by Loree Lough
Phillip could think of no reason to upset the elderly bishop. Yes, his unwelcome counsel could sting, but he meant well. And as often as not, his advice helped. Eventually. So Phillip said, “Maybe we’d both make better use of our prayer time if we asked the Almighty to lead those young men to emulate someone more suitable than the likes of me.”
Fisher’s frown deepened and sarcasm rang loud in his voice when he said, “What we should pray for is that it is God’s will for this . . . this Dr. White . . . to help Gabriel. And that He will bless you, Phillip Baker, with common sense.”
The rise and fall of the curtains slowed as a cloud passed overhead, blocking the sunlight that had brightened the mummy schtool’s surface. Phillip was bone-tired. Hungry. And more than a little fed up with being told he didn’t measure up—as a member of the community, as a son, as a father. He flattened both palms on the workbench’s rough-hewn surface.
“Perhaps,” he slowly ground out, “if my mother had displayed some common sense, she would have summoned a doctor to tend to my father and brother. If she had, they’d both likely still be with us. And maybe,” he continued, voice rising slightly, “if you hadn’t made me feel like a Judas for wanting to get Rebecca to a doctor sooner, Gabe would still have a mother and I’d still have a wife. Have you ever stopped to consider that it was God who blessed doctors with every skill they need to find out what’s wrong with a patient, then do everything possible to fix it . . . to research new cures that provide life-saving medications? And who but God could inspire inventors to create machines that assist in detecting dangerous diseases and disorders? Who but God could motivate designers to build hospitals where the sick aren’t just diagnosed, but healed!”
The bishop’s mouth formed a thin line, telling Phillip that this time, he’d hit the intended target. He hadn’t started out to insult the man. Hadn’t meant to sound disrespectful, or hurt his feelings, either. But now, the pained look on Fisher’s face made it clear he’d done both.
With a snap of his suspenders, the bishop turned on his heel, stopping in the doorway long enough to make a statement that chilled Phillip to the soles of his boots:
“I believe it is time to assemble a meeting of the elders, to discuss your personal feelings toward Dr. White . . . who is not Amish.”
“There’s nothing personal between the doctor and me!”
“You allow your son to read books not approved by the elders. Books about history and science. I have seen him in town, too, reading newspapers stacked on the corner. At his age, he should not even know how to read, and yet, he can quote headlines! I have also seen him, walking and talking and laughing with his cousins—even as they pass the church building, they show no respect. All three boys need a lesson in the old ways. Sarah and I have discussed this at length, and she is as confounded by their actions as I.”
“They are children, Bishop. There should be joy in their lives!”
“All joy should come from the Lord, even the joy of children.”
Apparently, the bishop had said his piece and was now finished. He put the wide-brimmed hat onto his head with such force that the fabric squeaked. Then he left the shop, mumbling things like “. . . I must pray for his change of heart . . .”; “. . . let the Almighty open his eyes . . .”; and “. . . guide him, O Lord, to become abetter father . . .”
Anger roiled in Phillip’s gut. He wanted to go after the bishop. Grab him by the shoulders and force him to listen to reason. He’d worked hard. Had done everything in his power to provide well for his mother, for Gabe. On the nights when bad dreams woke the boy, he’d gone without sleep to comfort him, to show him affection and attention. And how dare Fisher declare, with nothing to go on but Sarah’s assessment, that his relationship with Emily was anything but professional!
Sunlight flashed from the claw end of his best hammer. He picked it up . . . and slammed its face onto the worktable. Screws and nails, nuts and bolts rattled in their jars as screwdrivers and drill bits bounced a time or two on the worn wooden surface. Why did it matter so much what Fisher thought of him, what any of the elders thought, for that matter!
Then, unwelcome reality hit him like a punch to the gut: If the men agreed with the bishop, they’d visit daily to lecture, to read Scripture with him, reiterate his transgressions, and urge repentance. If he didn’t mend his ways . . .
