by Loree Lough
“Oh, thank the good Lord!” Sarah said. “I have been frantic since Micah told me what happened in town.”
Word traveled fast in a community the size of Pleasant Valley. The clerk must have made a few calls, and considering the human tendency to dramatize things, no telling how much she’d embellished the story. He shuddered to think how much it might have changed by the time word reached his mother.
She’d probably been up all night, praying and pacing, doing her best to press worry to the back of her mind while whispering verses to remind herself that God was in charge, that whatever happened was His will. Red-rimmed eyes told him she’d been crying, too, and he felt terrible about that. A plain black rotary dial phone hung on the wall of his shop. He’d rebuilt an old answering machine, but leaving a message would have been futile since Sarah refused to let him teach her how to use it.
As she led him inside, he said, “Sorry I couldn’t get word to you, directly.”
“Never mind that.” She pulled out the chair at the head of the table, then tightened the belt of her white apron. “You look more weary than when . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and Phillip knew exactly why: His mother remembered the way he’d behaved after Rebecca passed, and how, after the humble funeral, he’d locked himself in the workshop and buried himself in work, hoping to blot those memories, too, from his mind: a half dozen neighbor men, emptying the parlor of its furnishings to make room for the fifty-dollar unlined wooden casket; Hannah and Rebecca’s mother, tenderly garbing his beautiful young wife in a pale gray dress, white apron, and cap—the same clothes she’d worn on their wedding day. He pictured the row of horse-drawn black buggies and plain jalopies lined up on the front lawn. And black-garbed mourners trooping slowly by the casket to pay their last respects. After the burial, as he let each visitor clasp his hand, Phillip could barely speak, because his mind seemed frozen on the small white tombstone. REBECCA, WIFE OF PHILLIP, MOTHER OF GABRIEL, it said. She’d deserved a large, ornate marker, like the ones he’d seen in cemeteries on his way to Baltimore, something engraved with angels and daisies—her flower of choice—to represent the beautiful, loving life she’d lived. If the community had been Old Order, the stonemason would have carved nothing but a number into the limestone that marked her place in the cemetery. At least you can give thanks for that....
“Sit,” Sarah said, interrupting his thoughts, “and I will prepare for you something to eat.”
“Thank you.”
Sarah began assembling ingredients for a sandwich and, her back to him, said, “Now, tell me everything.” She sliced a loaf of home-baked bread. “Do not leave out a single detail.”
Phillip inhaled a deep breath, let it out slowly. Should he describe the way Gabe had melted to the floor? The terror in his eyes as the ambulance sped to the hospital? The enormous, forbidding machines that aimed peculiar, glowing red cross–shaped lines on his frail body? Or the nurse’s deft fingers, sliding a needle into a vein in the bend of Gabe’s little arm, then filling and labeling five finger-sized vials with his lifeblood?
“He doesn’t have a concussion, but that’s all they know for sure. At least for the time being.”
Sarah whirled around so quickly that her apron ties slapped silently against her hip. “What do you mean, that is all they know? You were there all through the night, and it is morning now!” She shook a maternal digit in his direction. “Do not keep things from me, Son. I want the truth.”
He shrugged, feeling numb and helpless. Stupid, too, for not asking more questions while he’d had the chance to demand additional information.
“The doctor says it takes time, sometimes a few days, for the lab techs to deliver the test results.”
“Days!” she all but shouted.
How could he explain what he didn’t understand himself?
She slapped ham and cheese onto a slice of buttered bread. “What else did he say, this doctor with his fancy degrees?”
“Her brother drove the ambulance to the hospital. Drove me back to the auto supply store to retrieve the truck, too,” he said. “He says his sister is the best diagnostician in the area, so we shouldn’t worry.”
The plate hit the table with a ceramic thunk. “Handt dunna,” she ordered, and automatically, Phillip placed his hands in his lap, bowed his head, and eyes closed, silently recited the prayer she’d taught him as a small boy: “You provide every animal with food and every flower with water, and you have never forgotten us, either. Heavenly Father, we thank you . . .”
