Rebekah leaped out of the trough. “Come, Leah. Let’s go clean up. We’ll use the pump by the house.”
Ethan helped Leah to her feet. “Should I?” she asked. “I don’t want to get you all in trouble with your parents.”
“Charity and Mama have gone into town, and Papa is working with Opa in a field far away from the house. Come and clean up,” Ethan urged her.
At the house, Rebekah told Elizabeth and Oma about the water fight, while Leah finished washing up at the kitchen sink what she hadn’t cleaned off at the outside pump.
“Do you want to change into clean clothes?” Oma asked Leah.
“This is fine. Really,” she added when the older woman looked skeptical. Leah didn’t want to be a bother. “I can stop by my apartment on my way back to the inn. I’ve been away too long as it is. Mrs. Stoltz is expecting me to bring fresh vegetables in time for supper. Thanks anyway.”
“As you wish,” Oma said. Her face was thin, worn by years of hard work. Her eyes were the palest blue. She looked at Leah with kindness. “My grandchildren like you very much, Leah. And I have always found them to be very good judges of character.”
Surprised by Oma’s words, Leah offered a shy smile. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“You are welcome, Leah,” Oma answered.
With sunlight streaming through the kitchen window and bathing her face in gentle light, Oma didn’t seem stern or formidable to Leah. In some ways, she looked like Leah’s grandmother, caring and compassionate. Leah felt a lump of longing in her throat. “I have to go,” she said.
Leah hurried outside and down the porch steps. Rebekah and Ethan were waiting for her by her car.
Rebekah took Leah’s hand. “You’re fun, Leah.”
“You’re fun too.”
“I love you,” Rebekah added, hugging Leah.
Leah’s eyes filled with moisture. “I love you back,” she told the child.
In another two weeks, Leah’s mother would be coming, and Leah would be leaving Nappanee, possibly for good. With time closing in on her, she decided that she wanted to see Charity and Rebekah more often. The following Friday after work, she screwed up her courage and drove back out to the farm—this time, to stay for a long visit. She didn’t care how much Mr. Longacre scowled at her. She wasn’t going to be intimidated.
Leah drove down the road talking to herself and building up her courage. In the distance, flashes of blue light caught her eye. She squinted. In the shimmering heat from the asphalt, a mass of cars and people took shape. Red lights flickered among the blue. The activity seemed to be close to the produce stand. Leah’s heart leaped into her throat. She pushed down on the accelerator. The car sped forward. Leah saw police cars everywhere. And ambulances. And emergency medical technicians in uniforms. Something had happened. Something terrible.
SEVENTEEN
Leah had to park on the shoulder of the road, yards away from the roadside disaster, because of the crowd. She leaped from the car and started running, stopping only when a police officer forced her to. “Can’t go closer, miss,” he warned.
“But they’re my friends.” She strained to see around him and the knot of people. Half the produce stand was fractured. Splintered wood and smashed vegetables and fruit lay scattered on the ground. The scene was one of total devastation. Leah felt sick. “What happened?”
“You’ll have to step back, miss,” the officer said firmly, not bothering to answer her question. “We’ve got injured people here.”
“Please, let me through,” Leah pleaded.
The officer turned to continue directing people away.
Frantically, Leah grabbed a bystander. “Do you know what happened?”
A plump, middle-aged man wore a grim expression. “Some guy lost control of his pickup truck, swerved and plowed into the stand. My wife and I were standing on the other side or we would have been wiped out too.”
“Did it just happen?”
“Maybe twenty minutes ago. They think he was drinking, or maybe had a heart attack at the wheel. He never slowed down, just smashed into them.”
Leah craned her neck and saw a blue truck with an out-of-state license plate, nosedown in a ditch in the field behind the stand. The split-rail fence had been snapped like toothpicks, and rows of corn had been flattened. With a start, Leah realized that the truck was on Longacre property. She pushed her way through the onlookers and edged around to the back of the area. A group of Amish kids, many sobbing and holding on to one another, were huddled on makeshift seats of cardboard cartons and plastic baskets. Some were holding towels to their faces, arms and legs. Police officers and rescue workers were trying their best to comfort them.
