. But it would get easier. Everything was hard when you first began. He'd make rapid progress, then he would go home.
Four o:clock. When Carl came in, Luka said quietly, "Thanks for nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"I told you I didn't want to talk to a priest!"
"Did you talk to him?"
"A little bit. It didn't help. I knew it wouldn't."
Carl sat down. "Do you believe in God, Luka?"
"Does it matter?" Luka didn't want to get into this. He wanted to go back to PT, work on what really mattered.
"I'm just wondering."
"I ... I don't know. Sometimes maybe I do."
"Back in Matenda, when you were praying, did you believe then?"
"I don't know." Again, the pain of stirring up too many memories. Why did this have to hurt so much all the time?
"Why did you pray?"
Luka shook his head. "I was dying, Carl. I was afraid. I was in pain. I was ... alone. I needed something. I was looking for something to help me get through it, help me bear the pain until I died. Praying helped ... or at least I wanted it to. Maybe it just made me feel like I was doing something ... I couldn't do anything except wait." He looked out the window. All he could see was the sky. Blue. "It didn't help. It just made me realize how alone I really was. I was going to die, and I'd be alone ... and maybe nobody would ever find me there. I wanted to die, I wanted that so badly; it hurt so much, and I knew that dying would be the only way it would ever stop hurting. But I didn't want to die alone. I wanted to know that ... at least ... God was with me. But He wasn't. I never felt ... anything when I prayed. Just pain.
A sigh. "I want there to be a God, Carl. When I think about Danijela, my kids ... I want to believe that they are with God, and that I'll see them again. I want to believe that He was there for them, when they were dying ... if they were afraid. But He wasn't there for me. Maybe I just didn't ..." Luka stopped talking, looked around for something to occupy his hands, but there was nothing in easy reach.
"Maybe what, Luka?" Carl prompted gently.
"Maybe I wasn't worth God's time ... attention ... maybe it was ... I was being punished. Danijela, Jasna, Marko - they'd never done anything to be punished for. God would have been there for them , would have helped them."
"What do you think you're being punished for?"
Luka just shook his head again. He couldn't talk to Carl about this. It was one thing to discuss the pain of Matenda; as horrible as it was, it was, at least, near the surface. But to start digging into the pain of his life ... the guilt ... the shame ... to expect the man to understand? No, he couldn't. Carl would never understand.
"There must be some reason," he said finally.
"Luka," Carl said firmly. "I don't know what you think might have done, to 'deserve' this. But you didn't do anything. You did nothing to cause this to happen to you, and you couldn't have prevented it from happening. You went to Matenda to do good work, to help people. The men who harmed you are evil, not you."
Luka just looked at his hands, rubbed the scars. There was nothing he could say. Nothing he could bear to say. Nothing Carl could ever understand, ever help him with.