Since Rebecca’s death, he’d obeyed fewer and fewer of the community’s rubrics. But whom had his behavior harmed? No one! And yet Fisher had implied that if he resisted those rules, he could be forced to leave Pleasant Valley.
“Pleasant indeed,” he complained.
It wasn’t always easy, submitting to the Amish ways. But those ways had protected members for generations, had protected them all the way back to the 1690s. But if he didn’t like being judged—as an ineffective parent, an unruly son, a disobedient Christian—because he saw things differently, what right did he have to judge others who drew comfort from the Plain lifestyle?
Perhaps he should dig out his old clothes, let his beard grow, stop talking like an Englisher. At least then, naysayers would see him as cooperative. It was also possible that the trusting feelings he’d known as a youngster would return.
But clothes didn’t make the man; if he changed the outside but not the inside, he’d be living a lie. God surely wouldn’t approve of that.
A lot would depend on Gabe’s future.
Chapter Five
“I am very happy to see you, Dr. White. Very happy!”
“It’s good to see you, too, sweetie.”
Emily stood at her little patient’s bedside, wondering how to pass the time until Phillip returned. She’d checked Gabe’s vitals. Scanned his chart. Asked all the customary questions: “Any pain?” “Did you get any sleep last night?” “When was the last time you ate?”
After adding the latest information to his computer file, she glanced at her watch. Five fifteen. It wasn’t like Gabe’s dad to be late. Had he changed his mind about discussing the case over dinner? The possibility changed her mood from upbeat to sad.
“Do not worry,” his mother said. “He will be here.”
Had her thoughts been that obvious? Emily hit the file’s Save button.
“Have you ordered a meal, Mrs. Baker, so you can have dinner with Gabe?”
The woman shook her head. “We have our big meal of the day—dinner—at noon. The evening meal is lighter, and we call it supper. But yes, I will eat with my grandson.”
Gabe’s grandmother crossed her ankles. “I would like to thank you, Dr. White, for making our boy feel at ease here. Normally, he is a quiet, shy boy who rarely speaks around strangers. With you, he talks a blue streak.”
The information inspired a smile, and the warmth of happiness swirled within her. As she searched her mind for a suitable reply, Mr. Baker—Phillip—entered the room.
He’d changed into rugged brown work boots, dark suspenders, and a collarless white shirt. He held a straw hat along with the file she’d given him. There hadn’t been time to grow a beard, but if there had been, something told her he’d be sporting that, too. He’d only been home for a few hours. What had happened in that short time to inspire the perceptible changes?
“Dad!” Gabe said, eyes bright and arms extended.
It only took three long strides to put Phillip beside the bed. Seated on the edge of the mattress, he gathered his son close, all but blocking Gabe from her view.
The boy peered over his father’s broad shoulder and grinned at Emily. “Is it true, Doctor? Are you taking my father to a fancy restaurant to eat?”
The question took her by surprise. She avoided Mrs. Baker’s eyes. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. But the restaurant is hardly fancy!”
Sitting back, Gabe inclined his head. “Why are you eating in a restaurant, instead of here, in my room?”
“Because,” his father answered, “Dr. White is going to help me better understand what’s wrong with you, and how she hopes to fix it. It will take tim
e for her to explain things in non-hospital terms. You need to use that time to rest, so you will be ready for the operation.”
Gabe sank back into his pillows and took a deep breath. “I would very much like for you to fix my heart.”
She wanted that, too. Although Emily had only spent a few hours with this precious little boy, she’d grown fond of him. She could pretend it had nothing to do with his father, but that would be a lie. Emily tried to ease her discomfort by telling herself anyone would feel affection for the bright, articulate child . . . especially since he’d made no secret of his affection for her!
“What time is it, Dad?”
“I, ah, I left my watch at home.”
“Why?”
“Because neither my shirt nor my trousers have pockets.”
Gabe looked as confused by his father’s new look as she felt.
“Why are Amish clothes made without them?”
