by Linda Byler
Mary cried out, covered her mouth with both hands. Tears crowded the scene into a spinning vortex of orange, blue, and white lights for both of them. The officers formed a path through the crowd.
Mary threw herself on the still form of her son on the stretcher, but was immediately drawn away. Elmer had enough presence of mind to note the fact that John’s face was not covered.
He lived.
But he lay still as death. There was blood everywhere. His hair. The luxuriant brown waves plastered to his skull, his face with how many lacerations?
He heard the throbbing of a helicopter.
Daniel and Allen were there, Marcus with a sobbing Marty on his arm.
Where was Samuel?
The helicopter settled in the alfalfa field like a gigantic furious wasp, whipping the air around it, tufts of alfalfa flying like nighttime creatures.
Oh, the reality. The cruel, stark fact of what had occurred under the starry skies on a hot summer evening.
Side by side, the parents stood, whitefaced, weeping, but drawing on the reserves of quiet stoicism so characteristic of the Amish. God had allowed this, therefore a bowing to His all-encompassing will was in order.
They rode to Pittsburgh with their driver. Mam was in the second seat, Daniel beside her, wringing her soaked men’s handkerchief, trying to stop the tears, get ahold of herself.
The boys were whitefaced, sober, without questions yet.
They arrived at the hospital without fanfare.
How small and insignificant, this band of parents and sons.
Elmer spoke at the desk.
The brilliance of the lights made them wince. The unbelievably cavernous lobby, the mystifying array of hallways and elevators, the unsmiling faces that hurried by, each one intent on a certain duty, carrying on the work they had been trained for, with years of schooling.
John was in surgery on the seventh floor.
Seven. A good number, Mam thought quickly. Not thirteen. Then she berated herself for allowing myths and old wives’ tales to penetrate her thoughts.
They were told where to go, which elevator.
In the elevator, there was a weird bluish light that cast dark shadows like half-moons beneath eyes, turned a pale blue lavender. Ghostly. Mam was glad to step out, leave the boxy interior of the elevator, glad to get away from light that turned everyone malarial.
They found their way to the waiting room, at the nurse’s station, a half wall filled with plants dividing them. A row of windows with slatted blinds half drawn allowed them to see the city spread out below, rectangles and squares of white and yellow lights like big square fireflies. They could see round street lamps, traffic lights suspended above them, vehicles crawling along with bright headlights, small orange taillights.
The air-conditioning blew strong. Accustomed to August’s heat and humidity, they crossed their arms, rubbed calloused palms across short sleeves and bare skin.
Mam sat beside Dat, her pink face the color of cream, lines tugging at bleary eyes crisscrossed with red veins from lack of sleep and weeping.
Dat leaned forward, the brim of his straw hat clenched in his calloused farmer’s fingers, looking out of place in the sleek, modern waiting room.
He looked down at his old-fashioned high-topped black leather Sunday shoes, tied tightly to above his ankle, scuffs around the toes.
Marcus spoke. “How long do you think it’ll go?”
Dat shook his head. “We have no idea the extent of his injuries.”
Daniel, his mouth twisted to keep from crying, asked if he was expected to survive, or would he die in the hospital?
“We have no way of knowing, Daniel,” Dat said with so much gentleness even Marcus sniffed and blinked.
An elderly couple sat with hands clenched. A youth in torn jeans was joined by an obese girl wearing shorts that did nothing to hide her figure. Politely, the boys averted their eyes, but did look when Dat wasn’t noticing.
Mam sat still, grappling to come to terms with the accident.
Why John? After all they’d come through. And now, if he did survive, how would he recover with that Lyme bacteria hiding in his cells?
For the first time in his life, Mam felt a fleeting anger, a clenched fist shaken at his fate. The poor, poor boy. Enough was enough.
She said as much to Dat in quick whispers, which was met with a wagging of his head.
“No, Mary, don’t do that. God never lays more on us than He gives us strength to bear up under. Those thoughts are from the deifel.”
