By Saturday Joanna couldn’t stand it anymore. She’d spent the past couple of days trying to figure out how to reach out to Andrew, praying that God would show her what to do. She still didn’t have a clear idea. However, she knew her prayers weren’t in vain. Although she was still confused about making things right with Andrew, the rest of her life was moving more smoothly. She didn’t need the crutches anymore. She was finding joy in cooking and baking again. She had even worked one day in the store. Not for very long and she hadn’t done much, but it was good to do something different. When she caught a young Englisch girl staring, she assumed it was because of her dress and kapp and not her face. It was the first time she hadn’t been self-conscious about the scar.
“You seem to be feeling better,” Sadie had said when Joanna helped her close the store that night.
“I am.” She smiled, and this time it wasn’t for the benefit of her sister or because she was trying to convince anyone she was okay. She really was okay. She still grieved her parents, and she and her sisters had a couple of crying sessions together as they talked about the memories. But overall she was in a much better place than she had been for months. The only thing missing was Andrew. And with each passing day the hole his absence left in her heart grew.
During breakfast that morning Joanna had said, “I’d like to move to my bedroom upstairs.”
Sadie sprinkled cinnamon sugar on a piece of freshly buttered bread. “Are you sure? You can stay downstairs as long as you want.”
Joanna shook her head. “I don’t have trouble with the stairs anymore. I want to be in mei old room.”
After breakfast, Aden and her sisters helped Joanna move her belongings back to her bedroom, Homer trailing behind. When they left she sat down on the edge of the bed. Being in the room gave her a sense of normalcy. She looked at the light pink curtains covering the window, then shifted her gaze to her bureau. She smiled. It was good to be truly home.
She patted Homer on the head and stood. It was time to prepare lunch for Sadie, Abigail, and Aden, who was outside splitting firewood. The nights had turned cold, and they used the woodstove in the living room every evening now. Soon it would be November. Her heart grew heavy. They would be facing the upcoming holidays without their parents.
Joanna left her room and started to head for the stairs, but she paused. She stared at the door of her parents’ bedroom. She hadn’t been in the room except the day she had returned from Middlefield. With her heart and mind filled with memories and grief, she went to the door, held her breath, and opened it. The room had remained untouched since Joanna’s return. It was also stuffy. Clearly Sadie and Abigail hadn’t been in here either. She opened the window to let in the cold, fresh air. She turned and saw a box on the floor. She and Abigail had looked through the contents right after Joanna had come home. She crossed the room and sat on the floor. A dull pain twinged in her hips, but she ignored it. She opened the box and went through the contents again.
She pulled out a half-knitted sock. A ball of yarn and knitting needles. She had already taken the cookbook that had been in the box and had used some of the recipes. As she dug through scraps of fabric, another set of knitting needles, and several spools of thread, she saw a small stack of recipe cards held together with a rubber band. At the top of the first one was written “Matthew’s Favorites.”
Tears brimmed as she read through the cards. Some of the corners were bent and food
spots and splashes were on all of them. She also saw small notes written in tiny
letters next to the recipes.
Coleslaw: use less vinegar next time
Sugar cookies: need to bake longer
Chicken and noodles: he loved this. Will make more often.
Ever since Joanna could remember, her mother would make chicken and noodles every week. She hadn’t thought about it until now, but her father’s eyes had always lit up when she put a heaping serving on his plate. As she looked through the rest of the recipes, she realized why they were in the box and not in the kitchen. Her mother had made them often enough that she didn’t need the cards anymore. Yet she had kept them.
Memories washed over her. Her parents weren’t demonstrative with their affection in front of her, Sadie, and Abigail. But they showed their love to each other in other ways. Mamm made Daed’s favorite foods. Daed always brought her a mug of hot tea in the evenings. They had probably done dozens of things Joanna never noticed.
How had she shown Andrew her love since she’d been back to Middlefield? She hadn’t. Even agreeing to marry him hadn’t been out of love but out of fear she would be alone. In her heart she had accused Andrew of rushing the wedding out of guilt or pity. But her motives for marriage hadn’t been pure, either. In fact, they had been even more selfish.
