The Witnesses

by Linda Byler

  Davey Beiler knew God’s people were everywhere, in many modes of dress, many cultures, and ways of life. Not only the Amish knew God’s ways. Sometimes, in matters he kept to himself, he thought the English were the ones who came through with great, undeserved love and kindness, the spine of Christianity.

  And now, his daughter, somewhere alone in a great hospital far from home, was severely injured. Was it because of his inability to “do something”?

  Dozens of bishops and ministers agreed with Davey. The old way was best—the principle of forgiveness—even at a time like this.

  Self blame edged out his conviction, causing an unrelenting torment in his breast as the van bore to the left, passing yet another tractor trailer.

  Levi was awake.

  He wasn’t completely sure why he had been awakened, but when he heard a rapid pounding on the front door, he rolled over and opened one eye to peer at the alarm clock. He could see alright with only one eye if he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

  Two o’clock.

  Throwing back the covers, he took his time pushing his feet into the corduroy slippers by his nightstand.

  Checking the buttons on his flannel pajamas, he buttoned one that had come undone and pulled the fabric down over his ample stomach.

  Shuffling to the bedroom door, he called for Dat, then Mam. When there was no answer, he shifted his gaze to the living room couch, then caught sight of the blaze beyond Elam’s place and heard the thin wail of the fire sirens.

  Ach, du lieva (Oh my goodness), he thought.

  Another sharp rapping assaulted his slow senses, and he snorted impatiently. Well, if Mam and Dat were not going to the door, he guessed he’d have to.

  “Hang on!” he bellowed, exactly the way he heard his brother Allen say at his house.

  He was not afraid, didn’t even think of such a thing. He simply yanked the door open, stuck his great tousled head out, and peered into the youth’s face. Levi asked, in a voice as English as he could possible make it, “May I help you with something?”

  The tall, thin youth with the shaggy hair moved uncomfortably from one foot to another, his hands stuck in the pockets of his short jacket.

  “Your dad here?”

  “No. I’d say he’s down at the fire.”

  “Oh, yeah. Guess he would be.”

  Levi checked his face for a full minute, thoroughly examining every angle, the plane of his nose, the way he held his head, the shaggy hair.

  Yep, Levi decided. It’s him.

  “You can come in. I’ll light the kitchen lamp. He should be here.”

  “Okay.”

  The youth moved through the door and stood awkwardly by the counter while Levi slowly lifted the lighter to the mantles of the gas lamp and turned the black knob. The tall youth blinked in the bright, yellowish light.

  “Sit down,” Levi said.

  He sat down.

  “Now, I have to go to the bathroom, so are you alright if I leave you awhile?”

  “Sure.”

  “Alright, then.”

  Levi disappeared through the kesslehaus door, closed it behind him, and instantly moved as stealthily and swiftly as his bulk would allow. Through the side door of the kesslehaus, across the frosty lawn, and into the phone shanty he sped, closing the door as quietly behind him as possible.

  Lifting the small LED penlight, Levi peered at the buttons, then deliberately punched in the nine, then two ones in rapid succession. He told the dispatcher he needed a policeman, or two, if she could, at the Davey Beiler farm on Irishtown Road in back of Gordonville. He thought he had someone they might want.

  He replaced the receiver, swished through the cold, wet grass back to the kesslehaus, and entered noiselessly. He reached into the small alcove and flushed the commode, then washed his hands, splashing and humming, biding his time, before reappearing.

  “Sorry about that.”

  The youth said nothing, his face working.

  “You want coffee? Shoofly? Mam made whoopie pies.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Okay then.”

  “When’s your dad going to be back?”

  “Oh, I’d imagine before too long. He’ll need something after while.”

  The youth cast a dark look at Levi and was greeted by a look of childlike innocence from the narrowed brown eyes.

  When they heard someone on the front porch, Levi knew it wasn’t Dat, but he went to the door and said, “Oh, you’re here. Come on in. Your company is waiting for you.”

