Love, Mom
The boys burst in behind Mim, tossed their hats on the bench by the back door, and started hunting for a snack in the pantry. It was like a pack of wild dogs descended on the kitchen. They stuffed cookies into their coat pockets and headed back to the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Mim said.
“Eagle spying,” Sammy said. Luke was already out the door.
She held up the note. “Mom wants you to feed the animals.”
“We will!” Sammy said, his mouth filled with cookie. It was disgusting. “After the eagle spying.” The door slammed behind him.
Mim looked around the empty kitchen. Everyone was gone. The house seemed eerily quiet.
Under normal conditions, Jimmy Fisher could snap out of a funk. But being a victim of a scam was not a normal condition. When he discovered that his initial check to Jonah Hershberger had indeed cleared—which meant he had paid for Lodestar one and a half times—he felt stupid, he felt duped, he felt angry. Mostly, he felt grief over losing that beautiful horse. There was something about that horse he just couldn’t forget . . . or get over. Galen kept telling him there were other horses, but none were like Lodestar.
After Galen and Naomi went into town to run an errand, Jimmy put the horse he was exercising back in its stall and took a break. He pushed a chair in the sun, tucked his hat back, and started to whittle on a piece of wood.
“You aren’t getting anywhere very fast, are you, young feller?”
When Jimmy looked up and saw Hank Lapp walk up the driveway, he snapped shut his whittling knife and dropped it into his shirt pocket, then hopped up to greet his elderly friend. There was no law against whittling, but he didn’t want to get a reputation as an idler. Hank Lapp was Amos Lapp’s uncle, a confirmed bachelor, a quirky, lovable character who ruffled everyone’s feathers at one time or another. “What brings you around here, Hank?”
“MY BIRTHDAY PARTY, of course! I’m coming to invite you.”
“Why, Hank, are you a hundred yet?”
“I’m crowding it, boy.” Hank eased himself into the chair that Jimmy had just vacated. He leaned back and tugged his hat over his eyes. “Jimmy, do you know what men who live in glass houses should do?”
Oh no. He wasn’t in the mood for one of Hank’s lame jokes. “What should they do?”
“Change in the dark!” Hank chuckled so hard his hat fell in the dirt. He reached down to grab it, slapped it on his knee to dust it off, and plunked it back on his head. “Any luck finding that mystery horse of yours?”
“No.” Jimmy threw the piece of wood on the ground. “Galen thinks I’ve been scammed.”
“He’s probably right. Galen’s seen ’em all.”
Jimmy was disgusted. “The two of you don’t give me enough credit. It’s like you think I don’t even have a handle on life.”
Hank yawned. “I used to have a handle on life, but it broke.” He pushed his hat back and sat straight up. “I nearly forgot! I want you to put on a fireworks show for the end of my birthday party. It’s a paying gig.”
“Yeah? How much?”
“All you can eat. Tell Galen he’s invited too. We’re going to have fun.”
Jimmy snorted, amused by the comment. “Galen never had fun in his whole livelong life. He wasn’t made for fun. That’s my department. That’s why he needs me.”
“Yes, but what’s far more interesting to me,” Hank retorted, “is why you need Galen King.”
19
What a difference a week made.
Delia drove Rose and Vera to Charles’s office to find out the results of the MRI. Charles had arranged for the test to be done at a local facility in Lancaster, then had the results sent to his office. Delia could see that Vera had never been so frightened in all her life. Getting an MRI had terrified her. Usually, an MRI took about ten to fifteen minutes. For Vera, it took nearly an hour. She had a fit of claustrophobia and needed to be pulled out of the machine, then she sneezed and that slowed it all down. She complained about everything—claustrophobia, the noise of the vibrating magnets. She had to wear earplugs, then earphones over the earplugs. And she had to be absolutely still—that meant no talking. A terrible thing for Vera to endure!
