The Judgment

by Beverly Lewis

  Once home, she entered the main house, where she quietly relayed the news of the accident to her father and sister. Both were shocked and concerned, as well as ready to assist in any way possible. Neither Dad nor Hen was in a hurry to tell her mother, at least until tomorrow, when they knew more.

  But Hen could not put off telling Mattie Sue. Gently, she sat down with her daughter. “Daddy’s been in an accident. He’ll be staying in the hospital for a while.”

  Mattie’s eyes grew solemn, but surprisingly she seemed less frightened than Hen thought possible. Hen took her daughter into her arms and held her near, making a great effort to be calm as they prayed together for the man they both loved.

  Chapter 30

  The next morning, Hen sat across the breakfast table from Mattie Sue and told her she was going to visit Daddy again at the hospital. When Mattie pleaded to go along, Hen explained that children under the age of twelve were not permitted to visit.

  Much to Hen’s relief, this seemed to suffice as she kissed her good-bye. “Mind your Aendi Rose and Mammi Sylvia, won’t you, honey?”

  Mattie Sue smiled and nodded her little head. “Tell Daddy I miss him.”

  “I certainly will.” Her heart was made tender by her dear girl’s remark, and she hugged her close.

  As she walked around the barn to her car, she was once again glad she hadn’t sold it just yet. She would need a car to visit Brandon each day, until he was released.

  When Hen arrived at the hospital, she made her way to the information desk amidst discreet stares to ask what room Brandon had been assigned to, following yesterday’s surgery. She was directed to his floor and room and, after noting that Brandon was sleeping, she sat in the chair near the window and settled into doing a bit of needlepoint. Every few moments, she looked over at him, recalling happier days. Truth was, she was waiting on pins and needles for Brandon to wake up and talk to her, or for someone to come in and give her an update.

  For the first half hour, Brandon remained at rest, eyes closed. When the nurse assigned to him arrived to check his vitals, she indicated it wasn’t unusual for a head injury patient to require lots of rest. In fact, it was strongly encouraged.

  Hen felt sure her husband must sense she was near, even though she had been reticent about speaking, not wanting to disturb him. And although her hands were occupied by embroidery, her thoughts were of his having survived the accident. What if he had died yesterday? What then?

  As time passed, everyone who entered Brandon’s room, including one of the paramedics who’d come to see him briefly, mentioned how remarkable it was that he was alive. “Your husband must be living right,” the paramedic told her with a broad smile. Evidently the other driver had a fractured vertebra and faced a second surgery today to stabilize his left leg, although he was expected to make a full recovery.

  Hen was thankful to hear this and wondered how long Brandon’s own recovery might take. It was hard for Hen not to worry that, along with his inability to use his right arm for weeks, Brandon could very well suffer great pain, like her mother. She prayed that would not be her husband’s plight.

  Hen’s concern deepened when Brandon’s doctor stepped into the room and asked to have a word with her. “Your husband has been more alert this morning—an excellent sign. Unfortunately, we’ve discovered that his head injury has affected his vision—a condition known as cortical blindness, and a situation we expect will be only temporary.”

  Hen felt unable to absorb this news. “Blindness?” she repeated. “He can’t see anything?” Her lower lip trembled at the thought.

  “Yes, I’m afraid that’s the case.” The doctor nodded. “I know the news is disconcerting, Mrs. Orringer, but his prognosis is good, and I wanted to alert you to the situation before Brandon wakes up again. He’s naturally very concerned right now.”

  Hen thanked him for telling her, but her own worries were multiplying by the moment. How would an independent man like Brandon handle the loss of his sight for even a short time?

  “The longer the loss of sight continues, the more cause for concern.” The doctor paused. “But again, we have every reason to believe it will return soon.”

  He handed Hen a booklet describing various kinds of head injuries. “This will help you understand your husband’s concussion-related symptoms. In addition to the cortical blindness, he has a nasty headache, as well as some nausea, both of which are very typical. Additional indicators of the initial trauma can show up over time . . . even during the next weeks.”

