What now? Sol didn’t honestly know but would take it to prayer this very night. And reaching over to touch Emma’s frail hand, he began to beseech the Almighty.
Later, in the absence of any inclination to rest, Sol rose from the bed and went over to the antique bureau. He pulled out an old tan folder containing the names and addresses of Pennsylvania specialists and surgeons.
Going to the kitchen, Sol lit the gas lamp and scanned the page, moving his finger down the row, stopping at the only orthopedic surgeon in York, about forty miles away.
Might this one help my Emma, most gracious Lord?
Hen sat all curled up in bed the night before her required meeting with Brandon’s lawyer. Mattie Sue was already asleep in the next room as Hen plumped her own pillow and paged through the small wedding album she’d brought from home.
Our home.
She studied her husband’s face, his expressions. In several photographs he looked humorously like the cat that caught the mouse. She’d never noticed it before. Then, in yet another picture, she was very sure she saw love in his alluring blue eyes, just as her own face reflected the same, standing next to her handsome groom.
Surely, we loved each other. . . .
Her mind had been in turmoil all week, contemplating tomorrow’s grilling at the lawyer’s office—questions no doubt focused on her parenting abilities and intentions. She broke out in a cold sweat at the uncomfortable nature of what was ahead.
Even so, she would follow through with her promise to Dad to honor the way Brandon wanted things done. I’ll simply bite my tongue. She imagined the awkwardness of the psychological assessment. The whole process seemed so unnecessary. Why must I be the first to be questioned? Has Brandon told them I’m unstable?
She could just imagine her brother-in-law Lawrence having set things up in favor of Brandon. But would he also prejudice the judge against her, when all was said and done?
There were times when her grief and anguish moved easily toward anger. But because she desired to demonstrate a meek and gentle spirit from here on out, Hen slipped out of bed and knelt to pray. May your will be done on earth as it is in heaven, O Father, at tomorrow’s meeting. This frightens me terribly, dear Lord. You know all things, and you see deep into my quivering heart.
She paused and breathed deeply, attempting to surrender her will to God’s. Why was it so hard to trust her Maker?
Hen realized that, as much as she desired to follow God in returning to the ways of her past, she had been doing so without regard for her husband. Had she driven a deeper wedge between him and the heavenly Father through her actions?
O Lord, I’ve been so blind. . . .
Yet at the same time, Hen wasn’t ready to admit that this way of life wasn’t the best for her and her daughter—for all of them, really. Her heart heavy, Hen began to pray once more. I know you are working in Brandon’s and my life, to will and to do of your good pleasure. But, Lord, it is so hard to see a good path through this. Please save our marriage . . . our family. Guide us for Jesus’ sake. Amen.
Feeling quite weary, she rose to stand at the frosty window. “Keep showerin’ dei Mann with love,” the bishop’s wife had told Hen when she first returned home. Somehow, Hen must find a way to do that even in the difficult circumstances of tomorrow.
Lantern light flickered from the upstairs windows across the long meadow, and she wondered if the man of God might still be up as she was, pacing and pleading for divine guidance, as well.
Hen wasn’t the only one for whom Brandon’s tardiness brought uneasiness on Friday. As Lawrence Orringer, attorney-at-law, briefed her on the various forms she was required to fill out, he glanced repeatedly at the open office door.
She had interacted with Brandon’s brother on a number of occasions, namely New Year’s and Easter. Brandon had always referred to Lawrence as his closest brother of three. The other two lived on the West Coast near LA and were too busy climbing corporate ladders to keep in touch with their small-town brother—or so Brandon had often quipped.
Sitting now in the comfortable office chair, across the gleaming desk from Lawrence, Hen wished Brandon would arrive. Her neck and shoulders tensed as each minute passed and still there was no sign of him. Was he testing her, guessing she would not show up? She pushed away the ridiculous notion and willed herself to have a kinder attitude. This was what Brandon wanted, right?
Yet secretly, she hoped he might’ve gotten cold feet. If only that were so!
