The Mending

by Susan Lantz Simpson

  The shop had been busy for weeks now and would only grow busier with the arrival of the holiday season. He and Sam and the Swareys had been putting in long days to fill their many orders. Thankfully, most customers did not want something as elaborate as the china cabinet. His next order was a child’s oak dresser that would not be nearly as heavy or showy. It was a solid, functional piece of furniture that he would like to make for his own kinner—if he ever had any.

  If Timothy had his way, he and Malinda would be published and married the next week. He had promised to give her time, but he hadn’t expected it would take this long. He had hoped her bruder’s marriage or Phoebe’s would have turned her thoughts to her own wedding. He believed Malinda cared for him, but she hadn’t yet been able to overcome her misgivings. Maybe he hadn’t done a gut enough job convincing her the Crohn’s disease or any other medical condition didn’t matter to him. He scratched his head. He’d convince her yet. Somehow. He picked up the hardware the customer had selected and got to work on the dresser.

  Timothy could no longer hear his own whistling as the noise level rose in the work area. He never heard Sam holler for him, but he did see Sam flapping his arms. From Sam’s gestures, Tim gathered his china cabinet customer had arrived. He sure hoped she liked the finished product. He’d be glad to have the cabinet safely moved to its home. He brushed his hands against his dusty pants and headed for the front of the shop.

  He emerged from the workroom just in time to see his customer tug off her woolen mitten and rub her hand over the uncovered cherry cabinet. “This is absolutely amazing. It’s the most wonderful present from the most wonderful husband.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss the tall man’s cheek. Longing replaced Timothy’s initial embarrassment. Would Malinda ever reach up to kiss him? Not in public, of course, but in the privacy of their own home? His cheeks burned hotter than the embers in the bottom of the woodstove. Timothy cleared his throat.

  Instantly the woman jumped away from her husband. Her cheeks flushed, but she continued to gaze lovingly at him. A twinge of envy shot through Timothy’s core. He needed to curb these yearnings and concentrate on his work.

  “This cabinet is absolutely beautiful, Mr. Brenneman. It’s even better than I envisioned. You certainly did a magnificent job.”

  “I’m glad you are happy with it.” Timothy felt more than a little awkward at the woman’s high praise. “We can help you load it into your truck when you’re ready.”

  “My brother came to help, too,” the woman answered. “I’ve brought some old blankets to wrap around it for protection. Will that work?”

  “That should be fine.” Timothy riffled through the orders in a brown accordion-style folder on the counter. He plucked out the right one as the woman’s husband extracted his wallet from a back pocket.

  “We’ve told everyone about your shop and referred them here for high-quality furniture, right, hon?” The woman latched onto her husband’s arm and batted her eyes at him.

  “We sure have.” The man stopped pawing through his wallet long enough to pat his wife’s hand.

  They must be newlyweds, Timothy thought. Aloud, he said, “We appreciate that.” After completing the cash transaction, Timothy motioned to Sam to help them move the bulky piece of furniture.

  “Call Jonathan to come help,” the Englisch man told his wife. Immediately, she ran to the door and hollered for her brother.

  “I think we can get it,” Timothy said. He and Sam were accustomed to lifting heavy furniture. They’d moved this very cabinet several times. Lifting it onto a truck would be a bit more challenging, but nothing out of the ordinary for Tim and Sam.

  “Wait, Cassie! Tell . . . oops, too late,” the customer began, but stopped when a young, gangly man of about eighteen stepped into the shop. “I was going to say Jonathan could back the truck to the door, and I’d help lift.”

  “I can’t drive stick shift anyway,” the boy mumbled.

  Timothy wasn’t sure how much help the fellow would be lifting such a heavy piece of furniture, either, unless those spindly arms were stronger than they looked. Maybe Tim could convince him to spread the blankets in the bed of the truck so he’d be helping but out of the way. He didn’t want anyone to be injured.

  “Let me back the truck a little closer. Did you leave the keys in the truck?” The customer turned to look at the younger man.

  “Yeah. I didn’t think any of the horses or cows would steal anything.”