“Because,” Sarah said, “they are not plain. They signify worldly things that are not pleasing to God.”
The answer didn’t satisfy her young patient’s question, and judging by Baker’s stern expression, it displeased his father.
“It’s a little after five,” Emily said.
The boy glanced at his grandmother. “Dad’s stomach will rumble if he doesn’t have supper soon.”
The older woman nodded. “Yes, this is true.”
“They should go to the restaurant then, should they not, because the sooner they leave, the sooner they will eat, and the sooner they eat, the sooner they will get back.” He aimed a big-eyed stare at Emily. “And when you do get back, will you tell me what is wrong with me, and how you will fix it?”
Telling the little boy the truth would terrify him. Avoiding it would, too. She said a little prayer that, by the time she and Phillip returned, God would have provided a suitable answer.
Sarah clucked her tongue. “She is good at asking questions, but not so good at answering them.”
If there had been any doubt about the woman’s opinion of women in the medical profession—any profession, for that matter—they were quashed by her cutting words. Had her attitude toward Phillip’s non-Amish conduct inspired the change in his speech and clothes?
“The information I’ve gathered in the file will provide answers to most, if not all, of your questions, Mrs. Baker. You’re more than welcome to read it. And I’m more than happy to answer any that I haven’t already addressed.”
She shuddered under Sarah’s intense scrutiny. Blue eyes that had glowed with loving warmth when looking at her son and grandson turned icy, like the glacier waters in the Gulf of Alaska.
“Gabe makes a good point,” Phillip said. Facing his mother, he added, “Once Gabe is settled for the night, I will drive you home. There, you can get a bath and a decent night’s sleep.”
Now Sarah fixed that frosty glare on her son. “I will sleep when Gabriel is well again.”
“Now, Maemm, that isn’t healthy. What good will you be to Gabe if you get sick?”
At the mention of his name, the boy opened drowsy eyes. “I have a question, Dr. White . . .”
Emily moved closer, rested a hand on his forearm. “What is it, Gabe?”
“When can I go home?”
He was listless, slightly feverish, with aches and pains. If the complaints signaled an infection, surgery would be postponed. Indefinitely. Alex had made it clear that he’d called in favors to squeeze Gabe into his already overcrowded surgical schedule, and that in a few weeks, he’d leave on a world cruise that would make him unavailable for nearly three months. Even if nothing went wrong, the boy’s hospital stay could be lengthy.
She summoned her best bedside manner smile. “I wish I had a good, easy answer for you, sweetie.” Sweetie? Again? Stop it! Just stop it! “Everyone here at the hospital is going to do everything we can to make sure you’re home again just as soon as possible.”
The grandmother replied with a cynical snort. Phillip looked as skeptical as Sarah had sounded.
“It is getting late,” he said. “Perhaps Gabe is right, and we should go.”
Emily agreed. But first things first.
After withdrawing a business card from her bag, she held it up so that Sarah was sure to see it. “My cell phone number,” she explained, placing it on Gabe’s bedside table. “If you need me, for any reason, feel free to call.” The nurses had the number, too, but perhaps this direct invitation would help quell the woman’s mistrust.
Gabe sent her a sheepish grin. “If your bag is heavy, Dad can carry it for you.”
She’d made a habit of carrying her wallet and keys in her well-organized medical bag. Even stocked with a pulse oximeter, wrapped tongue depressors, alcohol wipes, gloves, and masks, the waterproof, zippered case was as lightweight as any purse she’d ever carried. Emily tucked her stethoscope into a side pocket and secured the latch. Smiling, she slung its strap over her right shoulder.
“I’m sure he would, but I’ve been lugging this old thing around for years. I’m used to it.” She gave it a pat. “We won’t be long.”
Emily wasted no time making her way to the elevators, and when Phillip caught up to her, he thumbed the Down button. “For someone with such short legs, you walk pretty fast.”
