Rachel's Dream

by Lisa Jones Baker

  The unexpected words nearly stopped Jarred’s heart. Breathless, he froze. His fingers turned cold on the bag as he fought hard to view his glass as half-full, like Rachel had recommended. He didn’t make a verbal response to her question. Reality hit him hard as he acknowledged the strange thing that had happened while he’d talked with this lovely girl.

  Without thinking, he’d been pulled into a world where everything was positive. Sunny. Cheerful. A place of hope and optimism. He didn’t know Rachel well, but his impression was that she was protected from life’s ugliness.

  But unfortunately, he couldn’t change what had happened to him. Rachel was right: He had been brought up in a loving home. But he wished that his own parents had cared about him enough to have raised him.

  *

  That evening, Rachel stood in front of her bedroom window, squeezed her eyes closed, and drifted happily to her all-too-familiar imaginary land. She straightened, pressing her palms against the soft blue cotton dress that covered her hips.

  Now that she was eighteen, she truly believed her greatest wish would come true because she prayed for it every night and because God took good care of her and her family.

  Her thoughts turned to Cinnamon and the wonderful doctor who’d offered hope for her horse’s recovery. She considered the young vet. When he’d begun checking Cinnamon’s vitals, Rachel had taken advantage of the opportunity to get a good look at him.

  She recalled his blue-gray eyes that reminded her of the sky before a dangerous storm. His dark brown hair bordered on black. The doctor’s face was kind looking, but his fierce depths made her wonder if something had happened to upset his life. She knew he was kind and thoughtful. She’d barely met him, yet her acute senses told her, without a doubt, that they would be great friends. His soothing voice put Rachel at ease.

  She smiled a little as she glimpsed Old Sam’s barn in the distance. Her very deepest secret was recorded in ink on the solid blue lines of her journal and stored in her hope chest.

  Every night, while she wrote in her journal, she jotted it down in expectation that seeing the words would ensure they would come to life. She breathed in the pleasant, comforting scent of apple and cinnamon emanating from the small candle on her desk.

  As always, glimpsing the hope chest that Old Sam had made especially for her prompted a happy sigh. With great emotion, she dropped her hands to the work of art and rested her fingers on top of it. His artistic capability was so superb, his carvings looked real.

  Without thinking, she reached for her feather duster and ran it over the few pieces in her room while she considered her dear friend. To her, Old Sam was much more than a hope chest maker. She liked him best for his horse-and-buggy stories. No one told them like Sam. He enjoyed reciting the interesting truths that had transpired over his eightysomething years. And she loved hearing them. Listening to him even trumped the numerous horse stories she’d read in the public library.

  Sam was her confidant, too. His wife of over sixty years, Esther, had been like a second mother to Rachel until she’d succumbed to pneumonia. Rachel had looked up to Esther. And Rachel was fully aware that mammas in the community, including hers, had often sought advice from the woman who had seemed to have a knack for everything, especially cooking.

  Sam’s kind wife had been especially fond of animals, and her great love for horses, in particular, had bonded her to Rachel in a special way. Not to mention her delicious sponge cakes.

  After Esther’s death, Rachel had returned that extreme kindness to Old Sam, feeling that in a small way, she was repaying Esther for all of the attention she had offered Rachel over the years.

  She cherished her friendship with Sam. It didn’t bother her that she had to share him with Rebecca and Annie, two of her friends who loved spending time with him, too. Sam offered wiser advice than anyone in the world. And most importantly, he was the one person who fully respected Rachel’s love of horses.

  Rachel stepped on her tiptoes to run the duster over the top of the closet door. When her bare heels met the wood floor, she caught her breath before moving on to her headboard.

  Sam knew that horses were much more than work animals. Why couldn’t everyone understand that? Because of Old Sam’s adoration for their means of transportation, Rachel hadn’t been surprised when she’d first glimpsed the beautiful horse and buggy on the lid of the hope chest he’d designed for her seventeenth birthday. Using his great talent, Sam had artfully etched an image of her beloved Cinnamon and their family buggy into oak.

