Chapter 15
C HAPTER 15
W HEN M ARY STOPPED AT THE HOSPITAL’S FRONT DESK AND WAS told her father had been moved into the intensive care unit, alarm rose in her chest. She found four of her sisters, dressed in plain dark colors, their black capes and aprons covering their shoulders, chests, and necks, the loose aprons disguising any shapeliness. A neat stack of black bonnets was on an end table, and homemade carpet bags containing a variety of hand sewing were set by each one’s chair, a testimony to industrious hands.
She was greeted warmly, but with a gentle admonition about the missing cape and bonnet—a gentle pat on her arm and a lenient “You’ll remember as time goes by.”
She remembered walking the streets of Lancaster, swinging along in sneakers, her long skirts and black bib apron, her hair in the latest style, her white covering small and heart-shaped.
Sin. It was blatant sin.
But just a few times, she’d felt like someone of consequence, a woman of substance, without the fear of wrongdoing. But it was never long before she was back to searching her own conscience, dreading the consequences of every potential sin.
She sat side by side with her sisters as crochet needles clicked and embroidery thread was drawn through white muslin in wooden hoops, their mouths drawn in concentration as they prayed for the health of their father. When a middle-aged couple entered the waiting room, no one acknowledged them, no one met their questioning eyes except Mary, who gave them a smile of friendliness.
A nurse appeared with Rachel and told them two more could see their father now, so Mary accompanied Lydia through doors that swung open at the touch of a square button, down a sterile hallway alive with brightly dressed nurses and interns, wheeled carts and hums of machines. They entered a dimly lit room with lighted screens, beeps, a confusing mass of tubes and plastic wire. His face was as white as death. His long, thin hand lay atop a white sheet with a needle inserted in the sunken, pallid vein, the skin dry and scaly. His eyes were closed.
They stood, unsure, their arms crossed for protection from the sight of this man who was their father, the man they had always feared. It was unsettling to see him lying so helpless, dependent on the latest medical technology, run by the electricity he so condemned, dressed in the universal garment all hospitals provided.
Mary had a terrifying thought. She broke out in a cold sweat. He had placed great importance on fabric and color, homemade shirts with plain buttons, the black vest with hooks and eyes, and must he now face the Savior dressed in no less than the garment even the unbelievers wore?
She trembled, her heart raced. A confusion of thoughts created a pounding in her temples. She coughed, reached out to cling to the foot of the high, narrow bed.
She felt a hand on her back.
“Are you alright?”
She nodded quickly at the kind nurse.
He must not die. Not now. Not before she discussed this with him. He would live. He wasn’t that old. She needed to understand a few things. The nurse brought a small glass of apple juice, said she’d feel better when she finished it.
Lydia placed a hand on her father’s, said, “Dat.”
His eyelids quivered, then slid open, only to close again.
Pity welled up in Mary, followed with a rush of alarm. He could not die. She needed him to answer a few questions.
Lydia stepped aside. “ Komm , Mary.”
So she stepped up, placed a tentative hand on top of the taped needle putting life-giving liquid into his veins, and thought how awful, how sad—these hardworking hands, these earnest, righteous hands, so still, so helpless, unfairly thrust into the world he so despised.
Tears welled up and spilled over.
“Hello, Dat.”
Again, the eyelids quivered, followed by a mere shake of his head. He opened his mouth, closed it again.
“We’re here to visit, Dat,” Mary choked.
There was no sign that he’d heard, so Mary took her hand away. To stand beside his bed brought a bit of solace, but eventually Lydia led her away, her face showing no emotion and Mary desperately choking back her own.
The doctor arrived, introduced himself, and came straight to the point, saying the lung infection had entered the bloodstream, creating a condition called sepsis, and his heart was not as strong as he’d like. He assured them they were doing everything possible, which the sisters thanked him for, in turn.
They sat in stunned silence, then. Their father was very ill, but each one showed no emotion, only a resignation, the news borne stoically. Except for Mary, who had her own turmoil to sort through.
Suddenly, Rachel said he didn’t seem as if he was actually going to die, and Lydia agreed, saying he’d pull through. He always had.
They took their carpet bags and their bonnets, found their way to the elevator, and were carried to the third floor. They found Mima’s room and almost burst into laughter. There she was, her bed propped as high as it would go, her whole head swallowed up in a gigantic white sleep cap tied beneath her chin, watching television.
