by Ruth Reid
She cried harder, her shoulders shaking. The Amish weren’t ones to display emotion so easily. This woman was under a tremendous amount of stress to have crumbled like this in front of him.
Camille entered the room carrying a portable machine. She took one look at the pillowcase still hanging off the camera and frowned. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I need to check the IV fluid and take a set of vitals on Nathan.” She set the machine on the table next to the rocking chair. “Have you ever used a breast pump, Mrs. Diener?”
The mother’s eyes widened, her face blanched.
“If you agree, Doctor Wellington would like a sample of your milk sent to the lab.”
Bo sprung to his feet. “I’ll step out and give you some privacy.” He would find out later if she refused the testing or not. He’d seen it before where mothers had intentionally applied poison to themselves so that when the child latched on, they ingested a toxin.
After the startled look Mrs. Diener made at the nurse’s request, he couldn’t even look her in the eye. The back of his neck was moist and beads of sweat were collecting on his forehead. Yes, he needed a few minutes to organize his thoughts. He’d never had such an emotional response while questioning a mother. He wasn’t even halfway through the questions.
As he retreated into the hall, he overheard the nurse reprimanding Mrs. Diener for covering the camera. Bo made a mental note to explain the reason for the video. It would only serve as proof of the mother’s innocence as long as her taped activity wasn’t incriminating. And he couldn’t imagine that being the case. Then again, something had caused the child’s mouth to blister.
The case manager stepped out of the room. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Sounds good.” A jolt of caffeine might help him wrap up this interview.
“This way.” She motioned to the right. “The coffee in the cafeteria is probably fresher than what’s in the nurses’ break room.” She led him past the front lobby and down another short hall. The cafeteria was nearly vacant, although it was only four in the afternoon. A few visitors sat at tables scattered throughout the room, their posture weary and faces long, like they’d spent countless nights sleeping in a chair next to a hospital bed. He’d occupied an uncomfortable plastic-lined recliner once himself when his father lay dying in the cardiac intensive care unit. A physician himself, his father didn’t make a good patient. He demanded to review his test results and diagnosed his own fate. “I’m dying, son. Take care of your mother.” His mother was a recently retired circuit court judge; the only way Bo found to take care of her was to entertain her newfound purpose—to find him a wife.
“Would you like something to go with your coffee?” The case manager pointed to the stainless-steel pans steaming behind the plastic window guard along the tray line.
He was starving. The hamburger he’d eaten earlier hadn’t been enough for lunch, but he didn’t want hospital food. Bo shook his head. “Coffee is enough, thanks.” He paid for their drinks, then followed her to an empty table against the back wall. He always made a point not to discuss client information in public places, but he could see by the way the case manager scanned the area, she was about to blurt something out.
She opened the conversation the moment she sat. “I couldn’t even get Mrs. Diener to talk earlier. How did you manage to get her to confess?”
Chapter Four
Mattie clung to Nathan, the gentle movement of the rocking chair lulling them both despite the noisy activity outside the hospital room. Her eyelids were heavy, closing. A few moments later, submerged in a dreamlike state, she felt someone lift Nathan’s tiny frame from her arms. She jerked awake. Using her hand to shield her eyes from the blinding overhead light, she blinked several times before she could focus. “Wh-why are you taking him?”
“He’s okay,” the nurse said softly. “I’m just moving him to the crib.”
Eyes closed, Nathan fussed as the nurse gently lowered him onto the mattress, but quieted again by sucking his thumb.
Mattie stood. “I’d rather hold him.”
“You’re tired, Mrs. Diener. It’ll be safer if he stays in the crib.” The nurse eased up the metal railing, latching it in place. Turning, the nurse’s line of vision stopped on Amanda, who was asleep on the chair next to the rocker. “Aren’t you worried she’ll roll off?”
Mattie stepped backward until she was up against the arm of the chair. “Amanda doesn’t usually toss in her sleep.”
The nurse eyed Amanda. “How old is she?”
