With Winter's First Frost

by Kelly Irvin

Dineen had been a third-grade teacher before she retired. When she used her teacher voice, people listened. “Speaking of which, where is Abel?”

  “I guess he had a lot of business to tend to.” Zechariah unwrapped his Big Mac and took a healthy bite. A look of pure joy spread across his face. “Once a year, once a year, I get one of these. Marian never would let me.”

  “Because she loved you.”

  Zechariah laid the burger on the wrapper and wiped his fingers. Laura pointed at his face. He wiped his lips and beard. “I’ll go tell Abel his food is getting cold.”

  “Hurry back.”

  He grinned. “So you can yell at me some more. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Unscrambling his brain would take more time than a trip to the bathroom and back. Zechariah shuffled through the door. Abel needed to return to the table before his fries turned into ice cubes and his shake melted. The room was empty except for his friend, who stood at a streaked mirror, his back to Zechariah.

  “What are you doing? You know those fries are best when hot.”

  One hand on the white ceramic sink, Abel swiveled halfway toward Zechariah. “Somethingggs wwwrrrong my-my-my faccccce.”

  His words were so slurred, Zechariah had to sort them out. “Your face?” He looked closer at the image in the mirror. The right side of Abel’s face seemed to droop. Zechariah stepped closer and took Abel’s arm. “Turn around and look at me. Smile.”

  The left side of his mouth turned up, but not the right.

  “That’s strange. Let’s go tell Laura. She’ll know what it is.”

  She was a midwife, but Laura knew a lot about other sicknesses. She doctored with a lot of folks. Which was why Tamara’s decision bothered her so much. It wasn’t the eternal damnation thing—well, it was—but the fact that she was living out Laura’s dream. His body might be falling apart, but Zechariah still had half a mind.

  He guided Abel toward the door. He had to let go to open it and still hold on to his cane. Abel swayed and started to sink to the floor. “Hey, hey, don’t do that, freind.”

  Abel’s arms flailed. Better said, his left arm flailed, but his right arm drifted and returned to his side.

  The weak leading the weak. Zechariah got a better hold on Abel and churned toward the eating area. “Laura. Laura, we need help.”

  Laura shot from her chair. Dineen followed at quite a clip for a big woman.

  “His face won’t smile and his words are all messed up. He’s staggering like he can’t get his balance.”

  Laura tipped Abel’s chin up. “What’s going on, Abel? Can you talk to me?”

  “Headdddd hu-r-rrrr-ttts.”

  “Let me see you smile.”

  Same results as the first time.

  Dineen had her cell phone to her ear. “Our friend may be having a stroke. We’re here at the McDonald’s on Ninth Street. Send an ambulance. Now!”

  “A stroke. Are you sure?”

  Laura helped Abel into a chair. His gaze unfocused, he rubbed his head. Dineen squatted next to him and peered up at his face. “Have you ever heard of F.A.S.T.?”

  Zechariah shook his head. He had enough trouble keeping track of his own symptoms.

  “Take my word for it. He’s having a stroke and the most important thing is to get help fast.”

  His friend, the picture of health, was having a life-threatening emergency. The sirens sounded within minutes. Zechariah backed away to give the EMTs room while they administered aid to a befuddled man who kept mumbling his wife’s name. He needed Jessica.

  “Can you call Ben’s phone shack?” Zechariah turned to Dineen, who leaned against one wall, along with Laura and many of the customers who’d given up any semblance of eating or talking to watch the EMTs work on Abel. “He can go to Abel’s and get his fraa and hire a driver to bring them to the hospital. The kinner will want to come.”

  “Where will you take him?” Laura called out to a youngish-looking bearded EMT who didn’t glance up as they loaded Abel onto the gurney. “We need to get his wife to him.”

  “Wright Memorial. The folks there will take good care of him. We gotta go.”

  There was no time to say good-bye.

  Instead, they prayed. Zechariah took Laura’s and Dineen’s hands. They bowed their heads and prayed silently as the noise playing, sirens blaring, and people talking resumed.

