“I’m sure he will be fine.” She stood and went to the kitchen to get Margaret a cool cloth and a glass of water. Ruth approached her tentatively, handing her the glass and giving the rag to Frank.
“What happened to your face?” Margaret looked at Ruth, taking a deep, jagged breath.
“It’s nothing.” Ruth smiled, though her lip throbbed.
“That bastard hit her, that’s what happened.”
“He hit you? Are you hurt?” Edward’s voice came from the doorway.
“Edward?” She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. But how are you . . . why are you . . . ?”
“I’ve been worried sick about you. You left an urgent message last night and I called and called, and no one answered. I had a feeling something was terribly wrong. I came as soon as I could.”
Ruth felt flooded with gratitude. “Thank you,” she said softly, wincing from the pain in her face as she smiled.
“Are you all right? You look terrible.”
“I will be.” Ruth nodded as she looked behind her to see Robert still unmoving on the floor, Frank and Margaret sitting in stunned silence beside him.
“Frank, Margaret, let’s get you out of here. Would you like to go up to the house to collect yourselves? You may stay as long as you need.”
“If it’s all the same to you”—Margaret pushed herself up to stand, holding tightly to Frank—“I’d just like to go home.”
“Let’s go.” Frank wrapped his arm around her protectively as they walked to the door.
“I am so sorry,” Ruth said to them both as she watched them leave. She wasn’t sure whether the tears streaming down her face were from guilt about what had almost happened to Margaret or relief that she had been spared. Whatever the cause, she allowed herself to succumb to them and let Edward wrap her in a comforting embrace.
Chapter Fifty-One
Ruth stood momentarily paralyzed, steadying herself against Edward’s solid frame. She took in this room, once the place of so much hope and, now, the scene of utter horror. It still made no sense. In the corner of her eye, she noticed a pile of shoeboxes next to Robert’s desk; she knew what she’d find inside. Her husband, ever the record keeper, had saved every letter, every Christmas card, every happy family photo from each and every patient he had treated. She knew he liked to take them out to look at them when he needed reassurance. She lifted the top one from the pile and began to read out loud to Edward:
December 22, 1947
Dr. Apter,
We cannot thank you enough for all that you have done to save my father. Before we met you, we thought he was a lost cause. Mother would spend her days crying, counting our pennies to see whether we would be able to eat that week, with Father incapable of working. You saved us all! Father is well again. He was able to return to work—yes, on the factory line instead of at the office—but at least we have enough money now to eat and buy books and clothes for school. And presents! You are a miracle, not just for him but for us all. God bless you and merry Christmas!
Sincerely,
The Wildman family
Ruth’s eyes filled with tears again as she looked to Edward. “This—this is why he did this. Why we did this. He was helping people! You both were. So, what happened? How—when did it all go so wrong?”
“Medicine is about progress. About trial and error and a willingness to always examine what you do with a critical eye. In the beginning, Robert’s quest was to find the best way. The optimal treatment. He was relentless. It was what we both loved about him. But, once he believed he had found it, something that he could control—claim as his own—he lost perspective.”