She put everything back in the box, giving the recipe cards one last look. “You were right, Mamm,” she whispered. “I wasn’t ready to marry Andrew. But I am now.”
By Saturday Andrew was finally able to put in a full day’s work, but that didn’t give him any satisfaction. About mid-afternoon his throat had become scratchy, and as he pulled into his driveway he started to cough. He’d avoided his mother and sister, this time for reasons other than he didn’t want to talk about his failed wedding. He’d spent the nights alone in the addition, trying to puzzle out what to do about Joanna and the letter. Eventually he gave up trying to figure it out. He was tired. Exhausted, actually. When he arrived home from his last job of the day, he decided he’d ignored his family enough. He was also done with sleeping on the couch, having been unable to bring himself to sleep in the bedroom in the addition.
After stabling Fred he went into the house, expecting supper. He found a note from Irene instead:
We went to visit Rhoda Troyer for the afternoon. Will be back in time for supper.
He glanced at the clock. It was past suppertime, but he didn’t care. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d fended for himself. But he wasn’t really hungry. He coughed again and got a glass of water. Although he wanted to turn in early, he knew he’d probably lie awake and think of Joanna and his father for hours until he’d fall asleep. He set the glass down on the counter and went outside.
The sun was halfway past the horizon and nearly obscured by clouds. He hadn’t taken his jacket off, but he was still cold. The wind had been brutal today but had died down in the past hour. He looked at the addition again. He promised himself he would dismantle it after work on Monday. He coughed again and was about to go inside when he noticed a couple of shingles on the ground. Great. Even though he was taking the structure apart, he couldn’t leave the roof exposed with the threat of rain. He picked up the shingles, collected his tool belt and a ladder from the barn, and went back to the addition. He leaned the ladder against the house. As he climbed the first couple of steps, fatigue dogged at him. As soon as he secured the shingles, he would go back inside and straight to bed—insomnia or no.
He had a longer coughing fit when he reached the top of the roof. Drops of rain hit his back as he bent to nail down one of the shingles. He glanced up as he heard a buggy coming down the driveway. Expecting it to be his mother and Irene, he started on another shingle. But instead of their buggy stopping close to the barn, it stopped beside the addition. He looked up as he brought the hammer down and saw Joanna getting out of the buggy. The head of the hammer smashed the back of his hand. He yelped as he dropped the hammer and grabbed his hand in pain.
“Andrew?” She looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the rain that was coming down harder now. “What are you doing up there?”
“Trying to fix the roof,” he ground out.
“In the rain?”
His hand throbbed, his throat was on fire, and he was getting wet. To top it off, he started to cough.
“Are you sick?” she asked. She was getting wet, too, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Nee.” It felt like he was swallowing razor blades. “What do you want, Joanna?”
“To see you.”
He started to shiver. “Th-there’s n-othing more to s-ay.”
“Andrew, please come inside. We both need to get out of the rain.”
“I have to fix these shingles.” If they had a heavy rain and the roof was exposed, it would lead to a bigger problem and possibly a leak. “Then I’ll be inside.”
“All right. I’ll meet you there.”
He thought she was going to go to the main house. But she took a large basket out of her buggy and went into the addition. As if she lived here. He gave his head a shake, coughed again, then finished nailing the other three shingles in place. By the time he was done, rain was dripping from the brim of his hat and he was soaked even through his coat. He carefully made his way down the ladder. He saw that Joanna’s horse wasn’t attached to the buggy. At some point she must have put her horse in his barn. He opened the door and walked into the addition, gripping his wet coat to his chest.
When he walked inside, he noticed the gas lamp was on in the living room. He slipped off his work boots and shivered again. Joanna was putting out food on the second-hand coffee table he’d picked up at a yard sale on his way home from work three days before the wedding. The array of food was odd—some kind of stuffed bread, red-skinned potato salad, macaroni salad, peanut butter cookies, peanut brittle, and a jar of peanuts. When she pulled out a two-liter of his favorite soft drink, he walked over to her. “What are you doing?” he asked, crossing his arms in more of an effort to warm up than be defensive.
“Making you a picnic.” She gestured to the food on the table. “I brought yer favorites.”
