Abigail's New Hope (17 page)

Abby met his gaze without hesitation. “
Jah
, I did, but I didn’t sell any drugs.”

“Ah, Abigail. If you’d planned to accept payment for your services, it’s the same thing. Mrs. Fisher’s uterine wall had torn during delivery. She needed emergency surgery to save her life. That drug will usually slow or stop bleeding with minor tears, but not like what Ruth Fisher had.”

Abby’s back ached from sitting so stiffly, but she said nothing.

“You had no way of knowing that. In desperation you tried something you had heard about. But this is very serious. I suppose I already know who supplied you with the syringe and medication.”

She lifted her chin and ground her back teeth, willing herself not to cry. She refused to drag another person into the mess she had created.

“Well, it really doesn’t matter now. The drug didn’t save the woman, but by giving her that injection, you have landed into a heap of trouble. I will do what I can, Abigail. I know your heart; you meant no harm. And nothing you did harmed that woman. God’s will had been set into motion before your buggy turned up the Fisher driveway. Let’s hope a judge with compassion in his heart can see beyond the letter of the law.” He tightened his grip before releasing her hand. “Stay strong, stay well, and as my grandmother used to say, ‘This too shall pass.’” He rose wearily to his feet.

He is an old man. When did he become so stiff and aged?

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Weller, and thank you for your words of support.” She forced a smile for her friend and mentor, feeling pangs of guilt and sorrow as he shuffled away from the table. She was causing grief and heartache for everyone close to her, but she didn’t know how to stop.
What could I have done differently?

Later that night, staring at the ceiling when sleep wouldn’t come, she prayed for those around her who suffered because of her actions. And she prayed to be shown the correct path out from this thorny maze.

S
weat ran beneath Nathan’s hat, pooled at the base of his neck, and soaked into his shirt collar. Wiping his brow, he watched two turkey vultures floating effortlessly on wind currents, with only an occasional flap of their wings.

Oh, to have been born a bird instead of a farmer
. But he probably would have been born a hummingbird instead of a vulture, eagle, or hawk. Then he would have to beat his wings all day long, continually searching for food to maintain strength. And if that weren’t bad enough, he would have to fly south every year down to Mexico with only a two-inch wingspan.

Most of the time Nathan Fisher loved farming, but today was not one of those days. After he’d managed to mire the plow into mud near the riverbank, he broke two harnesses trying to pull his equipment free. In so doing, he ended up in foul-smelling muck up to his hips. He thought he might have to hitch another team of draft horses to pull himself out. Then his driving horse threw a shoe and he had to call a farrier to stop at the farm, costing him money he didn’t have. Paying for Ruth’s funeral expenses and the hospital bills for Abraham had left him without enough to pay this month’s rent. So when a wasp stung his neck on the way to the house, he wasn’t surprised. Nathan opened the screen door at lunchtime not in the best of moods.

“What happened to you?” asked Iris.

“I got stung by a wasp,” he answered, heading toward the bathroom. He felt a painful lump swell beneath his fingers as he dabbed on antiseptic.

She followed him to the bathroom doorway. “Did you get out the stinger?” She arched up on tiptoes for a better look.

“A wasp, Aunt, not a bee. No stinger.” He pressed a cold washrag to the lump and searched for some anti-itch medicine Ruth had bought. When he found the bottle, he sprayed liberally, bringing a searing pain to the tender area. “This hurts like the devil, worse than any bee sting.”

Iris paled, glancing around the room. “Do not invoke the evil one’s name. You may just compound your troubles.”

“Hard to imagine this day getting much worse,” he groused. “I mired the plow in mud, got myself stuck, and broke two harnesses. And my standardbred threw a shoe.” He sprayed his neck a second time as the area began to grow numb.

“Is that why your clothes are soaking wet?”

“I had to wash the mud off in the pond.”

“And that’s when the wasp decided to frost the cake.” Her eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth.

“Are you laughing at my misfortune, Aunt Iris?”

“
Jah
, I suppose I am.
Mir leid
.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’ll laugh at myself too once this pain goes away.”

She clucked her tongue. “I’ll get you some dry clothes. There’s a folded pile on the steps, waiting to be taken upstairs.”

By the time she returned, the throbbing in his neck had begun to subside. “
Danki
,” he said, sitting down at the table.

“You’re welcome.” Iris ladled beef soup into two bowls. The broth smelled deliciously of onions and celery, but he spotted little meat among the carrots and potatoes.

“Is there no beef left in the freezer?” he asked, feeling guilty. It was one thing to ask her to cook meals and quite another to ask her to spin gold out of straw.

“Not too much, so I’m trying to stretch it until you’re ready to take a cow to the meat processor. I know you need all your milking heifers.”

“I’ll bring you a chicken for supper.” He ladled up vegetables and broth.

She leveled her gaze over the kerosene lamp. “Don’t you need your laying hens for eggs? I can sell extra eggs to your English neighbors to bring in a little money.”

