Amos blinked. In recent years he’d made a sincere effort to emulate Jesus and his teachings of love and patience rather than modeling himself after Old Testament prophets of doom, yet now that the chips were down he seemed to have reverted to his former bad attitude. He’d wallowed in self-pity because he couldn’t walk—and then he’d driven Mattie away and treated Truman and Roman poorly, as well.
“At this rate, you’re digging your own grave, man,” Amos muttered as he struggled to free himself from the sheets and blankets. “Folks here will be happy to see you gone, too—just as Allen, Barbara, and Bernice want nothing more to do with you.”
And now you’re talking to yourself. Pull yourself together, Troyer.
Amos landed in his wheelchair with a whump. As he caught his breath, still thrumming from the impact of the voices of his past, he knew one thing was startlingly clear: he had to change. At fifty, he might have many years of life ahead of him. He could not go on this way, thinking that he was right and his friends and Dr. Townsend were wrong. He’d seen what such an attitude had done for Bishop Floyd, after all.
And he’d seen what it had done to Mattie, too. He’d broken her heart when she was trying her best to help him. He was no better than Marvin Schwartz, allowing his illness to get the best of him without heeding any medical advice that might make him better.
Amos wheeled himself into the bathroom and took the bottle of antidepressants from the cabinet. After he’d washed one down with water, he thought about what he needed to do to make amends. He would ask Truman to set up his physical therapy sessions. He would find a way to apologize to Mattie—soon. But another, more urgent task pressed heavily upon his heart.
He dressed as quickly as he could—he didn’t dare fall while he stood to pull up his pants, so he left them unfastened around his hips. Amos pulled his coat down from its peg beside the back door, mentally assessing his odds of making it to the phone shanty by the road. It was dark and cold out. If he overturned his wheelchair, he might be stuck in a snowbank for hours before anyone found him.
So you can’t let that happen, Amos told himself as he opened the back door. You have to prove to yourself you can get around on your own—and then you have to face the harder task of contacting your kids. No way around it. You have to make the first move. You must attempt a reconciliation and convince your family and friends you love them.
Amos was relieved that the moon brightened the twilight and that he could clearly see the paths Roman had shoveled to the barn and down to the road. If he was lucky, the bare surface was wide enough so that his wheels wouldn’t sink into any snow—and if he was even luckier, he wouldn’t slide out of control on any ice. It’s in Your hands, Lord—so please, please be in my hands, as well, Amos prayed as he rocked himself over the threshold and out the mudroom door. He hadn’t realized that having the back doorway on ground level would come in so handy.
Amos sucked in the frosty air, grateful for the darkness that didn’t hurt his eyes—and thankful, as well, that his headache had gone away. He put on his gloves and began to turn the wheels of his chair, intent on negotiating the uneven snow where the shoveled paths to the barn and the road didn’t quite meet. Across the road, the windows of the lodge glowed with lamplight, but he saw no one outside—and that’s how he wanted it.
Focused on the white phone shanty that gleamed in the moonlight, Amos held tightly to his wheels to keep the chair from racing out of control as he started down the hill—and then he went into a skid that whirled him in a circle and landed him at the road a lot faster than he’d intended.
When his wheelchair came to a stop, Amos caught his breath, planning his moves. He maneuvered the wheelchair as close to the shanty’s door as he could, thrust his body forward, and grabbed the doorframe to remain upright. Moments later, when he landed on the wooden chair beside the table where the phone sat, he felt as though he’d done hours of physical labor. As he pulled his pants up over his long johns, he realized that he could’ve tripped over them and reinjured himself. But there was no time to dwell upon how many ways he’d been a fool.
Amos pulled the cord of the wall-mounted battery lamp, checked the list of phone numbers he’d taped beneath it, and made the easiest call first.
“Truman, it’s Amos,” he said when the Wickeys’ answering machine beeped. “I’ve behaved badly and I’m ready to begin those physical therapy sessions Dr. Townsend authorized. If you’d be so kind as to set those up for me, I’ll be eternally grateful, friend. Denki for all you’ve done for me—and let’s not tell Mattie about this, okay? It’ll be our secret for a while.”
