Meanwhile, Mattie Sue and Beth played in the corner with their toy animals. Rose could hear Mattie Sue trying her best to rename some of Beth’s cats and teddy bears, much to Rose’s surprise. It seemed that Hen’s little girl was bent on taking the leading role. Rose felt sure it was due to Beth’s developmental delays, and at times she cringed when Mattie Sue talked up so sassy to Beth, more than four times her age.
Mamm stirred in the wheelchair and called to her. “Rosie, dear . . . I need something to help me with this pain.” There were tears in her eyes, and her hands were clasped in trembling fists. “I need it . . . right quick.”
“What do ya want? Is there something ya should take, Mamm?” Rose asked, surprised at this request from a mother who never took pain medication.
“The new painkiller the Quarryville pharmacist suggested. I haven’t tried that yet.”
Rose could scarcely believe her ears. “Are ya sure? You know how awful sick you got last time on a mere aspirin.” Frighteningly so.
“But this isn’t the same . . . and I feel like I’m losin’ my mind,” Mamm said.
What should I do? Rose wondered. “It could make your stomach wrench, Mamm.”
“The pharmacist said it was safe to try. Oh, Rosie, I can’t stand it any longer.” Mamm began to cry.
Rose’s heart broke. “All right . . . I’ll give it to you with a nice warm cookie. How’s that?”
“Milk might help, too,” Mamm added quietly.
“Jah, milk.” Rose hurried to the kitchen, hoping she was doing the right thing for her dear mother.
Opening the gas-run refrigerator, she recalled the days when Mamm was healthy and full of life. All the happy, energetic hours of hoeing the family vegetable garden together or of gathering wildflowers while Mamm’s gentle hand brushed against the tallest stems. Together with Hen, they’d sold hundreds of pretty embroidered items and other handiwork at market, and attended numerous canning bees and comforter knottings. Always, always, Mamm had been the fastest and hardest worker. To see her like she was now, day in, day out, struck Rose to the core. She taught me the importance of hard work, thought Rose, pushing down the lump in her throat. Mamm taught me to cook and bake, and how to sew my faceless rag dolls, too.
But those happy years had been stolen away by an upturned carriage on Bridle Path Lane, and no one knew just what had taken place. Not even the smallest clue had been left as to the cause of the dreadful accident that had left Mamm confined to a wheelchair.
Rose located the medicine bottle in the corner cabinet. Is this the wrong thing to do? she fretted. Mamm was so desperate. Maybe, just maybe the pill would take the edge off her pain without causing the horrendous stomach upheaval she’d experienced with other pain relievers.
She poured a small glass of fresh cow’s milk, direct from the bishop’s milk house that morning. Then she returned to her mother with the medicine and a cookie. “Here you are,” she said, holding the glass for Mamm. “I hope you’ll be all right.” This time.
“Go an’ get your father,” Mamm said in a husky whisper, the pill in her hand. “I want him near . . . in case I get queasy.”
She’s expecting the worst, thought Rose, the muscles in her neck tightening. “All right, Mamm . . . I’ll go to fetch him now.”
Rose rushed to get her shawl from its spot on the wooden peg near the back porch and stepped out the door. She did not find her father in his woodworking shop, where he typically was. Thinking he might be out doing some late-season plowing with the bishop or one of her older brothers, she ran around to the back of the barn, scanning the fields in all directions.
Not willing to give up—wanting to give her mother the comfort of Dat, as she’d requested—Rose headed across the meadow to the bishop’s farm. “Surely Dat’s around somewhere.”
As she hurried past the neighboring barnyard, she scanned the area, not seeing her father. She rounded the bend and peeked into the stable, wishing she had time to go and curry Pepper, Nick’s favorite horse.
Another time, she thought, deciding to see if Dat and his good friend Bishop Aaron might be inside having a quick cup of coffee. Sure enough, they were there, enjoying Barbara’s famous sticky buns at the table. Evidently the bishop had helped her grandfather with the woodcutting, so the men were relaxing a bit. Dat was saying as much and thanking his friend.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Rose said, going into the kitchen and catching her breath. “Mamm’s in an awful bad way, Dat. She wants you to come be with her.” Rose kept her voice low. “She’s trying the new pain medication . . . thought you should know.”