Anxiously Leah scanned the group for familiar faces. Rebekah. Where’s Rebekah? Leah tried to get closer, but another officer stopped her. “Sorry, miss. You’ll have to stand back.”
“I know these people. They’re my friends.”
“We have injuries. I can’t let you in there.”
“Who got hurt?” Leah asked. The officer wasn’t listening. He had turned to talk to a rescue worker.
Frantic and frustrated, Leah looked around and down. For the first time, she noticed smears of blood on the ground. Shoving past the police officer, she ran toward the Amish kids. She was on her knees in front of one of Rebekah’s friends, Karen. “Tell me who’s hurt.” Leah took Karen’s hands. “Please. Where’s Rebekah Longacre?”
Karen looked at Leah, a mix of shock and horror on her face. “The ambulance took her.”
Leah felt queasy. “Was she … is she okay?”
Karen shrugged just as Leah felt the police officer’s beefy hand on her shoulder. “I told you to stay back,” the man barked.
Shakily Leah stood, fighting the urge to scream. “Where did the ambulance go?”
The officer said, “Nappanee Hospital emergency room.”
Leah ran back to her car. Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly get the key into the ignition. When she did get the engine started, she gunned it and made a U-turn in the middle of the blocked highway, heading back toward town. All the way there, she prayed, “Dear God, please let Rebekah be okay. Please!”
Leah raced into the emergency room. In one corner she saw the entire Longacre family—from little Nathan to the grandparents. In their quaint Amish clothing, surrounded by the hightech decor of the hospital lobby, they struck a discordant note. Seeing Leah, Ethan came quickly to face her.
Leah grabbed his shirt. “How is she?”
“We do not know yet,” Ethan said grimly. “We only just got here ourselves, and the doctors haven’t told us anything.”
“I was on my way to your place when I saw … I saw—” Leah’s sobs choked off her words.
“We were working in the fields when we heard the bell. Mama rang it and we came running.”
Leah remembered the big bell that hung on the front porch. It was rung for meals and for emergencies. When it sounded in the middle of the day, all the Amish came quickly to see what was wrong. “Oh, Ethan, this is so horrible! Why did it have to happen?”
“Come,” he said. “Sit with us.”
She followed him to where his father and grandfather stood, their eyes closed, heads bowed. The family had formed a tight circle with chairs, and Tillie Longacre sat ramrod straight, clutching Oma’s hand. Charity, Simeon, and Elizabeth were slumped, their cheeks streaked with tears. Sarah, looking very pregnant, held baby Nathan. Her husband paced the floor.
Leah felt like an intruder, but she couldn’t be shut out now. She wouldn’t allow it. She crouched in front of Ethan’s mother. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Longacre,” Leah whispered. “Really, really sorry.”
“My child is in God’s hands now. He will care for her.”
Ethan took Leah to one side, and soon Charity joined them. Leah told Charity what she’d heard at the scene of the accident, then asked, “Do you know anything else?”
“Rebekah had her back turned and didn’t see the tr
uck coming. She never had time to jump out of the way.” Charity’s voice cracked.
“You mean the truck ran over her?” Leah thought she was going to be ill.
“We are not sure, but that’s the way it looks.”
“Then she could be … she could be—”
“Do not say the words,” Charity interrupted. “Do not even think them.”
Leah turned back toward Ethan. “Rebekah’s got to be all right. She has to be.”
“The produce stand was well made,” Charity offered. “It was strong and sturdy. Perhaps it shielded Rebekah somehow.”
“Wood is no match for metal,” Ethan said bitterly.
All afternoon, the lobby filled with Amish as word spread about Rebekah. Through the sliding glass doors, Leah saw a parking lot full of dark buggies and horses. The men came to Jacob, the women to Tillie. Leah heard one man say, “We are all giving blood, Jacob. Your little one may have need of it.”
Leah watched as they rolled up their sleeves and followed nurses down the hall to the lab. She stood. “Maybe I can give blood too,” she told Ethan, starting down the hall.
