Chapter Twenty-Five
All thoughts of love evaporated like steam from a teakettle as Regina spent the visiting Sunday at the Miller place. On the surface, the mood at the dinner table was pleasant enough, punctuated by the remarks that Emma, Lucy, and Linda made—even though Regina sat at a TV table five inches away from the main table. Because she was a guest, Aunt Cora had insisted that the ban on talking to her be lifted for the day. The meal’s emotional undercurrent, however, was at a low boil.
“Regina, that mallard you’re embroidering is so awesome!” fifteen-year-old Emma said as she passed a bowl of wilted lettuce. Her eyes were alight with rare interest, probably because she’d been bored since the end of school. “If you’d draw some designs on towels for me, I could stitch them and sell them at The Marketplace, too!”
“Puh! You’d have to learn those fancy filling-in stitches first,” Linda put in bluntly. She wasn’t particularly interested in embroidery, but at thirteen she was quick to point out where her two elder sisters fell short. “Lucky for you, Regina will soon be here to teach you.”
Lucy, the middle daughter, focused large brown eyes on Regina after she’d glanced into the lettuce bowl and decided against taking any. “It’s too bad you had to stop painting, Regina,” she said sadly. “Gabe got it right when he asked why the men making fancy carriages and furniture weren’t being punished for creating beautiful things when you were—”
“Enough of this talk about artwork!” Uncle Clarence declared sternly. He frowned at his daughters and then at Regina. “You see how it’s been around here, niece? Your secrets have inspired a lot of dangerously wayward discussions amongst the girls—and their impressionable friends. I certainly hope you’ll steer these three toward more proper thoughts and pastimes once you’re living here.”
Regina sighed inwardly. Because of her separated position, she was the last to receive the bowl of wilted lettuce—leaf lettuce from the garden, with chunks of bacon and green onion, dressed in bacon grease that had been boiled with vinegar and sugar. The lettuce that remained had drowned in a pool of dressing, appearing as limp and soggy as she felt.
How could she respond to her uncle’s remark? It seemed anything she said provoked Preacher Clarence to spout criticism and warnings about setting a faultless example for her young cousins.
The girls and Aunt Cora knew better than to test Clarence’s mood any further, so the meal was fraught with tension. Regina gazed longingly at the window above the kitchen sink, but she knew better than to ask if she could open it. Uncle Clarence was a hog farmer, and on this humid July day—or any day, for that matter—Aunt Cora kept all the windows closed so the odor from the hog lot didn’t permeate the house.
It was one more reason Regina didn’t want to move into this home. Her little house, with windows to open on both levels, usually had a nice breeze passing through it. She willed herself to tolerate the rest of her visit, holding her emotions in check until she’d be able to step out into the open air—even if it did smell like hog manure.
After she and her aunt and the girls had washed the dishes, Cora said, “Come into your room, Regina. Tell me what I can do to make your stay more comfortable.”
It was a nice idea, but when her aunt led her into the room near the back stairs, Regina felt hopelessly overwhelmed. Make this sad little room twice as big and paint the walls something other than pale gray weren’t requests she could make. Why wouldn’t she be staying in the guest room upstairs, as she’d anticipated?
“It’ll be cramped quarters compared to what you’re used to,” her aunt remarked as they stood between the twin bed and the small dresser that nearly filled the space. “But on the bright side, you won’t need anything other than what you can carry in a suitcase.”
Regina wanted to scream. She understood why Emma had a small room to herself and Linda and Lucy shared a larger one—and there was nothing wrong with Aunt Cora converting the spare bedroom into a sewing room. Regina knew better than to ask if the sewing machine deserved a more desirable space than she did, however.
“When do you think you’ll be moving in, Regina?” Regina heard an undertone of anxiety in Aunt Cora’s question. Neither of them was looking forward to the change in their living situation that Uncle Clarence was forcing upon them, but what could she say? If I promise I’ve given away all of my paints and supplies forever—if I sincerely apologize for the lies I told—can we call off this horrible relocation?
Uncle Clarence would hear her lament through the thin walls, however. He would consider her ungrateful if she said a word against the space he was providing her.
“I don’t know,” Regina replied. “I still have a lot of packing to do, and I haven’t heard when the couple who’ve bought my house will move in.”
Somehow she survived until two o’clock, when she excused herself to visit Martin in the hospital. As Regina drove her buggy along the county highway, she fought tears. If a passerby asked, she would claim it was the stench from the hogs rather than self-pity making her eyes water. It was senseless to cry, because she had no control over the situation.
But how could she find any sort of silver lining to this dark cloud? It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing her only remaining family in Morning Star was taking her in as their duty rather than because they loved her.