  Weeks? Brandon will never stand for that!

  The doctor said he would return in a few hours, then wished her well. Hen sat musing on what she’d just learned, too dismayed to return to her embroidery as the oxygen whistled through the tube.

  Later, Brandon’s nurse came back to take his blood pressure. Even though he appeared to be asleep, she talked quietly to him, describing what she was doing. Brandon’s eyes fluttered a bit, and Hen’s heart beat faster when she saw that he’d opened his eyes, blinking them repeatedly. He mumbled something Hen could not make out from where she sat.

  The nurse glanced at Hen and motioned for her to come to his bedside. “Yes, your wife is right here,” she said, looking at Hen.

  Brandon continued to blink, his face turned in the direction of the nurse. “Hen—thanks for coming,” he said weakly. “You didn’t . . .”

  She patted his hand.

  “Has the doctor been in yet?” he murmured.

  “He was just here,” the nurse said.

  “What day is this?” he asked.

  “It’s Saturday,” Hen told him.

  “Are you sure?” He seemed terribly agitated.

  The nurse intervened. “It’s Saturday all day today,” she joked, winking at Hen. “You’re just a little confused—very common after your type of injury.” Hen knew she’d said it for both their benefits. “That should clear up soon.”

  “But my eyes—why can’t I see?” he asked, moaning.

  Hen’s heart went out to him. “It’s best to rest,” she said softly.

  He turned his head toward her, staring blankly. “Is Mattie Sue with you?”

  “She asked to come, but it’s against hospital policy. She misses you . . . and is praying for you. My whole family is.”

  Brandon shifted in the bed, as if uncomfortable. “Last night the doctor said I could go home soon, if there’s no more swelling in my head.” His voice sounded vacant, and Hen sensed he was discouraged. “I have an important business deal to close on Monday. I can’t afford to miss out.” He paused, frowning. “Or is it on Tuesday?” He groaned, frustrated. “Why am I so mixed up?”

  The nurse touched his arm. “You have a bad concussion, Mr. Orringer. Give yourself time to recover.”

  “Time? I need to go home.”

  The nurse assured him he would be discharged the minute the doctor thought he was ready.

  Hen thanked the nurse for her good care. And later, when the nurse left the room, Hen slid the chair closer to Brandon’s bed and sat near him, wanting to be a comfort. Silently she prayed, hoping Brandon’s sight might return quickly.

  What will he do otherwise?

  Yet by two o’clock that afternoon, Brandon still could not see.

  After supper that evening, Barbara Petersheim came over to Hen’s for a visit, bringing freshly baked brownies and a Jell-O salad with homemade whipped cream and crushed pineapple over sliced bananas. While enjoying the treat, they talked about Brandon, as well as the quilt Hen was making.

  The cheery visit touched Hen deeply, and when Barbara rose to leave, she embraced Hen caringly. “The People are prayin’ for your husband, dear girl. You can rest assured of that.”

  Hen thanked her for coming; she felt exhausted as twilight fell. Mattie Sue had spent much of the day with Beth and Rose Ann at the main house. Just now she could see Mattie Sue running across the yard, calling “Mommy.”

  Hen went to the door and watched Barbara wave kindly to Matt
ie Sue. The bishop’s wife had been the ideal person to drop by this night. Of all women, Barbara understood about grief and fear, having watched her own son struggle to live that short time following the accident. Dear Barbara’s light brown hair had begun to gray suddenly in the last two months. Deep grief could do that, Hen had read somewhere.

  Mattie Sue came rushing into the house. “How’s Daddy today?”

  Hen sat down with her darling girl and explained that her father needed their prayers more than ever. “Daddy’s arm and ribs are getting better, but his head hurts really bad, honey . . . and right now he can’t see. The doctor says he might by tomorrow, though.”

  A deep frown appeared, but Mattie Sue did not cry. She nodded her head and offered to say a prayer for Daddy right then. “Dawdi Sol says God hears our prayers, ain’t?”

  Hen smiled. “That’s right, honey.”