  The woman rolled her eyes and punched her brother’s upper arm. “Don’t mind him. He got up on the wrong side of the bed.”

  “Got up too early, you mean,” he grumbled.

  Timothy glanced at Sam and suppressed a smile. At nearly midday, they had been up and working for hours.

  “Okay. He got the truck as close as possible. I can’t wait to get the cabinet home!”

  The boy pulled open the front door of the shop, admitting diesel fumes from the truck’s idling engine. “Let’s get this done.”

  “How about if you jump up there and spread out a couple of the blankets first?” Timothy hoped that would occupy the younger man while he and Sam got a grip on the cabinet and hoisted it up to carry out the door.

  The boy grunted and shrugged his bony shoulders, but shuffled to the door to do as Timothy suggested. Timothy nodded at Sam. On the count of three, they grasped opposite edges of the cabinet and lifted it with relative ease. They sidestepped to the door the Englisch lady braced herself against to keep the wind from blowing it closed on them.

  “They dragged me here to help, you know.” The whiny voice came from somewhere behind Timothy, but he couldn’t see over the cabinet to tell exactly where the surly fellow stood.

  “Stop, Jonathan!”

  Timothy heard the shout the same instant the cabinet swayed in his direction. He couldn’t let the cabinet fall and get scratched or even worse. He grunted as he struggled against the momentum of the tilting cabinet.

  “It’s out of my grasp, Tim. Let it go!”

  Sam’s voice sounded miles away. “I-I can’t.” Timothy’s muscles shook and strained to bear the entire weight of the monstrous piece of furniture. Somehow the thing struck him on the head. He slid but didn’t fall to the ground. Something kept him there with the cabinet, but he couldn’t figure out what it was before blackness overtook him. A scream was his last conscious memory.

  * * *

  A jostling movement brought on a series of soft moans that Timothy gradually realized came from his own lips. He tried to turn his head and push himself upright but could do neither. He squinted to try to bring something into focus. Pain clouded his thoughts, and a strange voice floating above him admonished him to stay still. “Wh-what . . .” A gasp took the place of words.

  “Tim! Tim! Are you okay?”

  “Step back please, sir,” the strange voice called out.

  “S-Sam?” Timothy tried to turn again.

  “Jah. I’m here, Tim.”

  “Lie still, Mr. Brenneman. I’m Russ, a paramedic. We have you immobilized on a backboard in case you have a spinal injury. How are you doing?”

  “Pain.” Tim struggled not to moan again. “M-My hand.”

  “I’m sure that hurts. We’re going to get you to the hospital right now and get that checked out.”

  “The hos . . .” Talking took too much effort. Timothy clenched his teeth against the pain that threatened to consume him. He was only barely aware of the stretcher moving toward the flashing lights on the ambulance.

  “I’ll tell your folks,” Sam called.

  Timothy couldn’t formulate even a simple reply. Pain flashed in his brain like the red lights flashing before his eyes. He felt the stretcher being raised toward the gaping back door of the ambulance. As the vehicle swallowed the stretcher, Timothy allowed the lurking blackness to engulf him and give him blessed relief from the excruciating pain.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Malinda picked at her fingernails as she paced back and forth across
the waiting area of St. Mary’s Hospital’s emergency room. Every now and then one of her black sneakers squeaked on the gray and white tile floor. One of their Englisch drivers had raced to the hospital with Timothy’s parents, Sam, Emma, Atlee, and Malinda stuffed inside her van. Malinda couldn’t see from her seat all the way in the back, but she was pretty sure they’d exceeded the speed limit most of the way.

  Tim’s parents, Melvin and Fannie, sat side by side in matching plastic chairs, whispering to each other. Sam and Emma occupied two nearby chairs. Malinda couldn’t sit still, hence her pacing. As she passed by Sam and Emma, she overheard snippets of their conversation.

  “I should have been able to hold that cabinet.”

  “You couldn’t have held it, Sam, if that Englisch fellow tugged on it. Once he made it move, there was no way you could have controlled it.” Emma squeezed Sam’s hand.