Rose stayed by Vera’s side through it all. Delia knew Vera was grateful, though she would never let on. Even she could also see the decline in Vera since she had arrived at Eagle Hill. Her physical weakness and confusion were escalating, and whenever she felt stressed, real or imagined, the hiccups started up again.
Delia was so focused on Vera and Rose that she hardly thought about the fact that she would be going to Charles’s medical office for the first time since they had separated. She knew the office staff—had known them for years—and was warmly welcomed by them, but her mind was preoccupied with Vera.
When the receptionist asked them to wait in Charles’s office, Delia assumed she would stay in the waiting room. “Please, come with us,” Rose said.
So Delia followed behind them and went into her husband’s office. On the desk and in the bookshelf were pictures of her and Will. When Charles came in, his eyes met Delia’s and softened. He greeted Rose and Vera, then he sat at his desk and turned on the computer monitor to show Vera the picture of her brain.
“It turns out that you didn’t have a stroke after all, Vera, just like we had discussed at your farm. But you do have a brain tumor.” He turned the computer screen around and showed her the picture of her brain.
“I don’t see anything,” Vera said.
“It can be hard to see,” Charles said. He ran a finger around the outline of the small tumor. “The tissue is one texture. The tumor is a different one.”
“All I see is a gray blob.”
“That’s the tumor. It’s grayer than the gray of your brain. It’s called a primal tumor. Symptoms mimic a stroke so similarly that about 3 percent of primal brain tumors are misdiagnosed as stroke victims. In a way, you’re very fortunate. Most brain problems don’t give warnings. Aneurysms, for example, can hide in the brain like a ticking bomb.”
Too much. He’d said too much. Delia could see Vera gasp at the words “ticking bomb.”
Charles saw it too. “But lucky for you,” he hastened to add, “your symptoms of aphasia and singultus and weakness have given us a heads-up.”
Vera and Rose swiveled in their chairs to look at Delia for translation. “What’s he saying?” Vera asked.
“Aphasia means having trouble with word recall,” Delia explained. “Tip-of-the-tongue-itis. Singultus means . . . hiccups.”
Vera’s face pinched in fear. Her hands worked in her lap. “I knew it! I knew it. I’m dying!”
“No, no,” Charles said, hastening to reassure her. “The brain tumor is located in a part of your head that is very accessible. I believe we can remove it.”
“Brain surgery?” Rose said.
“I don’t want my head split open and have people rooting around in it like a pumpkin,” Vera said. “Tell him, Rose.”
Rose reached over and held Vera’s hand. “Let’s find out more before we decide anything.”
“Charles, is it benign?” Delia asked.
“We won’t know until it’s been removed and sent to the lab, but I’m cautiously optimistic that it’s not malignant.”
“What do them hundred-dollar words mean?” Vera whispered to Rose.
“Cancer,” Rose whispered back and Vera shuddered.
Charles turned off the computer monitor. “Vera, I recommend we take care of that tumor. Soon. Very soon. I have every confidence that the tumor can be removed.”
Vera fixed her gaze at him. “Can you guarantee that? One hundred percent guarantee that?”
Charles and Delia exchanged a look. She wondered if he was thinking about the malpractice suit. “No, of course not. No surgery is without risks.”
“Then I don’t want it.”
Rose sighed. “What would happen without the surgery?”
Vera sat u
p straighter in her chair. “Maybe I can wait. Maybe it’ll go away on its own. Like Hank Lapp’s toothache.”
“Hank had that tooth pulled,” Rose said.
Charles looked like he was starting to run short on patience, which, at best, was never a leisurely path. “The tumor will continue to grow and eventually affect other regions of the brain. And then . . .”
“And then I’ll die.” Vera clapped her hands together over her chest. “I am ready to meet my Maker.”
“Vera, before you do, let’s hear more about the option of surgery.” Rose turned to Charles. “If the surgery is successful, will her symptoms disappear?”
“Most should. And if it’s benign, then she won’t require any treatments—just follow-up scans. Physical therapy will help her regain her confidence in her strength and balance.”