  “He says sometimes God says yes, or no, or maybe—or wait for a while longer.”

  Hen kissed her daughter’s cheek. “And sometimes the prayers we pray help change us most of all,” she said, following Mattie Sue upstairs for bed.

  “Dawdi Sol told Aendi Rosie the same thing at the noon meal today.”

  Hen wondered what she’d missed—had Rose asked about prayers for healing? For Mom, perhaps? Or for Brandon. Hen knew that she would continue to pray for both her mother and for her husband.

  Dear Lord, may your will be done for Brandon . . . and for our marriage.

  Courting couples met after nightfall on the Saturday evenings before the no-Preaching Sundays. Some rode about the countryside for hours in the young man’s open buggy, while others went to relatives’ to play Dutch Blitz and other table games, or Ping-Pong.

  Because the night was bitter cold, Rose assumed this date would be spent riding and talking for only a brief while before Silas took her home. When Silas arrived, she was grateful to note he had several warm lap robes and heated bricks in the courting buggy. He was well prepared, and she wondered if what he wanted to discuss might take some extra time.

  She still felt uneasy about the note he’d sent her this past week. To ward off discussing that, Rose instead brought up Hen’s husband’s accident. “My brother-in-law is in the hospital with a concussion,” she told him, “and a seriously fractured arm . . . and broken ribs.”

  “Oh, awful sorry.”

  Brandon’s accident had weighed heavily on her mind since yesterday afternoon, when she and Dat had heard about it from Hen.

  To think it happened on his way to the law office!

  Rose still had a hard time grasping the fact that her sister’s young marriage was ending. And now this? What did it mean? She believed the Lord allowed things to happen, whether good or bad, for the “trying of our faith.” Out of the bad, good could also come in due time. No matter what, Rose understood it was important to trust in God’s will, regardless of how things might appear, or what others might think or say about the situation.

  “Hen says Brandon’s sight is also affected, but the doctor anticipates it will come back soon,” she told Silas.

  “I sure hope he’s right.” He said no more.

  Rose felt odd about carrying the conversation like this. She decided not to say another word, except to respond to Silas—if he finally loosened his tongue again.

  The perfect half-moon was a lovely sight as the horse pulled them slowly along the road, heading east. Rose missed hearing the chorus of crickets in the underbrush—summer was long gone. The steady snows of the last few days had covered the fields and meadows, as well as the lanes leading into farmhouses and other homes in the area. Winter draped the road, where horses’ hooves had packed the snow into ice, and buggy wheels had carved furrows into the treacherous roadway.

  She huddled beneath the woolen lap robes, trying to keep warm. She breathed in the icy air through her nose, lest she freeze her lungs as the steady sounds of the horse’s hooves clomped against the hardened snow. Mammi Sylvia had warned her and Hen to do this when helping bundle them up for school in the deep of winter, years ago.

  When Silas finally did speak, Rose was nestled down in the heavy lap robe, her nose and upper face the only parts showing. “Rose, it’s beyond me why you left so quickly last Sunday night,” he said. “Why would ya do such a thing?”

  “I didn’t do it to embarrass you, if that’s what you think.”

  “Well, I kept wonderin’ where on earth you’d disappeared to.”

  She listened, then replied, “It didn’t look right . . . you standin’ over there talking to Rebekah like that. It was like you’d forgotten I was even there.”

  He was quiet again.

  “I wouldn’t have left the Singing if you’d noticed me. But once Rebekah showed up, well . . .” And you couldn’t seem to stay away from her, Rose added mentally.

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “I’m sorry to disagree with you, Silas, but how can ya say that? We’re engaged . . . and betrothed couples stay together.”

  He turned to face her. “Why are you so upset ’bout this?”

  “Like I said . . . it just didn’t look right.” Taking a slow, deep breath, she withdrew from his side. Evidently, Silas did not understand how she felt, which made her even more frustrated.

  “So now you’re goin’ to pout?” He sounded bewildered.

  They rode without speaking for a long and awkward interval.

