Chapter Twenty-Four
The tiny hospital room closed in on Gabe as he stood a few feet from his father’s bedside. He’d never been in a hospital before—and Dat never got sick. The sight of so many clicking mechanical monitors and the tubes snaking away from his father’s arm and chest spooked him so badly that he almost bolted. Dat was supposedly resting comfortably after they’d stabilized him, following what had apparently been a heart attack, but the man in the bed appeared too old and frail to be his father. He could’ve been a stranger’s corpse laid out for burial.
Gabe had never been so frightened in his life.
“Hospitals aren’t my favorite place either, Gabe,” Bishop Jeremiah remarked softly as he entered the room. “It’s normal to feel like you’re suspended in a state of unreality—especially because we’re so used to seeing your dat hale and hearty—”
“Taking charge of everything, and telling us what to do,” Gabe put in hesitantly. “Are we sure he’s going to—to wake up?”
The bishop gently grasped Gabe’s shoulder. “They’ve sedated him, but believe it or not, he’s much better than he was earlier today. When he collapsed at The Marketplace—”
“I should’ve been there helping him,” Gabe blurted out. “If I hadn’t been so set on staying away from him, this wouldn’t have happened.”
The bishop focused on the slender figure in the bed. “We don’t know that, Gabe. You were doing your best to lessen the confrontational atmosphere at home—and it was your dat keeping things stirred up.”
Gabe looked away. He appreciated Jeremiah’s support—especially because, despite Gabe’s being under the bann, the bishop was kind enough to speak to him, to explain what had happened to his dat. Deep down, however, he still believed his father would be fine today if he hadn’t made such a scene during his confession at church a couple of weeks ago.
“The doctors have told me that Martin’s erratic behavior and moodiness of late could’ve been caused by limited blood circulation and the blockage they’ve located in the passageways around his heart,” the bishop continued. “After his surgery on Monday—and after his pacemaker settles in—he should feel a lot better. His condition has been a long time in the making, Gabe, so he didn’t even notice that he was getting slower and crankier, or that he wasn’t feeling very gut.”
“Or he was just too stubborn to admit to it,” Gabe said with a sad laugh.
“Jah, that too.” At the sound of voices in the hallway, the bishop turned toward the door. “Ah—gut afternoon, Saul. And Matthias, it’s nice of you to visit, as well. Martin’s under heavy sedation, but I bet his soul knows we’re all here with him so he’s not facing this ordeal alone.”
Gabe nodded at the deacon, and he found a tentative smile for Matthias, who lowered his eyes because of the shunning situation. He feared the men would leave—or would expect him to leave—but Bishop Jeremiah’s presence apparently convinced the deacon to keep his lectures to himself. Bishops and other church leaders were allowed to counsel folks who’d been shunned, so Saul wouldn’t likely call Jeremiah out for being here.
Removing his black straw hat, Saul approached the bedside, gazing steadily at the man connected to the monitors and tubes. “I hear you were with him when he collapsed, Jeremiah. Probably a gut thing the ambulance got to The Marketplace in a hurry, ain’t so?”
“It’s all gut, and God has it all under control,” the bishop replied solemnly.
“I was glad to see Martha Maude and Anne out in the waiting area with Delores and the girls,” Matthias said. “I suspect she’ll want to come in again soon. We shouldn’t overstay our welcome.”
“All things considered, I think we have time for a verse or two of a song,” the bishop suggested. “It can be our prayer for Martin while he’s not able to join the singing.”
Gabe’s throat suddenly got so tight that any sort of vocalizing felt impossible. Once again he wanted to leave the room, but Jeremiah’s hand remained on his shoulder. After a moment, the bishop began “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” his mellow baritone easing away the harshness of the clinical, claustrophobic room. Saul and Matthias hummed in two-part harmony until they reached the refrain. Then they, too, sang the lyrics that were as familiar to Gabe as the feel of his guitar’s frets beneath his fingertips.
But he couldn’t join them. The part about singing because he was happy—and free—made his eyes widen with irony. This was a familiar song about how God watched over every one of His children, yet since two weeks ago when he’d been shunned, Gabe had felt anything but happy or free. As the words and his friends’ voices continued, however, he became very aware of the music’s power over him—its rhythmic way of seeping into his soul to soothe him.
Gabe also heard the silent spaces where Dat’s voice should’ve been, resonating on the bass line. The song was still an ode to quiet faith, but it lacked the rock-solid foundational quality his father’s harmony provided.
After the men had sung two verses and eased into a soft closing, Gabe mumbled his thanks for their music—but he felt compelled to leave. In the waiting area he smiled nervously at his worried sisters. After he spoke with his mamm and the Hartzler women, who focused on their laps, he went home to do the livestock chores.
