Rebecca's Return (33 page)

“I’m paralyzed for life,” John said again.

“We don’t know that,” Dr. Wine said quickly. “It’s more like a stroke than a broken neck. There’s always hope that it won’t be permanent.”

John nodded because that seemed like the proper thing to do.

Dr. Wine turned to the nurse. “Schedule another scan as soon as possible. If things are stable, we can see about when he can go home. His mother can be notified when she comes in.”

Their voices trailed off as they left the room. The thought of seeing his mother should have brought him joy, but it was the name he hadn’t heard that was preventing the glad emotion. Neither the doctor nor the nurse had said anything about Rebecca. It was—it seemed to him—as if she had never even come in to see him.

“I’m a cripple,” he whispered to himself, as he wept silently.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-ONE

A
s she approached the edge of West Union, Miriam let her horse take its time. The horse was fresh this morning, but there was no sense in tiring it needlessly. Plus no real sense of urgency gripped her. Yesterday’s rushed drive to the hospital with Rebecca, in response to the false news of John’s recovery, had left her feeling numb. She and Isaac had spent a quiet evening together, and she could only imagine what Rebecca had gone through.

John had been unconscious and unresponsive now for what seemed like ages. Today was just another day, and this was just another trip to see her son. Not that she feared John would pass on, but rather she harbored a sense of foreboding about what life held for him.

From what she knew of the doctor’s opinion, he seemed to feel there was hope ahead. Dr. Wine had cautioned them to wait and not draw conclusions until after John regained consciousness. They could then tell exactly how extensive the damage was.

How that could be was a little mysterious to her. The doctor talked of possibilities and chances in medical terms, which were foreign to her. Broken bones and stitches could be easily understood, but how did one really know about damage to the brain? That the doctor, by his own admission, wasn’t sure, made his hopeful attitude seem like medical training.

Isaac was trying to keep his spirits up. Miriam had seen him looking out of the living room window last night after the sun had set. His gaze wandered over their farm, over to Wheat Ridge Road, and to John’s eight acres just down the hill.

Isaac must be thinking of all that could be lost if John’s condition was as bad as they feared. What if John was a cripple for life? What would happen to his plans, and what about Rebecca? Would she still love a cripple?

Miriam had gone to Isaac’s side, while he was standing by the window, the last of the daylight fading away, the little snow drifts still piled up by the barn. “Are you thinking bad thoughts?” she asked tenderly. “You thinking the way will be dark ahead of us?”

“He’s our only son,” Isaac had said. “He’s a good boy. Always has been.”

“Are you thinking the Lord will take John?”

“I would not tell the Almighty what to do,” he had said softly. “He knows what is best.”

“What if John’s a cripple,” she said, hearing the sound of the words grow even larger till they filled the room, gripping both of them with their icy meaning.

Isaac had said nothing for a long time. Miriam had thought he wasn’t going to answer. She felt the dread of her words grow even stronger until Isaac’s arm came around her shoulders.

“We must not fear,” he said. “Where the Lord goes, we can follow.”

“Is He with us?” she asked.

“With those that obey Him,” he said firmly. “We must not doubt. Even after this morning, He knows the way.”

She had let the tears fall against the solidness of his shoulder, his arm tightly around her. Miriam turned in the direction Isaac was looking, feeling comforted for the moment. Yet now she was wondering again what lay ahead and what John would be like when he regained consciousness.

Slapping the horse’s reins, she suddenly felt an urge to hurry. Why she didn’t know, but she wanted to see John. He might still be lying in bed as unmoving as he had been for days, but he was her son, and she wanted to see him.

In the hospital parking lot, she tied up at the now familiar light post. At the front desk, Mrs. Madison was rifling though a file folder.

“Good morning,” Miriam said, intending to walk on toward John’s room.

“Oh, Mrs. Miller!” Mrs. Madison said, glancing up. “Dr. Wine wants to see you.”

Miriam paused, fear moving through her.

“Something wrong?” she asked. “Is John worse?”

Mrs. Madison seemed reluctant to say anything. “I think the doctor would rather tell you.”

“Oh…dear…but I thought he was out of danger.”

“No,” Mrs. Madison said. “I didn’t mean that.” She took a long look at Miriam’s face and then said quickly, “Your son is awake, but the doctor wants to tell you.”

