Seventeen
Abby had thought she was ready for today. Her lawyer had finally returned her phone call a week ago. He had requested the next available court date on the docket and would meet with her beforehand to discuss the case. Now, as she waited for him in the small chamber dressed in her traditional Amish garb, her courage began to wane.
Please hurry, Mr. Blake, before fear creeps back into my heart.
Suddenly the door swept open. “Sorry, Mrs. Graber. I was stuck behind an Amish hay wagon and then two school buses. I didn’t think I’d ever get here. Isn’t it fitting? The hay wagon part, I mean.” He pulled a manila folder from his satchel and sat across from her at the table.
“Jah, I suppose. Probably a third cutting going to market.” Abby folded her hands primly.
“But don’t you worry. We have plenty of time to prepare before your case is called.” He tugged on his shirtsleeve cuffs beneath his coat.
She could hear car doors slamming beyond the window and then a horn blast followed by unintelligible shouting. A disagreement over a parking spot might have sparked tempers. “Like I told your answering machine, my husband and I have agreed on my course of action. I wish to plead guilty to all charges. There’s no reason to drag this out with a jury trial, and no reason to implicate anybody else. I am the sole responsible party. The sooner I am sentenced, the sooner I can serve my time and put all this behind me.” She stared at the tabletop, which smelled faintly of lemon furniture polish. Smeary fingerprints had somewhat dulled the shiny finish. The rest of the room had a musty, air-conditioned odor.
“Abby.” He tapped her forearm to get her attention. “I have better news than that.” He was grinning like a contest winner. “I’ve heard from the prosecutor’s office. Based on the evidence, Judge O’Neil might allow you to plead guilty to reduced charges—every one of them misdemeanors, no felonies. Do you know what that means?”
She looked into his clean-shaven young face and shook her head.
“The felony convictions could have gotten you nearly three years in Marysville. But with no felonies, you might be going home today.” He adjusted the knot of his already perfectly straight tie. “I say ‘might.’ Judge O’Neil’s mood tends to change with the barometer. The hotter and stickier it is, the crankier he becomes, and then his sentences aren’t as lenient as I would like. But the prosecutor’s office agreed to reduced charges, and I haven’t heard any further mention of the grand jury’s request.” His eyebrows lifted with anticipation.
“What’s the weather like outside today?” she asked, her palms damp and itchy.
He smiled. “It’s warm, but there’s a light breeze. It should have been lovely when the judge drove to town this morning.”
Abby felt some of her tension drain away. She slumped against the back of her chair. “Then I’m glad you didn’t return my phone call right away.”
He laughed. “Weather was pretty nasty last week, wasn’t it? I can’t say for sure, but I think that candlelight vigil a few weeks ago also had something to do with bringing this matter to a close. Both the county prosecutor and Judge O’Neil are up for reelection in November. That show of support outside the Justice Center made the Ohio newspapers. The AP also picked it up, and several TV stations ran the story on the nightly news. Nobody likes to see an Amish lady sitting in jail. Not under these circumstances.”
Abby could barely focus on the remaining preparations and instructions. Her mind filled instead with images of her kinner and what she would do first when she got home: Hug Jake and Laura until they squirm away in protest? Cook Daniel all his favorite foods for supper? Eat a piece of cheese that doesn’t come in individually wrapped slices? Take a long soak in my own bathtub? Maybe get down on my knees and thank a merciful God?
She entered the courtroom on wobbly legs when her case number was called. After she was seated at the defense table, she glanced briefly over the packed courtroom. But in that moment she saw the faces of the English midwives who had stood for hours on the sidewalk along with members of her district. She spotted several children she had delivered and then the weathered, lined face of her father. And she saw her beloved ehemann in the front row, looking weary but smiling.
Judge O’Neil cleared his throat, causing Abby to swifty focus on the stern-faced judge. “I have written affidavits that have been entered into evidence from just about everyone who knows you, Mrs. Graber. But it’s the statements from Dr. Weller, the responding paramedics, and the Medical Examiner that are most convincing in your case. It’s the sworn testimony of these gentlemen that your actions did not cause or in any way contribute to Mrs. Fisher’s death. In light of this evidence, I’m willing to amend the charges against you to one count of attempted unauthorized practice of medicine and one count of possession of a dangerous drug. Do you require a postponement of these proceedings to confer with legal counsel?”
