Abigail's New Hope (The Wayne County Series) Page 2

  The Levi Yoder farmstead was one of the few that didn’t conform to the usual standard of Amish orderliness, but probably not from lack of trying on the part of the young couple. After a certain number of years, paint and caulk cannot repair old, dry-rotted wood or crumbling foundations. However, she wasn’t here to take photographs for Country Living magazine. She had a job to do.

  As the buggy rolled to a stop and she set the brake, Nathan Fisher came running from the house. He bounded down the sagging steps and grabbed her horse’s bridle. “Please go on inside. I’ll tend to your horse. My wife’s hurting real bad.”

  Even before she heard the ominous words his blanched complexion terrified Abby. “Just turn my mare out into your paddock and don’t fuss with her because I might need you. And bring in the case of bottled water when you come.” She hefted her bag of supplies out of the buggy and ran to the house.

  Abby set the bag on the table and punched 9-1-1 into her cell phone. When the dispatcher came on the line, she identified herself, gave the address and explicit directions, and stated that a woman in labor needed an ambulance. Her hands shook as she held the phone next to her ear. If the situation beyond the closed door turned out to be anything less than an emergency, she would take the blame for the call. The dispatcher repeated the information, stated that an ambulance was on the way, and, blessedly, allowed her to hang up instead of keeping her tied up with unnecessary details. The dispatcher offered no approximation of the estimated time of arrival. Next, Abby scrubbed her hands and arms at the sink as quickly and thoroughly as possible.

  Drying her hands on a paper towel, she glanced around the Fisher kitchen. Vandals wreaking mischief or a storybook cyclone usually caused such havoc. Cupboards stood open, water had been spilled between the sink and the stove, soiled linens lay in a heap near the steps to the cellar, and someone had knocked over a box of Cheerios across the counter. Never had she seen spilled food in an Amish home that hadn’t immediately been cleaned up.

  For a moment her eyes locked on the cereal with bizarre fascination. Then the piercing wail of a woman broke her paralysis, and she grabbed her bag and ran in the direction of the sobs. Inside the bedroom she found a woman in advanced stages of labor. Sweat ran down the woman’s nose and cheeks like spring rain. The room, hot and airless, held the coppery sweet scent of blood.

  “I’m the midwife, Abigail Graber. What’s your given name, Mrs. Fisher?” she asked, trying to engage the woman in conversation.

  The woman’s complexion was the color of skim milk, her kapp was on the floor, and her damp hair clung to her scalp like a helmet. “Ruth,” she managed to say between clenched teeth.

  “I called the doctor, but he’s at an emergency in Ashland, so then I called the paramedics—no arguments. I’m not licensed to deliver babies by my lonesome.” While Abby rattled on, she pulled off the quilts and sheets that were covering Mrs. Fisher, as though keeping her warm was of chief importance. Once Abby had stripped off the layers down to the woman’s nightgown, her words and breath froze in her throat.

  There was a lot of blood—too much. It pooled on the sodden sheet, trapped by the protective plastic sheeting Ruth probably placed atop the mattress cover when her labor first began.

  Ruth dug her fingernails into the bed with the next contraction, while Abby sped back to the kitchen, pressing the redial button on her cell phone.

  Nathan Fisher was just walking into the kitchen carrying the bottled water. She thrust the phone toward him. “When they answer, tell them we need that ambulance right now. Give them the address again and tell them that your wife is hemorrhaging. Then bring the phone back into the bedroom.”

  “Will do,” he said with a shaky voice. All color drained from his face. He dropped the case on the counter and grabbed for her phone.

  Abby ran back to the bedroom. Ruth lay back against the pillows. Her dark eyes seemed to have sunk lower in her pale face. “I’m going to examine you now,” Abby said, forcing a pleasant smile. “We need to deliver this baby sooner rather than later.” She went about her routine—one used hundreds of times—and tried to maintain professional control. Panicking this woman further would serve no purpose.