She felt ashamed, but did not lower her mental fist immediately.
The driver was drunk, intoxicated. He had a blood alcohol level that had officers shaking heads.
He’d rolled his truck twice, but was unharmed. Yes, he was wearing a seat belt. No passengers. When he roared around the curve in the road he failed to negotiate the turn properly, hit the left side of the horse and buggy.
How was that fair, Mam wondered? She hoped he was at least bumped around. Where would forgiveness ever begin or end if John passed away at his young age, after finally seeming to recover from the Lyme?
She couldn’t begin to imagine the spiritual warfare of her heart. Dat asked for coffee at the nurse’s station. He was handed large Styrofoam cups with small plastic containers of cream, red stirrers, and small white napkins.
“If you need more, let us know. We have two pots going all night,” the nurse informed them.
Mam was grateful for the strong coffee, but found it difficult to swallow, so she held the cup, staring at the odd picture on the opposite wall, like wide brushstrokes going in every direction with no sense or purpose.
She lost her ability to breathe, her heart plummeting, when a tall thin man dressed in loose clothing and what appeared to be a plastic shower cap on his head beckoned them to follow him.
Like sheep to the slaughter, Mam thought, expecting the worst, steeling herself for it. What was the worst? Dead? Paralyzed from the neck down? The waist? Losing a limb? Or worse. She felt herself hyperventilating, the blackness, the raspy puffs of breath.
Give me strength.
They followed him into a private room.
He thrust out a long hand with tapered fingers like velvet, shook hands all around, introduced himself as Doctor Bluntheim, the surgeon on call.
“I’m assuming you are John Stoltzfus’s family. Sit down. Now, John has been in a car accident, I gather.”
The parents nodded, their faces almost unrecognizable with foreboding.
“Well, he has been on the table for close to four hours. His injuries are extensive, but given his age and his state of health, he should be mended in three months.”
Dat and Mam exhaled. Color returned to their faces. They fixed their gazes on the doctor’s face with childish eagerness, eyes too bright with unshed tears, mouths wobbly with relief.
“His most serious injury is his left knee. The leg that was on the side that was hit, apparently. His kneecap was completely torn off, the . . .”
And here he used medical terms, naming ligaments and muscles, small bones and large ones which meant nothing to any of them, although they nodded in recognition to his highly educated description.
A broken pelvis. Mutilated knee. Internal bleeding. Damaged liver. Mam’s terror mounted.
“He . . . he has Lyme disease. How will that affect his healing?”
The thick eyebrows were raised. “We’ll have to wait and see. The severity and extent of his Lyme will definitely be a factor, but I see nothing life threatening. I’ll need a list of his medications.”
“Yes.” Mam nodded.
“So, we’re looking at the highest level of care in the ICU. No visitors. It is extremely important. We’ll take a day at a time.”
“May we see him at all?”
The doctor raised a finger, got to his feet. “I’ll be back.”
He never did return, but sent an assistant, a short, dark man who gave them instructions, brought a nurse bearing
gowns, masks, and booties to slip over their shoes, and led them to another waiting room, where they sat like puffy green mummies. The boys tried to keep straight faces, but finally gave up and laughed aloud, pointing fingers at each other.
Dat smiled, as if he couldn’t help himself. Mam frowned, restored order. Relief or not, the situation was grave. No use sitting here grinning like idiots.
Where was Samuel? Where had he been so late at night when all the other boys were home in bed? He should be here with the rest of them.
Finally they were led to a long, narrow corridor, then turned left through heavy doors that opened by a round appendage on the wall. They came to a large white-walled room filled with wheeled beds, computerized monitors, blinking screens, lights, beeps, buzzes, and clicks.
John was against the far wall, completely unrecognizable.
His face was bruised and swollen, his head shaved on one side, a row of stitches like a zipper above his torn ear. He was attached to so many machines, had tubes in his nose, had his left leg in a cast from his thigh to his toes. His eyes were closed, only a line of lashes peeping from the swelling on his eyelids.