Her eyes lit up at the sight of them.
“Look, girls! Come look. It’s something called the Discovery Channel, and it’s lions and elephants and stuff. I didn’t turn it on, the nurse did. But oh my, it’s amazing.”
In varying degrees of guilt, they turned in time to see a lioness stalk a herd of wildebeests. They held a collective breath as she went slowly forward, gasped as she pounced, after which they all came to their senses and told Mima to turn it off.
It was television, a verboten sach .
Mima rang for the nurse in attendance, who cheerfully did as Mima requested and left the room. Mary touched her shoulder, asked how she was doing, followed by each sister in turn.
Greeted warmly, genuinely happy to see the children of the man she had married, Mima informed them of her condition. She had pneumonia in both lungs, but already the antibiotics were doing their work, and she felt stronger, although she was fairly certain she’d be in for a few more days. She shifted happily, and Mary concealed a wide grin, knowing the minute they walked out, the television would be put to life again.
Going to the car, Rebecca said evenly, “I think maybe there is more to Mima than meets the eye. Hesslich .”
And Mary thought it was true for all of them, wasn’t it? She started to giggle. “I guess it’s a good thing she has that big schlofe copp on.”
To which Lydia answered sourly. “She had better. To have her sins forgiven.”
But Mary thought of Mima’s childish enjoyment of the Discovery Channel, her curious mind suddenly elevated to the wonders of nature in faraway places, and was happy for her.
But of course, she did not tell the sisters.
She was dropped off at her house, glad to go through the warm brown door and into a quiet home of her own. The rewards of being the owner of her very own house were far too many to count, and gratitude welled up as she put the kettle on for a cup of tea.
Alone with her thoughts, she kept going back to her father’s condition, the end of his life, and the readiness to meet the God he had always known and obeyed. The importance he placed on being a firm believer of the ordnung . Would it be enough? Or did it go hand in hand with receiving the blood of Christ to atone for his sins?
Did he have sin? Or did obedience chase it all away?
She cast a glance at her Bible, the almost new, rarely touched book of answers for every Christian. If she was very honest, it only confused her more than ever, so she left it closed, a nice decorative touch on the end table.
Over and over, she asked God to spare her father’s life, to allow him to return with Mima, allow her to question his ways, to find a deeper understanding of the mysteries of the afterlife. She wanted to tell him how she had done what he wanted, had a free conscience in front of him, dressed and lived for him, and felt an increasing emptiness every single day. Sometimes she thought she might have reached the long sought-after blessing, and then it evaporated again.
She thought of Steve. What would he say about Heaven, about what it took to truly be saved?
T HEY WERE CALLED to the hospital, the granite gray six-story building called Parkview Health, overlooking a grand park on the banks of the Huegenot River, the Adirondacks like a long line of sentinels watching over the comings and goings of life along its meandering banks.
He was awake, though extremely weak. Still in the intensive care unit, he was hoping to leave for another room with Mima.
No one told him Mima had gone home on Thursday. In short gasping sentences, he told them to hold fast to what was right. To stay in the ordnung, as it was the way of the cross. He said there was a small booklet in the lower left-hand corner of his desk containing every direction and detail for his funeral. “In case of my death,” he gasped.
He closed his eyes, and the only audible sound was the rasping breath, his chest rising and falling. His long thin fingers plucked restlessly at the white sheet covering him.
Finally, he said in painful spurts, “Live righteously in the way I have taught. Let no man deceive you.”
There were sincere acknowledgments of this advice, murmurings of assent. When he spoke again, it was hard to hear the labored words.
“There is something more, but I can’t seem to grasp it.”
They swayed forward, impatiently wanting more.
But he had fallen asleep.
D URING THE NIGHT, a cold rain was driven against the north windows, waking Mary from a troubled sleep. There was something, some noise. She rolled on her back and lay very still. The steady strumming of rain. For a long moment, she convinced herself it was nothing, then heard it again.
Someone was by the front door. A scraping.
There it was. A rapping, scraping, sliding sound. The pounding of her heart was loud in her ears. She had to get up, but seemed frozen. She should have listened to Art and bought a dog.
Slowly, she heaved her feet to the floor, sat upright.
She took a deep breath, a step toward the door.
The clock in the kitchen glowed, the hands at the one and twelve.
She jumped when the strange noise began again.
She stopped, held her breath, then moved soundlessly to the window and peered around the wooden trim and down to the stone floor.
