Abigail's New Hope (The Wayne County Series)

by Mary Ellis

  Her face seemed to melt, and he thought she might cry. Nathan fled outside as though the house were on fire. He couldn’t bear her look of pity and didn’t want to be cajoled into standing around a cradle making cooing and clucking noises. Those were things that women did. Right now he wasn’t cut out to be somebody’s daed. How could he look into the sweet face of his son and not see his beloved Ruth staring back?

  Tonight he would thank God for his aunt, who had been willing to leave her own family and move in with them. Having raised six children of her own, Iris Fisher knew all there was to know about kinner. Abraham would receive the tender loving care he deserved while Nathan could get back to work. If he was going to turn this place into a profitable farm again, it would take all of his energy and attention. A child was something he had desperately wanted with his wife, but now that Ruth was gone an infant became a confusing puzzle—like the first time he tried to use a cell phone. And he was sure he would never be able to look at that baby and not remember what she had given up for his sake.

  Nathan hurried to the barn for evening chores. He cleaned stalls, spread fresh straw for bedding, scrubbed out water troughs and feed buckets, and groomed horses until it grew so dark he couldn’t see two feet in front of his face. He worked until his back muscles ached and his stomach growled from hunger. But at least when he returned to the house to wash off the dirt and sweat of hard labor the kitchen was empty. A low-burning kerosene lamp cast dancing shadows across the walls. His plate of dinner had been left on the table—four pieces of cold and dried out chicken, fried potatoes in a similar state, and a large serving of pickled beets. Iris had thoughtfully spooned the beets into a separate bowl so the juice didn’t stain the rest of his meal. But he could have easily overlooked red-tinted chicken as long as he didn’t have to talk to his aunt or anybody else about recent events.

  Or about what he planned to do with the rest of his life.

  Three

  Nathan heard a baby cry in his sleep. The sound had interrupted a pleasant dream in which he had been fishing in a rowboat on their farm pond back in Indiana. He had pulled several bigmouth bass from the water, one after another, while his father leaned back in the stern, watching him in amazement. “Haven’t you any bait on your hook?” Nathan had asked his father in the dream.

  “Jah, I have plenty of worms left,” his father had said. “But the fish seem to like your line better today.”

  The sun had felt hot on his back and shoulders while a cool breeze across the water had kept them comfortable. He couldn’t have imagined a more perfect summer day. Nathan remained in bed after realizing he’d been dreaming, burrowing deeper under the covers.

  But the crying was real, the sound emanating from the next room. This was the third time the baby had awoken him during the night. Glancing at his windup clock, he punched his pillow and then swung his legs out of bed. He had only fifteen more minutes until his four thirty milking and figured he might as well get up.

  As he passed the guest room—now the bedroom of his aunt—he heard soft cooing in an attempt to lull the child back to sleep. A twinge of guilt gripped his heart. How much sleep will Aunt Iris receive if the boppli remains fussy night after night? But Nathan had few options, considering he had signed a one-year lease on the farm. Because an Amish man kept up his end of a contract, it would be at least eight months before he could move back to Indiana where his mamm and sisters lived. They might be able to help with his son, but they couldn’t solve the problem of few farms in the area available for lease.

  A man needed to work to live. So he and his squalling child would have to stick things out here for the foreseeable future, as long as Iris didn’t return to her decidedly quieter home with her own sons.

  Nathan dressed and headed to the barn to immerse himself in the numbing oblivion of mindless chores. While he milked or watered or fed or cleaned, he concentrated on the task at hand and didn’t allow his mind to wander. Today at noon his dear wife would be laid to rest in the small local cemetery. After the funeral, Iris’ sons would host the mourners for the afternoon meal at their home. Because he and Ruth weren’t well known, he expected only a dozen or so families at most to attend the graveside service.

  He had refused to have the customary showing in his front parlor. He didn’t want folks stomping in and out of his rented house all day. He’d never been an outgoing man, and his Ruth had been painfully shy, almost frightened of people. The sooner he put the final stage of this horrible ordeal behind him the better. Nothing would bring his sweet wife back—not prayers from the bishop or words of sympathy from the district members or a thousand tears shed over the next hundred lonely nights of his life. Only hard work and the grace of God would eventually take the pain and sorrow from his heart.