They were. On closer inspection he saw that the stuffed bread was actually a big pepperoni roll, which he loved. The macaroni salad had tuna in it, another favorite. And he never turned down peanuts or anything peanut-flavored.
“I hope you don’t mind that I stabled my horse. I didn’t know how long the rain would last.”
“Joanna—”
“I’ll geh in the kitchen and get some cups. Irene and yer mamm can join us if they want to. I made plenty.”
And she had, more than two people could eat, especially someone like Joanna who didn’t each much in the first place. “They’re not here,” he said, then coughed again, more violently than before.
She frowned, moved around the table, and went to him. “I thought you said you weren’t sick.” She put the back of her hand on his forehead. “Andrew, you feel hot.”
“I’m fine. You can geh back home.” His head started to pound. When she tried to remove his jacket, he resisted. “I can do it,” he said, shrugging out of the coat.
“I know,” she said softly, looking directly in his eyes. “But let me help you. It’s mei turn to show you how I feel,” she added in a whisper.
He wasn’t sure what she was talking about, and at that moment he didn’t care. His body shook uncontrollably as she took his wet coat. She disappeared into what was supposed to be their bedroom, then came out carrying the quilt that had been on the bed. She wrapped it around him. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
As if he could go anywhere. He could barely remain upright. Whatever bug he had, it was hitting him hard and fast. He was grateful for the warmth of the quilt.
When he thought he’d have to sit down, she came into the room carrying a shirt and pants. “You need to get out of yer wet clothes.” She laid the dry clothes on a nearby chair, removed the quilt from his shoulders, and turned around. “Let me know when you’re dressed again.”
The situation would have struck him as bizarre if he hadn’t felt so bad. He took off his wet clothes and put on the dry ones. His bare feet were pressed against the cold wood floor and his teeth started to chatter. “I-I’m d-done.”
She led him to the couch, and he lay down, closing his eyes. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he was too hot and cold and sore all over.
“Drink some of this.”
He opened his eyes. Joanna was seated at the edge of the couch, holding a mug, steam rising from the top. “I don’t want kaffee,” he said, wondering how she managed to make it so fast. He also felt warmth from the small woodstove in the corner of the room. She’d started a fire too?
“It’s not kaffee. It’s tea. I found some feverfew in yer mamm’s kitchen. It will help.”
Andrew took a few sips and lay down. He closed his eyes and a few moments later Joanna nudged him again.
“You need to drink all of it.”
He didn’t have the strength to argue with her. When he finished the tea, he fell back on the couch. It was only then that he noticed she had brought him a pillow from his bed. Their bed.
“Why are you here?” he said in a raspy voice.
“Because I want to be.” Her fingertips brushed against his forehead.
His eyes drifted closed. Only when he was on the brink of sleep did he realize she didn’t have her crutches.
Cameron had driven halfway through West Virginia when he’d panicked. West Virginia wasn’t far enough. He kept driving through West Virginia, Virginia, and then Tennessee, stopping only to take care of Lacy. When he was near Chattanooga, she started to fuss. He pulled over at a rest stop and tried to feed her, but she refused her bottle. The last two feedings she had only eaten a couple of ounces. Now she didn’t want any of it. He’d checked her diaper, but it was dry. When he reached back to feel her tiny hand, it was hot. He stopped at a drugstore right before closing, bought a thermometer and pain and fever reliever, then checked in to another cheap motel. Despite giving her the medicine, her fever had climbed to 105. How could she have gotten so sick so fast?
Soon he knew he couldn’t wait any longer—he had to take her to the emergency room. He called the front office to save on cell phone minutes. The woman who answered the phone gave him directions to the local hospital. He put Lacy in the truck and rushed her there.
Lacy had grown still and quiet when he arrived, and her skin was taut and hot. So very hot. He picked up her carry seat and ran into the ER. “My baby is sick,” he exclaimed. “She’s got a high fever—”
The woman behind the glass windows opened it. “Can I help you?” she said, her voice irritatingly calm.
“My baby,” he struggled to catch his breath. “She’s got a high fever, and everything I’ve tried isn’t working.”
“Just a moment.” She closed the glass, and Cameron wanted to put his fist through it and shake her. Just as he was about to yell out in frustration, she opened the window again. “Bring her back. A nurse will take her while I get your information.”
