Turning Home

by Janice Kay Johnson - His Best Friend's Baby

  “Ja, sure, but not the same.”

  “This is the first time she’s spoken.”

  “It is.” He heard how choked he sounded.

  “She still won’t wear a dress?”

  “Not without a battle that would hurt our relationship. She’ll get there.” Or so he’d told himself. It would have been better if she hadn’t seen Julia again.

  Except he was so moved by the sight of the joy and pain exhibited by Julia and Abby both, he couldn’t regret this moment, not as he should. He’d been blind not to see how much they both had hidden from him since he separated them.

  “What should I do?” he asked helplessly.

  Now the older man’s expression was pitying. “You must keep weaning her away. You know that. If Abby holds tight to the outside world, you will have a foot in it, too, ain’t so?”

  Luke unclenched his teeth. “I committed myself to my faith.”

  “Yet I think you still hold back a part of yourself.” The bishop paused, now watching as Julia wiped at her wet cheeks with her hand and stood. “She is not for you.”

  Startled, Luke glanced at him. Had he been so obvious?

  It would seem so.

  His “no” was gruff. He’d known when returning home how much he would be giving up, starting with the career he’d worked so hard to achieve. His heart and, he wanted to believe, his Lord, had led him to turn his back on all that, and he hadn’t regretted his decision for a minute.

  Until he became so tangled up about the child he’d claimed—and the woman he would have courted if that were in any way possible.

  To Julia, he said, “Will you watch her for a minute while I visit with Sol?”

  Her smile for him shook. “Of course I will.”

  Two people came out of the room just as he approached. One was Sol’s wife, Lydia. Despite the strain on her face, she said, “So good of you to come, Luke! Sol will be so glad to see you. You go in now, shoo.”

  “If there is anything I can do . . .”

  “The bishop said you and your daad are donating beautiful furniture to be auctioned to pay the hospital bills. That is a big something, ja?”

  “It doesn’t seem enough.” She had lost so much weight in a matter of days. Was she eating at all? “You should go to the cafeteria. There are plenty of people here to watch out for Sol.”

  “Julia has been waiting for me—” She broke off, seeing Abby.

  “She won’t mind staying longer.” He hated knowing how wrenching this goodbye between her and his dochder would be.

  But it must be.

  He walked into the room to find a man he wouldn’t have recognized, so heavily bandaged and covered in casts was much of his body. One leg was in traction, one arm raised by a pulley system, too. Even Sol’s head was engulfed in a white turban. Reaching the bed, Luke laid a hand on his boyhood friend’s shoulder, one of the few places on the wounded body that might feel his touch.

  Sol had survived. God had been with him, knew he was still needed here. What Luke hadn’t thought to ask was whether anyone had told Sol about his oldest boy.

  But then the swollen eyes raised to him, and a fat tear formed in each. He knew, all right—and however powerful his faith and humility, he grieved and had to be railing against God’s decision.

  Luke sat in the chair pulled up to the bed and said bluntly, “We were never promised an easy life.”

  Sol’s swollen lips barely moved. “Gone, my David. Hard to accept, that is. My fault not to hear that car coming, so fast.”

  Luke gently gripped his shoulder again. “Not your fault. You know better. What could you have done, with it happening so fast? You are a careful man, and a good father.”

  Sol cried in what would have been racking sobs, if he had been able. Luke kept a hand on him, and felt his own eyes sting with tears.

  * * *

  * * *

  JULIA HADN’T BEEN able to resist lifting Abby onto her lap. Other women would have been glad to watch over Luke’s daughter, but she wouldn’t give them a chance. These few stolen minutes were too precious.

  Smile tremulous, she looked down into that sweet, thin face. “You said my name.”

  Abby wrinkled her nose.

  Despite the tears that still stung her eyes, Julia laughed. “You gave yourself away. You might as well talk.”

  The little girl’s lips pinched together, but a smile seemed to dance in her blue eyes.

