Her Secret Amish Child

by Cheryl Williford

  “Benuel,” she said and reached for his cold, limp hand.

  The stench of smoke still clung to him. Someone had made an effort to clean Benuel’s pale face, but gritty soot still lined his hair and brows.

  His blue eyes blinked open and shut again. A cough racked his body.

  Lizbeth twisted around. “Is he supposed—”

  “Yes, he’ll have a rattle and a cough for a while, but he’s getting plenty of oxygen. The doctor must have given him something to make him sleep. He was a pretty sick boy when he came in.”

  Lizbeth shoved the loose hair out of her face and kissed Benuel’s cheek. “And you’re sure he’s going to be fine?”

  The nurse attached the file to the foot of the bed and turned to leave. “I’ll ask the doctor to come in and see you,” she said and opened the door. “You just make sure you’re in his line of sight when he wakes up. That young man wants his mama.” She chuckled and left the room, leaving Lizbeth with the sounds of Benuel’s labored breathing and the steady beat of his heart registering on the monitors above his head.

  * * *

  Fredrik became conscious of a bright light shining in his eyes and tried to move. Pain fractured the light into a million shards inside his head. Someone close by groaned.

  “Don’t move, Mr. Lapp,” a male voice said from a distance, but the words were muffled, distorted.

  The dreadful groaning continued. Why didn’t someone help the man suffering? Fredrik tried to voice his concerns, but the labored effort forced him into silence. Where was he? Who was crying out?

  Unfamiliar sounds encircled him. Voices became clearer, filled his mind. Words that made no sense sent him back into the tumultuous maelstrom of fear. The sensation of falling jerked him down into a vortex of sensations. Light became pain.

  Something cool and comforting covered him. Somewhere a clock ticked the minutes away. Tick-tock. The suffering man became silent. Had he died?

  Consciousness returned, layer by layer. Fredrik’s eyelashes fluttered. He strained to clear his throat.

  The man groaned again.

  A surge of excitement filled him. The suffering man was in pain, but alive. He struggled to open his eyes.

  “Mr. Lapp. Wake up, Mr. Lapp.”

  My name is Fredrik. He tried to correct the man speaking to him. He’d seldom been called Mr. Lapp. It sounded foreign to him...inappropriate. I’m plain Fredrik, he insisted. He heard no sound, just the all-encompassing groaning filling the air around him.

  The darkness slowly faded and the light around him brightened, compelling him to open his eyes. He struggled to sort out the black-and-white squiggles that became colored and then merged into the features of a man.

  “Lie still, Mr. Lapp.”

  He was firmly held down. He began to struggle, hysteria building in his mind. Why can’t I move? What’s wrong with me? He sunk into the black emptiness coming for him.

  * * *

  Lizbeth spent two days in the hospital with Benuel, her bed the reclining chair in the corner of the small two-bed room in the pediatric ward. She hadn’t gotten used to the antiseptic smell of bleach or the bad Englischer food, but she couldn’t fault the brilliant care her cantankerous boy was receiving. His cough was much better, and the doctor promised he could go home in the morning if today’s X-ray showed additional improvement to his lungs.

  Ulla glanced at the clock on the wall. She knitted rhythmically on the navy sweater being made for Benuel. Her needles clicked as they created stitch after stitch. “Shouldn’t Benuel be back from the X-ray by now?”

  Lizbeth’s leg was asleep and tingling under her, so she straightened it out and flexed her toes. She shoved her foot in her shoe and grimaced as the tingling turned to intense pain. “The nurse said they’d be doing a blood panel, too. Maybe they took him to the lab,” she whispered and pointed to the closed curtain around the other small bed, “instead of jabbing him here. Last time he raised a real fuss and scared the other little boy.”

  Her knitting forgotten, Ulla placed the needles and yarn in her lap. “Have you asked Benuel why he ran away yet?”

