Eleven
July
Abby awoke with a start. The nightmares that had plagued her since A her incarceration had grown more unsettling. Images of sick children, husbands reaching the end of their patience, and stern fathers shaking their fists conspired to provide another restless night. Kneeling beside her bed, she prayed for strength. Later today she would appear again in court. Her lawyer indicated there was a chance she could be released on her own recognizance.
Home. Reunited with Daniel and Laura and Jake. Thinking of loved ones filled her with a tangible ache that neither food nor water could satisfy. Yet, as the specters of her nightmares retreated to the shadows, Abby doubted the judge would be merciful. Her fellow inmates often spoke of his harsh sentences and brusque treatment. Why would her case be any different?
Opening her Bible to the book of Daniel, she read the story of someone far braver than she. Daniel had lived in Jerusalem. After the Babylonians captured the city, he was taken back to Babylon, where he would spend the next sixty years of his life. During this time of great warring tribes, the Persians marched on Babylon and captured the city. Although Daniel was forced to work for the conquering king of Persia as an adviser, he continued to serve God faithfully. Jealous associates plotted to have him thrown into a lions’ den, but God protected faithful Daniel from the hungry beasts. The following morning he walked unscathed from the den.
Abby tried to remember Daniel’s devotion when the deputy arrived at the door carrying her Amish clothes. Today they hung from a hanger instead of being rolled up in a plastic sack.
“Did you launder my dress, Deputy Todd?” Abby asked, surprised.
The woman blushed, her cheeks turning bright pink. “Yes. They wouldn’t have fared well in the jail laundry because the fabric isn’t permanent press. We can’t have you looking a mess when you stand before the judge.” She laid the outfit across the bed.
“Thank you,” Abby said. “I am in your debt.”
After showering and pinning her hair beneath her kapp, she left the cell common area flanked by two deputies. They didn’t handcuff or bind her wrists, yet nevertheless she felt oddly constrained. Even her steps mimicked someone whose ankles had been shackled. At least the court appearance didn’t require a long, jarring car ride. The Wayne County Justice Center housed both jail cells and courtrooms. On the night of her arrest, she’d become nauseated in the backseat of the sheriff’s cruiser.
Mr. Blake, a fresh-faced, shiny penny of a man on this hot July day, sat with her in the hallway. He repeated his warnings of potential consequences if she didn’t comply with the judge’s requests. However, as they waited Abby’s mind drifted back to summer afternoons picking raspberries with Laura and then making gooey cobblers and pies. She remembered other warm days when she would take them swimming in the creek. Once Jake had caught a crayfish and kept it all summer as a pet. Laura helped him to collect dead flies trapped behind the barn windows to feed the critter.
“They have called us, Mrs. Graber. Are you ready?” Mr. Blake broke her reminiscence with a tight grip on her elbow.
She shivered, either from the air-conditioning or from apprehension of what was to come. “As ready as I ever will be,” she said, staggering to her feet. They entered the courtroom and headed toward the polished wooden tables and the railing that separated those whose lives hung in the balance from those who had come to watch. She spotted the woman who typed into a machine and the same gray-haired judge, whose mood hadn’t improved since her previous visit, if his scowl was any indication.
After being seated, Abby scanned the crowd in the packed courtroom. A knot of pain tightened in her chest when she found Daniel, her beloved ehemann. She yearned to reassure him that God would make this and all things right again in His own perfect timetable, but how could she? How could she tell him she wasn’t afraid, knowing what she must do? Forcing a smile, she lifted her hand in a wave. Daniel waved back, looking haggard. Then Judge William O’Neil spoke and Abby’s legs turned weak and rubbery.
“Please stand, Mrs. Graber.”
Abby complied with Mr. Blake at her side. Hearing murmurs behind her, she focused her attention on the man who held her earthly fate in his hands. The judge flipped through and scanned the papers before him while she waited for what seemed like an eternity.
