Love's Unfolding Dream

by Janette Oke

  “I thought I told you to stay out,” said Luke without even turning around.

  Belinda took a deep breath to help control her shaking. Her eyes were getting more accustomed to the darkness of the room. Only one small, dingy window let in any light. She looked back at Luke’s strong back. The muscles rippled beneath his thin shirt as he fought to administer some kind of drug to the thrashing patient. In spite of a wave of nausea sweeping through her, Belinda swallowed hard and stepped forward.

  “I thought ya might need me,” she said determinedly.

  “Can you?”

  “I . . . I think so,” she replied, swallowing hard.

  “I do need you—badly—but I don’t want—” “What should I do?” asked Belinda quickly.

  “Get a lamp. I need more light.”

  Luke had not turned to look at Belinda, his full attention concentrated on the injured young man.

  Belinda swallowed again and hurried from the room. She must not waste time. Luke needed a light. He needed her.

  The woman stood in the kitchen, her head leaning against the wall. Great sobs shook her body. Belinda wished to go over to her and offer some kind of comfort, but there wasn’t time yet. “We need a lamp,” she said firmly, but the woman did not seem able to move.

  Belinda cast her eyes about the kitchen. There was a lamp on a shelf near the stove. She lifted it down and shook it to check the fuel supply. It did have oil. Hurriedly she struck a match on the stove surface and lit the lamp, then hastened with it to the bedroom.

  The boy on the bed was no longer screaming. He was not thrashing around as much, either. Belinda breathed a little sigh of relief. The drug Luke had given must already be working. She pushed forward with the lamp, holding it out in front of her so it would shed light on Luke’s work.

  It was then she saw the patient. It was not a broken leg that Luke bent over. Neither would Belinda have called it a broken arm. Mangled and crushed beyond recognition, the appendage was only blood and bits of tangled flesh and bone. Belinda felt her stomach lurch. For a moment she was sure that the rush of blood leaving her head would put her on the floor. She reached awkwardly for the bedpost with one hand, the lamp clutched in the other, and hung on for dear life as she fought for control. The room gradually stopped spinning, but Belinda feared she would lose her breakfast. Wave after wave of nausea swept over her. Luke had no time for a second patient. Belinda fought with all her strength to bring herself under control. Luke would need her help. He would need all the help he could get.

  The youth showed no sign of struggling now. Mercifully the drug had claimed him. Luke bent over the bloody mass that had been an arm and carefully examined it. Belinda held the lamp as steadily as she could, trying to avoid the scene before her, but her eyes kept returning to the sight.

  Luke straightened and looked directly at the large man who still held his son, even though it was no longer necessary.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Luke said as gently as he could, “I’m going to have to take the arm to save the boy.”

  A convulsive sob shook the man. One large hand reached up to cover his face as he wept uncontrollably. The other hand remained on the shoulder of the boy on the bed. Luke reached out a hand to another younger boy, who also stood with his hands still holding his brother.

  “You can go now, son,” he said softly.

  The boy dashed from the room, and they heard the front door open and slam shut again. Belinda distractedly thought that he should remember a coat. She had discovered it was colder than she had thought on the way here.

  “I’ll need lots of boiling water and some clean cloths,” Luke informed the man. “You needn’t worry about him throwing himself around now. He’s beyond the pain.”

  The man wiped at his wet face with a ragged, dirty sleeve and hurried to do Luke’s bidding. Belinda moved in closer with the lamp. Luke looked about the small room and dirty bedding, but he muttered to Belinda there was no way he could move the boy into his office in town.

  “I’m going to need your help, Belinda. Do you think you can manage?”

  Belinda nodded, her insides still churning, but she was determined.

  “Put the lamp on that little table and pull it as close to the bed as you can. I’ll need your hands to help me with this surgery.”

  Belinda placed the lamp and returned to do whatever else Luke needed.

