Christmas at Promise Lodge (10 page)

Chapter Eleven

Amos groaned. His head felt like someone was hitting it with a mallet, a pain so deep and intense that he didn't want to open his eyes for fear the pounding would get worse. He tried to lie absolutely still, to recall why he would be feeling so wretched . . . to analyze the odd scent in the air and the foreign feeling of the mattress. What was that whirring noise beside his head? Why did his legs and arms feel bare? He slept in his long johns at this time of the year.

When Amos dared to touch what was attached to the top of his hand, a voice startled him.

“No no, Mr. Troyer—you're not to remove your IV again,” a man said. “You gave us quite a scare a few hours ago when you yanked it out.”

Amos frowned, which only made his head hurt worse. “Uh?”

A large, warm hand closed gently over his arm. “It's all right. You're bound to be confused, after that hit you took to your head,” the man said. “Try to relax. Your friends will be here shortly, after they've spoken to the doctor.”

Friends? Doctor?
Amos willed his heavy eyelids to open and then wished he hadn't. A blurry male figure—no, two of them—stood beside him. The ceiling was starting to make a lazy circle, and if it didn't stop, he might just throw up. Moments later he was grateful that the stranger had moved fast enough to catch the vomit before it spewed beyond the bed into whatever sort of strange room he was in.

“I'm Gary, by the way. Your nurse for this shift.”

Nurse? A guy who's a nurse?
The thought jarred Amos enough that he woke up a little more.

Amos sighed, blinking to clear his vision. On either side of him, machines clicked and displayed lit-up numbers. Where on God's earth was he? And how had he gotten here? And why did his head feel like a melon that had hit the floor and split open?

When Amos heard voices at the door, he turned his head toward them and was again sorry that he'd moved even that slight amount.

“. . . apologize for the misunderstanding at the nurses' station,” another unfamiliar male was saying. “Melody just started working here last week, and she wasn't aware of our policies that honor the religious beliefs of the Plain residents in this area. Mr. Troyer has been resting comfortably with only an IV to keep him hydrated and free of pain.”

Amos wanted to refute that part about the pain but he didn't have the energy. He blinked a few more times, trying to discern the facial features of the folks who'd just entered the room. Two men and a woman, from what he could make out.

Gary moved away from the bed, exchanging greetings with the newcomers. Next thing Amos knew, a woman who smelled clean—like the soap he used at home—was grasping his hand and leaning over him.

“Oh, Amos, it's
gut
to see your eyes open,” she said. “We've been so worried, ever since they sent us home last night even though I didn't want to leave you here amongst all these strangers and machines and—well, I'm babbling,” she admitted with a nervous laugh.

A sense of sweet relief came over Amos, even though the pain in his head threatened to overwhelm his emotions. “Mattie,” he whispered hoarsely.

“
Jah
, it's me. Truman's here, too,” she replied.

“Hey there, neighbor. Too bad you had to leave your party before we served the food,” Truman teased, grasping Amos's shoulder. “
Gut
to see you awake, Amos.”

He tried very hard, but for the life of him Amos couldn't figure out what they were talking about. “Party?” he rasped.

“
Jah
, we guys were playing volleyball before the fish fry. You went to get a Frisbee off the roof of the shed, and when the corner gave way, you fell into Floyd when he tried to catch you,” Truman explained. “You both hit the ground, and then you took a ride in an ambulance. But you might not remember any of that.”

“Nope.” Amos closed his eyes again, exhausted. It felt good to have Mattie's hand in his, so he concentrated on her presence . . . willed himself to become more cognizant so he could hold up his end of the conversation.

“Mr. Troyer, I'm Dr. Townsend,” the other fellow said as he came to the opposite side of the bed. “The scans we ran last night show that you have a concussion, which means you have some bleeding on your brain. Even though Mr. Lehman broke your fall, you hit the ground at an angle that jarred your head and your body. Nothing's broken, but you're going to be very sore for a while—and limited as to what you can do until your internal bruises heal.”

Bleeding on your brain . .
.
limited as to what you can do
. Amos exhaled, trying to rid himself of the fear the doctor's words had inspired. Surely if he rested for a few days he'd be back to work, wouldn't he? The last time he'd slipped off a roof, he'd gotten up and walked away—but then, that had been twenty years ago. When Amos squeezed Mattie's hand, she squeezed back.