She realized it was a small creature. A rabid wild animal? What should she do?
Then she heard a hoarse cry, a real child crying in desperation. Quickly, she moved over, unlocked the door, and yanked it open. Her flashlight’s beam moved over a green and white striped T-shirt, torn jeans, bare feet, long black hair in sodden strings, and a dark face containing glistening black eyes.
“Missus?”
The question was spoken between sobs and hiccoughs, the one word going straight to her heart where it took up residence. She stepped out on the porch and bent over the wet, huddled form, one hand beneath the sodden back and one beneath the knees. A child. It was a small child, perhaps three or four years old.
Quickly, she lit the propane lamp, amazed to find the small brown face watching her every move. She sank down beside him, deciding it was a boy, and asked his name, before noticing the pronounced shiver, the chattering of teeth clacking together. She brought a few thick towels and wrapped him tightly, rubbing gently to dry him.
He began to cry in earnest.
“My mom. I want my mom,” he sobbed.
“We can find your mom, if you tell me who you are.”
“I’m . . .” he choked on a sob. “I’m Tiger.”
“Tiger? Your name is Tiger?”
He nodded.
“Would you like a warm bath?”
He shook his head, his eyes going wide with fear.
“Then let me get you a blanket, to warm you up. I’ll be right back.”
She wrapped him in the oversized blanket, sat on the glider rocker, took him in her lap, and began to sing. The sobs quieted. She bent her head and sniffed the soaked black hair, which gave off a mild odor of soap and little boy hair. If she had a phone, she would notify the police. But at this point, it seemed more important to warm the child up than to traipse to Jessie and Art’s place to use their phone.
Tiger’s eyes were getting heavy, drooping slightly at the corners, his small form relaxing. This now, and her father gravely ill. An hour at a time, although she knew there would be no sleep for her. When she was positive he slept, she carried him to the guest room and laid him on top of the quilt, leaving the door open.
She must have dozed off only for a few minutes, awakening to a dull, gray morning light. Time to find the parents or guardian of this little guy.
Poor child. She could only imagine the terror of the night for someone as small as him.
She felt a presence rather than saw one, startled into being fully awake.
“Did he come back?”
She sat up, swung her feet over the edge.
“My dad. He said he’ll be back.”
“Who is your dad?”
“My dad.”
“Do you know his name?”
His eyes were large and round and very worried.
“He said we were going for a ride, and we went. Then he put me out of the car, said to wait, he’d be right back.”
“Okay, Tiger. You’re safe here until we can find him. Would you like some hot chocolate?”
His brow wrinkled as he thought about it, then nodded his head quickly.
“Mm. Yeah.”
His long dark hair was matted and tangled in back, his dark face not very thin, just normal-sized, with almost perfect features.
She knelt by his chair, plied him with simple questions, but could gain very little helpful information. His house was white, but a whole lot of other people lived in it, too. Upstairs and beside them. His mother’s name was Mom. She worked but he didn’t know where. His dad only came sometimes. He came for a visit. He worked, too.
She persuaded him to bathe, then washed his clothes and hung them by the heat of the woodstove, before making pancakes.
He ate, but only a few bites, saying he wanted his mother.
“Okay, Tiger, we’ll find your mother. When your clothes are dry.”
There was a chill in the air as they started out, but by the time they reached Art and Jessie’s house, they were warmed by exertion.
“What now?” Jessie asked, her way of greeting them.
“He showed up on my porch last night.”
“Good Lord.”
She turned, yelled. “Art? Art, come here.”
Art stumbled out of the kitchen, his hair disheveled, and looked from Mary to Tiger and back to Mary. Mary answered his questioning eyes by telling him and Jessie the bits and pieces she had extracted from Tiger.
Jessie shook her head.
“I dunno. I just dunno. You can get tangled up in a real mess sometimes, cases like this.”
“Well, she can’t put him out,” said Art.
“No, she can’t do that.”
“Would you give us a ride to the police station?” Mary asked, which was immediately met with nods of approval.
“Yes, yes. That’s the thing to do. Probably should have gone as soon as you found him, but that can’t be helped now.”
So Mary found herself bouncing to town with Art and Jessie, with Tiger beside her in the back seat. She thought he should probably be in a car seat, but that couldn’t be helped. It was a short ride, anyway.