  Gott, I’m so sorry for being such a selfish man. Not only selfish, but envious. I wanted the health Abel had. Please, if it is Thy will, restore his health. You are the Great Physician. The great I Am. Guide and direct the doctors. Give Abel strength and peace. Give us what we don’t deserve. He’s my freind.

  God knew Zechariah didn’t have many of those.

  Laura squeezed his hand. She didn’t let go.

  Danki, Gott.

  THIRTY

  THE SMELLS EMANATING THROUGH THE CORRIDORS OF Wright Memorial were the same as every hospital. Cleansers mixed with sickness. Memories of Marian’s stay here assailed Zechariah. He shoved them away. This was about Abel and his stroke. Not Zechariah. The wait was long. The specter of bad news loomed. After two hours, Ben, in his role as bishop, and Jessica arrived, with half of the Gmay behind them. Abel’s three sons and three daughters with their husbands and wives. Grandchildren. Brothers, sisters, those that still lived. Like most people his age, Abel had lost a few loved ones along the way. He was the second youngest of six. His younger brother Carl showed up at the door just as the doctor arrived in the waiting room.

  “What is it, Doctor? How is he? Did he have a heart attack? The man is an ox, healthy as a horse—”

  “Let the doctor get a word in edgewise, Carl.” Ben intervened. “We all want to hear what he has to say.”

  The doctor, a young Hispanic man whose name tag identified him as D. Lopez, explained that a CT scan showed a bleed on the left side of Abel’s brain. “We were able to determine the type of stroke, the location, and the extent of the damage. He’s had what we call an ischemic stroke. What that means is that fatty stuff we call plaque has collected in his arteries, causing them to narrow. A blood clot formed and went to his brain.”

  “That sounds bad.” Jessica’s hands fluttered and went to her neck. Laura moved closer and wrapped an arm around the woman. “Will he be all okay?”

  “His friends did the right thing calling 911 immediately. We’ve already started a treatment to dissolve the clots. There will be some damage to address with rehab, but with time, he should make a complete recovery.”

  Jessica wobbled. Her legs collapsed. Ben grabbed one side and Laura the other. They guided her to a chair. She bent over, head between her knees, her breaths coming in gasps.

  Laura rubbed her back in widening circles, murmuring comforting words that only Jessica could hear. Clearing his throat twice, Zechariah edged closer to the doctor. “Why was only one side affected? The right side of his mouth, the right arm. He seemed to list to one side.”

  “That’s because each side of your brain controls the opposite side of your body. The blood clot was on his left side, so the right side of his body is affected.”

  “You said he’ll need rehab. What kinds of things are affected? What kind of rehab?”

  “It’s a little early to say exactly what ill effects we’re dealing with.” Dr. Lopez stroked a thin mustache that curled around his lips. His gold wire-rimmed glasses glinted in the fluorescent lights, making it hard to see his eyes, but his tone was kind. “Generally, we’re talking about a physical therapist to work on movement and balance, an occupational therapist to deal with relearning to eat, bathe, and dress one’s self, a speech language pathologist, who helps with relearning to speak clearly. Sometimes language skills are lost and have to be relearned. It can be very frustrating for the patient. And for the family members who serve as caregivers.”

  It sounded so familiar. Gott forgive me. He had coveted his friend’s life. His health. His happy family life with a wife as healthy as he was. A wave of nausea washed over Ze
chariah. His lunch of hamburger and french fries threatened to fill his throat. He swallowed until it hurt. He was a selfish, selfish, utterly despicable excuse for a friend.

  “It’s not just rehab, although that comes first. After that he needs to change his eating habits and his lifestyle.” The doctor’s gaze swept past Zechariah to Jessica. “I suspect he knew he had high blood pressure. Did he ever say anything about heart disease or high cholesterol?”

  “Never. Not a word.” Zechariah spoke for Jessica, who had covered her face with her apron. “He was the picture of health and whenever he went to the doctor—which was once in a blue moon—he came back saying he was healthy as a horse and would live to be a hundred.”

  Jessica let her apron drop. “Big liar. Wait ’til I get my hands on him.” Her voice quivered, but her chin went up.

  Dr. Lopez’s expression became stern. “You can help by changing the way you cook.”

  “So it’s my fault—my cooking—that made him have a stroke.” The apron went back up. Jessica’s shoulders shook with the force of her sobs.