“Thank God.” The doors opened and he went inside. A nurse in white scrubs took the baby from him. “What was her temperature?”
“A hundred five an hour ago.”
“And how old is she?”
“Two months.”
“I’ll take her to a room.” He started to follow, but she held him back. “You need to give your information to the front desk. Then you can come back.”
“I’m not leaving my daughter.”
“I can come get the information,” the woman behind the counter said. She lowered her voice. “She’s new to this ER. She doesn’t know the procedure yet.”
Just what he needed, a newbie nurse. He calmed himself and nodded to the clerk, then went to the room, where the nurse was already taking Lacy’s temperature. “It’s 105,” she said, with no emotion in her voice.
“Like I said,” he mumbled.
“How long has she been ill?”
“A few hours. It came on really quick.”
“Is she taking her bottle?”
“Not really.”
“What about her diapers? Has she had several wet ones today?”
He shook his head.
“I’ll have to get an IV started.” She went to a cabinet as Cameron stood by Lacy.
“An IV?”
“She’s dehydrated.” She put on gloves and got out her supplies. “You’re her father, right?”
“Yes.”
“It won’t take me long to get the fluids going. By that time the doctor will be here.” She looked at him. “Sorry to give you a hard time earlier.”
“It’s okay.” But he wasn’t focused on her. He was focused on Lacy.
“Is there anyone else you need to call?” the nurse asked as she hung a bottle of clear fluid on a hook.
“No. It’s just me and Lacy.”
She arched a brow but didn’t say anything.
Cameron watched, pain lashing through him as his daughter cried during the IV procedure. Just being at the hospital brought back memories of Mackenzie, but he squashed those as he focused on his daughter. Lacy settled down as Cameron stroked her fevered brow.
The clerk came into the room with a computer on a rolling stand. The nurse checked the IV again. “The doctor should be here any minute.” Then she left.
The clerk started typing. “What’s the patient’s name?”
“Lacy Crawford.”
She asked a few more questions about Lacy’s vitals, then said, “I’ll need your insurance card.”
“I . . . I don’t have one.”
She looked at him for a moment, still tapping on the keyboard. “Then you’ll be responsible for the bill yourself?”
“Yes.” He pushed back the loose strands of his long hair.
“I’ll need to get a copy of your driver’s license.”
“Why?”
“I need a form of identification.”
He paused, and he could feel the eyes of the clerk on him. He dug out his wallet and handed her his license. She put the information into her computer. “I’ll make a copy of this and bring it back to you.”
He looked at Lacy again, who was now drifting off to sleep. He touched her forehead, which was still burning hot. “Where’s the doctor?” he asked, his tone harsh.
“He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
The clerk left. Cameron stared down at Lacy, his eyes taking in the large bandage that covered her tiny hand where the nurse had inserted the IV. He wiped at his eyes. Would he lose Lacy in a hospital, the same way he’d lost Mackenzie? He thought about Irene and her prayers. He could use them now. Why couldn’t he catch one break? He was nearly broke—he had no idea how he would pay for a hospital bill. And he’d handed over his ID to the clerk, who was probably putting it in some kind of computer system hooked up to emergency services. Eventually he’d be found by police. He knew it deep in his gut. The end of the line was here.
Lacy’s eyes opened. They looked glassy and vulnerable. His heart swelled with love for his little girl. But what kind of life was he giving her? She had her first real illness and she was in the hospital, dangerously sick. He’d always be looking over his shoulder, thinking the police would pick him up any minute. He was failing her as a father.
He pulled over a chair and sat down, leaning his head against the carrier, where she was still safely tucked in. His eyes flooded with tears. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered. “All I wanted was for you to have a better life than your mother and I did.” He closed his eyes, tears dripping down his cheeks. “Hey, uh, God.” He cleared his throat. He had no idea how to pray or what to say. “You know I don’t do this,” he said quietly. “I don’t pray or ask for favors or whatever this is.” He opened his eyes and looked at his baby girl again. “Lacy’s all I have. I can’t lose her. And I can’t give her the life she deserves. If she survives this, for her sake I’ll do the right thing. I promise. I don’t care what happens to me. I just want her to live.”