An Amish Baby for Christmas

by Vannetta Chapman

  She closed her eyes, trying to form the words to explain that this was more than a headache, but found she was unable to do so.

  Thomas let out a long, low whistle.

  She opened one eye.

  “What happened to your ankles?”

  She glanced down, then closed her eyes again. “Swollen, I guess.”

  “That’s more than swollen.” He sat beside her on the couch. “I think I should call Naomi.”

  She tried to answer, and that was when the little food that she’d thought to eat that day made its way back up. Thomas just managed to grab a small trash can she kept under the end table and place it in front of her.

  He patted her awkwardly on the back as she heaved again and again. When they were both quite sure she was done, he carried the trash can out of the room. She heard him go out to the mudroom. Then she heard him in the kitchen, filling a glass with water. He returned with the glass and a hand towel.

  “Danki,” she managed to say weakly. She took a sip from the glass and wiped at her mouth with the hand towel. Finally, she slid back down into a reclining position and curled into a ball. The room looked blurry, so she squeezed her eyes shut.

  “I’m going to get the buggy. Don’t...don’t go anywhere.”

  “Couldn’t if I wanted to.”

  She was vaguely aware of him hovering over her, covering her with a blanket from the back of the couch, then hurrying out the door. He returned, picked her up and carried her to the waiting buggy. She wanted to assure him that she could walk, but her head hurt so badly that the thought of forming words seemed impossible.

  Instead, she rested her head against his shoulder.

  Huddled against him.

  Took comfort in his strength and the fact that he was there, that he cared, that he was willing to help her.

  She thought the jostling of the buggy might bring more pain, but instead she found it was strangely comforting. If there was anything more soothing than the clip-clop of a horse, she didn’t know what it was, and she was vaguely aware that Thomas’s buggy had a heater.

  She sat with her cheek resting against the buggy door, her eyes again closed. He’d brought the blanket from the couch—its weight and warmth seemed to assure her she would be okay. Only, she didn’t feel okay. Something was wrong, but she didn’t know what. Had she caught a stomach bug? Did she have the flu? Was her baby at risk?

  Tears slipped down her cheeks as a soft rain pattered against the roof of the buggy and the last of the day’s light faded to darkness.

  They must have stopped at the bishop’s, because suddenly Naomi was in the buggy, asking her questions about how long she’d felt this way and if there were labor pains.

  Then Naomi was gone, and Abigail heard her speaking to Thomas. “Take her to the hospital. Luke is late returning home from his weekly visit to ill church members. As soon as he arrives, we’ll follow you.”

  And then there was the clip-clop of Duchess’s hooves again. What a fine name for a horse—Duchess. Perhaps the mare came from a royal bloodline. Maybe Thomas was actually a prince. An Amish prince—now, that would be something. She thought she heard Thomas speak to her, then realized he was praying. And that was her last clear thought before she slipped into a troubled sleep, the pain finally receding.

  The bright lights of the emergency parking area woke her. A nurse and orderly helped her out of the buggy. Thomas was attempting to answer their questions, and then they whisked her away. More questions followed as a blood pressure cuff was slipped over her arm and a baby monitor fastened around her belly. She was aware of the nurse calling out numbers and tsking and paging a doctor.

  Abigail began to shiver, and the nurse put a heated blanket on her. She wanted to burrow into that blanket, that warmth. It reminded her of sunny summer days. It reminded her of Thomas’s arms.

  The doctor walked into the room and Abigail struggled to sit up and focus on her. She was middle-aged with short black hair and a kind smile.

  “Mrs. Yutzy, my name is Dr. Rainey. Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

  “I have a headache.”

  “That’s from your blood pressure. It’s quite high.”

  “Do I have the flu?”

  “No. There’s no fever or congestion, so it’s doubtful you have the flu. I believe you have preeclampsia, but we’re going to run a blood test and a urine test to confirm. I’ve ordered meds through your IV that should help ease your headache.”

  “What about my boppli?” Tears burned her throat, slid down her cheeks. “Is everything okay?”

  “We’re hearing a nice strong heartbeat. Your baby is fine. It’s good that you got in here as fast as you did. Preeclampsia can be quite dangerous if untreated. We’ll also do an ultrasound just to be sure everything is fine.” She smiled at Abigail and patted her arm.

  Abigail was still worried. She felt terrible, but something about the woman’s demeanor put her at ease.

  “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”

  She would have liked to sleep, but the nurses had other ideas in mind. They proceeded to gather urine and blood samples, and even brought in a portable sonogram machine. The doctor returned, squirted a cold gel on her belly and then ran a thing that looked like a spatula back and forth.

  Then she heard it—the sound of her child’s heartbeat. It was fast and steady and strong.

  The doctor pointed at the monitor. “See? That’s your baby.”

  “Where?”

  “Here. You can see the head, and the legs, and it looks like this one is a thumb-sucker.”

  Abigail stared at the screen as if it displayed her future, which it did. That was her baby? Inside of her? She stared until the picture began to make sense, until she could distinguish between the background and the child.

  The doctor murmured that she’d be back in a few minutes, and the nurses returned. They cleaned the gel off her stomach, coaxed her into eating some Jell-O and pushed medication through her IV.

