“Baby Jo?”
“She’s gut. Thomas bundled her up and took her out to the barn.”
“Thomas has her?” The words came out as a croak.
“Ya.” Mammi’s relaxed smile put Abigail at ease. “You’ve missed a few things since you took sick. Those two have bonded quite well.”
“But he’s afraid of babies.”
“Indeed. Yet sometimes Gotte uses the thing we’re most afraid of to remind us of His sovereignty.” Mammi added, “Trust me. I know.”
Abigail shook her head, studying the older woman who had become such a dear friend in a relatively short time. “What have you ever been afraid of?”
Mammi laughed, and the sound was merry and bright. “Mostly, I was afraid of being alone, but Gotte showed me that we’re never truly alone. He’s always with us, am I right? And He sends others to be with us, to be near us in our time of need.”
Abigail thought of Thomas and Mammi, Clare, and Naomi and Luke. She had vague memories of each of them being there, sitting with her, praying for her.
“What day is it?”
“Monday, December twentieth.”
“Christmas is...?”
“Saturday. Perhaps you were dreaming of a white Christmas, and that’s why we received three inches of snow, plus there’s more forecast for later in the week.” Mammi picked up her knitting project—something Abigail didn’t remember her working on before. The yarn was a soft lavender, which just happened to be Abigail’s favorite color. “Baby Jo’s first Christmas will be here before we know it.”
Abigail was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to hold her doschder.
“Shower first,” Mammi suggested, as if anticipating what she was about to say. “Then a light breakfast, and by that time Thomas should be back with Baby Jo. They go out there every day.”
How long had she been sick? She remembered going to church with Mammi and Jo and Thomas. She remembered her mamm leaving the day before that. But anything between Sunday and waking this morning—an entire week apparently—was a blur. “Thomas cares for Jo by himself?”
“Indeed.”
“A lot has certainly changed in the past week.” She was thinking of how he’d been afraid to hold her doschder, of the look of panic on his face when she’d tried to settle Jo in his arms.
“They go out to the barn office every day from eight to ten, like clockwork. And before you start worrying, he does his paperwork in the barn office then. It’s not as if he has her in the barn loft.”
“I’m not sure that old barn office is much better.” She glanced out the window—a beautiful layer of snow covered the ground, though the sky was a robin’s-egg blue.
“Thomas made her a cradle of sorts and keeps it sitting next to the desk where he can rock her slightly with his foot.” Mammi peered at Abigail over her half-moon glasses. “I snuck up on him once, and he seems to spend most of his time staring at Little Jo rather than doing any real work. I think she’s claimed his heart.”
And suddenly Abigail remembered Thomas holding her hand, speaking to her in a low tone, telling her to get well because Baby Jo needed her, and Mammi needed her, and he—Thomas—needed her. She remembered opening her eyes to see him brush away the tears cascading down his cheeks, and then she’d fallen back into the dreamless abyss of the sickness that had claimed her.
“What was wrong with me?”
“Influenza. Doc Amanda has been here twice. She wanted to transfer you to the hospital, but we kept putting her off. I knew you wouldn’t want to be away from the baby if at all possible. And if she was going to catch it from you, she already would have. You’d rally enough to nurse Baby Jo...” Mammi again paused in her knitting. “You don’t remember that?”
“Nein. I don’t remember much of anything. It feels as if I’ve lost a week of my life.”
“For everything lost there is something gained. Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”
An hour later, Abigail had washed her hair and changed into fresh clothes. She wanted to go to the kitchen to eat, but felt suddenly, inexplicably exhausted.
“Slow, Abigail. You must go slow.” Mammi tucked the covers around her. “I’ll bring you some toast and tea.”
As Mammi toddled off, Abigail heard the back door open and close, then the murmur of low voices. Before she could formulate the thought, Thomas appeared in the doorway to her room. He was holding her baby girl.
There was straw in his hair, and a smudge of dirt on his left cheek, but she barely registered those things. Instead, she noticed the warmth in his brown eyes, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck and the easiness with which he held Baby Jo in the crook of his arm.
“You’re awake.”
“And you’re holding my boppli like a natural. The last time I remember asking you to hold her, you’d reminded me that babies could break and nearly run from the room.”
“Ya. I guess she’s not quite as frightening as I made her out to be.” He stared down at the bundle in his arms. “I believe I’ve taught her to sing ‘Jingle Bells.’”
Thomas began humming the tune, and Abigail saw two small hands reach up and out of the blanket.
He strode across the room and laid the babe in the crook of her arm. To Abigail’s eyes, it seemed that her doschder had grown dramatically in the last week. She had more hair than before! Her eyes were wide-open and staring at Abigail, and she waved her arms excitedly, finally plopping her fist into her mouth.
“Still sucking her fist.” Thomas pulled the chair closer to the bed and perched on the edge of it.
“I see that.”
“She looks like you.” His voice was a whisper, a caress really.
“Do you think so?”
“I do.” He reached out, ran his hand over the top of Baby Jo’s head. “I think you’re both beautiful...”