“These are very serious charges against you. Has your attorney explained them adequately so that you understand these proceedings?” he asked.
She nodded. Her tongue felt as though it was glued to the roof of her mouth.
“You must speak in my courtroom, Mrs. Graber. A nod of the head will not suffice for my court reporter.”
She swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“I see you have been a guest of the county for a couple of weeks now, despite your attorney successfully petitioning the court for a reduction in your bail to a fraction of the original amount.” He peered at her over the glasses resting on his nose.
“Yes. Thank you,” she answered, uncertain of the correct response.
“What I’m curious about is why you’re still here.” He leafed through the folder again and sighed. “Does it run contrary to Amish laws or customs to raise money against the equity in one’s property?”
Abby looked into the man’s eyes while her hands turned clammy. He studied her like a bug under a magnifying glass. “Yes, sir. I believe it does. It’s left up to the district leaders because…this seldom happens to people in my community.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t. But the reality of the matter is that although the Amish live by their own rules, you’re still in the state of Ohio and subject to our laws also. I’m well aware that local midwives have operated outside the legal system for years—flying beneath the radar—primarily because the Amish don’t carry health insurance. I might be an advocate for freedom of choice, but certain lines cannot and will not be crossed. Dispensing medications is one of those lines. You cannot interpret the law to fit your particular situation.”
“Your Honor, Mrs. Fisher wasn’t my client’s patient. Mrs. Graber was functioning in a humanitarian…”
“Save it for the trial, Mr. Blake,” the judge interrupted. “Today I’m not interested in what extenuating circumstances prompted your client’s actions.” He glared at Abby, not the lawyer. “But I’ll tell you what I am interested in. The grand jury would like to know where you obtained that syringe of…Pitocin.” His gaze drifted to the paper in his hand. “It’s not as though you can drive your buggy to the local drug store and pick some up. It’s a controlled substance available only by prescription.”
Abby felt the weakness in her legs spread throughout her body. She feared she might crumple into a ball if she didn’t do something. Clearing her throat, she spoke in a calm voice. “No, Your Honor, I did not purchase the medicine. It was a gift.” She focused on the American flag instead of his stern face.
“A gift?” He frowned at her word choice, and then he shook his head. “Because I do not consider you a flight risk, and because you are a mother of two young children with strong ties to your community, I may be inclined to release you on your own recognizance until the trial date on one condition.” He set the paper back on the pile. “I want the name of the individual who gave you that drug. I won’t have medical personnel in this county breaking the law besides the ethical standards of their profession.” He waited a few moments and then added, “You could go home to await your trial.”
He uttered the words she had longed to hear since her arrest. I could go home today with Daniel, to my kinner and my house, back to my world. She could sleep in her own bed, wash with soap that smelled of fruit instead of disinfectant, and wake up in the fresh country air of her farm. Tears rushed to her eyes while Judge O’Neil tapped the papers into a stack and returned them to the folder.
Abby hung her head, staring at the floor. “I cannot say, Your Honor.”
“What? Speak up, Mrs. Graber.”
Despite her tears, she lifted her head and met the gaze on the learned man of the law. “I cannot tell you who supplied the medicine.”
A voice from somewhere behind her spoke a single plaintive word: “No!”
Abby knew exactly whom that voice belonged to.
“You cannot or you will not?” The judge’s voice rose with indignation.
“I will not. My life has been ruined by my misjudgment. I won’t ruin another life too.” Without a handkerchief, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
“This court hereby orders you to release that name. Do not compound your problems by sheltering another criminal. Whoever supplied the drug was well aware that they were breaking the law.”
“She did so on good faith, despite her personal reservations.”
“She showed good faith? I don’t think so, not if she ever witnessed what improperly administered pharmaceuticals can do in inexperienced hands. The wrong dosage of a lifesaving drug can kill a person. And a medical professional would know that.”
