Christmas at Promise Lodge (19 page)

Amos stiffened with apprehension. He was fully awake, yet Anna's plaintive voice rang with near-tears misery—so strident and accusatory that she might be standing behind him, staring at him in the darkness. He knew he'd been dreaming—realized that some of the images in his dream had not actually happened—yet the sensations felt so vivid and real. Remorse made Amos's throat so thick he couldn't swallow. For a moment he wondered if he might die, because it seemed he couldn't breathe—

But when a sob escaped him, Amos knew he'd survive—if only because dead people seemed compelled to remind him of his shortcomings. After enduring the spectral presence of his father and his wife, Amos wasn't so sure he wanted to doze off again.

He fumbled for his flashlight and focused its beam at the clock on his dresser. Four thirty. Still Thanksgiving afternoon, judging from the faint light around the edges of his curtains.

Amos sighed. The hours of this day seemed to be crawling like a fly through molasses. After his big dinner, he wasn't hungry, so he had no reason to wheel himself into the kitchen. He wasn't interested in the latest issue of
The Budget
, because he still had trouble concentrating . . . figured Roman was out in the sleigh by now, and that no one else would be likely to visit him, after the ungracious way he'd ducked out of the dinner gathering at the lodge. For lack of anything better to do, Amos burrowed beneath the covers.
It'll soon be dark, anyway, so I might as well sleep.

Once again Amos became aware that he was dreaming. This time it was Christmas, yet the house showed no signs of the fresh evergreen boughs or candles with which Anna had always decorated. The Nativity scene their three kids had loved was nowhere in sight, either. Amos's heart shriveled and a heavy sadness settled over him when he realized that his wife had passed on. He somehow had to get through the holiday even though he'd lost all interest in stars and carols and even the Christ child.

“I'm headed out. No more of this nonsense from you and Bishop Chupp about either joining the church or suffering eternal damnation,” Allen announced sullenly.

Amos turned to see his twenty-year-old son at the door with a duffle in each hand and a scowl on his handsome young face. “I wish you'd reconsider,” Amos pleaded, mostly because he couldn't bear the thought of being totally alone. “If your
mamm
knew you were jumping the fence, it would break her heart.”

“You're a fine one to speak of
that
,” Allen retorted as he crammed his black hat on his head. “You broke her heart first—and then the girls hitched up with a couple of spineless redheaded guys, just to get out of this place. No point in me staying around, either. I've had it with your thou-shalts and thou-shalt-nots.”

When the door closed behind his son, Amos felt as though his coffin had shut with him inside it. “You'll be sorry, Allen!” he hollered. “Someday you'll realize I'm right—”

Amos sat bolt upright in bed, fully awake as the anger of a few Christmases ago made his head throb. Once again his pulse was pounding and he was dripping with sweat, yet he had a sudden flash of realization.

He'd driven away—or demoralized—everyone he loved. As a husband and father, Amos had believed his way was the right way, so Anna had borne the brunt of his harsh, autocratic attitude and his three children now had nothing more to say to him. Had he become so demanding, so domineering, because his father had constantly criticized him? Had he known the pain of feeling unworthy when he was growing up, only to perpetuate his
dat
's critical attitude as an adult because it gave him a sense of control and self-worth?

Amos blinked. In recent years he'd made a sincere effort to emulate Jesus and his teachings of love and patience rather than modeling himself after Old Testament prophets of doom, yet now that the chips were down he seemed to have reverted to his former bad attitude. He'd wallowed in self-pity because he couldn't walk—and then he'd driven Mattie away and treated Truman and Roman poorly, as well.

“At this rate, you're digging your own grave, man,” Amos muttered as he struggled to free himself from the sheets and blankets. “Folks here will be happy to see you gone, too—just as Allen, Barbara, and Bernice want nothing more to do with you.”

