I reach her first, drop to my knees at her side. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”
When she raises her head and looks at me, her eyes are glazed and far away. “Noah…” she whispers. “He was here. Just a moment ago. I saw him.” She looks around. “Noah…”
Tomasetti kneels beside her. “Chloe, honey, did you take any medication or pills?”
She looks away. “It doesn’t matter. I just want to be with them. Noah and my mom.”
Locating her handbag, he upends it on the grass. A wallet, makeup bag, hairbrush and, finally, a brown prescription bottle spill out. He snatches up the bottle, shakes it. “Empty.”
I grab my lapel mike, put out the emergency call for the ambulance. “Ten fifty-two. Ten eighteen. Expedite.”
“Noah wanted to marry me,” Chloe slurs. “But I said no and he died before I could tell him I’d changed my mind. Why did that have to happen?” she asks. “He never knew.”
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”
Chloe begins to cry. “Tell my dad I love him.… He worries all the time.…”
Grimacing, Tomasetti looks at me over the top of her head. “Let’s get her to where the Explorer is parked. Speed things up.” Even as he says the words, he lifts the girl into his arms, carrying her as if she weighs nothing.
We’re midway to the gate when I see the ambulance pull in behind my Explorer. “Hurry,” I say and we break into a run.
*
Three days later:
It’s the end of my shift and I’m thinking about heading to the farm, where Tomasetti is about to grill T-bone steaks and break the seal on a bottle of Cabernet. Not for the first time in the last few days, I’m reminded of how blessed I am to be loved by a good man and how lucky I am to know that we have a bright future to look forward to.
I’ve been thinking of Chloe Atherton on and off since Tomasetti and I found her at the Amish cemetery. She’d ingested all of her mother’s painkillers. Luckily, there had been only five pills left. Her condition had been dicey for a few hours, but she pulled through. Her father didn’t let her out of his sight the entirety of the two days she was in the hospital. There’s no doubt in my mind his love for her is strong enough to get them through the challenges they face in the coming weeks and months.
On the outskirts of Painters Mill, instead of turning north toward the farm, which is located just outside Wooster, I make a detour and head east toward Charm. Ten minutes later I turn into the long lane of the Fisher farm, park adjacent to the barn, and take the sidewalk to the house.
Miriam Fisher answers a moment later and greets me in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Guder ovet.” Good evening.
The aroma of frying bologna wafts through the open door and, for an instant, I’m transported back to my childhood, where fried bologna sandwiches were not only a staple, but a treat. “I hope I’m not disturbing your ovet-essa,” I tell her. Your evening meal.
“I’m still frying and Willis is washing up, so I have a few minutes.” Eyeing me guardedly, she opens the door wider. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Would you like something to eat?
I smile. “I’m tempted, but no thank you.”
“Come in.”
I follow her to the kitchen, stopping just inside the doorway while she goes to the stove and turns bologna sizzling in a copper skillet. “What brings you to our home this evening, Kate Burkholder?”
I tell her about Chloe Atherton without revealing the girl’s identity or mentioning the incident with the pills. “Your son loved her, Miriam. He’d asked her to marry him. She was going to say yes, but she never got the chance.”
She sets her hand against her stomach as if in pain. “Such a tragic, sad thing.”
“She was devastated when Noah died, and terrified of raising the baby on her own.”
She clucks her tongue. “Poor child. Can’t blame her for being afraid, I guess.”
“She’s going to officially relinquish her parental rights so Baby Doe can be adopted.”
Miriam goes back to her skillet, pushing the bologna around with a wooden spoon, but I can tell her attention is focused on me.
“Miriam, you understand that Noah is the father,” I tell her.
The spoon stops. Without looking at me, she turns off the burner, sets down the spoon, and leans heavily against the stove. “I know. Mein Gott.” My God. “I know.”
“I spoke to the social worker a couple of hours ago. She’s still trying to find a permanent adoptive home for the baby. Since you and Willis are the child’s biological grandparents…” I’m not sure how to finish the sentence, so I let the words dangle.
Finally, she turns to me, her mouth open and quivering. Tears shimmer in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “I’d like to meet this girl. The mother.”