“He’s awake?” Miriam’s joy evident. “He’s really awake?”

“Yes, but you’d better talk to the doctor before going in.”

“I’m going to see him,” she announced, already on the way. She didn’t care at the moment what doctors or nurses told her, she was going to see her son.

Mrs. Madison watched her go, shrugging her shoulders. “Can’t say I blame her,” she said to no one in particular.

Miriam opened the door to John’s room without pausing. John’s head turned in her direction, his eyes searching her face. She saw fear in them.

“John,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “you’ve come back to us. This is so good.”

He said nothing, his eyes moist.

She wanted to take him in her arms as she had when he was a baby. Wanted to brush his forehead with her hand, to tell him the hurt would go away, but the years stood between them. She knew with great clarity that even in John’s present condition he was no longer a child. Acting otherwise wouldn’t help matters.

“Where’s Rebecca?” John asked, so low she had to lean over to catch the words.

“She’s at home,” she said. “We didn’t know when you would regain consciousness. She will be real glad to hear this news.”

“Will she be back?” he asked, still in a whisper.

“Of course. When I let her know you’re awake. You don’t have to worry.”

He said nothing, turning his face away from her, his eyes searching the ceiling.

“She’s gone,” he half-whispered.

Watching him, the thought occurred to her,
Maybe John’s brain has been affected. Was brain damage not on the list of things the doctor was concerned about?

“John, are you okay?” she asked, not certain what else to say, and yet realizing he was still far from okay.

John still said nothing, his eyes silently on the ceiling.

Certain now she was right, great waves of horror swept over her. She wished now she had listened to the nurse and talked to the doctor first. He would, no doubt, have prepared her for this, making the blow much easier than simply walking in and finding out on her own.

Watching another silent tear run down John’s face, the situation could not have been any clearer. She and Isaac had prepared for the wrong thing. They had seen the possibility of a cripple in their home, sitting in a wheelchair, helpless and in need. What they had not prepared for was a mental disability—the wasted stare, the unreasoning demands, the wants that never seemed to be defined or satisfied.

Surely it could not be, yet there it was, right in front of her eyes as plain as day. John was back, but what was back might well not be John but some shadow of himself. A shadow who was unresponsive and asking strange and gloomy questions.

John now whispered something else, and she drew back, uncertain, resisting coming closer to be certain. And yet she must listen. This was still her son. Her hand went out to him, brushing his brow, the wetness of his perspiration moistening her hand.

“You’ll be okay,” she told him. “We’ll take you home. You’ll be getting better now.”

He whispered again, and she bent low this time. The words were formed even slower now. “She’s not coming back.”

John’s brain was affected. It was now obvious to her. This was the blow the doctor and the nurse wished to soften. Isaac would be broken when she told him, and she dreaded the task. Yet Isaac would carry on, just as she must carry on, with courage and faith that God was able to help. This was the path He had chosen for them.

“She’s gone,” John said, his lips moving.

She laid her hand on his forehead again. There was no answer to such madness of the brain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Miriam told him. “Rebecca will be very glad to see you. You’d better rest now though.”

“I want to,” he managed, his voice a little stronger. “My head hurts.”

“The doctor will be in to see you soon.”

“I don’t want a doctor,” he insisted.

“God help us,” Miriam prayed aloud. “You are a good God, even when the valley is deep. Help John now and help us too.
Please.
”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-TWO

M
iriam was still praying when the door opened, admitting Dr. Wine.

“I see you’re here already,” he said, his voice professional and to the point.

As she turned from John to face the doctor, she registered the dull look in John’s eyes and felt a stab of pain, understanding what this meant. His mind had been lost. But she knew she must be strong until Isaac was here, and then she could find comfort in his arms.

“I had wanted to talk to you first,” Dr. Wine said. “I guess the nurse didn’t mention that.”

“She did,” Miriam said quickly. “I couldn’t wait. I’m his mother.”

Dr. Wine seemed to relax his attitude at those words and turned to John. “So how are you feeling?”

Miriam was astonished that the doctor would ask John to speak of his obviously brain-damaged condition.

“Can’t move the right side,” he mouthed slowly. “This arm comes up a bit,” he added, lifting his left arm slightly.