Abby bit the inside of her jaw, mortified that she had revealed the nurse-midwife’s gender. I’m not good at answering questions without time to consider or pray on the matter.
“Mrs. Graber, I could hold you in contempt of court and throw you in jail for thirty days. But as you’re already incarcerated, I don’t see what good that would do.” He shook his head with resignation.
The courtroom crowd had grown restless; their chatter had steadily increased. “Order in the court!” He banged his gavel. Abby flinched from the sharp noise.
“Should you change your mind about testifying before the grand jury, contact your attorney. I shall set your trial for the earliest available date on the docket. We might as well get this over with, no?”
She nodded despite his request for audible replies and watched her chance to be restored to her family slip away, feeling powerless to do anything about it. Another rap of his gravel—this one a half-hearted tap—set off the start of a headache. The deputy clutched her upper arm, indicating it was time to go. Her day in court was over. Now other criminals would take their turns before Judge O’Neil’s bench. Oddly, she felt no animosity for the man. He had a difficult job to do. Upholding English law couldn’t be easy.
Turning, Abby caught sight of Daniel’s face as she left the courtroom. And the sight would stay with her for weeks, if not for the rest of her life. His eyes looked moist and sorrowful, but his lips had thinned to a hard line. He was angry, hurt, and confused.
How could I disobey a direct order from the English judge? Haven’t I been taught to obey the laws of the land?
How could I place an English nurse-midwife before my ehemann and kinner? Haven’t I taken an oath to obey my husband and believe that he, not I, is the head of the family?
She would write to him when she returned to her cell to ask for forgiveness and understanding. She loved Daniel with every fiber of her being. He deserved a wife worthy of his tender devotion, not a willful sinner who acted impetuously without consideration of the consequences.
On the long walk back to her cell, through drafty corridors, elevators, and many locked doors, she considered the person who hadn’t been in the courtroom today—her daed. He could have appeared in support as either her father or her bishop, yet his absence spoke volumes to the once-favored daughter—the practical, dutiful, solemn Abigail Yost. Now Abigail Graber had become a pariah, an embarrassment to the man who had taught her to fly a kite and catch tadpoles in a jar. Maybe her district would choose to shun her, making her an outcast even after her years in jail were finished. Maybe even Daniel would turn cold to her. Although the Amish didn’t divorce, a shunned wife would receive only the barest necessities from a spouse. Could she live without his love?
As Abby reentered her cell, words from Scripture came to mind: I will never leave you, nor will I forsake you. We will be together until the end of time. If a woman has God the Father and His Son, Jesus, what else could she possibly need?
Nathan drummed his fingertips on the table, waiting like a condemned man for the executioner. His aunt had wasted no time in calling the social worker. She must have made the call as soon as she arrived in town and had reached the woman immediately. No answering machines or messages left with family members that could easily go astray had stood between Iris and the grief therapy counselor. Mrs. Daly had been delighted to hear from the Fishers, according to Aunt Iris. And she’d promptly volunteered to pick him up for the next session, which just happened to be today. Why couldn’t the meeting be the following week or sometime next month? Am I ready to spill my guts in front of strangers?
Nathan didn’t think so.
It wasn’t as though he doubted the usefulness of such sessions…for Englischers. Most of them and some Amish women liked to talk. They could blab about any subject all day long until the air in their lungs ran out. But he and Ruth had always been folks of few words. He remembered when they had been courting. He had driven her home after a singing for the fourth time that summer. He’d pulled down a farm lane off the county road so they could marvel at a night sky filled with stars. The moon shone so bright it nearly hurt their eyes. A breeze from the west carried a chill, heralding autumn.
Ruth had scooted closer on the bench for warmth, and he’d draped his mamm’s old quilt across her knees. She nodded but had kept her gaze on that moon. Beneath the patchwork he found her fingers, and with a thrill, he wrapped his hand around hers. She neither pulled her hand back nor admonished him for his boldness. When her tiny smile grew into a full-fledged grin, he knew. She was the one for him, and he for her.
