by Beth Wiseman
Abram still stood with the money in his hand, unsure whether to place it on the desk or not. “Ya, I know.” He swallowed hard. “I—I can pay you the other hundred next week.”
Bill finished a bite of his burger and nodded. “I know you’re good for it, kid, but . . .” He sighed. “The interest rate goes up when you don’t make your payments on time. You understand that, right?”
Abram nodded, glad that Bill didn’t seem as nasty today as he had on the phone. “Ya, ya. I know.”
“So, next week when you come, you need to bring a hundred and fifty.”
Abram realized that he didn’t understand how this worked after all.
By the time he walked back to the hardware store, he had about ten minutes to eat before he needed to get back to work. He pulled his pail from the refrigerator in the back room and sat down at the table, then dove in to a ham sandwich that he’d slapped together that morning. He thought about the first week he and Sarah were married and how she’d packed him a lunch for work each day. Usually, there was a sandwich, chips or nuts, an apple or orange, and always a note. He remembered one that read, I love you and another, Can’t wait to see you tonight. But lately, it had just been a lone sandwich that he’d hurriedly made before leaving the house. He took the last bite and glanced at the pail, wishing an apple or bag of chips would appear. But not even a napkin.
“How’s your wife doing?”
Abram looked up when Brenda pulled out the chair across from him. He’d worked with her for almost four years. Mr. Hinkle had six employees, and Abram and Brenda had been there the longest. But up until recently, Brenda had worked the cash register and Abram had stocked shelves, placed orders, and kept up with the inventory. Now, Brenda worked in the back office answering the phone and doing the bookkeeping so Abram ran into her more often. “She’s adjusting, I think.” I hope.
Brenda flung her long blond hair over her shoulders, pulled a container from the refrigerator, and placed it in the microwave. She turned to face him, leaning against the counter as she crossed one ankle over the other. Her short blue jeans were cuffed below her knees, and her shoes were the flip-flop kind that lots of Englisch girls wore. Her green eyes matched her green shirt today.
“It’s bound to be hard for her to get used to being in a wheelchair.” Brenda hung her head for a few moments before she looked back at him. “I feel bad for her.”
Abram gulped from a glass of water in front of him as he fought the urge to tell Brenda that pity wasn’t what they needed right now. Everyone had the best of intentions, but Sarah was still the same strong, beautiful woman he’d married. He just nodded as he glanced at the clock on the wall. He’d inhaled his food with five minutes to spare, but his stomach growled at him for not bringing more.
When Brenda opened the microwave, a wonderful aroma filled the air in the small break room. After she sat down, Abram saw that it was soup, maybe chicken noodle.
“You’re staring at my soup as if it might sprout wings and take flight.” She laughed, then blew on her spoon before taking a bite.
“It smells gut,” he said, grinning.
“It is gut,” she said, attempting to imitate him. She pushed back her chair, got up, and returned with a bowl. “And it’s way too much for me.” She poured a generous amount and pushed the bowl toward Abram, then got him a spoon. “I used to send any leftovers with David for lunch, but . . .” She shrugged. “He’s out of luck now since we broke up.”
Abram had met David lots of times picking up Brenda after work, at Christmas parties Mr. Hinkle had at the shop, and sometimes when he just stopped in. “I didn’t know you’d broken up.” He blew on his spoon and took a bite of soup, closing his eyes and allowing the flavor to settle on his palate. He’d always thought his mother made the best chicken soup ever, but Brenda might have just earned the first-place ranking.
“Yeah, we broke up a few weeks ago.”
Abram thought for a few moments, realizing he hadn’t seen David around. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged again. “It needed to happen, and it had been a long time coming.” She smiled. “You like the soup?”
Abram nodded, smiling. “Mei mamm wouldn’t want to hear this, but it’s the best chicken noodle soup I’ve ever had.”
“I love to cook. And I always make enough for lunch leftovers.” She glanced at his lunch pail, then at him. “I can bring you some too.”