“No, Your Honor,” said Abby, with her heart beating in her throat.
“Do you understand the new charges against you?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I do.”
“Then do you wish to enter a plea to these charges?”
A hush fell over the room. “I do. I am guilty, Your Honor.” Abigail spoke in a soft but clear voice.
Judge O’Neil dropped the statements back into the file. “Then I hereby sentence you to three hundred sixty-five days in jail, suspending all days but time already served in favor of three years probation. As a condition of your probation, you must prepare, have printed, and distribute a pamphlet outlining the risks of home births versus hospital deliveries to be used within the Amish community. Two different obstetrical medical personnel must approve this pamphlet for accuracy and a copy must be submitted to this court. In addition, you are hereby ordered to pay a five-thousand-dollar fine. In lieu of the cash amount, you may choose to assist a physician or licensed midwife during deliveries throughout the probationary period as community service. The key word being ‘licensed’ midwife or physician. You can accept no payment or gratuities during the entire three years.”
The gallery of onlookers broke into a round of applause. A few Amish men waved their hats.
“Silence!” The judge underscored his order with a rap of his gavel. “This is not a television show. I demand order in my courtroom.” After the crowd quieted, he refocused on Abby. “Do you understand the sentence I am about to impose, including the terms of your probation? Any noncompliance could result in the reinstatement of the full one-year jail sentence.”
She tried to sort things out, but her brain refused to cooperate. “Do you mean I don’t have to return to my cell?” She croaked like a frog.
“That is correct. Today’s proceedings will be transcribed and you will receive a copy outlining the terms of your probation in the mail. On the paper you’ll find the name and address of the Wayne County Probation Department. You must register by the date listed on the sheet to be assigned an officer to whom you’ll report.” He placed her file on the left-hand pile and was already reaching for another file on his right.
“Do you mean I can continue helping to deliver babies?”
The frosty expression he leveled over his wire-rimmed glasses did not coincide with the day’s mild weather. “Help to deliver, Mrs. Graber. ‘Help’ being the important word in that sentence. Under no circumstances are you to deliver a baby on your own. You are to wait until medical personnel arrive before entering a patient’s room. If no help is available, 9-1-1 is your sole option. And, of course, you are never to handle pharmaceuticals during any medical procedure again. Have I made myself perfectly clear about that?” He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes capable of boring holes through steel walls.
“Yes, Your Honor, I understand. I don’t intend to ever break the law again.” She had said that she understood, but when she turned around and gazed over the sea of friendly faces, she wasn’t so sure. Will I be allowed to walk out of the courtroom with Daniel? Do I have to wait until the court session concludes and everyone’s case is heard? Should I return to my cell to clean out my meager possessions and say goodbye to Rachelle?
Like a child afraid of the dark, Abby took a few steps as though walking in her sleep. Then her eyes met and held her ehemann’s. He was grinning so broadly, his face would probably be sore tomorrow.
“Come, Abby.” His beckoning wave broke her paralysis.
“You can join him, Mrs. Graber,” Mr. Blake said, prodding her with his shoulder. “A deputy will speak to you in the hallway about receiving your personal property.”
His nudge galvanized her to action. She crossed the short distance to Daniel’s waiting arms. He enveloped her and drew her tightly against his chest as though someone might try to pry her loose. Hands reached out to slap her back or squeeze her arm. One well-wisher patted her head as though she were a young child. Cradled against Daniel’s crisply pressed shirt, she heard welcoming greetings in both English and Deutsch.
“All right, folks, take your celebration out to the hallway. We have other cases still to hear. Bailiff, clear those people out of my courtroom.” Yet the judge’s voice had softened considerably when he delivered his final pronouncement in the case of Abigail Graber versus the State of Ohio.
The Grabers, their district members, and their English friends couldn’t comply fast enough. Abby was caught up in the tide that moved through the doorway, down the steps, and then spilled onto the street. All around her she heard words of encouragement and support. The Amish spoke in Deutsch so reporters couldn’t write down what they said. Daniel did his best to shelter her from some rather zealous newspaper people.
