A Merry Heart (15 page)

“I’d like to keep in contact—maybe call and check up on you.” Nick started up the car. “Since you don’t have a phone, I want you to promise to call me if you need more advice or just want to talk.”

“All right. I will.”

“Or how about this? Since I was on the back side of your property where the stream runs through, I have an idea where your house is, so maybe I can come by for a visit sometime soon.”

Miriam shook her head as a sense of panic welled in her chest. “I—I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” The last thing she needed was for Nick to drop by her house. How would she explain the sudden appearance of a good-looking English reporter to her family?

“Why not?”

“You know why, Nick. You’re English; I’m Amish. My family might get the wrong idea if—”

“Oh, you mean they might think I was trying to woo you away from the Plain life? Is that what you’re afraid of?”

Miriam was at a loss for words. She enjoyed being with Nick, and he made her feel so special, but she was sure no one in the family would believe he was just a friend.

As Amos sat in a chair beside his daughter’s bed, he thought about his wife’s untimely death and wondered how things would be if she were still alive. Ruth had been a good mother and had always given Mary Ellen the best of care. They’d wanted to have more children, but Ruth hadn’t been able to conceive again after Mary Ellen was born. Yet she’d never complained because the Good Lord had only given them just one child. Amos knew that if his wife was still with them, this precious little girl he’d been left to raise wouldn’t have to wear dresses that needed mending, put up with unruly hair, or eat slapped-together meals that weren’t
fit for any growing child.

What Mary Ellen needs is a mother
, he thought as he reached out and touched her rosy, damp cheek. The poor little thing had cried herself to sleep after she’d learned about Rebekah’s accident.

His thoughts turned to Miriam, as they always did whenever he reminded himself that his daughter should have a mother. If he only felt free to tell Miriam what was on his heart—that he loved her and wanted her to be his wife. It would be difficult to lay his feelings on the line when he knew the only thing she felt for him was irritation.

Amos pushed the chair aside and stood. Chores in the barn waited to be done. He leaned over and kissed Mary Ellen’s forehead.
Bless this child, Lord
, he prayed.
And give her only sweet dreams tonight
.

G
et up at five in the morning, light the woodstove, head out to the chicken coop to gather eggs, slop the pigs, and milk the goats. Miriam knew the routine so well she probably could have done it in her sleep. It had been her routine ever since Papa died. This morning was like no other, except that the wind had picked up and it had begun to rain.

As she left the chicken coop and noticed how the wind whipped through the trees, she was reminded of the day Rebekah had been injured. Could it have only been a few weeks ago? It seemed like much longer. Perhaps that was because she kept so busy. Being busy seemed to keep her from thinking too much about the things that caused her heart to feel so heavy.

Rebekah was still in the hospital. She had regained consciousness, but the doctors were fairly certain she would never walk again.

Miriam shuddered. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t convince herself that she wasn’t partially to blame for the accident. She had made up her mind that the only
way to deal with it was to seek her inner strength, as Nick had suggested. She must go on with the business of living, no matter how unhappy she was or how guilty she felt.

Today, after school let out, she planned to hire a driver and go to the hospital. She would take some books to Rebekah and perhaps some of her favorite licorice candy. Maybe she would call Nick and ask him to meet her for coffee again. That thought caused Miriam to quicken her step as she hurried back to the house, carrying a basket of bulky brown eggs. Her day was just beginning, and she still had plenty of inside chores to do before she left for school.

Amos had just left his blacksmith shop after shoeing one of his own buggy horses when he spotted Mary Ellen running across the yard with her lunch pail swinging at her side. “Can I walk to school by myself today?” she called.

“I think it would be best if I take you there,” he said when she caught up to him.

Her lower lip jutted out. “Most of the other kinner are allowed to walk. Why can’t I?”

Amos grimaced. He knew he was probably being overprotective, but ever since Rebekah’s accident, he’d been afraid to let Mary Ellen walk to school by herself for fear that something might happen to her. There had been a couple of accidents on the road between their place and the schoolhouse in the last month, and some of those had involved Amish walking alongside the road. He’d already lost Mary Ellen’s mother, and he couldn’t risk losing her, too.

“I feel better taking you to school. It’s safer that way, and
it gives us more time to be together.”

Mary Ellen seemed to be satisfied with that answer, and she smiled up at him. “I packed my own lunch again, and I’m ready to go whenever you are, Pappy.”

“I need to run inside and wash my hands first.” He held them up and wrinkled his nose. “Old Jake’s hooves were pretty dirty.”

“I’ll wait for you in the buggy then.” Mary Ellen headed in that direction but turned back around. “Say, I was wonderin’—”

“What were you wondering?”

“You said I could visit Rebekah soon. Can we go to the hospital to see her after school lets out?”

“Not today, daughter.”

“But I made her a card last night, and I want to take it to her.”

Amos didn’t think going to the hospital and seeing Rebekah unable to stand or move her legs would be good for Mary Ellen. It might upset the child. “Why don’t you give the card to your teacher? I heard that Miriam goes to the hospital often, so maybe she can give Rebekah your card.”

Mary Ellen frowned. “But that’s not the same as me seeing Rebekah. She might think I’ve forgotten her.”

He shook his head. “I’m sure she won’t think that. I believe it would be best if you wait ’til Rebekah comes home from the hospital to pay her a call.”

“How come?”

“She’ll be stronger and feeling better by then. Probably be more up to company comin’ by.”

“Jah,” Mary Ellen said with a nod. “When she goes
home, I’ll make another card and maybe give her one of the horseshoes I’ve painted.”

