An Uncommon Grace (12 page)

As he looked out over his farm, he took a deep breath, savoring the smell of honeysuckle. Then the faint sound of a baby’s cry came to him through the air, and his bubble of satisfaction broke. Thank goodness Rose was planning to stay another day. Although women from their church came and went, he knew that his mother was most comfortable with her only sister. Rose would not be allowed to stay much longer. If she lingered, Bishop Weaver would have some pointed things to say about it.

At the funeral, it had not escaped anyone’s attention that Rose wore a black bonnet smaller and less cumbersome than a Swartzentruber woman would wear and Rose’s dresses were shorter, showing a few inches of ankle. The Swartzentruber women’s dresses always modestly brushed the tops of their shoes.

It must appear strange, he supposed, to the few
Englisch
who knew of the schisms between Amish orders, how much
stock was put into things like whether the buggies the church members drove had steel wheels or rubber tires. Or whether the members could purchase factory-made underwear or had to make it all by hand. The list went on and on. Sometimes it was hard to keep it all straight.

Personally, he didn’t see the reason behind half the things they did—but he didn’t have to. That was what bishops and preachers were for: to keep all the rules of their
Ordnung
straight in their heads and make certain everyone was following them. As long as he could plant and harvest and work in his workshop, he could be content.

Or at least he would be if little Daniel would just stop crying.

The sound of shoes slapping against the road startled him. Who was running? And why? Was there another emergency? He whirled to look.

As the figure came closer, he realized from the steady pace that it was someone running for exercise, not in desperation as he had feared.

And then he saw that it was Grace. Well, that figured. What other woman on this road would waste her time out running on a perfectly good Saturday morning when there was so much else a person could be accomplishing? He wondered if she had any idea how strange this behavior was here. How out of place.

She spotted him, waved, and to his discomfort headed right toward him. This was not something he welcomed, but at least it was early enough that perhaps no one would pass by and see him talking to this
Englisch
woman. He was torn between ignoring her by going straight back inside the barn or standing where he was and dealing with whatever it was she wanted. He opted for the latter.

When she reached him, she stopped, leaned over, grabbed
both of her knees, and panted. He waited for her to catch her breath.

“Sorry about that. I had no idea I was so out of shape,” she gasped. “This is ridiculous. I’ve only run to the main road and back—a couple of miles—and this is how out of breath I get!”

To his eyes, she was not out of shape at all. In fact, quite the opposite. His eyes sought the horizon.

“How are your mom and the baby? Are they up yet? I promised her yesterday that I would stop by.”

“They are awake.”

“Is it too early to stop in?” she asked.

“No.”

He had answered her questions. He wished she would leave now, but the woman seemed determined to hold a conversation with him right here on top of this hill.

“How did things go with him last night?”

“Not well.”

She waited for him to explain, and when he didn’t, she smiled. “You don’t have much to say, do you, Levi?”

And then she was gone. Trotting down the hill to his home.

Her comment stung. There was much in his heart that he wanted to share with someone. He had a great deal to say. But it would be highly improper to share it with her.

Grace was used to being around men. As a former soldier, she basically lived year-round with a horde of them. She was used to the sight, the smell, and the sound of great numbers of men. She had heard all their corny jokes and most of their dirty ones. Some were brave, some were silly, some were practically certifiable. But none of them were like this Amish neighbor of hers.

The sight of him on that hill—silhouetted against the sunrise, his feet planted firmly in the ground, his chin lifted as he surveyed the fields laid out before him—had been a picture she almost wished she could hang on a wall. There was something timeless about the stance of his body, a farmer surveying his land, a man determined to pit will and sinew against a plow or whatever implement it took to provide for his family. It was—in her opinion—a picture too few women got to see.

She had felt a compulsion to go talk to him, to see if there was something behind his eyes besides Amish stoicism, but obviously there wasn’t. Talking to Levi was a little like talking to a stump. The man was easy on the eyes, and he could weave a heck of a basket, but he certainly didn’t bring much to the table when it came to conversation.