“He doesn’t know you’re here. He’s still heavily sedated, but you may touch him, talk to him. Go ahead.”
The dark, swarthy man stepped back, crossed his arms.
Dat went first, stroked the only visible part of John, the top of his right hand. His lips trembled and he bowed his head, then stepped back and dug in his pocket for his Sunday handkerchief and brought it out, neatly folded and ironed. Mam moved as if in a dream, said “John,” then bit her lip and burst into deep, hysterical sobs. Dat hurried to her side, a hand on her shoulder, and led her away.
The brothers stared at shoe tops or the ceiling, drew eyebrows down, but in the end, wiped tears and walked away. It was too hard to talk around the lump of emotion in their throats.
Arrangements were made. They’d all go home now, but Dat and Mam would return and stay till he was out of the ICU. Chores and milking went to Abner and Amos. Ruthie and Sylvia would help.
On the way home they stopped for breakfast at an all-night diner, sat, and bowed their heads over their food with real thanksgiving. They drank coffee and talked about life and John and Lyme disease and God.
Through the coming months, the little diner and the conversation with the boys, the hot coffee and stacks of pancakes remained a beacon of faith and hope and love for Mam.
CHAPTER 24
WHEN LENA HEARD OF JOHN’S ACCIDENT MONDAY MORNING, SHE dropped into a chair with an expulsion of breath that drained the color from her face.
She wrestled with an odd assortment of emotion—disbelief, panic, guilt, and an overwhelming sense of foreboding. Taught in the ways of obedience, her first thought was the fact that she had asked him to take her home. If she would have stayed with Samuel, this horrendous accident may not have occurred.
All my fault. A sign. A sign from God. An omen.
Her parents could not comfort her. Shaken, filled with self-doubt, knowing she could not see him was almost more than she could bear.
She knelt by her bed, not knowing what words to pray. As each evening passed, an inner conviction was planted, took root and grew. She would stay true to what her heart told her. Crippled, deformed, paralyzed, or suffering bouts of Lyme disease his entire life, John was her love, and if marrying him meant caring for an invalid, then so be it.
If the accident was an act of God, then it was a test for her.
Samuel hadn’t arrived back home on the farm until after everyone had left to go to Pittsburgh. He read the note on the table. He was duly shocked, but figured John would probably be all right. His thoughts were filled with a dark-haired beauty dressed in pink. He’d go visit John tomorrow evening. Someone had to do the milking.
In the ICU John drifted between pain and a numbed sleep that took him away from everything.
He was conscious, some of the time, felt the nurse’s white presence, hands on IV lines, tubes, and blinking lights. But he had no clear understanding why he was there or what had happened.
He dreamed grotesque accounts of gigantic ticks crawling over his skin, imbedded, swollen with his own blood. He tried to cry out, knew no one would hear. He felt trapped, held in a painful vise on his left leg.
His parents hovered, called nurses. They went to the hallway and cried out for help, forgetting they could just press the button.
On the sixth day he was mostly alert and spoke through cracked, bleeding lips. His throat was so dry that his voice was barely above a raspy whisper. His eyes were almost swollen shut, discolored, unrecognizable, except for the sliver of amber and the tears that leaked out from the sides.
Rejuvenated, stung into action, Mam leaned over his bed, rubbed his shoulder, wept quietly, asked questions, and in general, became a mother who only increased her intense hovering, her insatiable curiosity, until Dat gently pulled her away. “Give him time, give him time.”
He was moved from the ICU to a room on the fifth floor, and the brothers flocked into his room like colorful birds, dressed in black Sunday trousers and an array of blue, yellow, or red shirts. Self-conscious, ill at ease, they didn’t know what to say, this being their first time in the hospital.
What was a good bedside manner? What were the proper words?
An array of friends began to arrive every evening, but Lena was never among them. John knew and understood. She was preparing to leave for Kentucky.
He had no memory of the accident, strangely forgetting the moments before, when the truck bore down on him. But he did remember the night with Lena, standing by the buggy. It was the thought that sustained him in the worst of his pain and discomfort.
