4. A Community in Bloom #3
He was standing in the dim hallway in his trousers and undershirt, suspenders hanging loose at his sides, his hair rumpled from sleep. He’d been about to knock.
“I heard her crying,” he said quickly, his voice low. “Is she?—”
“She’s hot.” Elizabeth’s voice came out thinner than she meant it to. “John, she’s burning.”
His face changed. The careful distance he’d been holding for months simply fell away, replaced by something steadier. He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate.
“Bring her downstairs. The kitchen’s warmer. We’ll need cool water, not cold.” He was already moving toward the stairs. “I’ll wake Mamm.”
“Nee.” The word came out before Elizabeth thought about it. “Let her sleep. She’s been working so hard for the wedding. Let me try first.”
John paused at the top of the stairs. Looked back at her. For a heartbeat, something passed across his face that she couldn’t name.
“All right,” he said quietly. “Come on, then.”
He led her down to the kitchen, lighting a second lamp, stirring the embers in the stove. Naomi was still crying against Elizabeth’s shoulder—exhausted, fretful sobs that broke off into hiccups.
John moved through the dark kitchen like he’d done this a hundred times. He pumped water into a basin, tested it with his wrist, added a little from the kettle on the stove to take the chill off.
“Here.” He pulled a chair close to the table. “Sit. Let me take her while you wet the cloths.”
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before passing Naomi into his arms.
The transfer was clumsy—Naomi’s small body was hot and damp, her cries renewed at being moved—but the moment she settled against John’s chest, something shifted. Not silence, not quite, but a softening. Her cries thinned into whimpers. Her small fist found the fabric of his shirt and clung.
John looked down at her, and Elizabeth saw his throat work.
“’S ist gut, kleine,” he murmured. It’s all right, little one. “’S ist gut. Onkel John is here.”
Naomi quieted further. Not asleep—still feverish, still uncomfortable—but quieted.
Elizabeth’s hands stilled in the basin. She watched them—this big, quiet man bending his head over her daughter, his hand cradling the back of Naomi’s skull with the same care he’d used to sand her cradle smooth.
“She always does that for you,” Elizabeth said softly. “Goes quiet.”
John didn’t look up. “Babies know things grown people forget.”
“What do they know?”
He was quiet a long moment. When he finally answered, his voice was rough.
“Who’s safe.”
The word landed somewhere deep in Elizabeth’s chest.
She turned quickly back to the basin, pressing a folded cloth into the water, wringing it out with hands that wouldn’t quite obey her. She brought the cool cloth to the table and laid it gently against Naomi’s forehead, against the back of her tiny neck.
Naomi gave a small, pitiful sound, then sighed.
They worked together in the lamplight—Elizabeth cooling, John holding, neither of them speaking. The fire crackled softly in the stove. Outside, somewhere in the barn, a horse shifted in its stall.
After a while, Naomi’s breathing began to slow. Her fist relaxed in John’s shirt. The terrible flush in her cheeks began to ease.
Elizabeth pressed the back of her hand to Naomi’s forehead. Still warm, but not the frightening heat of before.
“It’s coming down,” she whispered.
John nodded. He didn’t move to give Naomi back.
Elizabeth let him hold her.
She sank into the chair across from him, her own exhaustion finally catching up. Her hair had come loose from her braid and hung over her shoulder. The lamplight made everything golden and strange.
“Denki,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know what to do.”
John looked up at her then. The careful walls he kept—the ones she’d run into for months—were simply gone. His eyes held hers, and they were full of something so close to anguish that Elizabeth’s breath caught.
“Elizabeth.” His voice was low. Unsteady. “If anything had?—”
He stopped.
His arm tightened slightly around Naomi, as if reminding himself she was here. Safe. Breathing.
“If anything had happened to her—” The words came out almost broken. “I don’t know what I would?—”
He cut himself off again. Swallowed hard. His other hand was gripping the edge of the table, knuckles pale.
Elizabeth couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. The air between them felt too thin to breathe.
John’s eyes dropped to Naomi. Stayed there. As though looking at Elizabeth was suddenly more than he could manage.
“I should go,” he said roughly. “Mamm will hear if she’s still fussing. Better if—” He stood, careful of Naomi. “Better if she finds you both.”
He passed Naomi back, and for an instant his arm brushed against Elizabeth’s. Just an instant. He stepped back as if it had burned him.
“John—”
But he was already turning. Picking up the lamp. Walking toward the stairs.
He stopped at the doorway. Didn’t turn around.
“I’m glad she’s all right,” he said quietly. “I’m glad you’re?—”
He didn’t finish.
Then he was gone, his footsteps soft on the stairs.
Elizabeth sat at the kitchen table with her daughter against her chest, and tried to breathe past the ache in her throat.
It was a long time before she went back upstairs.
When she finally did, and when she finally slept, her dreams were full of weddings and willows and hands that reached but never quite touched.