The fluorescent bulb overhead drew her attention to the whiskers that shadowed his upper lip, cheeks, and chin. “I thought all Amish men were required to wear beards.”
“Only the married ones.”
What about the widowers? she wondered.
The gleaming aluminum doors opened with a quiet hiss. Alone in the car, they stood side by side. She averted her eyes from his brawny biceps. Pretended not to notice that he towered over her. Ignored the way his long lashes shimmered under the flickering light.
“I have not eaten spinach in days.”
The suddenness of his deep voice startled her. “Spinach?”
“I thought maybe that’s why you were staring . . . spinach in my teeth.”
His wide smile sent her heart into overdrive. Rather than admit he’d been right—that she had been studying him from the corner of her eye—Emily said, “You have a wonderful smile. I think it’s sad that you don’t show it more often.”
That inspired a quiet chuckle. “Have you not heard? We Amish shy away from anything that draws attention to us.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Oh?”
“Your clothes and accent, that’s what draws attention.”
He nodded.
“Besides, I’ve treated many Pleasant Valley residents, and can’t recall one as serious as you. Even those who were injured or ill managed to joke and smile, at least a little.”
Eyebrows raised, he shrugged. “If I were a betting man, I would wager you inspired those smiles.”
The elevator stopped on the first floor, and as they exited the car, he continued. “You have a way of making others feel calm, even in the midst of chaos and concern. A good quality in a person. Especially a person tasked with the care of others.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Baker.” She’d heard that before, too, but from this man . . . Emily cleared her throat. “That’s good to hear.”
They stepped outside, where traffic beyond the parking lot whizzed past. Horns blared. Sirens wailed. A helicopter hovered overhead, preparing to position itself on the big red X on the hospital roof.
“I wish you would call me Phillip.” He moved to her left side, putting himself between Emily and the curb. “Unless it violates some sort of doctor–patient’s family rule.”
“All right, but only if you’ll call me Emily.”
Extending his right hand, he smiled again. “We have a deal.”
The rasp of his palm against hers reminded Emily of her grandfather. For forty years, Dutton White Sr. had spent his days—and more than a few nights—as a building contractor. The grueling labor had given him hard, bulging muscles and built thick calluses on both hands, just like Phillip’s. Once, a few years before
his retirement, she’d asked her grandfather why he worked so hard when, as owner of the White and Son Design-Build, he could have assigned the strenuous tasks to his employees. “I’m no better than my men,” he’d replied. “Besides, it feels good knowing that I provided a good life for your grandmother and your aunt and uncle with my own two hands.” The comparison gave Emily yet another reason to like and respect Phillip.
“You remind me of my father’s father.”
“Oh? How so?”
She described the way Dutton had devoted himself to his wife and children, how he’d taught her to fish, and drive a nail with a single hammer blow. “And he had hard-working hands, just like yours.”
By now, they’d reached Ella’s Café. He wrapped his fingers around the weather-dulled brass door handle, then stepped aside as Emily entered.
“Dr. White!” said the girl at the cash register. “Must be a busy week. Haven’t seen you in days and days. We’ve missed you!”
“You too, Cindy.”
“Table or booth?”
“A booth would be great. One in the back would be even better.”
Winking, Cindy grabbed two menus and led the way to the rear of the café. “How’s this?”
“Perfect.” Emily slid onto the red vinyl bench facing the entry and put her bag beside her.
Phillip sat across from her as the young woman said, “I’m pullin’ double duty this evening, as usual. Hostess, waitress, bussing tables . . . What can I bring you two to drink?”
“How about some of your famous lemonade.”
“Sounds good,” Phillip said. “Make it two.”
Once Cindy left them, Emily said, “Let’s eat first, and discuss Gabe over dessert and coffee.” She watched him open his menu.
One brawny shoulder lifted in a half shrug. “You’re the doctor. I will go along with whatever you think is best.” Phillip took a moment to scan the entrees, then met her eyes. “You have eaten here before. What do you recommend?”