The Preacher's Daughter (33 page)

‘‘Mamma . . . Mamma,'' Zach cried softly, hovering near them.

Live, my child . . . oh, you must live!
She continued to coax air into his tiny round mouth . . . willing John to breathe.

At one point, between ragged breaths, she lifted him to her bosom, praying her nearness might revive him.
Somehow it must
.

‘‘I'm here,'' she said to all her dear ones. ‘‘Mamma's here.''

Chapter 33

L
ouisa awakened in the night, perplexed by her dreams. She and Ben Martin were riding bareback on a single horse through an open meadow of gleaming blue wild flowers, the wind in their faces and hair. She was no longer wearing Amish attire . . . she was back in her designer jeans and boots, encircled in Ben's arms.

Good grief,
she thought now that she was fully awake.
What's that about?

She had gotten up to use the chamber bucket beneath the bed, but on second thought she decided to pull on one of Annie's heaviest bathrobes and make her way outside for some fresh air.

The lingering visions remained even as she donned Annie's work boots and clumped out through the snow the short distance to the outhouse. The moon was bright enough to mark the way, and she smiled sleepily, wondering what could have triggered her subconscious to serve up such a weird dream. Sure, the blond-haired guy with inquisitive brown eyes was a hunk. But not her style, was he? And even if he was, he had eyes solely for Annie, of that she was convinced.

Maybe he's a temporary answer for her,
she thought, even though Annie had assured her she was no longer hurting over Rudy. Maybe this Ben guy could be her transitional man, someone to soothe her wounds and make her feel good about herself again. Like anesthesia.

Is that what Trey is to me?
She surprised herself with the thought. And she knew better. Trey wasn't someone who was just filler in the larger scheme of things. He must have genuinely cared for her . . . simply stepping back while she completed art school, although he'd never stated this as his intention when he melted into the European woodwork back when. Now he was back in her life in a big way, calling several times a week, talking about a rendezvous in Colorado or even here in Pennsylvania. Emotionally, she felt she was keeping him at a safe distance. Even now. She wanted to be sure this time, wanted no residual stuff floating around. Nothing to get in the way of a new yet very warm former relationship.

On the way back from the drafty outhouse, where she'd encountered spiders galore earlier in the autumn—not so this time of year, when things were good and frozen beneath that disgustingly smelly place—she happened to see a car parked out on the road. She stopped walking, pausing against the cold. If she wasn't mistaken, one of Annie's brothers was leaning against the car, locked in an embrace with a girl. His silhouette—with a black winter hat—was stark against the moonlit snow.

Whoa . . . interesting
. She was captivated by the thought of Yonie or possibly Omar sneaking around with an English girl, which it had to be, otherwise where had the car come from? Unless, perhaps, he owned a car and hid it from the eyes of their father, as Annie said some of the boys did during their running-around time. That, too, was another eye-opening concept. To think Amish parents allowed their teens to go pretty much their own way, offering freedom in the hopes of retaining them for the church.
The illusion of being given a choice,
she thought.

Shivering now, she made her way down the walkway and into the house, surprised that someone had been up and put extra logs in the belly of the woodstove.
Probably Annie's dad,
she guessed, wondering if he was also up checking on his absent son. She would ask Annie in the morning about what she'd seen tonight.
Love must be in the air!

‘‘Zeke! Wake up.'' Esther called to him repeatedly, even daring to shake him. ‘‘I need your help!'' She was hollering now at him, Zeke lying there rather lifeless himself.

She heard Laura crying in the next room, where she'd left John and Zach. Now, attempting to rouse her husband, she called to him again, touching his face, his chest.

Getting down right close, she happened to detect the scent of alcohol.
Ach, no!
For the longest time, she'd felt he was staying away from his whiskey, but evidently whatever troubled him of late had gotten stronger footing once again.

Failing to wake him, she waddled back to the children, praying silently all the while, and feeling as panic-stricken as ever she had.

She lay down in the bed beside her tiny John, holding him near, praying aloud and asking the ‘‘dear Lord Jesus to return life to this child, just as you did to Jairus's daughter so long ago. This I pray, humbly . . . and not for my own sake. Amen.''