  “Nathan? Nathan!”

  He finally heard his name being called while moving hay bales down from the barn loft. “I’m on my way,” he hollered from the loft window. On his way to the house he spotted Aunt Iris on the back porch. She was about to clang the rusty old farm bell when she spotted him on the path. She waved and then disappeared into the house.

  Slipping off his muddy boots in the back hall, he padded into a kitchen smelling faintly of chicken soup.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m glad you heard me. You’d better eat some lunch and then take your shower. With the deacons and bishop meeting us at the cemetery, we shouldn’t be late.”

  Nathan washed his hands before slumping into a chair. Iris set a plate of two sandwiches, sweet pickles, and a sliced apple before him. “I thought I smelled chicken soup,” he said taking a bite of the sandwich. A simmering pot of beef, chicken, or twelve-bean soup had been Ruth’s standard fare on Saturdays. Then they could reheat the leftovers on the Sabbath without much fuss.

  “Ach, you’re smelling chicken and dumplings. I put them in the big roaster to take with us to eat later at my son’s house.” She seemed to be avoiding eye contact and any direct reference that it would be a funeral they were attending today. “Would you prefer to eat a bowl of that now instead of sandwiches?” she asked while filling baby bottles at the stove.

  “No, danki. These are fine—more than enough. I just wondered about the smell.” He took a hearty bite. With all Iris had to do, he didn’t want to appear finicky. “Aren’t you eating? Would you like this other sandwich?”

  “I’ve already eaten. I’ll be right back,” she said as she disappeared down the hallway.

  Nathan sat eating in a house that no longer felt like his home, as though he were the guest and not Iris.

  “Here we are,” she said cheerily a few minutes later. “Little Abraham is ready for his lunch too.” She set the baby carrier on the kitchen table next to his plate.

  Nathan glanced into the folds of blue quilt and saw only a pink forehead and button nose. He continued eating bologna and cheese with no particular urge to get a better look.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Say guder nachmittag to your son.”

  He locked gazes with her across the room. “He doesn’t talk, Aunt, neither English nor Deutsch, and I don’t see the point of babbling to infants.”

  “Well, just take a better look then. He’s not going to bite you.” Surprisingly, she walked over and poked Nathan in the shoulder.

  He tamped down his rising irritation. Didn’t he have to finish lunch and shower for the funeral? Hadn’t she made a point that they shouldn’t be late? He set the remainder of the sandwich back on the plate and put the plate in the sink. “I have to get ready to bury my wife. Danki for the meal.” He walked into the bathroom without another glance at the baby carrier. At least the youngster wasn’t kicking up his usual fuss.

  Thirty minutes later he found his aunt still in the kitchen, packing baby bottles into a tote bag. A second cloth bag stated the obvious in large red letters: Diaper Bag. Iris was dressed from head to toe in mourning clothes, from her heavy black bonnet down to her black, lace-up shoes. Her dress reached her ankles, and a black shawl hung over th
e crook of her arm.

  “It hasn’t been cool at night for weeks,” he said. “You probably won’t need your wrap.”

  Her face looked pale and wan as she glanced up. “You never know, and this way I’ll have it with me. Would you come back inside to carry Abraham after you get the buggy hitched?” She set the roaster of chicken and dumplings into Nathan’s largest hamper.

  “Of course,” he murmured, tugging his black wide-brimmed hat down over his ears. Yet he couldn’t help thinking that if he carried the heavy hamper and bags, she could manage a seven-pound tyke in a plastic carrier. He found himself tense with irritation while he hitched up the gelding. If he’d gotten to know some of his English neighbors, maybe one would have been willing to babysit and he wouldn’t have to take Abraham to such a solemn occasion. How respectful would it be to Ruth’s memory if sounds of wailing drowned out the bishop’s Scripture readings?

