Secret, The (35 page)

“Even so, perhaps you could be doing more to find her,” Deacon Amos suggested.

The intimation seemed harsh to Judah’s ears, and it was all he could do to stand upright.

“Preacher Smucker says you have no clear understanding as to where she’s gone. Is that it?” The bishop looked at him, his brow pinched into a frown. The oldest man of the group, his beard was long and wispy and as white as washed wool.

Breaking into a cold sweat now, Judah mumbled that he knew nothing of Lettie’s whereabouts or motives. And the deacon’s remark caused him further embarrassment—was Amos questioning the quality of his marriage? Were all of them?

He’d kept secrets from them, from his family, too. Yet was it anyone’s business that Lettie had taken money from their account? As far as he could tell from that, she had no intention of returning home, even if found.

“Judah?” The bishop was awaiting a response.

Judah opened his mouth, and the backyard whirled as if he alone were caught on a windmill.

He gasped and reached out a hand to Amos to steady himself. But he missed, and his legs were suddenly too weak to hold him. “Oh . . .” He stumbled backward and fell to the ground, the sky a spinning bluish gray. The sum total of four beards, four faces, and four straw hats hovered over him, all part of the churning background.

“Judah, what’s happening?” asked Preacher Josiah Smucker.

“Ain’t rightly sure. . . .” He uttered words that made no sense, as though someone else were speaking for him.

Great drops fell from his eyes, down his face, and into the thickness of his beard. He crossed his arms over his chest while his sorrow and confusion poured forth.

“I cannot go on. . . .” His breath no longer supported his words. And he was sobbing.

“He needs rest” came the kindly voice of Preacher Josiah—Judah knew that much. But he did not comprehend much else as the men linked arms, raising him up to carry him into his house.

chapter
thirty-one

F
rom the sewing room window, Grace could see her father encircled by the brethren, though it appeared that only the bishop and the deacon were doing the talking. Unexpectedly Dat teetered to the left, clutching for Amos before stumbling back and falling to the grass.

“Oh . . . Dat, no!” she cried, horrified.

Quickly, the ministerial brethren surrounded him. Then, with great care, they lifted him into their arms and collectively carried Dat toward the door.

Grace flew down the stairs, meeting them as they brought Dat, pale and trembling, into the front room. They laid him out on the only sofa in the room, his feet hanging off the end.

Preacher Josiah rushed off to alert their neighbor Mrs. Spangler, a registered nurse. After he’d gone, Deacon Amos suggested calling an ambulance, but the bishop said to wait for the nurse’s opinion on that, not wanting to get more Englisch-ers involved “unless necessary.”

Grace knelt and touched her father’s forehead. “I’m right here, Dat,” she whispered, leaning near to his face. “It’s Grace . . .

I’m here with you.”

When she realized she was alone with her father—no doubt the others were waiting outdoors for Preacher Josiah to return with Mrs. Spangler—Grace raised the hem of her apron and gently dabbed his dear face, spotty with perspiration. Her poor, grief-stricken father had silently borne his anguish, and now . . . “Sleep,” she said, caressing his cheek with the back of her hand. “Just sleep.”

His eyes fluttered but did not open. He raised one hand momentarily, and she clasped it in both of her own. “Grace . . . denki,” he managed to say.

She covered her mouth with her hand, not wanting to cry again. Broken in mind and spirit, Dat had asked them to pray for Mamma’s safety, and oh, she had. But now someone must carry her father’s great need to the Almighty.

O Lord, look down on Dat here . . . and grant him health and
peace.

Rising quietly to avoid distressing him further, she backed out of the room and dashed off to find Adam and the others.

For several hours, Dat slept under Grace’s watchful eye. Mrs. Spangler had taken his vitals and determined that he most likely was suffering from sheer exhaustion and dire stress—the latter she confided softly to Grace alone.

Mammi Adah assigned Mandy to help her prepare the meals, for the time being. And Adam and Joe solicited help with the lambing and the barn chores from the ministers and other Amish neighbors.

Word of their father’s collapse spread swiftly. To prevent unnecessary disturbances, Mandy posted signs on the main door and side kitchen door, alerting would-be visitors or well-wishers not to knock or raise their voices. And come they did, bearing hot casseroles, canned fruits, meats, and even monetary gifts. Preacher Smucker stopped by, as well, speaking quietly to Grace, expressing both his concern for her father and his hope that he might be able to speak with him again soon.