“The doctor says we'll have to keep you in a dark room with the curtains shut,” she told him. “The part about not watching any screens doesn't mean a whole lot to us Plain folks, but you're to rest in total darkness while you get your strength back.”

“So don't get yourself all geared up to finish the Kurtz house, or Roman's place,” Truman continued gently. “It might be a while before you swing a hammer or climb a ladder again, Amos. And I know that'll be a real tough adjustment for you.”

Images of the large home he and the neighbor men had recently roofed, as well as the rising walls of the home he was building for Mattie's older son made Amos suck in his breath. “But—but we need to get Roman's house enclosed before it snows,” he protested. His throat was so dry he could barely speak, but this was an urgent topic, so he kept on talking. “And even if I can't climb a ladder or run the nail gun, I can surely tack on baseboard or—”

As the doctor leaned closer, Amos watched him grow a second head—and then the heads went back together into one again. “That's what Mattie told me you'd say,” he remarked kindly. “But if you don't rest in a dark room for the next several weeks, Mr. Troyer, your concussion won't heal. I'm going to set up some physical therapy sessions, to be sure your muscles get back into sync. It could easily be Christmas before you feel up to moving around much, and you might have some lingering symptoms as late as next spring.”

Amos tried to recall which page his kitchen calendar showed. He didn't want to ask what day it was, for fear they'd keep him here longer if they realized he was so disoriented. When Amos glanced away from Mattie's earnest face, he noticed the date on the bulletin board: Friday, November thirteenth. Beside the calendar was a page that said
HOW IS YOUR PAIN TODAY?
A row of circles showed various facial expressions that were numbered zero through ten, with the last one appearing nearly as miserable as Amos felt.

“Twelve,” he muttered before the circles went out of focus.

Mattie's brow puckered. “Twelve what, Amos? Twelve months in the year? Jesus's twelve disciples?”

Amos sighed, wishing this conversation were over so he could take a nap. Maybe after that he'd wake up and this nightmare would be over—or he could chase it away with hard physical labor, as he usually did. “Headache,” he muttered. “It's at a twelve.”

The doctor nodded. “I've written you prescriptions for a pain reliever and an antidepressant. Even so, you really must rest and remain in a dark room,” he repeated earnestly. “I suspect daylight will make your head hurt so badly that you'll want to stay in the dark anyway, but the inactivity is going to be difficult for a man who's used to being on the go. Your friends have assured me they'll keep an eye on you so you won't overdo it.”

Amos watched both of Mattie's heads nod solemnly.

“I'll let Gary remove your IV now, Mr. Troyer,” the doctor went on in a more chipper voice. “You can go home as soon as you feel like getting dressed.” He signed a couple of forms and handed them to Mattie before he left.

Mattie released Amos's hand to make room for the nurse on that side of the bed. “We'll be right here when you're ready to get up, Amos,” she assured him. “Somebody's supposed to stay with you for a while, to help you when you want to walk a bit or go to the bathroom. We can't have you falling and making your head injury worse.”

Help him to the bathroom? Was Mattie out of her mind, thinking he'd allow her to hang around while he was on the toilet?

Amos winced when the nurse removed the tape that held the IV contraption to his hand. Looking at the purple bruise that had spread up past his wrist made him feel woozy, so he gulped air and looked away.
I will not throw up . . . I will not throw up. Can't have Mattie thinking I'm an invalid.

But then, what would Mattie and the rest of them at Promise Lodge think about him holing up at home like a mole? Maybe he'd humor her for a day or two, but then it was back to business as usual. He had houses to build . . . leaves to rake . . .

Mattie reached for his hand. “Shall I call your kids and let them know—”

“No!” Amos blurted. “They're so far away, and they have their own lives and families to look after.” Truth was, he didn't want his daughters and his son to see him in this condition—not that they'd be inclined to travel all the way to Missouri now that their mother was gone.

When Mattie left the room so he could get dressed, Amos got another jolt: his legs weren't moving the way they were supposed to. Was this part of the problem the doctor had mentioned, with his muscles being out of kilter? He kept quiet, allowing Truman and Gary to help him into his clothes as he sat on the bed, but worry prodded him to speak up when a lady on the hospital staff showed up with a wheelchair.