He followed her quickly. “You do not have to do this. There will be enough who give.”
“Don’t you want my blood? Is it too English?” His face colored, and she regretted her words. “Forgive me, Ethan. I didn’t mean it. I just want to do something for Rebekah.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Leah. I know how you care about my sister.”
At the lab, Leah collected paperwork from a technician and began filling it out. When she got to the box requesting information about diseases or illnesses she may have had, she stopped writing. Cancer. The word jumped off the page at her. Her blood ran cold. She took it over to the tech. “Excuse me, but what if I’ve had one of these problems?”
“Then you can’t donate blood.”
“But why? I’m sure the problem’s gone.”
“Sorry. That’s the rule. We can’t take a chance of passing on serious medical conditions to others.” He reached for the paper.
Leah wadded it up, tossed it on the desk and fled the area.
Ethan caught up with her in the hallway. “Stop, Leah.”
Crying, she struggled to get away.
“It is not your fault that you had cancer,” Ethan said. “Rebekah has plenty of blood donors. Do not concern yourself.”
“It’s not fair. It isn’t, Ethan! There’s nothing I can do for her. Nothing.”
He held her while she cried. Finally he fumbled for his big handkerchief and wiped her cheeks. “Come. I must get back to the lobby in case the doctor comes to tell us something.”
Leah went with him to the lobby, where a doctor in a white lab coat was standing with the family. Flecks of dried blood splattered his shoe coverings. He looked grim, and Leah felt her mouth go cotton dry. He was saying, “We’ve finally gotten your daughter stabilized and moved up to intensive care.”
“How is she?” Jacob Longacre asked, his voice thick with emotion.
“In all honesty, sir, she’s in critical condition, with massive internal injuries. Right now, she’s comatose and on a respirator.”
“But she is alive,” Tillie Longacre said.
The doctor nodded.
“May we see her?” Mr. Longacre asked.
“Yes. ICU is on the third floor. The nurses up there will take you to her.” The doctor put a hand on Mrs. Longacre’s shoulder. “We’re doing everything medically possible for her.”
Leah realized that the doctor didn’t sound hopeful at all. Mrs. Longacre held her head high. Her eyes were diamond bright with tears. “We will go to her.” Calmly, she walked arm in arm with her husband to the elevator, and the rest of the family followed like ducklings. Leah fell into step beside Ethan, hardly daring to take a breath, terrified that she might use up all the oxygen in the room and not leave enough for anybody else.
In the ICU area, a nurse took the group into a glass-walled cubicle where Rebekah lay on a bed, hooked to wires and machines. Green blips trailed across the faces of monitors. Electronic beeps punctuated the silence. And the ominous hiss of the respirator spoke of the fragility of Rebekah’s life. Leah stared mutely. Rebekah looked like a fractured china doll. Her face was bruised and her arms were in splints. The tube from the respirator protruded from her mouth, held in place by crisscrosses of papery white tape. An IV bag hung from a pole, a long tube running down to the needle inserted under the skin of her hand. Her tiny body hardly made a mound beneath the sheets.
Seeing Rebekah lying so still and unmoving was more than Leah could bear. Feeling lightheaded, she held on to the wall with one hand and moved down the hallway, hoping she wouldn’t pass out. Just when she thought she wasn’t going to make it, she felt Ethan’s strong arm around her waist. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
“Sit.” He led her to a waiting area and settled her into a chair. “Take deep breaths,” he told her.
Leah gulped air and then, finding her voice, managed to say, “Go on back and be with your family.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“Please, go on. Your place is with them.”
Ethan rose. “I’ll be back soon.”
Leah watched him hurry away. She hugged her arms and rocked back and forth in the chair. Outside the window of the waiting area, sunlight beat down. She could feel the heat through the glass. Outside, it was summer and the air was hot. But inside, Leah was cold. Very, very cold.
EIGHTEEN
Throughout the long night, Rebekah clung to life. The family was allowed to visit her in ten-minute intervals twice an hour, so everyone took shifts, going in two by two. One of the nurses explained that although Rebekah was in a coma, she might be able to hear, so she suggested that they say positive, encouraging things. “Let her know you love her,” the nurse told them.
