Where Grace Abides (24 page)

 
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C
ARING FOR THE
B
ISHOP

That healing gift He lends to them
Who use it in His name;
The power that filled His garment's hem
Is evermore the same…
That Good Physician liveth yet
Thy friend and guide to be;
The Healer by Gennasaret
Shall walk the rounds with thee.

J
OHN
G
REENLEAF
W
HITTIER

D
avid Sebastian left the house of Isaac Graber with no small measure of concern for his patient.

The bishop had him worried on a number of levels, not the least of which was his diabetes. The elderly Graber was a man of considerable girth who loved to eat. He insisted that he stuck faithfully to the diet David had advised him to follow and didn't overindulge.

David believed him. He was an Amish bishop, after all, not the sort of man given to dissembling.

Yet his weight had ballooned over the past months, and for some time now, David had suspected the additional pounds were to blame for the man's increasingly labored breathing and decline in activity. Frequently this was the kind of thing that perpetuated itself—a
weight gain led to less activity, and decreased activity commonly led to a weight gain. The problem was compounded by the bishop's age. He was only a few days short of turning 82.

Added to his concern about Bishop Graber's physical problems was a growing uneasiness about the man's mental condition. The aging bishop was showing signs of waning mental faculties, perhaps even the onset of dementia. If true he could experience the decline of rational thought processes, a more severe form of memory loss than normally associated with the aging process, and an unpredictable, uncharacteristic—especially for the bishop—tendency toward confusion in decision making.

After he left the Graber home, David decided to drive into Riverhaven, thinking he might stop and have lunch with Gant. He couldn't discuss his suspicions about Bishop Graber, of course—not even with his closest friend. Not even with Susan for that matter. Not only would it be unprofessional, but it simply wouldn't be the Amish thing to do. He supposed he'd been “Amishized” enough by now that he would do things in keeping with the Plain way.

But lunch with his mercurial-witted Irish friend would, at least temporarily, help to take his thoughts off more troubling matters, such as the bishop's state of health and what it might mean if the man continued to fail. After all, if Isaac Graber were declining both physically and mentally, decisions would have to be made.

Bishop Graber was a widower of several years now. He lived in the
Dawdi Haus
alone, the “grandparent's house” connected to the home of Noah, his youngest son, and his family.

The Amish took care of their own. When a man was no longer young and became unable to farm, the homestead passed to the youngest son and the parents moved into a smaller house on the property, a house provided just for them.

Noah Graber, the bishop's son, was a busy farmer with eight children and a wife who undoubtedly worked from dawn to dark taking care of those children, her husband, and their home. But
it went without saying that they would look after the patriarch of their family in a loving, caring fashion.

No, David's concern had nothing to do with the quality of care Bishop Graber would receive.

The question gnawing at him as he approached the crossroads and prepared to turn right onto the road that led to Riverhaven was actually one mired in his lack of knowledge as to how things were done in the “governing” processes of the Plain community.

What happened, for example, when a bishop or another member of the ministerial body responsible for the overseeing and spiritual guidance of an Amish district could no longer perform his duties?

Was Bishop Isaac Graber approaching that point?

David wasn't certain. He had to allow for the possibility that this was a temporary lapse, that the bishop would snap out of his present malaise and recover from the disturbing symptoms he'd been experiencing.

But as a doctor with years of experience, he knew that while at least a partial recovery might be possible, it wasn't
probable.
And as the bishop's personal physician, where did his own responsibility lie? What would happen if he reached the point that he no longer believed Isaac Graber was capable of fulfilling his position as bishop? Who would need to be told?

Or would Bishop Graber take the matter into his own hands and make the decision that was best for his people?

More to the point, if and when the time to act finally came, would the bishop be
able
to make the right decision?

As it happened Gant was out of the shop when David stopped by. Terry Sawyer explained that his employer had driven to Marietta that morning to “tend to some business” and most likely wouldn't return until later in the afternoon.

“Well, since I'm this close,” David said, “I might just pay that new daughter of yours a visit and see how she's coming along. Think your wife would mind if I dropped in?”

“'Course not,” said Sawyer. “Ellie would be right glad to see you, I'm sure.”

So a few minutes later, David stood at the window of the Sawyer's sitting room holding a rosy-cheeked, cooing baby girl who looked remarkably like her momma.

“I'd say she's thriving, Mrs. Sawyer. I do believe she's grown since I was here last week.”