“Ach, no!” Dat fairly leaped off the bench. His forehead twisted with worry as he reached for his old work coat and flung it on, motioning for Rose to follow him outside.
“Let us know if we can help,” Barbara called after them, and Rose waved her thanks.
“Rosie, you remember how terrible sick she gets, don’t ya?” Dat shot at her over his shoulder as they dashed across the field toward the house. “What on earth were you thinkin’?”
She explained she’d tried to discourage Mamm, but to no avail. “She was just so frantic—on edge. And it’s something she’s never tried, ya know. Oh, I do hope she’ll be all right,” Rose worried aloud.
“Well, hopin’ isn’t gut enough. A moment’s relief just ain’t worth a possible reaction. And with her so weak right now, there’s too much risk.”
Dat was clearly irritated—so much so that Rose wondered if something else was bothering him as he huffed and puffed his way back to the house. Ach, but what?
Chapter 11
Within the hour, Mamm was experiencing horrible nausea. Sympathetically, Dat carried her into the bathroom, dread masking his bearded face as he closed the door.
Successive retching sounds tore at Rose’s heart, and she felt responsible for Mamm’s physical torment. If only she’d refused her mother! She was concerned, too, how exhausted Mamm—and Dat, too—would be by morning. In the past, her father had sat up all night, making sure Mamm was all right. He’ll do the same again.
Meanwhile, Beth Browning moped pitifully about, pacing the length of the front room. She looked to be worrying herself sick. Rose ushered the girl outside to the back porch and pushed her short hair back from her face while Beth knelt over a large bowl, shaking and vomiting like she had a bad case of the flu. It was astonishing to witness Beth’s strange kinship to Mamm.
In the midst of the wave of illness in the house, Barbara Petersheim stood at the back door with a hot dish of Busy Day casserole, nearly enough to feed the whole church district. Or so Rose thought as she eyed the size of it and let her in.
Checking to see if Beth would be all right alone, Rose said she wouldn’t be long and left her on the porch to accompany Barbara into the kitchen. “Mamm’s terribly ill,” Rose said quietly, glancing back at Beth and explaining that her mother was having another alarming response to a pain reliever. “Oddly enough, Beth seems to be imitating Mamm’s illness.”
“Oh dear. Could it be some kind of sympathy sickness?”
Rose had heard of this sort of thing but never known anyone to experience it. “Hard to say, really.” She gave a small smile and changed the subject. “Awful nice of you to bring food,” she said, glancing toward the bathroom door. “Though, more than likely, two of us won’t be eatin’ supper.”
“Oh, just whoever’s hungry, then.”
Quickly, Rose remembered her manners. “But it’s so gut of you to help out, Barbara. Truly ’tis.” She showed her where to set down the casserole dish on the cookstove, saying she would stoke the fire beneath to keep the meal warm for a bit.
“I’m awful sorry your mother’s struggling like this on top of her ongoing pain,” Barbara said.
“Dat’s with her now.” Rose ushered her toward the front room, hoping to move out of earshot for Barbara’s sake. “I just feel so bad ’bout giving her the new medication. I really do.”
“She must’ve been desperate, ja
h?”
Rose bowed her head. “Still, I’m awful sorry. . . .”
“I know, honey-girl.” Barbara’s sweet smile touched Rose deeply. “You meant well.”
Rose’s lip trembled and Barbara gently reached for her and let her cry in her ample arms. “I never should’ve given it to her, after the other times. Dat said as much.”
“Now, now . . . ya can’t blame yourself, Rosie. It’s all right to cry. Soothes the soul, when need be.”
After a moment, Rose removed a handkerchief from her dress sleeve and dried her tears. “Poor Mamm . . . and now Beth, too.”
“I daresay Beth’ll be fine. It’s your mother I’m worried about.” Barbara’s eyes were moist now, too. “A body can’t live day in and day out with such constant pain.”
