by Janette Oke
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
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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
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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
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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 ram- shackled, 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"
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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.
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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
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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."
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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."
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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 Coffms' old farmstead was a quiet one. A cold
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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.
As they turned the team down the lane to the log house, Clark and Marty both noticed the condition of the farmyard.
"Things sure do go down quickly when a farm is left vacant," Clark commented, and Marty silently agreed.
Clark tied the team. They both had expected someone to come to the door, if not out to the yard, to welcome them, but there was no sign of movement anywhere. Clark led the way up to the door. A wisp of smoke was struggling from the chimney, fighting its way against the wind and snow.Marty pulled her coat more tightly about her and, too, fought her way against the wind.
Clark rapped loudly on the wooden door. They could hear some shuffling inside, but the door did not open. Clark rapped again.
The door opened a crack, and the pale face of a young man peeked out at them. He looked pained and hesitant.
"What d'ya want?" he rasped out.
"We're neighbors--from down the road a piece," Clark responded. "Jest thought we'd pay a call."
The door opened a bit farther. Marty could see the bandages over the stub of an arm. There were traces of blood showing on the whiteness. She shivered but not from the cold. She wasn't quite prepared for this.
"Nobody home but me," the lad said, still not inviting them
in.
"Then guess we'll jest visit with you a spell," answered Clark
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cheerily, and he moved slightly to usher Marty in before him.
The boy moved back from the door, allowing it to open wide enough for their entrance. Marty could tell that it was only manners, not desire, that allowed them into the cabin. Her heart was deeply stirred for the young man.
He turned to them. "Won't ya sit," he said gruffly.
Clark did not take the chair nearby, the one that had been offered. He helped Marty out of her coat and seated her, then walked across the room to a chair near the window His crutch thumped strangely on the wooden floor. There had been a time when the thumping crutch had sounded familiar. Now, after a number of years with the artificial limb, it sounded strange and eerie.
The boy had noticed. Marty saw him stiffen.
Clark seated himself and laid the crutch aside. He turned to the young man.
"Don't think I've heard yer name," he began. The boy didn't respond, and he went o
n, "Understand yer pa jest bought the place here."
"We're jest leasing," answered the boy. "Got no money for buying."
"Heard about yer accident. Powerful sorry. Terrible pain, ain't
it?"
The dark eyes of the boy shadowed. Marty wondered if he was about to ask Clark what he knew about the pain, but his eyes fell again to the stump of a leg. He didn't say anything, just nodded dumbly.
"The worst should soon be over now," Clark continued. "It should soon be lettin' ya get some sleep at night."
Again the boy nodded. He still said nothing. Marty concluded he did not want to discuss his missing arm.
"Care for some tea?" the boy finally asked into the silence. "That would be nice," exclaimed Marty, sounding a bit too
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enthusiastic to her own ears. The young fellow moved forward to lift the teapot from a cupboard shelf and put in the tea leaves. The kettle on the stove was already hot, and he poured the water into the pot. It slopped over some, hot water sizzling as it hit the iron of the stove surface. Clearly he was still adjusting to managing with only one hand.
"Can I give ya some help--" Marty began, rising from her chair, but as she caught the quick glance of Clark, she sat back down and busied herself with easing imaginary wrinkles from her full skirt.
The boy fumbled with cups from the cupboard. He handled them without too much problem, but when he went to slice some dry-looking bread to go with the drink, Marty turned away. She could not bear to see him struggling with the small task.
She could feel the tears stinging her eyes. Why? Why should one so young face such pain and loss?
Marty let her eyes move over the small room. She needed something--anything--to fill her thoughts.
The room was dingy and sparsely furnished. The little that was there needed care. The bare wooden floor was in need of scrubbing. Dirty dishes were stacked on the bit of available cupboard space. The stove was covered with charred bits of remaining spills. The walls and windows were empty of anything that would give the place a homey look. Marty shuddered again and turned back to the young boy. It was clear that the family was not very well off. Marty felt pity for them rising within her. Determinedly she shook it off. She felt sure they would not welcome her pity