Abram shook his head. “Nee, nee . . . I wouldn’t want you to do that.”
“It’s no big deal. I see you eating sandwiches most of the time.” She blew on her spoon and took another bite.
Abram’s had cooled to the point that he was shoveling it in as if he hadn’t eaten in a month of Sundays. He recalled the leftovers that his mother used to send with him when he lived at home. Sarah sent sandwiches that first week they were married, but Abram couldn’t have cared less what she sent him. His wife’s sandwiches tasted way better than what he’d been making. When he would tell her how good they were, she’d just say, It’s because they were made with love. Abram was pretty sure it was because she mixed the mayonnaise and mustard together and sprinkled on salt and pepper. I need to remember to do that. Although there wasn’t a sandwich on the planet that could compare to Brenda’s soup. “Well, if you had any leftovers, I wouldn’t be opposed to helping you finish them off.” He grinned before he took the last bite, glancing at the clock again.
“Consider it done.” Brenda smiled as Abram stood up to leave. Then she winked at him.
Sarah stared at her new pantry, the one Abram had worked so hard to construct. Everything was at eye level and easy to reach. Her mother had stocked it before Sarah got home from the hospital. But as she looked at bags of rice and pasta, jams and jellies, and even some canned foods, she couldn’t get excited about cooking. Closing her eyes, she recalled the way she used to run down the porch steps and jump into Abram’s arms the moment he stepped out of his buggy in the evenings. She jumped when she heard someone open the front door and close it, heavy steps pounding across the living room.
“Don’t you know how to knock?” she asked Johnny when he walked into the kitchen.
“It’s almost suppertime, and Mamm is making meat loaf. She knows I don’t like it. Does she think that after seventeen years that I’ll suddenly grow fond of it?” He sniffed the air. “I was going to see what you had, but I don’t smell anything.”
Sarah closed the door to her handicap-accessible pantry. “I haven’t started anything.” She shrugged. “Maybe I won’t cook.”
Johnny took off his hat and started to put it in the spot where the coatracks used to be, but then put it on the table.
“Can you get your hat off the table, please? We eat there.” She grimaced at her brother. Johnny was tall and lanky, but he seemed to stay hungry. Their mother always said he had a hole in his stomach.
Johnny picked up his hat and frowned. “So, you’re not going to cook anything for Abram after he’s worked all day?”
Sarah pointed to the wheelchair. “I think I’m entitled to skip a day.”
“Why? Just because you can’t walk?”
Sarah narrowed her eyes at him, opened her mouth to tell him to shut up, then snapped it closed as she remembered how much Johnny had helped Abram transform their home. And Johnny had been awfully good to her while she was in the hospital. But he’d known how to keep his mouth shut then and just let her be. “Well . . .” she said, stretching out the word. “Things have changed a little bit.”
Johnny shrugged. “I’m glad I’m not the one married to you. I’d starve if I lived here.”
Sarah blinked her eyes a few times and stared at him as her mouth dropped open a little.
Her brother’s hat slipped from his hand. He picked it up from the floor, then stared at her. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you are being cruel.”
“How is saying I’m hungry and that I’d starve if I lived here being cruel?”
> “You said you’re glad you’re not the person married to me.” She spat the words at him. “I’m sure Abram would walk away if he could. He doesn’t deserve to be with someone who can’t function like a normal person.”
Johnny put his hat on his head, then pointed a finger at her. “Everyone let you get away with your little temper tantrums in the hospital, but it ain’t like you’re dead. You need to quit feeling sorry for yourself.”
Sarah’s jaw fell open even more as she blinked back tears. “How can you talk to me like that?”
Johnny took a step closer. “There are a lot of miserable couples in our district, and it’s easy to see. But you and Abram have always given me hope that I can be as happy as the two of you are someday. I ain’t ever seen two people love each other as much as you two.” He paused. “Except maybe Mamm and Daed. I just don’t want to see you mess it up.” He let his eyes roam the room and pointed. “He did all of this for you. He loves you. He’s grateful his fraa is alive.” He pointed his finger at her. “And you can still have kinner and have a gut life.”
