The Christmas Quilt (Quilts of Love Series)

by Vannetta Chapman

  Once the door to Leah’s room had closed behind them, Baxter began, not pausing to give Annie a chance to offer her version of events.

  “Normally I don’t abide family members touching my equipment, but in this case you did the right thing. As I’m sure you realize, her BP was dangerously high. Dr. Reese ordered a single dose of Methyldopa orally and Labetalol intravenously. I’m not accustomed to sharing such details with individuals who aren’t staff; however . . .” she paused to give Annie a once-over, from the top of her kapp-covered head to the toes of her sensible shoes. “I’ve heard things about you, from your former supervisors—good things. And you’ve proven yourself to be useful here. Sometimes Amish patients can be a problem—no offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “I want you to prepare your sister—and her husband—for the likelihood that these babies may come sooner than anticipated.”

  Annie waited, sensing Nurse Baxter didn’t want idle chit-chat from her. She thought for a moment that the floor supervisor was going to dismiss her when the older woman nodded ever so slightly, then Annie remembered she didn’t actually work there.

  She turned to push back into Leah’s room when Baxter called her back. “Although we don’t usually allow family to stay overnight, we’ll make an exception in this case. Foster will provide whatever you need.”

  “Danki,” Annie said, but she wasn’t sure Baxter heard her. The woman was already treading softly down the hall, on her way to care for another mother in need.

  20

  Adam wanted to leave the minute he pressed the END button on Samuel’s cell phone, the very second they finished speaking with Annie.

  “If you think it’s best, we’ll find a driver.” Samuel studied him from the front porch steps. He’d driven over as soon as he’d heard from Annie, knowing that Adam would need to talk to the women himself.

  By the time he’d reached Adam’s house, Leah was asleep. There seemed to be no need to waken her, so Annie had repeated what she’d already told Samuel. It did help to hear his wife’s condition firsthand.

  “I feel as if I should go—now.”

  “Ya. I understand why.”

  “You’re sure the doctors are waiting though.”

  “They told Annie they’d reassess her condition in the morning. If her blood pressure is at an unsafe level, they’ll give her medication to begin labor or possibly schedule a cesarean.”

  Adam rested his head in his hands and waited for all of the words to make sense. He waited for the fear to retreat. Finally, he stood and stared toward his fields in the pitch-black night. A cold winter wind had begun to blow as soon as the sun had set. There’d be snow before the week was out, probably a lot of it.

  “It’s not what we wanted, Samuel. Not how we envisioned this thing to go. But the children are still safe, and so is Leah. That’s the important thing.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You think I should wait?”

  “I think if she’s stable in the morning then it could still be Saturday before the twins are born. You’ll have travelled there only to stay a few hours and travel back, and—” he bit off the end of the sentence.

  “Say it. We’ve come through too much in the last few months to hold back now.”

  “Though I don’t doubt at all Leah would like to see you.” He stood, walked next to him, and placed his hand on his shoulder. “It could be she’ll rest more if we aren’t there.”

  Adam scrubbed his hand across his face. He hadn’t thought of that, but there was a ring of truth to what Samuel said. “Annie told me the doctors make their rounds at ten.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be done with my work by then and be at your house.”

  “And I’ll have called Belinda at first light. We’ll be sure to have her or another driver ready to go.”

  Samuel’s work boots crunched against the gravel of his drive as he made his way out to his buggy. Growing up, Adam had often wished for a brother. Reba was close, with her love of animals and willingness to follow him into a creek or thicket or deer stand. Charity had been like a second mother, always seeing there was a warm plate of food on the stove if he worked late. And Annie had been his friend, being the closest in age.

  Samuel directed his buggy down the lane, and the two small red brake lights blinked, throwing a small reflection on the larger red triangle. He prayed Samuel would find his way safely home, and then he paused and thanked God for sending him the brother he’d always wanted.