  When the first policeman entered, the youth leaped to his feet and made a mad dash for the kesslehaus door, but Levi had locked it from the other side. He crashed into it, swore, and tried an alternative route, straight into the burly officer’s arms.

  Levi hopped up and down with excitement, but then sat quietly as the youth was questioned.

  When it was his turn, Levi answered the policeman’s questions well. He believed this boy was “sticking on” (lighting) the barns. He had believed it ever since the very first night the small white car moved past their barn with no lights. He never told anyone that a teddy bear drove the car, because everyone in his family and the church would laugh at him. But his hair was shaggy, like a stuffed bear. Levi saw this boy at the funeral of that pretty English girl, and he thought his name was Mike.

  The youth glared at Levi, then became quite somber. The boy leaned forward and lowered his face in his hands, and Levi knew without a doubt that he was buze fertich (repentant).

  Too bad the policeman didn’t want any shoofly either. It was pretty lonely eating it all by himself at such an early hour in the morning. He hoped Dat and Mam wouldn’t return too soon. They’d be needed at the fire, he reasoned, as he cut his second wedge of shoofly pie. And he deserved a treat for his work that night. It had just been a matter of waiting till the time was right and knowing when to go to the bathroom.

  CHAPTER 4

  FINALLY, WHEN DAVID AND MALINDA BEILER thought they would go mad with impatience, another doctor appeared in the doorway of the waiting room and asked them to accompany him to a room where there would be more privacy. Their despair had become a steadily rising foe, and it was about to grow bigger.

  In the private room, they were told the truth, bluntly. Nothing was held back, but in precise, physician’s language, the doctor relayed Sarah’s situation in a professional manner laced with empathy and kindness.

  They were left examining the burden of information he dropped on them, an unwelcome weight dumped on their shoulders, impossible to carry. They tried to contain their emotions, but that, too, was an impossibility. Tears slid unheeded down their exhausted faces.

  For now, she was stable, though her condition was critical. She had lost a lot of blood.

  The burns covered roughly fifty percent of her body, the worst of the damage on one side, the right. It was centered on her upper chest, arm, neck, and face.

  Mam gasped as the doctor said, “face.”

  The deepest burns had been caused when her headscarf caught fire.

  The biggest concern was the possibility of pneumonia and infection. They would need to take it a day at a time, the extent of skin grafting and surgeries depending on the severity of the tissue damage.

  The recovery would be weeks, months. There were facilities provided for family within walking distance from the hospital, where they could stay free of charge.

  They asked their only question, “When can we see her?”

  He made a few quick phone calls, a nurse appeared, and, after shaking the doctor’s hand and thanking him, they were on their way. Into the elevator and up to the third floor, they moved along behind the nurse with their heads bowed, avoiding gazes that were curious, kind, or puzzled.

  They were joined by another nurse, a tall, angular woman with graying hair, who introduced herself as Junie Adams, the head nurse. She explained the tubes, machines, and monitors they would see, then asked them to don gowns and masks, remove their shoes, and wear only st
erile slippers.

  Quickly, they complied, then followed her into a cold, dim room, alive with clicks and whirs, lights, IV bags, poles, and a figure swathed in white bandages.

  There was no trace of Sarah anywhere. Even her eyes were covered. That was the hardest part for Mam. If only she could see her eyes, she’d be able to find her Sarah.

  As it was, they stood together, their clothes touching, the feeling of being joined at this hour absolutely essential.

  “You may talk to her. She’s on morphine, heavily drugged, as you can see, but she may respond. Her mouth is lightly covered, the same as her eyes, so go ahead, see what happens.”

  They could not speak, at first. It wasn’t that they didn’t try, but nothing would come except more tears, more pain, as they struggled together.

  Finally, Mam said, “Sarah,” and was instantly consumed with a flood of weeping so intense she sagged against her husband, and his arm went around her to hold her steady.

  Then he spoke. He said her name. He told her not to be afraid; they were here with her now. Mam told her they loved her and were waiting until she could speak to them.

  A long, hoarse moan came from the swathed mouth, then another. The nurse assured them it was okay.

