The Postcard

by Beverly Lewis

  “You’re just itchin’ to come in, ain’tcha?” she said, laughing as she pushed the screen door open just wide enough to let him scamper past. She shooed away the flies, thinking that she’d have to go around with her flyswatter now, hunting down the pesky, germ-ridden insects. How she hated them!

  Still amazed that Benjamin hadn’t nixed her idea of having a house pet, she freshened the puppy’s water dish, chattering with pleasure as he lapped up the cool refreshment. She’d grown up believing that animals—wild animals and farm animals alike, as well as dogs and cats—were meant to live outside in a barn or some other such place. Never in the house. So when she’d spotted the beautiful pup at the pet store, she didn’t quite know why she changed her mind, wanting to raise an animal indoors. Maybe it was the dejected, yet adorable way the puppy had cocked his head to one side, as if to say, “Won’tcha please take me home?”

  In the end, Benjamin was more than generous about purchasing the sad-eyed thing, giving Susanna full sway with the decision. Maybe he was softening in his old age, though he was just in his mid-sixties. Still, she assumed the purchase of a pet was somehow a joint retirement present to each other, possibly for optional companionship should one of them die in the next few years. How very strange such a house pet might seem to any of the People, especially when a host of cats and dogs were multiplying themselves monthly back on the farm they’d left to Noah and Joseph, their youngest sons, and their wives.

  “Copper, baby, come here to Mamma,” she cooed down at the shining eyes and wagging tail. “You want a treat now, don’tcha?”

  The dog seemed to agree that a midday snack was quite appropriate and followed her across the commodious kitchen, complete with all the modern conveniences, and stood near the refrigerator, wagging his bushy tail, eager for his treat.

  She was secretly glad they’d bought a house with electricity already installed. And the modern kitchen—what would her sisters and cousins give to live like this! Thank goodness Bishop Seth had given special permission to conduct their B&B business this way. Only one requirement: She and Benjamin were not allowed the use of electricity in their private quarters, and, of course, there was to be no television or radio anywhere in the house, which was quite all right with Susanna. Such worldly gadgets made too much racket for overnight guests anyway.

  She heard her husband and his friend chatting on the upstairs landing. Gut, she thought. They must be finished with the weighty chore.

  “Here we are, pooch.” She handed Copper a pale green treat in the shape of a miniature bone. Leaving the kitchen and rounding the corner, she hurried through the breakfast room, situated in the center of a plant-filled conservatory, then through the formal dining room. There, she met up with the men.

  “Your writing desk looks mighty nice,” Ben said, jerking his head toward the stairs. “I daresay, if I hadn’t seen it squeeze past the doorjambs, I wouldn’t have believed it myself.”

  “Denki, Ben.” She included her husband’s friend in her thanks, offering him hot coffee and a sticky bun and inviting him to stay and sit a spell. But the man declined, shaking both his head and his hands, backing away toward the front door.

  Ben stood there with a silly grin on his face. “Well, go on now, Susie. You know you’re just achin’ to have a looksee.”

  She was eager. “Jah, I’ll get up for a peek at it.” And with that, she hastened up the stairs to the well-appointed guest room. Her eyes found the desk immediately, and she stood a moment, admiring the central placement on the long, papered wall. “It’s lieblich—lovely,” she whispered, heading for the linen closet in the hall where she kept cleaning supplies.

  Before she set about dusting the desk, she pulled up a chair. After sitting down, she proceeded to roll back the rounded wooden covering, peering into every nook and cranny. Each little drawer and opening was just as she’d remembered, and she thrilled at the opportunity to own such a magnificent piece. “I will not be proud,” she said aloud. “I will be thankful instead.”

  She dusted the organizer, complete with pigeonholes, and all the intricate woodwork where dust might’ve found lodging. Taking her time, she polished all the compartments except for one wide, thin drawer off to the left. She jiggled and pulled, but there was no budging the tiny niche, and she made a mental note to have Jacob take a look.