Bravely, he turned to her and asked, “Well, then. What say you about a wintertime wedding?” While waiting for her answer, his heart had thudded against his ribcage loud enough to be heard.
She cocked her head to ponder the notion before replying. “I reckon I would like to marry you this winter, Nathan Fisher.” Then she had refocused on the moon until it scuttled behind a cloud. A little while later, they had headed for home.
Ruth and Nathan Fisher had been people of few words. That night might have been years ago, but he hadn’t changed in that regard. Yet he couldn’t disappoint his aunt, who so wanted him to heal. As a widow herself, surely she understood that losing a spouse was different from breaking your arm or cracking your skull. Some wounds festered for a lifetime.
“Slice of pie while you wait?” asked Iris, bustling back into the kitchen. “You didn’t eat that much of your supper.”
“No, danki. My appetite isn’t up to par today.” He slouched lower in the chair.
She filled the sink with soapy water to tackle the dishes. His son was nowhere in sight.
“And Abraham?” he asked. “Where is he?”
“Sleeping. I fed him his bottle a tad early so you wouldn’t be held up for your meeting.” She parted the curtains to peer down the driveway. “You did fine yesterday while I was in town. You put the diaper on the correct end, and fed him the proper number of bottles. The boy seems no worse for the wear.” She winked at him over her shoulder.
“I only had to refer to that hospital booklet five or six times. Not too bad, if I say so myself.” He returned the wink. “How is his heat rash since you bought that tube of ointment?”
“The skin is still red and blotchy, but his discomfort seems to have gone away. He’s not crying nearly as much today.”
Nathan realized he would prefer an evening filled with his son’s squalling to what Patricia Daly had in mind. “That’s gut to hear,” he said. After a moment, he asked, “Do I look acceptable?” He had donned his Sunday best, down to his lace-up shoes and black felt hat. Because he owned no in-between clothes, his only choices were this outfit or his tattered work clothes.
She glanced back at him. “You look fine. Stop fretting.”
He overheard a chuckle once she turned back to the dishes. “I’m not sure how fancy folks can sit around and yak the night away,” he said.
“Amish folk spend every Sunday afternoon talking up a storm. Just pretend you’re standing around somebody’s barn after a preaching service.”
He was about to debate the issue when he heard a car pull up the driveway. “Whew. Time to go. Don’t wait up, Aunt Iris. No telling how long these things last.” He tugged his hat down over his ears and marched outside to meet his fate.
Patricia jumped out of the car and waved her hand. “Good evening, Mr. Fisher. My, you look very nice. I have my personal car tonight instead of the county’s sedan. I hope you don’t think it’s too small.”
“Please call me Nathan, and no, your car is just fine.” He ducked his head and folded himself into the two-seater sports car. It felt as though he was sitting mere inches above the ground while his knees pressed hard against the dashboard.
“You can slide that seat back some. There’s a gizmo on the side. And please buckle your seat belt.”
Nathan didn’t like the seat belt. It made him feel trapped inside the tin can. However, once he was situated, he forced a pleasant expression. “Is it a long drive to your place?”
“We’re not going to my house, although that’s where we usually hold these meetings. Once I told a few members you were coming, another woman who doesn’t live far from you volunteered her home. Plus, she had a blackberry cheesecake recipe she wanted to try out.”
Little hairs rose on the back of his neck. “This is a social gathering—a coffee klatch of women getting together?” he asked. It wasn’t too late to ask her to turn the car around and take him home.
“No, no, it’s a therapeutic session, I assure you. Other men will be there. But we Englischers tend to include some kind of dessert or refreshment when we gather, no matter what the occasion.” She glanced at him.
Begrudgingly, he nodded. “I suppose the Amish are the same. We have almost as much food after a funeral as a wedding.” He tried not to think about the sliced ham, fried chicken, barbequed beef, cold salads, and hot vegetables served by his cousins after Ruth’s funeral. He tried but did not succeed.