  The rest of the morning was only a blur in Belinda’s memory. She worked alongside Luke as one in a trance. She knew that she responded to each of his orders. She handed him his instruments, reached out supporting hands, acted as she was directed, but she did it all in some kind of stupor. At one point the boy stirred slightly, and Belinda had to administer more chloroform. Her hand trembled as she held the cloth with the chemical to his nose and mouth. Luke watched carefully and told her when to draw it away.

  The surgery seemed to take forever. By the time the stub of the limb was bandaged and the instruments cleared away, Belinda was beyond exhaustion. So was her brother, the doctor. He leaned his head wearily against the post of the bed and a tremor went through his body. Belinda had never seen him like this before.

  He did not succumb to the moment for long. He again turned back to his patient and checked his eyes and took his pulse.

  “Watch him carefully for any change,” he told Belinda. “I’m going to get this mess out of here,” and, so saying, Luke began to bundle the remains of the crushed limb in bloody rags so that he could dispose of it all.

  Belinda allowed herself to sit on the edge of the bed. It was the first time she had taken a really good look at the patient. He was young, no more than seventeen or eighteen, she guessed. And he was deathly pale. She had never seen anyone quite so white. His breathing seemed shallow but steady. She wondered how long it would be before the anesthesia wore off. How would he feel when he wakened? There would be enormous pain, Belinda knew. He would be suffering for many days—weeks, even. But he would not have an arm. Belinda thought about the anguish he would feel. What a terrible thing to happen to a young man. To lose his arm just as his life was opening up to adulthood.

  Belinda thought of Clark and his missing leg. It had been hard for her pa, she knew that. Even though it had happened before her birth, her mama had told her about the pain and suffering that went with the experience. But Clark had been a grown man—a man mature enough to accept his situation. And Clark had the Lord to help him. Faith in his heavenly Father had somehow gotten him through. What about the young man before her? Did he know the Lord? For some reason, Belinda feared not. Without taking her eyes from the pale face before her, Belinda began to pray, her voice no more than a whisper.

  “Oh, God,” she implored, “I don’t know this boy. I don’t know iffen he knows you, but he’s gonna need ya, God. He’s gonna need ya to help him accept this awful thing thet has happened in his life. He’s gonna need ya to help him git better again.” Without thinking Belinda reached out a hand and brushed the hair back from the pale, sweat-dampened forehead. His hair is a nice color—almost as shiny an’ black as a raven’s wing was the thought that flashed through her mind. The face was finely formed and well proportioned, the nose straight and even. Belinda suddenly realized that in spite of the paleness and an unkempt appearance, the boy was very nice looking. Self-consciously her hand drew back. What was she doing gently stroking the face of an unknown boy? A flush warmed her cheeks.

  Luke returned, bringing with him the parents. His eyes searched Belinda’s face. He seemed pleased with what he saw there.

  “You can leave now,” he said softly. “I’ll stay with him.”

  The woman was bending over her son, sobs shaking her body, when Belinda slipped quietly from the room. She didn’t know where to go. It was really too cold to wait outside. She did long for some fresh air, though, so she grabbed Luke’s coat, wrapped it tightly around her, and left the small cabin.

  There was a woodpile in a shed nearby. Belinda decided she would carry in some wood and make
some coffee—if she could find the grounds and a pot. She was sure the family could do with some activity to momentarily divert them from the tragedy. Even a cup of coffee might bring some kind of relief and refreshing.

  Belinda was not in a hurry. She needed to stretch her legs a bit—work the knots out of protesting muscles. She strolled back and forth, studying the farm before her.

  Kinda run-down looking, she noted. Belinda had forgotten that it had been without tenants for a number of years. The new folks certainly had their work ahead of them. The buildings were ramshackled, the fence rails down, the garden area showing unsightly weeds, even through the early sprinkling of snow.

  Belinda wondered just where the young boy had been working when it had happened. Luke said a logging accident. Was he hurrying to get in a winter supply of wood before the colder weather struck? Belinda lifted her eyes to the wooded area at the far end of the field. Was that where tragedy had struck this young man and his family?

