An Amish Baby for Christmas

by Vannetta Chapman

  As she closed her eyes, she placed her hand on her stomach and tried to convey her love to her doschder. They would make it on their own. They’d have to.

  * * *

  The next few weeks were difficult ones for Thomas. He was a man being torn in opposite directions. On the one hand, he needed to see Abigail every day, to see for himself that she was fine, and to calm the anxiousness building in his heart. On the other hand, he understood what was happening.

  He had a crush on Abigail Yutzy.

  It had to be a crush. There was no chance it was something more serious. She was a widow. She was in the last trimester of her pregnancy, and she was his employer. It couldn’t be love. Love happened when two people courted, when they realized they were right for each other, when they had shared experiences that brought them closer together. Okay, they had shared a few experiences, but that alone wasn’t enough to build a relationship on. There wasn’t even a small chance that what he was feeling could be more serious than a crush.

  Those thoughts muddled his mind as he sat in the office of the mercantile, supposedly helping Mary Lehman.

  “What you’re feeling isn’t so strange, if you think about it.” Mary nodded as if she saw this sort of thing all the time, and perhaps she did—with seven children, three already married, it wasn’t as if matters of the heart were a new topic for her.

  She had yet to meet Abigail.

  Perhaps that made it easier for Thomas to talk to her. Plus, he’d always viewed Mary as a surrogate mother, probably because she’d willingly embraced the role.

  “Think about it, Thomas. You like to rescue things. That could actually be a tag line for your business. We Rescue the Lost.” She held her hand up and waved it left to right, as if she could see the words painted in giant letters on the side of his buggy. “Of course, there’s no we in your business, but it sounds better if you’re not a one-man show. Gives you more respectability.”

  Thomas was putting sticky labels on handmade Christmas cards: $4.99 Each. Amish Made.

  He could see something being worth more because it was handmade. That made it original, but the fact that it was Amish made...how did that make it worth $4.99 instead of $3.99?

  “It’s not even Thanksgiving yet,” he muttered. “Why am I tagging Christmas cards?”

  “Because you need something to do with your hands. Tell me why you’re home early.”

  Actually, it wasn’t that early. The clock on the wall read ten minutes past six, and the store was already closed. He’d found Mary in the small office, finishing up a few tasks because her doschder was making dinner that night.

  “You were home by four. You’re rarely home before dark.”

  “Oh, ya. I guess I was done at Abigail’s, and there was no logical reason to hang around.”

  “I’m glad you came down to see me.”

  Her smile assured him that this was the truth. He never felt like he was putting Mary out or that he was in the way. She was a gut person—a gut friend.

  “Besides, it’s better you’re down here doing something useful, than upstairs pacing back and forth. I thought you were going to wear a path in the floor.”

  He put a label on upside down, then tried to cover it up with another. In the process, he managed to stick two more labels to his fingers. Finally, he dropped it all on her desk. “Here. I’m just messing this up.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps a mug of hot tea is what you need.”

  He started to argue. He did not need hot tea, and he was sure she should be headed home. But he didn’t say any of that. He sat there and let her heat water in the electric kettle she kept in the office—they had electricity in the store. Thomas had it in his home, though he didn’t use it. What would he use it on? It wasn’t like he had a television or computer or stereo system.

  She pushed a mug of herbal tea into his hands.

  “Talk to me.” Her voice was quiet, low, patient.

  Perhaps her gentle attitude was why he was able to voice his confusion. Mary Lehman didn’t push, but she had the patience of Job. Best to confess all so that she could go home to her family.

  “It’s like I care about her, but maybe more than I should. Or in a different way than I should. And I know it’s ridiculous, so I vow that I’m going to put the entire thing out of my mind. That only succeeds in me thinking about her even more.” He sipped the tea, closing his eyes and inhaling the aroma. When he opened his eyes again, Mary was still waiting. “I don’t know what to do about it. I could quit the job, but that would leave her in a bind. Who else is going to work for deferred wages? But I’m worried that if I stay, this...infatuation...will only grow worse.”

  When she still didn’t respond, he added a bit gruffly, “Maybe there’s some herb or natural remedy you could give me.”

  “Oh, Thomas. There’s no remedy for love.”

  “Love? Who said I was in love?”

  “You did. You just don’t realize it yet.” She set aside her own mug of tea, crossed her arms on the desk and leaned forward. “I could argue with nearly everything you said.”

  “But...”

  “How can you care about someone more than you should?”

  “That’s the thing...”

  “Why is it ridiculous for you to care about Abigail?”

  “Because she’s married.”

  “Was married.”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  “That will resolve itself in a few weeks.”

  Thomas pushed away the mug of tea and buried his head in his hands, tugging fistfuls of his hair in the hopes of calming his spinning thoughts.

  “And quitting...when have you ever quit on someone?”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it because they both knew the answer to that—never.

  Mary stood and walked to his side of the desk. Sitting in the chair next to him, she waited until he raised his eyes to hers. “John and I think of you as our son. You’ve shared with us on numerous occasions your worries that you would be like your dat, your fear of trusting your emotions. But, Thomas...Gotte is doing a new thing in you. And you know what? You can trust Him.”