  “No one is saying that.” Laura shot the doctor a scowl. “Mary Katherine has some gut cookbooks at The Book Apothecary. We’ll get you one. Or two or three. It’ll be fun to try new things.”

  New dry, no-fat, no-taste foods. Better Abel than Zechariah. He might have Parkinson’s, but his heart was strong. “Can we see him?”

  The doctor frowned and hesitated. “Two groups of two. No more. For a minute or two. He’s groggy and disoriented. It might be good for him to see a familiar face. But then you should all go home. You can come back tomorrow when he’s had a good night’s rest.”

  No one ever got a good night’s rest in a hospital. They saw to it with hourly visits to check vitals, dole out medicine, and generally harass a patient. Zechariah turned to Ben. “Who’s going in?”

  “You go in first. He’ll want to see you.” Jessica spoke before Ben could. She wiped at her face with her sleeve. “I need to get myself together. If he sees me like this he’ll think he’s dying for sure.”

  “May I go with him?” Laura stood and looked at Ben. He shrugged and looked beyond her to Carl.

  “I’ll go with Jessica.” Ben waved off the disappointed chorus from Abel’s children. “You’ll get your turn tomorrow. You heard the doctor. Go home. Come back tomorrow. We don’t want to overwhelm the man.”

  No one overwhelmed Abel. He wouldn’t allow it. He’d smile, sit back in the rocker, and start telling some whopper of a story.

  A different person lay in the bed, his face gray against the white pillow. The wires and machines seemed to dwarf a shriveled man. Zechariah studied the machines, better to do that than stare at his friend. Blood pressure 122 over 80. Not bad for a man with heart disease. They had it under control. Respiration 68. Low by all accounts.

  In other words, heavily medicated.

  “Abel?” Laura touched his hand.

  One eyelid popped open, then closed. He coughed, then groaned. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

  “What’s that? Jessica’s outside. She’ll be here in a minute or two. She wanted to gussy up first. Like it was your first date or something.”

  Both eyelids fluttered open.

  “Deadddd—ddee—ddd?”

  Zechariah exchanged glances with Laura. “Dead?”

  Abel muttered something that sounded like dead.

  “Nee, you’re not dead.”

  “Toooooooo baaa—ddddd.”

  Too bad. “Jessica wouldn’t agree.”

  Abel’s hand twitched. Laura picked up a pad and pencil. She handed it to him. His hands shook, but Abel grasped them, his face the picture of grim determination. He formed the letters like a child just learning them would. Squiggly, frail letters on the chalkboard of his fractured schoolhouse memories.

  Me first. Selfish. Nothing to fear.

  It was selfish, but Zechariah would’ve preferred to go first too. Like his friend, he didn’t fear what lay beyond this world. Only the pain death left behind.

  Abel’s fingers moved again. The letters were so distorted Zechariah could barely decipher their meaning.

  French fries?

  Laura laughed. Zechariah shook his head. “No more french fries or cheeseburgers for you, buddy.”

  Abel flung the pencil across the room and let his head drop back on the pillow. His eyes closed.

  “Better check your breath and straighten your gown. We’re sending Jessica in.” Laura started for the door.

  “I’m right behind you.” Zechariah kept one hand on the bedrail.

  “He knows.” Laura smiled. “Just like I know.”

  She couldn’t have looked sweeter.

  He might have to kiss her again.

  But not now. “Tell Jessica to come on in. I’ll keep him company until she gets here.”

  After the door closed, he turned back to Abel. “I’m sorry.”

  Abel’s eyes remained closed, his face slack in repose.

  “Forgive me for being so envious of your life. I coveted your health and your life. Your wife. Not Jessica, but you know what I mean.”

  Abel fidgeted, but his eyes didn’t open.

  “I know you can hear me, you stubborn old coot. I don’t expect you to say anything. You’ve got your own mountains to climb right now. I just want you to know I’ll climb them with you. Right by you.” He swallowed the stupid bundle of tears that stuck in his throat like year-old crackers. “Doc says you have to do some rehab. I’ve been putting it off myself. So I figure we could do some of it together. Misery loves company.”