  “Silas?” she said at last. “Could it be you still care for Rebekah?” Rose held her breath, waiting for his answer.

  “I care for you.”

  She pondered that. “Then why did ya seek her out like that?”

  “She sought me out at the Singing.”

  For certain, it seemed as though Silas was bent on defending his behavior. Why? The things he had said didn’t make her feel a stitch better.

  “Look, Rose, I don’t want you to think you’re not important to me. You are.” He turned to look at her. “I’ve always thought highly of you. So has my family. Why, my father even prompted me to court you again last spring. He’s a good judge of character—and a man of high integrity. It seemed like a confirmation when I realized he and I were both thinking the same way.”

  Rose was surprised he was telling her this, though he did not mention the land. Would he answer her honestly if she asked? Her concern over that—and his evident lack of understanding of her own feelings regarding last Sunday—stole away any desire Rose had to talk further. Yet she could not help but wonder if his father’s farm had played a role in settling Silas’s choice on her.

  Has he suppressed his true feelings for Rebekah? The thought went round in her head like the continuous spinning of a windmill.

  After another long stretch of silence, Silas said, “I think we should call it a night, jah?”

  Surprised, she glanced at him.

  “Seems we’re getting nowhere,” he stated flatly. He hurried the horse, and when they came to a side road, he directed the animal to turn and then back up. Once they’d straightened again, he clicked his tongue and they sped back toward Salem Road.

  As they approached her father’s house, Rose said softly, “I don’t know, Silas . . . if I’m not speakin’ out of turn, maybe we shouldn’t see each other for a while.”

  Silas didn’t reply—didn’t even reassure her with his wonderful smile. And, considering everything, she didn’t feel crushed by his silence as she climbed down, out of his courting buggy. In fact, his lack of a response right now seemed to point to the truth.

  Chapter 31

  Hen fingered the end of a loose strand of Mattie Sue’s blond hair that evening. “Looks to me like you need a good brushing.” She smiled down at her daughter.

  “Oh, Mommy . . . do ya think I’m a pony now?” Mattie Sue giggled, prancing around her bedroom. “Giddyup, Pepper.”

  “Pepper? Have you been riding the bishop’s horse?”

  Mattie nodded. “Dawdi Sol took Beth and me riding on him this morning.”

 
Dad did this? Hen was surprised. “But Pepper’s a driving horse.”

  “Well, Dawdi says he’s the best horse for us to ride double on, since he’s nice and slow with the bishop’s littlest grandchildren, too.”

  “Does Dawdi Sol lead Pepper along when you ride?”

  “Jah, he wants us safe. And that way, Pepper won’t start trotting.” She giggled. “But Beth said she’d like it if he did.”

  Hen reached for the brush on the dresser and sat on Mattie’s bed. She began to undo the bobby pins and let out the little bun at her neck. Down tumbled a cascade of thick locks. “Goodness, just look how long your hair’s getting.”

  “Show me where.”

  Hen patted Mattie Sue’s midback. “Halfway between your neck and your waist.”

  “If ya brush it a lot, will it grow faster?”

  Smiling, Hen said her own mother had always thought so. “When I was a little girl, I asked the same thing.”

  “Did ya want your hair to grow real long . . . down to your knees?”

  “No, not that long.”

  “How long, Mommy?”

  “Well, to my waist, like my grandma’s,” Hen replied.

  “Grossmammi Sylvia?”

  “No, Dawdi Solomon’s mother had the longest hair I’ve ever seen. It took nearly a full day for it to dry.”

  Mattie sighed. “I don’t remember her.”

  “I was just ten when she passed away . . . long before you were born, honey.”

  Mattie fell silent, and Hen picked up the length of her daughter’s hair with her left hand and began brushing gently with her right. “Daddy’s not going to die, is he?” Mattie Sue asked softly.

  A similar worry had plagued Hen when she’d first stepped into the emergency room critical care center. But now she believed differently. “Daddy has a wonderful-good doctor and nurses taking care of him. You mustn’t worry.”

  “Why can’t he see?”