  “I don’t know how to do that.” His voice was a whisper.

  “Sometimes it’s as simple as taking the next step. Stop fighting what you’re feeling and start praying.”

  “Praying?”

  “Ask Gotte what He wants you to do next.”

  He stared past her now, at the far wall of the office that held a calendar. The page was turned to November. He’d known Abigail nearly two months. How could his life turn upside down in such a short time?

  “Can I give you some advice?”

  “I thought you just did.”

  “No one receives unlimited chances. No one has an endless string of days in front of them. It’s the worst kind of arrogance to believe that you do.” Then she kissed him on top of the head—making him feel like a child but also bringing an odd sense of comfort to his troubled soul—and walked out of the room.

  Four hours later, the store’s phone rang. The incessant ringing woke him from a dream of springtime fields that he couldn’t seem to plant. Every time he’d reach the end of the row and turn the horses, he’d find that he hadn’t started yet. He sat up in bed, realized it was the phone that he was hearing, and barreled downstairs.

  There was only one person who would be calling the store at this hour.

  “Abigail’s in labor.” Mammi’s voice sounded as calm as if she were giving him the weather report.

  Thomas sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that Luke had left the cell phone with her.

  “Can you come and fetch us, take us to the hospital?”

  “Me?”

  “Ya. We called Luke, but he was staying at a member’s house, sitting with their daddi so the family could go out of town for the birth of a grandkinner.
”

  “Okay. Ya. Of course. I’m on my way.” He hung up the phone and rushed upstairs. Grabbing his hat and coat, he sprinted back down the stairs. It wasn’t until he opened the outer door that he realized he’d forgotten about getting properly dressed.

  He dashed back upstairs, threw on a shirt, pants and suspenders, then his shoes—not bothering with socks. He’d broken into a sweat by the time he opened the barn door. How long did he have? Was Abigail having the baby right now? Would he arrive there to find he was too late? And what if everyone wasn’t all right?

  He pushed that thought away.

  Pray.

  Mary had told him to pray. So, he did. As he harnessed Duchess, he prayed for Mammi that she’d know what to do. He prayed for the doctors and nurses at the hospital, that they’d take good care of Abigail. He prayed for his horse and the roads and the weather and Bishop Luke. And then, as Duchess set off at a fast trot, he prayed for Abigail and her baby. That Gotte would care for them, protect them and hold them in the palm of His hand.

  Chapter Nine

  Mammi focused on guiding Abigail through deep breathing exercises. Abigail wasn’t as frightened as she thought she might be. She was ready to meet her doschder. But the pain—the pain was a surprise. She’d known it would hurt, but she had never experienced anything like this before.

  The contractions left her breathless. Her heart raced and sweat dripped down the back of her neck.

  She was thinking of that, of sweating in the middle of a November evening, when the sound of a horse and buggy reached them.

  “Sounds like our ride is here.” Mammi hurried to open the door.

  But it wasn’t Bishop Luke who walked through the door. It was Thomas. Abigail remembered Mammi stepping out of the room to make the phone call, but she’d assumed the bishop would be the one to fetch her.

  Thomas stood there, staring at her while he turned his hat round and round in his hands. He looked terrified. His face had lost all color—bleached whiter than their pine wood table. “It’s time?”

  “Ya. How’d you get here so fast?”

  “Duchess is a gut horse.” Thomas blinked rapidly, then stepped forward before backing up again. “Tell me what to do.”

  “We need to go to the hospital,” Mammi explained. She’d donned her coat, a scarf and her bonnet. She’d picked up her knitting bag and purse and nodded at Abigail’s small suitcase. “Let’s get hopping. It’s time for Abigail’s boppli to greet the world.”

  “You’re sure it’s not...” His eyes met hers. “Like before?”

  She shook her head, then realized another contraction was beginning. She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on breathing in small, rapid puffs. She clutched the arm of the couch so tightly that she expected to leave a palm print there. She lost herself in that little bubble that was the pain and her child and her body and the amazing thing that was called the miracle of birth.

  “What’s happening?” Thomas’s voice was low, awed almost.

  “She’s breathing to help with the pain.”

  Thomas plopped into the chair. By the time Abigail opened her eyes, he was sitting there bent forward with his head between his knees.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Abigail managed to ask as she tried to pull in a steadying breath. They’d been timing the contractions. Currently, they were five minutes apart, which Mammi had declared was the perfect time to head to the hospital.

  “Thomas.” Mammi stood in front of Thomas and waited for him to look up. When he did, she leaned forward and peered into his face. “Can you take us to the hospital?”

  “Sure, ya. But shouldn’t we call an ambulance?”

  Abigail reached for the glass of water and downed half of it. When Thomas finally met her gaze, she couldn’t read his expression. He was worried, of course. He’d never had a boppli and this entire situation must be making him uncomfortable. But there was something else in his gaze—something she couldn’t quite understand.

  “Buggy, please.”