Amos landed in his wheelchair with a
whump
. As he caught his breath, still thrumming from the impact of the voices of his past, he knew one thing was startlingly clear: he had to change. At fifty, he might have many years of life ahead of him. He could not go on this way, thinking that he was right and his friends and Dr. Townsend were wrong. He'd seen what such an attitude had done for Bishop Floyd, after all.

And he'd seen what it had done to Mattie, too. He'd broken her heart when she was trying her best to help him. He was no better than Marvin Schwartz, allowing his illness to get the best of him without heeding any medical advice that might make him better.

Amos wheeled himself into the bathroom and took the bottle of antidepressants from the cabinet. After he'd washed one down with water, he thought about what he needed to do to make amends. He would ask Truman to set up his physical therapy sessions. He would find a way to apologize to Mattie—soon. But another, more urgent task pressed heavily upon his heart.

He dressed as quickly as he could—he didn't dare fall while he stood to pull up his pants, so he left them unfastened around his hips. Amos pulled his coat down from its peg beside the back door, mentally assessing his odds of making it to the phone shanty by the road. It was dark and cold out. If he overturned his wheelchair, he might be stuck in a snowbank for hours before anyone found him.

So you can't let that happen
, Amos told himself as he opened the back door.
You have to prove to yourself you can get around on your own—and then you have to face the harder task of contacting your kids. No way around it. You have to make the first move. You must attempt a reconciliation and convince your family and friends you love them.

Amos was relieved that the moon brightened the twilight and that he could clearly see the paths Roman had shoveled to the barn and down to the road. If he was lucky, the bare surface was wide enough so that his wheels wouldn't sink into any snow—and if he was even luckier, he wouldn't slide out of control on any ice.
It's in Your hands, Lord—so please, please be in my hands, as well
, Amos prayed as he rocked himself over the threshold and out the mudroom door. He hadn't realized that having the back doorway on ground level would come in so handy.

Amos sucked in the frosty air, grateful for the darkness that didn't hurt his eyes—and thankful, as well, that his headache had gone away. He put on his gloves and began to turn the wheels of his chair, intent on negotiating the uneven snow where the shoveled paths to the barn and the road didn't quite meet. Across the road, the windows of the lodge glowed with lamplight, but he saw no one outside—and that's how he wanted it.

Focused on the white phone shanty that gleamed in the moonlight, Amos held tightly to his wheels to keep the chair from racing out of control as he started down the hill—and then he went into a skid that whirled him in a circle and landed him at the road a lot faster than he'd intended.

When his wheelchair came to a stop, Amos caught his breath, planning his moves. He maneuvered the wheelchair as close to the shanty's door as he could, thrust his body forward, and grabbed the doorframe to remain upright. Moments later, when he landed on the wooden chair beside the table where the phone sat, he felt as though he'd done hours of physical labor. As he pulled his pants up over his long johns, he realized that he could've tripped over them and reinjured himself. But there was no time to dwell upon how many ways he'd been a fool.

Amos pulled the cord of the wall-mounted battery lamp, checked the list of phone numbers he'd taped beneath it, and made the easiest call first.

“Truman, it's Amos,” he said when the Wickeys' answering machine beeped. “I've behaved badly and I'm ready to begin those physical therapy sessions Dr. Townsend authorized. If you'd be so kind as to set those up for me, I'll be eternally grateful, friend.
Denki
for all you've done for me—and let's not tell Mattie about this, okay? It'll be our secret for a while.”

Was he being silly and vain, wanting to see if the therapy sessions helped before he told Mattie about them? Amos sighed, rubbing his bare hands together as he satin the cold shanty. He badly wanted to talk to Mattie, to apologize for the way he'd hurt her feelings, but he was starting to shiver. Before he lost his nerve, he had other calls to make.