  Finally satisfied that she’d rid her room of every visible speck of dust, she moved over to her desk. As she sat on the soft blue cushion Mamma had made on her old Singer sewing machine, Rachel rolled her shoulders to relax as she took in her bedroom’s familiar comforts. She glanced to her oak-framed bed on the left. Old Sam’s piece was at her right. The desk and bed had both been made by her father in his woodworking shop, as had the comfy rocking chair in the corner next to her large window that overlooked their backyard.

  The four white walls were empty except for two dress hooks. As the mouthwatering aroma of baked chicken and dumplings floated up the stairs and into Rachel’s room, she said a quick prayer of thanks for all she had.

  Bending, she opened the hope chest and pulled her journal from inside. As she did so, the sound of chattering cicadas came in through the open window. The air was a comfortable temperature that held the smell of freshly cut grass.

  Rachel closed the lid of her hope chest and once again looked at Old Sam’s work. Right now, the horse-and-buggy scene brought her spirits down. Her sadness had nothing to do with the four-legged animal in wood; it had everything to do with the suffering of her living horse, Cinnamon. She caught an emotional breath at the thought of Sam’s inspiration for the art. She quickly pressed her palms together.

  “Lord, please get him well. Don’t let him die. Amen.” For long, heartfelt moments, her gaze lingered on the etching until she blinked at the salty sting of tears.

  Finally, with great care, she placed her private book on the desk and flipped to the first empty page. The moment she did so, she eyed a speck of dust on the corner.

  She ran a finger over it and quickly returned her attention to the lines. Mamma always told Rachel that her “thing” for dust wasn’t bad, but that it was a bit extreme.

  As usual, her heart picked up to a happy speed while she considered where to start. She aimed to preserve her most special moments for when she got old. If she lost her memory, she’d have a backup.

  Her bare feet caressed the smooth hardwood floor when she inched them closer to her body, wiggling her toes as she did so. Writing was her favorite part of the day. She breathed in contentment while she reflected on what had happened.

  She recorded the date. As words came, she crossed her legs at the ankles and shifted her hips for a more comfortable position. Even simple things were important, and she never wanted to take them for granted. But that wasn’t all she wrote about.

  She tapped her pointer finger against the stained wood for a moment, then stretched her arms. As she did so, a yawn escaped her. She put her palm over her mouth and continued writing. There were so many blessings. My parents, six married sisters and their families, Old Sam, and a supportive community. She paused. My beloved Cinnamon. And Dr. Zimmerman.

  She began recording her thoughts.

  God has blessed me with love. Of course, life is never 100 percent perfect. I expect challenges. They test my faith. But that’s not a bad thing, because throughout Cinnamon’s illness, I’m becoming stronger. And I’ll need that strength to protect my children when I’m a mamma.

  I enjoy everything about the Amish lifestyle.

  She stopped a moment as her imagination went to work and her special goal pulled the corners of her lips up until her smile stuck. She referred to it as “the dream.” It was on her mind when she woke up, at night as she drifted off to sleep, and during the day.

  Old Sam taught me to look at my gl
ass as half-full. To concentrate on the positives. Because all good things come from God. Our lives can be happy or sad. Happiness is a choice.

  Although I strive to be satisfied, something makes my heart heavy. Cinnamon is very sick. Sugar cubes don’t even interest him. I’ve tried my best to cheer him up. Sam has always told me that attitude plays a large role in recovery.

  I’ve even tried relating to Cinnamon Sam’s horse-and-buggy stories.

  Several heartbeats later, she went on, increasing the tempo of her writing so her words kept up with her thoughts.

  I respect Old Sam’s opinion more than anyone’s. I’m aware that a number of horses in the area have already passed from the virus going around. Right now, Cinnamon needs me to not give up.

  At the end of her entry, she added her dream. She flipped her journal closed and considered what she’d written as she returned her attention to the hope chest.