I’m not having any kinner.
“I love you, Sarah. And you’re a strong woman. I don’t want that to slip away. That’s all. It must seem real unfair to you, that God chose this path for you. But it’s His will.” He paused, sighing. “So, be that strong person for the man that loves you.” He grinned. “And make the poor fellow some supper.”
Sarah waited until she heard his buggy pulling away before she opened the pantry and pulled out a bag of rice, then she stretched her arm into the refrigerator and found a hen.
CHAPTER SIX
ABRAM WALKED ACROSS THE FRONT YARD, MISSING THE few times in his short married life that Sarah had crossed the yard and jumped into his arms, but he was determined to be joyful and grateful. He said a quick prayer that his wife had a good day, and he felt encouraged when he walked into the living room and smelled . . . something. It didn’t take long to recognize that whatever had been cooking was now burnt. He found her in the kitchen staring at a pile of pots and pans stacked in the sink. But no food on the table. She spun the wheelchair around, her face streaked with tears.
“I—I was going to make you chicken and rice. Your mother’s recipe, the one she shared with me before she passed.” She lifted her shoulders and slowly lowered them, still crying. “But I fell in the bathroom and—”
Abram rushed over and squatted beside her. “Are you hurt? What happened?”
“I’m fine.” She covered her face with her hands, sobbing. “It took forever to get back into the wheelchair, and I could smell the hen burning. The rice was ruined too.”
“Sarah, don’t cry, mei lieb.” He leaned over and brushed his lips against hers, thankful she didn’t tense up or pull away. “It’s been a long time since we went out to eat in town, and look . . .” He waved toward the window. “The sun is shining and there is still plenty of daylight for traveling. Do you want to go out to eat?”
Sarah’s color drained from her face, and Abram realized that she hadn’t been back in a buggy since the accident. “I—I don’t know,” she whispered.
Abram cupped her cheeks and drew her face to his, kissing her again, slower this time, lingering. “We don’t have to go anywhere at all,” he said with all the hopefulness of a man who missed his wife. He gazed into her eyes, trying to read her thoughts, and before he could define what she was thinking or feeling, she drew him to her and kissed him with all the passion he remembered. And for the first time in weeks, their hearts were beating as one, and in a single swoop, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom, his mouth never leaving hers.
He gently eased her onto the bed, lay down beside her, and pulled her closer to him. “I love you so much,” he said in a breathless whisper.
She touched his shoulders and gently pushed him back. “I think I would like to go out to eat. Somewhere close, and only if we can get home before dark.”
It was over. She’d retreated again.
Abram forced a smile, helped her to sit up, and went to get her wheelchair.
Sarah wasn’t comfortable in the restaurant Abram had chosen. They’d had difficulty getting the wheelchair over a high threshold, Abram had slammed her into the back of someone’s chair on the way to their table, and she’d had to make small talk with two women she knew. Her heart had pumped viciously against her chest during the ride in the buggy. It was the lesser of the two evils presented to her this evening. But Abram was her husband, and she owed him something—probably more than she’d ever be able to give him.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” she said in a whisper, even though there wasn’t anyone nearby.
“Nee, nee. I’m sorry. I know you had a bad day and . . .” He opened his menu and didn’t look at her.
“It’s not that I didn’t want to. I just, um . . .” How could she explain to the man she loved that she was terrified of getting pregnant, scared of the one thing they’d dreamed about for years?
“Nee, it’s fine. Really.” He raised his eyes above his menu and smiled at her. “I haven’t had a gut burger in a long time.”
Sarah wasn’t hungry, and she could see her husband heading to the place he retreated to when he didn’t want to talk about something. Sarah had a similar place she visited, and she wondered if Abram’s retreat felt as dark as hers. When would they meet back at the place where their souls had first been introduced, a place with light and love and hope?