  The headache became a distant memory.

  The nausea vanished.

  By the time Naomi stuck her head in the door, Abigail was starting to feel like her old self.

  “Tell me everything,” Naomi said, pulling a chair closer and perching on the edge of it. “You look better than you did at my house.”

  “I barely remember that.”

  “Preeclampsia?”

  “Ya. How did you know?”

  “We have a lot of bopplin born in our community. It’s something that happens occasionally.”

  “The doctor assures me my boppli is fine.”

  “Oh, ya. I’m sure he or she is. You’ll have to take it easy, Abigail. You’ll need bed rest.”

  “It’s not as if I do that much now.” Abigail couldn’t imagine doing less. It seemed that Thomas took care of nearly everything that needed to be done.

  “You’re still doing your laundry—washing it, hanging it on the line, fetching and folding it?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll have one of the teen girls come over to take care of that once a week. What about cleaning? Are you still doing that?”

  “There’s not that much to do, since there’s only me.”

  “Sweeping and mopping?”

  “Of course.”

  “Cooking?”

  “A person has to eat.” She plucked at the bedcover. “I can’t ask Thomas to do any more, Naomi.”

  “Thomas is happy to help you in any way he can.” She sat back and folded her hands over her purse. “He was quite worried about you.”

  Abigail thought of his arms around her as he carried her to the buggy. She remembered the way it had felt to rest against his chest, the peace of allowing someone else to care for her. She shook the memory away and attempted to sit up straighter. “He’s been a gut worker,”
she admitted. “I appreciate all he’s done.”

  “He’s more than a worker. He’s your friend, and a person can never have too many of those. Don’t you agree?”

  “I suppose.”

  Dr. Rainey chose that moment to come into the room. Naomi stood to leave, but Abigail stopped her. “Stay, please. If it’s okay...” She looked to the doctor, who nodded.

  “Your preliminary test results are back, indicating a high level of protein in your urine as well as a low platelet count. Given the headache, the swelling...”

  Dr. Rainey raised the blanket to take a peek at her legs. They all stared at her ankles, which resembled a picture she’d once seen of an elephant’s legs.

  “Already they’re better than when you came in.” Dr. Rainey cleared her throat and continued. “Given those things, as well as your high blood pressure, I’d say we have a fairly typical case of preeclampsia.”

  “But the boppli is fine?”

  “Yes. Your baby is doing well. Would you like to know the sex?”

  Abigail’s eyes widened. Of course, she’d known that Englischers often had sonograms to find out such things. They even had gender reveal parties—which sounded both ridiculous and fun at the same time. It wasn’t the Amish way. Amish tended to wait and see whether Gotte was blessing them with a boy or a girl.

  She looked at Naomi, who shrugged and smiled mischievously. “The doctor apparently knows already. Do you want to know?”

  “I do.”

  Dr. Rainey smiled. “Congratulations, then. You’re having a baby girl.”

  At those words, a tenderness blossomed in Abigail’s heart that she couldn’t have imagined in her wildest dreams.

  A baby girl. She was having a baby girl.

  Naomi murmured, “Gotte is gut,” and the doctor smiled broadly.

  “That’s...it’s wunderbaar.” Abigail swiped again at her tears. Why was she always crying? But these were tears of happiness. She was having a doschder. Warmth radiated through her body, and her hands went to her stomach, to her child, her little girl.

  “Now, let’s discuss your preeclampsia. I’m going to prescribe complete bed rest. I want you to lie on your left side as much as possible, and I’ll send a prescription for medicine to lower your blood pressure.”

  “Okay. Um...bed rest for how long?”

  The doctor exchanged a look with Naomi, and Abigail knew she wasn’t going to like the answer.

  Dr. Rainey set her tablet down on the counter and snagged the rolling stool the nurse had used. She pulled it close to the bed and waited for Abigail to meet her eyes. “You need complete bed rest until it’s time for your child to be born, Abigail. No cooking, no house cleaning, no laundry. You can walk to the bathroom and shower as needed, but other than that you are to stay in bed.”

  “Is that really...?” She swallowed past the anxiety clawing at her throat. “Is it necessary?”

  “It is. We want you to carry this baby as near to term as possible. Your due date is mid-November, correct?”

  Abigail nodded.

  “Six weeks of bed rest, Abigail. That’s our goal. Plus, weekly doctor’s visits. Better yet, I’d like to sign you up to have a visiting nurse stop by your home. The less you’re jostling around in a buggy, the better.”

  They spoke a few minutes longer. Abigail asked questions, and Dr. Rainey patiently answered them.

  She recommended a hospital birth over a home birth.

  She cautioned Abigail that if her condition worsened, if she experienced extreme headaches or sudden swelling, then she needed to return to the hospital immediately.

  And when she learned that Abigail was a widow, she strongly advised that she not attempt to live alone. “You need someone with you at all times, Abigail...just in case.”

  * * *

  Thomas understood that he could have left.