Lawrence apologized several times for his client-brother’s delay, although Hen could see by his impatient expression that he, too, was weary of waiting.
At last, there were hurried footsteps in the hallway, coming this way. Both she and Lawrence turned to see a woman dressed in a burnt orange tweed suit knock on the slightly open door and then breeze in. The young woman, no older than her late thirties, gave Hen a rather professional once-over, then introduced herself as Dr. Greta Schmidt. “I’ll be handling the parental evaluation.”
“My client has obviously been detained,” Lawrence stated, glancing now at Hen. “This is Mrs. Orringer—Hannah.”
“Please call me Hen,” she said, accepting the woman’s firm handshake.
Before Dr. Schmidt could continue, Lawrence pulled at the sleeve of his navy blue sports coat and looked at his watch. “Uh, excuse me, but perhaps it would be best not to move ahead just yet.”
“How necessary is it for Mr. Orringer to be present?” Dr. Schmidt asked before admitting to an exceptionally tight schedule. The psychologist glanced at Hen again, appearing to take in her long dress, her gaze coming to rest on the Kapp.
Lawrence rose from behind his desk and moved toward the door, motioning for Dr. Schmidt to follow. Hen could hear them talking in muffled tones as Lawrence pleaded with her to wait around a few more minutes.
Oh, what stress! Hen thought, a knot in her stomach.
Hearing their footsteps moving farther away, Hen leaned back and attempted to relax. She recalled the first time she’d met Brandon’s brothers, following her and Brandon’s elopement. It was after Christmas, a few days before New Year’s Eve, when Brandon’s brothers and families had gathered at their parents’ sprawling home in New York’s Finger Lakes region. She’d sat in an upholstered leather wing-back chair similar to the one she sat in presently, but in Brandon’s father’s aristocratic home office, with its duo of cherrywood desks and matching credenza. Custom-made Italian drapes had swept down from the high ceiling and fell in puddles against the polished hardwood floor. Hen had waited to fully take in the magnificence of the room until Brandon stepped outside with his father, who smoked a cigar. The pungent scent had seeped through the French doors as she sat there, marveling at her choice in a mate—and his family.
Why did I marry Brandon—and he me? she’d mused that day. Although she’d known very little firsthand of love, she’d quickly concluded she was eager and ready to love him for all the days of her life. What else could she call her feelings for the man with whom she’d fallen head over heels? There was no other relationship to compare her strong feelings to, but even then, Hen had suspected their affection was a fragile thing. Neither had really known how to nurture that love to maturity.
She thought back to their wedding, so simple compared to the opulence in which Brandon had been raised. The justice of the peace had been a tall woman who had recited the required legal words with little or no feeling. At the time, Hen had felt cheated somehow, remembering how zealous Bishop Aaron and their two preachers were in their instruction of young couples during Amish weddings.
But now all of that—the words spoken that day in the judge’s drab chambers, including her and Brandon’s vows—had vanished in the sea of paperwork there in front of her, waiting to be filled in for yet another judge.
The thought entered Hen’s mind that she’d never told a soul—not even her own dear sister, who’d known something was up—about her plan to marry Brandon that day. With no guests other than the pho
tographer they’d hired, everything had been very basic, mostly because of their haste to marry. Neither she nor her groom had remembered to buy flowers for the other. No music or boutonniere . . . no engraved invitations or bridesmaids. Like an Amish wedding in its simplicity, Hen realized with a start.
Much to Solomon’s surprise, Emma admitted that morning to being heartened beyond her ability to explain because of Beth’s faith-filled dream and her handwritten prayers. “I saw the great hope in her eyes . . . and I believed the dream must be from God,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I want you to call the York orthopedic specialist you talked about.”
Sol’s spirits soared at this decided change of heart. Thank you, Lord! Later, in the phone shanty, while Sol dialed the York office, it struck him that the phone number of the orthopedic surgeon had remained the same, after all these years. Surely it pointed to divine providence.