“I want you to relax tonight, Nathan.” Patricia seemed to sense his unease. “These are all fine Christian people who, like yourself, have recently lost a loved one. Although you may not have met them before, you can be certain you’ll be among friends.” She kept her focus on the highway. Cars and trucks zoomed past the tiny car at incredible speeds. “And one of the requirements to join the group is complete discretion. Nothing you share with us will ever be repeated to other people, and the same will be expected from you.” She met his gaze briefly.
He pulled on his beard, trying to shift to a more comfortable position. “I don’t know if I’ll say anything a’tal. I thought I’d just listen to what other folks have to say.”
“That’s perfectly fine. You’re under no obligation to talk tonight or ever. But you might be surprised. There’s something about people sharing their burdens that may make you choose to unload a few of your own.”
He grunted and clenched his teeth. Missing my wife is no burden. “You say these folks are Christians? Do they all go to your church?”
“They are all Christians, but they go to a variety of churches—Baptist, Methodist, Lutheran, Catholic, and non-denominational, like mine.”
“Am I your only Amish?”
“You will be our first, but I hope not our last.”
Nathan stared out the window without comment. As usual, he didn’t know what to say or think about any of this. But his time for contemplation ended as her little red car pulled up the long drive of a beige ranch house with green shutters. A ceramic deer with glass eyes watched their approach from the flower bed, while a metal sunflower spun wildly in the breeze.
“This is the home of Carol Baker,” announced Patricia.
“Mrs. Baker sure loves red geraniums and purple pansies,” he said, unfolding himself from the car. Dozens of each plant bordered the concrete walkway leading to the front door. Nathan walked behind Mrs. Daly on legs stiffened from the soup-can car and from fear of the unknown.
A middle-aged woman in bright purple greeted them at the door. “Hello, Patricia. And you must be Mr. Fisher. Welcome,” she said. “Everyone else is already in the living room. Shall we join them?”
Nathan nodded, following the ladies into the front room, where four women and two men waited. Some were sitting on the couch or in upholstered chairs, but metal chairs had also been set up. All eyes fastened on him and their chatter ceased when they entered.
“Everyone, this is Nathan Fisher,” said Patricia. “I’ll let people introduce themselves, and talk a little about the loved one they have lost. I’ll go first and then you can be last, Nathan.”
After he sat down in the chair closest to the door, the social worker cleared her throat. “My name is Patricia, and I’ve been widowed for two years. I met my husband in high school and we dated throughout college, marrying after graduation. We were blessed with two daughters. One is at college in Toledo and the other is married and living in New York. My Jim worked hard as a plumbing contractor to provide for his family. And he never wanted to go to sleep without patching up a disagreement. Because he passed over in his sleep, I was very grateful for his little rule.” Patricia smiled directly at Nathan. “That gets easier and easier the more times I repeat it.”
Nathan tried to exhale the breath he’d been holding. This will not be easy.
A young woman spoke next about a baby who had died. The infant had been born prematurely, with lungs that hadn’t had a chance to fully develop. When tears filled the woman’s eyes during the telling, Nathan’s heart swelled with pity. It had been nearly three years, yet the woman still suffered. He wondered if she had other kinner but didn’t dare ask.
Just when he thought the woman had finished her story, she blurted out, “My husband says I’ve been neglecting my two little girls and not paying them the attention they deserve. I don’t mean to, but I can’t stop thinking about the son I’ve lost.”
Nathan’s mouth dropped open. She is neglecting two other children because of her memories?
The next speaker was an older woman who had lost her sister. She spoke at length about how this sister used to torment her while young—blame mischief on her, flirt with her boyfriends, and even steal her possessions. As adults, the women still hadn’t gotten along. The deceased sister had often criticized the woman’s housekeeping and cooking skills and constantly mocked her for her weight problem. Although she had tried to think of the positive aspects of their relationship, she couldn’t forget that her initial reaction to her sister’s death had been relief. Nathan squinted his eyes, thinking that all this family history should have been buried with the dead.