“My legs feel like pieces of baked chicken with the bones taken out,” he murmured as Truman slipped an arm around his shoulders to help him stand up. “What if my muscles don't get their strength back? What if my head doesn't stop hurting and—”

“Amos!
Gut
to see you dressed so we can get out of here,” Bishop Floyd exclaimed as he entered the room. “After the way these people knocked me unconscious—and then who knows what they did to me?—I'm not spending another minute in this place. And neither are you!” he insisted. “God's our doctor and we're going home to heal.”

Floyd didn't look very steady on his feet. Amos saw Frances in the hallway, a flustered expression on her face as she talked to Mattie. His head began throbbing so hard he couldn't see straight, so he had no energy to protest. When the aide brought the wheelchair over, Truman helped Amos back up to it. He landed in the seat with a grimace and a groan.

“
Jah
, let's go,” Amos said in a shaky voice. He hated it that Mattie saw him looking so weak and out of control, just as he sensed that frustration and pain might be his companions for a long time to come.

Chapter Twelve

Mattie was all ears that evening at supper, when Preacher Eli called a meeting of all the Promise Lodge residents. Rosetta and Christine had simmered a big pot of chicken noodle soup, Deborah had baked bread, and Mary Kate had made orange date bars for their dessert. Everyone was present except for Minerva Kurtz, who was staying with Bishop Floyd so Frances and the girls could attend the meeting. Truman had come over to visit with Amos, so Mattie felt comfortable leaving him.

Once everyone around the tables had prayed, Eli spoke up. “What with both Amos and Floyd laid up for a while, I'm proposing a day when the rest of us fellows finish enclosing Roman's house,” he said. “Once we get the roof on, Lester can lead a crew to install the siding while the rest of us get the drywall up. Tomorrow's Saturday. Can we do it then?”

“That's a fine idea,” Marlin Kurtz replied as he took two slices of bread and passed the basket along. “If Roman's place sits unfinished, Amos will be stewing about it instead of resting.”

“And then we can set aside another day—maybe a week from tomorrow—to do the inside finishing on your place, Marlin,” Lester suggested. “Depending on how well Floyd's recovering, I plan to return home to Sugarcreek by Thanksgiving, and I'd like to see those two houses finished before I go. After looking in on my brother when he got home this morning, I can tell you that he's every bit as antsy as Amos about the work he's not supposed to be doing.”

“Oh my, but
that's
the truth.” Frances shook her head and gazed at Mattie, who sat beside her. “If you thought Floyd was agitated during the ride home from the hospital, he's gotten more cantankerous since he's been home. I hope Minerva's able to keep him quiet—and indoors—while we're here. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he burst through the lodge door at any moment, even though the doctor told him to sit still so his concussion can heal.”

Mattie nodded. “I thought Floyd was going to roll down the window and jump out of the truck, considering how he fussed at Truman for not driving us home fast enough. Did the doctor give you a prescription for something that might calm him down?”

“Oh, I've got pills for settling him,” Frances replied with a sigh. “The trick is getting him to take them. Floyd claims he doesn't need any sort of medication because God's his doctor. If we've heard that once today, we've heard it a dozen times.”

“Hmm,” Rosetta remarked as she stirred her steaming soup. “Minerva might know a trick or two for getting those pills down him. Or you could call the nurse who tended him at the hospital and ask her advice.”

“Maybe I should call from here,” Frances mused aloud. “Floyd will pitch a fit if he finds out I've contradicted his wishes by sneaking medicine into his food.”

“Amos slept like a rock this afternoon when he was napping,” Roman said. As he buttered his warm bread, his eyebrows rose. “Once he gets rested up, though, and he's supposed to sit still all day, I suspect he'll not sleep as well at night.”

“
Jah
, Minerva's warned us about that—and about something called sundowning, where your body loses track of whether it's day or night,” Mattie said with a sigh. She smiled at Roman, proud of him for moving in with Amos to watch over him. “We might need to have other folks spell you at night, son, or you'll be nodding off in the barn while you're milking.”

Everyone chuckled, but they murmured their agreement.

“We've all got a part to play here,” Ruby put in. “We can take turns sitting with Floyd and Amos—”

“And I'll be in charge of the meals tomorrow and whatever days you fellows will be working on the houses,” Beulah volunteered. “It'll save you time if you all eat here instead of going to your separate homes.”

“I'll bake some bars and cinnamon rolls,” Mary Kate chimed in. “Gloria and I can bring them to the work site midmorning and in the afternoon, along with cider and hot coffee to keep you going.”