The receptionist offered a post-Christmas opening that had just come up for a week from today, Friday, December twenty-seventh. Otherwise, the doctor was booked solid well into January. Gratefully, Sol said they’d take it.
As he walked back toward the house through the ankle-deep snow, a siren rang out in the distance, then another. He cringed inwardly, just as he had the day the ambulance wailed down Salem Road, coming for the bishop’s son. Too late.
“Lord, help whoever is in need,” he whispered, his breath crystallizing before his eyes.
Once inside, Sol jotted down the appointment day and time. Feeling invigorated by the hope burning within him for Emma, he prayed she would not back out prior to the trip to York next week.
He went to the sitting room to see Emma and found Rose Ann there reading aloud to her. Smiling a greeting to his wife and daughter, Sol made his way out to the woodshop, still conscious of the intensity of the sirens’ cries.
Chapter 29
Hen started when Lawrence’s desk phone jangled loudly. She leaned forward to look into the hallway as the phone continued to ring. At one point, she nearly felt compelled to answer it herself.
Finally the phone ceased its ringing. Within a minute or so, Lawrence returned to the office, alone. “Hen . . . I don’t know how to say this.” He looked like a man sleepwalking. “I’ve just received very bad news . . . about Brandon.”
“Bad news?” The words caught in her throat.
“There was an accident.” Lawrence stared at her in a daze. “Head-on collision. Brandon’s in the ER, where the doctors are assessing his injuries.”
Brandon hurt?
Lawrence went on talking, something about the critical condition of the other driver. But Hen froze in the chair, unable to hear or comprehend his words, lost in the air as they were. Her mind and heart entangled in a great knot of concern, distress, and fear.
In a daze, she rose without speaking. From a concealed closet in the wood panel behind his desk, Lawrence snatched his overcoat off a hanger. “I’ll drive us to the hospital,” he said.
Hen mutely nodded her thanks and placed the financial papers back on the desk. Then, pulling on her woolen shawl, she made her way out to his car, parked in a reserved spot behind the law building. She shivered not so much from the cold as from nerves. It was impossible to think of her strong, energetic husband lying injured—or worse—in a hospital.
When they arrived at the emergency room, the receptionist was surprisingly strict about permitting only one family member to visit at a time. She also stared, as if unmistakably curious about Hen’s Plain attire. “Are you a close relative of Brandon Orringer?” she asked.
“His wife,” Hen said, scarcely able to speak. For now . . .
The woman said Brandon was in the critical area of the ER. “Room number eight—headed soon for surgery on his fractured arm.”
“Which arm?” Hen thought aloud.
“His right.”
Brandon’s right-handed.
The woman eyed Hen yet again. “Please adhere to the five-minute rule.”
Lawrence seemed reluctant to let Hen go in first, and he followed her to the locked double doorway and stood to the right of it, his hand in his trouser pocket, jingling coins. He wore a frown as he stared through the round windows.
Feeling out of place, Hen waited until the woman gave the signal and the doors opened outward. Hen tiptoed inside, looking for the correct room number posted on the wall panels. She held her breath as she at last stepped into the curtained-off area, moving quickly to the side of the bed.
Brandon looked worse than she’d feared: His head and neck were attached to a long board, and the bed railings were up on both sides. His face was badly bruised and his forehead was bandaged.
Her knees felt weak at the sight of him, and Hen suddenly realized just how terrible it would be to lose this man—the husband she loved. How could I forget what he means to me? She folded her hands and peered down sadly at him. Is he asleep or unconscious?
The sounds of several machines filled the room. A clear tube for oxygen had been inserted into his nose, and another tube with a needle on the end was going into the vein in his left arm. His heart was also being monitored, and the steady beeping was a comfort to her as Hen’s own heartbeat pulsed loudly in her ears. Her husband looked so pitiful, so pale and lifeless.
