Her mother’s eyes were open, staring straight ahead toward the door, but they didn’t blink when Rose gripped her bony shoulder. Mamma’s breathing was so much slower than it had been yesterday, and in the stillness of the dim room, the rasping sound of each breath was magnified by Rose’s desperation.
Rose stared at her mother for a few more of those labored breaths, trying again to rouse her. Mamma’s expression was devoid of emotion or pain. She was unresponsive—as the doctor had warned might happen—and Rose curled in on herself to cry for a few minutes. Then she slipped out to the phone shanty at the road.
“Bishop Vernon, it’s Rose Raber,” she said after his answering machine had prompted her. “If you could come—well, Mamma’s about gone and I . . . I don’t know what to do. Denki so much.”
Rose returned to the house with a million worries running through her mind. Soon Gracie would be awake and wanting her breakfast and—how would Rose explain that her mammi couldn’t talk to her anymore, didn’t see her anymore? How could she manage a frantic, frightened five-year-old who would need her constant reassurances for a while, and at the same time deal with her own feelings of grief and confusion? All the frightened moments Rose had known this past week, when she’d thought Mamma was already gone, were merely rehearsals, it seemed.
“Oh, Nathan, if only you were here,” Rose whispered as she walked through the unlit front room. “You always knew what to do. Always had a clear head and a keen sense of what came next.”
Rose paused in the doorway of the room where Mamma lay. Her breathing was still loud and slow, and the breaths seemed to be coming farther apart. Rose hoped it was a comfort to Mamma to die as she’d wanted—even though it was nerve-racking to Rose. There had been no waiting, no doubts, the day she and Mamma had returned from shopping in Morning Star to discover that the sawmill had caught fire from a saw’s sparks. The mill, quite a distance from any neighbor, had burned to the ground with her father and husband trapped beneath a beam that had fallen on them. Their men’s deaths had been sudden and harsh, but quick. No lingering, no wondering if she could be doing some little thing to bring final comfort.
Once again, Rose sat in the chair beside Mamma’s bed, and then rested against the mattress as she’d done before. The clock on Mamma’s dresser chimed three times. It would be hours before the bishop checked his phone messages. Rose didn’t want to rustle around in the kitchen, for fear she’d waken Gracie, so she placed a hand over her mother’s and allowed herself to drift....
Photo credit: Tom Piper
Charlotte Hubbard is the acclaimed author of Amish romance and fiction that evokes simpler times and draws upon her experiences in Jamesport, the largest Old Order Amish community west of the Mississippi. Faith and family, farming, and food preservation are hallmarks of her lifestyle—and the foundation of all her novels. A deacon, dedicated church musician, and choir member, she loves to travel, read, try new recipes, and crochet. A longtime Missourian, Charlotte now lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, with her husband and their border collie. Please visit Charlotte online at www.CharlotteHubbard.com.