“Hey, if there'll be goodies, I'm going to work on the house, too!” Menno Peterscheim piped up.

“
Jah
, can we boys all help, Dat?” his little brother Johnny asked excitedly. “We won't fool around or get in the way—I promise! And since you're working on Saturday, it's not like we'll be missing school.”

Preacher Eli chuckled. “There's work for every hand, boys—as long as those hands aren't holding cookies,” he teased.

Across the table from Mattie, Deborah chimed in. “What's left to do inside the Kurtz place? If the walls are finished, Laura and Phoebe and I could do the painting. We're old hands at that.”

“And now that we've finished the rooms here in the lodge,” Laura said, “we have a few gallons of ivory and pale yellow paint left—enough to get us started, anyway. But if you want different colors, we could drive into Forest Grove and pick them up at the mercantile.”

Preacher Marlin looked genuinely pleased about this idea. “Painting has never been my favorite activity, so I'd be tickled if you girls did that.”

“What if we girls left for the mercantile really early, so we arrive when it opens?” his daughter Fannie asked. “We could get the rest of the paint and any brushes and stuff we might need, and then have our painting frolic.”

“Count me in!” Lily Peterscheim exclaimed.

“You just want to go shopping,” her twin brother, Lavern, remarked.

All the folks around the table laughed, and Mattie got a good feeling about the whole community pitching in to finish the two homes they'd been discussing. In just a few months, these neighbors had bonded even more tightly than she and her sisters had anticipated when they'd first come to Promise Lodge with Amos . . . who would be feeling left out when he got word about their work frolics. She sensed Amos would need a lot of company to keep him from either getting down in the dumps or pushing himself too hard too soon.

“Matter of fact, having you girls go to town is a
gut
idea,” Beulah said. She rose from the table with the big tureen to fill it with more soup from the stove. “I'll make out a grocery list to send along—”

“We could use some roofing nails, caulk, and quarter round—and the stain for it, too,” Preacher Eli said. He looked down the side of the table where all the younger girls were sitting with hopeful smiles on their faces. “But I'm not sure you ladies would be able to carry all that stuff—”

“Let alone get the
right
stuff,” Lowell Kurtz put in. “You don't know heads from tails in a hardware store, Fannie.”

“Puh!” his sister shot back. “If the lists are made out right, we'll do as
gut
a job as you would—but I suspect you'll be over helping with Roman's house so you can sample those goodies Mary Kate's making.”

“Hold on.” Noah held up his hand for silence. “Amos is always saying we should be part of the solution rather than part of the problem, so I volunteer to drive the girls into town. I can oversee the hardware shopping and load all the stuff into the wagon,” he suggested. “And I can make sure we get back home in time to do some work, instead of just shopping.”

“That's the ticket!” Eli said. “We should write our lists this evening so you young people can get an early start tomorrow.”

“The mercantile opens at eight, so we should leave here by seven twenty,” Noah said to the girls. “We might as well get the paint for Roman's place, too. Something like pink or lime green would be his choice, I'm guessing.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “You think I'm going to give you
gut
money for such colors?” he teased. “Think again!”

Mattie enjoyed watching Lily, Fannie, Laura, and Phoebe all laughing together, anticipating their adventure in the Forest Grove mercantile. She had a satisfying feeling that these girls and the Lehman sisters would become fast friends over the coming years as they matured into wives and mothers. “I'll get the post office box key from Amos, too,” she said. “You can stop in Promise for the mail on your way back. Maybe we'll have more letters from families wanting to move here, and Amos will enjoy reading them.”

As Mattie looked at Christine's daughters, another idea occurred to her. “You girls don't happen to know addresses or phone numbers for Amos's kids, do you? He's insisted that we not contact them, but I think they should know about his accident.”

Phoebe and Laura glanced at each other, shrugging. “Last I heard, Barbara and Bernice married twin brothers in Ohio,” Phoebe replied.

“And Allen's somewhere in Indiana, doing who knows what?” Laura put in. “Allen couldn't wait to leave Coldstream after his
mamm
passed on. Wouldn't surprise me if Allen has jumped the fence, considering how he and Amos used to go head to head over church issues.”