She continued to cradle him, putting all her trust in the heavenly Father's love for her and her family.

Feeling a strange warm calm come over her, she placed her fingers beneath his chin, checking for a pulse. ‘‘Oh,'' she said, feeling the faintest beat. ‘‘Denki, dear Lord . . . oh, thank you.''

‘‘Mamma, what is it?'' Laura tugged on her bathrobe.

‘‘I believe your little brother is alive!'' she said, looking into Laura's near hollow eyes.

Zach snuffed his nose and rubbed his face.

She sat John up and patted his back, talking softly to him, half praying, ever so near. He opened his small eyes, his long, thick lashes brushing his eyebrows, and he began to heave and cough . . . a deep, ragged rasp, spitting up as he did. The harsh yet all too familiar sound sent more shivers up her spine, but she was relieved to hear the coughing, which meant John was breathing indeed.

Going to the bureau, she opened the first drawer and took out his prescribed inhaler. Now that he was breathing, she would attempt to administer it.

She was determined to keep watch over her frail boy.
I'll put him right in bed with me!
—where she was now intended to slumber alone, for as long as she did not repent of finding the joy of her dear Savior and Lord.

O Jesus, it was you who spared my little one this night. I am ever so grateful!
She prayed this silently as tears spilled down her cheeks.

Annie had something of a predawn ritual upon awaking each morning. If Louisa was even conscious that early she would sometimes drowsily observe Annie staring at the ceiling, as if contemplating her life. Or perhaps she was ‘‘saying'' her silent rote prayers. Then, after a time, she would sit up in bed for a few minutes before slipping out from beneath the mound of quilts, going to the window to stand and look out.

This morning, however, Louisa did not wait for Annie to swing her long legs out of the bed and onto the ice-cold floor. She simply brought up what was on her mind. ‘‘I think one of your brothers has a girlfriend . . . and she doesn't look very Plain.''

Annie was nearly angelic looking in her high-throated white nightgown. ‘‘He might just be pushin' the boundaries, but most of our boys do that.''

‘‘Well, there was lots of kissing going on, and I don't mean pecks on the cheek.''

‘‘Oh, that.'' Annie paused. ‘‘We're s'posed to just talk on those all-night buggy rides, ya know. But, honestly, many of the young people do way more than that.''

‘‘Don't we all.''

‘‘The main thing is gettin' all this out of your system before joining church.''

‘‘So, then, you must know for sure your brothers will.'' She was curious what Annie might say.

‘‘Well, I'm perty sure they'll come to their senses.''

‘‘Like
you
will?'' She had to say it . . . had to know what Annie was really thinking about her future as an artist.

Annie was on her feet all of a sudden, pushing her toes into soft slippers. ‘‘The difference 'tween a boy in love with a girl and . . . well, what I'm passionate about is awful easy: loving something that's not fickle. You know, like art. It's always there. Never betrays, never disappears, jah?''

She smiled at Annie's desperate attempt at honesty. ‘‘Hey, you don't have to convince me.'' Creating was such a big part of her life, she couldn't imagine having to choose art over a guy . . . or worse, over a belief system. ‘‘I'm not sure how you've managed to stay Amish this long, Annie.''

‘‘Well . . . it's the belonging . . . being connected to the community of the People.'' Annie patted her chest. ‘‘I know it in here. Like my father's faith in God.''

What's faith anyway?
Louisa thought. This was the hang-up of her life. The faith thing was so real and powerful and good that people from all walks of life embraced it on some level. Your ‘‘higher power,'' the AA folks called it, a confidence in something beyond oneself. But did it have to be all wrapped up in what
others
believed?

Whatever faith was, she didn't possess it. And she wasn't about to bring up the topic, not when Annie was eyeing the window again, preparing to race the dawn.

Work takes precedence over reflection in Paradise . . . most of the time,
she decided.

Annie wasted no time talking to Yonie out in the barn. ‘‘You
Dummkopp
! Lou saw you with Dory last night!''