“What do you think about Judge O’Neil’s ruling?” one man asked.
“Are you ready to reveal who supplied the anti-hemorrhage drug, Abby?” A young woman in a short suit pushed a microphone toward her face.
“Are you anxious to get home, Mrs. Graber? What do you think you will do first?” This particular question from a petite redhead she chose to answer. She’d thought about nothing else since the meeting with her lawyer. “I believe I’ll close my eyes and thank God for His grace, and then I’ll rock in the porch swing with my children.”
Daniel hustled them through the crowd to a van idling across the street. When he rolled back the door, Abby saw her father and mother already inside. She climbed in, followed by her husband and several other neighbors. The van’s driver swung the door closed, blocking out more inane questions from the media. As he tried to shoo them away, Abby peered into her daed’s face. The ordeal seemed to have aged him a decade. “Welcome back to us, daughter. Your mamm and I have been worried about you.” He lifted his arms, garbed in his black Sunday coat, and she leaned gratefully into his embrace.
It was difficult to accept the hug within the vehicle without sitting on her father’s lap. But as clumsy as she looked, she felt utterly relieved. Her mother whispered endearments in her ear, commenting on her weight loss and what she planned to do about it. Daniel took the seat next to the driver as she settled into the space between her parents. Other folk wedged into the third row as the van crept carefully into Wooster traffic.
“Jake, Laura?” she asked, trying to hold back tears.
“Waiting at home with your schwester. No sense bringing them into the fuss,” said her mamm, still assessing her skinny frame. Abigail nodded in complete agreement.
The van soon turned onto the expressway, leaving the tall Victorian buildings of Wooster behind. However, before her mother had a chance to fill her in with the latest district news, the van exited the freeway onto a local township road. She leaned around her father for a better look. Parked close to the road on the side of someone’s driveway was a horse and buggy, oddly familiar.
“Is that our buggy?” she asked, staring out the window.
Daniel glanced over the seat as the van turned into the driveway. “It is, fraa. You and I will travel the rest of the way like a normal Amish couple. Once we get home, the kinner and Catherine will surround you for days, demanding your undivided attention. You and I have been separated for months. This is my chance to spend some time with my wife, alone.”
The van stopped and Daniel jumped out. When the driver opened the back door, she climbed over her mother into the late summer sunshine. Daniel picked her up like an English newlywed and carried her to their buggy. Then he went back for the animal’s feedbag and water bucket.
“There’s nothing wrong with Abigail’s legs!” The bishop hollered out the window, but his light blue eyes were twinkling.
Daniel waved as they drove off toward Shreve. All the way home they talked and laughed and whispered the endearments special to every couple in love. He even kissed her once or twice in his shy fashion. By the time the gelding trotted up their driveway, Abby thought she was ready to face the rest of her family.
But she’d been wrong. When Laura and Jake ran pell-mell from the house, with arms flailing and legs pumping, Abby felt the depth of her love rise up her throat and nearly cut off her air. She dropped to her knees to accept their embrace.
I’m home. At long last, I’m truly home.
“What do you see up there?” Nathan asked, stretching out on the quilt, flat on his back next to his son. He received only arm waving and leg kicking in response, but he didn’t mind. This was a good day to savor a lovely summer afternoon, fleeting as they soon would be. He stared skyward, seeing hawks soaring on wind currents known only to them. Down below, the still air hung heavy with humidity and the promise of rain. It was too hot to weed the garden or pick ripened vegetables for supper. Because the livestock all had plenty of food and water, he would wait until evening to clean out barn stalls.
Just above the two Fishers, a butterfly fluttered her colorfully patterned wings. Abraham laughed with glee. His tiny fist opened and closed as though trying to capture his first jar pet. Dressed in something Iris called the “onesie”—a combination garment of shirt and pants—he worked his arms and legs energetically. He would soon grow into the tiny trousers and plain muslin shirts his great-gefunden had been busy sewing.