She brushed aside thoughts of Levi and started to worry about the baby. Hopefully Claire wouldn’t be too put off by her running outfit. She had intended to go home and change before paying a visit, but if Levi was concerned enough to actually verbalize the fact that things were not going well, she’d better not wait.

The door was standing open, so she knocked on the frame. “Claire, it’s Grace. Can I come in?”

Rose came to the door. “You are Claire’s neighbor, the nurse who brought the children to me.”

“Actually, I’m a nurse practitioner.” She didn’t usually make a big deal about it, but there was a difference. One for which she had worked hard.

“I’m glad you are here.” Rose ushered her in. “The baby will not quit crying. I have never seen such a bad case of colic. We have tried a tincture of fennel seed and some other herbal remedies that have helped with our other children, but nothing works.”

Rose sounded as though she was on the verge of tears
herself as the distinctive cry of a newborn in distress filled the house.

The inscrutable Levi and the three more miles she had fully intended to run this morning were forgotten. “Let me see him.”

Claire’s home was pleasant, in spite of its austerity. Or maybe because of it. It felt so very different from her grandmother’s overstuffed house. The main impression was of wood. Wooden floors beneath her feet. Wooden chairs and tables. Rose led her into what appeared to be a living room, where Claire rested in a bed that had been placed in one corner.

The baby was lying on his back beside his mother, kicking his little legs and crying. Claire was wearily patting his tummy. Grace could see that the baby was squirming with pain, its pitiful cries going on and on. She also noticed that there were no baby bottles visible, so she supposed Claire was trying to nurse. Her mind sifted through the possibilities for so much unease in a newborn.

“It looks like Daniel is a little unhappy. Do you have enough milk, Claire?”

Claire showed no surprise at Grace’s sudden appearance. She cupped one breast with her hand and grimaced. “I think so, but he acts so unhappy—I don’t know.”

“May I hold him?”

“You may as well. I cannot seem to do anything to help him.” Claire sank back onto her pillows, exhausted. Grace was impressed that the poor woman was able to even hold her head up. C-sections were difficult enough to recuperate from, but add a couple other wounds, grief for a husband, and a colicky baby—and it’s a wonder she was able to function at all.

And then there was the blood loss. Grace knew that with the bleeding Claire had experienced, there was a chance she would not be able to produce enough milk.

Grace was itching to give Daniel a thorough examination, but he began to cry even harder when she picked him up and cradled him in her arms.

Seeing that a horizontal position did not agree with him, she put him up over her shoulder, tucked his downy head beneath her chin, and began to pace the floor, crooning softly.

It wasn’t immediate, but the cries slowly subsided until he fell asleep. She had once watched a staff pediatrician at an ER do this very thing. The mother had come in, wild with worry that her infant wouldn’t quit crying. The pediatrician, wiser than most, had simply walked the ER floor with the child until it calmed down.

The visceral connection between a mother and baby was a strong one. Claire was dealing with enough grief and pain that it was quite possible that some of the trauma was being transferred to the baby.

Grace figured that Rose, as a twin, was probably reacting to her sister’s grief to such a strong extent that she might be having the same effect when she held him. At least that was a theory. On the other hand, there might be something really wrong. As the cries quieted, she saw Rose sit down at the table and lay her head upon her crossed arms.

“Did either of you get a wink of sleep last night?”

“Not much,” Rose said.

The child felt cozy tucked beneath her chin. She knew she could happily hold him like this for quite a while—or at least long enough to give these women some rest.

“When was the last time he ate?” she asked.

“About fifteen minutes ago,” Claire said. “But he spit most of it right back up again. I think part of the problem is that he’s hungry, but he cannot seem to keep anything down for long.”

“When was his diaper last changed?”

Rose spoke from the table, her face still buried in her arms. “I changed him right after she fed him.”

