The Judgment (30 page)

But now all of that—the words spoken that day in the judge’s drab chambers, including her and Brandon’s vows—had vanished in the sea of paperwork there in front of her, waiting to be filled in for yet another judge.

The thought entered Hen’s mind that she’d never told a soul—not even her own dear sister, who’d known something was up—about her plan to marry Brandon that day. With no guests other than the photographer they’d hired, everything had been very basic, mostly because of their haste to marry. Neither she nor her groom had remembered to buy flowers for the other.
No music or boutonniere . . . no engraved invitations or bridesmaids. Like an Amish wedding in its simplicity,
Hen realized with a start
.

Much to Solomon’s surprise, Emma admitted that morning to being heartened beyond her ability to explain because of Beth’s faith-filled dream and her handwritten prayers. “I saw the great hope in her eyes . . . and I believed the dream must be from God,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I want you to call the York orthopedic specialist you talked about.”

Sol’s spirits soared at this decided change of heart.
Thank you, Lord!
Later, in the phone shanty, while Sol dialed the York office, it struck him that the phone number of the orthopedic surgeon had remained the same, after all these years. Surely it pointed to divine providence.

The receptionist offered a post-Christmas opening that had just come up for a week from today, Friday, December twenty-seventh. Otherwise, the doctor was booked solid well into January. Gratefully, Sol said they’d take it.

As he walked back toward the house through the ankle-deep snow, a siren rang out in the distance, then another. He cringed inwardly, just as he had the day the ambulance wailed down Salem Road, coming for the bishop’s son.
Too late.

“Lord, help whoever is in need,” he whispered, his breath crystallizing before his eyes.

Once inside, Sol jotted down the appointment day and time. Feeling invigorated by the hope burning within him for Emma, he prayed she would not back out prior to the trip to York next week.

He went to the sitting room to see Emma and found Rose Ann there reading aloud to her. Smiling a greeting to his wife and daughter, Sol made his way out to the woodshop, still conscious of the intensity of the sirens’ cries.

Chapter 29

H
en started when Lawrence’s desk phone jangled loudly. She leaned forward to look into the hallway as the phone continued to ring. At one point, she nearly felt compelled to answer it herself.

Finally the phone ceased its ringing. Within a minute or so, Lawrence returned to the office, alone. “Hen . . . I don’t know how to say this.” He looked like a man sleepwalking. “I’ve just received very bad news . . . about Brandon.”

“Bad news?” The words caught in her throat.

“There was an accident.” Lawrence stared at her in a daze. “Head-on collision. Brandon’s in the ER, where the doctors are assessing his injuries.”

Brandon hurt?

Lawrence went on talking, something about the critical condition of the other driver. But Hen froze in the chair, unable to hear or comprehend his words, lost in the air as they were. Her mind and heart entangled in a great knot of concern, distress, and fear.

In a daze, she rose without speaking. From a concealed closet in the wood panel behind his desk, Lawrence snatched his overcoat off a hanger. “I’ll drive us to the hospital,” he said.

Hen mutely nodded her thanks and placed the financial papers back on the desk. Then, pulling on her woolen shawl, she made her way out to his car, parked in a reserved spot behind the law building. She shivered not so much from the cold as from nerves. It was impossible to think of her strong, energetic husband lying injured—or worse—in a hospital.

When they arrived at the emergency room, the receptionist was surprisingly strict about permitting only one family member to visit at a time. She also stared, as if unmistakably curious about Hen’s Plain attire. “Are you a close relative of Brandon Orringer?” she asked.

“His wife,” Hen said, scarcely able to speak.
For now . . .

The woman said Brandon was in the critical area of the ER. “Room number eight—headed soon for surgery on his fractured arm.”

“Which arm?” Hen thought aloud.

“His right.”

Brandon’s right-handed.

The woman eyed Hen yet again. “Please adhere to the five-minute rule.”

Lawrence seemed reluctant to let Hen go in first, and he followed her to the locked double doorway and stood to the right of it, his hand in his trouser pocket, jingling coins. He wore a frown as he stared through the round windows.

Feeling out of place, Hen waited until the woman gave the signal and the doors opened outward. Hen tiptoed inside, looking for the correct room number posted on the wall panels. She held her breath as she at last stepped into the curtained-off area, moving quickly to the side of the bed.

Brandon looked worse than she’d feared: His head and neck were attached to a long board, and the bed railings were up on both sides. His face was badly bruised and his forehead was bandaged.

Her knees felt weak at the sight of him, and Hen suddenly realized just how terrible it would be to lose this man—the husband she loved.
How could I forget what he means to me?
She folded her hands and peered down sadly at him.
Is he asleep or unconscious?

The sounds of several machines filled the room. A clear tube for oxygen had been inserted into his nose, and another tube with a needle on the end was going into the vein in his left arm. His heart was also being monitored, and the steady beeping was a comfort to her as Hen’s own heartbeat pulsed loudly in her ears. Her husband looked so pitiful, so pale and lifeless.

Glancing about her, she noticed a clipboard at the foot of his bed. She peeked at it and saw the letters TBI. A moment or so later, a nurse came in to check his blood pressure and oxygen levels. The nurse told her Brandon had suffered several broken ribs, as well as a badly fractured arm.

“What is TBI?” Hen asked.

“Traumatic brain injury. We’ll be watching your husband closely over the next forty-eight hours to determine the extent of the damage.” The nurse explained that because Brandon had been unconscious for more than fifteen minutes following the impact, they were treating him with medication to keep brain swelling to a minimum.

Brain swelling?
Her breath caught and tears sprang to her eyes. No, she must not cry. Brandon needed her now . . . needed her to be strong.