Nathan rose up on one elbow, supporting his head with a palm. He watched the boppli with fascination, pride, and sheer joy. He will look like me some day. Maybe he’ll have my chin or jawline and, of course, my eyes. But he hoped the boy retained some of his mamm’s features so that Ruth would live on through him. Nathan brushed away a fly that dared to land on his son’s pudgy leg and offered one calloused finger for the child to grasp.
“What a grip!” he exclaimed. “I can’t wait to put a baseball bat between those strong fingers.”
“What makes you think he’ll take a shine to that silly game?” Iris stood with one hand on her hip, while the other clutched a basket of folded laundry to her side.
Nathan glanced up. His aunt’s face was filled with “smile wrinkles” as she called them. “Because he is his father’s son. A Fisher male grows up to love apple pie, pickled eggs, fire roasted corn, and baseball.”
Iris approached until she loomed above the quilt. “Nice to see that you finally ran out of chores to do, nephew.” She transferred the basket to her other hip.
“Didn’t run out. That’ll never happen around here. But with this heat, my helper and I decided to take a short break.”
“What, may I ask, has he been helping with?”
“Fly chasing. They don’t dare light when Abraham waves those arms around.”
“Well, if you two are hungry, come up to the house. I’ll fix you a sandwich and feed him his bottle. It’s about that time.”
“We’ll be up in a minute, danki.” After Iris headed for the house, Nathan paused to study his son a little while longer. All too soon he would be crawling and pulling himself up on the curtains. Then he’d be toddling after Iris, following her from room to room like a dog. Before too long he would venture into the barns and silos, discovering countless places to play or hide. A close eye would need to be kept on him then. Nathan dreaded Abraham’s first day of school without siblings to offer advice on what was to come. But he also yearned for the spring he could work with him in the fields, sticking young plants into each freshly dug hole. The years would pass quickly. And throughout each passing season, God would watch over little Abraham Fisher until he was little no longer. He would be there to guide and sustain him throughout his life until he drew his dying breath. Perhaps Ruth would watch over him too, proud of the son she’d given her life for. But for now, Nathan savored these perfect summer moments with the tiny helpless baby. His heart filled with so much love it might burst.
“Waaah!” Abraham’s empty belly signaled the end of father-son introspection. Nathan swept him into his arms, grabbed the quilt, and hurried toward the house. Inside the kitchen, Iris pulled the highchair to the table and placed jars of peas and creamed beef on the tray.
“I’ll feed him those,” he said, settling the boy in the chair.
Iris handed him a bib with a parade of dancing Holsteins. “Start with the peas first. Otherwise he’ll fill up on beef and potatoes and refuse the vegetables. He loves the stuff.”
Nathan opened the jar of peas, took a whiff, and made a face. “A brave man, my son. After his nap, I’ll take him to the barn in his stroller. He can shoo away flies while I milk the cows.”
Iris clucked her tongue. “He’ll have the tougher job of the two this time of year. I’ll be in the garden if he gets cranky. I need to pick the last tomatoes before they rot on the vine. Tomorrow it should be cooler, so I’ll have two days to finish canning before the Sabbath.” She set out their sandwiches, pickles, and iced tea.
“Speaking of which, we’re going to preaching service this Sunday… all three of us.” He took a long swallow of tea.
She cocked her head to one side. “That Mrs. Daly finally set you straight?”
So like her not to let a matter slide without comment. “Jah, I couldn’t argue when she resorted to Scripture to make her point.” He took a bite of turkey and then resumed spoon-feeding green mush into Abraham.
“I think you underestimated that Englischer, nephew, right from the start.”
He didn’t look up but had to smile. “Yep, I surely agree with you there.”
Catherine must have changed her mind a dozen times during the past few days. After her conversation with Daniel, she’d decided not to subject Isaiah to Sam Miller. Isaiah’s painful memories of his final school days probably had faded little over the years. Seeing a former nemesis could tear open old wounds.
However, she then considered that Mr. Miller was now an adult… no longer a taunting, troublemaking child. He might regret his hurtful behavior and would welcome a chance to make amends. Because Isaiah lived like a hermit, Sam’s opportunities to apologize had been few and far between. The seeking and acceptance of forgiveness would benefit both men’s characters.