“Eighteen months.”
“She’s . . . small for her age. I assumed she wasn’t a year yet.” Her forehead puckered. “Still,” she said, lifting a stern glare at Mattie, “leaving her unattended in a chair isn’t safe.”
It seemed everything Mattie did was under heavy scrutiny. This nurse introduced herself less than an hour ago. Apparently she took over having already formed preconceived notions. Even her daughter’s small size seemed to set off some alarm. Mattie wanted to inform the nurse of Amanda’s premature birth. Maybe she hadn’t made all the developmental milestones Doctor Roswell had wanted her to reach, but she was steadily growing.
The nurse shifted her attention to the untouched food tray sitting on the bedside table. “He wasn’t hungry?”
Mattie shook her head.
The nurse wrote something on a piece of paper and attached it to the clipboard, which hung on the wall next to the door. “I’ll leave the juice and Jell-O,” she said, moving the items from the tray to the bedside table. “Maybe he will be hungry in a little while. If he wants more to eat let me know and I’ll request another hot tray.” She glanced again at Amanda. “If your daughter is hungry—”
“I fed her.” She sounded on edge even to herself. Mattie exhaled slowly and calmly continued. “I breastfeed her and”—something registered on the nurse’s face Mattie didn’t like—“she eats table food too.”
The nurse jotted something on the clipboard, then looked up.
“Can I get you anything before I leave?”
“Nay, thank you.”
The nurse glanced up at the pillowcase draped over the camera and frowned. She crossed the room and hung the clipboard on a peg near the door. “I’m going to leave the door open a little so I can listen for Nathan.”
The nurse’s note niggled at the back of Mattie’s mind. The woman was concerned about Nathan’s lack of appetite. Did she think Mattie had breastfed him after being instructed not to? She went to the wall and removed the clipboard from the hook. The nurse’s notation was brief: Patient sleeping comfortably, bed railings locked in upright position. Food tray untouched. No redness noted at the IV site.
Mattie returned the clipboard. She stood at the side of the bed. With the rails fully extended, the oversized metal crib looked more like a cage. She slipped her hand between the rails, reaching as far as possible, but wasn’t able to touch Nathan’s hand. He couldn’t wake up behind these bars—beyond her reach—her motherly comfort. Mattie pressed against the cold rails to get closer, patted the mattress. The plastic mattress covering crunched under the sheet.
She withdrew her hand when murmuring from the nurses’ station filtered into the room. Their conversation was muffled, something about the man from Child Protective Services. Mattie couldn’t hear everything, but ever since the man had come into the room and questioned her about Nathan and their homelife, her nerves hadn’t settled. When he’d said he would step out to give them some privacy, she had hoped it meant for good. But he returned, and with a mile-long list of questions that seemed to spotlight her inability to provide for and adequately mother her children—under State expectations, anyway.
Even after he and the hospital worker left, the nurses continued to eye her with what appeared to be suspicion. The doctor never did return to explain Nathan’s test results. She still wasn’t sure why she had to supply multiple samples of her milk for testing. Or why she was ordered not to breastfeed him anymore—even to pacify
his restlessness. She couldn’t think of anything more unnatural than to have a machine extract her milk. Her stomach soured. The man’s face from Protective Services turned red and appeared mortified for her. But that didn’t stop him from returning an hour later with more questions. She had avoided eye contact with him for the most part, but when she did look up, his face was as red as she imagined hers was, having to discuss such personal information.
“Your doctor is concerned about the blisters in Nathan’s mouth . . . Did you give him anything? Are you aware it took three hours from when your doctor informed the hospital about your son’s admission to the time when you arrived? Did you have other matters more important . . .?” A chill raced down her spine recalling the man’s words. History had taught her that state workers claiming to be concerned about a child’s welfare were relentless and seldom understanding of the Amish way. Several disheartening stories had circulated over the years of various conflicts some districts had with the local government. So far her district hadn’t had any major issue, but she wasn’t one to trust outsiders easily. Not when it had to do with her children.