  Lizbeth rolled her shoulders and pulled them back, stiff from all the sitting. “Nee, not yet, but I will soon. I don’t want to upset him, but I think it was because of the fight he’d had with the boy at school. He was still upset the next day and then Ishmael came and scared the life out of him.” She bowed her head. She should have noticed how stressed he was. She looked up. “I did ask him about the fire, though, and he promised he hadn’t started it. He said he saw smoke and went to see what was burning and saw flames coming from the wall. I’m guessing it was bad wiring in the old building.” She paced the room, wishing she could have gone downstairs with him. The nurses were friendly, but waking to find his bed empty had shaken her this morning. Would he run again? She prayed not.

  “John suggested you take Benuel out of school until he’s a year older, more settled.” Ulla picked up the knitting, checked her progress and plunged the needle in the last stitch dropped. She began to work on the sweater again.

  “Ya, it makes me to wonder if that’s not what’s best for now.” She was ashamed to tell the older woman she didn’t know exactly what to do, but she would figure it out.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle. If her daed thought school was too much for Benuel, perhaps she would keep him home with her awhile longer. His behavior had always been unpredictable, but she’d thought he’d been doing better than he was. She wanted to trust her own judgment but wasn’t a mind reader.

  Benuel’s ADHD made changes hard on the boy. The trip to Pinecraft, new faces, new experiences, had shaken him, and then Ishmael had come and terrified him. She no longer trusted his teacher or the school to keep track of him. Not since the fire.

  Fear gripped her as a new possibility squeezed her heart, made it skip a beat. Would there be a police investigation? Would they believe Benuel hadn’t started the fire? She clenched her hands into fists at her sides. She had to pull herself together, not take on problems. She had enough issues to deal with. It would do no good to imagine situations that could change Benuel’s life forever.

  The door squeaked as it opened and her brother’s face appeared, a brilliant smile lighting up his dark blue eyes as he asked, “Is it safe to come in?”

  “Saul!” Lizbeth ran to him, threw herself into his open arms. “It’s so gut to see you,” she said, completely relaxing for the first time in days.

  “And you.” He pulled her away, surveyed her up and down. “Just look at you, little schweschder. It’s ser gut to see you.” His smile became mischievous, his eyes glittering as he lifted his hand in greeting to Ulla and then turned back to Lizbeth. “You’ve gotten taller, but not an ounce plumper,” he said and dodged as she reached for his head, prepared to muss his light-colored hair as she always had as a child. “Still all bones and attitude, I see.”

  “No more than you.” She threw her head back and laughed at his wounded expression. “When did you get in?”

  “I drove the whole day and made it just in time to watch you sleeping in that chair last night.”

  “You were here? Why didn’t you wake me, let me know?” Lizbeth tucked herself under his arm as she’d done a million times as a child. She was safe and content.

  He brushed back the hair from her forehead and kissed it softly before he answered. “I didn’t want to disturb you. The nurse said you hadn’t slept in two nights, but thanks be to our merciful Gott, your boy is alive.”

  “Ya, they tell me he’ll be fine and I can breathe again.”

  “They’re still not sure about Fredrik,” Saul said, tugging at his light-colored beard.

  “What do you mean? Is Fredrik ill?” She touched her hand to her heart as she sat on the edge of the bed.

  Saul eyed her. “Didn’t anyone tell y
ou? Fredrik ran into the building to find Benuel. The ceiling gave way and fell in on him and another firefighter. They’re both in intensive care.”

  Her lower lip quivered as she asked, “What was he doing fighting a fire?”

  “Someone said he volunteers a couple of times a week. You didn’t know?”

  “Nee. He never said anything to me about fighting fires.” Shame engulfed her. She’d been so concerned for Benuel, she hadn’t given much more than a passing thought to the firemen who fought the blaze and carried her son out to safety. Fredrik is hurt! Heat suffused her face. “Do they know what’s wrong with him? Is he going to be all right?”

  He took her hand and patted it. “They aren’t saying. All I could find out is that the burning ceiling fell on Fredrik. Something must have hit him on the head, because he has a concussion.” His face grew pensive. “He hasn’t woken up yet.”

