A Stranger's Wish (22 page)

“He won’t mind,” Clarke said.

“I hope not.”

I parked my car as close to the hospital entrance as I could, which wasn’t very close since the whole world seemed to be visiting this particular hospital on this particular night. I squared my shoulders, confident I’d find Mr. Geohagan in a foul mood because of tomorrow’s move. Wait until he heard my confession.

“They’re moving me tomorrow,” he said as soon as I walked in the door. He glared at me as if it were my fault.

I smiled and nodded. “To Holiday House. It’s a wonderful place.” I tried to sound perky.

My good cheer made not the slightest impression on Mr. Geohagan. “What kind of name is that for a nursing home? Like it’s only open on Christmas and Thanksgiving, and the rest of the year they park the residents in the street? Or do they think that a gooey name is going to make me happy to go there? I may be sick, but that doesn’t mean I can’t think. Holiday House, my eye. Hopeless House is more like it. Or Humiliation House. Or Heartache House. Or Hateful House—”

“What do you do?” I asked to cut off his tirade. “Spend all your time looking for alliteration?”

He stared at me steely eyed.

Poor, lonely man.

“I must tell you something,” I said hesitantly as I sat in the chair beside his bed. I forced myself to stop twisting my hands like a nervous old lady and stuffed them in my jeans pockets to keep them apart. “I told some people about your key today. I didn’t mean to. It just sort of slipped out. I’m sorry.”

“Who?” he asked immediately, his frown intense.

“A son of the Amish family I’m living with and a friend of his.”

Mr. Geohagan relaxed visibly at that information and actually made an attempt at a smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’m certain there’s no harm done.”

I felt great relief. “But I don’t want to keep the key anymore.”

“I’d feel better if you did.”

I pulled my hand out of my pocket and laid the key on his night table, where it clinked quietly.

“Have you got some nasty relative who’s after the fortune it unlocks or something?” I grinned at the absurd idea.

He didn’t grin back.

I felt a chill. I looked at him lying there defenseless and incapacitated. I looked again at the key. Maybe I should keep it after all if it made him happy. I reached for it.

“Hey, Mr. Geohagan!”

I jumped and turned at the loud voice, key forgotten.

In walked an aide with a small tray. She smiled so broadly her gums showed. “How are you doing tonight?”

“How do you think?” Mr. Geohagan asked sourly.

She ignored his snarl. “I’ve got a snack for you, Mr. Geohagan.” She set down the tray holding a ginger ale and two packets of saltines. She rolled the tray over to the bed. Then with a flourish she whisked a cupcake from someplace on her person and put it on the tray. “I bet you’ll enjoy this. You’d better. I baked it just for you as a going away present.”

“Hah!” he said with considerable force. “I haven’t enjoyed one bite of food here yet, and I’m not starting now, especially if you baked it.”

The aide left with a huge smile on her face.

“She drives me crazy,” Mr. Geohagan said. “Everything I say or do makes her laugh.”

“But it was nice of her to bring you this cupcake.”

He snorted again. “She didn’t do it for me. She did it for herself. She’s a do-gooder.”

“Like me?”

“No,” he said. “You’re cute.”

I rolled my eyes. “And you’re impossible.”

I watched as he picked the cupcake to death, eating every single crumb but slowly so I wouldn’t think he was enjoying it. The key lay forgotten. I didn’t remember it again until I was walking across the parking lot and reached in my voluminous shoulder bag for my car key, which was hiding as usual.

I made a face. Should I go back to the room and get it? Nah. What could happen to it overnight?

Tomorrow
.
I’ll get it tomorrow.

I grabbed one strap of my shoulder bag with my left hand and pulled it open with my right, peering hopefully into the dark interior, willing my car keys to walk to the surface of the collection within.

So quickly that I didn’t have time to react, a man’s hand grabbed my bag, pulling on it with a force that threw me off balance. At the same time his other hand shoved me hard in the middle of my back, sending me reeling.

Attacked twice in one day! Not fair!

As I went down, some instinct kept my hands clamped to my purse rather than reaching out to break my fall. Nobody was going to get my things, not if I had anything to say about it! I had no idea of half the stuff that was in my bag, but I knew I didn’t want some stranger pawing through any of it.

Don’t let him get it, Lord!

I twisted slightly midair so that I landed on my side rather than my face, and my twisting broke the thief’s hold. It was either let go or fall with me. I hit the ground in a bone-crunching thud, bounced a time or two, and through the daze of pain rolled protectively onto my stomach, my purse beneath me.

I took a deep breath and tried to scream, but only a gurgle emerged.

I sensed more than heard that my attacker was gone, and I slowly, painfully began pulling myself to my feet by using my car door handle. Soon a small crowd converged on me, and as I tried to get to my knees, gentle hands helped me the rest of the way up. I looked gratefully at a security guard, an orderly, and two other men I presumed had been visiting the hospital.

“Are you all right?”

“Did he get your purse?”

“Uh-oh. Look at your elbow. Your sweater’s torn, and you’re bleeding.”

“How’s your head? Can you tell me your name? Should you be standing?” The last was from the orderly.

I was grateful for the strong arms supporting me because once again my own knees weren’t up to the job.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?” I managed to ask.

“Yeah,” said the security guard. “He had a car waiting over there.” He pointed to the edge of the lot. “Let’s get you inside so they can check you over.”

“I’m fine,” I insisted. “Really, I’m fine.” Fortunately, none of my rescuers listened.

They shepherded me into the ER, the two strangers making a seat for me with clasped hands. The orderly walked beside us, reaching over to take my pulse. The security guard scurried ahead to open the door with great dramatic flare, an unnecessary act since the door was automatic, but it seemed to make him feel better.