“Do you have running water in your home? Electricity? So, do you belong to an Old Order Amish district?” Mattie had never answered so many questions—even ones that made no sense, like what her monthly and yearly income were.
“I sell ointments and creams and special herbal blends of tea,” she had explained.
The man shifted in his seat, exchanged glances with the hospital worker, then wrote something on the pad of paper.
“I have several customers who—” buy them regularly. They weren’t listening. The horrid look on the hospital worker’s face was more telling. She didn’t approve. Neither of them did. They must’ve thought she was peddling magic potions.
The man’s scrutiny made her feel as if he could read her mind, and his rapid-fire method for gathering information left her questioning her parenting skills by the time the session had ended. Though she had answered honestly, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d analyzed her responses and found them wrong.
Mattie released the mechanism on the crib rail and lowered the side. She touched Nathan’s taped hand where the IV needle was inserted, then glanced up at the half-empty bag of fluids hanging from a pole. Perspiration moistened her forehead. The man had given her his business card before he left, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t planning to return—question her more—accuse her of deliberately causing Nathan’s mouth to blister.
Jah, it was time to go.
Mattie grabbed the plastic bag the nurse had given her to store Nathan’s clothes and emptied it on the bed. Her hands trembled working the snaps on her son’s hospital gown.
She peeled the tape from his hand. Nathan fussed. He batted his arm when she pulled the needle free. Fluid dripped onto the floor. She would clean up the mess later. “Shh . . . I’m taking you home where you belong,” she whispered in Pennsylvania Deitsch.
Once she had finished dressing him, she used the hospital gown to wipe up the spill on the floor, then scooped Amanda into one arm and Nathan into her other.
The moment she stepped out of the room, a nurse at the desk spotted her.
“Where are you going?” The nurse came around the desk, brows crinkled. Another nurse came out from the adjoining room.
“Home.” Mattie followed the nurse’s line of vision and cringed when she noticed blood coming from Nathan’s hand.
“Wait just a moment while I get a Band-Aid.” The nurse disappeared into a room and came out a moment later. As she applied the Band-Aid, another nurse approached Mattie with a clipboard.
“Your doctor hasn’t discharged Nathan yet,” the nurse said.
“I haven’t seen the doktah since this morning.” Mattie glanced at the nurse applying the Band-Aid. “He’s bleeding more than usual. How long before it stops?”
“Just a minute or so.”
“I need to go. I have animals to feed . . . and supper to cook . . . and—” She stepped backward to distance herself from the nurses and almost tripped over a wheelchair parked next to the wall. Amanda wiggled and wrapped her arms around Mattie’s neck in a choke hold.
“Mrs. Diener, if you insist on leaving the hospital with Nathan, we’re not going to stop you. But I do need you to sign this form that states you are leaving against medical advice.” She extended a pen toward Mattie.
“Okay.” She would sign anything to be able to leave. She lowered Amanda, who wobbled sleepily.
Mattie took the pen and signed on the line. “Is that it?”
“Continue to monitor his temperature and please don’t hesitate to bring him back if his condition worsens.”
“I always watch him close.” She hadn’t meant to sound defensive. The blond-haired nurse had been kind to Nathan when they first arrived. Mattie grasped Amanda’s hand. “We need to go.”
Mattie took a few steps down the hall, then stooped to lift Amanda onto her hip. She wanted to leave before anyone else stopped her. First, she had to find a pay phone and call for a ride. When Cora had driven them into town earlier she had said to call if Mattie needed something.
The woman sitting at the information desk in the hospital lobby directed Mattie to a courtesy phone on the wall. She set Amanda down again and jostled Nathan in her arms, then reaching into her handbag, retrieved the number. Cora answered on the second ring and assured Mattie she wouldn’t be long. But with every passing minute, Mattie’s anxiety mounted. Except for the elderly woman manning the information desk, they were alone in the lobby. She eased into the corner chair as tears pricked her eyes. Get ahold of yourself.
