The Postcard (27 page)

He went to brush his teeth; he had to get the sugary residue from the sticky bun out of his mouth. After doing so, he connected his cell phone and emailed the Amish family article to his editor in New York. He shut down his laptop, thinking that somehow or other he’d like to give Rachel a report of his trip to Reading, if that was even possible without Susanna overhearing. He went to the wall of built-in bookcases, scanning the choices and deciding on an old classic. He was just getting comfortable when he heard the sound of high-pitched barking. The commotion persisted until he was drawn to the window to see what was causing a dog to carry on so.

Below him on the patio, Rachel was floundering with her cane, trying to find her way while bumping into one flower pot after another. “Annie!” she called again and again.

He rushed downstairs, and when he burst out the back door and caught up with Rachel, he saw that she was weeping. “Annie!” she called pitifully. “Annie, where are you?”

But there was no answer, only the frenzied barking in the distance.

“Rachel, it’s me, Philip Bradley,” he said calmly, so as not to startle her. “What’s happening?”

She was pushing her feet through the lawn, her cane swinging back and forth. “Annie went walking the dog . . . she hasn’t come home for the longest time. Now Copper’s barking out by the creek, and I’m terribly frightened.”

“I’ll look for Annie. Will you wait here?” he said, concerned that Rachel might stumble and fall.

“Please, bring her home to me.” Her face was streaked with tears.

“I’ll find her.” He turned and ran toward the dog’s yelping, through the apple trees, past the gravel walkway, over the footbridge, and to the opposite side of the creek. “Annie!” he called. Behind him he could still hear Rachel’s distressed cries for her daughter.

The little girl sat in a heap of crumpled leaves on the bank of Mill Creek, her long rose-colored dress soiled, her white head covering in her hand. The dog was crouched near her, howling till his bark was nearly ragged.

“Annie, are you all right?” Philip hurried over to her, noticing a reddish swelling on her face.

“Oh, Mr. Philip, I got stinged so awful bad.”

He saw that she had been crying and was rubbing her cheek where the swelling had extended past the wound itself. Searching for a stinger and finding none, he suspected that Annie had been stung by a wasp.

“I didn’t . . . disobey Mamma, Mr. Philip . . . honest, I didn’t. Copper got away from me, and I had to . . . run and catch him.” She was wheezing now, and he recognized the dangerous asthmatic symptoms. His niece, Kari, often had such flare-ups, but this was different. Annie must be suffering from an allergic reaction.

“Ach, my head hurts, too,” the little girl cried.

“Let’s get you home. Your mamma’s worried about you.” He was concerned about her labored breathing and gathered the child into his arms. Dashing over the footbridge and through the orchard, he kept saying, “I’ll take care of you, Annie. Don’t cry, honey.”

The braids that wound around her head began to fall loose as he ran with her toward the house. The dog nipped at his heels behind him, barking incessantly.

When Philip was within yards of the house, he caught sight of the girl’s mother. “Quick, Rachel, hold on to my arm,” he called, hurrying over to her. “Annie’s been stung. Let’s get you both inside.”

When Rachel and Annie were safely in the kitchen, Rachel leaned down to listen to her daughter’s breathing.

“Does Annie have asthma?” Philip asked, still holding the child with Rachel hovering near.

“No . . . not asthma,” Rachel whispered.

“Is she allergic to wasps or bees, that you know of?”

“This has never happened before.” Rachel stroked Annie’s face, letting go of Philip’s arm.

“She needs a doctor right away, unless you have an inhaler, something to open an airway.” The child was starting to go limp in his arms. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”

“I’ll call 9-1-1,” Rachel said, her hand shaking as she reached for the phone.

“There’s no time for that. You’ll have to trust me. I can get Annie to a hospital faster than waiting for an ambulance.”

Rachel grimaced. “The Community Hospital is the closest one.”

Philip lost no time in getting Annie and her mother into his rental car. Nor could he spare a moment to consider Rachel’s possible aversion to riding in a modern-day conveyance rather than the familiar horse and buggy.

On the way, Rachel whispered to the child in her first language, kissing her forehead every so often. She sat in the backseat, cradling Annie in her arms.

Philip pushed the speed limit where there was less traffic, hoping a police officer might spot him and escort them to the emergency room. He sensed a dire urgency as he stole glances at Rachel and her child in the rearview mirror. Annie’s continual struggle to breathe worried him so much he dialed 9-1-1 on his cell phone and alerted the hospital that they were on their way.

The closer they came to the downtown area, the more congested the traffic became, slowing their pace. For the first time in many years, he found himself praying under his breath.

Nineteen

W
ith great apprehension, Philip made himself pick up a sports magazine and thumb through it, impatient for some word—anything—on Annie’s condition. He glanced up now and then to watch people coming and going. People watching. It was one of his favorite pastimes, though under the circumstances, he would much rather have been in an airport or any other public place. Hospitals made him nervous.

How was Annie doing now? The little child had looked absolutely miserable there by the creek bank when first he’d found her. And her breathing was terribly wispy, threadlike, continuing to be so as he carried her into the emergency room entrance not twenty minutes ago.