Leah staked out a place on one of the utilitarian sofas in the waiting area. She didn’t care whether the entire Longacre family wanted her around or not. She wasn’t going to leave with Rebekah’s life hanging in the balance.
Whenever it was Ethan’s turn to see his little sister, Leah went with him. She slipped her hand into Rebekah’s and squeezed gently. The child’s skin felt cool. “Hi,” Leah whispered, close to Rebekah’s ear. “It’s Leah, your old hospital roommate. Can you hear me? Please wake up, Rebekah.”
Only the hiss of the respirator answered Leah.
“You’ve got to wake up, Rebekah.” Leah bit her lip, trying to keep her voice low and calm. “Who’s going to take care of your chickens? You’re the only one who knows how to really and truly take care of them.”
The green line showing Rebekah’s heartbeat marched unchanging across the monitor.
“You know I can’t tell one chicken from another. How will I know which one is mine if you don’t tell me?” Leah asked.
Leah felt Ethan’s hand on her shoulder. He crouched beside her, enveloping Leah’s hand in his. He whispered something in German in Rebekah’s ear. “Come back to us, little one,” he added in English. “Do you not know how we love you? Can you not see how we want you to smile at us?”
His quiet voice and simple pleas practically unraveled Leah. “I’ll take you for a ride in my car,” she promised the child on the bed. “Wouldn’t you like that? You can ride up front and wave at all your friends.”
“Little sister,” Ethan said. “I will let you hold the buggy reins. I am sorry I have always told you no before. But now they will be yours. I will ride beside you and you can make old Bud step high.”
Their ten minutes were up. Rebekah had neither moved nor responded. Shakily Leah left with Ethan and returned to the waiting room. Leah slumped into a chair and buried her face in her hands. “When we were in the hospital together last December, it was different,” she told Ethan, “Rebekah was sick, but she could talk and smile. Now she’s completely helpless. I’m afraid.”
“Many people
are praying for her,” Ethan said. “There is a constant prayer vigil, day and night.”
The news comforted Leah. And it gave her hope. Surely, if so many prayers were being said on Rebekah’s behalf, how could a loving God turn a deaf ear to them?
———
Throughout the next day, Amish friends and neighbors came to check on Rebekah and comfort her family. Women brought food-filled baskets so that the Longacres would not have to buy food in the hospital cafeteria. Church elders came, somber men in dark suits, holding their hats in their hands, offering quiet prayers with Jacob and his sons. Leah watched it all, like a parade that she didn’t belong to and couldn’t get in step with. She knew she stuck out in her English clothes. But she couldn’t leave. And she felt that Ethan wanted her with him. They talked little but simply sat in the corner together, their arms and shoulders touching. It comforted Leah to be near him. She hoped her presence offered him some measure of comfort too.
Jonah arrived around noon. He was dressed Amish, and Leah realized it was the only time she’d seen him dressed that way. He looked big and rawboned, ill at ease in the confines of the hospital. Charity went to him, and they stared mutely into each other’s eyes. Jonah did not go in to see Rebekah, but when Charity returned from a visit, he sat with her, shielding her protectively with his large body.
Several doctors came to check on Rebekah: an orthopedist, a neurologist, a critical care physician, and an internist. Each doctor told the family the same thing. “No change. The next forty-eight hours will be her most critical.”
That evening, Jacob sent his exhausted parents home. “Your collapse will not bring Rebekah back to us,” he told Opa. And to Sarah, he said, “Go get some rest, daughter. You must think now of your own child.” Baby Nathan had been taken away earlier by friends who would care for him until the family returned home.
In the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep on the lumpy sofa, Leah ventured down the quiet halls to the elevator. On the ground floor, she found a small chapel, dimly lit and as quiet as a tomb. Sighing, she slid into one of the short rows of pews and bowed her head. Her mind went blank. She wasn’t sure what to say to God anymore. She’d already made a hundred promises to him if he’d only make Rebekah well. Now, in this place dedicated to prayer, Leah felt empty and desolate.