  Despite the feigned attempt at reassurance, Ruth Fisher had not been fooled. After Abby checked to make sure the baby wasn’t in a breech position, Ruth grabbed her arm. “Save my baby. Don’t worry about me.” Her words were little more than a hoarse whisper. “This was my choice and I have no regrets. But save my baby so it wasn’t all for naught.”

  This was no time to decipher cryptic messages. If the placenta tore away from the uterine wall in just the right place at just the right time, a woman could lose enough blood within fifteen minutes to die. Abby believed that was what was happening. Anxiety constricted her chest so that her breathing was almost as difficult as Ruth’s. “This baby must come now, Ruth, so I want you to push with all your might.”

  She did as she was told, somehow mustering enough energy to send the infant into the world. Abby caught the baby and lifted him away from the sodden sheets. Miraculously, he breathed on his own and squalled with strong lungs the moment she cleaned the mucus from his nose and mouth. “A healthy baby boy, Ruth. You have a son.”

  Abby held the boy where Ruth could see, and for a fleeting moment a smile flickered across the woman’s face. Then her complexion blanched to the color of ash, and she lapsed into unconsciousness. There was no request to cradle her son or comments about his size or boisterous cries. Ruth’s breathing grew thin and raspy while her blood continued to pool.

  Wrapping a receiving blanket around the infant, she passed him to Nathan, who stood helplessly in the doorway. “Will my wife be all right?” he gasped.

  Abby couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m going to stay with her. You make sure the baby keeps warm. Watch for the ambulance at the front window and holler when you see them pull into the driveway.” He hurried away, carrying the baby like a fragile porcelain ornament while Abby returned to Ruth’s side.

  Without hesitation she pulled out a prefilled syringe from her bag and injected Ruth with a powerful drug to stop hemorrhaging…a drug she wasn’t supposed to have. But if anything could save this thin, dark-haired woman’s life, it would be the medicine in the syringe, entrusted to her by the retiring nurse-midwife. And then she prayed. She prayed God would save this young woman with every ounce of faith she possessed.

  Abby tried everything she could to stem the tide, but God had His own plans for Ruth Fisher and her son—and for Abigail Graber, for that matter. By the time the paramedics arrived ten minutes later, she could no longer discern a pulse or even a wisp of breath. They flew into the room and went to work with clamps, defibrillators, and powerful drugs. One of the paramedics came to the kitchen to check the baby’s lungs, heart rate, and airways and pronounced him sound. Then Abby bathed the infant at the kitchen sink and wrapped him in a clean blanket, while Nathan stood by helplessly as the medical personnel exhausted every heroic avenue to save his wife. Finally, a paramedic exited the bedroom with an expression that required few words. “We’re sorry, Mr. Fisher. We did everything we could, but she’s gone. We’re going to call the sheriff’s department now.”

  Nathan looked almost as pale as his wife. “May I sit with her?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the paramedic nodded. “Of course. Go on in, sir. We’re very sorry for your loss.”

  Later, Abby sat at the scarred oak table with the new father and filled out the birth certificate. Ruth had selected the name Rachel for a girl and Andrew for a boy, but Nathan said he favored Abraham—the patriarch of the Jewish people. “It is a strong name, and a boy without a mamm will need to be strong, so it is fitting,” he declared.

  Someone from the sheriff’s department and the coroner arrived to ask questions and to fill out more paperwork. Abby provided what information she knew about the Fisher situation, which was a hair more than nothing. Nathan, in stupefied shock, answered the deputy’s questions using one-or tw
o-word responses. They had to ask him twice if he wished to ride to the hospital with his wife—his late wife—to have the baby examined. At first he refused, but then it occurred to him that the midwife would soon leave, and he would be left alone in the house with a hungry infant. In the end he agreed to ride to the hospital and allow his son to be admitted for observation. Before he left, he wrote down the name and address of his aunt, his closest relative in their new community, and handed it to Abby. She assured him she would explain to her what had happened, and also inform the bishop of his district, because the Fisher farm lay just beyond the boundary line in a different district from hers. Nathan would need help during the coming days and weeks with both his home and with young Abraham.