  A ripple of anxiety coursed through her. If Fredrik died he’d never know he had a son. She would have cheated him of that joy. Her body shook as she held tight to her brother and looked into his eyes. Somehow she had to tell Fredrik before it was too late. “I have to see Fredrik, Saul. It’s important. I need to tell him.”

  “I know you want to thank him for saving Benuel, but the man’s in no condition—”

  Frustrated, she shook Saul’s hand, beseeched him with her eyes. “You don’t understand. I must see him. I never told him... Benuel is his soh.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “No one from the fire department told me Mr. Lapp had a wife. His papers show him as single.”

  “What?” Lizbeth’s head turned, her brows raised, as she tried very hard to look surprised. The lie her brother had come up with weighed heavy on her conscience, but she had to see Fredrik and tell him about Benuel before it was too late.

  She plastered a half smile on her face, felt her lips quiver with nerves. “Oh, yes. Fredrik and I married recently. I was out of town and just got word of his accident.” Shame burned in her, flushed her face. She hated to lie, but what could she do? Fredrik deserved to know the truth and only family was allowed into the intensive care unit. She did what she had to. Forgive me, Gott.

  The nurse observed her suspiciously for a moment, shrugged her shoulders, opened the wide, swinging hospital door marked ICU and turned toward a door. “He should be in here...”

  Lizbeth nodded, her body trembling as she slipped on the protective gown the nurse handed her and walked through the door and into a bright hallway lined with single-occupancy rooms.

  She scurried along behind the stout gray-haired nurse dressed in a cheerful smock and matching pants, all the while praying in earnest. Let Fredrik live. Please, Gott. Let him live.

  The nurse stopped at the last room and peeked in. “Here he is.” She yanked a heavy green drape open enough for her and Lizbeth to step in. Dim, the room seemed like a shrouded cocoon of beeping machines and wires. There was a single bed. Lizbeth halted in shock.

  Her glance first went to Fredrik’s ashen face, then to the blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his head. She tried to stifle her gasp, but failed miserably. The pallor of his skin shocked her. “He’s so pale.” She’d never seen Fredrik vulnerable before. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

  “Most head-trauma patients are,” the nurse said and reached for his chart. “Have you spoken with any of his doctors yet?”

  “Nee, not yet,” she said, her voice wavering. She broke down, her shoulders shuddering as she cried.

  The nurse pushed a narrow table away and assisted her to a gray metal chair next to the bed.

  Lizbeth fell into the armchair, her head in her hands, sobbing. She hadn’t told Fredrik about Benuel, and now it may be too late. Memories engulfed her, flashed through her mind. She and Fredrik as children, then their teenage years, when she’d hung on to his every word like it was gospel. Marrying Jonah out of desperation had wounded her heart, but the past five years had stolen all her joy, made her a miserable woman.

  She’d sat in a chair just like this one before, watched the life of her tiny sohs slowly ebb away until there was no hope, their immature lungs failing them. The kinners’ deaths had been Gott’s will, but not hers. She’d wanted to see them grow into men of strong faith. But Jonah’s abuse had robbed her yet again. The doctors had said their early births hadn’t been her fault, and implied the beatings she’d taken had brought on her labor, but how could she be sure?

  Her fists clenched. Would Fredrik die this time? Surely Gott wouldn’t take him from her, too. This couldn’t be His will for Benuel’s life, to not have a father. She needed a second chance. Please, Gott. Give me a second chance to do it right this time.

  The nurse patted her on her shoulder. “Don’t let yourself get too upset, Mrs. Lapp. Your husband’s young and strong. Looks pretty tough to me. I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”

  Lizbeth lifted her head and looked into the nurse’s eyes, desperately wanting her words to be true. She saw concern and resignation there, but no clear hope. “Danki,” she murmured, knowing the woman had been trained to say whatever she thought a wife might want to hear.

  “I’ll give you a moment alone with your husband,” the nurse said softly and left the room.

  Lizbeth remained silent. Please, Father. Don’t let him die, too. I love him.

