Tomorrow's Dream

by Janette Oke; Davis Bunn

  “Simon, no, it is too much.” Ruthie looked genuinely alarmed. Farm income had steadily declined over the previous few years, and finances around the Miller household were extremely tight. They were being forced to draw from savings just to put food on the table. “We do not have—”

  “It is not too much, and I will pay,” Simon announced proudly.

  “With what?”

  “I will explain soon, sister. But say nothing of this to Papa. Not yet. It is not yet the time for talking of this secret.” He gave her a mysterious grin as he hefted Joel’s suitcase.

  Ruthie glanced at her husband, then decided to accept. “Let us go, my husband. We can talk of new mysteries when you are rested.”

  Joel found himself too tired from the journey to resist. The thought of having to wait for a bus, sit through the jouncing series of starts and stops, then walk the long drive up to the farm seemed impossible just then. He said to Simon, “Your accent is stronger since the last time I saw you.”

  “Yah, hear it every day more myself, I do.” He led them over to the Lansdale taxi rank. The driver was a grizzled old man who had long since become accustomed to Mennonite dress. In fact, his only lingering glance was cast at Joel. Simon told the man, “Please can you take us down the Highway Fourteen to where the road ends?”

  “Down past the church,” the man confirmed, waiting until the three of them had climbed inside. He ground the gears. “Know just where you mean.”

  Joel sank gratefully into the ancient padding, leaned his head against the window, and closed his eyes. He listened as brother and sister began chatting away in Old German, the soft voices melding and drifting and finally carrying him away into dreams.

  Joel awoke to the rare sounds of birdsong. It was so different from the traffic noise that filled every room in their tiny apartment above the mission. He lay in the bed and tried to remember how he had gotten there. A vague memory surfaced of being roused from his sleep in the back of the taxi, and people whispering hellos and guiding him up the stairs and into bed, everybody making a game of his inability to respond.

  He rolled over in bed and saw he was alone. A glance out the window told him it was the hour before dawn. The sky was palest blue with hints of coming gold, a farmyard sunrise. He heard a rooster crow and the cows give their lowing call to be milked. A bucket rattled as someone walked whistling across the yard below his window. Joel rolled from his bed and reached for his clothes.

  When he appeared on the porch, Mr. Miller was seated in the high-backed chair Joel had made for him the previous summer. The big man’s beard was graying fast, and the stump of his leg was propped on a padded stool. The only time he used the stool was when the leg was feeling poorly. Which was more and more often these days.

  Mr. Miller’s diabetes had brought his family from their farm to the Washington area, and thus into Joel’s life, in order to receive treatment for his ailment. It was this illness that had cost him the lower half of his left leg. After the Millers returned to Lansdale, he had thrown himself back into farm work, bravely enduring the awkwardness and pain of a prosthesis. Only in the past year, however, had he finally accepted the family’s insistence that he slow down. He refused to discuss his health or even say how he was feeling. But in the early morning light, Joel could see the weary lines etched like ever-deepening furrows that spread out from his eyes and mouth.

  But the smile was still fresh and from the heart, and the eyes twinkled in welcome. “So, Choel, you have slept away the trip, yah?” He watched his son-in-law pull over a chair and demanded, “How is the heart?”

  “About the same.”

  “A doctor you have seen?”

  “Last week.” There was no space for masking news. Not with this good, simple man. “He says he can’t explain how I’ve lasted as long as I have.” Joel waved as Simon came around the side of the barn, carrying two full pails. Already the pigs anticipated Simon’s arrival and had set up a high-pitched squeal. “Joseph, how is the farm?”

  “The farm is in God’s hands,” the big man replied firmly.

  “In his last letter, Simon mentioned possibly selling some land.”

  “Simon is a good boy. But he clings to his worries. The land, it is my family’s for five generations. We do not sell. God, He will show us a way.” Joseph Miller studied his work-worn hands before asking, “And your sister Kyle, she has news of her own?”