When Dat awakened for the first time, he asked to be helped upstairs to bed, and his sons supported him on either side. Grace held her breath the whole way, following close behind.

Ach, Mamma, if you only knew . . .

Adam helped him undress as Grace and Joe waited in the hallway, exchanging anxious glances. Then, when Adam emerged with concern etched on his face, Grace asked if he thought she should go inside.

“Just see what else he might need.” Adam worked his jaw, fighting back tears.

She touched his arm and thanked him, even though it seemed odd for her to do so. After all, she was as apprehensive as he. Now, however, she was determined to oversee Dat’s recovery, not allowing a single hitch in his getting the restful, healing sleep he required.

Pulling a chair next to his bed, she asked what he wanted to drink. “You’ll need something sooner or later.” He had not eaten since breakfast.

“Just water . . .” He struggled to keep his eyes open, then his hand went limp, and she realized he’d already given in to slumber once again.

Finding a quilted coverlet in Mamma’s blanket chest, Grace spread it gently over her father. She moved silently to the door and, with one more glance, slipped out of the room.

The late afternoon sun spread a golden light over Dat’s grazing land, where a half dozen new lambs romped about, trailing their mothers. Needing some time outside, Grace watched the younger, more playful lambs bounding over the dark green meadow, soon to be teeming with a sea of golden dandelions.

To her, spring had always signaled the advent of new life. And it was nearly impossible to contemplate the rolling landscape before her without realizing anew how it altered so completely with the movement of the seasons.

Time and nature were tied together somehow. She’d once read about the change from winter to spring . . . that the shift had the power to jumble up people’s emotions. She wondered if it affected the sheep Dat raised in the same way.

She was amused by the animals’ hesitancy around strangers. They backed away quickly, only one of the older rams brave enough to inch forward at the sight of someone new.

Looking toward the road, she spotted a young woman—an Englischer—coming up from the Riehls’ place. She was sniffling and wiping her eyes with her fingers. Grace wondered if this was the young woman staying at the Riehls’ for the summer.

The woman began to run hard, like a runner in a race, and Grace could hear her sobs. She appeared to catch herself and slowed again to a walk, wrapping her arms around her middle. She reached up a hand to brush back more tears, her shoulders rising and falling.

Grace’s heart went out to the jean-clad girl. And she wished she could help somehow.

Judah rolled over in the big bed to reach for Lettie’s pillow, scarcely conscious of the hour before again falling quickly into the enticing comfort of sleep. He was only faintly mindful of Grace when she appeared now and then with cold water in a glass or to check his pulse. Did she think he’d expired?

It was the Lord’s Day, the second morning following his collapse, and Judah crept his way downstairs to bathe and shave. But not to dress.

Grace was in the kitchen with Mandy and came out to assure him he need not check on the animals. “We’ve ample help.” No mention was made of their visiting relatives or friends this particular Sunday, and he felt sorry for putting a damper on the family day.

He took the stairs carefully again, without help, pleased at this small feat. Strength was slow in coming, yet returning all the same. He savored the smallest progress as he sat in his chair near the window, sunshine pouring in.

He opened the Good Book and found his place.
I was dumb
with silence, I held my peace, even from good; and my sorrow was
stirred.
The relevance of what he read struck him, and Judah was moved to pray, grateful to God and his family for their tenderness toward him.

Grace brought his dinner up soon after and placed the tray by his side. He thought of telling her how much her care meant to him, but the words were lost somewhere inside him.

Judah slept again, waking up just as night began to fall, surprised at the stillness in his usually bustling house. What had his children done to create such tranquillity?

For the first time since his collapse, he thought of Lettie’s parents. Was Grace looking after them, too?

Getting up, he moved gingerly to the edge of his bed. He had a hankering to slip into his trousers, to know how good it might feel to be fully dressed again. “Tomorrow,” he promised himself.

He rose to walk the length of the hallway and did not see a soul. Then footsteps broke the quiet.

“Oh, Dat, so good to see you up again and walkin’,” Grace said as she came to check on him. A full smile lit her dear face.

“My legs are finally cooperating.” He was surprised when she linked her arm through his and walked back with him. “Guess I just needed some rest.”

“That and some tender loving care.” She looked away, but he’d seen her tears. “You had us awful scared, Dat.”

He sighed, winded, and sat down on his chair. “Shouldn’t it be mornin’ instead of dusk?” He stared out at the darkening sky and stretched his legs before him.