But how can I be certain that’s how this day will play out? Sometimes cruel children simply grew into mean-spirited adults. Not everyone learned the lessons of love, kindness, and mercy. Would this jeopardize the progress Isaiah had already made in socializing with his family? How much do my own selfish desires to spend an evening away from the farm like any normal courting couple influence my decision to take him to this party?
And so she vacillated…back and forth until she practically drove herself crazy. By Saturday morning, Catherine realized she had no choice but to follow through as planned. Isaiah had come to the porch for his lunch bag bouncing the beach ball up and down with short precise taps with his wrist. He waved at her through the window and then practiced ball control all the way back to the cornfield. If she were to cancel the date now, she would be the one to hurt his feelings. And that she couldn’t bring herself to do.
After baking a double batch of peanut butter walnut bars and a batch of banana nut bread, Catherine dressed for the occasion with care. Her dress was a flattering shade of cornflower blue, and she donned a freshly starched kapp. Packing the desserts into a hamper, she grabbed her shawl and headed toward the barn before the Grabers returned from the pond. Daniel and Abby had taken their kinner swimming after lunch. Cold-plate suppers waited in the fridge for whenever they became hungry.
Ten paces from the porch, she realized there would be no chickening out. Isaiah waited next to the open carriage with a clean blue shirt, straw hat, and a toothy grin. He’d put on sneakers as she had and had placed a quilt in the buggy for cool evening breezes. He clutched a bouquet of daisies, larkspur, and gladioli in one massive hand. Boots sat at his feet, patiently waiting to see if she would attend the party too. She wagged her tail and then lifted her paw when Catherine drew near.
“Evenin’, Cat,” said Isaiah, tipping his hat. He held out the massive bouquet.
“Evening. Danki for the flowers,” she said with a shy smile. She set the flowers on the seat and bent to shake Boots’ paw. Isaiah had tucked one daisy into her collar.
“Home,” he ordered when Catherine straightened up. Boots looked from one to the other, and then she trotted toward the path through the forest, wagging her tail.
Too bad we can’t follow the dog back to the cabin. We could eat the desserts sitting on the bank of the river, with only annoying mosquitoes to contend with, she thought climbing into the buggy. By the time Boots reached the cabin, they would be halfway to the Millers. Along the way, Isaiah whistled without an ounce of anxiety as Catherine worried, fidgeted, and perspired.
“Lord, give me strength,” she whispered when the buggy turned up their hosts’ driveway. They parked at the end of a long row of buggies and approached a party already in full swing. Catherine placed her desserts on the snack table under a canopy while Isaiah studied the action from the sidelines. Two volleyball matches were underway, with at least a dozen people per side. After rejoining him, she watched too, waving at a few acquaintances that called out her name. Finally, she touched his sleeve to get his attention. “Play?” she asked, secretly hoping he would decline the idea. Then they could head straight for the bonfire, roast a few marshmallows, and go home.
“Jah,” he said, angling his head toward the right-hand game.
Catherine assessed their play, noticing the sides were mismatched, with one team holding an unfair advantage.
Isaiah rolled up his sleeves as they approached the players. With far less enthusiasm, she called out, “Hello, everyone. I’m Catherine and this is Isaiah. Just so that everybody knows, he’s deaf and doesn’t talk much, but he plays volleyball pretty well.”
“Catherine, Isaiah, come join our side!” Several members of the weaker team called out a warm welcome.
They took places in the back row and the game resumed. Catherine’s description of “pretty well” turned out to be woefully inadequate. Isaiah played the game as though he’d practiced every day for years. Catherine? Not so well. He served and returned, volleyed and spiked, bumped and saved, and more than once rescued her feeble hits by diving for the ball and sending it soaring over the net. He sacrificed the knees of his trousers to keep the ball in play. Their team not only caught up, but surged ahead and won by five points.
Isaiah mastered game strategy the way only the athletically gifted are able to do. He and the man on his right developed and perfected the two-man spike setup that led to their team’s victory. By the end of the third game Catherine and most of the other women were breathless. “Let’s take a snack break,” shouted one girl, while the others followed her away from the net.