“Was the diaper wet?”

“Yes.”

“Not just damp, actually wet?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good, then.” Grace was relieved. “That means something must be getting into his tummy.” She kissed the top of his head. “Why don’t you two get some rest while I watch after him?”

Rose lifted her head and looked at her with something like hope in her eyes. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’ll sit outside in the porch swing for a while.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Claire said.

Rose looked meaningfully at Grace. “
Denke
. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The swing was wide and sturdy. Sitting here, on a beautiful spring morning with a sweet baby in her arms, was not exactly a big sacrifice.

Grace settled herself into a corner of the swing and began to talk to the sleeping child.

“You are a sweetie. Even if you don’t have any respect at all for your poor aunt and mother. I bet you kept your big brother up last night, too. Maybe that’s why he was in a bad mood when I saw him. You’ll have to let him get his beauty sleep from now on, little one.”

A slight sound made her look up. Levi was standing on the porch, looking down at her and the baby.

“He is not crying.” There was the sound of relief and wonder in his voice.

“Apparently you didn’t get much rest, either,” Grace observed.

“Our Daniel has strong lungs.”

It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen the three other siblings. “Where are the children?”

“Daniel has been taking so much care that Rose has left them a while longer with her married daughter. Henry will bring them back when Daniel calms down.”

He disappeared without another word and she resumed her gentle swinging. She was surprised when he reappeared a moment later carrying a glass of lemonade and a plate of cookies.

“You have been running.” He sat the refreshments down on the swing beside her. “You will be thirsty.”

“Thank you, Levi.”

What a strange man
. She took a bite of a homemade buttery sugar cookie.
And a surprisingly thoughtful one.
The last thing she had expected was for him to show her this kind of consideration.

“This cookie is delicious. Did Rose make them?”

“No. Women from our church have brought much food.”

“You are lucky to have so much support.”

He looked ill at ease. “I have work to do.” Without another word, he strode to the barn.

A half hour later, a buggy came trotting up the driveway. As it pulled slightly past her, Grace noticed that, like most of the buggies at the funeral, it did not wear a reflective orange safety triangle on the rear. She had meant to ask her grandmother about that. She had thought all buggies were required by law to have those safety devices mounted on the back.

The man who climbed down from the buggy looked vaguely familiar, but in her eyes, there was so much sameness about the older Amish men, it was hard for her to discern between them. They all wore the same clothes and the same beard, and most seemed to wear the same solemn expression.

The man’s face, though, when he caught sight of her wasn’t
just solemn, it registered extreme disapproval. She couldn’t imagine why. All she was doing was holding a baby—and she wasn’t wearing shorts.

“Hello,” she said softly. She made no move to get up. She couldn’t get up. Any jostling would awaken little Daniel.

The man looked as if he were in his midsixties, but she was only guessing. He might be much younger. A long, untrimmed beard tended to make a man look old.

“You are the
Englisch
woman from the funeral,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Please keep your voice down,” she whispered. “You’ll awaken the baby.”

“Babies need to get used to the sound of voices.” He did not lower his. “It is foolish to talk softly to keep from waking them.”

She decided she did not like this man.

“Then I hope you won’t mind babysitting him when he starts to howl,” she said. “Claire and Rose are worn out.”

His eyes widened. She could tell that he was not used to being spoken back to.

“Bishop Weaver.” Rose had come to the door. “Please come in.”

“You are still here?” he asked.

“Yes.” Rose’s voice was resigned. “I am still here.”

“Our people can care for Claire.”

“But she is my sister.”

“She is Swartzentruber. You are not.”

Rose’s chin lifted. “I am aware of who and what I am.”

He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “I will see Abraham’s wife now.”

“I’m sorry,” Rose said, “but she is asleep. This is the first rest she’s gotten in two days.” Then Rose firmly closed the door.

The bishop apparently did not know how to respond, so he scowled at Grace. “The funeral is over. You have no business here.”