He seemed about to say more, but at that very moment Mammi bustled in carrying a tray. Thomas jumped up to help her, then murmured that he needed to go and finish some work in the barn. But he paused at the door, turned back and said, “Five days until Christmas. Lots to do if we’re going to be ready.”
Baby Jo’s first Christmas.
Abigail stared down at her child, then looked back up at Thomas—only he was gone.
“Cookies to bake, gifts to wrap. We’ll have a fine celebration.” Mammi took Baby Jo from her arms and placed her in the cradle. “First, though, we have to get your strength back. Start with the tea and toast. Once we’re sure that will stay down, I’ll make you some oatmeal.”
Abigail ate, nursed Baby Jo and had every intention to continue work on Thomas’s winter scarf, but suddenly her eyelids felt as if they had a heavy weight on them.
“Don’t fight it, dear.”
Mammi took the knitting, slipped it into the project basket, then lowered the shades over the windows. Abigail watched her bustle about, and she realized in that moment how much she was learning from Mammi—learning the very things that her mamm had never learned from her own mother.
How to show affection.
How to offer comfort with a kind word.
How to simply be with someone in a silent and companionable way.
How to accept help.
Abigail yawned, then curled onto her side, watching the lavender yarn twist and turn as Mammi worked her knitting needles.
“Danki, Mammi.”
“You’re welcome, of course.”
“Not just for caring for me while I was sick, but for everything.” She yawned again. “For being you. For showing me another way.”
Mammi’s eyes met hers and she tsked. “There’s always another way, a better way, if we’re brave enough to embrace it.”
Was she?
Was Abigail brave enough to believe that she could be happy? Courageous enough to trust that her future with Baby Jo would
be one filled with love and abundance and friends? Could she rely on the goodness of God? And finally, would she be able to embrace the feelings that flooded her heart every time she looked at Thomas?
She wanted to think about all those things, to consider them carefully, but they’d barely passed through her mind when sleep claimed her once again.
* * *
Thomas had trouble taking his eyes off Abigail. Only two days ago, the doctor had described her situation as quite grave and insisted that if she didn’t improve soon, she’d have to go to the hospital.
It was Mammi who had told him not to worry, only believe.
Bishop Luke had reminded them to pray, and then shared a verse of Scripture from the Gospel of Mark. Those words had been rattling around in Thomas’s mind for two days.
Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief!
That simple line described Thomas perfectly. He did believe the truths found in the Bible, believed every bit of the Christmas story, believed that Gotte cared for him and had suffered and died for him. He believed.
But oh, how he pleaded that Gotte would help his unbelief.
And He had.
As they prayed silently over the evening meal, Thomas realized that Abigail was living proof of the goodness and provision of Gotte.
“Mmm. Smells gut.” Abigail leaned over the bowl of tomato-basil soup, nearly causing her kapp string to fall into it.
Thomas reached forward and brushed it back.
Her eyes met his and she whispered, “Danki.”
Then Baby Jo let out a grunt and a squeal as an unpleasant odor filled the room. Abigail popped up and reached for her doschder.
“I can do that,” Mammi said.
“You’ve done enough.” Abigail stopped at the little arched entryway between the kitchen and sitting room, then turned to look back. “Unless Thomas would like to...”
“Nein.” He was pretty sure he could smell Baby Jo from across the room. “I’ve done my share of dirty diapers this week. That one’s yours.”
Abigail’s laughter followed her out of the room. Thomas thought if sunshine had a sound, that would be it.
“Are you waiting for Christmas to tell her?”
Thomas didn’t even pretend to not know what she was talking about. He sighed and dipped his spoon into the creamy soup.
“I’m not sure what I’m waiting for,” he admitted.
“Christmas is only five days away.” Mammi bit into her grilled cheese sandwich.
“You think that would be a good time?”
“I wouldn’t wait.”
“You wouldn’t wait five days? Why not? I’ve waited this long.” He crossed his arms and sat back. “Abigail doesn’t know what’s going to happen with this farm, Mammi. And as you know, I live in an apartment above a mercantile. That’s not gut enough for Abigail or Baby Jo. They deserve a real home.”
“A house is made of walls and beams—a home is made of love and dreams.”
“Bible?”
She shook her head and turned her attention back to her soup. “Nein. Just something my mamm used to say.”
Abigail returned with a smiling Baby Jo.
The meal passed with talk of the weather and the neighbors and the coming holiday.
Jo began to fuss. Abigail finally pushed away her plate, picked up Baby Jo and placed the child against her shoulder. She rubbed Jo’s back in small, gentle circles. Thomas was thinking about that, about how maternal instincts didn’t need to be taught—they were there, under the surface, waiting to push through. Was it the same with paternal instincts? Could he be a gut father to Little Jo?
“Thomas, did you hear me?”
“Ya, of course.”
“What did I say?”
“I don’t know. My mind was elsewhere, but I did hear you.”
Mammi laughed, but when she stood to do the dishes both Abigail and Thomas jumped to their feet.