She thought about what Johnny told her. It was mean and cruel. And true. Sarah did need to stop feeling sorry for herself, if for no other reason than her love for Abram. She slapped her menu closed and put it on the table.
“I’m getting a burger too.” She smiled, then reached over and touched his hand. “I love you.”
Abram blinked a few times, and for a moment, Sarah thought he might cry. Had she been so awful that a simple and truthful statement could cause him such emotion? “Things are going to be different,” she said, smiling again. “Soon.”
Sarah was at her most fertile right now according to her calculations. In a few days, it would be safe to work her way back into her husband’s arms, to see if there was any way she’d feel whole again, knowing her plans of their future looked much different than his.
Sarah awoke the next morning to an empty bed. Once again she’d overslept, not prepared breakfast for Abram, or packed him a lunch. A burnt smell hung in the air from the night before, but when she rolled into the kitchen, she saw that Abram had cleaned the dishes that had been stacked in the sink.
She looked at the clock on the wall. It had taken her thirty minutes to get in the wheelchair, wash her face, brush her teeth, get dressed, and secure her kapp. Fifteen minutes faster than the day before.
She opened the pantry and began taking inventory of what she had, what she needed, and then planned her day. A couple of hours later, she had two loaves of bread rising on the counter and a cherry streusel baking in the oven. She was getting ready to start washing clothes in the wringer when she heard movement on the porch. She’d noticed yesterday that the apple pieces were no longer on the porch, but she’d spotted a stray cat recently and assumed the feline or some other animal had eaten the fruit.
As she wheeled herself onto the porch, she was surprised to see her feathery visitor behind the rocking chair again. “I see you’ve cleaned yourself up.”
There was only a hint of mud and dried blood on the duck’s tail feathers. He looked up, flapped his wings, and tried to stand up, but fell. He lay there for a few moments, then tried again, and toppled over again. When Sarah was a young girl, her family had had a chicken with one leg, and he got around on just that one leg, but this fellow was trying to walk with both legs when one was several inches shorter than the other. “You need to just hop on your one leg,” she said. “I’d show you if I could.” She rolled her eyes. Now I’m talking to a duck.
She waited for him to scurry off again, but when he didn’t, she went inside and brought back m
ore chunks of apple. She tossed a few his direction, but he didn’t move. She set the rest down and went back inside, thinking maybe he’d eat if she wasn’t watching him.
After she pulled the cherry streusel from the oven, she rolled to the window. All of the apple was gone, and her feathery friend was back underneath the rocker. He was a big bird, a mallard, she thought. Probably displaced by all the rain. She could recall a heavy flood from when she was younger, and when it was all over, she’d watched a mother duck and her ducklings cross their front yard. Her father had said all the rain had upset the ecosystem and that the birds were most likely displaced or lost.
She filled a plate with sunflower seeds, more apple, and torn-up pieces of lettuce. Her chickens ate most anything. She wasn’t sure about ducks. She set the plate on the porch and went back inside. The next time she looked out the window, the duck was eating. Smiling, she set to making a casserole for supper.
Abram bit into another ham sandwich the next day in the break room. When Brenda walked in, she grunted and put her hands on her hips.
“Why’d you bring your lunch? I told you I’d feed you.” She smiled before she walked to the microwave.
Abram swallowed the bite in his mouth. “Ach, I didn’t figure you cooked every night, so I didn’t know if you’d have leftovers, and I surely don’t want you to bring me food every day.”
She placed a white container—a rather large one—in the microwave and set the timer. If there were one modern appliance Abram was allowed to have, it would be a microwave. The thought of hot food in two minutes sounded heavenly. He was waiting for someone to invent a microwave that ran on batteries.
“I cook most every night.” She got two paper plates out of the cabinet above the small sink and placed one in front of Abram and one for herself, then she retrieved the white dish from the microwave. “This is a beef-and-cheese casserole I came up with one day. It doesn’t have an official name.”