Shame rose up this throat like acid indigestion. “We need to eat, Aunt Iris. Man…and woman…cannot live by potatoes and carrots alone.” He took a long drink of water.
At least spring water is still free
.

“I’ll send a note to my son to bring over a beef quarter. He took one of his steers to the packinghouse last month, besides the male spring calves. The freezer in his cellar is full.”

Nathan sopped up broth with half a slice of bread. “All right, but I’ll reimburse my cousin for the meat. I’m not taking handouts. Folks in the district have already done enough by taking care of a large chunk of the hospital bill. I intend to pay my own way in this world.”

Iris buttered a piece of bread. “In that case, you can go to town and buy more baby formula. I need both the powdered kind and the pre-mixed to take along when we leave for the day.”

“More formula already? We just bought fifty dollars’ worth.” Nathan didn’t begrudge food for his son, but the cost of English baby products was ridiculous.

“That boy has a healthy appetite. I can’t very well feed him chicken and dumplings yet.”

With the mention of solid food, Abraham started crying in the other room. Before Nathan had a chance to enjoy his bowl of canned peaches, Iris retrieved the noisy child and foisted him into his father’s arms.

“I’m still eating, Aunt Iris,” Nathan complained, positioning the child into the crook of his elbow. But Abraham didn’t stop crying.

“So am I,” she said. “Try your best while I finish, and then I’ll feed him his lunch.” She smiled sweetly and returned to her soup.

“He doesn’t like being held by his
daed
.” Nathan set down his spoon and began bouncing the child on his knee.

“Only because he’s not used to you.” She spooned up one piece of carrot. At this pace, she wouldn’t finish lunch until Christmas. “The more time you hold him, Nathan, the more he’ll grow accustomed to you. Then he won’t cry so much.”

“I can’t very well strap a
boppli
onto my back like a papoose while I work the fields.
Bopplin
are a woman’s business, not a man’s.”

“All my sons take pride in their
kinner
. All have spent time walking the floor with colicky babies and when teething makes for plenty of sleepless nights. The Lord provides
two
parents for a reason.”

“Your sons never had to bury a wife. They don’t know what that’s like, and God willing, they’ll never have to find out.”

Just then, Abraham stopped fussing for a short while and gazed at his father. But Nathan didn’t notice his son. He met the gaze of his aunt instead.

Iris picked up her bowl and drank the broth. Then she speared the remaining carrots with her fork. “True enough, but your son needs a father, not just his old
gefunden
.”

The sound of crunching gravel beyond the kitchen window broke the stalemate between the two. “A car has pulled up to the house. I’d better go see who it is. Maybe that English social worker has come back to check for diaper rash again.” He passed the baby to Iris. Upon the exchange, the boy began to wail as though he’d been pinched.

Actually, Nathan secretly hoped it was Patricia Daly. He regretted how he had treated her when she had only been doing her job. Her compliment about his care and diligence had been unjustified.
What do I have to do with my son’s health and well-being?
He’d told Iris about the social worker’s comment, and she had had little reaction.

And why did I bite Mrs. Daly’s head off for suggesting grief therapy sessions? Couldn’t I have just said, “No, that’s not for me”?
Maybe he did need his head examined after all. He’d considered writing a letter of apology, but his penmanship and knowledge of English grammar left much to be desired.

Halfway down the walkway, he knew his apology to Mrs. Daly would have to wait for another day. A thin young man stretched his tall frame from the driver’s side.

“Mr. Fisher?” he asked. “Nathan Fisher?” The man approached the porch, glancing down at the gravel path with each step, as though unaccustomed to anything except concrete.

“I’m Nathan Fisher. What can I do for you?”

“I believe I can do something for you, sir.” He pulled a business card from his billfold and held it out. “My name is Jack Boudreau. I work for a law firm in Canton.”

Nathan glanced down at the card he’d accepted. It revealed nothing beyond what the man had already said.

“First of all, let me say our firm would like to express our deepest condolences. We understand you lost your wife in childbirth.” He paused a moment before continuing. “She was a very young woman, wasn’t she?”

“
Jah
, she was twenty-three.” Nathan shifted his hat back on his head and tucked his hands beneath his suspenders.

“Oh my. That is too young to die. We are so sorry for your loss.” He pulled on his necktie to loosen the knot.

Nathan wondered why the man talked in plural while he stood alone in the driveway. “
Danki
. God decides who to call home. He doesn’t ask anybody’s opinion beforehand.”

“That is what I was taught too. My mother is a Sunday school teacher and my wife helps out at VBS.”

Nathan arched an eyebrow.

“Vacation Bible School,” explained Mr. Boudreau. “So they would readily agree with you. But for myself, I think there are times when people should be held accountable for their actions. And this is a perfect example of one of those times.” He turned his focus skyward. “Would you mind if we talked in the shade or maybe inside the house? This sun is a scorcher today.”

“Sure, come up to the porch.” Nathan led the way, wondering why
Englischers
insisted on beating around the bush. They tried to use the maximum number of words to express whatever was on their chest. He waited while the lawyer sat down, pulled off his tie, and unbuttoned his top shirt button.