As the crowd wandered toward the tables under the tent or in the shade, Isaiah’s impromptu partner lingered behind. “Hi, I’m Sam Miller,” he said to Catherine, while mouthing his name wordlessly to Isaiah.
She blinked several times. This is Sam Miller? The tyrant who had caused hurt feelings and a curtailed school career?
Sam stepped forward, tipped his hat to her, and then shook Isaiah’s hand.
If Isaiah remembered Sam, he hid it well. He pumped the man’s hand heartily and slapped him on the back, mimicking one of their game-winning setups.
“Hopefully we’ll play again before dark,” said Sam. “Let’s get something to eat. I’ll introduce you two to my fiancée, Becka.” He pointed at the tent, rubbed his stomach, and grinned.
Catherine hooked her arm through Isaiah’s elbow. “We’ll join you in a minute, Sam. I look forward to meeting Becka.”
The heartless tormentor seemed to have matured into a fine man, but she wanted to make sure Isaiah was prepared for the social frenzy. Amish folks tend to talk fast when they first get together—maybe because they have been saving up things to say. She looked up into Isaiah’s face. He was grinning down at their linked arms. He pulled his arm loose only to snake it around her waist.
The gesture stopped her fluttering heart for several seconds, especially when he brushed a kiss across the top of her kapp.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. How could she explain that such displays of affection weren’t appropriate between courting couples unless an engagement had been announced? She repeated the word “no” and shrugged away from him. “Let’s eat.” She angled her head toward the canopy.
He nodded, with disappointment and confusion evident on his face. They walked to the rapidly filling picnic tables. She hoped they could get in line, fill their plates from the dessert selections, and find a quiet spot to enjoy the treats.
But her fond hopes were not to be. As soon as they reached the tent, young people surrounded them…and every one of them wanted to talk to Isaiah.
“You were great in that game. Next time I want you on my team.”
“Where has Catherine Yost been hiding you all these years? Welcome back.”
“Isaiah, I’m Becka Morgan, Sam’s fiancée. I’m glad you joined us tonight and hope you and Catherine will come back soon.”
“Do you remember me? I was in your class at school. I sat two rows behind.”
“Isaiah, my grossdawdi is hard of hearing too. I’m getting pretty good communicating with him,” said a well-intentioned girl, speaking loud enough to rattle wind chimes.
All people under the tent canopy were well intentioned that night, but the end result was still disastrous. Some folks talked loudly, thinking that would make a difference, while many tried to illustrate their words with unrecognizable pantomimes. So many vied for the attention of the man who had spent his days in the company of deer, chipmunks, and his faithful dog. Catherine watched the goings-on with increasing alarm, helpless to intervene.
Isaiah valiantly tried to follow their gestures and read lips, but the situation turned bizarre—too many people, talking too fast, using words he didn’t know. After several minutes, red blotches appeared on his face and neck, while beads of perspiration formed across his forehead and upper lip. Still he tried to figure out what they were saying, balancing a plate of brownies in one hand.
“Please excuse us,” said Catherine. “Give us a chance to eat our desserts. There’s too many of you talking at once.” She grasped his arm and broke through the crowd, her own plate precariously angled.
“Sorry, Catherine,” called Becka Morgan. “We’re just a little excited because we haven’t seen Isaiah in a long time.”
She nodded in response but didn’t turn around. They kept moving toward the bonfire. Catherine would have thought he would be grateful she had rescued him from the throng, but his response was quite the opposite. He not so subtly tugged his arm back from hers as they walked. Once they reached the campfire, he perched on an upended log instead of taking a bench made for two. He concentrated on eating his plate of snacks while she nibbled on a dry Rice Krispie bar.
Fortunately, no one else arrived to roast marshmallows. Catherine stared into the dancing flames of the bonfire, trying to determine her next course of action. Her appetite had vanished. After a few bites, she set her plate in the grass for foraging skunks and raccoons to find later. When Isaiah finished eating, he threw his paper plate into the blaze. She reached for his hand.
He shook his head, fixed her with a dark look on par with poison, and said succinctly, “Home, Cat. Home.”