Amos opened the drawer of the table and pulled out the small catalog he'd been saving ever since Barbara and Bernice had married Sam and Simon Helmuth, whom they'd met at a cousin's wedding the summer before Anna had passed. His breath escaped him as he realized that the girls would be twenty-five now . . . and that three years had gone by since they'd joined their husbands' families in Ohio. The Helmuths operated nurseries and garden supply stores in three towns—very successful businesses, judging from their catalog. Sam and Simon were slim and they sported unruly mops of auburn hair, which had prompted Allen to consider them less than masculine. But then, Allen had always been judgmental.

Amos sighed, closing his eyes.
Help me do this, Lord. If the girls really did leave because of me, I have to give them a reason to end this separation that goes against Your ways.

He quickly dialed the phone number printed on the catalog, recalling how Anna had read in one of Barbara's letters that she and Bernice lived next door to each other and shared a phone shanty. Amos held his breath, listening to the message. “Hello from Helmuth Nurseries near Zanesville, Ohio! To leave a message or place an order at the store, please press one. To leave a message for Sam and Barbara, press two—”

Amos jabbed the keypad, praying the right words would come to him. “Barbara, this is your
dat
,” he said breathlessly. “First I wanted you and Bernice to know that I've moved to a colony called Promise Lodge, and my new phone number is—”

He looked at his handwritten list to be sure he got it right before he said it, because it was different from the number they'd had for all those years in Coldstream. “But mostly I—I wanted you girls to know that I'm sorry for the things I said and did that made you leave home, and that made you stop writing to me after your
mamm
passed . . .”

Amos swallowed the lump in his throat. Apologies didn't come easy. “I hope you can forgive me,” he said in a breathy voice, “and I'm wondering if you could let me know Allen's address and phone number. I—I miss you all. Give my best to your family.”

As he hung up, Amos worried that he'd sounded hopelessly old or muddled, but he'd followed through—he'd taken the first step by asking for his daughters' forgiveness. The ball was in their court now, and if they didn't respond . . . well, that part was beyond his control. Amos turned out the light with a sigh. He'd had no idea it would take so much emotional energy to contact his daughters, or to think about reconnecting with them. Amos hadn't given his headstrong son much thought since Allen had walked out, yet now he felt keenly aware that he had no idea where his boy might be or what trade he'd taken up.

Amos sighed. Why had being Anna's husband and fathering her children seemed like such an effort? Not long ago he'd told Mattie he would welcome any children they might have together—

Amos shook his head. He would figure out how to win Mattie back when he was warm and rested. It occurred to him, as he prepared to step out of the shanty and into his wheelchair, that his chances of getting back up the lane to the house were slim to none. His arms were probably strong enough, but the same iciness that had made him spin in a circle on the way down would send him sliding backwards, helpless, when he tried to go back up the lane. There was just enough of an incline to cause him a problem.

“Phooey,” Amos muttered. He was cold and tired now, and it might be hours before anyone came by. For all he knew, folks were still at the lodge enjoying a light supper, or maybe playing board games and visiting.
No fool like an old fool, right, Troyer?

When he stuck his head out the door, however, a compact black body with a wagging tail gave him hope. Sometimes angels came in unexpected forms. “Queenie!” he hollered. “Hey, Queenie—go fetch Noah. Or Roman! Go get 'em, girl!”

The Border collie stopped in the road, turning toward his voice.

“Go on, Queenie!” Amos urged. “Fetch Noah! Fetch Roman for me!”

The dog barked loudly, circling a few times before she took off across the snow-covered field. Amos slumped in the wooden chair, wondering why Queenie hadn't headed for the lodge or toward Noah's house. He braced his hands on the table to stand up, leaning heavily against the shanty's wall while he fastened his pants. He'd have enough explaining to do without his drawers dropping around his ankles once somebody found him.

Then he waited.

As his feet and face got colder, Amos reflected on what an odd, uncomfortable day it had been. But hadn't he set himself upon the path of major change? Hadn't he listened to those voices from his thoughts and dreams and, for once, taken their lessons to heart? As Amos replayed the heart-rending scenes in his mind—when Anna and his
dat
and his son had spoken directly, harshly, to him—he swore he heard distant sleigh bells.