Mattie nodded sadly. It was a shame that the Troyer kids had scattered so far away from their
dat
, and that Amos wouldn't be able to do so many things that he'd come to enjoy since moving to Promise Lodge. She saw it as her mission to make Amos smile and keep him occupied during the weeks he was supposed to rest in dark rooms. Mother Nature seemed to be cooperating, because the days were growing noticeably shorter. From the table she could see the rays of the setting sun shimmering on the frost-coated orange and yellow leaves of the large old maple trees outside the lodge.

After everyone had finished eating, Mattie filled a container with soup, wrapped up some of the bread and orange date bars, and walked over to see how Amos was doing. Her sisters had insisted that she and Frances tend to their men rather than stay to clean up the kitchen, so Mattie walked with the bishop's wife until they reached the bend in the road that veered toward the two Lehman places.

“I sure hope Floyd hasn't given Minerva any trouble—and I hope you'll all get some rest tonight,” Mattie said as they paused in front of Amos's house.

“
Jah
, I keep thinking he'll wear himself out soon,” Frances replied with a sigh. “We live in hope—and we live in the Lord's keeping.”

Mattie nodded and hurried along the lane toward the modest home she and Amos would soon be sharing. Surely he would be recovered enough by the time November twenty-first rolled around—and perhaps they could hold the wedding at Amos's house instead of in the big meeting room at the lodge, to make it easier for him. It wasn't as though he'd be preaching at his own wedding, so he could remain seated if he needed to. Truman had rented a basic wheelchair so Amos could roll from room to room—not that he showed much inclination to move around, with his head hurting so badly.

“Amos? You ready for some soup and fresh bread?” she called out as she entered the house.

“Bring it on!” came his reply from the bedroom in the back. “But bring it in here, will you please?”

Mattie smiled. He sounded stronger this evening, as though resting and spending time with Truman had lifted his spirits. “How about you, Truman?” she asked. “I've got plenty of soup, so you could eat with him.”

Truman joined her in the kitchen, where he took his felt hat from the peg on the back wall. “I'll get on home,” he replied. “How about if I feed and water his horses before I head out?”

Mattie gazed gratefully at him. “That would be a big help, Truman. We're so blessed to have you for a neighbor.” She lowered her voice, glancing over her shoulder to be sure Amos hadn't followed him to the kitchen. “How do you think he's doing?”

Truman shrugged into his barn coat. “He talked some, and he napped some. I noticed that he couldn't quite think of the right words from time to time—but the doctor said that would probably be the case for a while.”

Mattie nodded. “I'm going to suggest an early bedtime after he eats. I'm hoping Amos won't feel his pain while he's asleep.”

“I'll keep you both in my prayers,” Truman said before starting toward the door. “He's taken as much of his pain medication as he's allowed to, but I suspect it's not helping much. Amos is one to put on a happy face and act like he's feeling all right, but I could tell his headache was wearing on him.
Gut
night, Mattie.”

“You, too, Truman.”

After Mattie put a bowl of soup on a tray along with some buttered bread, she carefully carried it to the bedroom at the back of the house. Amos had joked that this room would become his
dawdi haus
when he got too old and unsteady to climb the stairs. Mattie was glad he'd had the foresight to arrange his floor plan so he could live on the main level now.

She paused in the doorway of Amos's room to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. It took a moment for her to distinguish the armchair positioned beside Amos's bed—and the wheelchair that sat near the head of the bed.

She felt acutely aware that she was entering Amos's bedroom without Roman or anyone else in the house . . . and that beneath the covers, Amos was dressed only in his long johns. Although nothing intimate would take place, some folks—Preacher Eli, for instance—would probably feel she was entering into a sinful situation, considering that she and Amos weren't yet married.

“Are—are you comfortable with me coming in, Amos?” she asked hesitantly. “Roman will be here anytime—”

“Nobody I'd rather have as my nurse, Mattie,” he assured her. “And if the neighbors—or the bishop—suspect I'm getting too frisky, well, I guess I'll make my confession at church this Sunday. Even if it's only wishful thinking.”

Mattie entered the room and sat down in the armchair, carefully balancing the tray with the bowl of soup on it. It was reassuring that Amos knew they were having church on Sunday, but she didn't want to get his hopes up. “Sunday will probably be too soon for you to get out,” she murmured as she handed him the tray. “From the way Frances talks, Bishop Floyd's not doing as well as he thinks he is. Sounds like Eli and Marlin will be preaching—”