Glancing about her, she noticed a clipboard at the foot of his bed. She peeked at it and saw the letters TBI. A moment or so later, a nurse came in to check his blood pressure and oxygen levels. The nurse told her Brandon had suffered several broken ribs, as well as a badly fractured arm.
“What is TBI?” Hen asked.
“Traumatic brain injury. We’ll be watching your husband closely over the next forty-eight hours to determine the extent of the damage.” The nurse explained that because Brandon had been unconscious for more than fifteen minutes following the impact, they were treating him with medication to keep brain swelling to a minimum.
Brain swelling? Her breath caught and tears sprang to her eyes. No, she must not cry. Brandon needed her now . . . needed her to be strong.
“The doctor will be in soon to give you further updates,” the nurse said, offering her a sympathetic smile.
Hen did not want her precious minutes to slip away too quickly. Praying silently, she gently touched Brandon’s exposed left wrist. No response came and she was struck by how very warm his skin was to the touch.
Tears blurred her ability to see clearly the man she’d married so eagerly . . . so happily. The English man who did not understand Hen’s renewed fondness for Plain living, nor her concerns regarding Mattie Sue’s upbringing.
The man who wants to leave me . . .
She looked at his broken body—his right arm in a temporary blue sling. It was impossible not to wonder how badly Brandon’s brain was injured. Yet she refused to give in to fear.
O Lord, please help my husband. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the thought of his being so terribly hurt.
The curtains moved and the ER doctor appeared and introduced himself as Dr. Baker. He shook her hand kindly. “I understand you are Mrs. Orringer,” he said.
“I am.” She waited a moment before asking, “How badly hurt is he?”
“Considering the force of the collision, I have to say your husband’s a lucky man.”
His words were hardly reassuring.
“The initial scan indicates Mr. Orringer has suffered a moderate to serious concussion.”
“What does that mean for him?”
“A head injury of any kind is a grave matter, and according to the report, your husband was unconscious for a considerable amount of time.” He picked up Brandon’s chart and made notes as he checked the various monitors. He leaned over the bed and raised Brandon’s eyelids, one after the other, shining a small penlight. “The first few hours are not as critical as the next twenty-four and beyond. We will be watching for any brain swelling or bleeding.”
It crossed her mind to ask how long he’d be in the hospital, but her legs felt so weak it was all Hen could do to simply
cling to the bed railing. She felt as if she was walking in a stupor. All of this had happened so fast.
Dr. Baker went on to say that Brandon’s right arm was severely fractured and that surgery was essential to reset it. Several ribs were broken, as well, but there had been no puncture to either lung, according to the X-rays.
Thank the dear Lord! she thought.
Although five minutes had already passed, it was difficult to think of leaving Brandon there among strangers.
Hen memorized the form of her husband’s long and once robust frame beneath the white sheet. Please let Brandon recover, she fervently prayed again. “My husband’s brother is waiting to come in next,” Hen told the doctor as she stepped back from the bed, her eyes lingering on her injured husband. “I’ll return tomorrow.”
After his brief visit, Hen’s brother-in-law offered to drive her back to her car at the parking lot behind the law offices. And although the trip wasn’t long, the mood between them in the car was tinged with tension, despite Lawrence’s efforts to make small talk. They were both filled with apprehension.
Lawrence mentioned he would contact his brothers in California and his sister, Terry, in Maryland. Hen was quite relieved. She did not wish to go to the empty house to look up the pertinent phone numbers. “I’ll notify my parents, too, of course,” he added.
She heard the catch in his deep voice. The man was worried sick, just as she was. And thankfully, nothing more was said about filing divorce papers.
They pulled into Lawrence’s parking spot and Hen thanked him as she reached for the door handle. “I plan to visit Brandon again tomorrow,” he told her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be there, too.”
As Hen got out and walked toward her car, it occurred to her that she should have stayed at the hospital while Brandon underwent surgery. But she needed to get word to her family, who would be expecting her back by now. She sighed, well aware that mentally she would be standing next to Brandon’s bed the rest of the day, her hand holding his.
The Judgment Page 20