  * * *

  Fredrik’s lashes fluttered as he sluggishly awoke from the black fog surrounding him. He became conscious of incessant pain hammering in his head and then the weight of something heavy on his left arm.

  He moved, the effort costing him more pain than he was willing to pay. He stilled. Instead he focused on his breathing, on the things he could see without moving, the sounds he heard. Close by a high-pitched beep matched the rhythmic beating of his heart.

  Clarity came gradually. It was obvious he was in a hospital bed, his head without a pillow under it. A cylinder of oxygen hissed under his nose. Bright lights overhead caused him to wince. He momentarily blinked his eyes. He shifted his gaze and tried to refocus, but only managed to exhaust himself.

  Questions bombarded his mind, made his head hurt worse, but he pushed for answers. Why was he in the hospital? How long had he been lying there? Was he badly injured? How did it all happen?

  He calmed himself by gazing at the pale green curtain hanging from metal rings that ran along a silver railing. The curtains were so close he could almost reach out and touch them.

  He heard the footfalls of someone walking, their shoes squeaking like basketball sneakers on a wooden court. He tried to call out, but his throat was dry. It hurt to swallow, to breathe. He coughed and then groaned. What had happened to him? Why didn’t someone come to see about him?

  “Fredrik.”

  He cast his eyes down toward the foot of the bed. Lizbeth’s face appeared. Her kapp was off, her hair in disarray. He could see that she’d been crying. She nibbled on her bottom lip like she had as a young girl, when she was in trouble and needed his help. “Lizbeth.” He tried to say her name, but it came out garbled. He lifted his hand toward her. It felt unusually heavy and he let it drop.

  Relief suffused her features, but concern quickly took its place. “Nee, don’t move,” she urged, touching his arm. Her fingers were cold against his skin. “You must remain still. You’ve been badly injured. Your head—”

  “It hurts,” he whispered and swallowed hard. If only I had a drink of water.

  Sadness clouded her features. “I know it hurts. Please don’t try to talk. Just listen.” Her face contorted and then went blank. “I have to tell you now. Forgive me if I’ve waited too long, but I have to tell you in case—” A tear rolled down her cheek, and then another.

  Fredrik knew it took a lot to make Lizbeth cry. Was he badly hurt? Fear gripped his insides. Was he dying? He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. A spasm of pain gripped
his chest, forced him to cough until his lungs seemed on fire.

  Lizbeth came closer, bending over him. “Do you remember the night I turned nineteen? We celebrated by going to a singing frolic.” She swallowed hard, drawing in a long breath. “You and Saul were on rumspringa. I don’t know why, but you both came to the singing drunk.”

  He blinked his eyes. What was she talking about, this singing frolic? Had he and Saul been drunk? They had done a lot of crazy things on rumspringa. He sighed. Why couldn’t he remember? Why was this particular event so important to her now? They went to a lot of singings when they were young. Dark circles of black clouded his mind, tried to draw him away from her voice.

  “You took me home that night,” she said.

  He struggled to listen, to make sense of what she was saying.

  “You offered me a drink from your flask.” She paused, looking down at him with sadness shadowing her features. She sighed and went on. “Later we went into the barn.”

  “Nee.” He forced the word out, hoarse and rough. He would have never taken her into the barn. Nee, he would have never done such a thing. He looked at her, their gazes meeting. A deep flush crept up her face. Had he? He searched her face again, saw the truth in her words.

  “Benuel was conceived that night,” she whispered, her expression turning somber. She turned her head away.

  “Benuel?” The name came out loud and clear.

  “Ya, he is your soh, Fredrik. I had to tell you before...”

  But the black swirls beckoned to him, tugging and churning and then pulling him away.

  * * *

  Lizbeth observed the young Englischer couple rambling along ahead of her. Both dark-haired and casually dressed in jeans and knit shirts, they looked the picture of health and contentment. They were young and in love. She could tell by the way he grasped the girl’s hand, the way she snuggled under his arm as they walked. Both were smiling contently.