  Nathan turned his face skyward as he emerged from the barn driving the buggy. The intense color of the crystalline blue almost hurt his eyes. Not a cloud marred the perfection of the June day. Ruth had loved hanging laundry on sunny, breezy days, claiming that clothes dried in half the time without the humidity. But considering what lay ahead, it could have rained without cessation as far as he was concerned.

  When he pulled open the back door, Iris pressed the handle of the baby carrier into his hand. “Let’s be off then.” She slung a tote bag over each shoulder and then lifted the hamper of food.

  “Aunt Iris, let me carry that,” he said. “It looks too heavy—”

  “No.” Her curt reply cut short any argument. “You haven’t checked on your son since he came home from the hospital.” She carried her burdens very gingerly down the steps while he closed the door behind them.

  “The cradle is in the guest room. I don’t want to invade your privacy by walking into your room.”

  “Nothing keeps you from going in while I’m fixing dinner at the stove.” She glared at him over her shoulder.

  “I suppose not, but I’ve been busy since we came home. Animals don’t feed themselves. And my neighbors may have cut the hay, but it still needed to be raked. Now I must bale and get it stored in the barn before the next rain.”

  They reached the gate where the horse and buggy had been tied to the post. Nathan placed the baby carrier on the seat and then offered Iris a hand to step up.

  She set the hamper and bags down in the driveway and crossed her arms. Her feet looked to be so well planted, Nathan was sure she wouldn’t have blown away in gale force winds. “Hold on a minute, nephew. I want you to pull back that blanket and take a good look at your son.”

  Nathan crossed his arms too. “I’ve seen him, Aunt Iris. I sat with him on the ride to the hospital and held his carrier on the way back. You’re being plum silly when we need to get to the cemetery.”

  “Then I suggest you stop wasting time and do as I ask, because we’re not leaving until you do.” When she lifted her chin, he noticed a dimple he’d never spotted before.

  Nathan rolled his eyes. He knew he had no choice but to do her bidding. He owed her respect above all else. Had it not been for her, he didn’t know what he would have done. He leaned over the seat and drew back the blanket. A quizzical pair of dark eyes peered up at him from a round pink face. The splotches evident on the day he was born had faded. One little fist kept opening and closing as though exercising his tiny fingers. After a moment the baby yawned with great exaggeration as though his day had been particularly tiring thus far.

  Nathan watched until his son shut his eyes and dozed off, the fist coming to rest on the blanket. Then he slowly straightened his spine, one vertebra at a time. “All right, I took a good long look. I must admit he’s changed in the past few days. As bopplin go, he’s a fine-looking little tyke. Are you satisfied?” He again offered his hand.

  Iris didn’t budge from her statuelike stance. “So far you’ve referred to him as a boppli, little tyke, and a youngin. I would like you to call him by his name—Abraham. After all, you picked it out, so you should use it occasionally.”

  “If you continue with this nonsense, we’ll be last to arrive at the funeral.”

  “Then do as I ask.” The tiny woman grew more resolute by the minute.

  Nathan leaned over the carrier and cleared his throat. “Hullo, Abraham. I am your daed. I trust you are comfortable in that contraption. Be sure to let us know by crying if you get hungry or need anything else along the way.” en he tucked the blanket snuggly under the baby’s chin. “How was that?” he asked Iris with a smile.

  “Harrumph,” she huffed. “I guess it’s not bad for a start.” She accepted his hand and climbed into the buggy.

  With his aunt finally seated, Nathan loaded the bags and hamper, climbed onto his seat, and clucked to the horse to get moving before she thought of something else to delay them. But with Abraham wedged between them, she seemed content to watch the passing scenery, and he had time to ponder the oddities of women.

  They talked little on the drive other than to make cursory comments about the weather. But during the last half mile, Iris turned toward him on the seat. “Why didn’t your wife ever want to meet me or come to my house?”

  He gritted his teeth. Can’t she just let Ruth rest in peace? Why do folks have to figure out every what-for and why-not?

  He took a deep breath before he spoke. “She was very shy and nervous around people who weren’t blood kin.”