  “They saw another specialist. Kenneth didn’t tell me much, only that the news wasn’t good.”

  Joseph Miller nodded slowly, his eyes both bright and troubled. “Hard it is to see young ones suffer, as both of you are, I have asked God, take the burden from you, and give it to me, why not? A good life have I had. The years ahead I would give to you if I could.”

  Joel felt a lump grow in his throat at all the words contained. “Thank you, Joseph.”

  “I remember another porch, another time.” He looked fondly at his companion. “I remember a young boy who came and prayed with me. I remember thinking, yah, here is one with a heart the angels love.”

  Joel watched his wife scurry across the yard, cradling newly gathered eggs in her apron. As she climbed the stairs she gave them a from-the-heart smile before entering the house.

  “I remember how this young man said no to a woman who loved him,” Joseph continued quietly. “Not because he did not love her. No. Because he loved her too much. I remember how he tried to keep his pain and his future to himself. I remember how he gave his days to his Lord. Yah, all this do I remember, that and more.” The long gray beard slowly rose and fell. “Right there before my eyes, I saw a wonder. Yah, a miracle. I saw the Lord at work in a man.”

  Joel looked at the older man and saw the wisdom in his eyes. “I’m scared of the future, Joseph. Terrified.”

  “Yah, hard it is to face what we know is coming.” He gave a gentle emphasis to the word we. “And know I do what you wish to hear. You say with your eyes, ‘Tell me all will be fine. Tell me I will grow to see sons of my own. Tell me this wonderful wife, we will share many years together.’ ”

  A breath of morning wind skirted the house and found them there on the corner of the porch. It ruffled Joseph’s beard, making it seem as though the man was laughing silently. Or crying. Or both.

  “Choel, I love you as my own. If I could give you all the years left, I would do it. Right here and now.” He held out two scarred, strong hands. “But the Lord, He has not given me this power. So only can I tell you, trust in Him. Remember the goal, my friend. Offer this is all I can for you now.”

  “Tell me again.” He swallowed with difficulty. “I forget sometimes.”

  “Ah, now you choke with old Choseph. Forget that you never will. The Lord, He has written it upon your heart.” The kindly eyes inspected him. “No, the forgetful mind, it comes with age. You can help me remember, yah?”

  He managed a little smile. “Maybe so.”

  “Very well, then.” Joseph leaned forward until the tip of his beard brushed against the leg propped on the stool. “When we stand before the Lord—help me here. What is it we hope and pray to hear?”

  Joel whispered, “ ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant.’ ”

  “Ach, yah. That it is.” He leaned farther still, closing the distance between them, until his gaze filled Joel’s vision, and all Joel could hear were the softly murmured words, “Well done.”

  8

  KYLE SAT IN THE DOCTOR’S OUTER OFFICE, blindly turning pages of a magazine. Her mind was unable to focus on the words, but it gave her hands something to do. She kept her face turned downward so she did not need to look at the others in the waiting room, especially the woman with her two children on the other side. One of the children was crying fretfully, and the sound grated on Kyle’s nerves until she felt ready to scream.

  She found herself recalling her conversation with Joel that morning. Her brother had called to say they were going up to the Miller farm for a few days, something about wanting to help out in
some way with all the problems the Millers were facing. Or perhaps it was something else, and she had been unable to concentrate enough to understand. Then Joel had said, “We miss seeing you around the mission, Kyle.”

  For some reason, her mind had fastened on that. As it had the evening before, when Kenneth had told her she needed to get out, do something beyond her visits to the hospital. “Have you talked with my husband?”

  The question and its tone clearly unsettled him. “Well, yes, we talked earlier this—”

  “I can’t believe this. It’s like a conspiracy.” She heard the cold sharpness invade her voice. Part of her said it was uncalled for, but even so it gave her a sense of satisfaction to speak like this. “Why are you trying to pull me away from my baby’s side?”