Was he being silly and vain, wanting to see if the therapy sessions helped before he told Mattie about them? Amos sighed, rubbing his bare hands together as he satin the cold shanty. He badly wanted to talk to Mattie, to apologize for the way he’d hurt her feelings, but he was starting to shiver. Before he lost his nerve, he had other calls to make.
Amos opened the drawer of the table and pulled out the small catalog he’d been saving ever since Barbara and Bernice had married Sam and Simon Helmuth, whom they’d met at a cousin’s wedding the summer before Anna had passed. His breath escaped him as he realized that the girls would be twenty-five now . . . and that three years had gone by since they’d joined their husbands’ families in Ohio. The Helmuths operated nurseries and garden supply stores in three towns—very successful businesses, judging from their catalog. Sam and Simon were slim and they sported unruly mops of auburn hair, which had prompted Allen to consider them less than masculine. But then, Allen had always been judgmental.
And where did he get that? The sins of the father visited upon the son, perhaps?
Amos sighed, closing his eyes. Help me do this, Lord. If the girls really did leave because of me, I have to give them a reason to end this separation that goes against Your ways.
He quickly dialed the phone number printed on the catalog, recalling how Anna had read in one of Barbara’s letters that she and Bernice lived next door to each other and shared a phone shanty. Amos held his breath, listening to the message. “Hello from Helmuth Nurseries near Zanesville, Ohio! To leave a message or place an order at the store, please press one. To leave a message for Sam and Barbara, press two—”
Amos jabbed the keypad, praying the right words would come to him. “Barbara, this is your dat,” he said breathlessly. “First I wanted you and Bernice to know that I’ve moved to a colony called Promise Lodge, and my new phone number is—”
He looked at his handwritten list to be sure he got it right before he said it, because it was different from the number they’d had for all those years in Coldstream. “But mostly I—I wanted you girls to know that I’m sorry for the things I said and did that made you leave home, and that made you stop writing to me after your mamm passed . . .”
Amos swallowed the lump in his throat. Apologies didn’t come easy. “I hope you can forgive me,” he said in a breathy voice, “and I’m wondering if you could let me know Allen’s address and phone number. I—I miss you all. Give my best to your family.”
As he hung up, Amos worried that he’d sounded hopelessly old or muddled, but he’d followed through—he’d taken the first step by asking for his daughters’ forgiveness. The ball was in their court now, and if they didn’t respond . . . well, that part was beyond his control. Amos turned out the light with a sigh. He’d had no idea it would take so much emotional energy to contact his daughters, or to think about reconnecting with them. Amos hadn’t given his headstrong son much thought since Allen had walked out, yet now he felt keenly aware that he had no idea where his boy might be or what trade he’d taken up.
Amos sighed. Why had being Anna’s husband and fathering her children seemed like such an effort? Not long ago he’d told Mattie he would welcome any children they might have together—
Not that you’ll get a chance at that unless you make up with her.
Amos shook his head. He would figure out how to win Mattie back when he wa
s warm and rested. It occurred to him, as he prepared to step out of the shanty and into his wheelchair, that his chances of getting back up the lane to the house were slim to none. His arms were probably strong enough, but the same iciness that had made him spin in a circle on the way down would send him sliding backwards, helpless, when he tried to go back up the lane. There was just enough of an incline to cause him a problem.
“Phooey,” Amos muttered. He was cold and tired now, and it might be hours before anyone came by. For all he knew, folks were still at the lodge enjoying a light supper, or maybe playing board games and visiting. No fool like an old fool, right, Troyer?
When he stuck his head out the door, however, a compact black body with a wagging tail gave him hope. Sometimes angels came in unexpected forms. “Queenie!” he hollered. “Hey, Queenie—go fetch Noah. Or Roman! Go get ’em, girl!”
The Border collie stopped in the road, turning toward his voice.
“Go on, Queenie!” Amos urged. “Fetch Noah! Fetch Roman for me!”