  At last Belinda turned back to the small log shack that housed the family wood supply. She went in to pick up an armload for the kitchen stove. Her eyes had not yet become accustomed to the darkness when a slight movement startled her. She jumped, a quick intake of breath escaping her lips. It was the younger boy who crouched in the corner. Belinda quickly regained her composure.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see ya there.”

  The boy said nothing. It was just as Belinda had feared—he had run from the house with no coat.

  “Ya must be cold,” said Belinda. She was glad he was at least out of the cold wind.

  The boy still said nothing, only hugged his knees to his chest.

  Belinda tried a smile. “Yer brother is gonna be fine now,” she told him.

  The boy began to sob uncontrollably. Belinda wished to comfort him but she wasn’t sure what to do. She just let him cry.

  After several minutes he began to mop his tears on patched shirt sleeves. “He’s not gonna die?” he asked in disbelief.

  “Oh no!” said Belinda. “Dr. Luke is with him. He’ll be okay now.”

  The boy succumbed to a fresh burst of tears. When they had subsided he mopped up again, then turned large, dark eyes to Belinda.

  “I was so scared he’d die,” he told her shakily. “I didn’t think anyone could live with an arm . . . with an arm . . .” He couldn’t go on.

  There was silence for a few minutes.

  The boy broke it. “Will his arm ever get better?” he asked quietly.

  Belinda did not know how to answer. Was it her place to inform the boy of his brother’s amputation? Shouldn’t Luke or his parents be telling him?

  “Will it?” the boy insisted.

  Belinda decided it would be worse if she tried to evade the truth. She crossed closer to him in case he needed her, crouched down, and looked him squarely in the eye. “Not . . . not really,” she said, “but it will heal now.”

  His eyes grew big. “Wha’d’ya mean?” he asked her.

  “The doctor . . . the doctor had to take off the arm . . . then sew it up . . . to save yer brother.”

  “Ya mean, cut it off?” His eyes were wild with fright and shock.

  Belinda nodded slowly.

  “But he’ll hate that. He’d rather die! Don’t’cha see? He’d rather die.”

  The boy leaped to his feet, his eyes challenging Belinda. By the time he finished his speech, his voice was a high-pitched scream. Belinda wondered if he was going to kick at her angrily. She was sure the temptation was in his mind. And then his whole body slumped dejectedly, and he threw his arms about her and cried, the deep sobs shaking the slender body.

  There was nothing Belinda could say. She just held the weeping boy and cried along with him.

  Much later than their parents had anticipated, Luke and Belinda turned in from the road. Marty had been frequently checking out the kitchen window, her eyes scanning for any sign of them. It was with great relief she saw Luke’s team of blacks coming up the lane.

  Luke came in with Belinda, though the hour was getting late.

  Marty met them at the door, the questions showing in her eyes. It was evident from the extreme weariness of both her offspring that something unexpected had faced them at the farm home.

  “It wasn’t just a break,” Luke informed her quietly.

  “Ya like a cup of hot tea and a sandwich?” Marty asked him.

  “That would be nice,” said Luke, and he shrugged out of his coat, then unwrapped the blanket Belinda had clutched about her.

  “Ya be needin’ me, Ma?” asked Belinda in a weary voice.

  “No. No, guess not,” Marty responded, then cast a glance Luke’s direction.

  “I think I’ll go on up to bed, then,” said the young girl.

  “Don’t ya want somethin’ to eat?”

  “No. Thank ya, Ma. I’m not hungry. Jest awful tired.”

  Luke’s eyes told Marty to let her go.

  Marty pulled Belinda close for a moment and then kissed her on the forehead. Belinda looked like she was glad for the comfort of her mother’s arms and gave a weary smile.

  Marty reminded her that Melissa was staying overnight with Amy Jo, so she’d be able to get to bed and rest right away. Belinda didn’t look like she would be up to answering any questions.

  Luke pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. Clark joined him but shook his head no at Marty’s offer of a cup of tea. Marty busied herself at the stove and cupboard and soon had a roast beef sandwich, made with thick slices of homemade bread and farm butter, to set before her weary son. She poured two cups of tea and sat down to join him.