  It was after she had finished polishing the desk, as she made her way down the hall to the stairs, that she heard the wail of a siren. The dismal sound came closer and closer, then swept past the turnoff to Beechdale Road, just south of them on Highway 340. Momentarily she cringed as she often did when she heard an ambulance or a fire truck in the area. But she dismissed the worrisome thought and went about the task at hand—preparing the noon meal for her husband.

  Three

  Jacob brought the horse and wagon to a complete stop, waiting first in line for the light to change at the Crossroad. “There’s much traffic today,” he mentioned, his eyes fixed on the highway.

  “Public schools are out already,” Rachel said, seeing the cars whiz past them on Route 340. “Tourists are here from all over.”

  “ ’Tis gut for business.” Jacob looked at her quickly, then back at the road just ahead.

  “Jah, and for us movin’ to Ohio sooner,” she replied with a nervous titter, eyeing the busy intersection.

  Aaron, behind them, pretended to be attracting tourists, laughing as he talked. “Come on, now, folks, have a look at these handmade toy trains and helicopters! You won’t find toys like this anywhere else in the whole wide world.”

  Glancing around, Rachel saw her son holding up the wooden playthings, one in each hand. “Dat’s crafts won’t last long today,” she replied.

  “If we ever get through this light, they won’t,” Jacob muttered.

  Just then, an unexpected gust of wind snatched Esther’s letter out of Rachel’s hand, and it floated out the window and somersaulted—end over end—landing on the roadside to the right of the wagon.

  “Aw, your letter,” Jacob said.

  “I’ll run ’n get it right quick,” Rachel said and got out before Jacob could stop her. But the wind played chase, sending the envelope into the field, and she stumbled after it, glancing over her shoulder to see if the light was still red. Gut, she thought, seeing that it was, and hurried to catch the stray envelope.

  Just as she rescued the letter, pushing it down into her apron pocket—just at that moment—she turned and saw the horse rear up, spooked by traffic.

  “Himmel, no . . . no,” she whispered, running back toward the road, her heart in her throat.

  Jacob was involved in a contest of wills, holding the reins firmly, pulling back hard. But the mare was up . . . up on her hind legs again, neighing loudly and shaking her long black mane.

  “Hold steady, girl,” Rachel begged, clenching her fists at her sides, helpless to do a thing.

  She could see that Jacob was trying his best to control the horse, but after moments of struggle, the frightened animal lunged forward, still snorting and stomping.

  Rachel screamed, but her cries did not keep the mare from pulling the market wagon forward into the busy intersection. In a split second, a surge of terrifying sounds filled the air—brakes squealing, car horn blaring. The noises accompanied a speeding car as it crashed broadside—Jacob’s side—into the wagon.

  Rachel stood gasping, frozen in place, as she witnessed the impact, seeing with her own eyes the market wagon splinter apart like so many toothpicks. Oh, dear Lord, her family . . . how could they possibly survive the crushing blow?

  Moments passed. Everything around her fell silent.

  Suddenly, strength returned to her legs. She began to stumble across the field to the accident scene, sobbing as she searched for her precious little children and dear, dear Jacob.

  Rachel combed through the wreckage, calling frantically, “Aaron! Annie! Mamma’s here. Aaron . . . Annie! Can you hear me?”

  Unable to find her children, she wrung her
hands, running here and there, nearly insane with dread.

  Continuing her search, she winced at the sight of her husband lying on the highway, surrounded by dozens of damaged toys and mangled wood and metal from the shattered market wagon. She knelt on the road, its blacktop blistering her knees as she lifted her husband’s battered face to hers. Lovingly, she cradled him as if he were a small child. “Oh, Jacob . . .”

  He moaned pitifully as she held him, though she dared not rock or move him the slightest, so badly hurt he was. “Lord, please let my husband live,” she prayed with trembling lips, all the while looking about her for signs of her little ones.

  Jacob was breathing; she could feel the slow and labored movement of his chest. Still, she was frightened, alarmed by the gashes in his head, the torn shirt and suspenders. She hesitated for a moment, then touched the wound in his left shoulder, allowing her hand to linger there as if her touch might bring comfort. That shoulder had supported her weary head on countless nights as they had lain talking into the wee hours, whispering in the darkness of their Ohio dream as they planned their lives together with God’s help. Jacob’s shoulder had soothed her when, at nineteen, she’d experienced the first unfamiliar pangs of childbirth.

