Rebecca's Choice (32 page)

“Why?” John rose off the couch again, then sat back down.

“There’s just too much going on. I don’t know how to explain it. This and that, and then even more piles on, so it seems. Now there was a Mennonite man who stopped in to see her. It just looks bad, John. We can’t blame the others for being concerned.”

“Let us marry. Then we can show them Rebecca is telling the truth.”

Isaac sighed again. “It’s not about Rebecca anymore. Really, John, it isn’t. It’s about . . . well . . . the concerns of how this affects the others. We can’t allow just anything to happen. Mennonite men show up. Rings, promises, money from inheritances. Lots of money, I must say. Please understand, son.”

John rose to his feet, lifted by a force outside of himself. He felt anger, disappointment, hurt, all mixed together and rolled up. “I don’t understand,” he said much too loudly.

“John,” Miriam said, “you are speaking to your father.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I wanted help from him—because he is my father. Lots of good all this has done for me. Haven’t I been faithful to you, to him, to the church, to God? Haven’t I upheld all that has been required of me? Haven’t I?”

“You have, son. I know that,” Isaac said. “I don’t blame you for being angry.”

“Then I will talk to Bishop myself.”

“It won’t do any good,” Miriam told him. “It really won’t. Either for you or your father. Can’t you see that?”

John sat down. “Then I will tell him we’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” Miriam leaned forward on the rocker.

“Yes, leaving. We’ll go to some Mennonite church somewhere. Makes no difference. Maybe Holmes County. They’ll marry us. That will take care of the money problem. Rebecca can’t receive the money if she marries outside the faith. Then perhaps we’ll come back, and perhaps we won’t.”

“Oh, no.” Miriam dropped her knitting on the floor. “Rebecca wouldn’t go with you.”

“You want me to find out?” John asked.

“No,” Isaac told him, his voice soft. “I’m sorry to hear you say this. I never thought you would go there, even think of going there. Surely you wouldn’t be tempted by what the Mennonites have to offer?”

“It’s not right that Bishop won’t marry us. We’re not to blame,” John said.

“I know,” Isaac told him. “Can you find patience? Wait maybe?”

John was quiet, then turned to face his father. “I’m sorry, but I can’t,” he said. “I’m going to talk with Bishop this Saturday. Lester agrees with the plan. That ought to count for something. If Bishop doesn’t agree, then I will tell him what I just told you.”

“And you are serious?” Isaac’s eyes searched his son’s face.

“Yes,” John said meeting his gaze, “I am.”

“You know what this will cost you?”

“Yes.” John turned back to the windowpane again.

“These things are not easily undone. Your words will not be forgotten.”

“I know,” John said.

“You think it’s worth it?”

John stood to his feet again. “Rebecca is worth it all—whatever it may cost.”

Miriam gasped.

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I love her.”

“You must love God more,” Isaac said. “Don’t forget that.”

“I do, but it’s not God who separates us. It’s other people’s selfish reasons.”

“You must be patient with them,” Isaac told him.

“I will stand with Rebecca,” John said. Then as if he couldn’t believe his words himself, he turned and went upstairs. The door shut quietly behind him, the sound of his sobbing mother filling his ears.

He reached the top of the stairs and the door to his room stunned. His blood pounded in his ears, the resolve in his heart strong. Rebecca would be his wife because he loved her and because she was worthy of his love. To leave her alone in this storm was beneath him.

But join the Mennonites?
The sound in his ears of his earlier words throbbed in his head. This was something he had never contemplated, a thought that never had crossed his mind before. Where did it come from? He had no idea nor did he seek to find out. He would simply follow it. That was all he knew, and Rebecca would be with him.

He lit no light and undressed in the darkness. He slipped beneath the covers, but sleep eluded him.
A Mennonite.
The full impact flooded his mind.
Me, John Miller, a Mennonite.

For a short time,
he told himself,
then we’ll come back. Is that possible?
The thought troubled him. Would excommunication be in store? He wasn’t certain. His resolve shook, but he pressed on. They would be together in a world where things were fair, where men believed you, where they didn’t stop marriages for someone else’s doubt and unbelief, where they didn’t question the goodness of your soul.

He tossed and turned. The moon rose outside his window, its bright round orb flooding the outdoors. Reluctantly he got out of bed, drawn by the light from this night sun, this ruler of the darkness. It hung golden on the horizon, seemed to reflect his agony, the torment of his soul.

“Help me. Oh Father of heaven and earth,” he prayed, “I am but dust, made from the soil under my feet. How can I bear this burden, this sorrow of the world? Love has come to my heart, given by You, and man would take it from me.”

“Do You blame me for caring, for standing by Rebecca? Do You judge me for choosing love? Am I to trust in my people or my heart? Great Ruler of the universe, can You answer my cry? If You can make the sun, the earth, and the moon, can You make a way for us to be together—Rebecca and I?”

He paused, his face close to the pane. His heart ached. His eyes studied the ridges on the moon, their gentle shadow so close he felt he could touch its mountains. “You will not leave or forsake us.” he prayed and paused to wait, finally comforted.

Sleep came, his face toward the light in the window. His dreams were of fields strewn with fall leaves, of lines of buggies gathered, of women in white aprons, of food, long tables of it, and of her face drawn with delight, the bishop as he held their hands together in blessing.

The alarm didn’t wake him, as the first dawn crept into the sky. It was the voice of his mother, her cry desperate in the stairway. “John! Your father! Come quickly!”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FOUR

I
nstantly he swung his feet to the floor and dressed in quick motions.

“John.” Her urgent voice came again.