The younger of the two men had lost his brother in a car accident last year. The brother had been drinking late at a bar and had tried to outrun the police. They would have undoubtedly arrested him for his third DUI. Instead of avoiding arrest, his brother failed to negotiate a curve and had died on impact with a tree. Nathan said a silent prayer for the man’s soul, and then he put him out of mind because any further thoughts about him would be unkind and judgmental. Wasn’t his behavior an abomination before the Lord?
The other man—elderly, white haired, and stoop shouldered—spoke lovingly of his wife of forty-nine years. They had had children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren together. He sounded angry because plans had been underway for a huge, catered reception to celebrate their golden wedding anniversary. He spoke of their travels to Europe, Africa, and more cruises through the Caribbean than he could count. “But why, oh why couldn’t she have lived long enough for the tour of China in the spring? Maddy had always wanted to see the Great Wall. We had already paid our deposit, and although the money was refunded, I still wish God had given us more time together. There were still so many more things Maddy and I had wanted to see and do.”
Indeed. Nathan clenched his jaw and squirmed in his chair. He had no business here with these Englischers. He had nothing in common with them.
“Nathan?”
His head snapped up. Patricia and the others were staring at him.
“I asked if you would like to comment on Bob’s story. Something he said seems to have touched a chord. Or maybe this would be a good time for you to share your story.”
Nathan breathed through his nostrils like a bull and considered running for the back door. But the fact that his horse and buggy weren’t parked outside kept him in his seat. “My wife, Ruth, died in childbirth a few weeks ago. Our first baby. My son is fine. His name is Abraham.” He spoke in quick, short sentences. When it felt as though he hadn’t spoken for his allotted time he added, “We met at a church social. That’s it. End of story.”
Eight pairs of eyes watched him, expecting more details. After an uncomfortable silence, Patricia asked, “Is there something you wanted to say about Bob’s sharing?”
He closed his eyes, feeling irritation gather deep within his gut. “It seems to me that if the good Lord gave you and your wife forty-nine happy years together, that should be enough. What’s so important about seeing some fancy wall in China or spending a lot of money on some golden party to impress your friends? You should be grateful for what you had. Period.”
Bob cleared his throat. “I know that’s how I should feel, but some days I just can’t. I miss her so much. I always thought I would go first. I don’t know how to live without my Maddy.”
“You get up and go about your day. You do your work and fall into bed at night too tired to think about things.” The words bubbled forth of their own accord. He felt color rise in his face like turning up a kerosene wick.
“Nathan, take a deep breath and try to relax.” Patricia Daly spoke in a soothing tone usually used to quiet rambunctious children. “You’re getting yourself worked up, and we’re all friends here.”
He shook his head. “You are all friends here. And that’s fine. This sort of thing probably works for Englischers, but it seems to me that you’re telling family secrets that you shouldn’t and you’re spending far too much time dwelling on the past.” He struggled to his feet. “What’s done is done. Nothing is going to change the past or bring back the people who died. I don’t care if you talk from now until the sun comes up tomorrow.” He set the hat he’d been fiddling with back on his head. “I’m going to walk home, Mrs. Daly. Please stay with the group. I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but frankly, the exercise will do me far more good than sitting here chawing all night.”
He practically ran for the door. Whatever new recipe Mrs. Baker had for cheesecake would remain a mystery to him. He strode down the pebble driveway, past the red geraniums and purple pansies, past the silly ceramic deer smiling from the garden, and past the spinning sunflower. The cool night air felt wonderful on his overheated skin. A full moon rising above the horizon would light his path home. But the first of many prayers he uttered on that long walk was one of gratitude that the meeting had been moved from its usual location in downtown Wooster to a home closer to his own.