The dog barked loudly, circling a few times before she took off across the snow-covered field. Amos slumped in the wooden chair, wondering why Queenie hadn’t headed for the lodge or toward Noah’s house. He braced his hands on the table to stand up, leaning heavily against the shanty’s wall while he fastened his pants. He’d have enough explaining to do without his drawers dropping around his ankles once somebody found him.
Then he waited.
As his feet and face got colder, Amos reflected on what an odd, uncomfortable day it had been. But hadn’t he set himself upon the path of major change? Hadn’t he listened to those voices from his thoughts and dreams and, for once, taken their lessons to heart? As Amos replayed the heart-rending scenes in his mind—when Anna and his dat and his son had spoken directly, harshly, to him—he swore he heard distant sleigh bells.
He really was losing his mind. As the minutes dragged, he closed his eyes. His fingers and toes went numb . . .
“What’ve we got here?” a familiar voice called out. “That’s a wheelchair by the phone shanty.”
“Amos? Are you in there?”
A dog barked urgently. Amos roused himself, grinning when Queenie jumped up to look through the glass in the shanty’s door. “Queenie, you’re a gut girl!” he cried.
After Noah and Roman helped him into the sleigh, where Deborah and Mary Kate sat in the front- and backseat beneath the blankets, Amos didn’t lie, but he didn’t elaborate either. He simply told them he’d called his daughter, and by that time Mattie’s boys were helping him into the house. Noah went back to get the wheelchair while Roman and the girls sat down at the kitchen table with Amos.
“How about if I fix you some cocoa? You look half frozen, Amos,” Deborah said as she found a pan for the water.
“That sounds mighty nice,” he replied. Amos gazed at their rosy young faces, briefly recalling when he and Mattie were their age. “If you want, you kids could stay and have cocoa with me—but I’ll understand if you’ve got more sleigh riding to do. Never miss a chance to have fun with folks you love.”
The boys gazed knowingly at the girls, who were peeling off their coats and bonnets. By the time they’d all sipped cocoa and the kids had caught him up on the chit-chat from the afternoon at the lodge, Amos felt better than he had since he’d fallen from the roof. Mattie’s boys were truly a blessing, and he was pleased that both of them had found young women who suited them so well.
Someday soon, Amos would figure out how to restore Mattie’s faith in him. He knew better now than to let his vanity and stubbornness prevent him from living with the love of his life ever again.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Roman! Roman, come quick!”
As Roman left the barn Tuesday morning after he’d finished milking the cows, the alarm in Gloria’s voice made him break into a jog. He peered through the early morning snowfall, and saw her rushing down the road toward him, her scarf fluttering behind her. He’d been on the way to tend the Lehmans’ animals anyway, and he hoped Gloria’s father hadn’t taken a turn for the worse.
“The baby’s coming!” she cried as she approached him. “We need to find Minerva.”
Roman’s heartbeat accelerated. As he imagined Mary Kate struggling with labor pains, he sent up a prayer for her strength and comfort. “Minerva’s probably setting up for school,” he reminded Gloria as he pointed toward the lodge. “How about if I bring her to the house, so you can go back and help your mamm and Mary Kate with—”
“I’ve heard all the moaning and crying I can take,” Gloria muttered. “Her pains started in the middle of the night, so—why don’t you go to the house, Roman? Mary Kate will feel a lot better knowing you’re there.”
Roman’s eyes widened. From what little he knew about birthing, men weren’t welcome because the women either found their presence inappropriate—or because guys got in the way.
“Go on,” Gloria urged him. “Maybe by the time I get there with Minerva, you’ll have Mary Kate calmed down and ready to have that baby.”
As Roman rushed up the snow-covered road toward the Lehman home, his mind spun like snowflakes caught in a whirlwind. What if he got nervous and only made Mary Kate more uncomfortable? What if Frances shooed him away, incensed that Gloria had sent him to their house?
If nothing else, I can sit with Bishop Floyd so the women don’t have to keep track of him while the baby’s coming. Maybe he’ll come to the barn with me to feed and water the horses.