  Abby couldn’t have agreed more with his name selection. The seven-pound boy had fought his way into the world with a strong heart and good set of lungs. He might have been born with poor color, showing little enthusiasm to breathe, but Abraham Fisher hadn’t needed the paramedic’s bag of oxygen. His face had scrunched up and released a howl at birth, and he wailed while being prepared for transport to the hospital. She had expected Nathan to fawn and pat and utter soothing baby talk while the EMTs were hooking up monitors, but he did none of that. The man was in shock, pure and simple. He’d changed from a proud, expectant father to a widower and sole parent within a of couple hours.

  Abby washed up, changed into the clean dress she always kept with her supplies, and wrapped her soiled smock to throw on the burn pile back home. Before leaving she swept up the spilled Cheerios so they wouldn’t draw ants in Nathan’s absence. On legs turned to rubber, she found her horse in the paddock and hitched her to the buggy. Then she drove to visit Nathan’s aunt.

  Iris Fisher turned out to be a kindly soul—a widow with several grown and married sons. Without hesitation the woman said she would pack a bag and move to Nathan’s home to prepare for the baby’s return from the hospital. She assured Abby she would stay as long as needed.

  “That might be quite some time,” Abby said impulsively.

  “Jah, I suppose so, but he has no one else in the area for family. My sons live with their wives on my farm. They can manage without me while I care for Nathan and his son.”

  “Danki,” said Abby, for lack of something better.

  The aunt offered a weak smile. “Thank you, Abigail.” Iris walked Abby to the door but caught her arm before she could leave. “Do you know what? I never met Nathan’s wife. They moved here several months ago, but she never seemed to be home when I stopped by to visit. Or, at least, that’s what he told me. I couldn’t attend their wedding in Indiana, so if I ever do meet Ruth Fisher, it will be in the hereafter.”

  Abby stood in the doorway and blinked twice. She couldn’t remember a member of the Plain community ever doubting a person’s truthfulness, but she was too tired to consider the matter. She was too tired to think about anything. With a nod and mumbled, “Gut nacht,” she left the woman’s farm and headed home. It would soon be dawn…the beginning of a new day. For Abraham Fisher, it would be his first day as a child of God, and as a child without a mother. Abby stared mindlessly at the road ahead, praying during the entire drive while her horse found the way on her own. She prayed for the baby and his distraught father and for Iris Fisher. As she prayed, tears filled her eyes and ran unchecked down her cheeks.

  Trust in the LORD with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all you do, and he will show you which path to take. As her favorite passage from the book of Proverbs filled her mind, Abby wondered if that’s what she had done or if she’d acted on her own.

  Save my baby. Don’t worry about me. This was my choice and I have no regrets. Ruth’s words had etched themselves into her brain like an overexposed photograph. By the time her mare clip-clopped up the driveway, Abby felt physically and emotionally drained.

  Daniel had heard the approach of her buggy and left milking his cows to come greet her. With one glance at her face, he grabbed the horse’s bridle with a strong hand. “Whoa,” he commanded. “What happened?”

  She stepped down on wobbly legs and threw herself into his arms, forgetting about her bag of supplies and her clothes for the burn pile. “Oh, Daniel, I did everything I could. I did more than I should have, but we lost her…we lost the mother, Mrs. Fisher.”

  “And the baby? How’s the child?”

  “The baby is fine, but they waited too long to call an ambulance. I told Nathan Fisher to do so on the phone, but he refused. So I called 9-1-1, but because of the pileup on the interstate, they arrived too late to save her.” Gulps and shallow breaths punctuated her words.

  He pressed a finger to her lips to stem her rambling. “Easy now. Take a deep breath.”

  After she complied, gasping and hiccupping, he said, “You go take a hot shower and crawl into bed. You look faint from exhaustion. Anything more you want to tell me can wait until tomorrow…later on today, actually.” The pink sun rising over the eastern fields heralded more good weather for Wayne County farmers. Without another word, she allowed herself to be led into the house.

  Abby stood under the shower spray until the moist heat relieved her sore muscles and made her so drowsy she fell asleep with a bath towel still wrapped around her wet hair.

  And, blessedly, she dreamed of nothing at all.