I clutched at the man on my left to keep from sliding off my perch as the men slewed sideways to fit through the door without missing a step. My purse, still slung over my shoulder, bumped rhythmically against the one man’s side as the orderly led us through the waiting room into the treatment area.

An hour later I was finally alone. I ached and knew that tomorrow I’d be black and blue all down my right side. I’d landed on the same spot on my hip as when I’d tumbled down the steps this afternoon. My shoulder was stiff and tender, but an X-ray showed nothing was broken. My right hand, arm, and leg were painted bright red where I had brush burns, and there was a good-sized lump above my right temple where my head had bounced on the macadam.

A policeman had patiently taken my tale, but both he and I knew that nothing would come of the report. I’d seen no one, and I didn’t even know why I felt so certain it was a man who had pushed me. The one positive thing was that when I took inventory of my bag, nothing was missing. I even found my car keys.

Now I sat on a bench and waited for Clarke to come and get me. The doctor had insisted that I not drive home because of the lump on my head.

“You have a slight concussion,” he said. “You mustn’t risk getting dizzy while driving.”

Just last week—just yesterday—I would have called Todd. In all honesty and from sheer habit, he still would have been easiest to call even now, but it wouldn’t be fair to him. I had removed him from the place in my life where he was that special person to call on in trouble. I had to leave it that way, even if calling Clarke felt like imposing.

Drained, I closed my eyes to rest. I opened them some time later to find Clarke sitting beside me.

“He didn’t mind,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Geohagan. He didn’t mind that I told you and Jake about the key.”

“Hang Mr. Geohagan,” Clarke said with feeling. “How are you?”

“Fine.” I smiled, feeling weepy at his concern. “They just won’t let me drive.”

He smiled back and pushed my bangs aside. “From the looks of you, they were right. I’m glad you called.”

“Poor Clarke. You probably won’t believe this, but I’m not accident prone.”

He slid his arm around my waist and led me to his car. Unfortunately, it was parked right outside the emergency room doors. I would have preferred a longer walk to enjoy his solicitude.

The evening was warm and velvety, the light soft. I leaned against the headrest and relaxed as he drove out of town, heading for the farm.

“There are a lot of buggies out tonight,” I said as we waited for a break in traffic to pass one.

“Families returning from social visits and young people going to sings.” Clarke passed one buggy only to find himself behind another. “Do you feel well enough to take a little drive?”

“I think so.”
As long as it’s with you.
“Where to?”

“Over 23 to Morgantown and down 10 toward Honey Brook.”

“As long as I don’t have to move, it sounds fine.”

He turned at Smoketown to take the back roads to 23. “Poor Kristie. Beaten up by dogs and thieves. Did he get anything?”

“No. When I fell, I rolled on my bag and started screaming.” I smiled when I recalled the thin stream of sound that had pushed its way passed my closed throat. “At least I tried to scream. He didn’t have time to get anything. My heroes chased him away.”

I realized that as I talked I had picked up my purse from the floor, put it on my lap, and wrapped my arms around it. I returned it to the floor.

“Not that he’d have gotten much. I’m sort of a magpie when it comes to my purse. Tissues, empty Lifesaver wrappers, deposit slips, a couple of Magic Markers, and a small sketchbook. Stuff like that. Still, I’d have hated to replace the credit cards, my driver’s license, and my Social Security card. Then there’s the coin collection littering the bottom of the bag and weighing it down, a great financial reversal if lost.”

I was pleased that he grinned.

We were silent for a while, and then I asked, “Have you ever been robbed?”

“Not personally, like having my pocket picked, but we were robbed when I was about thirteen. We came home from vacation to find the house ransacked. I lost an extensive coin collection my grandfather had given me shortly before he died. It was underinsured, but it wasn’t the monetary loss that hurt. They took something very special to me, and I remember how bad I felt. It was like Grandpop being taken twice. Thieves are cruel in a way they probably don’t even consider.”

I nodded and immediately wished I hadn’t. My head swam. I closed my eyes and lay my head on the headrest again until we turned south onto 10.

Soon Clarke said, “Look.”

Directly ahead of us was a line of buggies, the line broken here and there by cars slowly weaving their way through the pack. Clarke began the passing and waiting game too.

“I’ve never seen so many,” I said, sitting up. “There must be fifty to sixty of them.”

All the buggies were open two-seaters. In some two young men rode, in some couples sat shoulder to shoulder. But what delighted me most were the double dating couples. One boy and girl sat conventionally, but the second couple sat on their laps, the boy on the boy and the girl on the girl. The topmost boy handled the reins.

All the girls were prim and correct with their shawls draped over their shoulders against the growing chill of the evening and dark bonnets over their organdy
kapps
. The young men, black felt hats firm on their Dutch boy haircuts, proudly drove their best horses. Couples called from buggy to buggy, laughing and joking together. The long line crested a hill, and I watched as buggy after buggy turned into one farm lane.

“I’ve heard of buggy jams before, especially around Intercourse on a Saturday night, but I’ve never seen a procession like this before.” I couldn’t stop smiling. “And I love the double dates!”

“I thought you would.”

As I watched the buggies, I tried to reconcile the otherworld appearance of innocence with what I knew to be reality. These Amish kids were like any other group of kids. Some came from fine families, some from hypocritical families, some from strong families, some from fearful families. And appearances to the contrary, they were being touched more and more by modern technology. Many had iPods and laptops, and some even belonged to spas and pumped iron.
Rumspringa
.

“You know,” I said, “while I don’t agree with the Amish way of life, I hate the thought that it might pass away. It’s so fascinating!”

Clarke grinned. “You sound like a sociologist. Just never forget that Christ died to release us from bondage to the law, whether it’s the Mosaic law or the
Ordnung.
”