“Yes,” he said, already at the door. His mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, the flickering kerosene lamp in her hand, the light framing her tense face.

“Your father,” she said. “Come.”

His bare feet made little sound on the steps, as he took them two at a time.

Miriam had already turned to go, when he got down. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

His mother said nothing, her steps quick. He followed her to the bedroom, the door already open. The form of his father, laying motionless, came into focus.

Miriam held the lamp low and shook Isaac gently. John came closer, chills of fear ran through him.
Did Father die in the night? Had my words last night cut this deep?

Isaac moaned and moved his left arm slightly. He seemed to struggle but then lay still.

“He’s been like this since I woke,” his mother said, her voice shaking. “He’s breathing but little else. I think it’s finally happened, what I’ve feared.”

“I’ll go call from the store.”

“The neighbor’s phone would be faster. Maybe we could hire their van.”

“No, Mom, we can’t move him. It takes the ambulance.”

“But it’s your father, John.”

“It’s the fastest way,” he insisted, galvanized into action by fear and guilt. “Stay with him till I get back.”

“Isaac. Isaac,” his mother called gently, as he found his keys to Miller’s Furniture and ran out into the early morning chill without his coat. He took the shortcut across the field, ignoring the rip of cloth when his pant leg caught on the barbed wire fence.

His hands fumbled but found the right key. He rushed indoors. A chair clattered sideways off his foot. Apparently he’d left it out of place the night before. His fingers found the phone and dialed the numbers by the dim battery-powered nightlight.

“Yes, it’s my father,” he said. “An emergency. We just woke up. He’s not responding.”

He listened to the questions.

“No, he moved a little. Moaned. Couldn’t talk.”

The voice took the address, said help would be on the way. John hung up with a thank-you and moved slowly outside. Behind him the door clicked shut, and he remembered to turn back and lock it.

In the parking lot, he heard footsteps behind him on the gravel.

“What’s wrong?” The question came from his uncle Aden.

“Dad. Mom got me up. He’s not responding. I called the ambulance.”

“Is he gone?”

“No. Moved a little. Mom’s with him.”

“I’ll go back with you,” Aden said, as he matched John’s steps. They stayed on the road, the need to return not as urgent.

At the house Aden opened the door. Miriam met them inside.

“Is help coming?” she asked.

“I called,” John told her. “They are sending the ambulance.”

“Shouldn’t we try taking him in ourselves? With Aden here now.”

“I don’t know,” John said. “Has anything changed?”

“It might be best to wait,” Aden said. He put his arm around Miriam’s shoulder. “Can we see him? It’s in
Da Hah’s
hands anyway. He will do what’s best.”

“I know,” Miriam said, but her voice caught. “He’s in the bedroom.”

John hung back as Aden led his mother there. The two of them stood before the bed, Miriam’s hand on Isaac’s arm. His father made as if to respond, even opened his eyes.

“Aden’s here,” Miriam said. “Can you talk to him?”

The only sound was a soft moan.

“I’ve feared this so long,” Miriam said. “His heart must have finally given out.”

When the sounds of sirens were heard in the distance, the first hard waves of remorse hit John. Surely he had caused this by his words last night. If this illness was his father’s heart given out, as his mother supposed, what reason could there be but their conversation from last night. It must have been the thought of his son joining with the Mennonites that had done this.

John wanted to take his words back, plug the spoken words back into his mouth, say he was sorry, and change all this. Yet he knew it wouldn’t change anything. He stood back in the flurry of the action that followed. Two attendants wheeled in a cart, their movements rapid, and placed an oxygen mask quickly on his father’s face.

Aden told him he would take care of things at the store, said he would notify the people who needed to know, and would come down to the hospital later with Esther. John, blame heavy on his shoulders, went with the ambulance, seated on the opposite side from his mother, his father between them. At his father’s head, the attendant sat, her face intent.

“Will his heart make it?” Miriam whispered.

“It’s not his heart, ma’am,” the attendant said. “Looks like a stroke to me.”

The siren was still now. The churn of the engine beneath them combined with the rhythmic beep of some machine in the ambulance. The sounds reminded John of the strange world he suddenly found himself in. At home the early chores would have been done by now. Breakfast would have been on the table, his place in the world secure. His father would have been seated at the head, waiting to bow in prayer.

Here he didn’t belong—watching his father’s face behind that mask and his mother, her hands clutched in front of her. Outside the little window, the first houses of West Union could be seen, and the siren began its wail again. It warned his heart to get prepared, as it warned those ahead to give them room to pass. There were questions that needed to be faced, answers given for his actions.

“We can’t lose him,” his mother whispered.

“I know,” he said, his burdened eyes meeting hers. “We’ll be there soon.”

“Your father loved you. Remember that no matter what happens.”

“Dad will make it,” he said, but the doubt hung in the air. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“It’s not your fault. You shouldn’t think so. I’ve been afraid of this for a long time.”

“I’m still sorry,” he said.

She nodded. “I hope something can be done.”

“There will be,” he said, not certain where the strength of the answer came from.

Their arrival at the West Union Hospital caused another rush, in which John stayed close to his mother. The cart with his father on it disappeared rapidly. They signed papers, answered questions, and soon faced a doctor, whose face looked familiar.

It was the young Dr. Wine from last fall. He made no comment about their past acquaintance, a fact which didn’t strike John as strange. They both had more important things on their minds at the moment.

“Mrs. Miller,” he said, “your husband has had a stoke. Do you know when it began? When did you first notice any signs of his impairment?”

Miriam shook her head. “When I got up, he already was so. Is it bad?”