“The doctor will be in soon to give you further updates,” the nurse said, offering her a sympathetic smile.

Hen did not want her precious minutes to slip away too quickly. Praying silently, she gently touched Brandon’s exposed left wrist. No response came and she was struck by how very warm his skin was to the touch.

Tears blurred her ability to see clearly the man she’d married so eagerly . . . so happily. The English man who did not understand Hen’s renewed fondness for Plain living, nor her concerns regarding Mattie Sue’s upbringing.

The man who wants to leave me . . .

She looked at his broken body—his right arm in a temporary blue sling. It was impossible not to wonder how badly Brandon’s brain was injured. Yet she refused to give in to fear.

O Lord, please help my husband.
She closed her eyes, unable to bear the thought of his being so terribly hurt.

The curtains moved and the ER doctor appeared and introduced himself as Dr. Baker. He shook her hand kindly. “I understand you are Mrs. Orringer,” he said.

“I am.” She waited a moment before asking, “How badly hurt is he?”

“Considering the force of the collision, I have to say your husband’s a lucky man.”

His words were hardly reassuring.

“The initial scan indicates Mr. Orringer has suffered a moderate to serious concussion.”

“What does that mean for him?”

“A head injury of any kind is a grave matter, and according to the report, your husband was unconscious for a considerable amount of time.” He picked up Brandon’s chart and made notes as he checked the various monitors. He leaned over the bed and raised Brandon’s eyelids, one after the other, shining a small penlight. “The first few hours are not as critical as the next twenty-four and beyond. We will be watching for any brain swelling or bleeding.”

It crossed her mind to ask how long he’d be in the hospital, but her legs felt so weak it was all Hen could do to simply cling to the bed railing. She felt as if she was walking in a stupor. All of this had happened so fast.

Dr. Baker went on to say that Brandon’s right arm was severely fractured and that surgery was essential to reset it. Several ribs were broken, as well, but there had been no puncture to either lung, according to the X-rays.

Thank the dear Lord!
she thought.

Although five minutes had already passed, it was difficult to think of leaving Brandon there among strangers.

Hen memorized the form of her husband’s long and once robust frame beneath the white sheet.
Please let Brandon recover,
she fervently prayed again. “My husband’s brother is waiting to come in next,” Hen told the doctor as she stepped back from the bed, her eyes lingering on her injured husband. “I’ll return tomorrow.”

After his brief visit, Hen’s brother-in-law offered to drive her back to her car at the parking lot behind the law offices. And although the trip wasn’t long, the mood between them in the car was tinged with tension, despite Lawrence’s efforts to make small talk. They were both filled with apprehension.

Lawrence mentioned he would contact his brothers in California and his sister, Terry, in Maryland. Hen was quite relieved. She did not wish to go to the empty house to look up the pertinent phone numbers. “I’ll notify my parents, too, of course,” he added.

She heard the catch in his deep voice. The man was worried sick, just as she was. And thankfully, nothing more was said about filing divorce papers.

They pulled into Lawrence’s parking spot and Hen thanked him as she reached for the door handle. “I plan to visit Brandon again tomorrow,” he told her.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be there, too.”

As Hen got out and walked toward her car, it occurred to her that she should have stayed at the hospital while Brandon underwent surgery. But she needed to get word to her family, who would be expecting her back by now. She sighed, well aware that mentally she would be standing next to Brandon’s bed the rest of the day, her hand holding his.

Once home, she entered the main house, where she quietly relayed the news of the accident to her father and sister. Both were shocked and concerned, as well as ready to assist in any way possible. Neither Dad nor Hen was in a hurry to tell her mother, at least until tomorrow, when they knew more.

But Hen could not put off telling Mattie Sue. Gently, she sat down with her daughter. “Daddy’s been in an accident. He’ll be staying in the hospital for a while.”

Mattie’s eyes grew solemn, but surprisingly she seemed less frightened than Hen thought possible. Hen took her daughter into her arms and held her near, making a great effort to be calm as they prayed together for the man they both loved.

Chapter 30

T
he next morning, Hen sat across the breakfast table from Mattie Sue and told her she was going to visit Daddy again at the hospital. When Mattie pleaded to go along, Hen explained that children under the age of twelve were not permitted to visit.

Much to Hen’s relief, this seemed to suffice as she kissed her good-bye. “Mind your Aendi Rose and Mammi Sylvia, won’t you, honey?”

Mattie Sue smiled and nodded her little head. “Tell Daddy I miss him.”

“I certainly will.” Her heart was made tender by her dear girl’s remark, and she hugged her close.

As she walked around the barn to her car, she was once again glad she hadn’t sold it just yet. She would need a car to visit Brandon each day, until he was released.

When Hen arrived at the hospital, she made her way to the information desk amidst discreet stares to ask what room Brandon had been assigned to, following yesterday’s surgery. She was directed to his floor and room and, after noting that Brandon was sleeping, she sat in the chair near the window and settled into doing a bit of needlepoint. Every few moments, she looked over at him, recalling happier days. Truth was, she was waiting on pins and needles for Brandon to wake up and talk to her, or for someone to come in and give her an update.

For the first half hour, Brandon remained at rest, eyes closed. When the nurse assigned to him arrived to check his vitals, she indicated it wasn’t unusual for a head injury patient to require lots of rest. In fact, it was strongly encouraged.

Hen felt sure her husband must sense she was near, even though she had been reticent about speaking, not wanting to disturb him. And although her hands were occupied by embroidery, her thoughts were of his having survived the accident.
What if he had died yesterday?
What then?