Sarah's Garden (22 page)
“A living will?” Sarah asked in confusion.
The surgeon patiently explained, and
Mamm
shook her head. “
Ach
, no. He doesn’t have this.”
“Okay . . . well then, we ’ll proceed. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. Why not go down to the cafeteria and have a bite to eat? And you can stop by the business office and get things squared away on that end. I’ll call out to the phone here when he ’s out of surgery.”
The surgeon left and Grant thought uneasily of the medical bills. He’d read that the Amish had no type of health insurance but was unsure if it was fact or fiction. He cleared his throat as they left the waiting room and entered the hall.
“Mrs. King, about the billing office . . .”
“
Jah
, we have no health insurance, as you call it.”
“All right,” Grant said, wondering how he could make it happen that the bill would mysteriously be paid by an anonymous donor.
“Our community will pay; they will help us,” Sarah informed him.
Grant found it hard to grasp that a mostly agrarian community would be able to come up with the amount of money needed to cover the costs of open-heart surgery. Mrs. King patted his arm. “Now, I tell you not to worry, Dr. Williams. Perhaps you should tell us of some of your home remedies.”
Grant smiled. “Saw through that, hmm? Well, if you say people will help, then I guess you know what you’re talking about.”
“
Jah
,” Sarah said. “We have helped others many times; now they’ll help us. It’s the way the Bible says we should be.”
“That’s true enough, but sadly not always true of the world.”
“In our world, it’s true,” Sarah said with finality and Grant decided to let the matter drop. He felt at a loss when Sarah spoke so definitively about the differences between his world and hers, and he wondered how or if he could close that gap or even bridge it. And at the rate his heart was becoming involved with this Amish girl, it was something that required a lot of purposeful prayer.
S
arah felt like she was in another world—the
Englisch
world, in fact—and she longed for the solace and quiet of her garden. Instead, she followed
Mamm
and the doctor to the cafeteria and took the orange plastic tray he handed her, clutching it against her chest like a shield. The bewildering array of foods and crush of uniformed people made her stomach drop, and she didn’t know how she could possibly eat a thing.
“You’re biting your lip.” Grant bent to whisper in her ear.
She stopped immediately and picked up an apple to put on her tray, only to find that it was made of plastic and part of a display. She hurriedly replaced it and frowned at Grant’s laugh.
“You’re not the first one who’s tried to buy that, I bet. It looks remarkably real. Try this instead.” He put a salad on her tray and added a pear. Sarah glanced at
Mamm
, who somehow navigated through the crowd with ease and was dishing up soup for herself from a large metal container.
Grant ordered pizza for himself while Sarah tried to ignore the looks she was getting from a clutch of nurses. She knew her dress was supposed to be a symbol of her apartness from the world, but at the moment, she felt like she ’d give anything to blend in. Then she decided that such thoughts were vain, and she immediately repented of them as the doctor led them to the cash register and paid for their meals.
He found them a small table in the crowded room and they all bowed for a silent grace before eating.
“The soup is good,”
Mamm
pronounced. “But they use a bit too much salt.”
“Hospital food has the reputation of being bad.” Grant grinned.
“Not bad . . . just salty.
Ach
, I wonder how Father is doing?”
“Me too,” Sarah murmured, poking listlessly at her dry salad.
“Eat something, Miss King. Then we’ll go back up and see what news there is.”
She was relieved when they’d finally eaten and Grant guided them back upstairs to the waiting room. The phone at the little desk was ringing as they entered, and the old woman answered it cheerfully.
“The King family?” she called out, and Grant stepped forward to take the receiver.
Sarah watched his solemn, handsome face and thought how grateful she was to have him with them during this time.
“Yes . . . I understand . . . Thank you.”
Grant handed back the phone and turned to them with a smile. “Mr. King is well. He came through the surgery with no problems. You can see him soon.”
Mamm
began to cry softly, and Sarah put her arm around her mother. The two women clung together for a moment, then
Mamm
quickly embraced Dr. Williams.