She did come to say goodbye, one afternoon when he was home again, lying on the recliner in the living room, a bedside table to the right, the shades drawn against the hot afternoon sun, a battery-operated fan sending a cooling breeze over his aching, battered body.
Mam hovered with the fly swatter and tried to stay in the background, but heard every word they exchanged. So she was going to Kentucky. Hmm. Well, wasn’t that something.
She knew nothing of Samuel’s infatuation with the dark-haired Emily, so she remained in the same helpless, hand-fluttering stage she had been.
She didn’t see much going on here, between her John and the fair-haired Lena, so who knew?
Who knew the ways of the heart?
She went out to the washhouse for the fly spray and missed the handholding, the intense longing in each other’s eyes, the swift kiss Lena planted on his mouth, the anguish of their goodbyes.
John’s healing was slow, punctuated with many doctor visits, therapy, and a fog of pain and stiffness. The left leg was the worst, with pins and screws to hold the fragmented bone, but by Thanksgiving he was walking with a special boot, the scars on his face barely visible.
Mam applied vitamin E oil, squeezed from capsules, her breath garlicky against John’s face. She fed him bone and tissue capsules, some natural, herbal remedy that left a dry taste in his mouth, replete with constant burping.
“You’ll heal faster,” she assured him, bringing yet another glass of water and another handful of pills.
He was getting around on his own, pale-faced with pain and fatigue, when the eagerly awaited vanload of relatives pulled in on the evening before Thanksgiving.
Frost had covered every remaining vegetable in the garden, freezing the color and vitality from grass and weeds, turning the petunias and dahlias to a drooping slimy mass of ruined vegetation. Mam grumbled to herself as she heaved masses of dead flowers onto the garden cart, knowing she should have extricated these voluminous plants before the frost. But what was she to do, with John’s care, all the canning and freezing at the summer’s end?
John had helped, with the rake, hoeing flaccid dandelions from the bare flowerbeds, raking the mulch, cutting borders with the new, light, battery-operated Weed eater that purred like a kitten.
Samuel was a brig
ht presence now, a bouncing, talkative young man who offered help in the garden, mowed grass without complaint.
So there were always blessings.
The bills had arrived from Pittsburgh General, which left Elmer and Mary Stoltzfus reeling helplessly in the face of the astronomical fees.
They waited for a visit from the deacon, Eli King, who appeared at the door one drizzly, fogbound evening, a cheerful smile and a face that beamed with kindness and mercy.
“Things happen,” he said gently. “We’re here to help one another.”
So the following Sunday, when the bishop announced special council, they walked out, a show of humility, while the remainder of the church conferred among themselves. And all agreed.
With the discount, the bill was still over one hundred thousand. Elmer had pledged the amount of ten thousand. They could pay that much. The deacon would see to it now. He would write letters to deacons of other Amish communities until the remaining ninety thousand was paid in full.
The bishop spoke with tears in his voice.
“A blessing we have, this gift of alms. In time of need, no one needs to suffer unduly.” He then reminded the congregation to keep on striving for what was right and good, to embrace the old ways handed down by the forefathers, a precious heritage never to be taken for granted.
And a great weight was lifted from Elmer’s shoulders. A savings account depleted was a small thing, never to be regretted. They still had John, and after all he’d been through, God must have a purpose for his life on earth.
So when the vanload of siblings rolled in, more than one of them wiped tears, turned away with a discreet handkerchief to their noses.
John stood, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, thin, pale, but without the former eyes blackened with fear and brain fog. His eyes were alert, showing his gratitude and good humor, the gladness he felt wringing Alvin’s hand as he greeted him warmly.
Lydia gave up all restraint and cried and hugged and said far too much, not caring whether he liked it or not.
“I missed you so much, John. Then the awful accident, and we had to wait till now. Almost unbearable. You look awful. A ghost of yourself. Like a shadow. Are you sure you’re going to be OK? What is that thing on your foot?”