  They spoke again, but the first few moans were the only ones that came in response, and they had to be satisfied with the knowledge that perhaps she had heard.

  It seemed more bearable now, somehow, since they had seen her.

  They sat in the large room, after following a bewildering number of people to another floor and through an archway with a cafeteria sign above it. They had followed others, picking up plastic trays and silverware wrapped in white napkins, and chosen the food they would need to sustain them, for the forenoon hours, anyway.

  Mam ate dry toast, without realizing it wasn’t buttered, and Dat drank his coffee black, unable to find the creamer and not wanting to make his way through the crowd again.

  It was alright, they could face each other, read the depths of one another’s eyes, and drink greedily from the comfort and assurance they saw there.

  When Dat reached across the tabletop and grasped Mam’s hand, he told her she was all the support he needed and thanked her for being strong. And she knew her Davey was a man she still admired even after all these years.

  Together, they were a mighty fortress.

  Back in the waiting room, they leaped to their feet at the appearance of Ruthie and Anna Mae, their husbands in tow. Priscilla and Suzie followed them shyly, their eyes huge in their pinched white faces.

  A clamoring ensued with talking, hugging, and crying. The girls needed to find out every single detail they could gather about Sarah.

  Then Priscilla told them about Lydia and Omar’s situation. The horse barn, of course, had been burned to the ground, but the dairy barn was saved, and not one horse was lost. Dominic, the crazy thing, ran clear out to Ben’s Sam’s in Gordonville and was being kept in the bull pen for now.

  Melvin had stayed with Lydia, and so far, she did not seem to be sliding into despair, her spirits being bolstered by Melvin’s unfailing optimism, which was good.

  No one was allowed to see Sarah. Suzie sat close to Mam and would not leave her side. Priscilla stayed on the other. Ruthie talked and fussed on and on about what she knew about burns—the miraculous work of the B and W salve and burdock leaves. Dat nodded assent but said, “Not for now, Ruthie, not for now. This is way above our home remedies. Our Sarah almost died.”

  “Could she still?” Suzie asked, her terrified eyes large and intense.

  “She could, yes. We’ll take a day at a time—no, an hour at a time,” Dat said.

  Eli’s Sam had stayed with Levi. They played game after game of checkers, and Levi did not say a word about the shaggy-haired youth or calling the police.

  Priscilla and Suzie had slept through the ruckus, and Levi figured he’d not mention it until Sarah was better. Sarah was tough, he reasoned, but she was, after all, a girl, and you had to take care of them. Why, they screamed terrible when he took his dentures out of his mouth.

  The Crozer-Chester Medical Center was a great earth-hued building, rectangular, seven stories high. It had an enclosure along the one side, a porch of sorts. Trees surrounded it and some newly planted shrubs and flowering bushes. They were dormant now, waiting for their time to join the greening of spring, the bark mulch around them weathered by the snows of winter.

  The parking lot spread across acres of former agricultural land, the parking spaces painted white, like a crossword puzzle mapped out with signs—who could park where, this space reserved. Usually most of the spaces were occupied, the gigantic building a beacon of hope and caring for families whose loved ones were severely burned or burned beyond the realm of home care, in any case.

  Hundreds of doctors, nurses, and other trained individuals worked within the tiled walls of the hospital, devoting their lives to the care and healing of unfortunate souls who had to endure one of the most severe forms of nature’s suffering.

  The Beilers’ second night at the burn center was almost spent. The moon had descended far to the west, its bluish white glow turning the indigo blue night sky a bit silver. The parked cars took on the glistening luster of moonlight, and small shadows appeared on the east side of every object.

  Inside, on the third floor, the figure in Room 312 moaned, sighed, then fell asleep, her limbs twitching after she attempted to verbalize her thoughts. Images spun through her head, but they made her too tired, so she let them go.

  There was no use. The weariness was much too heavy. It lay on her chest like a fifty-pound bag of potatoes, slowly pressing out her will to live.