  “I’ll tell you a secret.” Julia bent her head and whispered in Abby’s ear. “If you ask out loud for what you want, you’re more likely to get it. People won’t have to guess what you’re trying to say. And think how happy your daadi will be. How can he say no to you then?”

  Abby shrank into herself.

  “What is it, sweetheart? Why don’t you want to talk?”

  Abby whispered, too. “I’m s’posed to shut up.”

  The nasty edge in the “shut up” part had to be pure mimicry. Julia rarely felt violent impulses, but right now was an exception. Betraying her anger would only scare Abby, though.

  Instead, she said, “Bah, humbug. Most of us like loud little girls. Ones who can shout, ‘Cookie!’” The two women sitting closest to them had tilted their heads as they eavesdropped without apology. Julia looked at them. “That’s so, isn’t it?”

  The younger of the two grinned. “Ja. When we get older, we learn to ask in a nice voice, but making noise, small children should.”

  Bishop Amos was near enough to hear, too, she suddenly realized. Heat crept onto her cheeks as she met his eyes. A nod of approval astonished her.

  He spoke directly to Abby. “Yes, little one. Our children are precious to us. We love to hear their voices.”

  Julia smiled tenderly at Abby. “What do you say?”

  For a moment, nothing. Then she said, “Cookie!” but cringed.

  It was obvious that the someone who’d told her to shut up had also hit her.

  Julia hid this burst of anger, too, and hugged Abby harder. “That’s wonderful. Say it again, so loud everyone hears you.”

  “Cookie!”

  Several of the women clapped for her. “Wunderbaar!” exclaimed an older woman.

  Abby looked around in such astonishment, she broke Julia’s heart all over again. She kissed the top of Abby’s head. “You are wonderful.” Then movement snagged her attention. “Here comes your daadi. Can you surprise him?”

  Had Luke heard the to-do out here? But creases furrowed his forehead, and he held his mouth and jaw tightly. His eyes met hers, a kind of desperation in them that awakened an ache beneath her breastbone.

  Abby stirred on her lap. Her face lit up and she wriggled until Julia let her slide to her feet. Then she said, almost loudly, “Daadi!”

  His stare left Julia and settled on his daughter. He didn’t so much lower himself to his knees as collapse. He swallowed, held out his arms . . . and Abby flew into them.

  Julia cried again. Then, knowing she couldn’t bear another goodbye, she fled, determined to find Lydia in the cafeteria and take her home.

  Chapter Fifteen

  HOPING NO ONE noticed how close to tears he was again, Luke accepted hugs from several women and nodded when Bishop Amos told him firmly, “I’ll walk with you.”

  Abby rode on Luke’s hip. He didn’t like the idea of letting her go even as far as the bench seat beside him in the buggy. Face buried against his chest, she had his shirt gripped in two small fists.

  They had paced nearly the length of the institutional hallway, passing other patient rooms, before Amos said anything.

  Then his tone was odd. “She’s a gut woman, Julia. Her instincts are right.”

  Luke could only nod again. He’d been stunned to look up from Abby, wanting to share the moment, only to see Julia’s back as she hurried down the hall. Abby had t
urned her head at the same moment.

  A thread of panic in her voice, she asked, “Where’s Julia?”

  “I think she had to go. She’s here at the hospital to help someone. I guess they needed her.”

  That’s when she pressed her face against him so she couldn’t see anyone else.

  “Even so,” Amos continued, “forget she’s not one of us, you can’t let yourself do.”

  Luke just looked at him, knowing his eyes must be red-rimmed, that the punch of too many emotions had to show on his face.

  Amos reached out and gripped his arm for only a moment, much as Luke had squeezed Sol’s. A way of connecting that men, Amish or Englisch, could allow themselves. He offered sympathy, Luke supposed, which allowed him to say only, “I must get Abby home.”

  “Ja, you probably haven’t had dinner yet.”

  “No.” His appetite was nonexistent, but this too-frail child needed something more to eat than the half of an apple, sliced, he’d given her as a snack before they came. She’d poked at him until he gave most of the rest to Charlie, who’d crunched the treat so vigorously, bits of apple and flecks of foam flew. Luke had managed to get only one slice in his mouth, and pretended to eat with as much messy enthusiasm, Abby’s silent giggle his reward.