  As he walked through the house and cleaned up the few dishes in the sink, he continued to pray—for Leah, the children, and the doctors. For Annie and her baby. He prayed for his parents—this time had been difficult for them as well. Praying came more naturally to him after all they’d been through. Before Leah had become pregnant, honestly before she’d gone to Lewistown, he hadn’t thought of himself as much of a praying person.

  He prayed at church, of course, and he thanked God for his food each meal. He’d never considered himself a praying man though. When it came time for the drawing of lots, when there was a need to elect more leaders within their church, he always secretly hoped it wasn’t his name called. He knew he didn’t have the spiritual maturity to lead others.

  He was still fumbling around trying to find the way himself! But things had changed since Leah’s illness. He’d learned to lean on God, since he certainly couldn’t lean on his own understanding—he didn’t understand any of this!

  Now whenever the world grew quiet around him, he found himself falling into an easy conversation with God—thanking Him for all He’d done, asking Him for direction, remembering His word, even pleading for His help.

  Certainly good had come out of these times. Though he’d be glad when his wife was home, with his children, and everything returned to normal. As if he knew what being a father was like, or how having babies would change things in their home.

  What was normal for a family of four?

  As he pulled off his work clothes and set the battery-operated clock to go off an hour early, to go off long before the morning light would touch the edge of his fields, he prayed he would learn what that kind of normal was.

  “Give me the chance, Lord. Give us one more day together, and then one more day after that.” And with words of blessing for his family on his lips, he fell into a deep sleep.

  Leah felt disoriented when she first woke.

  She’d become accustomed to the hospital room, but why was the IV back in her arm? And the fetal monitor around her stomach? And Annie sitting in the chair, quilting by the small lamp?

  The memories of the last few hours came back to her in a rush, causing her heart to race and sweat to pop out across her brow.

  “You’re okay.” Annie was at her side in seconds. “You and the bopplin are fine. Here, take a sip of the water.”

  Leah allowed the coolness of the drink to settle her nervousness. She pulled in two, then three deep breaths, and noticed when Annie’s gaze moved from the heartbeat monitor back to her, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

  “Are we good in here?” Foster stuck his head in through the door, light from the hallway spilling across the room.

  “Ya. I believe she was a little confused when she woke is all.”

  Foster’s eyebrows arched. They looked comical contrasted against his extremely short haircut. Leah knew he wouldn’t leave until she’d confirmed she was fine.

  “I feel better. Danki.”

  “All right then. Push your button if you need anything. I’m on for another thirty minutes.”

  Leah remembered most of what had happened since her head had begun to ache, but she was relieved when Annie pulled her chair closer and recounted the evening’s events anyway. Her fear had made some of the events loom larger than others. Hearing Annie describe Nurse Baxter, who was quite somber, and Dr. Reese, who had been concerned but not overly so, helped to settle her mind and heart.

  “The babies are fine?”

&nbs
p; “Ya. You can see their heartbeats yourself. The two lines on the display to the right of yours.”

  Leah watched them for a while. Turning back to Annie, she was surprised to see her quilting again.

  “So late?” she teased.

  “It’s better than the Englisch television.” Annie shook her head, kapp strings flapping against the chair. “I didn’t want to leave, and I wasn’t ready to sleep myself. I hope the light isn’t what woke you.”

  “Nein. I’ve slept a lot already. Sew away.”

  She watched as Annie placed the pastel lavender apron on top of the dark purple dress and began to stitch around it.

  “You’ll have to tell a story though.”

  “Leah Weaver. You must be kidding. It’s nearly eleven at night.”

  “Never too late for a story. Now let’s see—we’ve covered love, joy . . .”

  “Peace, patience, and . . .” Annie’s needle paused in midair.

  “You just thought of one! You thought of a story about a girl that has to do with kindness.”

  “Perhaps I did.” Annie resumed her sewing. “I believe the babies will be fine, Leah.”