  “This is crazy. It shouldn’t have happened.” Sam rubbed the dark whiskers that had been growing since his marriage.

  Malinda paced on. What was taking them so long? Shouldn’t someone be able to tell them how Tim was doing? Didn’t they know the extent of his injuries by now? She jerked to a stop when Atlee grabbed her arm. She’d forgotten he was leaning against the wall observing the comings and goings in the waiting room.

  “Be still,” Atlee whispered. “You’re wearing a hole in the floor.”

  “I can’t. I’m too nervous to sit still. What is taking so long?” From experience, she knew hospital visits were rarely quick. Assorted people poked and prodded and then poked some more. Please, Lord Gott, let Timothy be all right. Please don’t let him be badly hurt. Let them bring us gut news soon. Let us be able to take him home.

  “You know they have to do X-rays and who knows what other tests.”

  “I know. It’s just so hard to wait.” Malinda prepared to resume her pacing, but the double doors leading to the patient care area swung open. A tall, lanky, middle-aged man in light green scrubs topped by a white lab coat strode across the waiting room. He stopped in front of Timothy’s parents. Malinda rushed over to hear the man’s report, with Atlee at her heels.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Brenneman?”

  “Jah.”

  Malinda gripped the back of a chair and braced herself for the news.

  “I’m Dr. Allan.” He held out a hand to Melvin. “We’re going to admit Timothy. He had a pretty nasty bump on the head and may have a mild concussion. There is no brain bleed or brain injury that we can see on the reports, but we want to watch him.”

  “Nee brain injury. That’s gut,” Fannie whispered.

  “But his hand is another story.” The doctor’s expression became more serious. His bushy brown eyebrows drew together, and a deep frown creased his forehead. “We’ve called in an orthopedic doctor to take a look. That hand got pretty mangled. There appear to be several broken bones. The orthopedist will have to assess the damage and decide if surgery will be necessary.”

  Melvin nodded. Fannie grasped her husband’s arm. “How bad is it?”

  “The hand is very swollen and bruised. I’m not the expert, you understand, but I’m hoping with therapy he will be able to regain some use of that hand.”

  “Some?” Malinda gasped. Timothy needed that hand. His livelihood depended on being able to bend his fingers to craft furniture. He needed strength in his hand to lift and use tools and move furniture about. He might be able to get by with limited use of one hand with another type of job, but a furniture maker relied on both hands.

  “The orthopedist will be able to tell you much more. With all the swelling, he may not be able to tell the extent of the injuries right away.”

  “Can we see him?” Malinda asked.

  “We’ve medicated him. He’s been in a lot of pain. He may be a bit groggy, but yes you can come back. We’re waiting to transfer him to a room. There won’t be enough space for all of you to come back, though.” Dr. Allan’s gaze roved over the six Amish people in front of him. “Maybe two or three of you.”

  Timothy’s parents stood to follow the doctor. “Kumm with us, Malinda,” Fannie said. “I know Timothy will want to see you.”

  Malinda stood rooted to the spot. Even though she was the one who had asked to see Timothy, she hesitated. Atlee’s little nudge to her ribs propelled her forward. What would she say to Timothy? She hated to see him in pain. She could not cry in front of him, even though her nose burned and her eyes watered. She hung back behind the Brennemans as they crept into the tiny examining room. Dr. Allan was right about there not being much space.

  “Timothy?” His eyes were closed, and a deep frown creased his forehead. His eyes fluttered open at his mamm’s voice. “How are you feeling?”

  “Ugh! I-I’ve been better.”

  “You’ll be all right, son,” Melvin said. “You’ve always had a hard head.”

  A tiny flicker of a smile curved the edges of Timothy’s lips. “N-not my head I’m worried about.” Timothy paused for breath, as if speaking those few words had taxed his strength. “I c-can’t move my fingers.”

  Fannie reached back to grab Malinda’s hand and pulled her forward. “Look, Timothy. Malinda is here.”

  “M-Malinda?”