When Frances opened the door, however, she welcomed him in. “Roman, I’m glad you’re here,” she murmured. “Mary Kate’s out of her head, I think, and if you could just hold her hand—”
A sudden cry of pain rang out in the bedroom above him. Roman swallowed hard.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Frances murmured, grasping his hand as they left the kitchen. “Floyd’s beside himself, thinking something horrible must be happening to Mary Kate. If you can calm her down, you’ll be doing us all a big favor.”
Roman sensed this request was highly unusual—and that Frances was so concerned about her daughter, she was willing to overlook the usual propriety. As they passed through the front room, Roman saw that Floyd was on the sofa fidgeting with a magazine. Roman spoke to him, but the bishop’s only response was a fast, wide-eyed glance.
At least he’s sitting upright, trying to read, Roman thought. That seems like an improvement.
Upstairs, Roman stopped in the doorway to Mary Kate’s room and inhaled deeply to settle his nerves. The poor girl in the bed looked pale and exhausted, and her next wail set him on edge. She was covered by blankets, so it wasn’t as though he’d be seeing body parts he wasn’t supposed to look at.
“Hey,” Roman murmured as he approached her. “Looks like the baby’s making a grand entrance, eh?”
When Mary Kate’s brown-eyed gaze held his, Roman’s heart went out to her. She looked so young and frail—not much different from the way he pictured the Virgin Mary, bearing her first child as an unmarried young woman caught up in circumstances other folks considered extremely dubious. At Frances’s nod, he went to the bedside and took Mary Kate’s hand.
“Sit with me,” she pleaded. “Stay with me, Roman. It hurts so bad I think I might die—”
“No, no,” Roman hastened to reassure her as he gingerly eased onto the mattress beside her pillow. “Minerva’s on her way. She’ll know exactly what to do.”
“Hold me. Give me your strength.”
How could he refuse? Frances nodded her consent, so when Mary Kate shot bolt upright with the next labor pain, Roman slipped behind her and sat against the headboard. She felt as weak as a kitten when she settled back against him, yet her sigh suggested she already felt calmer, cradled in his arms. Somehow he found quiet words to comfort her, not expecting her to respond. He heard Minerva speaking loudly to Floyd downstairs, and when Frances left the room to greet the midwife, Roman nuzzled Mary Kate’s temple. He took the liberty of stroking her wavy brown ha
ir away from her flushed face, aware that only husbands were allowed to see a woman with her hair down. The thought made his heart flip-flop.
“I won’t leave you, Mary Kate,” Roman murmured, his heart in his throat. “Stay strong for the baby, and we’ll get you through this. It’s a big day—and you’ll feel a lot better about all of this when you see your little one’s face.”
Why was he telling her these things? What if they weren’t true? Or, God forbid, what if the baby was breech, or Mary Kate developed other complications? Roman knew from assisting cows and mares that the birthing process was messy in the best of circumstances and downright terrifying when things went wrong. But he dismissed these negative thoughts. Mary Kate seemed calmer now, and he didn’t want her to pick up on his concerns.
When Minerva entered the room, she nodded at him. “Roman, you’re a gut man,” she said. “Keep her still while I see how she’s progressing.”
He wrapped his arms more snugly around Mary Kate as the midwife went to the end of the bed and folded the blankets up onto Mary Kate’s bent knees.
“We’re moving right along.” Minerva opened her black bag and slipped on latex gloves. “Mary Kate, I want you to push back into Roman and at the same time push the baby toward me. Take a deep breath first. You’re doing fine.”
“Give it your best shot,” Roman murmured as he felt Mary Kate gathering her strength. “It’ll be over soon—”
“Oh, oh!” Mary Kate hollered as another pain wracked her body. But she pressed her slender shoulders against his chest, clenching her jaw as she pushed the baby. Mary Kate put her whole body into the effort for as long as she could, and then she collapsed.
Roman admired Mary Kate beyond belief. Birthing seemed to be so much easier for animals. When he considered how large she had grown, he had a hard time imagining what she was going through as the baby came out. Lord, please help us. Don’t let her rupture anything—and please let the baby be strong and healthy.
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