The woman left the desk and ambled across the room to Mattie. “Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?”
“Nay.” Mattie hugged her children tighter to her chest. “Thank you, though.” She glanced at the door. “In fact, I think mei ride might be here nau.” She hadn’t seen any car headlights pull under the canopy in the patient pick-up area, but Mattie didn’t want to wait inside any longer. Cora wouldn’t be long. She hoped. Earlier in the day the temperature on the hospital sign had read seventy-four; now it flashed fifty-eight. This was too cold to be sitting any length of time on the concrete bench. She was thankful Nathan’s fever had subsided. She wouldn’t want him exposed to this chilly weather if he were still sweating.
A few minutes later, Cora pulled under the overhang. “Mattie, I hope you weren’t waiting outside very long. You should have stayed in the lobby,” she said as Mattie climbed into the car.
“I appreciate you picking us up.” She leaned back against the headrest. It would feel good to get home.
It wasn’t until after she’d reached the house, fed and watered the livestock, and tucked the children into bed that she sat at the kitchen table and let the soothing effects of the herbal tea settle her nerves. Nathan was home—safe in his own bed.
“You want to see me, boss?” Bo stood at the doorway of Norton Farley’s office.
“Yeah, have a seat.” Norton waved at one of the two leather chairs facing his desk.
“If it’s about the mileage I submitted—”
“It’s not.” He lifted a copy of Bo’s final report on the Diener case. “Since when do you close a case after one interview, Lambright?”
“You’ve never questioned my judgment or my thoroughness. What’s up?”
“This complaint was initiated by a physician. And you only talked with the mother?”
Bo bristled. “I didn’t find anything to warrant further investigation.”
“Nothing?” He quirked a bushy brow, then peered down at the report.
Bo leaned back in the chair. His mother would swat him for slouching, but he was relaxed. Confident. He hadn’t missed anything. The preliminary tests were negative according to the doctor’s progress notes. Even the detective failed to find anything that warranted arrest. The woman was innocent.
“I think this is the first case you’ve closed within twenty-four hours.” No
rton glanced up over his wire-rimmed glasses.
“It is.” Bo was one of the only investigators who kept his cases pending the full thirty days allowed. Even longer when he found reason to file for an extension.
Norton studied the report a few moments, then sighed and tossed it on his desk. “All right, if you’re sure.”
“My gut hasn’t been wrong.”
“Yet,” Norton was quick to add.
Bo leaned forward. “Arrogance in check—I’d still stake my reputation on it.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.” He lifted the report. “You want to review it again and resubmit?”
“I’ll let it sit on my desk a few days if it’d make you feel better. But I have more pressing cases to explore.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact,” he said, standing, “I don’t want to be late for my meeting at the school or the teacher might slap my knuckles with a ruler.”
Mattie stood at her kitchen sink, peering out her open window and breathing in the warm summer breeze. Alvin Graber chopped wood next to her shed. The forty-year-old bachelor was like an older brother, doing odd jobs around the farm, tilling her garden in the spring, and making sure she had enough hay in the barn and wood in the shed to last the winter. Up until recently, he’d refused to accept payment for his labor, but having suddenly acquired a sweet tooth for some of her baked goods, he rarely declined an invitation to sample a slice of pie.
The moment Alvin leaned the axe against the side of the shed, Mattie hurried to remove a mug and plate from the cupboard.
A knock sounded at the door, and Mattie straightened her apron as she headed to the sitting room. Amanda trailed her to the door. She hugged Mattie’s leg and hid behind her dress.
“Guder mariye, Mattie.” Alvin wiped the sweat from his forehead, inspected his hands, then rubbed them on the sides of his pants. “I put up another cord of firewood.”
“So I see. Danki, Alvin.” She opened the door wider and nudged Amanda to step aside. “Would you like to kumm in for kaffi? I still have a few slices of apple pie left.”
