Now, at least, he could lie in blessed silence—or as close to it as a hospital could get—dozing in a drug-induced stupor after the morphine shots, enduring the minutes after it had worn off until the next shot was due.
He did not complain. Marines did not complain, and even though he was battered and broken, what was left of him was still every inch a soldier.
He was not a man who often prayed unless the helicopter he was flying was under fire. Then he would toss off a quick prayer during evasive maneuvers. More often than not, that prayer included a few curse words.
Since the explosion, a set of very specific prayers began running through his head.
If you’ll pull me through this, Lord, I promise to go back home and make things right with my father and Claire. Please let me live. Please let me heal. Please let me walk out of here on my own two feet. Then a scrap of Scripture, vaguely recalled. Remember not the sins of my youth.
chapter TWO
A valentine, a man’s work handkerchief, and a lock of hair. After twenty-seven years, that’s all she had left to remember Matthew by. She touched each item gently, remembering.
If she were Englisch, she would have old photos. There would be an engagement picture clipped out of the local newspaper, perhaps a yellowed wedding dress hanging in the closet, maybe an engagement ring.
As much as she wished she had a picture of Matthew, she did not disagree with their Amish leaders’ decision to forbid cameras. Graven images, they called them, and had she owned a photo of him, it probably would have become a graven image for her. Something to worship. Something to hold close to her heart.
“You aren’t asleep yet?” Her sixteen-year-old niece, Maddy, stood in the open doorway in her long nightgown, brushing her hair.
Claire’s first instinct was to shove the items out of sight, but she stopped herself. With her husband, Abraham, gone now, there was no one left to hide them from. She had been a good wife to Abraham. He had no cause to be jealous of Matthew—but he would have been furious had he ever come across her looking at these things.
She did not pull them out often, but every once in a while she took them out just to reassure herself that Matthew had actually existed—that he had not been some glorious figment of her imagination.
“Sure,” Claire said. “Come in.”
“What are those?” Maddy sat down on the bed beside her.
“Some things I probably should have thrown away a long time ago.”
Maddy picked up the valentine and read it. “Who is Matthew?”
Claire hesitated. “Matthew was Levi’s father.”
“Oh.”
Claire could tell that Maddy wasn’t sure how to respond. Many in the community still struggled with the fact that Levi had been born out of wedlock.
“Did you love him a great deal?”
“When I was seventeen, I thought I could not take a breath without him.” Claire folded the handkerchief into a neat square. “Then one day I learned that I had no choice.”
“Is that a lock of his hair?”
“The day he died, I asked the nurse at the hospital for a pair of scissors. I wanted something of him that I could keep with me always.”
“But you had Levi to remember him by.” Maddy’s voice was tentative, as though she didn’t know whether or not this was a forbidden topic.
“I did not know that at the time.”
It was not the Amish way to speak of intimate things with children—or even with other adults, if it could be avoided, and yet, as a midwife, Claire believed there were things Maddy should know. The girl had just turned sixteen. Her Rumspringa would be starting soon. She needed to be taught that there were consequences to decisions.
“Levi was conceived two days before Matthew and I were to be married. We loved each other very much, and with the wedding so close, we thought it would be . . . safe.” She brushed a strand of loose hair behind Maddy’s ear. “Until one is married in the eyes of man and of God, it is not right to express one’s love too passionately. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes.” Maddy glanced down at her hairbrush, as though embarrassed. Claire wondered if she had said too much. The girl was still so innocent, and yet . . . Claire was trying to raise her brother’s two girls with as much wisdom as she could muster. There was more to her responsibility to them than just food and clothes.
“Why did you keep the handkerchief?” Maddy asked.
“I cut my foot on a jagged rock one day. A group of us were having a picnic. It was summer and I was barefoot. There were others about, but it was Matthew who knelt, took this handkerchief out of his pocket, and bound up the cut. He was so tender and kind. That is when I fell in love with him.”
“He sounds wonderful.”
“He was.”
“What do you keep to remember Abraham by?”
The girl’s question was innocent, and yet it hurt. The truth was, her marriage to Abraham had not been a success, but Maddy did not need to know that.
She smiled brightly. “I have this house, and this farm, and my four other children to remember Abraham by.”
“Didn’t you want a lock of his hair?”
“I was fighting for my life when he died. It did not cross my mind.” The random intruder who two years earlier had shot and killed her husband and deliberately wounded her had ripped all their lives apart.
“Do you ever get scared that something bad like that might happen again?”
She pondered the question. It was understandable why the girl asked. But she had determined early on that she would not allow the evil they witnessed that day to define who they were.
“No. By the grace of God, I do not fear that will ever happen again.”
It was true. It had taken a great effort of will and much, much prayer, but by God’s grace, she no longer trembled every time she heard a vehicle pull into her driveway.
For a moment, there was only silence as Maddy pondered her words. Then Maddy’s head lifted. “Was that the telephone?”
They both grew silent and listened—yes, the phone in their outdoor phone shanty was ringing. It was faint, but they could hear it. This late at night, a phone call usually meant only one thing.
“Whose baby is due?” Maddy asked.