  “Kyle, nobody is trying to do anything like—”

  “Well, I won’t do it, I’m telling you.” Her voice rose an octave. “My baby needs me. I’m doing everything I can, even if no one else will.”

  “We all are,” Joel said calmly, and Kyle recognized the tone he used with the toughest and angriest of the young people who entered his mission. “We are praying every day for your baby’s health. And yours. And Kenneth’s.”

  She wanted to shout at him that Kenneth did not need the prayers, that neither did she, that everything was needed for her baby. But she could not say the words. “I know where I am supposed to be.”

  And then it had hit her. A thought so sudden and powerful that now as she sat in the doctor’s office she could not even recall how her conversation with Joel had ended. The thought had locked into her mind, making her wonder why it had not come to her before. Kyle had called the doctor’s office and demanded an appointment that very morning.

  “Mrs. Adams? Kyle?” The receptionist gave her a warmly sympathetic smile. Everyone in Dr. Pearce’s office knew what she was going through. “Dr. Pearce will see you now. You know where his office is, don’t you, dear?”

  She hurried down the long hallway and entered the open doorway. The old doctor was bent over his desk, writing on a form. He looked up at the sound of her footsteps and gave his patented weary smile. “Kyle, how are you, my dear?”

  “I’m angry, that’s how I am.” She seated herself and rested her purse on her knees, gripping the clasp with both hands. “I want to know why you never warned me this could happen.”

  He studied her a moment, his brow furrowed. Then he closed the file before him and leaned back in his chair. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I’m talking about my brother Joel’s heart. You knew all along there was the risk that my baby would be born sick like him. Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “Kyle, my dear . . .” Dr. Pearce closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Has Kenneth spoken to you?”

  “About what?” She could hear the same shrill tone returning that had emerged in her conversation with Joel. “He started on about something last night, but I stopped him. Just like I’m stopping you. This is a conspiracy, isn’t it? I can tell. Everybody’s talking behind my back. Well, I want it stopped, do you hear me? Stopped right now!”

  Dr. Pearce observed her with grave concern. When she had stopped and was breathing heavily, he said, “Kyle, you have to stop thinking this way. It is the grief talking, not you.”

  “Why should I feel grief? My baby is going to be fine!”

  He did not even acknowledge that she had spoken. “In the first place, there was no way we could have predicted that your baby would be born with an impaired heart.”

  “But Joel—”

  “Yes, Joel has a heart condition. But yours is fine, Kyle. And so are the hearts of both your birth parents. We have also asked them about their families, and so far as they know there has been no previous record of heart problems.” He studied her face. “So you see, my dear, there was no way anyone could have predicted this.”

  “There must have been. You missed something, or they didn’t tell you everything.” Her hands gripped the purse tighter.

  “Kyle,” he said, drawing the word out into a long sigh. “I don’t normally do this, but I am going to prescribe something for you. I want you to take one of these tablets every morning and evening. Will you do that for me?”

  Kyle waited while he scribbled on the little white pad; then she accepted the slip of paper and walked out. As she left the office she decided she would go directly to the hospital. It did not matter what anyone said. Charles was there and Charles needed her. She would sit there and let him know that someone loved him and wanted him to get better. He was going to get better.

  Kyle’s limbs felt leadened as she left the hospital. Had they let her, she would have stayed on. She hated to leave. There really was no reason for going home anyway. Her baby remained there in the stark, antiseptic hospital ward. That was where she belonged as well.

  She had stood there for hours, looking down at her baby. He remained shut off from her by the protective incubator glass. Each rise and fall of the tiny chest had made her wish to gasp in response, as though she might breathe on his behalf. Her arms ached to hold him. To draw him close to her bosom and provide the nourishment that would sustain the little life. To cuddle him close and whisper in his ear the words of endearment that only a mother knows. To feel the beat of the small heart and the warmth of his body cradled against her.

