Abigail's New Hope (The Wayne County Series)

by Mary Ellis

  Abby didn’t like the book of Numbers very much. It detailed the organization of the twelve tribes into armies while they lived in the Sinai Desert after fleeing from Egypt. But she loved the book of Deuteronomy, which told the story of the Jews traveling through the wilderness, and about Moses receiving the Ten Commandments etched on stone tablets. God had provided for their every need, and yet they had showed no faith and continued to sin. The Israelites’ lack of faith so angered God that, with the exception of just two people, Joshua and Caleb, no one old enough to fight in battle when they left Egypt crossed the Jordan River into the Promised Land, not even Moses.

  This morning Abby picked up where she’d left off, taking courage from Scripture. Compared to the Israelites, her woes seemed small. How a person takes comfort for granted, not appreciating God’s gracious gifts of tranquility and peace of mind.

  Suddenly the door opened and the woman guard stuck in her head. “Visiting day,” she announced.

  “Thank you, but I won’t have anyone today.” Abby knew Daniel wouldn’t have made the trip again so soon, not in the high season for farm chores.

  “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong.” The deputy winked one green eye. “Someone has signed in.”

  “Who’s come to see me?” Abby asked with growing anticipation.

  Deputy Todd glanced at her clipboard. “Dr. Gerald Weller. He’s on your list of potential visitors.”

  “Dr. Weller is here? I used to work with him…” Abby’s explanation hung in the air because the deputy had already left.

  She thought of several questions on her way to the visitation room: Will Dr. Weller be angry with me? Did he land in trouble because of my behavior? Will he pity me and feel sorry for my circumstances? Or will he feel I deserve everything I got and much more for overstepping my bounds?

  When she arrived, the small, distinguished doctor was already sitting at the table. His gray hair was windblown from the parking lot, his sport coat looked too warm for the July heat and humidity, and his folded hands were age-spotted and paper-skinned. But his cool blue eye met hers without a shred of animosity.

  “Abigail,” he murmured as he rose clumsily to his feet.

  “Dr. Weller. It’s good to see you, but you shouldn’t have come. You probably left an office full of patients, many who need you more than me.”

  “I rescheduled them. I’m sorry I haven’t been here sooner.”

  “Thank you for coming to court for my bail hearing. I saw you in the…audience.” Abby didn’t know correct courtroom terminology.

  “I wanted to make a statement on your behalf, but I was told I had to wait until the pretrial hearing.”

  “You wished to speak for me?” she asked, as hope stirred deep in her chest.

  “Of course I do. Mrs. Fisher wasn’t my patient and therefore she was not your patient. From what I could find out, she wasn’t under a doctor’s care, so she had no business calling you instead of an ambulance.”

  “I told her husband to call the EMTs, but he refused.”

  Dr. Weller held up his hand. “I know. I spoke with him at the hospital the next day. He stayed overnight in the waiting room so they could keep an eye on the baby. He doesn’t like courthouses any better than his wife liked hospitals, but I believe he will testify on your behalf. How far along was Mrs. Fisher when you arrived at their farm?”

  “She had dilated nine centimeters and was in tremendous pain. Her contractions were worse than any I’ve ever witnessed.”

  “And you called the ambulance before setting foot in Mrs. Fisher’s bedroom?”

  “Jah, as soon as I reached their house.”

  “Then, in my opinion as a physician, you were acting not as a midwife but in a Good Samaritan capacity.”

  Abby’s forehead furrowed with confusion. “But I am a midwife. That’s why Nathan Fisher called me. His wife got my number from someone in their district.”

  “You were also trying to save the life of the child. If you had stood by and waited for medical personnel to arrive, most likely the baby would have also died. And nothing you could have done would have saved Mrs. Fisher. She shouldn’t have chosen home delivery with her medical condition. In fact, she’d been advised back in Indiana not to get pregnant in the first place.”

  Abby glanced left and right to make sure no one was listening. She’d discussed birthing matters with Dr. Weller often enough to not be embarrassed, but she wouldn’t like anyone overhearing them. “That’s what Nathan told me at the funeral.”