  Iris furrowed her forehead as though deep in thought. “Then I’m surprised she wanted to move here.”

  “She didn’t wish to move. I did. And since her place was with me, she agreed.”

  “Her family would have insisted she go to a hospital if they had been here.”

  He lifted a brow. “If she would have told them the truth about her condition, but that’s all water under the bridge now.” He pulled on the reins to slow the horse as they turned into the rutted cemetery road.

  Several buggies of early arrivals were already parked near the entrance. Nathan pulled in line beside them. As the three of them stepped down into the bright sunshine, he spotted the hearse from the funeral parlor driving up the narrow lane. The bishop and deacon stood waiting under the sycamore tree with prayer books in hand. Over his shoulder Nathan saw several buggies approaching from the other direction. He glanced down at his sleeping son, bundled in blue fleece despite the warmth of the day, and then at his aunt. “Abraham hasn’t peeped during the entire trip. Let’s get this service over with before he wakes up. We need to put this sorrowful day behind us.”

  Abby had debated long into the night about attending Ruth Fisher’s funeral. Will people hold this young mother’s passing against me? Will Nathan Fisher? Though she knew in her heart she had done everything she could, most Amish men and some women didn’t understand the risks of home births. Although thousands of babies had been born in Amish bedrooms for hundreds of years, that didn’t negate the risk a woman took not being close to modern medical equipment. In the end, Abby decided she needed to go for her own sense of closure.

  After parking at the end of a long row, Daniel helped her down from the buggy. Far more district members had turned out than she’d expected. Because Amish funerals didn’t last very long, no one had unhitched their horses. Abby appreciated the fact that Daniel had made sure their buggy was pointing toward the road should they need to make a hasty exit.

  As Abby and Daniel approached the gravesite, six men lifted a plain pine box from the back of the hearse and carried it between the rows of uniform headstones. No flowers marked the graves, nor would any adorn Ruth’s in the future. No wooden crosses, candles, potted plants, or stuffed bears had been left by grieving family members. When the Grabers joined the ring of mourners, the bishop, deacon, and most others nodded in their direction. Some reached over to shake Daniel’s hand and then hers, whispering words of condolence despite the fact she’d never met Ruth before that awful night.

  Abby felt a lump rise up her
throat when she spotted Nathan Fisher. He stood at the head of the newly dug grave, staring down at the damp, rich loam of freshly turned earth. He held his hat between his large hands, while his bird-sized aunt waited by his side. She was holding a baby, swaddled in a handmade patchwork quilt.

  Little Abraham Fisher.

  How Abby longed to see his sweet face to be certain he was thriving. She wanted to count his fingers and toes, listen to his tiny heart, and watch life-giving air come and go from his healthy lungs. But she wouldn’t intrude in their private time of sorrow.

  Soon the bishop cleared his throat and began reading from the Scriptures. The entire funeral service took less than thirty minutes, including silent prayers for the repose of Ruth’s Christian soul. Songbirds offered unbearably cheerful melodies high in the treetops, while the heavy scent of late rhododendrons and azaleas filled the air. Weather this agreeable didn’t seem fitting for so a somber occasion. Of course, death was simply part of life—no less significant in God’s design than birth. Abby glanced at the elderly English undertaker, looking dignified in his austere black suit. His occupation was the exact omega to her alpha vocation. Does he enjoy his work as much as I used to?

  Daniel took hold of her arm, signaling it was time for them to depart. She uttered one final prayer, and then they started toward the row of buggies.

  “Mrs. Graber,” called a voice over her shoulder.

  She knew who had hailed before she turned around. Nathan Fisher was striding toward them. Deep lines creased his pale face around his mouth and across his forehead, while dark smudges beneath his eyes spoke volumes about recent sleeplessness.

  He halted in front of them, nodding to each in succession. “Danki for coming.”

  “We are sorry for your loss, Mr. Fisher. This is my ehemann, Daniel.” The two men shook hands, and then Nathan crossed his arms over his starched black coat. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and appeared to be choosing his words carefully. If Abby could have vanished and reappeared in almost any other place, she would have done so.