  Now . . . she heard voices as if there were people near, though she couldn’t tell for sure, so murky and muddled things seemed, like a dream that she was actually living, unable to sort out the real from the illusory. She thought she might be dying, too, so dizzy and sick she was.

  A distant siren sang out, moving toward her with a peculiar throbbing motion. The rhythm of its lament seemed to pulse up through the highway, into her body as she held Jacob close.

  Compassionate hands were touching her husband, lifting his eyelids, putting pressure on his wrist. Then he was being carried away from her on a long stretcher. She felt faint just then and lay down on the road. “Where are my children?” she managed to say. “I must find my little ones.”

  “Several paramedics are with them.” This, the voice of a man she did not know. “What are your children’s names?”

  “Aaron and Annie Yoder,” she said softly, the life withering within her.

  “And your husband?”

  She attempted to speak his name, but pain—deep and wrenching—tore at her, taking her breath away. Then everything went black.

  When she came to, she felt a cool hand on her wrist, followed by a sharp, brief prick in her arm. Though she had no sense of time, she knew she was being lifted onto something smooth and flat, the sun blinding her momentarily. The movement caused her great pain, and when she heard pitiful moaning, she realized that it was she herself.

  “You’re suffering from shock” came a voice in her ear. “We’re going to take good care of you . . . and your unborn child.”

  The overwhelming emotion was that of helplessness as she was transported through the air, though she had no idea where she was being taken or who was taking her.

  “Mamma!” a child cried out.

  In her disoriented state she could not identify the source of the utterance, though something inside her wrestled to know. “Aaron?” she mumbled, beginning to shake uncontrollably. “Oh, Lord Jesus . . . help us, please.”

  A warm covering embraced her body, and for a fleeting moment, she thought her husband’s strong arms were consoling her. Then came stark flashes of bewildering images. Two roads meeting, a horse lurching, children screaming . . .

  “No . . . no,” she said, fighting off the visions. Yet they persisted against her ability to stop them.

  The sound of rushing feet startled her back to the here and now. Where was she? Struggling to raise her head even the slightest, Rachel tried to take in her surroundings, feeling horribly and completely alone. The noises about her ceased and outward awareness faded with the deep prevailing pain in her womb.

  The wail of a siren jolted her nerves, and gradually she gave in to the attentive urgings of those around her. Relax . . . rest . . . please rest. . . .

  She sensed that she was weakening, letting go—surrendering to the tremendous pain. And fear so black and ferocious, such as she had never known.

  In the hours following the accident, Rachel was unable to divide reality from haunting impressions. She knew only one thing: Her parents were near, along with several of her brothers and sisters and their spouses. Her semiprivate room at Community Hospital was lovingly cushioned with Plain folk, close relatives with concern stamped on each face.

  Suffering the ill effects of her miscarriage, Rachel was finally able to speak the burning question in her mind. “Where are Jacob . . . and Aaron and Annie?”

  Her parents stood on either side of the bed, their faces grim. “Annie’s doin’ fine,” her father said. “Her right arm is broken and there are bruises, but she will be all right.”

  “What about Jacob and Aaron?” came her frightened reply.

  Such a look passed between Mam and Dat that panic seized her, and she thought she might faint. “I must know about my family!”

  When neither parent responded immediately, she felt something rise up in her. Something strong and defensive. “Please tell me what happened. I must know everything,” she pleaded.

  Their pallid faces told the dreadful truth. “I’m sorry, my precious daughter,” Dat said at last.

  “You don’t mean . . .” She paused, trying to breathe enough to speak. “Jacob isn’t . . .” She simply could not voice the impossible word. “Is Aaron . . . ?”

  Mamma nodded slowly, eyes glistening. “Jacob and Aaron died in the accident.”

  “It’s a miracle of God that Annie is alive,” added Dat, his voice sounding strangely stiff.