Rose turned to Vera. “I think we should consider it.”
Vera huffed. “And how are we going to pay for this brain surgery? Have you thought of that?”
Rose, normally so capable, seemed at a loss for words. “Well, I . . . I’ll speak to Deacon Abraham. I’m sure the church will help. We’ll manage somehow.”
“Charles will volunteer his services,” Delia blurted out. Charles’s eyebrows shot up. “He does it all the time. Bona fides. It means free. He’s generous like that.” She studiously avoided Charles’s stare, but Vera did calm at that news.
Rose walked back and forth in the room. “When do we need to decide?”
“Right now,” Charles said. “There’s an opening for tomorrow morning. We had to postpone a patient’s surgery because his blood pressure is too high. Delia can drive you over to the hospital now and get you settled in.”
“You’re going to do it?” Vera asked, the first, tiniest glimmer of hope crossing her eyes.
“My specialty is with vascular neuropathy,” he said. “My job is to cut off the blood supply that feeds tumors and allows them to grow. The surgeon I have in mind for you is excellent. He’s available tomorrow because of the canceled surgery.”
Vera flashed a look of panic at Rose, who turned to Delia. Delia could see this was a new wrinkle. Possibly, a deal breaker. If Vera was going to agree to this, it hinged on Charles’s performing the surgery. “But Charles, you have done this surgery. Hundreds of times.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“And you’ve always said that every single brain surgery is unique. There are no two situations that are exactly the same when it comes to brain surgery. You’ve said that the reason you’re such a good neurosurgeon is that you’re prepared for every possible scenario. You’ve kept your skills current. I’ve heard you say that, dozens of times.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“So you are familiar with this type of surgery?” Rose said.
His eyebrows shot up. “Of course. As Delia said, I’ve performed open brain surgery more times than I can count. But, just to be clear, I’m a specialist for an even more complicated type of brain surgery . . .” He looked at Rose, then at Vera, who looked back at him with eager anticipation. “I . . . but I . . .” He looked at Delia. She saw his expression slide from disbelief to confusion to acceptance. She knew him well enough to know what he was thinking. He hadn’t expected this turn of events—but he was pleased, nonetheless. Charles had a great deal of confidence in himself and knew he was an excellent surgeon, but he was not immune to others’ appreciation for his skills. In other words, he could be bought. “Yes . . . I could perform the surgery. Assuming Vera gives her consent.”
Then all eyes turned to Vera, waiting for her to agree to the surgery. She sat quietly as she considered all that Charles had said to her. “Why? I don’t understand why this is happening. Why would God do this to me? Why would he let me down?”
Rose crouched down beside her chair. “Vera, I know one thing. I know that God has never let us down. Not even when Dean passed. He has never abandoned us. It’s not possible. God is good no matter what circumstances you’re facing. We need to remember that, and to keep declaring that God is good, no matter what. That we know it to be true.”
Vera nodded in agreement. “I need more faith.”
“Then borrow mine,” Rose said.
Those three words felt like an electric shock to Delia. Was that even possible? To borrow someone’s faith? She’d been leaning heavily on Rose’s faith since she arrived at Eagle Hill. Or maybe Rose meant that a person’s faith could be inspired to grow just by observing the depth of another’s faith.
Whatever Rose meant by that, it seemed to do the trick. Doubt and blame seemed to be pushed away, and peace rolled in. Vera turned to Delia. “Is he any good?”
“Vera, if I had to have brain surgery, I would insist that Charles perform the surgery.” Delia looked at Charles. “He’s the best, Vera. The very best.”
Charles didn’t even exhale when she said this. It was as though he was holding his breath, waiting to hear Delia’s response to Vera. Then he let out a breath and turned his attention to Vera. “I have the skills to help you, Vera, and I love using those skills. I want to try to help you so you can get on with the rest of your life. But I can’t guarantee a perfect outcome. No one can. All I can promise is that I will do the very best job I can.”