Not another headache
, thought Miriam as she stood at the door, watching the last of her pupils leave the school yard.
Why must I always get a migraine when I have something important to do? Well, I won’t let this one stop me from going to the hospital
.

Miriam crossed the room and opened the top drawer of her desk. Inside was a bottle of white willow bark capsules. She took two and washed them down with some cold water from her Thermos. She could only hope that today the herbals would work quickly. Was it the stress of knowing she was going to the hospital later, or was it the fact that John Lapp had given her a hard time in class today that had brought on the headache?
Probably a bit of both
, she decided. She was determined not to give in to the pain or stressful feelings. John had been punished for his shenanigans by losing his playtime during lunch, and she would force herself to go to the hospital no matter how much it distressed her to see Rebekah lying helplessly in her hospital bed.

When Miriam arrived at the hospital later that day, she discovered that Rebekah wasn’t in her room. She was informed by one of the nurses that the child had been taken upstairs for another CT scan and would be back in half an hour or so. Miriam could either wait in Rebekah’s room or in the waiting room down the hall.

She left the candy and books on Rebekah’s nightstand and made her way down the hall toward the waiting room.

Except for an elderly gentleman, the room was empty. Miriam took a seat and thumbed through a stack of magazines. Nothing looked interesting, and she was about to leave in search of a phone so she could call Nick when she noticed a copy of the
Daily Express
lying on the table in front of her. She picked up the paper and read the front page, then turned to page two. She stifled a gasp. Halfway down the page was a picture of a young girl lying in a hospital bed. It was Rebekah, and a four-column story accompanied the photo.

Miriam fumed as she read the reporter’s name—Nick McCormick. “How dare he do such a thing! I had hoped I could trust him.”

She read the entire story, pausing only to mumble or gasp as she read how Rebekah had been struck down by a tree limb during a storm that had swept through Lancaster County. The article went on to say that the little Amish girl would probably never walk again and that the hospital and doctor bills would be nearly impossible for her parents to pay. The story closed by asking for charitable contributions to the hospital on the child’s behalf.

Miriam slammed the paper onto the table with such force that the elderly man seated across from her jumped. She mumbled an apology and stormed out of the room.

Miriam had nearly reached a phone booth at the end of the hall when she saw Andrew and Sarah heading her way.

“Miriam, we didn’t know you were here,” Andrew said. “We dropped Simon and Nadine off at Mom’s, but she
didn’t tell us you were at the hospital.”

“Mom doesn’t know,” Miriam answered. “Gladys Andrews drove me here after school let out.”

“You look really upset. Is something wrong? Is it Rebekah? Is she worse?” Sarah’s eyes widened, and deep wrinkles formed in her forehead.

“It’s not Rebekah. She’s having another CT scan, and I was waiting until she came out. It’s what I found in the waiting room that upset me so.” She lifted a shaky hand to touch her forehead. Her headache, which had previously eased, was back again with a vengeance.

“Miriam, you’re trembling,” Andrew said. “What did you see in that room?”

“A newspaper article with a picture.”

“The news can be unsettling at times,” Sarah interjected. “There are so many murders, robberies, and—”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s a story about Rebekah.”

“Rebekah?” Andrew and Sarah said in unison.

Miriam nodded. “The article tells about her accident and how you won’t have enough money to pay all the bills. There’s even a picture of Rebekah lying in her hospital bed.”

“What?” Andrew asked a bit too loudly. A nurse walking by gave him a warning look, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Who would do such a thing, and how’d they know about Rebekah’s accident?” Sarah questioned.

“Let’s go to the waiting room, and I’ll show you the article.” Miriam led the way down the hall.

The newspaper still lay on the table where she had angrily tossed it, and she bent down to pick it up, then handed it to Andrew.

“Who’s responsible for this?” he asked, his dark eyes flashing angrily.

“I’m afraid I am.” Miriam stared at the floor as a feeling of shame washed over her. She should never have gotten friendly with Nick or shared anything about her family with him. He’d pretended to be her friend, but he had only been using her as a means to get information for one of his newspaper articles.

Andrew raised his eyebrows. “You?”

She nodded. “I told the reporter about Rebekah’s accident.”

“You called the newspaper and asked them to write an article about our daughter?” Sarah’s wounded expression revealed obvious hurt and betrayal.

Miriam placed a hand on her sister-in-law’s arm. “Please don’t think for one minute that I called the
Daily Express
or wanted anything like this to be printed.”

“Then how did the reporter know about it?” Andrew asked.

Miriam suggested that they all sit down; then she told her brother and his wife everything except for the fact that she had nearly been taken in by Nick McCormick—even allowing herself to feel tingly and excited when she’d been with him. She would never have admitted that to anyone.

Nick had just entered his office when his boss stormed in. “I wanted to talk to you about this,” Pete said, tossing a folded newspaper onto Nick’s desk.

Nick glanced at the article, recognizing it as the one he’d
written on Rebekah Stoltzfus, the child who had been hit by a tree limb that had left her legs paralyzed. “What about it? You did put your stamp of approval on it before it was released, remember?”

Pete nodded. “I just didn’t realize you were going to include a close-up shot of the little Amish girl.”

“I thought it would add more appeal to the story if the readers could see how pathetic she looked lying in her hospital bed, unable to walk.”

“Maybe you should have thought more about how the girl’s family would feel about the whole county seeing their daughter’s face in the newspaper.”

Nick could tell by the tone of Pete’s voice that he was irritated, and the deep furrows in his forehead drove the point home.

“Have you had a complaint about this?” he asked. “Or did you simply become concerned that I might have offended someone?”