The Postcard (6 page)

Unable to find her children, she wrung her hands, running here and there, nearly insane with dread.

Continuing her search, she winced at the sight of her husband lying on the highway, surrounded by dozens of damaged toys and mangled wood and metal from the shattered market wagon. She knelt on the road, its blacktop blistering her knees as she lifted her husband’s battered face to hers. Lovingly, she cradled him as if he were a small child. “Oh, Jacob . . .”

He moaned pitifully as she held him, though she dared not rock or move him the slightest, so badly hurt he was. “Lord, please let my husband live,” she prayed with trembling lips, all the while looking about her for signs of her little ones.

Jacob was breathing; she could feel the slow and labored movement of his chest. Still, she was frightened, alarmed by the gashes in his head, the torn shirt and suspenders. She hesitated for a moment, then touched the wound in his left shoulder, allowing her hand to linger there as if her touch might bring comfort. That shoulder had supported her weary head on countless nights as they had lain talking into the wee hours, whispering in the darkness of their Ohio dream as they planned their lives together with God’s help. Jacob’s shoulder had soothed her when, at nineteen, she’d experienced the first unfamiliar pangs of childbirth.

Now . . . she heard voices as if there were people near, though she couldn’t tell for sure, so murky and muddled things seemed, like a dream that she was actually living, unable to sort out the real from the illusory. She thought she might be dying, too, so dizzy and sick she was.

A distant siren sang out, moving toward her with a peculiar throbbing motion. The rhythm of its lament seemed to pulse up through the highway, into her body as she held Jacob close.

Compassionate hands were touching her husband, lifting his eyelids, putting pressure on his wrist. Then he was being carried away from her on a long stretcher. She felt faint just then and lay down on the road. “Where are my children?” she managed to say. “I must find my little ones.”

“Several paramedics are with them.” This, the voice of a man she did not know. “What are your children’s names?”

“Aaron and Annie Yoder,” she said softly, the life withering within her.

“And your husband?”

She attempted to speak his name, but pain—deep and wrenching—tore at her, taking her breath away. Then everything went black.

When she came to, she felt a cool hand on her wrist, followed by a sharp, brief prick in her arm. Though she had no sense of time, she knew she was being lifted onto something smooth and flat, the sun blinding her momentarily. The movement caused her great pain, and when she heard pitiful moaning, she realized that it was she herself.

“You’re suffering from shock” came a voice in her ear. “We’re going to take good care of you . . . and your unborn child.”

The overwhelming emotion was that of helplessness as she was transported through the air, though she had no idea where she was being taken or who was taking her.

“Mamma!” a child cried out.

In her disoriented state she could not identify the source of the utterance, though something inside her wrestled to know. “Aaron?” she mumbled, beginning to shake uncontrollably. “Oh, Lord Jesus . . . help us, please.”

A warm covering embraced her body, and for a fleeting moment, she thought her husband’s strong arms were consoling her. Then came stark flashes of bewildering images. Two roads meeting, a horse lurching, children screaming . . .

“No . . . no,” she said, fighting off the visions. Yet they persisted against her ability to stop them.

The sound of rushing feet startled her back to the here and now. Where
was
she? Struggling to raise her head even the slightest, Rachel tried to take in her surroundings, feeling horribly and completely alone. The noises about her ceased and outward awareness faded with the deep prevailing pain in her womb.

The wail of a siren jolted her nerves, and gradually she gave in to the attentive urgings of those around her.
Relax . . . rest . . . please rest. . . .

She sensed that she was weakening, letting go—surrendering to the tremendous pain. And fear so black and ferocious, such as she had never known.

In the hours following the accident, Rachel was unable to divide reality from haunting impressions. She knew only one thing: Her parents were near, along with several of her brothers and sisters and their spouses. Her semiprivate room at Community Hospital was lovingly cushioned with Plain folk, close relatives with concern stamped on each face.

Suffering the ill effects of her miscarriage, Rachel was finally able to speak the burning question in her mind. “Where are Jacob . . . and Aaron and Annie?”

Her parents stood on either side of the bed, their faces grim. “Annie’s doin’ fine,” her father said. “Her right arm is broken and there are bruises, but she will be all right.”

“What about Jacob and Aaron?” came her frightened reply.

Such a look passed between Mam and Dat that panic seized her, and she thought she might faint. “I must know about my family!”

When neither parent responded immediately, she felt something rise up in her. Something strong and defensive. “Please tell me what happened. I must know
everything
,” she pleaded.

Their pallid faces told the dreadful truth. “I’m sorry, my precious daughter,” Dat said at last.

“You don’t mean . . .” She paused, trying to breathe enough to speak. “Jacob isn’t . . .” She simply could not voice the impossible word. “Is Aaron . . . ?”

Mamma nodded slowly, eyes glistening. “Jacob and Aaron died in the accident.”

“It’s a miracle of God that Annie is alive,” added Dat, his voice sounding strangely stiff.

Mam took Rachel’s hand in her own. “We’ll stay right here with you, till you’re released to go home.”

Home . . .

Rachel moaned; her whole body shook. Home could never be the same for her. Not without Jacob and Aaron. Overcome with grief, she closed her eyes, blocking out her mother’s somber face. Mam’s words were compassionate and true, yet Rachel could not comprehend a single one.