“Nancy and Obed’s.”
“I will get your birthing bags.” Maddy, a veteran of many late-night phone calls, rushed out the door.
Claire grabbed her birthing dress and pulled it on over her head. She had been expecting this call. Thank goodness she and Maddy had been awake and heard the phone ring. With all her heart, she wished she didn’t have to rely on such an unreliable form of communication between her and the women she served. The shanty was far enough away from her house that she often missed calls altogether. Too many times, fathers had had to leave their laboring wives to come pound on her door.
By the time she had pinned up her hair, rushed outside to check the message on the answering machine, returned Obed’s call to assure him that she was on her way, and hitched Flora up to the buggy, Maddy had placed her birthing bags and a few sandwiches in the backseat of the buggy.
“I put fresh batteries in,” Maddy said, handing Claire a flashlight. “Be careful.”
Claire put a foot on the one metal step attached to the buggy and sprang in. “What would I ever do without you?”
“The question is,” Maddy answered, “what would Amy and I do without you?”
Claire clucked to the horse, and the buggy lurched forward.
“I will be gone awhile.”
“I will be praying for you.”
“Please do so,” Claire said. “I’m afraid this birth might be difficult.”
As she drove the three miles to Nancy and Obed’s, she gave thanks once again for the gift of each of her children. Her two nieces, competent and kind Maddy and thirteen-year-old Amy, who was crippled in the same accident that had taken their parents. Her oldest, Levi, now grown and living next door with his new wife. An
d the four precious little souls who were the fruit of her marriage with Abraham. There had been hints lately about a couple of available men in two other nearby church districts, in whom she had adamantly expressed no interest. She could not imagine ever wanting to marry again. Her children were her life. To watch after and care for them was all she asked. The fact that she had a skill, with which she could support them and help others, was a gift from God.
She prayed again for Nancy and Obed and hurried down the road.
• • •
Claire could not wait to tell her sister, Rose, about the baby girl she had just delivered. This had been a special birth, indeed! Nancy and Obed, both in their forties, had been married eighteen years. Until today, only a succession of heartbreaking miscarriages marked their desire for a family. Claire had held her breath these past nine months, doing everything in her power as a midwife to make this a safe pregnancy, praying daily that it would be God’s will for Nancy to carry this baby full term.
It had been a long and difficult labor, lasting nearly nineteen hours, but late this afternoon, the Lord had allowed her to hand that deserving couple a perfect, healthy, safely delivered baby girl!
All children were miracles, but this babe was maybe a little bit more of a miracle than most. Rose would want to know this wonderful news, and Claire was dying to share it with someone.
The way home from Nancy’s took Claire directly past Mrs. Yoder’s restaurant in Mt. Hope. It was Rose’s night to work, and Claire knew that no one at the restaurant would mind if she stopped in to tell her sister about the successful birth. It was that kind of a place—a true family restaurant.
As she tied her horse to the railing provided, she wondered again why Rose had taken this job. Henry had inherited a fine farm and was healthy and strong.
As she went in, two plump, gray-haired women tourists were leaving the restaurant. One was wearing bright yellow shorts, a top printed with purple roses, and yellow hoop earrings. The other woman had on plaid shorts, a cherry-red blouse, and white-rimmed sunglasses. Compared to the subdued shades Claire was used to seeing, this clothing almost hurt her eyes. The two women seemed unaware of the jarring effect of their colors. Each had a big smile, and they were obviously having a grand time visiting Amish country.
“Get the special,” the woman in yellow shorts confided on her way out. “The pot roast is to die for.”
“Thank you.” Claire was amused. It was not exactly a secret that Yoder’s had delicious slow-cooked pot roast. “I will remember to do that.”
It usually took a couple visits to Holmes County for out-of-town Englisch to figure out that it was okay to speak to the Amish. This must not be these women’s first trip here. Claire was startled by a sudden whoosh of air behind her and saw a large, chartered bus opening its doors. Several more tourists walked out of the restaurant and piled into the bus.
It made Claire happy to know that Gloria Yoder’s gamble in establishing a restaurant in this small village was giving people so much pleasure. It had certainly been a boon to the town. Money coming in from the outside world was a welcome thing, indeed.
Margaret Hochstetler, the hostess for the night, greeted her with enthusiasm. “Claire! It is good to see you!”
“And how is our little James doing?” Claire had delivered three of Margaret’s children. The last one, tiny James, had been especially tricky.
Margaret, a robust Old Order matron, laughed. “Not so little anymore,” she said. “He is helping his father plow this spring. Four horses at a time, that boy can handle.”
“And him only ten,” Claire marveled.
“His father says he is a born farmer.” Margaret grabbed a menu. “Are you eating with us or have you come to see Rose?”
“I was hoping for a minute with her.”
“That is no problem. Now that the bus has left, we are not so busy tonight.” Margaret lowered her voice. “I saw Rose taking some aspirin a few minutes ago.”
“I hate to hear that,” Claire said. “My sister has dealt with a bad back ever since giving birth to her first child.”
“Oh, the poor thing,” Margaret said.