  “And so do I.” They stared at one another across the bed, across the quilt, across the space of four or five feet, which was actually no space at all.

  “So tell me the story.” Leah took another sip from the cup of water, then placed both hands on her stomach. She didn’t gaze at the monitor any longer. She didn’t need to. God was watching over her children.

  When I first left Mifflin County, when I went to live with my aenti, I stayed in her house to finish my homeschooling. You know Amish children only learn through eighth grade, and Englisch children learn through twelfth. I needed to pass the high school equivalency exam to take classes at the local college. Aenti had me take a practice exam, and I did well in Englisch and math. I even managed to pass history—though not as well as I would have liked. Science, though, gave me a lot of trouble. And science is very important if you’re interested in nursing. So I had to go back to the beginning.

  I tried teaching myself, but it’s difficult to educate yourself in a subject you know little about. Finally Aenti found me a tutor—a science teacher from the local high school. She was a single mom. I never learned what happened to her husband, but she had two children. The older girl’s name was Hailey and the younger girl’s name was Sofia. My story, my story of kindness, is about Sofia.

  But first I need to tell you about Hailey. She was my age at that time—beautiful in the way of the Englisch models you will sometimes see on the front of magazines. She didn’t have a car—I don’t suppose they could afford one—but her freinden did. They would often drop her off or pick her up, never bothering to come into the home. She was always on one of the cellular phones like Samuel has and didn’t speak much to her mamm. Mostly she stayed in her room if she was home. Above all she never spoke to her schweschder. Never looked directly at her. I can’t say what Hailey was like, because in my three months of caring for the young girl and being tutored by the mother, I never did get to know the teenage girl in any meaningful way.

  The young girl, Sofia, I did get to know. She was three years old, only beginning to learn words, and full of life. Her hair was solid blonde curls, and she smiled at nearly everything. When she did cry, over some small bump when she’d fallen down or once when Hailey came in and slammed a door, it was easy enough to distract her with a story or a game. Soon she would be smiling again.

  I walked to Sophia’s day care in the neighborhood at three in the afternoon and kept her until six when her mother came home. Usually I took a stroller that belonged to the family, and Sophia would sit in it while I pushed her home. Occasionally she would run or walk beside the stroller. Very early I learned Hailey could have done this—she was often home before me since her school let out at two-thirty. Why she didn’t I don’t know, but as I said, she would have nothing to do with the child.

  A few times, when Hailey would go into the kitchen for water—I never saw her actually eat—Sophia would run to her and try to give her a small drawing or share a cookie with her. These times Hailey would not speak sharply to her, but would rather walk away as if Sophia didn’t exist. Once the mother was in the room. She had come home, and we were about to begin our tutoring lesson. When this happened, I saw an expression of such pain, remorse I think, pass over her face, that it felt as if one of Reba’s critters had scratched me.

  No one spoiled Sophia, but she was very attached to what she called her blankie. It was a small square of a blanket, with a satin trim and a rabbit’s head. She carried it with her everywhere, and when I washed it she would sit outside the machine and wait for her blankie to come out. She would take it to day care, eat with it, even sleep with it.

  I don’t know all the details of what happened the day Hailey walked home from school. I had already picked up Sophia—her day care wasn’t far from my aenti’s house or their own home. It was actually a nice stroll. We’d arrived home, had our snack, and were sitting on a blanket in the front yard. I don’t know that Hailey even saw us. I certainly had never seen her walking before, always her freinden had driven her.

  Sophia saw her first. She pointed and said, “Hailey home.” She never did call her schweschder. Hailey walked into the house, a look of complete devastation on her face. I hurried inside, carrying Sophia. Hailey had never been rude to me, though she also didn’t speak to me more than was necessary. I asked her if she was all right, but she didn’t seem to hear me. I expected her to go into her room as she always did.

  She didn’t though.