He’d barely completed the “amen” when she sat beside him and hid behind her hands. “All right, son of mine, tell me more about this . . . this diag . . .” She waved her hand, frustrated at her inability to repeat the title. “. . . this woman who is caring for our precious Gabe. What are your thoughts about her?”
She wasn’t asking for a physical description. Phillip knew that. And yet, all he could think of was Dr. White’s quick-to-smile, expressive face. Hair the color of chestnuts that escaped her bun and curled beside her freckled cheeks. Eyes that couldn’t decide if they were brown or green.
Phillip took a huge bite of the sandwich, as much to avoid answering his mother’s question as to extinguish his guilt. He’d vowed to love Rebecca to his dying day. What business did he have noticing such things about another woman!
“I am pleased to see that you enjoy the sandwich, Phillip, but it is not good to eat so quickly.”
“Sorry, Maemm,” he said around the bite.
She rose, filled a tumbler with fresh-squeezed lemonade, and placed it beside his plate.
“I added more sugar than usual,” she said, returning to her chair.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“I thought you might need a little extra sweetness after what you have been through.”
Smiling, he patted her hand. “You’re truly a blessing to me. To Gabe, too.”
Her brow furrowed. “You are frightening me, Phillip. I can tell you are keeping something from me.”
He studied her face. Concern about Gabe—that sort of fear was expected. But what had he done to frighten her?
“It is not like you to keep things from me. Not since you have come into manhood, that is.”
Once, he and his best friend had gotten lost on the way back from a new fishing hole, and another time, he’d let Caleb talk him into hitchhiking to town to check out the new ice cream parlor. Both adventures put them home long past dark, and knowing it would have terrified his mother to hear that her only son had gotten into two cars with total strangers, and teetered on the banks of the Youghiogheny River, known far and wide for its wild whitewater rafting rides . . . better to suffer the consequences, he’d decided, for not ’fessing up: extra chores and no dessert for two weeks.
“Phillip Baker. Look at me.”
He met her stern gaze.
“Do you trust this doctor?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” He’d said it without hesitation, and that surprised him a bit.
Sarah took a sip of his lemonade. “That is good enough for me, then.” She winked. “I baked pies last night to pass the time.”
He surveyed the rolling cart beside the stove, where no fewer than ten pies lined the shelves. “I can see that. An order for Hannah’s shop?”
Sarah shrugged. “I suppose.” She stood beside him. “Let me get for you a slice.”
Good as that sounded, Phillip wanted nothing more than to shower, change, and get back to the hospital.
As he’d walked inside earlier, Phillip had noticed a short stack of empty fruit baskets on the porch. “Apple pies?”
“Amos stopped by with a few bushels.”
She wasn’t fooling him. Apple pie was his favorite. Gabe’s, too. She could have canned a few jars instead of baking.
“I know you are in a hurry, but would you mind stopping at Hannah’s on your way back to town? She can sell a few of these for me. I will use the money to buy some yardage for my next quilt.” Grinning, she add
ed, “If they stay here, I will need longer ties to hold up my apron!”
Phillip grinned, too, and reached for his billfold. “How much do you need? For your quilting supplies, I mean.”
Sarah, hand raised like a traffic cop, stopped him. “I will pay for them myself.”
“But—”
“Hush. It makes me feel good to spend money I have myself earned.” A short pause punctuated her statement. “But I will understand if you feel you do not have time to stop at your sister’s.”
“No, no, I don’t mind.” God willing, Hannah would be busy with customers at Threads of Faith, and not at home when he called. Because what he didn’t have time for was Hannah’s lecture about all the reasons city doctors, hospitals, and medicine were ungodly.
“Stop looking so worried.” Sarah playfully poked his chest. “I happen to know that Eli is alone with the boys today. And that means Hannah is in the shop.”