  Her fingers lingered with affection on the lid because touching the beautiful piece sparked her imagination. Hope. It was like a security blanket that offered assurance that the world was at her doorstep.

  As she contemplated something that seemed somewhat impossible, yet doable, she stepped back to the window and gently ran her hand over the light blue curtain that was pulled to the side. There was just enough light to glimpse the old barn.

  Chickens made their way into their roosts for the night. She glimpsed the haymow, propane tanks, daddy’s large pile of firewood. Mamma’s clothesline was empty. The family buggy was parked next to their two-story house, which had been built by her great-grandfather.

  She knew the inside of their means of transportation like the back of her hand. Blue velvety material on the front and back benches. Three windows. Two metal steps.

  She pushed out a deep, anxious breath because she couldn’t look at the buggy without thinking of Cinnamon. She loved him more than anyone could imagine.

  The moment Dr. Zimmerman appeared in her mind, she pushed out a sigh of relief. Look at the glass as half-full, she’d told him. The compassion in his voice gave her hope. The determined expression in his eyes was the reassurance she needed at a time when she was afraid. He loved Cinnamon, too. Maybe that was why she had immediately felt at ease with him.

  She found herself wondering about the young veterinarian. The more she considered him, the more interested she became in the man who would help Cinnamon recover.

  Did he have lots of pets when he was young? What made him want to become a veterinarian? So many questions flitted through her mind, and her pulse picked up to a curious speed that increased the longer she thought about him.

  She’d wanted to talk much more to her newfound friend, but she’d known not to ask too many questions. After all, he was a doctor, and he probably had many more appointments after Cinnamon’s.

  For some reason, her heart skipped a beat as she recalled his eyes. She’d noticed that their conversation had ceased the moment she’d mentioned his parents. She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t commented, but she’d caught how he’d stiffened. She put a hand on her hip and gazed out into the darkening sky.

  She thought of Old Sam, Cinnamon, how long it would take for him to rebound from the virus. But the kind veterinarian drifted into her mind—and stayed there.

  Chapter Two

  A couple of days later, Rachel was making her way to Paula and the family buggy after doing errands in town when she glimpsed Dr. Zimmerman’s truck in front of King’s Bakery. Just then, he stepped out of the bakery and glanced in her direction. Rachel smiled and waved. He returned her friendly gesture as he moved toward the sidewalk seating area outside the bakery.

  As Rachel approached his table, voices from the locals floated through the air, morphing into one sound. The bright sun warmed her face.

  “How’s everything with Cinnamon?”

  Rachel lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “No better, no worse.”

  As they stepped closer to each other, he motioned to the paper bag between his fingers. “Care to join me?”

  He eyed the small circular glass-top table on the sidewalk in front of him. “My next appointment’s not for another hour, and I just happen to have an extra roll.” He winked.

  Rachel’s smile turned into a full-blown grin. “I’d love to. There’s no way I’d turn down a cinnamon roll from King’s. They’re the best around!” She nodded in the direction of the well-known pastry shop.

  “They do the yearly cinnamon drive around Christmas, right?”

  She offered a nod. With great care, he used a white napkin to pull a roll from the bag and handed it to her.

  “Thank you.”

  As she took the seat opposite him, he quickly moved to help with her chair. His hand brushed her wrist. At his touch, she warmed inside.

  The slight drop in temperature in the shade of the building was a welcome relief from the heat. She’d certainly never complained about long sleeves, but often wondered what it would feel like to wear a summer top like English girls did.

  “Are you thirsty? I’ll get you a beverage …”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks.” She could have used a drink of water but didn’t want to inconvenience him.

  “You seem happy today. You haven’t stopped smiling.”

  She beamed. “Oh, Dr. Zimmerman, I just learned the best news!” She scooted forward in her seat and rested her elbows on the table. “My oldest sister’s going to have a baby! That means I’ll be an aunt again!”

  She paused. “Of course, I already have nieces and nephews, seven to be exact, but this little one will be particularly special.”