Vera rose, a little wobbly. “Let’s get this over with.”
As Charles held the door for them, Delia was last out the door.
“Bona fides? I think you meant to say pro bono. That means free. Bona fides means in good faith.”
She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Same thing.” She turned to him. “Charles—this family, well, I can’t explain it, but they have become a very special family to me.”
His eyes softened again. She had forgotten how he used to look at her in that special way. A just-for-her way. How long had it been? “We’ll figure something out,” he said.
“Thank you for agreeing to perform the surgery. I think that made all the difference to Vera.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I’d forgotten how the Amish can be surprisingly stubborn.”
She arched an eyebrow back at him. “I hadn’t.”
Delia took Rose and Vera over to the hospital to get Vera checked in. Charles’s office had called over to smooth the path—and still, it was daunting. She wasn’t sure how two Amish ladies could have navigated the complexity of hospital administration without this kind of streamlining help. She could barely wade through it all herself.
As a nurse settled Vera into her hospital room—a private room, which she knew Charles had arranged—Delia spoke quietly to Rose. “Tell me how I can help. Would you like me to drive you home tonight? Or would you be willing to stay at my house here in town?”
“I think I should stay at the hospital tonight,” Rose said. “Vera is frightened. This is all happening so fast.” There was a pull-out bed in the corner. More like a padded bench.
“I can call the farmhouse and leave a message.”
Rose frowned. She wasn’t sure if the children would remember to check the messages for her. “Maybe you could call Galen. He has a phone in his barn. There’s a better chance of getting through.”
“Rose, would you like me to drive out tonight? I could let everyone know what’s happening.”
Relief flooded Rose’s face. “Oh, Delia, would you? Then they could pray. And that would put their minds at ease.”
Delia would have worded it differently. If she had information, then her mind would be at ease. And then she could pray. Information felt like control—but it really wasn’t. Rose had it right. Prayer came first, then the peace. “Why don’t you give me a list of things you and Vera will need for a few days.”
“How long do you think she’ll be in the hospital?”
“I don’t know. Tomorrow will answer a lot of those questions.” Assuming there was a tomorrow for Vera. Brain surgery was risky. “I’ll go now. I’m just going to drop by my house and pick up a few things, then head out to Eagle Hill. I’ll return first thing in the morning.” At t
he door, she turned to Rose. “Maybe you should call Galen anyway. I think he’d like to hear about all this from you.”
Later, as Delia drove west along I-76, she called her son Will.
“Isn’t it amazing, Mom?” Will said after she had explained all that had happened in the last week.
“What?”
“The circumstances.”
“Yes, your father definitely made this surgery possible for Vera.”
“More than that. You’re a big part of this. What about the fact that you happened to be at that particular Amish inn, and Dad happened to have met Vera. I mean, what are the chances? Seems like it’s all part of a master plan. Like God is orchestrating all of this.”
She hadn’t thought of the last few weeks like that, but as soon as Will said it, something clicked into place for her. It was God’s orchestration! She felt it deep in her bones—a feeling of love and well-being washed over her. God was involved in all of this, down to every detail. He loved prickly Vera, he loved strong Rose, he loved her—flaws and all. He probably even loved Charles. Tears welled in her eyes. She had to blink them back.
“It’s kind of you to help them, Mom. A few weeks ago, they were strangers to you.”
“They’ve become friends. Rose, especially.”
“If anybody would have told you, a month ago, that you’d be moving heaven and earth to help an Amish family whom you just met, well, wouldn’t that surprise you?”
She grinned. “I suppose you’re right.”
“You’ve changed. You used to be so determined not to let anyone get close. You’re different now.”
Delia hesitated, not sure how to respond. But Will was right, something had changed her. Or Somebody. This entire experience had affected her, and for the better. Uninvited and unwanted, cancer had barged into her life—as another woman had barged into her marriage—and turned it upside down. Thank God.
The Letters Page 21