“Here, Mammi. You hold her. She goes to sleep faster with you than with anyone else.”
“We’ll take care of the dishes,” Thomas agreed.
Abigail turned toward him in surprise. “Don’t you need to get home?”
“Not really.” Thomas realized with a start that the statement was completely true. No one would notice if he wasn’t home. Where he stayed wasn’t made of love and dreams, as Mammi had said. It was simply a few rooms above a mercantile. And that had been fine, for a time. But suddenly it wasn’t fine anymore. Suddenly he didn’t want to go home. He wanted to stay with Abigail and Baby Jo.
He wanted a family.
Abigail set the stopper in the sink drain, turned on the hot water and squirted soap into it. “I’ve been thinking about Christmas.”
“Have you, now?”
“I have, and I have some ideas.” Abigail twirled her hand in the soapy water.
“Oh, boy.” He tried to sound put out, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. “Just remember you’re barely out of bed. You shouldn’t try to do too much too soon.”
Abigail shrugged, scrubbed a plate and set it in the rinse water. Thomas plucked it out.
“There are pine trees at the back of the property, right?”
“A nice row of them.”
“We could get pine cones and small branches and such. They would make the house smell like Christmas.”
“I can do that.”
“Oh.” Abigail frowned. “I thought we could do it together.”
Thomas’s pulse accelerated. “Together, ya. That’s what I meant.”
“Mammi was talking this afternoon about how when she was a child, they’d string popcorn and cranberries.”
“Do you have popcorn?”
“Nope.”
“Cranberries?”
“Not even one.”
“Sounds like we should go to town.”
Now Abigail beamed up at him. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Sounds like a holly jolly Christmas, but are you sure...” He stared down at the pot he’d been drying for some time, then raised his eyes to Abigail’s. “Are you sure you’re up to it? I don’t want you to overdo things and have a relapse.”
“That’s sweet of you to worry about me, Thomas.”
“Oh, ya, well, you know...” Thomas’s mind scrambled for something, anything to say. “I guess there’s a fine line between taking care of yourself and lounging around sleeping when there’s still so much work to be done.”
Abigail splashed him with soapy water. “Are you calling me lazy?”
“I’d never say such a thing. Doing so would land me squarely on the naughty list.”
“Whose naughty list?”
“Well...” He suddenly wished he hadn’t attempted to tease her. How could he focus on what he was saying when she was looking up at him with those brown eyes, when she was smiling at him that way? “Santa’s list, perhaps. An Amish Santa. Or maybe it’s just Round John wearing a red cap.”
Abigail shook her head and returned her attention to the dishes. “Round John could definitely fill in as Santa for the Shipshe Christmas parade.”
“You know about that?”
“Last year was the only Christmas I’ve spent here, and we didn’t go—if that’s what you’re asking. Asher was mostly content to stay on the farm.” She focused on the dish she was scrubbing. “But I remember seeing the posters.”
Her voice had taken on a pensive tone. Thomas searched for a way to bring the joy back in her voice. Abigail was staring out the window over the sink now. What was she thinking? Was she wishing on a star? If she could have anything, what would it be?
But he knew the answer to that.
She’d already told him, on more than one occasion.
She’d have a perfect first Christmas for her child.
“I like your idea—abo
ut making special memories for Baby Jo.”
“Ya?” She cocked her head and studied him. “You said it was silly. You pointed out that she won’t remember her first Christmas, and I suppose you’re right. I don’t remember mine.”
“She might not remember, but it’s not just memories you’re making—it’s traditions.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, traditions are things we embrace, things we do over and over because they bring us comfort and joy.”
“Exactly. That’s what I want for Jo. A solid foundation of traditions.” She hesitated, then asked, “Does that make me less Amish?”
“Of course not.”
“No? Because I also remember someone saying that we aren’t Englisch and don’t celebrate like them.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “That guy sounds like a grinch.”
“What do you know about the grinch?”
“Green guy, small heart, bad attitude.”
Abigail laughed and pulled the plug on the dishwater. “I don’t know what happened to you while I was sick, but I like it.”
“Do you, now?”
“Ya, I do.”
She stepped closer, looked up at him, and Thomas could no more have stopped himself than he could have willed his heart to quit beating. He bent his head and touched his lips softly to hers.
She didn’t step away, and the kiss went on until Baby Jo’s cry interrupted the tender moment.
“Sounds like someone is calling you,” he said softly.
“I should probably...” But instead of turning away, she stood on tiptoe, put her hands on his face and kissed him again. Thomas experienced a real sense of euphoria. His thoughts turned fuzzy, and his heartbeat kicked up a notch. He forgot about the room they were standing in, the snow outside, his worries over what type of life he could offer Abigail.
He forgot everything except the feel of her in his arms.
Abigail ran her fingers through the hair that curled at his collar, kissed him once more, then turned and bustled out of the room.
Thomas was left trying to figure out exactly when he’d fallen in love with Abigail Yutzy, and what he planned to do about it.
An Amish Baby for Christmas Page 16