Rose had sometimes thought the same thing. No question about it, Mamm was deteriorating, unable to bounce back from something like the respiratory flu as quickly as she once did. “Dat allows Mamm to do things her way, ’least when it comes to gritting her teeth and enduring pain,” Rose explained, knowing the bishop and Barbara were well aware of her mother’s long-standing wish not to make any further efforts to see a specialist.
Suddenly, Rose heard weeping coming from the bathroom, and she covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Barbara, what’ll we do?” she whispered. “Poor, dear Mamm!”
“Let’s pray.”
Barbara led Rose to the small sofa and knelt there with her, both of them offering silent prayers for Mamm while the sound of pain-wracked sobbing filled the house.
Solomon cradled Emma in his arms and gently placed her frail body on their bed. He covered her with a red and violet afghan. All the while he beseeched God to help his wife make it through this, vowing that he would find a way to convince her to see a specialist, lest she weaken further and die.
He wondered if he should have Rose Ann run to the phone shanty and call for Old Eli, the Amish folk doctor in Quarryville. Years ago, Sol had taken Emma there in the family carriage. Eli had insisted Sol not pay for the visit, citing the many instances where Sol had been quick to extend his generosity to others. But as it turned out, Eli’s hot and cold applications gave Emma only temporary relief, and by the time they had arrived home, the shooting pain in his wife’s back had returned with a vengeance.
Now, sitting on the bed, he wondered what to do next. There was no health insurance to cover Emma’s medical costs, though he knew the church’s benevolence fund would assist if necessary. Emma had always been adamant about accepting her lot in life, as she believed this to be. Yet Sol could no longer hold his tongue on the matter. Oh, Lord, grant me your wisdom. . . .
“Thy will be done . . . in heaven and on earth,” Emma whispered, opening her golden-brown eyes.
Sol pushed several stray hairs away from her damp forehead. “Amen and amen.” He leaned down to press his cheek next to hers, checking for a fever. She was surprisingly cool, even clammy. He didn’t have the heart to ask if she was without pain, though she did seem to be calmer than earlier today. “I’ll stay here with you, even into the night if necessary.”
“Sol, you need your rest.”
He kissed her forehead, then lightly placed his hand over her eyes, hoping Emma might relax. “Not as much as you do, dear.”
A slight knock came at the door, and Sol rose slowly. When he opened the door a crack, he saw Beth’s big, worried eyes peering in. “Jah?” he whispered.
Beth stood there silently, her forehead wrinkled in a deep frown.
“You mustn’t worry over Emma,” he said, seeing the girl’s distress. “I’ll take care of her.”
Slowly, Beth nodded and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she leaned her head on the doorjamb and sighed, her shoulders rising and falling with her breath.
“Is Rose in the kitchen? Maybe you can help set the table for dinner.”
Beth lifted her head and tilted it inquisitively, like a little bird. She looked into the room, past him, to Emma. “Oh . . . dear lady,” she said softly. “Poor, dear lady.”
Solomon felt so awkward, never before having encountered a young woman like Beth—slow in her mind and unpredictable, too. Abe Esh, the deacon’s twelve-year-old grandson, was like her in many ways, but he was a boy, after all. It was far easier for Sol to relate to him. Standing there with Beth so near, he wished Rose might call for her.
Instead, it was Emma who called Beth’s name just then. How strange that she must’ve sensed her there, standing all forlorn in the doorway. And, with Emma’s lips shaping Beth’s name, the young woman tiptoed to the bedside, knelt quietly, and put her head down on the brightly colored afghan.
For pity’s sake! Solomon inched to the foot of the bed as Beth began to say a childlike prayer, pleading with the heavenly Father to “look down with compassion and mercy on Rosie’s mommy.”
Such an unexpected yet beautiful thing to behold. Solomon found himself wiping away silent tears.
Hen felt bad for not sharing with her sister about Brandon’s ultimatum, but she desired to keep the dreadful news between just her and Dad until she knew what to do. Or at least until she found the right moment to talk with Rose. As it was, she half feared Rose might plead with her to return straightaway to the house in town. Yet how could she, with her husband so opposed to the Plain values and traditions that were once again a part of her?