Jacob . . . Aaron dead? How can this be?

Her head throbbed with the truth, like a cumbersome weight against the long, flat hospital pillow. How it pained her to lean back. No matter what she did, her head ached, and her heart anguished for her dear ones. She wished she might’ve held her sweet little Aaron as he lay suffering on the road. It plagued her that he had died alone at the accident scene, that he might’ve called out for her—“Mamma, oh, Mamma, I’m hurt awful bad!”—or worse, that he could not utter her name at all.

She placed her hands on her womb, her flat, lifeless womb, longing for her unborn child as well.

More than anything, she wished to join her husband, her son, and their tiniest little one in heaven. Life without Jacob would be ever so lonely. Unbearable. Life on this earth without her darling boy would be intolerable. How could she face the years ahead? How could she bear the pain, missing them so?

Someone wearing white floated into the room, and although Rachel assumed it was the nurse coming with a sedative, a blanket of numbness fell over her before she ever felt the needle penetrate her skin.

Esther and her husband arrived the next afternoon. They had hired a Mennonite van driver to rush them from Holmes County to Lancaster. In the space of half a day, they’d come.

The reunion was a tearful one, and Rachel repeatedly searched Esther’s dewy brown eyes, taking in the familiar rosy cheeks and the oval shape of her cousin’s face. Esther had worn her best blue cape dress for the occasion, though her black apron was a bit wrinkled from the trip. “You’ll need someone to look after you and little Annie for a while,” she insisted, kissing Rachel’s forehead and holding her hand. “Levi and I will be more than happy to stay till you’re back on your feet.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I came to help, to bear your sorrow,” Esther pledged. “Levi and I can stay as long as need be.” She explained that their children were with close Amish friends in Holmes County.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Rachel said, her voice breaking. “Didja know that I must’ve written you a letter the night before the accident? But I don’t remember writing it now. Mamma found it in my apron pocket.” She motioned to the small closet. “It’s in there somewhere,” she said before giving way to a fresh spasm of grief.

Esther hugged her cousin. “Shh. I’m here now. We’ll get through this, jah?”

When Rachel was able to compose herself, Esther sat on the edge of the hospital bed, their hands clasped. They talked quietly of Annie and how glad they were that the child had been spared, along with Rachel. “The Lord surely kept the two of you alive for a special reason,” Esther said, her eyes still wet with tears.

Rachel didn’t quite know what to think of that—being kept alive for a
special
purpose. God’s sovereign will was not to be questioned, of course. Yet it was difficult to hear Esther go on so, especially when Rachel sincerely wished the Lord had taken her home to Glory, too.

Why
had
God let her live?

Mamma and Esther moved quietly to the window, encouraging Rachel to rest a bit. She heard the lull of their discreet whispering—Jacob’s or Aaron’s name slipping into the air every so often—but, honestly, she did not care to know what was being discussed. Funeral plans, most likely.

With the thought of such a thing—a funeral for her dear ones—horrifying mental pictures flashed before her eyes: the car roaring into the wagon, Jacob’s body broken beyond recognition. She shook her head as if to shake off the visions, shutting her eyes tightly against the persistent images. “No!” she cried out.

Mam and Esther turned their heads. “What’s that, dear?” Mam called to her. And Esther rushed to Rachel’s bedside again.

She breathed heavily as the painful memories slowly receded. Then suddenly a new insidious notion sprang at Rachel—that the accident had been her fault.
Hers
. Taking a deep breath, she blurted, “I never heard the alarm! We slept through. If we hadn’t overslept—if I’d heard the alarm clock like always—we’d never,
never
have taken the shortcut. We wouldn’t have been at the Crossroad, and Jacob and Aaron would be alive today.”

“Mustn’t trouble yourself,” Esther was saying, stroking Rachel’s arm. “Mustn’t go blamin’ yourself.”

But Rachel felt she had to express herself while this one memory was still alive in her. “We were rushing to market . . . requiring the horse to gallop. Oh, Esther . . .”

“The accident wasn’t your fault,” her cousin repeated. “Believe me, it wasn’t.”

Mam was on the other side of the bed now, leaning over to reach for Rachel’s free hand. “The horse became frightened and leaped into traffic, is all.”

“I . . . I don’t remember any of that,” she confessed as she wept. “How do you know this?”

“There were witnesses,” replied Mam. “People saw what happened and told the police.”

This was the first she’d heard any talk of police and witnesses. Why, the whole thing sounded like some made-up story.

Esther continued to hover near. “You mustn’t dwell on what
was
, Rachel. Think on the Lord . . . how He watched over you and Annie,” she said, her eyes filled with concern and love. “We will trust the Lord for His continued watch over you. And all of us will pitch in and help, too.”

“Jah,” she said, feeling calmer, knowing that what Esther said was precisely true. Still, she felt she was going through the motions, agreeing with Mam and Esther, yet not feeling much conviction, if any. She was now intended by God to be a widow, to raise Annie, her only child.

By herself.

Esther remained close as Mam looked on. “Rest now,” she urged, squeezing Rachel’s hand. “Please, just rest.”

She wouldn’t rest much, not the deep, life-giving rest that comes from a long day of toil. She would nap, but it would not—could not—possibly be restful.