He exhaled an exaggerated sigh of relief and made quick work of finishing the pie. “Delicious, as always, Maemm.”
“Mueller came by this morning to ask about his tractor.”
Phillip slapped a hand to the back of his neck. He’d just paid for the needed parts when Gabe passed out. “I have everything I need to make the repairs in his engine.” Everything but the time it’ll take to do the work.
“Yoder stopped by, too, asking about . . . you know? I forget what he said he had left for you to fix.”
He sighed again. “A lawn mower.”
“You say it will be several days until the doctor knows what is wrong with Gabe?”
He put his empty plates and tumbler into the sink.
“I know you, Phillip. You are afraid to leave him alone in that big hospital. But you have a business to run. Let me go there with you, sit beside him in your place. By the time the reports are in, you will have finished your work here, most of it, anyway. Then you can return to the hospital with peace of mind.”
It wasn’t a half-bad idea. “All right. He’ll be glad to see you. You might want to pack a bag, though. No telling how long you’ll be there.”
“Pie for Gabe?”
Phillip shook his head. “They’re limiting his diet.”
“Why?”
He saw no point in protecting her from his worst fear. “In case the test results require surgery.”
Fingertips pressed to her lips, Sarah gasped quietly. Tears puddled in her eyes, too, but to her credit, she got hold of herself quickly.
“Go,” she said, giving him a gentle push. “Clean yourself up. By the time you are ready, I will have packed a bag for both of us and put the pies onto the back seat of your truck.”
Phillip drew her close and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”
“Yes, but I never tire of hearing it.”
She shoved him again, and this time, he left the room.
After showering, shaving, and donning clean black trousers and a crisp white shirt, Phillip half ran down the stairs. He was buckling his black leather belt when he stepped into the kitchen.
“That awful thing,” Sarah said. “It makes noise. Yet another reason suspenders are better.”
Rather than defend his reasons for not wearing them, he motioned toward the bags, standing near the door. “As always, you’ve made sure everything is ready. You must be as eager to get to Gabe as I am.”
She walked silently toward the truck, and if asked to guess, Phillip would say she wanted to add that his belt wasn’t her only complaint. She probably wanted to comment on the way he spoke more like an Englisher than an Amishman, too. He helped her into the pickup’s cab, and Sarah said nothing. She remained quiet during the short drive to his sister’s place. Hannah’s sons, upon noticing Phillip’s truck, leapt from their rope swings and raced down the short, narrow drive. Their young voices harmonized as they shouted, “Grossmammi! Onkle Phil!”
“Now, now,” Sarah said, chuckling, “step back, Kleinzoons, or I will not be able to open the door.”
“I have never been fond of kleinzoons,” the taller boy said. “Can’t you call us grandsons, instead?”
“Better still,” his brother chimed in, “how about calling us John and Paul!”
“I will not. And if you complain, I will not give you the pie I baked for you!”
They studied her face, and seeing that she was teasing, began jumping up and down.
“Cherry pie?”
“Apple.” She opened the passenger door. “And you will not complain about that, either, you hear!”
Phillip loved his nephews’ exuberance, and wondered if Gabe would ever be as robust and energetic. The thought of his boy, lying alone in the sea-green-painted room, woke a yearning to check on him immediately.
Reaching into the back seat, he lifted one of the cardboard boxes that held his mother’s pies.
The boys peered around him. “Are all of those for us?” John asked.
“No, just one,” their grandmother answered. “The rest are for your mother to sell at the shop.”
Paul stamped a small black-booted foot. “May I choose the one that is to be ours?”
“They are all alike.” Sarah’s left eyebrow rose. “But all right.”
“That way,” the boy whispered to his brother, “I can choose the one that is fullest of apples.”
“Smart!” said John.
“You will be smart, too, little brother, when you are nine.”
Pouting, John said, “Three whole years before I get smart? I cannot wait that long!”
“Ah,” their grandmother said, “do not wish your lives away, my sweet grandsons. One day all too soon, you will wake up with gray hair and wrinkles, just like me!”