  “In my professional opinion, you saved the life of Abraham Fisher. The county prosecutor might not agree. He might call expert witness to the contrary, but I don’t think he will. A healthy, thriving child delivered from a dying woman is strong evidence.” Dr. Weller smiled for the first time since arriving. “Now tell me again what you did for the baby.”

  Abby’s head began to throb as she remembered Ruth’s cries, the oppressively hot bedroom, and the overwhelming smell of blood. “A few moments after I examined Ruth she was fully dilated, so on one of her contractions I was able to pull the baby free. But her contractions grew weaker as she lost more blood. After I cleaned mucus from the baby’s nose and mouth, he started breathing and crying. I wrapped him in a blanket and handed him to Mr. Fisher. I told him to keep the child warm while I tried to help his wife.” Tears were streaming down her face. “But I couldn’t save her,” she croaked. “There was too much blood.”

  Dr. Weller covered her hands with his. “No, you couldn’t save her. It’s doubtful that I could have either without proper medical equipment, IVs, and an accomplished surgeon. You shouldn’t blame yourself for that woman’s death.”

  Abby removed one of her hands from his to wipe her face with her handkerchief. “I don’t, not really. God called her home. That’s what I believe happened.”

  Weller nodded in agreement. “Your attorney should have no trouble with the charges of ‘practicing midwifery without a license’ in this emergency situation, and he certainly should be able to get ‘manslaughter’ dropped at the pretrial hearing. That one is ridiculous anyway.” He glanced across the room and sighed. “But the ‘practicing medicine without a license’ and ‘possession and sale of a dangerous controlled substances’ charges are a different story. Did you really give Ruth Fisher an injection of Pitocin?”

  Abby met his gaze without hesitation. “Jah, I did, but I didn’t sell any drugs.”

  “Ah, Abigail. If you’d planned to accept payment for your services, it’s the same thing. Mrs. Fisher’s uterine wall had torn during delivery. She needed emergency surgery to save her life. That drug will usually slow or stop bleeding with minor tears, but not like what Ruth Fisher had.”

  Abby’s back ached from sitting so stiffly, but she said nothing.

  “You had no way of knowing that. In desperation you tried something you had heard about. But this is very serious. I suppose I already know who supplied you with the syringe and medication.”

  She lifted her chin and ground her back teeth, willing herself not to cry. She refused to drag another person into the mess she had created.

  “Well, it really doesn’t matter now. The drug didn’t save the woman, but by giving her that injection, you have landed into a heap of trouble. I will do what I can, Abigail. I know your heart; you meant no harm. And nothing you did harmed that woman. God’s will had been set into motion before your buggy turned up the Fisher driveway. Let’s hope a judge with compassion in his heart can see beyond the letter of the law.” He tightened his grip before releasing her hand. “Stay strong, stay well, and as my grandmother used to say, ‘This too shall pass.’” He rose wearily to his feet.

  He is an old man. When did he become so stiff and aged?

  “Thank you for coming, Dr. Weller, and thank you for your words of support.” She forced a smile for her friend and mentor, feeling pangs of guilt and sorrow as he shuffled away from the table. She was causing grief and heartache for everyone close to her, but she didn’t know
how to stop. What could I have done differently?

  Later that night, staring at the ceiling when sleep wouldn’t come, she prayed for those around her who suffered because of her actions. And she prayed to be shown the correct path out from this thorny maze.

  Eight

  Sweat ran beneath Nathan’s hat, pooled at the base of his neck, and soaked into his shirt collar. Wiping his brow, he watched two turkey vultures floating effortlessly on wind currents, with only an occasional flap of their wings.

  Oh, to have been born a bird instead of a farmer. But he probably would have been born a hummingbird instead of a vulture, eagle, or hawk. Then he would have to beat his wings all day long, continually searching for food to maintain strength. And if that weren’t bad enough, he would have to fly south every year down to Mexico with only a two-inch wingspan.