  Those potatoes needed to be taken down to the root cellar. The garden must not have produced enough this year for Dat to have bought them in a fifty-pound bag.

  She groaned, tried to roll out from beneath it. No use. She’d just have to breathe as best she could.

  She was picking up potatoes now, the breeze soft and mellow, the earth still warm on her bare toes, although the summer was fast coming to an end, and most of the harvest was in.

  There was still the cabbage Mam had planted late, and the celery, banked up with hills of loamy brown soil.

  She stooped, felt the satisfying mound beneath her fingers, and brought up a big one this time. The biggest potato of the season. She tossed it into the wooden crate, then bent for another.

  Mervin was with her, laughing, throwing small potatoes at her. She was puzzled that he was there, but the weight on her chest made it too tiring to ask.

  Mervin sang, he laughed, he smiled, and all the potatoes he threw at her hurt so badly, she wanted to make him stop.

  She cried out, “Mervin, do net (don’t)!”

  The more she pleaded, the harder he threw them, still singing and laughing.

  The pain was unbearable now.

  She begged for mercy, asked him to stop.

  Where was Mam? She had to have help. Someone had to help her get out from under this weight. She called and called, but no one would come to her.

  Sarah’s parents sat, one on either side of her bed, with their heads resting on the backs of the vinyl-covered chairs. Their eyes were closed, mouths slack as sleep loosened the muscles and tendons.

  Rest had come suddenly for both of them. After almost forty hours, there was no alternative. They slept.

  While they slept, Sarah called, over and over. Or so she thought.

  Mam still slept with the trained senses of a mother of ten, but there was no sound from the still, white form on the bed. It was the swish of the nurse’s scrubs that first woke Mam. She sat up immediately, adjusted her covering, smoothed her skirt, and felt guilty for having dozed off, away from Sarah.

  The nurse didn’t speak, just edged silently past Mam, checked the blips and beeps on the monitors, inspected the IV bag to check its level, then patted Mam’s shoulder as she moved past.

  She was efficient and kind, even at this hour, Mam though
t. It was a miracle the way these people knew exactly what they were doing.

  A low sound came from the bed.

  Mam turned, grasped the arms of her chair, and got to her feet. The sound was different this time.

  “Mm. Mm!”

  Quickly, Mam bent over Sarah, placing her hands lightly on her face, her shoulders.

  “Sarah. Sarah. Ich bin do (I am here).”

  Then, decidedly, from the thin confines of the white bandages, came a garbled sound, altered by a swollen throat.

  “Ma-am.”

  “I’m here, Sarah. Can you hear me?”

  Hoarse breathing, accelerated now, came rasping from her mouth behind the gauze. It sounded like fabric tearing as Sarah regained consciousness. The only form of expression her body allowed was a long, hoarse whisper of misery. A silent scream.

  “Sarah. Sarah.”

  Mam was completely distraught now, afraid Sarah would choke. Forgetting the button she was supposed to press for help, she moved past the foot of the bed and out the door. Turning her head from left to right, she scuttled in the direction of the nurses’ station.

  The station wasn’t there. Not where she thought it should be.

  Oh, there was someone. She stopped the harried looking nurse.

  “Can you help us? She’s awake!”

  The nurse, all six feet of her, looked down at the weary Amish woman plucking at her sleeve and resigned herself. These Amish were all the same. Inevitably, they all came looking for help, forgetting to use the call button.

  Mam’s feet slid across the tiles, following the long-legged stride in front of her, so befuddled she didn’t even notice when the nurse stopped at a long, high enclosure and said, “312.”

  Instantly, the nurse—the same one who had checked the IV—rose and walked swiftly to Sarah’s room, awakening Dat as she went to his side of Sarah’s bed.

  She pressed the button for help with one thumb, while her other hand reached for the thin gauze around Sarah’s mouth. Mam stood by, her hands clasped in front of her, her mouth working, as the agonized sounds continued.

  Another nurse, younger, with a tanned complexion and short, brown hair, joined the other one. Together, they began loosening some of the bandages around Sarah’s face.