The police station was in a low brown building with a massive brick sign in front, glass doors, and low glass windows with no blinds. A thin red-haired woman took them to a room off a long hallway, the scent of old cigarette smoke and something like smelly feet permeating the stale air. Photographs dotted the wall like giant flies, along with a New York road map that was littered with round-headed pins. A picture of an obese police officer and his glum-looking wife and children was carefully preserved behind glass in an ornate silver frame, flanked by various awards and honors.
“It stinks in here,” Jessie commented loudly.
Art held up a finger. “Sh.”
“Don’t tell me to be quiet. It stinks in here.”
Tiger blinked, leaned hard against Mary. She put a protective arm around his shoulders.
The officer was big, very round with his leather belt drawing him in what appeared to be two pieces: an upper policeman and a lower one. Kind, though, and very helpful, he fingerprinted, took hair samples, asked questions, and said that if Mary was willing, she could watch Tiger until someone else was found.
“I’ll have to talk to CPS—Child Protective Services—and they’ll run a background check and stuff, but I don’t imagine it will be a problem. They can fill you in on the paperwork and all that.”
Mary found a lump forming in her throat when she bent to ask Tiger if he’d like to stay with her for a while, and he nodded brightly, saying his dad would be coming back soon.
The officer raised his eyebrows.
After Mary had spoken to the woman from CPS and signed some papers, she was told they could leave and someone would follow up with them soon. They stopped at a store to buy socks, underwear, a couple extra shirts and pairs of pants. Then they went to IGA for cereal, milk, bread, and some food Jessie insisted any kid needed—Froot Loops, graham crackers, apples, frozen chicken nuggets, Juicy Juice, and ice cream bars.
Tiger didn’t smile, but his eyes looked pleased.
Mary spent a long, fretful day, wondering how her father was and trying to entertain the lonely boy who kept repeating the same question about his father (“When will he be back?”), sometimes weeping softly into the couch cushions.
Mary felt frustrated and alone, without an anchor to keep her thoughts at bay. What if no parent was discovered, or it turned out they didn’t want their little boy back?
Was she up to giving him the love he would need, and would he have to be Amish if she was his guardian? Could a single girl even legally adopt? She didn’t know.
She took him along to the barn in the evening, where he raised large fearful eyes to the horse towering above him and refused to feed him.
Back inside, she made chocolate chip cookies and allowed him to help, but that distraction was short-lived and it wasn’t long before he was whimpering again. She watched the clock, hoping someone, anyone, would show up.
When Jessie arrived in the late afternoon, her face was tight. She ushered Mary into the bedroom and spoke in a hushed voice so Tiger wouldn’t hear.
“They might have found him.”
She mouthed, “The dad?” Mary raised her eyebrows, her heart beating too fast, too loud.
“Drove his car over a bridge.”
Oh no , Mary thought. Surely the mother or grandmother, someone, would come for him. She had felt real pity for this sweet boy, but today had been stressful, and she knew she was not ready for this amount of responsibility.
“How could he, over a bridge?” she asked, suddenly angry at such a display of childishness.
“Did I say bridge? I meant cliff. A cliff. Into the stone quarry. Still no news about a mom.”
She paused. “Oh, and your dad is about the same.”
That, at least, was good news.
Mary shrank inwardly, wondering if she would have to be the one to tell Tiger the news, if the time came. She knew the Amish children were not protected from death but learned to accept it at a young age. People were dead when their heart stopped and they no longer breathed, but the soul was taken up to Heaven.
“Don’t say anything,” Jessie whispered. “Nothing’s confirmed yet.”
Mary shook her head, saying of course she wouldn’t.
She took a week off, found toys at thrift stores and a few indoor garage sales. She purchased books, a few cars and trucks, sand toys, and a hefty ten bags of playground sand. One warmer afternoon, Mary built a sandbox, ruined her lower back lugging and dumping the sand into it, then stood back as the delighted boy began to shovel and fill containers.
Jessie watched Tiger while Mary went to the hospital to visit her father, then became discouraged when he took a turn for the worse. The antibiotics were doing the work, but his heart was not strong enough to keep his organs functioning properly; his kidneys were now in stage four renal failure.
Mary asked the questions she sought answers to—about sin, the afterlife, how to be obedient enough to avoid the everlasting lake of fire—but in his illness, his answers were jumbled, and she found herself more confused than ever.
With the added responsibility of this poor child, she decided to put her questions to rest. She had to focus her energy on Tiger.