  Most of the time Nathan Fisher loved farming, but today was not one of those days. After he’d managed to mire the plow into mud near the riverbank, he broke two harnesses trying to pull his equipment free. In so doing, he ended up in foul-smelling muck up to his hips. He thought he might have to hitch another team of draft horses to pull himself out. Then his driving horse threw a shoe and he had to call a farrier to stop at the farm, costing him money he didn’t have. Paying for Ruth’s funeral expenses and the hospital bills for Abraham had left him without enough to pay this month’s rent. So when a wasp stung his neck on the way to the house, he wasn’t surprised. Nathan opened the screen door at lunchtime not in the best of moods.

  “What happened to you?” asked Iris.

  “I got stung by a wasp,” he answered, heading toward the bathroom. He felt a painful lump swell beneath his fingers as he dabbed on antiseptic.

  She followed him to the bathroom doorway. “Did you get out the stinger?” She arched up on tiptoes for a better look.

  “A wasp, Aunt, not a bee. No stinger.” He pressed a cold washrag to the lump and searched for some anti-itch medicine Ruth had bought. When he found the bottle, he sprayed liberally, bringing a searing pain to the tender area. “This hurts like the devil, worse than any bee sting.”

  Iris paled, glancing around the room. “Do not invoke the evil one’s name. You may just compound your troubles.”

  “Hard to imagine this day getting much worse,” he groused. “I mired the plow in mud, got myself stuck, and broke two harnesses. And my standardbred threw a shoe.” He sprayed his neck a second time as the area began to grow numb.

  “Is that why your clothes are soaking wet?”

  “I had to wash the mud off in the pond.”

  “And that’s when the wasp decided to frost the cake.” Her eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth.

  “Are you laughing at my misfortune, Aunt Iris?”

  “Jah, I suppose I am. Mir leid.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’ll laugh at myself too once this pain goes away.”

  She clucked her tongue. “I’ll get you some dry clothes. There’s a folded pile on the steps, waiting to be taken upstairs.”

  By the time she returned, the throbbing in his neck had begun to subside. “Danki,” he said, sitting down at the table.

  “You’re welcome.” Iris ladled beef soup into two bowls. The broth smelled deliciously of onions and celery, but he spotted little meat among the carrots and potatoes.

  “Is there no beef left in the freezer?” he asked, feeling guilty. It was one thing to ask her to cook meals and quite another to ask her to spin gold out of straw.

  “Not too much, so I’m trying to stretch it until you’re ready to take a cow to the meat processor. I know you need all your milking heifers.”

  “I’ll bring you a chicken for supper.” He ladled up vegetables and broth.

  She leveled her gaze over the kerosene lamp. “Don’t you need your laying hens for eggs? I can sell extra eggs to your English neighbors to bring in a little money.”

  Shame rose up this throat like acid indigestion. “We need to eat, Aunt Iris. Man…and woman…cannot live by potatoes and carrots alone.” He took a long drink of water. At least spring water is still free.

  “I’ll send a note to my son to bring over a beef quarter. He took one of his steers to the packinghouse last month, besides the male spring calves. The freezer in his cellar is full.”

  Nathan sopped up broth with half a slice of bread. “All right, but I’ll reimburse my cousin for the meat. I’m not taking handouts. Folks in the district have already done enough by taking care of a large chunk of the hospital bill. I intend to pay my own way in this world.”

  Iris buttered a piece of bread. “In that case, you can go to town and buy more baby formula. I need both the powdered kind and the pre-mixed to take along when we leave for the day.”

  “More formula already? We just bought fifty dollars’ worth.” Nathan didn’t begrudge food for his son, but the cost of English baby products was ridiculous.

  “That boy has a healthy appetite. I can’t very well feed him chicken and dumplings yet.”

  With the mention of solid food, Abraham started crying in the other room. Before Nathan had a chance to enjoy his bowl of canned peaches, Iris retrieved the noisy child and foisted him into his father’s arms.

