“THEY ATE IT ALL,” GRANDMOTHER ZOOK SAID, satisfaction lacing her tone.
“I should say so.” Fern smiled from where she wiped plates at the sink. “I’ll have to make a new batch for the prayer group tomorrow.”
“Ya . . . and the windows look nice. I took a walk round while you and Abram were talking. He seemed real interested in those window frames.”
Fern stifled a frown. It was true that Abram had not been content with her answer to his question about the windows earlier. She had put him off by concentrating on the children. And she was surprised that the subject of the silly windows had still pained her to embarrassed tears.
“Mammi . . . you know that we never talk about those foolish pieces of glass and that time in my life.”
“Did you tell Abram?” the old woman asked, a gentle persistence playing about her lips.
“Nee . . . there’s nothing to tell.”
“Tell him sometime.”
“Mammi . . . please.”
“Suit yourself. I’m going to have a bit of a lie-down. Mind that you take that tincture of stinging nettles over to Tabitha Yoder if you’re out walking today. She told me Sunday that her sinuses were really acting up.”
Fern didn’t care at the moment about the Widow Yoder’s sinuses. “You’re going to rest? Why? I know you’re not feeling well, and I think we should see Dr. Knepp. I’ll bring the buggy round.”
Her grandmother smiled and held up a protesting hand. “Deborah Zook . . . you’re forgetting one of the first lessons I taught you. Can you name it?”
Fern frowned. “Listen to the patient,” she mumbled.
“Correct. I’m saying that I am fine, so what do you do?”
“Hound the patient until she admits her problem?” Fern put her arms around her grandmother, and they laughed together.
“Not quite what I’ve taught you, but I’ll settle for that nap.”
“Fine, but when I get back, if you’re not feeling well . . . Ach, all right. Have a nice rest.”
Fern watched the beloved bent figure as she left the room and then turned back to her baking with a heavy heart.
“Now I want you kids to be gut for Emma, you hear?” Abram called over his shoulder to the crowded wagon behind him. The dutiful chorus of ya’s did little to soothe his mind or his conscience.
Although Joe had insisted that the kinner come over and help Emma with some cleaning to give Abram a breather, he still didn’t feel quite right about ditching the kids so that he could go off in search of advice about women from his other gut friend, the Widow Tabitha Yoder. Yet he had to find some way to get his addled head straight again, especially after watching Fern laughingly take bites of the moist gingerbread, licking her lips with the small pink tip of her tongue and . . .
“Abram!” Matthew called. “We’re here.”
He hauled on the reins as he realized that he’d nearly passed Joe and Emma’s small but neat home. Emma came outside on the front porch, and he forced a smile to his lips as he hopped down, trying not to look at the ponderous protrusion of her abdomen. Maybe having the kids help her wasn’t such a gut idea after all, but she smiled in greeting, looking capable and happy as Mary scrambled from the wagon to run to her side.
“Got your hands full of blessings, Abram?” Emma asked in her soft, shy voice.
“Ya, and you too. Are you sure it’s not too much with your two kinner? This passel can be more of a hindrance than a help at times.”
Emma shook her head. “The midwife said it was good for me to be active. And if they can give a bit of a hand with some dusting and such, I’d be grateful. And you can go have a bit of spare time to breathe.”
The screen door eased open behind Emma, and Little Joe toddled out to grab hold of his mamm’s dress.
“Uh . . . he’s gettin’ big,” Abram offered, still a bit uncomfortable with the size of Emma’s belly.
“I know, and Rosemary is too. I think she favors Joe. She’s down for a nap now. Anyway, come on, children. I’ll give you each a job to do!”
Abram lifted John out of the wagon and caught a brief hold on Mark’s shirt. “Behave.” He bent to hiss in his bruder’s ear, then ruffled his hair with affection.
The whole brood disappeared into the house, and Emma waved good-bye. Abram waved back, then climbed into the wagon, his jaw set with determination.
Fern stepped into the lush herb garden adjacent to the back kitchen door. She let her fingers trail with delight over the leaves and flowers: echinacea, licorice, milk thistle, valerian, and so many more that she knew by touch and smell. She prayed as she walked; as far back as she could remember, growing things in God’s creation and the work she did in her grandmother’s kitchen were as linked with praise as anything else she could imagine.
Dear Lord, she prayed, how amazing it is that when You rose from the dead, Mary recognized You as the gardener of the place. Ach, how true it is that You like to garden our souls. You’ve called us Your “field,” and I pray that You would continue to do a great work in the garden of my mammi’s life. Give her strength; bless her health . . . And, Gott, please, for Abram Fisher, help him with this task of taking care of things. Maybe let him be more willing to accept help, and guide my thoughts in regard to this man. Amen.