Ellie Sawyer smiled and came to stand next to them. “I'm so glad to hear you say that, Doctor. She's such a good baby too. She scarcely ever cries, and she seems perfectly content most of the time.”

“Ah, then you've got a little charmer, all right. I expect her daddy thinks she's pretty special too.”

David was surprised to see a shadow cross the young mother's face. It was quickly gone, but he didn't think he'd imagined it—especially when she hesitated before replying to his remark.

“Yes, Terry's…very proud of her.”

David passed little Naomi Fay back to her. Trying for a casual tone, he said, “So—how long have you and Mr. Sawyer been married?”

“Going on three years now,” she said, cuddling the baby close.

Ellie Sawyer spoke with a soft drawl, her voice so quiet David had to stoop slightly to hear her.

She was a small woman, quite petite and delicate in appearance, a pretty little thing with light blonde hair and large blue eyes. Although she gave the impression of fragility because of her diminutive size and fine features, David somehow sensed that she might be stronger than she looked.

“Well,” he said, “we hope you'll like it here well enough that you'll decide to stay.”

“Oh, I doubt that's likely,” she said. “Terry is already getting restless.
He's anxious to move on to Indiana. He's always found it hard to stay in one place very long.”

David didn't much like the sound of that, not for a man with a wife and a new baby. “You have family out there, do you?”

She nodded. “Terry has an uncle who's going to let us have a piece of land to farm. It won't be very big, and we'll have to build us a house, but maybe we can finally put down roots.”

David thought he detected a wistful note in her voice. “It's always good to have a place of your own.”

“I expect so,” she replied, her tone vague as she shifted the baby from one shoulder to the other. “We've already moved around a good bit, so I hope once we get to Indiana we can settle in and stay there.”

“Have you decided when you'll be leaving?”

She glanced away. “We don't really have the money just yet. Terry will have to work awhile longer before we can go, and I don't want to start out on a trip like that until the baby is a bit bigger.”

“That's good thinking, Mrs. Sawyer. It would be best to wait, for the sake of the baby if for no other reason.”

Again her expression darkened. “Terry, he's talking of going on ahead of us, getting things ready and such.” She hesitated, then added, “He's thinking that by the time he comes back for us, Naomi will be more ready to travel, and so will I.”

So
that
was what had her worried. It was only natural that she wouldn't like the idea of being stuck here alone in a two-room flat with no family but a new baby.

“Perhaps he'll change his mind,” David said, meaning to reassure her. Worry was no good for her or the baby.

The look she turned on him plainly indicated that she had little hope of that happening, but she merely said, “Perhaps,” and dropped the subject.

Watching her David suspected that she was more concerned about their situation than she was letting on, but it wasn't his place to dig any deeper.

Before leaving he did inquire as to anything they might need, but when she assured him that “thanks to Captain Gant” they were doing all right, he said his goodbyes and left without further discussion.

As he drove away, David couldn't quite get Ellie Sawyer and her circumstances out of his mind. The young woman was seemingly trapped in a situation that was none of her own doing. Apparently her husband was, in her own words, getting restless. She'd also indicated that in only three years they had already “moved around” quite a lot. That didn't necessarily bode well for the future.

They had a newborn baby, no real provisions of their own, and apparently their only funds were whatever Sawyer had managed to earn working for Gant. In such a short time, that couldn't be much.

As long as they were here, Gant would see to it that they didn't lack for anything. David had also slipped his friend some money to help out, as well as foregoing any medical fees owed to him. But once they left Riverhaven, they would be on their own, at least while they were on the road.

There was no mistaking Ellie Sawyer's reluctance to move on just yet, but clearly she was also resistant to the idea of staying behind without her husband. He couldn't help but empathize with her dilemma.

He sighed and slowed the buggy a little. Susan said he drove too fast, and he supposed he did out of habit. He was so often racing to an emergency that driving fast was simply the norm for him.

Susan had also suggested that he fretted too much about his patients. She seemed to worry that he'd eventually make himself ill. The thing was he had always found it difficult to detach himself from concern for a patient. He supposed it was just his nature.

In any event he didn't expect he'd be changing, not after all these years. He would probably always carry more burden than he ought to for those he treated, a thought that again brought Bishop Graber to mind.

He tried to guard against anticipating the worst, but just in case
it should become necessary, how would he handle the situation with the ailing bishop?

There were only three men he could approach with such a request without violating the Amish tenet for privacy. He could seek the confidence of one of the two ministers, Abe Gingerich and Malachi Esche, or the lone deacon who served among the ministerial brethren—Samuel Beiler.