And what of Susanna Zook and her husband? Had both of them left the house? It seemed a bit strange that they would leave their blind daughter home alone with the rambunctious child, but then he didn’t know their routine well enough to cast blame. The truth was, a little girl’s life was hanging in the balance even as he sat here in the ER waiting room. He wished he could do something to guarantee that young Annie would survive the ordeal, come out of it unscathed. But it was difficult to erase the visions of her gasping for air, her tiny lungs giving out no matter how fast he had been willing to speed down the streets of Lancaster.

It was while he was recalling the morning’s chaos that he realized he didn’t know Rachel’s last name. Couldn’t be the same as her parents, or could it? She must surely have been married at one time or other. He took out his pen and a small tablet—the one he carried with him everywhere—and began jotting down all the things he
did
know about Rachel, though for no special reason. Instead of doodling like some folk, he often wrote lists of words, characteristics of people, or one-word descriptions of places. Though he had never actually put pen to paper and attempted to write a novel, he’d toyed with the idea often enough. And he had dozens of such character and setting lists in a file at home just waiting for the moment when he might actually get serious about fiction writing. If ever.

Rachel trembled inwardly as she held Annie’s limp hand in the emergency room. A number of nurses and the ER doctor surrounded them, administering the initial treatment—a shot of epinephrine, a muscle relaxant to aid in opening airways, and a bronchodilator, a fancy name for an inhaler, Rachel was told.

She imagined the doctor listening with a stethoscope to Annie’s lungs, to make sure the constricted airways were beginning to open, though she continued to hear her daughter’s raspy breathing.

“Is Annie gonna be all right?” she asked, her own chest feeling somewhat tight.

“The doctor wants to observe Annie for several hours, just to make sure she’s clear before we release her,” one nurse said. “You got her here just in time.”

“Has Annie ever had a reaction like this from a sting?” the doctor inquired.

“Never before.”

“If she is ever stung again, the second reaction is often more severe than the first. I’d recommend an epi-kit to keep with Annie wherever she goes.”

“What’s that . . . an epi-kit?”

“It’s a wallet-sized case with a spring-loaded syringe similar to the shot we just gave your daughter. If Annie should ever experience similar symptoms, she or you can easily poke it into her thigh, or most any place on her body—even through her clothes. It could save her life,” said the doctor with an ominous note of warning in his voice. “You can get one from your family doctor.”

“I’d be interested in having something like that handy,” Rachel said, wishing they
had
a family physician who was a real medical doctor.

Later, when she sensed she was alone with Annie, she leaned down and put her ear against the small chest. The crackling in Annie’s lungs was beginning to subside.

“Can I sit up now, Mamma? I feel ever so much better.”

“Why don’t we wait till the doctor comes back.” She cupped Annie’s cheeks in her hands. “I’m so glad the Lord was with us.”

“I feel awful jittery, Mamma.”

“Jah, you’re much better, but try to sit still so you won’t fall off the examining table.”

When the nurse came back, Rachel asked about Annie’s sudden surge of energy. “She seems terribly restless.”

“It’s quite normal for her to feel a bit hyper, just until some of the adrenaline wears off.”

Over a period of two and a half hours, there was repeated checking on the part of various nurses. Later, the doctor returned to discuss the benefits of allergen solutions or vaccines “to prevent a similar situation from occurring in the future. Hyposensitization is a long-term treatment by which an allergen is injected into the patient at regular intervals, at ever larger doses,” he explained. “The body builds up a tolerance over time—three to five years in the case of wasp and bee stings. You may want to consider the desensitization route where Annie’s concerned, especially if she plays outside a lot, or more specifically, in the vicinity of a creek, where bees and wasps tend to gather.”

“I’ll talk it over with my parents,” Rachel replied.

“Well, I think Annie’s ready to go home. She may seem tired after the shot wears off. Have her take it easy today,” he suggested, then paused a moment. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to be forward, but you look very familiar to me. Have you ever been treated at this hospital?”

“Well, yes . . . two years ago I had a miscarriage.”

“I thought I remembered you and your family . . . yes, I remember quite clearly now.” He was silent again. Then, “How is it that you are still blind, Mrs. Yoder?”

“On my best days I see shadows, but other than that, I don’t see much of anything.”

“But your vision . . . how can this be?”

She told him that she’d consulted a specialist. “He said my brain was recording images, yet I don’t see them.”

“Have you had any treatment?”

“What do you mean?” She’d heard there were professionals who offered hypnosis and other forms of psychotherapy. Such things didn’t interest her—sounded like hocus-pocus to her, and there was far too much of that going on already.

“Would you like a referral for a psychiatrist friend of mine? I think he could help you.”

Suddenly, she felt coerced—put on the spot—though she supposed she ought to be open to a truly medical remedy since she wasn’t too sure about the alternative doctoring in the community. “I . . . uh, hadn’t thought about it really.”

“Well, here’s my card if you should decide to try it.”

She felt the business card against her hand and accepted it with her feeble thanks.

When Susanna and Benjamin returned home, Susanna spied the flour and the rolling pin on the kitchen table, wondering where Rachel could be. She checked the upstairs rooms, then the parlor again. Searching the cellar, as well, she called for Rachel and Annie, who was apt to come flying through the house most any time now. “Rachel . . . Annie . . . are you here? Where are you?”

When there was no reply, she rushed back to the kitchen, only to see Benjamin outside with the dog.