Hen picked up the newspaper she’d purchased yesterday evening at a gas station on the way home from seeing Brandon. She found herself quickly absorbed in reading about the after-Thanksgiving sales, recalling the few years she’d crawled out of bed before dawn to go and stand in nearly endless lines at various stores. “No more,” she muttered to herself, spotting the types of secular toys her daughter had always pleaded for and usually received “from Santa,” thanks to Brandon and his parents.
Presently, Mattie Sue wandered downstairs and into the small living room, looking rather glum. Earlier she’d asked Hen to wrap her head with braids, unlike most young Amish girls. Yet, seeing how determined Mattie Sue was, Hen had wound her daughter’s hair the way she’d asked. Mattie came over and plopped down on the sofa, sniffling. Then, leaning her head against Hen’s arm, she asked in a sad tone, “When can I see Daddy again?”
Hen had thought of taking her tomorrow, on a quiet Saturday morning, to see how Brandon might actually respond to Hen’s staying and doing needlework while Mattie Sue visited. She recalled how adamant he’d been about wanting Mattie dropped off, and with a sigh, she realized she had no idea if he would even be home tomorrow. What if she found only Terry there again? Hen certainly wasn’t looking forward to a similar awkward encounter.
“I miss my puppy dog, too.” Mattie Sue wiped her eyes. “Don’t you?”
“Yes, and I know you miss Daddy even more than Wiggles.” Hen leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Maybe next week I’ll take you.”
“But I don’t want to wait.”
“Well, it might not suit Daddy right now if we just popped in.”
“Why not, Mommy?” Mattie asked, beginning to carry on like she had when they’d lived with Brandon not so many weeks ago.
At that moment, Hen heard a car creeping into the driveway, and when she got up to look, she noticed a familiar blue Dodge Caravan. Well, what do you know, she thought. “Mattie Sue . . . go look outside. Someone you know is coming to visit.”
Mattie Sue ran to the back door window. “It’s Diane Perlis . . . and Karen!”
“Mrs. Perlis, remember, honey.”
Mattie Sue was much too surprised by the visit to correct herself. And before Hen could say otherwise, she darted out the back door without a coat and ran across the yard to her little friend. Mattie Sue hugged Karen as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. A lump came into Hen’s throat as she stood in the open door witnessing the affectionate greeting, suddenly realizing she was depriving her daughter of not only her father but of her dearest friend.
“Hen . . . hi!” called Diane, looking at her no
w with eyebrows raised at Hen’s full Amish attire. She was a slip of a woman with a thick fringe of bangs and stick-straight brown hair that hung past her shoulders.
“Good to see you, Diane.” Hen wandered down the steps, shivering in the cool air.
Sporting pale pink sweats and a pink and white jersey, Diane gave her a quick, casual hug. “I’ve been calling and calling your house for weeks. Then, finally, Brandon picked up the phone this afternoon.” Diane looked over her shoulder at the girls and lowered her voice. “He said you’re hiding out in Amishville.”
Sounds like him. Hen grimaced.
“He’s joking, right?” Diane’s gaze swept Hen from the top of her Kapp to her black leather shoes. She went on to say how concerned she’d been not hearing from Hen. “Last I knew, you were all fired up about taking a job at an Amish fabric shop, but I never dreamed in a hundred years you’d—”
“Diane, please,” Hen whispered. “The girls . . .”
Frowning, Diane moved closer. “Hen, have you left Brandon?”
Hen felt dejected. “You’re jumping to conclusions.” She wondered what Brandon had told her. “Come inside, out of the cold,” she called to the girls.
“Do we have to, Mommy?” complained Mattie Sue, putting her hand on her hip.
“You’re not dressed warmly enough. Please come inside.”
Karen, who was Mattie’s age, tugged on Mattie’s arm and led her into the house. Once Karen removed her own jacket and left it on the floor, the girls ran upstairs, jabbering all the while.
“Karen really misses playing with Mattie,” said Diane, settling onto the settee and stretching out her long, thin legs.
Hen didn’t know what to say. Sure, Mattie had missed seeing Karen, but English friends were no longer in Hen’s plan for her daughter—not since coming home to Salem Road.
The Judgment Page 8