  “I take it this was a tough one,” Clark was saying.

  Luke nodded his head. “ ’Bout the worse thing I’ve seen yet.”

  “Not a break, ya said.”

  “Crushed. Crushed beyond recognition.”

  “Did Belinda—?” began Marty, but Luke stopped her question with his hand.

  “I told her to stay out, but she came in anyway. Said I might need her help.” He swallowed a sip of the hot tea and sat silent for a minute. “I did. I sure did. I don’t know what I’d have done without her.”

  “She could . . . could face it?”

  “At first she nearly passed out . . . I saw that. But she fought against it, and she helped through the entire surgery. Did everything just like I asked her. She was a real brick about it. I was proud of her.”

  Marty shuddered and pushed back her cup. She did not want the tea after all. In her mind’s eye she was seeing again the crushed leg of her husband.

  “She’s made of good stuff, that kid of yours,” Luke was saying, and there was pride in his voice.

  “Ya don’t think it was too much fer her?” asked Clark.

  “I would never have knowingly decided to let Belinda see what she did . . . not at her age. I would have kept her out of there if I could have . . . if I hadn’t needed her in order to save that boy’s life. There was no one else to help me. Belinda knew the names of each of my instruments as I called for them, and we were fighting against time. I hope . . . I hope and pray . . . that it wasn’t too much for a girl her age. I . . . I don’t think it was. I think . . . I think she’ll be fine. We’ve got us a nurse, to my way of thinking.”

  Marty felt both pride and concern at the words of her son. She would watch Belinda very carefully during the next few days—maybe try to get her to talk about her feelings and thoughts on it all.

  “An’ the patient?” asked Clark. “He’s gonna make it?”

  “He’s a kid of seventeen,” said Luke with deep compassion. “He’ll make it—physically. He’s out of danger now, barring complications. But whether he’ll make it emotionally or not, only time will tell. It’s going to be tough. I don’t need to tell you that.”

  Clark nodded solemnly.

  “I was wondering . . . would you mind making a call in a few days? Give him a bit of time to get used to . . . his . . . his misfortune, then just stop by?”


  Clark nodded in agreement.

  “And, Pa,” said Luke quietly, “wonder if you’d mind leaving your artificial limb at home.”

  Clark said nothing. Just nodded again in understanding.

  “Well,” said Luke, getting to his feet. “I’d best be getting on home. Abbie will be concerned.” Luke looked evenly at Clark and Marty and then turned toward the stairs. “First, I think I’ll just go up and say good night and thanks to my little sister.”

  THIRTEEN

  The New Neighbors

  Marty did watch Belinda carefully over the next few days. The girl did not seem withdrawn or troubled, but she was much more solemn than she had been. She did not join in with the other two girls in the sighing and tittering over Jackson. Overnight, it seemed, she had become more mature—above such childish games. Marty did not know if she was thankful or regretful. Belinda was still very young. Marty worried about the experience robbing her of even a brief moment of girlhood.

  When Melissa returned home to the big house from her overnight with Amy Jo, she wanted to know all about Belinda’s last “adventure.” Belinda answered her questions very briefly. A boy’s arm had been crushed in a logging accident, she informed Melissa, and Luke had needed to amputate the limb.

  Melissa grimaced and looked over at Clark and glanced at his leg.

  “Was it awful?” asked Melissa.

  “Yes,” answered Belinda briefly and went out to get the clothes off the line.

  Clark and Marty waited for a few days, and then as Luke had suggested, they hitched the team and went to call on their new neighbor. Clark felt a bit awkward returning to his crutch. He had almost forgotten how to use it.

  The ride to the Coffins’ old farmstead was a quiet one. A cold wind whipped about little flurries of snow, and Marty shivered against the cold. What would happen when they got to the new neighbors? What would they say? What could they say? There really weren’t any words in the world that would comfort them.

  “Looks like winter’s really settlin’ in,” Clark mentioned as he hurried the team with a flick of the reins. Marty shivered again. The thought of winter somehow fit with thoughts of the visit ahead.