  “I’m here, Tim.” Malinda stepped closer to the head of the bed as Timothy’s mamm scooted back, dabbing at her eyes with a raggedy tissue. Malinda remembered how confusing everything seemed in the hospital. Somehow she had to try to put Timothy’s mind at ease. “Your hand is pretty swollen right now, so your fingers are probably too stiff to wiggle. Besides, you have a splint or some sort of contraption on your hand to keep it still.”

  “The doctor isn’t sure how bad it is.”

  “A specialist will look at it.”

  “I’ve got lots of work to do.”

  Malinda wanted to reassure him, to take away his fears and doubts. “Don’t worry about work. Sam and the Swareys will handle things until you return.”

  “Sam is okay?”

  “He’s fine. He just feels bad that he couldn’t keep the cabinet from falling on you.”

  “The Englisch fellow?”

  “He wasn’t hurt, either, unless his schewschder’s punch on the arm gave him a bruise.”

  Malinda hoped to make Timothy smile, which he did for a second.

  “The cabinet?”

  “Sam said it was fine. There was one small scratch that he buffed out. The customers took it home.”

  “Gut.” The word came out with a grunt. Timothy’s frown deepened.

  Malinda forced a slow, calm breath. She could not cry in front of Timothy and his parents. “I know you’re hurting, Tim.” She touched his uninjured hand. “Try to let the pain medicine work.”

  “I want to go home now.” The words came out a little slurred. “My tongue feels furry and too big for my mouth.”

  “That’s from the medicine. They want to keep you tonight, Tim. They have to make sure your head is all right, and the orthopedic doctor needs to see you.”

  Timothy tried to nod, but groaned instead.

  Not knowing what else to do, Malinda patted Timothy’s hand. “Rest now.” She wanted to smooth his brow, but didn’t dare do so with his parents looking on. Instead she focused on the rise and fall of his chest and prayed—nee, begged—for his complete healing. The Brennemans remained silent as though at a loss for words. Maybe they were still in shock. It had been a freak accident, something that never should have occurred. If it hadn’t been for that Englisch bu . . .

  Stop it, Malinda! The bu didn’t mean to cause the accident. He didn’t plan for Timothy to get hurt. He’d probably carry guilt around for a long time. Sam said the bu had apologized profusely. She would not hold a grudge. She would not blame. She would forgive. That was their way.

  “Well, folks, we have a room ready. Timothy will be transferred in just a few minutes.” Dr. Allan stepped into the cubbyhole of an examining room.

  Malinda scooted back from the bed to give the doctor room to check his patient. “
You are welcome to wait and see him again after he’s settled in his room, but I can tell you he will probably sleep pretty soundly for a while.”

  Until the pain awakens him when the medicine wears off, Malinda almost said. She knew how that worked. She glanced from Dr. Allan to Tim’s parents. The decision was theirs, since she was not Timothy’s fraa.

  “We will return in the morning,” Melvin decided.

  “That’s probably the best plan,” Dr. Allan agreed. “We’ll let Tim rest as much as possible.” At the sound of voices at the door, he added, “It sounds like the transporters are here now to move him.” He backed up a few steps and shook hands with the Brennemans as they thanked him for caring for their son.

  Malinda shuffled closer to the bed again. She lightly stroked Timothy’s arm. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Tim. You sleep now.” She resisted the powerful urge to kiss his cheek. She’d be completely mortified if she gave in to that urge. Timothy’s pain medicine must be working. His wrinkled brow was now smooth.

  She would gladly sit with him all night if they would let her. She hated for him to wake up alone in an unfamiliar place. She glanced up at the bag of clear fluid hanging on a pole. It dripped down a long plastic tube into the arm she carefully patted. She remembered how uncomfortable the thing felt, especially all the tape securing it in place. Malinda squeezed Timothy’s hand before following his parents from the room.

  “Will he be able to go home tomorrow?” Fannie asked.

  “That will be up to the orthopedist, but you could bring him some clothes.” Dr. Allan walked with them to the waiting room door. As if on cue, a nurse rushed forward to hand the Brennemans a plastic bag filled with Timothy’s belongings. As soon as they stepped through the door, Sam, Emma, and Atlee jumped from their hard plastic chairs and joined them.