  “Okay. Buggy. Got it.” He stood and headed toward the back door, then remembered that he’d parked in the front. Pivoting he headed back through the living room and out the door. He popped back inside and picked up her suitcase, then paused to watch Abigail when she let out a little gasp and began breathing in puffs again.

  She closed her eyes to better focus, but she could still hear Thomas and Mammi talking.

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Oh, ya. For sure and certain, but this boppli is coming, Thomas. Let’s shake a leg.”

  Abigail glanced up as Mammi pushed her knitting bag into his hands. “Take this to the buggy. Then come back and help Abigail.”

  She closed her eyes—focusing, breathing, praying. She heard the front door open and close, then open again. She looked up to see Thomas standing there next to her. He acted as if he was going to pick her up, like he had before, but she only shook her head and pushed herself into a standing position. She leaned on his arm, entwining her fingers with his, and his expression changed.

  Looking down at her fingers clinging to his, Thomas’s expression turned tender. When he looked up, the cocky grin that was so familiar to her was back. “You’ve got this, Abigail. Already, you’re being a gut mamm.”

  “Ya. How do you figure?”

  “Well, lots of women holler when they’re in labor. You’re not hollering.”

  “The night is young.” She offered him a small smile, which seemed to be what he needed. Funny that she felt the need to comfort him when she was the one in labor. But she had read the books. She’d spoken with Mammi and Naomi and Clare. She knew what to expect, though she was finding that understanding a thing and experiencing it were quite different.

  She was able to walk to the buggy, where Thomas scooped her up and set her in the back, next to Mammi. Another contraction was beginning, so Abigail didn’t object to his helping her that way. Thomas called out to Duchess. Abigail closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.

  Mammi counted in her soft voice, and when the contraction had passed, she said, “Gut. They’re only four minutes apart now. This girl is impatient to meet her mamm.”

  The next hour was a blur.

  She would lose herself in the bubble, in the pain and the miracle, and then events happening around her would come into focus.

  The comforting sound of Mammi’s soft, calm voice.

  Hurrying through the cold November night—Thomas urging Duchess into a steady trot.

  Thomas helping Abigail into a wheelchair, and the look on his face when she thanked him.

  Mammi and Thomas disappearing as the nurses pushed her wheelchair through the double doors.

  Her last image of the two people who meant so much to her was of them sitting in the waiting room, huddled next to one another, Mammi’s hand on Thomas’s back, both of them with their heads bowed in prayer.

  Then the next contraction hit. This one brought with it an all-consuming pain that blocked out every other thought. She could hear the nurses calling for a doctor, and the familiar face of Dr. Rainey appeared above her saying, “Looks like you just made it, Abigail.”

  After that there was pushing and more pain and finally the cry of her doschder greeting the world.

  Dr. Rainey placed the baby in her arms, and Abigail felt a rush of love unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. She gazed down into her doschder’s tiny, perfect face, then checked to make sure she had all her fingers and toes.

  She was perfect.

  “Do you have a name?” the doctor asked kindly.

  “Joanna.” She swiped at the tears on her cheeks. The name was right. She’d known it the moment she’d laid eyes on her baby. All those hours she’d spent paging through the Big Book of Baby Names. Now the moment was here, and she no longer wondered what she should name her baby girl. She just knew.r />
  “That’s a fine name, dear.” Even the nurse was beaming, but then who wouldn’t smile looking into her sweet little girl’s face?

  Joanna’s eyes were the same color as Abigail’s. Her nose was a sweet button of a thing that reminded Abigail of her youngest schweschder. She ran a hand across the top of her boppli’s head. Soft hair the color of her own but with a bit more curl to it—that would be from Asher. His hair always did curl a little.

  A nurse took Baby Jo long enough to swaddle her in a blanket—white with a little ribbon of pink and blue. “Her five-minute Apgar is a solid eight.”

  Abigail must have read about what that meant, but she couldn’t think of it. The doctor picked up the baby, ran her fingertips over the child’s brow and then laid her in the crook of Abigail’s arm.

  “What is an Apgar score?”

  “It’s a test to assure us your boppli is doing well, and she is.”

  Abigail might have drifted off while she was holding her, because the next thing she knew Mammi was in the room, cooing over the baby. “You did a wunderbaar job, Abigail. I expected they would call me back to be with you, but apparently things went so fast there was no time. That’s a real blessing, to have a quick birth.”

  “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “She is that and more.” Mammi bent and kissed the top of Jo’s head. “May Gotte’s blessing be upon you, little one, all the days of your life.”

  “I’ve named her Joanna, but I think I’ll call her Little Jo or maybe Baby Jo, at least while she’s small enough to tolerate it.”

  They spoke for a few more minutes, and then a nurse came in and asked if she could eat something. Surprisingly, Abigail found that she was hungry. She ate well when they brought her scrambled eggs, toast and juice.

  Mammi held Little Jo as Abigail ate, and that image of the dear old woman holding the newborn filled Abigail’s heart with joy. Gotte had been gut to her. He’d seen her through a difficult time, and now she had so much to look forward to.