“We thank you, Doctor, for helping Father right from the beginning.”
Grant smiled. “But it was Sarah who called for help.”
Mrs. King nodded with a smile.
Sarah ducked her head shyly. “It was the first time I used the telephone . . . and hopefully, the last.”
A
fter the difficult visit to the intensive care unit, Sarah longed for a place where she might lay her head. The doctors and nurses seemed confident and happy about Father, but to Sarah, he looked devastatingly pale and ill. There were more tubes than ever and more machines than she could count that went off in alarming discord.
Mamm
had chosen to stay in what the nurse called the sleeper chair beside Father’s bed, while Grant had gotten all of the necessary paperwork done so that Sarah might stay in the hospital’s hospitality suite, which really was a converted floor of nurses’ dormitories from when the place had been a teaching institution. It was a long walk from the ICU, and Sarah felt sure she’d never find her way back.
“Do you want me to write down the directions? Hospitals are like mazes sometimes,” Dr. Williams asked.
“No . . . I’ll be fine.”
They turned the corner and came to a pink-painted corridor with cheerful flowers stenciled on the walls. They found her room number, and Dr. Williams gestured down the hall. “There ’s a laundry there, bathrooms, and the women’s showers. Are you sure you’re going to be all right here alone?” He glanced dubiously down the quiet hallway.
“I’ll lock the door.”
“All right.” He took the key from her and opened the door, flicking on the lights to reveal a spacious room with a flowered bedspread and television. Long curtains covered the windows and he went to draw them back for her, revealing a disheartening brick wall.
“Not much of a view,” he commented. “I feel concerned about leaving you here alone.”
Sarah shook her head and smoothed the polyester bedspread with one hand. She turned to face the full-length mirror on one of the closet doors and was surprised to see herself in one piece since they had no large mirrors at home.
“I’ve gotten taller,” she told him, staring into the mirror.
“Since this morning?” he asked, moving to stand behind her.
She blushed and shook her head and moved to step away, realizing she was behaving with vanity.
“Wait,” he said, holding her still before the mirror. “Tell me what you see.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, the quiet of the room at once seeming close and intimate.
“What do you see?”
“I see me.”
He smiled. “Let me tell you what I see, if you can perch for just a moment, little hummingbird.”
She stood still, her eyes meeting his in the length of the mirror.
“I see a beautiful girl, with a face like fine porcelain and gentle strands of light brown hair shot through with gold. I see soft lips that get bitten far too often. I see hazel, forest green-brown eyes. And you may be taller, but just right, with straight shoulders and gentle hands. I see . . .”
She put her hands to her ears. “Stop, please. It’s not right for you to speak to me so.”
“Why not? Should I tell you instead what I see that’s not in this mirror? Your fine mind, generous heart, kind soul . . .” He eased her hands down.
“
Nee
, you shouldn’t tell me anything.”
“That may be truth,” he breathed, bending to press his mouth close to her ear. “But I can’t help myself.” He brushed his mouth against the fine line of her neck and she watched, mesmerized, in the mirror, as her irises grew darker green, and she shivered when his lips found a tender spot behind her ear. She closed her eyes against the wash of sensations and nearly fell when he pulled from her.
“My apologies, Sarah. You seem to bring out the best and, shall we say, the worst of my
Englisch
nature. I’ll say good night . . . or good morning, but lock your door.”
He slipped from the room while Sarah struggled to catch her breath. She locked the door behind him, then sagged to her knees against the wood and prayed once more for direction.
When she rose, she felt something lumpy in her apron pocket and discovered the journal Chelsea had given her for her birthday. She’d intended on writing in it that morning, and now she withdrew it and went to the small desk in the corner of the room. A pen and paper lay nearby for guests to use, so she took up the pen and opened the journal.
She’d used to love to write in school, especially poetry. It had always given her a sense of freedom or release to put down in words what she was feeling inside. She began to write.