* * *
The hands of the waiting room clock were stuck in place—or so it seemed as Gabe sat with his mother and sisters while Dat was in the operating room on Monday. He couldn’t focus on yet another old magazine, and he couldn’t drink any more of the coffee that reminded him of weak motor oil, so he headed down the hall to the restroom. After a sleepless night plagued by worries, he felt keyed-up and frayed around the edges.
Again and again, it came back to him: If you’d talked to Bishop Jeremiah first instead of spouting off your spur-of-the-moment confession, none of this would’ve happened. If you’d kept your guitar and piano playing to yourself, the church leaders would be none the wiser and Dat would be happy and healthy.
After he used the toilet, Gabe splashed water on his face at the sink. He’d tried praying while staring at his ceiling in the night, and while looking at a magazine and not really seeing it, but God had given him no peace or reassurance. He’d promised God that if Dat came through his heart surgery alive, he’d take his guitar to the thrift shop on the way home from the hospital, so Mamm and his sisters could witness his repentance—even though he sensed the Lord didn’t play such petty games.
How do you know God’s even listening, or that He cares what happens to you? What if you give up the music you love and Dat dies anyway? Then where will you be?
As Gabe blotted his face with a paper towel, his hands stilled. The man in the mirror appeared agitated and at his wit’s end, not at peace with a Jesus who’d promised to be with him always.
If God allowed Jesus to die, why would He keep your dat alive? Why would He listen to the pleas of a sinner like you, Gabriel Flaud?
The breath he’d been holding left him in a rush. He couldn’t look away from his reflection, from the green eyes so like his father’s. Suddenly Gabe sensed he was at a crossroads and that he couldn’t leave the restroom—couldn’t rejoin his family—until God gave him an answer. It was an absurd idea, to think that a mirror in a public bathroom would reveal any deeper truth than he’d received during his sleepless night of entreating God’s mercy—
It’s not about you, man. Get over yourself.
His startled cry, mixed with a humorless laugh, echoed in the tiled restroom. This voice, so much more controlled and commanding, rang with a sense of purpose Gabe couldn’t ignore. Who had spoken to him? As he continued gazing into the mirror, the words repeated in his mind . . . and as they sank in, he realized he’d been given a wake-up call.
With his father lying down the hall, cut open and totally at the mercy of the surgeon—and God Himself—this day was not about his tribulations or the deals he’d tried to make with Jesus. The ultimate issue was about Dat and about how important it was for him to pull through. All the worrying about what would happen if he didn’t survive the surgery was worthless. And Gabe’s whining about I should’ve and If only I’d done were even more useless.
It’s not about you, man. Get over yourself.
Gabe’s shoulders relaxed. His muscles loosened as he reconsidered the words that had brought his self-centered thinking to a halt. He needed to be the man of the family, to carry on while his father was laid up so Mamm wouldn’t worry about their income—and so Dat would believe he’d made the right choice when he’d named Gabe as the foreman of Flaud Furniture.
It was no longer about keeping his distance or about giving up his guitar. It was about being there for his parents and his sisters—and his employees. And Red. He wanted to be there for her, too. It seemed she had a better handle on this repentance thing than he did. Perhaps he should take a few lessons from her, wise woman that she was.
After he composed himself for a few more moments, Gabe left the restroom. He fetched some real coffee from the cafeteria for his mother, along with soft drinks for his sisters. He asked God to guide the surgeon’s skilled hands. Mostly, though, he held his mother’s hand as he sat beside her, and he patiently paid attention to Lorena and Kate’s questions about the mysteries—and miracles—that occurred behind the hospital’s closed doors.
“It’s best if we believe the doctors know what they’re doing, and that God stands beside them in the operating room,” he remarked softly. “If we shut down emotionally because we’re afraid, we’re not living our faith, ain’t so? I don’t know the answers to your questions, girls, but God does. That’s all we really need to know.”
When a surgeon in blue scrubs came through the doors a short while later, Gabe’s pulse pounded. Was this their Dr. Bosworth? He looked so different with a blue shower cap covering his hair. As the man approached the Flaud family, tugging off his head covering and mask, he flashed them a smile.
“Martin came through the procedure like a trooper, folks,” Dr. Bosworth said. “He’ll be recovering in intensive care while we keep him under observation, so this might be a good time to get something to eat or go for a walk to stretch your legs. He won’t be awake for another hour or so, most likely—but he did very well.”
“He’s a tough old bird,” Mamm quipped with a nervous laugh.
“Oh, but it’s gut to hear you say these things,” Gabe said as he rose to shake the surgeon’s hand. “We can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done to bring him through.”