  Mam took Rachel’s hand in her own. “We’ll stay right here with you, till you’re released to go home.”

  Home . . .

  Rachel moaned; her whole body shook. Home could never be the same for her. Not without Jacob and Aaron. Overcome with grief, she closed her eyes, blocking out her mother’s somber face. Mam’s words were compassionate and true, yet Rachel could not comprehend a single one.

  Jacob . . . Aaron dead? How can this be?

  Her head throbbed with the truth, like a cumbersome weight against the long, flat hospital pillow. How it pained her to lean back. No matter what she did, her head ached, and her heart anguished for her dear ones. She wished she might’ve held her sweet little Aaron as he lay suffering on the road. It plagued her that he had died alone at the accident scene, that he might’ve called out for her—“Mamma, oh, Mamma, I’m hurt awful bad!”—or worse, that he could not utter her name at all.

  She placed her hands on her womb, her flat, lifeless womb, longing for her unborn child as well.

  More than anything, she wished to join her husband, her son, and their tiniest little one in heaven. Life without Jacob would be ever so lonely. Unbearable. Life on this earth without her darling boy would be intolerable. How could she face the years ahead? How could she bear the pain, missing them so?

  Someone wearing white floated into the room, and although Rachel assumed it was the nurse coming with a sedative, a blanket of numbness fell over her before she ever felt the needle penetrate her skin.

  Esther and her husband arrived the next afternoon. They had hired a Mennonite van driver to rush them from Holmes County to Lancaster. In the space of half a day, they’d come.

  The reunion was a tearful one, and Rachel repeatedly searched Esther’s dewy brown eyes, taking in the familiar rosy cheeks and the oval shape of her cousin’s face. Esther had worn her best blue cape dress for the occasion, though her black apron was a bit wrinkled from the trip. “You’ll need someone to look after you and little Annie for a while,” she insisted, kissing Rachel’s forehead and holding her hand. “Levi and I will be more than happy to stay till you’re back on your feet.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I came to help, to bear your sorrow,” Esther pledged. “Levi and I can stay as long as need be.” She explained that their childre
n were with close Amish friends in Holmes County.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Rachel said, her voice breaking. “Didja know that I must’ve written you a letter the night before the accident? But I don’t remember writing it now. Mamma found it in my apron pocket.” She motioned to the small closet. “It’s in there somewhere,” she said before giving way to a fresh spasm of grief.

  Esther hugged her cousin. “Shh. I’m here now. We’ll get through this, jah?”

  When Rachel was able to compose herself, Esther sat on the edge of the hospital bed, their hands clasped. They talked quietly of Annie and how glad they were that the child had been spared, along with Rachel. “The Lord surely kept the two of you alive for a special reason,” Esther said, her eyes still wet with tears.

  Rachel didn’t quite know what to think of that—being kept alive for a special purpose. God’s sovereign will was not to be questioned, of course. Yet it was difficult to hear Esther go on so, especially when Rachel sincerely wished the Lord had taken her home to Glory, too.

  Why had God let her live?

  Mamma and Esther moved quietly to the window, encouraging Rachel to rest a bit. She heard the lull of their discreet whispering—Jacob’s or Aaron’s name slipping into the air every so often—but, honestly, she did not care to know what was being discussed. Funeral plans, most likely.

  With the thought of such a thing—a funeral for her dear ones—horrifying mental pictures flashed before her eyes: the car roaring into the wagon, Jacob’s body broken beyond recognition. She shook her head as if to shake off the visions, shutting her eyes tightly against the persistent images. “No!” she cried out.

  Mam and Esther turned their heads. “What’s that, dear?” Mam called to her. And Esther rushed to Rachel’s bedside again.

  She breathed heavily as the painful memories slowly receded. Then suddenly a new insidious notion sprang at Rachel—that the accident had been her fault. Hers. Taking a deep breath, she blurted, “I never heard the alarm! We slept through. If we hadn’t overslept—if I’d heard the alarm clock like always—we’d never, never have taken the shortcut. We wouldn’t have been at the Crossroad, and Jacob and Aaron would be alive today.”