SATURDAYS WERE ALWAYS BUSY AT THE ZOOK HOUSE, because everything needed to be done by one thirty so that Fern and her grandmother could get to Our Daily Bread in time for their weekly hour of prayer. This Saturday was no exception, with two callers needing medicinal help. The first was Esther King with her nine-month-old daughter, Abby. Fern glanced at her grandmother before she even opened the door to the telltale wailing of the child.
“Teething,” she murmured.
Esther was a first-time mother and a bit nervous; Fern sought to reassure her once she’d taken a peek inside the baby’s mouth and saw the reddened gums.
“She’s teething, Esther. A bit frustrating for you, I know, but there are several things we can do to help. First”—Fern accepted a bottle of diluted oil of cloves from her grandmother— “this will act as a numbing agent. Second, and perhaps even better . . . celery.”
“Celery?” Esther repeated blankly.
Fern went to the deep freezer and pulled out a plastic bag full of large pieces of celery. She opened it and brought a chunk of the frozen vegetable to Abby. She put it in the baby’s mouth and rubbed it gently against the sore gums. Almost like magic, Abby stopped her crying.
“A frozen carrot will do too, but some think there’s actually an enzyme in the celery that helps the gums.”
The women basked in the sound of silence as Abby gnawed cheerfully on the celery.
“Just make sure it’s a big enough piece that she can’t get it all in her mouth and choke,” Fern said.
“Ach, it’s such a relief to see her not in pain.” Esther smiled, then shyly offered a plastic bag to Fern. “Crocheted washcloths. I thought you could use a few extra.”
Fern looked in the bag at the deep, pretty colors and gave an exclamation of delight. “Danki, Esther. They’re beautiful.”
Fern saw mother and daughter out and returned to wrapping the gingerbread for the prayer time when someone knocked heavily on the door. For a heart-stopping moment she thought it might be Abram, but then she pushed the thought aside. She opened the door with a firm look, only to gasp in horror at the sight of James “Lanky” Miller bleeding all over her doorstep. He was holding a can, and when she realized the blood was coming from his big hand, Fern had a numbing premonition of what might be inside.
“Cut my finger off, girlie. It’s right here.” He thrust the can toward her and she took it automatically, smelling the kerosene he must have used to soak the finger in.
“Uh, Lanky, you’ve got to get to Dr. Knepp. We can’t—”
“Doc’s not home; his missus neither. It’s you or nuthin’.”
Fern swallowed and glanced down at the swimming finger. “Nee, it’s the hospital for you, but I’ll try to stop the bleeding as much as I can.”
“Hate hospitals, all them white walls . . . though I got my buwe in the buggy. Suppose he could drive me.”
“Fern, don’t try to stop the bleeding,” Mammi Zook called. “Time matters if they’ll try to get it reattached.”
“Right,” Fern agreed, extending the can back to Lanky with haste. “The hospital’s only a fifteen-minute buggy ride away. Keep tight pressure on it . . . the site of the wound, I mean.”
The man tipped his hat and turned, sloshing kerosene out onto the porch as he went. Fern closed the door, wishing she could have been more help. She leaned back against the door and muttered a quick prayer for Lanky and his finger.
Abram considered that things were going relatively well. The children, for once, were quietly engaged in their kitchen work, and he was on his hands and knees finishing scrubbing the hardwood floor with pine oil soap. He was working out in his head what he’d say to Fern and how exactly he’d accomplish it with a wagon full of kids and her grandmother present. But he was determined.
Mary was picking up crayons around the corner, and Abram had just about reached her with his scrub brush when he caught sight of a small black creature peering at him from between the little girl’s shoes. He closed his eyes for a second, telling himself he was imagining the appearance of Moldy, when Mary saw the apparition too. She screamed and teetered backward, sending the mole running and upsetting the scrub bucket.
He rose with Mary in his arms. “Luke, we’ve sighted your mole.”
“Let’s mousetrap him,” Mark said with gusto.
Luke started to wail, which tipped John off as well. “No traps! You’ll hurt him,” Luke cried.
Abram gave Mark a quelling glance as he rocked Mary to and fro. “Nee, no mousetraps. But maybe a safe trap.” He could barely hear his own voice over the noise of the two boys, and his head began to throb—definitely not a gut way to begin the process of dating.
“I’m not going to go today, Fern.”
“What?” Fern looked up from packing her Bible in a hand-sewn bag.
Mammi Zook relaxed back into a bentwood rocker in the sitting room adjacent to the kitchen. “I said I’m not going. Think I’ll have a bit of a nap instead. You’d best hurry on; you’ll be late.”
Fern went to her grandmother’s side and placed a hand on the old woman’s forehead. “Are you ill?”
“Nee, Fern. Run along with you.”
Fern bent to kiss the wrinkled, rose petal–soft cheek. “All right. I won’t be long. You rest.”