John’s eyes grew wide. “Did you hear, little brother? She did not call us kleinzoons!”
Paul giggled as their father descended the porch steps and peeked into the top box. “More pies for Hannah’s shop?” Eli asked.
Sarah smiled at her son-in-law. “And one for you and the boys, of course.”
“Marrying Hannah was the smartest thing I ever did. You are my favorite shoonmoder!”
“Your one and only shoonmoder!” she said, and reached up to pinch his cheek.
“Your daughter is busy with bookkeeping at the shop,” he said as his older son held open the door. “You are welcome to come in and wait. She promised to be home by noon. She left stew and bread. There is more than enough for you two.”
“Thanks anyway,” Phillip said, “but we’re in a rush to get back to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” Paul sounded every bit as worried as he looked.
“Gabe fainted again,” his brother said. “I heard Mama say so before she left this morning.”
Paul shook his head. “Poor Gabe.” He turned to Phillip. “I hope the doctors and nurses can fix whatever is wrong with him. Then he can do all the things we do for fun. We could have a race, and the winner would get—”
“A piece of pie!” John bellowed.
Eli stopped laughing long enough to say, “Brother-in-law, I wonder if you would mind doing me a favor . . .”
His sister’s husband was about to ask him to bring the pies to Hannah’s shop to save Eli the trip.
And sure enough, Eli said, “Since the shop is right on your way, would you mind—”
“Any other day,” Sarah broke in, “we would do it, happily. But Gabe has already been alone for far too long. Now, I love my daughter, you know I do, but . . .”
“But she has a tendency to go on and on, and you could be there until well past noon.”
“Daed is right,” John said. “Maemm does love to talk!”
Paul feigned shock. “I will tell her you said so!”
“You will do no such thing.” Eli finger-combed his dark beard. “It would sadden her to hear that you think she talks too much. And why would either of you want that?”
Eyes wide, John’s mouth formed a tiny O. “I would not want that. I love her!”
> Phillip felt the same way and gave his young nephews credit for loving his sister, flaws and all. Funny, he thought, the way love teaches people to tolerate imperfections in those they care about most. Even before the rainy Tuesday when Rebecca became his wife, he’d overlooked how quickly she tired, and the way every movement seemed painfully slow. It wasn’t until shortly before pneumonia took her from him that he learned that, for years, she’d been masking symptoms of multiple sclerosis.
Paul tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Why does Onkle Phillip look so sad?” he whispered.
“I think because he is missing Gabe.”
But the empathetic glint in his eyes told a different story. What had he heard to inspire it?
“Time to go, Phillip.” Sarah led the way down the walk.
He didn’t waste a second, falling into step beside her.
Paul caught up with them. “Will you tell Gabe that we miss him?”
“I will,” he promised, tousling the boy’s hair.
“And tell him that we will pray that he comes home soon, all healthy?” said his brother.
Crouching to make himself boy-sized, Phillip drew them into a hug. His nephews were well known as the community’s most notorious mischief-makers, lantern-breakers, and cooling-pie takers. But their hearts were pure, and he cared deeply for them.
“Of course,” he told them. Mostly, because any other outcome was unthinkable.
Chapter Three
The lab techs rarely made mistakes. In the case of little Gabriel Baker, Emily hoped they’d erred in a big way.
After reading the initial reports, she’d pressed the lab to repeat the studies . . . twice more. After three identical reports, she sent his file to a friend at the Mayo Clinic, who agreed that an electrocardiogram with meds should be next on the tests list. When she’d presented the findings to Phillip Baker, he’d asked for time to think and pray. Upon returning half an hour later, he said, “You have my permission to do whatever is needed to help Gabe.”
So she ordered the electrocardiogram, which verified her worst fear: an extremely rare and potentially fatal condition known as Brugada syndrome. Knowing that Baker had already lost his wife, Emily wasn’t looking forward to delivering the news.