  Instead, she made it to the kitchen, stopped at the icebox where they kept bottled water, and there she sank to the floor. Before I could reach her, Sophia broke away from me. She climbed in her lap, handed her the blankie, and said, “Here, Hailey. Take it.”

  Hailey stared at the small square of cloth, as if she were seeing it for the first time, but Sophia was working her sister’s fingers around it, showing her how to clutch it. Finally when Sophia was sure the blankie wouldn’t drop to the floor, she took her two small, chubby hands and placed them on each side of Hailey’s face. “It’s gut. Ya?”

  She said it the Amish way, plain and simple.

  I’m telling you there was so much kindness in that child it practically poured from her.

  Hailey stared at her for five, six, maybe seven heartbeats. I thought she’d push her off her lap, run to her room, and slam the door again. But instead, she wrapped her arms around Sophia and began to weep.

  That’s how her mother found us—all three in the kitchen, sitting on the floor.

  The next day, the mother called my aenti and said I was ready to take my equivalency exams. She also said I wouldn’t need to pick up Sophia anymore and she’d pay through the end of the week since my job was ending so abruptly.

  I saw them once though. A week later, I was walking from the grocery store, and I saw Hailey, walking home with Sophia. They were holding hands and Sophia was still carrying her blankie.

  “What happened?” Leah asked. She could practically see the two girls and the younger Annie. “What caused it? People don’t change easily, especially teenagers—whether they’re Amish or Englisch. It’s a stubborn age.”

  “True. Aenti learned through some neighbors that there had been a car wreck at lunch that day. The accident seriously injured three siblings, including a teen and two younger children. I suppose it woke Hailey up, caused her to appreciate the family she had.”

  “But Sophia didn’t need waking up.”

  “Nein.” Annie stored her quilting supplies as the hands on the clock moved toward midnight. “I think Sophia is one of those souls who understands the value of each day. She seemed born awake and born to kindness.”

  Leah didn’t protest when Annie rearranged her pillows and encouraged her to close her eyes. The story had caused her to feel sleepy again. As Annie turned off her lamp, leaving a mere sliver of light from the bathroom, Leah won
dered if her mind would dwell on the tragedy in the story—on the three who had been injured. Had they recovered? Or had they died? She had heard her own mamm say when a young person died in their own community, “Her life was complete.” Her parents and her faith had taught her to view death not as a tragedy, but as a passing to something better, something glorious.

  So her mind passed over that part of the story and focused instead on Sophia. As she fell into a restful slumber, her subconscious did what it was good at—combined pieces of her day together, so Sophia was wearing the purple dress that Annie had been sewing and Annie was wearing the lavender apron. When Sophia and her sister were walking through a field and Sophia dropped her blanket, it seemed fitting that Dr. Kamal stooped, picked it up, and handed it to them.

  In his soft, melodic voice, he blessed both girls. “May His goodness and grace be with you both for now and evermore.”

  And with those words still echoing in her heart, Leah woke to the dawn’s light shining through her hospital window on the day her children would be born.

  21

  Annie stood close to Leah’s bed as both Dr. Kamal and Dr. Reese entered the room Tuesday morning. She had a good idea what they were about to say, and she’d done her best to prepare Leah without coming out and guessing they were going to deliver the babies in the next few hours. The monitors pretty much told it all. Even with the medicines pumping through Leah’s IV, her blood pressure was not what Annie would have liked to see. The bigger question was, why was it remaining high?

  It didn’t take Dr. Reese long to move past the pleasantries and into their plan for the day.

  “Your blood pressure isn’t settling down as we’d like.”

  “Is it something I’ve done?”

  “Not at all. More than likely the placenta is stressed, attempting to pull from the wall as your infants continue to grow. Because of this, we’d like to deliver the babies, Leah, by cesarean section.”

  Leah reached for Annie’s hand and twined their fingers together. They’d discussed this possibility an hour before, but hearing it from her doctor, well, Annie knew hearing it would be different.