  Abel’s lips moved. He murmured something unintelligible.

  Zechariah leaned over the railing and strained to hear.

  “I’m not really dying, am I?”

  Or words to that effect. “No, you’re not dying.”

  “Gut.”

  “Get some sleep.”

  “See you soon.”

  Or at least that’s what Zechariah presumed the words seeee yuuuu soooooon meant.

  “Tomorrow.” That was a promise.

  He let Dineen take him to Michael’s. She thankfully required no conversation. He was worn to the bone. Peace, quiet, and a good night’s sleep were the prescriptions he needed.

  Zechariah almost made it into Michael’s house without being waylaid. A shaky old man with a cane could not expect to make a stealthy entry. He leaned against the wall outside his bedroom and waited. Sure enough. The sound of brisk steps followed the clang of his cane dropped from his grip onto the wood floor.

  “There you are. Where did you and Abel disappear to?” Michael barreled down the hallway. “I was about to run out to the shack to call Ben to get a search party going.”

  And Ben wouldn’t have been there. “Would you mind picking up my cane?”

  Still scowling, Michael snatched up the cane but didn’t offer it to Zechariah. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m not one of your children. I don’t have to account for my whereabouts to my own grandson.”

  Michael tapped the cane on the floor in a rat-ta-tat-tat rhythm. “You’d rather worry us.”

  “I’m safe and sound, as you can see.”

  “LeeAnn saw you getting into Dineen’s van with Laura.”

  “So you know I was in gut hands.” He held out his hand for the cane. Michael stared at him. Finally, he returned it. “Danki. I don’t really need it, but it’s a habit and it makes your daed happy.”

  “What were you doing with Laura?” Michael’s curiosity gleamed in his eyes. He thought he needed to know, but really, he simply wanted to know. “Why isn’t she taking care of Rosalie and the twins?”

  “She’s staying with them because she’s needed.” Only obstinacy kept Zechariah from answering the question forthrightly. Don’t be a grouchy old man. It’s not becoming. That’s what Laura would say. Now the woman was in his head. “We went to Trenton to see about Tamara.” No need to go into the whys and wherefores of that situation. �
��Abel had a stroke. He’s in the hospital. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

  Gossip usually spread like the flu through the Gmay. Michael’s curiosity turned to concern. “Daed was here. We were talking and painting the kitchen. How is Abel? Will he be okay?”

  “With time. And rehab. His fraa and his kinner are with him.” His legs weak with fatigue, Zechariah leaned on his cane and tottered to his bedroom. “I’ll help him with his rehab. I know how it feels. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  “You haven’t had supper.” Michael motioned toward the hallway. “Cathy kept a plate warm for you.”

  They were kind people. Loving grandchildren. He didn’t deserve such largess. “That was nice of her.” The thought of the hamburger and french fries Abel hadn’t touched and would never be allowed to eat now caused nausea to rear its nasty carcass in Zechariah’s stomach. “I guess the day’s events have caught up with me. I need to rest.”

  Michael followed him into the bedroom. He settled into the room’s only chair. “Ivan came by for more than painting. He wanted to talk to us—all of us.”

  That couldn’t be good. “Now where am I moving?”

  “It’s not you who’s moving.” Michael stared at his hands, fisted in his lap. “It’s Ivan. He’s moving to Nappanee with Micah and Dillon.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  THE SWAN LAKE NATIONAL REFUGE WAS CLOSED IN THE winter, but the doors opened to volunteers for the annual bird count. Laura had it all planned out. Abel remained in the hospital on January fifth, but she and Zechariah could still enjoy the bird count and make it a celebration of his seventy-sixth birthday in a few days. Nothing would stand in her way.

  The sound of Dineen’s minivan engine humming in her ears, Laura strode up the steps to the porch and knocked on Michael’s door. She had her arguments lined up. Zechariah needed this and Mary Katherine had agreed to stand in for Laura for the day at Ben’s house. She’d even brought a big pot of chili and her famous cinnamon-applesauce cake. Laura would keep an eagle eye on Zechariah at the refuge. He would be perfectly safe with her and the refuge staff. One long, deep breath and she rapped on the door.