  Two

  One would think a person would be well rested after eleven hours of sleep, but Abby awoke tired in both body and spirit. Her back ached as she swung her feet out of the empty bed. Her legs felt heavy and stiff as she padded down the hall to the bathroom.

  It wasn’t until she was washed and dressed that she thought, Where are my kinner? A growing sense of alarm quickly replaced her grogginess. Why didn’t they wake me with their usual morning enthusiasm? “Jake? Laura? Where are you?” She poured every ounce of her energy into her summons, but the sound merely echoed off the walls of the silent house.

  “Daniel!” she called from the kitchen window. Her belly churned with unease. With great relief, she spotted her husband on the path from the livestock barn to the house.

  “No need to holler yourself hoarse, fraa,” he said while still twenty paces off. “All is well. I took them to the neighbor’s house for the day so you could get some sleep. Telling those two to stay out of our room would be like putting a stack of hamburgers on a doghouse and telling the dog ‘no.’”

  Abby grinned at the mental picture he described, feeling her heart rate ratchet down to an acceptable level. “Danki. I suppose I needed the rest, but I didn’t mean to sleep so long. Have you had your lunch? What about your breakfast? Surely you’re not out there working on an empty stomach.”

  Daniel followed her into the kitchen and lit the burner under the coffeepot. “I know this will surprise you, Abigail, but I can fry up bacon and eggs and make some ham-and-cheese sandwiches for my lunch. I only allow you to fuss over me because I like it.” He winked at her mischievously. “Sit down. Let’s have some coffee. You look like you could use half the pot.”

  Abby set the pitcher of milk on the table along with two mugs. She collected her thoughts while he filled their cups. Then, with as few details as necessary, she told Daniel about the events of the previous night.

  He listened without interruption while sipping his coffee. “Do you think the boppli will thrive?” he asked after she finished her tragic story.

  “Jah, he was a sound baby boy. The paramedic said the baby was healthy, but he still wanted to admit him at the hospital to make sure he took to a bottle and formula. Mr. Fisher agreed and rode along in the ambulance.”

  Daniel nodded with a sage pull on his beard. “Did the Fishers have other little ones running around the house?”

  “No, this would have been Ruth’s first.”

  “How was the husband faring?”

  “He was pretty shaken up. I don’t think he understood her labor was so far along and wasn’t going well. He certainly didn’t know his wife was in any danger. At least
, he sounded calm on the phone. During the time between talking to me and my arrival, he realized the situation had become dire.”

  “How did he get your phone number if you’ve never seen his wife before?”

  “From someone in his district.” Abby took a gulp of coffee.

  “How come they weren’t under a doctor’s care?”

  She glanced up into his eyes. He was watching her curiously. “I have no idea about that, either.”

  “Who’ll take care of that little one now? Didn’t you say they had just moved here to find a place to farm?”

  Abby held out her mug and he refilled it to the rim. “Jah, but he has an aunt living here in Shreve. So he does have someone to help. I stopped there on my way home to tell her what happened. She said she didn’t know that Ruth Fisher was expecting, and she had never even met the woman in person.”

  Daniel grunted while studying the surface of his cup.

  Abby sipped the coffee down so she could add milk and sugar. “I know Amish women never talk about their pregnancies, but I’m a midwife. Nobody wants to mention babies until they’re burping on somebody’s shoulder and then they can’t stop talking about them. But that gal should have been talking to somebody.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  She might be a midwife, but her ehemann didn’t like discussing women’s pregnancies, either.

  “Iris Fisher seemed to think Ruth had been hiding from her, not wishing for them to meet face-to-face.”

  “Why would she hide from her husband’s aunt?”

  “I have no idea.” She leaned back in her chair, feeling not much better even after two cups of coffee.

  “Seems like there’s more you don’t know than do, so you probably shouldn’t throw your suppositions into this pot of stew.”

  Abby’s head snapped up. “I’m only talking to you, Daniel, in the privacy of my own kitchen. I know you’ll never carry tales. It’s not like I’m gossiping down at the fabric shop.” She didn’t try to hide her irritation.