Claire agreed. It wasn’t as though Rose enjoyed the work. She had always fought lower back pain, and carrying those heavy trays of food took a toll on her. She acted tired all the time these days—weighed down, instead of her usual happy and confident self.
And Rose didn’t look like herself these days either. She had always dressed well, making her dresses from the best grade of fabric that she was allowed within the confines of their church Ordnung. She bought new shoes more often than Claire thought necessary. In fact, Rose had always stepped a little close to the sin of pride, but not anymore. Now her shoes were worn, scuffed and run down at the heel. Some of her dresses had been worn until they were beginning to fade. Either her sister no longer had the money to purchase the things she needed, or she had simply stopped caring about her appearance. Claire’s attempts to talk to her about it had not been welcomed.
Claire saw her sister wiping off a table and went over to her. “Do you have a minute? I have something wonderful to tell you.”
Rose winced as she straightened up.
“Is that old back bothering you again?” Claire put her hand on the small of her sister’s back, wishing she could make the pain go away. She hated to see anyone hurting, but especially Rose.
“I’m fine,” Rose answered, but Claire knew she was lying.
There was a time when Rose would not have pretended to be fine with her. These days it seemed like her sister was pretending most of the time. Others probably couldn’t tell—but she certainly could.
“Rose, please tell me what is wrong.”
“I said I am fine.” Rose’s voice warned her to leave the subject alone. “What is it you want to tell me?”
Claire saw that it would be unwise to press her sister any further, at least here and now. Instead, she hoped that telling Rose the good news might make her sister feel more cheerful. It was certainly making her own heart sing!
“Nancy just had her baby. Obed is over the moon.”
A soft, happy smile bloomed on Rose’s face—the first Claire had seen in far too long.
“What did she get?”
“A baby girl. Full term. Eight pounds, ten ounces.”
“Ach!” Rose said. “And Nancy no bigger than a mouse.”
“She did well,” Claire said. “Obed was a great help. I think he will make a good father, and he is such a good provider. That is one child who will never want for clothes or food.”
She saw a shadow pass over Rose’s face, and wished she could take back her words.
“I hope, for Nancy’s sake, that you’re right,” Rose said. There was a hint of bitterness in her voice as she bent to finish wiping off the table.
“I will leave you to your work now,” Claire said. “Come visit soon. I will make that clover and mint tea you like so well.”
There was a slight glitter of tears in Rose’s eyes. “I would like that very much. I—I am sorry for being sharp with you. I am not myself these days.”
“You must not try to be anything special for me,” Claire said. “You know that, no?”
“Jab, I know.” Rose glanced away. “But I must get back to work now.”
As Claire left the restaurant, she wished she could hold on to that good feeling she got after each successful birth, but it had evaporated into a cloud of worry about her sister.
• • •
Squinting at the foggy road was taking a toll on Tom. Staying hair-trigger-ready to swerve every time he saw a piece of trash or a dead animal took an even bigger toll. No matter how hard he tried, he could not turn off the training that reminded him not to let down his guard for a second.
The doctors at the hospital had warned him that he might struggle with this. They told him that a lot of returning soldiers battled the need to be ultravigilant when they came home. They told him to try to relax.
Easy
to say. Hard to do. He had been hardwired to suspect anything on the road to be booby-trapped. Inattention could be deadly. Underpasses were especially threatening. He swerved abruptly as he passed beneath one. A truck driver honked at him, but in Afghanistan and Iraq, a soldier never knew when someone would be hiding there, primed to fire at you.
The Honda Civic that the rental place had given him felt small and insignificant compared to the heavily armored troop transport vehicles he was used to. He planned to turn it in when he got to Holmes County and buy something more substantial. With any luck, Moomaw’s over in Sugarcreek would still be in business. He intended to check them out in a day or two and see what they had in stock.
When the bright lights of a gas station appeared to his right, he pulled in, grateful for a chance to fill his tank with gasoline and his body with coffee. He needed a stiff shot of caffeine to counteract the stupefying effect of the painkillers he had taken to make it this far. The stronger the coffee, the longer it had simmered on the burner, the better.
Talking his doctor into discharging him early and placing him on convalescent leave was not the smartest thing he had ever done, but his doctor had seen that he had reached a point when he could not stand one more day of being there. His irritation had grown with every day he got stronger. There came a moment when he could not abide one more nurse, one more question, or one more bland hospital meal.
He never dreamed that driving from Bethesda, Maryland, to Mt. Hope, Ohio, would be so taxing, but he did not want to stop. After an absence of more than two decades, he felt like a crippled homing pigeon winging its way back, but he had no intention of stopping until he reached his destination.
He sat the coffee on the counter and handed his credit card to the multipierced, gum-chewing cashier. She glanced up from a magazine and caught a glimpse of his face. Her eyes widened at the damage she saw there.
“You shoulda seen the other guy,” Tom joked.
The cashier did not seem to think the comment was funny. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t smiling. He needed to remember to smile next time.
“It was a bomb,” Tom said. “Afghanistan. I asked the plastic surgeon to make me look like George Clooney, but he said no one was that skilled.” This time he remembered to smile.
Hidden Mercies Page 2