  He waited for her to continue.

  She cleared her throat. “You see, Hannah has tried to have children for several years. We’ve all been praying for her to get pregnant.”

  The expression on his face was a combination of surprise and joy. “That’s wonderful news, Rachel!”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I’ve never been this excited for a new baby! Hopefully, he or she will be healthy. And Hannah, too. This pregnancy is an answered prayer.”

  After a thoughtful pause, Rachel moved closer to the edge of her chair. The legs made a noise as they scraped the concrete. “I can’t wait till the baby comes! But it’s six months away!” She drew her arms over her chest. “It seems like such a long time.”

  He laughed, sat back in his chair, and crossed his legs. “All in God’s time, Rachel. Your niece or nephew will be here, and that little person will have as much love as any kid could ever have, I’m sure of it.”

  “I know. I love my family. And the best times happen when we’re all together. Thank goodness, my sisters don’t live far away.”

  The conversation continued until a light squeal of brakes sounded when a car driving past stopped for a pedestrian. As a woman crossing the street waved to the driver, Doc Zimmerman glanced at his wristwatch and crunched the empty paper bag in the palm of his hand. He tossed it into the nearby garbage can and stood. “Time to get back to work.”

  As she got up, he quickly made his way behind her to pull out her chair. Again, his fingers brushed her hand, and like before, the pulse above her wrist did an excited jump.

  “Here, let me carry that for you.” He took the bag of spices. “I’ll walk you to your buggy.”

  As they stepped side by side, Rachel tried to savor the happy sensation that floated through her entire body. She knew her prayers for Cinnamon would be answered. God had blessed Hannah with a baby inside her, so Rachel was confident that Dr. Zimmerman would be able to nurse Cinnamon back to health.

  She swallowed as she considered the kind, gentle man next to her. She’d never felt this sort of excitement with anyone else and found herself wondering what it would be like to date him.

  She quickly chastised herself. He wasn’t a part of the Amish church. But to her dismay, she couldn’t stop wanting to spend time with him. The thought prompted a smile. Some day, she hoped to be a wife and a mother, just like Hannah would soon be. But something Jarre
d had said stuck with her, and she silently repeated the words. All in God’s time.

  *

  A few days later, Rachel stood close to Cinnamon, repeating soothing things to her horse while Dr. Zimmerman went through his checks. She looked around the large barn that Daddy and some neighbors had built after a bad storm had destroyed the old one.

  A feeling of comfort settled in her shoulders. She loved the beautiful oak rafters leading up to the pitch of the roof where skylights allowed the sun to penetrate the tall building.

  On the other side of the structure were nesting boxes for the twenty or so chickens. Behind them, her gaze followed the tall ladder up to the loft, where Daddy kept bales of hay and straw.

  Next to the large entrance were shelves upon shelves filled with work tools, chicken feed, pails, and other paraphernalia. Her father liked things clean and in order. In that respect, she was a lot like him.

  A mixture of farm smells filled the air. She’d grown up in this environment. Her familiar surroundings comforted her.

  When Dr. Zimmerman finally spoke, disappointment edged his voice. “No significant improvement yet, unfortunately, Rachel.”

  The veterinarian gave a slow shake of his head before meeting her gaze. “His temp is still high. His lymph nodes are swollen. I’m giving him another dose of anti-inflammatory and electrolytes. After that, let’s rinse him down again.”

  “Okay.”

  They worked together. While they wiped cold water off Cinnamon, Rachel struggled to stay positive, but it wasn’t easy because Cinnamon was ill. What bothered her most was his listless expression and lack of appetite. She wished she could take some of his pain.

  “Hey, cheer up.” The corners of his lips lifted into a wide, contagious smile. “Just think of that little niece or nephew you’ll get to hold soon.” He swatted away a fly that buzzed in front of him.

  She grinned at the pleasant realization, and a giggle escaped her as she imagined holding another new baby. “Jarred, I’m thinking of names. Have you ever helped to name a little one?”