‘‘How's she know it was me?''

‘‘Well, she doesn't know for sure.''

He squinted at her. ‘‘You didn't own up to it, did ya?''

‘‘No, but even if I did, what would it matter? Lou won't talk it around.''

He looked discouraged now. ‘‘We made a promise, remember?'' She nodded. ‘‘Louisa thinks what she saw was
one
of my brothers . . . and an English girl. Don't worry.''

Yonie helped her pour the fresh milk through the strainer in the milk house. ‘‘You really have no room to talk, Annie . . . you sneak round, too.''

‘‘We aren't talking 'bout me, in case you forgot.''

‘‘All the same.''

‘‘I was only tellin' you so you'll be more discreet maybe.''

Grinning, he said, ‘‘Well, now, aren't you quite the scholar? I've never heard you use such words.''

‘‘Seems to me, hangin' with Lou is one of the smarter things I've done.''

Yonie walked with her back to the barn. ‘‘Just so she keeps her mouth shut 'bout what she sees past twilight.''

They couldn't discuss this further, because Daed, Luke, and Omar were within earshot, getting ready to haul more milk cans to the milk house. For now she would take Yonie's remark at face value. Of course, Cousin Julia might call Lou's coming a blessing. But in
her
mind, having an Englischer visit here had opened her eyes to more things than she could begin to say.

Then and there, she purposed to make all their time together extra special, till that sad day when Louisa decided her ‘‘experiment'' was over, that she'd had enough of country living and was ready to return home.

Chapter 34

E
sther awakened to see Zeke leaning over and staring at her and little John nestled against her like a limp little lamb. She spoke softly, saying how grateful she was that John was better now, explaining what a horrid thing had happened—‘‘our littlest one nearly gave up the ghost last night,'' she admitted, reliving the trauma.

Zeke frowned, shaking his head. ‘‘You mean you nearly let him die?'' He straightened, and she realized how very tall her husband was, frighteningly so. He turned and paced the floor, then went to stand at the foot of the bed. ‘‘Sit up when I'm talkin' to you!'' he demanded.

She trembled but quickly did as she was told, relieved to see John still resting, eyes closed, with a spot of color in his cheeks.

‘‘If you'd slept in my bed, where you rightfully belong, instead of getting yourself put under the ministers' discipline, you would've heard John coughing and sufferin'. So it was your fault.'' Again he shook his head, looking down at the bed quilts before raking his big hand through his shock of brown hair.

His words cut through her, yet she refused to defend herself. Not with their little one lying here asleep, hair tousled, hands relaxed against the pillow.

‘‘I hope you know it would've been your punishment—on your head—had our son died.''

She did not respond, either in word or deed. He was picking a fight with her, she knew this well. Praying she might escape his wrath somehow—even this morning—she did not make eye contact with him further but turned to get out of bed. Reaching for her house robe, she lifted it and would have put her arm through the sleeve, but Zeke moved quickly to her side, as if he might help her do so.

Instead, he reprimanded her yet again. ‘‘How dare you disregard your own husband.''

A soft answer turneth away wrath. . . .

In the case of Zeke, there was no indication that such an approach to communication worked at all. Evidently King Solomon had never met the likes of Ezekiel Hochstetler when he penned those words. In her daily experience, living with this oft-crazed man, no matter what she did lent itself to conflict.
It's no use trying,
she thought, no longer grieved but as angry as ever she'd been. But she contained her rage, breathing slowly.

She did not see it coming. In an instant, he raised his hand and slapped her hard on the face, the force of it pushing her whole body against the wall. ‘‘You will answer me!'' he shouted.

Little John began to whimper, and she feared for him, as well. Her cheek smarting, she tenderly held her left side, worried she had hurt the babe within her.

Knowing from past incidents that she must respond or become the brunt of even more mistreatment, she nodded penitently out of sheer necessity. ‘‘Jah, Zeke, I do heed what you say.''

He huffed and snorted like an enraged animal, and when she sat on the bed near her boy, Zeke miraculously exited the room.