Gabe felt as unsettled as a box of loose rocks mixed with shards of glass. As he pulled his buggy into the stable, the building felt empty and haunted. His dat’s buggy horses nickered as he fed and watered them. He went to Mamm’s chicken house and filled the feeders. Even as eager birds surrounded him to peck their grain, he couldn’t shake the lonely, terrifying sensation that his father was gone.
What if Dat passes in the night—or during his surgery? What if he doesn’t come home and you never reconcile with him?
Gabe stumbled out of the stable, his vision blurred with hot tears. As he shut the door behind him, he knew he couldn’t go into the house alone. It was the irrational fear of a small boy who imagined the worst-case scenario, but at that moment Gabe felt very young and vulnerable. He was too stunned by the possibility of his father’s death to drive the sight of that too-thin body surrounded by clicking, blinking monitors and tubes from his mind.
He needed to find some company before the mental images overwhelmed him. His heart leaped at the thought of going to Red’s house—
But you burned your bridges with her. Why would she care how upset and scared you feel?
Raking his hand through his hair, Gabe returned to the stable and hitched his horse to his buggy again. As he steered toward the gravel road that led to the river, his heart thudded in anticipation of sitting behind the Kraybills’ barn to play his guitar. The craving to press his fingers into the strings nearly drove him crazy until he arrived and hurriedly removed the instrument from beneath his toolbox.
When he sat against the barn and began to play, however, his hands felt oddly disconnected from the music. The notes were disjointed and the guitar sounded tinny. Even after he tuned it and began again, it was as though he’d never before played “O the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus.”
Gabe stared at the river as reality sank in. The last time he’d sat in this spot, Red had been with him, sketching. She’d listened to him as though he were the greatest virtuoso guitarist on the face of the earth. They’d talked about matters of the Amish faith sensibly, without their discussion flaring out of control—
You fell in love with her right here in this spot, dummy. You kissed her and your life felt like it was finally falling into place.
Gabe exhaled raggedly, his mind filled with the sensations—the hopes and dreams—she’d inspired in him. Her hazel eyes had shone with a love he’d seen nowhere else—
And then you got mad at her last night for behaving with far more integrity than you did. You offended her. You expected her to leave the faith she respects—for the sake of you and your music. Is it any wonder she shut you down, Flaud?
Swearing under his breath, Gabe rose from the grass. When he shoved his guitar into its hiding place with more force than he should have, the loud whack of wood against wood—the echo of the strings’ hollow tones—reflected his dark desperation. As he urged his horse back onto the gravel road, he headed toward Red’s house despite the inner lights and sirens that warned him not to visit her when he was an emotional train wreck waiting to happen.
Glutton for punishment, aren’t you? She has every reason not to open her door when she sees your face. Can you survive Red’s rejection a second time?
* * *
Regina sat on her sofa, so engrossed in her embroidery that she could ignore the heat of a humid, breezeless July evening. The mallard drake amid cattails, which she’d sketched on the first flour sack towel, was taking shape so beautifully and so effortlessly that she hadn’t stopped to eat any supper.
Her needle seemed to have the same instinctive way of rendering objects as her paintbrush: the drake’s head was filled in with stitches that alternated between long and short, deep green and a slightly lighter shade, which gave a realistic sense of depth and sheen. After she followed the outline of his wing with variegated shades of brown, she instinctively satin-stitched at an angle in one direction and then turned to follow the line she’d just completed with another line going the opposite way. The herringbone effect might not be entirely natural—but the texture was eye-catching enough that no one would criticize it.
Clip-clop, clip-clop . . .
Regina’s head shot up. Whose horse-drawn rig was passing her house—the bishop’s? Or did she dare believe that Gabe had come to repair their damaged relationship? Her stomach rumbled, but hunger was the furthest thing from her mind. She listened, holding her breath when she didn’t hear any more hoofbeats.
If he comes to the door, let him in—allow him to apologize. It’s the first step toward forgiveness, after all.
Regina’s throat was so dry it clicked when she swallowed, waiting for his knock. Seconds ticked into minutes. Her heart fluttered in hopeful anticipation, daring to believe that all wasn’t lost between her and Gabe.
Maybe if you step out onto the porch—invite him inside—
But then the horse moved on. The clip-clop of its shoes against the pavement beat a sad tattoo on Regina’s heart as it faded into the distance.
She was alone again. Her heart had convinced her it was Gabe, even though she might never find out if he’d really come.
With a sad sigh, she embroidered to the tip of the duck’s wing. After she knotted the floss off on the design’s underside, she rethreaded her needle so she’d be ready to embroider the next time she picked up her hoop.
It was only eight thirty, but Regina turned off her lamp and headed for bed. What else was there to do? Supper seemed out of the question, for she’d lost her appetite when Gabe had stormed off, taking her only opportunity for love along with him. Apparently she’d given up her chance for happiness in favor of remaining steadfast in her Amish faith . . . and she felt deeply sorry about it.
Why did she have to choose between loving Gabe and salvation in Jesus? Why wasn’t her world big enough to embrace them both?