  Luke assured him that they would take Abigail home when the doctor was ready to discharge her. Abigail hadn’t asked him to stay. She probably didn’t even realize he was still there. Duchess stood in the parking area, in the rain, wondering why her supper was late.

  He could have gone home to his little apartment above the mercantile.

  But Thomas knew that the life of a bishop wasn’t easy. Luke had his own children at home to look after. He also had a farm to run and animals to care for.

  More than that, Thomas needed to see Abigail again. He needed to see with his own eyes that she was okay.

  “I’ll stay,” he said, not even attempting to explain his reasoning. “And I can take her home when they release her.”

  Luke smiled and nodded as if he’d expected that answer.

  Naomi returned to the waiting area and caught them up on what the doctor had said.

  “You’re sure she’s going to be all right?” Thomas had told himself over and over that she would be, but hearing the words was like a cold salve over a recent burn.

  “Oh, yes. She’s much better already, and I suspect she’d like to see you, Thomas. But first there’s something we need to discuss.” She proceeded to tell them about the doctor’s insistence that Abigail not live alone.

  “I wonder if her parents or a sibling could come,” Luke said. “I realize it will be a hardship. If I remember correctly, they live in Colorado.”

  Thomas cleared his throat, stared at his hands and finally said, “Abigail hasn’t said much about her family, but from the little she has shared I don’t think her mamm will help.”

  That sat between them for a few minutes.

  It was Naomi who offered a solution. “Mammi Troyer.”

  Luke stroked his beard, considering, and finally smiled. “I believe you’re right, dear. Mammi Troyer...I should have thought of it.”

  “You can’t think of everything, even if you are the bishop.”

  “Ah.” He winked at Thomas. “She keeps me well grounded.”

  “Mammi Troyer from your church district? Old Mammi Troyer? The woman has to be eighty at least. I did some work for her a year or so ago...” Thomas didn’t like the idea at all. There had to be someone more dependable that they could think of, someone younger and stronger who could stay with Abigail until her boppli was born. “How can she be of any help? And are you sure she’ll be willing to...move in with Abigail?”

  “I suspect she will.” Luke stood, stuck his hands in his pockets and jingled some change there. “And you would be surprised how spry Mammi is. It’s true that she won’t be out feeding the horse...”

  “Nein, I’ll feed the horse.”

  “But she still cooks and sews, and she’ll be gut company for Abigail.”

  Naomi seemed to think the matter was settled. “The main thing is that Abigail not be left alone. We can give her one of your emergency cell phones.”

  Luke nodded in agreement.

  “Yes. I think that would be appropriate.” He paused and added, “But Abigail should call her mamm first and ask if she’d like to come. She should give her mamm the opportunity to bless her, and if she says no...then we ask Mammi Troyer.”

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Thomas. “I suspect you’d like to visit with Abigail. Would you give this to her and see that she calls her parents?”

  Yikes.

  Thomas wasn’t sure he wanted to do that at all. He wanted to see Abigail, but he didn’t want to end up in the middle of a family squabble. He also didn’t want to see Abigail cry, and for some reason he was fairly certain that talking to her mamm would result in that very thing. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of a single reason to tell the bishop no. So instead of making an excuse, he pocketed the cell phone and followed Naomi’s directions back to Abigail’s room...feeling for all the world like one of the martyrs of old, about to face his end.

  He knocked, waited for her to answer, then opened the door and peeked inside
. At the sight of her, he almost backed out.

  Abigail was sitting up in her bed, no kapp on her head, brown hair tumbling around her shoulders. It had a touch of auburn to it. Why had he never noticed that before? It reminded him of the colors of fall.

  He shook his head, attempting to refocus. A box of Kleenex was on her lap, and she was blotting her eyes. Good grief. She was crying, and he hadn’t even told her the bad news yet.

  “Come in, Thomas. I was...” She hiccupped, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “I was wanting to thank you.”

  “Hmm. Tears don’t really convey that message.”

  He took the seat beside her bed and suddenly he knew that he wouldn’t have backed out, even if she’d been sobbing or chucking things at him. He needed to see Abigail. He had to see, with his own eyes, that she was oll recht.

  “You do look better, even though you’re crying.”

  “I’m getting pretty sick of it...of crying, I mean.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  She pulled in a deep breath, which caused her to hiccup again. “I don’t know. I never was much of a crier before, but now it seems as if my eyes—and my heart—have a mind of their own.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that, and he couldn’t keep looking at her or he’d pull her back into his arms. The memory of the feel of her against him as he’d carried her to the buggy was still fresh. For one moment the restlessness in the center of his being had stopped and been replaced by...

  By what?

  Love? Did he honestly think he was in love? His eyes darted around the room, searching for something to land on other than the woman in the bed beside him. He wasn’t in love with Abigail Yutzy. She was a widow and seven months pregnant to boot.

  “You look as if you’ve seen a pig fly.”

  “A pig fly?”

  “Something my daddi used to say. He was a funny old guy—so unlike my dat.”

  Thomas felt relief that they’d moved to solid ground and she’d stopped crying. He relaxed back into the chair. “This was your dat’s father, then?”

  “Right. He lived with us for a time, not in a dawdi haus because my parents didn’t have the funds to build one.”