There are two of me, it seems,
Wood with twice-toned grain
One, the straight and narrow
Like the gate to my garden
One, the wandering path
Like the deer trail through the forest
.
But I am not fleet
,
Cannot run on stag’s feet
To escape the touch and sound
Of his breath blending round
I shudder then recall
That I am one and all
Still my father’s daughter
Still like deep pond water
Where no one can tread
.
She put her head down on the open journal and drew her breath in and out as if she ran through a forest glade, being pursued by herself, and him—she wrote his name slowly.
GRANT.
And then, GRANT ME GRACE.
S
arah awoke feeling refreshed. She needed to have
Mamm
come and sleep downstairs because there was no way the sleeper chair could be as comfortable as the firm little bed with its starched white sheets. She unlocked her door, peered down the hallway, and then went along to discover the mysteries of the shower. Once she ’d washed and redressed, she went back to the room to tidy her hair and reapply her
kapp
, trying not to think about the doctor standing behind her in the mirror. She pocketed her journal and left the room as neat as she ’d found it and then began the complicated journey back to the intensive care unit. She took a wrong turn, though, and was standing, debating outside a gift and flower shop, when a woman called to her.
“Are you lost,
boppli
?”
Sarah entered the shop, amazed to hear her home language, and then she looked at the woman’s face. A thin scar ran from behind her ear to her chin; it was Mrs. Fisher. But a Mrs. Fisher that was scarcely recognizable except for the scar. This woman wore a cheerful pink jacket and had a becoming shoulder-length hairstyle. Her face was made up and she smiled widely.
“Sarah King . . . do you know me?”
Sarah was so surprised that she hardly knew how to answer. If an Amish family left the community, they were not to be acknowledged by any of the community. Yet Sarah could not bring herself not to respond politely; the woman looked so radically different and happy.
Jah
. . . Mrs. Fisher.” “
“Yes . . . well, it’s Ms. Fisher, actually. I divorced Mr. Fisher—he’s moved out of the state—and I’m living here in Lockport now and have this job, which I greatly enjoy.”
Ach
. . .” Sarah trailed off. One part of her wanted to rejoice “that the woman had gotten away from the man who had so abused her, but the other part of her mind wrestled with the difficult concept of divorce and all of its implications.
“Who is ill from your family? That’s why you’re here, right?”
“Father . . . he had heart surgery yesterday. They say he ’ll be fine. I–I lost my way going to the ICU.”
“Well, I can’t leave the shop to take you, but I’ll page someone. I sure hope your father and
mamm
will stay well. They were kind to me, or tried to be at least, as much as Mr. Fisher would allow.”
“
Danki
. . . I will tell—” She stopped short, wondering if she actually would tell
Mamm
that she had spoken with someone who’d left the community.
But Ms. Fisher laughed. “You will probably not tell them, little Sarah. But this is okay. I am well and happy now at last.”
“And your children?” Sarah could not help but ask when she recalled the day at the stand and Matthew Fisher’s roughness.
At once, the smile dimmed on the older woman’s face. “My daughter, she is with me and goes to college, but the boys . . . I do not know. They went the way of their father.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. And you, Sarah, you’ve grown into a beautiful young woman; you may not always find it so easy to stay among the constraints of the community. Please remember to do this one thing—marry the one you love, but also marry the one who loves you. One who is cruel to you does not truly love you—whether he’s Amish or
Englisch
.”
Sarah nodded and blushed. It was almost as if the woman spoke to her heart. And how truant a heart she ’d had! She nodded to Ms. Fisher when another woman came to lead her to the ICU, and she left the shop in deep thought. There had been an air of freeness about Ms. Fisher that had seemed refreshing, not worldly. It seemed as though the woman had truly found her place in life in God’s will. Sarah followed the pink coat with tears swelling in her eyes. She was thinking treacherous thoughts this day, and with her own father lying so ill down the way. She swallowed hard and blinked back the tears, focusing instead on thanking God for answering her prayer and allowing Father to live.