“I suspect your prayers played a big part in it,” Dr. Bosworth said matter-of-factly. “God’ll watch over you all as we monitor Martin’s progress for a few days before we send him home.”
After he gave them more information about what to expect during Dat’s recovery, the surgeon strode down the hall as though life-and-death heart surgery was an everyday event for him. Kate and Lorena stood up, stretching, with hopeful expressions.
“Let’s go to the cafeteria,” Kate suggested eagerly.
“Jah, I want to try that dark chocolate pudding I saw in the dessert section yesterday,” Lorena put in.
Their mother sighed wearily. “I’m not all that hungry, but I suppose it would be a different place to wait while your dat comes around,” she replied as she, too, rose from her chair.
Gabe reached for his wallet and handed Mamm some money. “You go on down there,” he suggested quickly. “I’ve got some questions I want to ask a nurse. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Before his mother could quiz him, he took off down the hallway. He wasn’t even sure where he was going, except he had to move—and he had to see with his own eyes that Dat was still alive and breathing. Over the past several hours, Gabe had come to realize just how much life as his family knew it depended upon the health and well-being of Martin Flaud.
He saw the hand of God at work when another fellow in scrubs came through some double doors wheeling Dat toward a room. Gabe followed a short distance behind the rolling bed. He gave the hospital worker a chance to get Dat into a small room with all the monitors and tubes rearranged to his liking, and as soon as the man left, Gabe slipped in. With all its observation windows, this room didn’t seem as intimidating as the room he’d been in before—and Gabe figured he didn’t have much time to waste on being nervous before a nurse realized he was in the room without permission.
He stepped over to the bedside. Dat was still pale and unconscious, his features slack, but this time Gabe didn’t let his father’s appearance spook him. He wrapped his hand around his father’s, careful not to disturb the needle and tube taped to his wrist.
“I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble, Dat,” he said beneath the subdued clicks and beeps of the medical machinery. “I’ve been a pain in the butt, when I should’ve been more helpful and less concerned about keeping my music a secret. I was concerned only about my own wishes, when I should’ve been watching out for you.”
His father stirred a bit, but he remained unconscious.
Gabe gazed at the man he’d idolized all his life, more aware of the deep lines and shadows life had sketched upon the face that had determined his own appearance. “I’m giving up my guitar for gut now—taking it to the thrift store today,” he began again. “And it’s all right—because we have lots more music to make with our voices, ain’t so, Dat? We’ll sing again soon, won’t we?”
His father’s bandaged chest rose and fell steadily.
For good measure—and so God couldn’t help but hear him—Gabe repeated the words that were easier to say when Dat couldn’t rebuke him.
“I’m sorry I put you through so much trouble, Dat,” he said earnestly. “You deserve better from me, and if—when—you get out of here, I’ll try not to upset you anymore.”
His father’s lips parted very slowly. “We’re . . . not finished irritating . . . each other, son,” he wheezed.
Gabe stared at his father’s face. Had he heard the words, or imagined them because he so badly wanted to know his dat was in there and fully alive?
One eye opened, barely. “Lemme sleep . . . willya? We’ll talk . . . later.”
His pulse thumped into overdrive as he gently grasped his father’s arm. “I’m holding you to that, Dat,” he whispered urgently. “Do what the nurses tell you, and we’ll be here when you come around.”
Dat moaned softly, turning his face away. For a blessed moment, Gabe caught a hint of a smile.
When he turned to leave, a nurse was watching him from the doorway—but rather than scolding him, she smiled compassionately. Gabe was too ecstatic to speak to her. All the way down the hall, he wanted to bounce and sing and rejoice because his father had heard and understood him—
Or had Dat been floating so high on anesthesia, he wasn’t aware of what he was saying? Was it just luck that Gabe had heard a promise that their father-son quibbling would continue?
It didn’t matter. God had answered his prayers.
As he headed to the cafeteria, Gabe pondered the day’s blessings. He still had misgivings about Old Order rules and regulations, but he believed with all his heart that God had brought his father safely through his surgery—and that He’d cared enough to give Gabe a wake-up call as he’d looked in that mirror.
On the way home from the hospital, he made a detour.
“Why are we stopping at the thrift store?” Lorena asked when he drove the buggy near the donation drop-off box. “It’s too late to shop!”
Gabe winked at his mother. His nerves were a-jitter as he went around to his toolbox. Deep down, he still wished there was a way to continue playing his beloved guitar. But God had done him a huge favor, so it was only right to follow through with the promise he’d made during his confession.
As he removed his guitar from its compartment, Gabe’s soul sighed sadly. “Find a home for this, Lord,” he murmured as he gently positioned the instrument inside the drop-off box. “Help this guitar bless somebody else’s life the way it’s blessed mine.”