  “I’m still eating, Aunt Iris,” Nathan complained, positioning the child into the crook of his elbow. But Abraham didn’t stop crying.

  “So am I,” she said. “Try your best while I finish, and then I’ll feed him his lunch.” She smiled sweetly and returned to her soup.

  “He doesn’t like being held by his daed.” Nathan set down his spoon and began bouncing the child on his knee.

  “Only because he’s not used to you.” She spooned up one piece of carrot. At this pace, she wouldn’t finish lunch until Christmas. “The more time you hold him, Nathan, the more he’ll grow accustomed to you. Then he won’t cry so much.”

  “I can’t very well strap a boppli onto my back like a papoose while I work the fields. Bopplin are a woman’s business, not a man’s.”

  “All my sons take pride in their kinner. All have spent time walking the floor with colicky babies and when teething makes for plenty of sleepless nights. The Lord provides two parents for a reason.”

  “Your sons never had to bury a wife. They don’t know what that’s like, and God willing, they’ll never have to find out.”

  Just then, Abraham stopped fussing for a short while and gazed at his father. But Nathan didn’t notice his son. He met the gaze of his aunt instead.

  Iris picked up her bowl and drank the broth. Then she speared the remaining carrots with her fork. “True enough, but your son needs a father, not just his old gefunden.”

  The sound of crunching gravel beyond the kitchen window broke the stalemate between the two. “A car has pulled up to the house. I’d better go see who it is. Maybe that English social worker has come back to check for diaper rash again.” He passed the baby to Iris. Upon the exchange, the boy began to wail as though he’d been pinched.

  Actually, Nathan secretly hoped it was Patricia Daly. He regretted how he had treated her when she had only been doing her job. Her compliment about his care and diligence had been unjustified. What do I have to do with my son’s health and well-being? He’d told Iris about the social worker’s comment, and she had had little reaction.

  And why did I bite Mrs. Daly’s head off for suggesting grief therapy sessions? Couldn’t I have just said, “No, that’s not for me”? Maybe he did need his head examined after all. He’d considered writing a letter of apology, but his penmanship and knowledge of English grammar left much to be desired.

  Halfway down the walkway, he knew his apology to Mrs. Daly would have to wait for another day. A thin young man stretched his tall frame from the driver’s side.

  “Mr. Fisher?” he asked. “Nathan Fisher?” The man approached the porch, glancing down at the gravel path with each step, as though unaccustomed to anything except concrete.

  “I’m Nathan Fisher. What can I do for you?”

  “I
believe I can do something for you, sir.” He pulled a business card from his billfold and held it out. “My name is Jack Boudreau. I work for a law firm in Canton.”

  Nathan glanced down at the card he’d accepted. It revealed nothing beyond what the man had already said.

  “First of all, let me say our firm would like to express our deepest condolences. We understand you lost your wife in childbirth.” He paused a moment before continuing. “She was a very young woman, wasn’t she?”

  “Jah, she was twenty-three.” Nathan shifted his hat back on his head and tucked his hands beneath his suspenders.

  “Oh my. That is too young to die. We are so sorry for your loss.” He pulled on his necktie to loosen the knot.

  Nathan wondered why the man talked in plural while he stood alone in the driveway. “Danki. God decides who to call home. He doesn’t ask anybody’s opinion beforehand.”

  “That is what I was taught too. My mother is a Sunday school teacher and my wife helps out at VBS.”

  Nathan arched an eyebrow.

  “Vacation Bible School,” explained Mr. Boudreau. “So they would readily agree with you. But for myself, I think there are times when people should be held accountable for their actions. And this is a perfect example of one of those times.” He turned his focus skyward. “Would you mind if we talked in the shade or maybe inside the house? This sun is a scorcher today.”

  “Sure, come up to the porch.” Nathan led the way, wondering why Englischers insisted on beating around the bush. They tried to use the maximum number of words to express whatever was on their chest. He waited while the lawyer sat down, pulled off his tie, and unbuttoned his top shirt button.