  But the entire time she had stood there, the glass partition had mocked her feelings. Her arms had remained empty—empty and yet at the same time heavy. She could only wait and pray and plead with whispered messages through the glass for the baby not to give up. Beg her child to fight on, strive to take another breath, and for the little damaged heart to continue to beat. Please. Beat again.

  Kyle had laid her head on her arms and rested on the cold glass surface. The pleas came from her very soul. She was so helpless. So removed. So shut away from the infant that was hers. Over and over she silently shouted a single thought, one which rang through her heart’s empty recesses, This isn’t how it is meant to be.

  Now as Kyle walked away from the hospital, she heard the nurse’s insistent tones drone through her head. “It’s time for you to leave for the day, Mrs. Adams.” As if anyone had the right to tear her away from her baby. But the nurse had spoken with such authority and finality that Kyle had not dared to argue.

  But as she walked she felt resentment building inside of her. What right did they have to treat her as though she had no authority over the care of her own child? She should be the one to demand, “It’s time for you to leave for the day, nurse.” Why couldn’t she have her own baby in her own home like a normal mother? Why the daily trips to the hospital ward to peer anxiously through a glassed partition, her fingers numb with the ache to caress, her ears straining to hear each breath, her whole body tensing at each small movement. Why?

  Kyle knew the answer—it was the tiny defective heart. But why, with all of their knowledge and all of their fancy equipment, why couldn’t they do something? Kyle often found herself wanting to scream, Do something now!

  But Kyle did not express the cry of her heart. They had to be patient, Kenneth often reminded her. They had to pray, and to trust. But Kyle wondered how much longer she could hold on. Her faith seemed to be slipping from her just as surely as her frail baby. It was frightening. She did not want to lose her grip on God any more than she wished to lose the fragile hold on her weakening child.

  “If only . . .” The anguish filling her heart pushed her harder than the brisk wind as she walked toward the bus stop. “If only I hadn’t insisted on finding my birth parents. If I could have just let things be as they were. If I hadn’t discovered a brother with a heart problem, everything might be all right. Why wasn’t I content simply to be a Rothmore? Why . . . ?”

  A part of her knew the recriminations were foolish. Even as she raged inwardly, trapped and hurting and wanting desperately to be with her child, even now she knew the words made no sense. But Kyle’s tired and troubled mind was beyond reason. She
ached. She mourned. She fought against reality. She sought explanations that would not come. She clung to hopes that did not exist, not even in her own mind. She fought a losing battle with her own exhausted resources. It was all she had left.

  9

  THE MORNING BREAKFAST DISHES had been cleared away, the old table scrubbed clean, and the family was seated and watching Joel. Joel in turn was watching Simon, the high school friend who had brought him into this wonderful family. Simon, the eldest boy, was Joel’s age, and farm work had chiseled strength into his young features.

  Joel then glanced at Sarah, Ruthie’s younger sister. She was entering her middle teens and growing into a person of beauty, the kind that shines from within. She had her mother’s poise and her father’s eyes, a gaze so level and direct that most young men even twice her age found themselves stammering and blushing.

  Joseph Miller cleared his throat. “No harder can the family be listening than now, Choel.”

  Joel felt hesitant and shy and eager, all at once. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “But start you must, or make the explosion, and think of the mess that would make in Mama’s kitchen.”

  His wife chided, “Papa, shah, what a thing to say.”

  Joel looked at Ruthie and implored, “You tell them.”

  “But you said you wanted to be the one.”

  “I can’t. You do it.”

  “What?” Joseph cried. “Also Ruthie is having news? Too much this is for one old heart. One of the two must wait until another day.”

  “Papa.” This time his wife’s warning tone was genuine. “Now are you stopping with the chokes?”

  Joel sat surrounded by the love of family. It was so good to be able to smile again. To feel the moment’s joy well up until his weak heart felt ready to take wings and fly from his chest. When his wife looked his way again, he nodded and said, “Go ahead, Ruthie—tell them.”