  But now, now, he knew her voice.

  Having said what he meant to, the bishop turned back. Once out in the warm evening, dusk softening the surroundings, a bat darting above, Luke set Abby in the buggy. He had to gently pry her fingers from him. Taking up the reins, he backed Charlie out from between two other buggies, then clicked for him to start for home.

  He’d stayed too long at the hospital. Since coming home, he’d driven after dark only a few times. Seeing Sol’s grief had raised his awareness of how unsafe it could be on country roads that often had no shoulder. Even though full night was a half hour away, Luke turned on the battery-operated lights that would make the buggy visible to anyone behind the wheel of a car who was driving with enough care to react in time.

  “Did Julia tell you to talk to me?” he asked.

  Abby had never looked tinier. She kicked her feet in those tattered athletic shoes and finally whispered, “She said I could surprise you.”

  Luke smiled down at her. “You did.”

  “She wanted me to yell.” She sneaked a peek at him, then yell she did. “‘Cookie!’”

  Luke jumped and the gelding swiveled his ears back. “Why did she want you to yell?”

  So softly, he just barely heard her, Abby said, “’Cuz . . . ’cuz I said I’m s’posed to shut up.”

  Luke controlled his rage. “Your mother didn’t tell you that, did she?”

  Abby’s sagging pigtails whipped from side to side as she shook her head vehemently. “Uh-uh. It was Ron. Or maybe Justin. Or . . . or . . .”

  Maybe both. Maybe yet another man Beth had allowed into their lives.

  He would forgive her eventually for putting her vulnerable daughter at risk, over and over, but he hadn’t gotten there yet. If only she’d mounted a serious search for him.

  But he knew she’d been past being able to do any such thing. He couldn’t forget that some of the guilt was his to bear. He’d thought about her, worried, but only occasionally. The truth was, he’d let her go as incidental to his life. He’d been more important to her than she was to him, although he hadn’t known how important.

  He prayed she knew that he had Abby now, that she would be safe and loved.

  “You must miss your mom,” he said.

  The resounding silence made him wish he hadn’t asked. Either the answer was yes . . . or Beth had been in a stupor most of the time for months or even the past couple of years. She must have played with her tiny daughter, once upon a time, loved her and despaired for an answer on how to give her a better life, but maybe she’d passed beyond that, too.

  Abby reverted to one-word answers once they were home, but even that was an important step forward. Luke didn’t have to interpret every twitch of her shoulders or crinkle of her nose.

  Not long after dinner, bathed and tucked into bed, she dropped off to sleep as if exhausted.

  He stroked her hair one more time, turned off the kerosene bedside lamp, and went out of the room, leaving the door open so he’d hear her. Then he stopped there in the hall, feeling exhausted himself.

  Not in body. If any muscle in his body ached, it was his heart. He’d felt too much today. More than he could remember in years. Unexpectedly seeing Julia had hit him hard, despite the fact that he’d parted from her barely an hour before, as they closed the store. Hearing Abby’s voice for the first time. Her emotional reunion with Julia. Then, in trying to take on some of Sol’s pain, he hadn’t been able to evade understanding the devastation that could happen with no warning, in no more time than it took to snap his fingers. And finally, hearing, “Daadi!” as his daughter flew into his arms.

  He turned to face the wall, flattening both hands on it, allowing his head to fall forward. Finally? No. The last blow had been seeing Julia run away. He couldn’t escape knowing he had hurt her again. He’d never meant to, but that was a flimsy excuse.

  A muffled groan escaped him. The bishop’s warning had been pointed. Luke had to keep his distance . . . or betray everything he believed in.

  * * *

  * * *

  JULIA CONTINUED TO drive Lydia to the hospital, at least every other evening. Apparently, a neighbor did the same on alternate evenings. Julia had become acquainted with Sol and Lydia’s two young daughters and even the boy who, like his father, was still hospitalized. What she didn’t do was go anywhere near Sol’s room. Luke was sure to visit, and if he didn’t, his mother or father might, bringing Abby along as he’d done.

  Thursday of the same week, Julia walked down the street after closing to join Miriam, Ruth, and several other Amishwomen in the room at the back of the quilt shop. Two she already knew, including Miriam’s aenti Barbara, and the others seemed friendly.

  “I’m Sarah Yoder,” said one. “Sol’s cousin.”

  The other, taller than most Amish, holding herself with graceful dignity, bent her head in greeting. “Susanna Fisher.”

  She didn’t mention a relationship, but didn’t really need to. Within any local Amish group, almost any two people could trace some blood connection.

  “Julia is a very fine quilter, uh-huh,” Ruth assured them, “and works with Eli and Luke at the furniture store.”

  The two women Julia hadn’t met before nodded acknowledgment.

  Miriam added, “She’s learning to speak our language.” She surely hadn’t meant to let pride sound in her voice, but she had to know she was a good teacher.

  Ruth declared, “I think we should hold the quilt auction the afternoon before the other one. More people might come to town because they could go to both.”

  The evening auction would include fine furniture, antiques, other Amish crafts, and just about anything else that had been donated. Some were unexpected to Julia, at least, including a promised large doghouse and a decorative bridge. An Amishman made sundials out of stone, while a local soap maker had already donated a basket full of bars and shampoos. Of course there’d be rag rugs, leather products, and hand-thrown pottery. The evening would be divided into two, starting with a silent auction of lower-cost items, followed by the live auction that would bring in the most money.

  Julia had taken responsibility for ensuring that the Bowmans’ donations would be delivered when and where they needed to be. It was scheduled for Saturday, three weeks away. They would have preferred sooner, but to make good money, they needed time for publicity, to attract Englisch bidders from out of the area.

  Yet another auction would be held on the Saturday only a little over a week away, this one of donated farm equipment and tools as well as miscellaneous household items. Only locals were expected to be interested.r />
  The plans were ambitious, donations so far generous, but Julia worried that the amount raised would fall far short of allowing the bills to be paid for the two Grabers’ hospital stay. She’d spent two weeks herself in the hospital after the attack and another week in rehab to get intensive physical therapy, and she’d seen the appalling bills that resulted. In the intervening years, the cost of medical care had only risen.

  She couldn’t call these women naive, however; the Amish always paid their bills even if it required other church districts to chip in—which they would willingly do. Besides, if the auctions were well attended, she knew the prices the Bowmans’ furniture would bring, and the finest of the quilts donated so far could each go for as much as three thousand dollars.

  Glancing around, she saw only one rocking chair. Already, the quilt store had sold two.

  Seeing where she looked, Ruth nodded. “Ja, today. A cherrywood rocker and a quilt rack.”

  “A quilt, too,” Miriam chimed in. “The yellow-and-cream Tumbling Blocks. The woman is pregnant. The buyers wanted a crib, too, so we sent them to Yoder’s.” She looked reproachful. “It’s too bad Daad and Luke don’t make them.”

  “They say it’s good to specialize.” Also, now they’d feel as if they were being unacceptably competitive if they edged into an area that had formerly belonged solely to the other store.

  Miriam only nodded her understanding. That was their way.

  Then the group got down to business. Out of deference to Julia, the women continued to speak in English with only occasional resorts to Deitsh words. Julia soaked those in.

  By common consensus, she took notes. Susanna was to arrange for the grange hall and the frames used to display large quilts. One of Barbara’s sons was an auctioneer, and Barbara had already asked him to give his time and that of his two assistants, which he had gladly promised to do.

  Knowing all local quilters as she did, Ruth had already begun soliciting donations, and would continue to do so.

  They all agreed that they should also hold a bake sale outside the grange hall. “The money we make from that isn’t so much, but every bit helps, ja?” Sarah asked. “It’s a gut way for everyone to contribute.”