The Christmas Quilt (Quilts of Love Series) Read online

  Tugging on the ball of yarn one more time, Annie smiled. “Things often don’t work as we plan. Right? I put all my quilting supplies into my bag. Everything is measured and ready, but I neglected to wash and iron the fabric first.”

  “Why would you need to wash new fabric?”

  “There are several reasons—”

  “It’s not dirty though. It’s new.”

  “Ya, but sometimes with new fabric the colors will bleed. It’s best to wash them separately, before you sew them together.”

  “Sounds like a lot of trouble for a blanket.”

  “Oh, Adam. A quilt is much more than a blanket.”

  “If you say so.”

  Annie gave him a you-should-know-better look and continued working with the crochet needle and yellow yarn. She’d purchased both from the gift shop an hour ago. It looked to Adam like she was making a blanket, and probably a baby blanket at that, but then he didn’t know much about the wonders women did with yarn—only that one needle meant crocheting and two meant knitting.

  Given the color—a soft yellow—Leah could assume Annie was making something for the babies they were waiting on, but playing it safe as far as a boy or a girl. The thought brought a smile to his face just as an orderly rolled Leah back into the room.

  “All done with the test?” he asked.

  “Ya. It was no problem.” She went on to describe the sonogram procedure to him, but it was beyond anything he could imagine. Amish families generally did not have pictures made of their babies, before or after they were born.

  Belinda had suggested having one done when they’d first learned of the twins, but they had both declined. Since Leah seemed healthy it hadn’t been medically necessary, but now—well, now it apparently was.

  “Is she back in her room for good?” he asked Gabriella.

  “We’re all done,” she assured him. “My shift ends at three, but I’ll be in to check on you one more time before I go.”

  Soon Leah was napping. He didn’t understand how she could sleep with that needle in her arm. The sight of it made him a little queasy. He’d finally given in and eaten the part of her lunch she didn’t want, but now he thought the half of club sandwich and tomato soup might be headed back up if he stared at the needle and long tube snaking into it much longer.

  “Look away, Adam.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen that look on your face before. Remember the time you had to help me at the schoolhouse? I was giving flu shots and I needed someone to hold the children.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Adam put his head between his knees, the way he’d done that day. Most of the children hadn’t minded the needle Annie had stuck into their shoulders, but Adam had gone outside and thrown up in the outhouse. He didn’t mind a shot when he had to have one—Samuel had given him one last year for tetanus. Watching while he did it though? That was not something he could do. Sharp objects shouldn’t go into your arm, and plastic tubes shouldn’t snake out. They certainly shouldn’t stay there like the one in Leah’s arm.

  Better to think about the engines in his shop. Engines were made of metal. They didn’t pierce easily, and they didn’t bleed if you dropped them on the ground.

  How was he going to be a father?

  Infants were extremely small and helpless.

  Who was he fooling? He’d probably faint away the first time he held one of the babies.

  “Breathe deeper. You’re starting to look green.”

  “How can you tell that? I have my head practically between my knees.”

  “I’m a nurse. Remember? I’m trained to know the signs of someone who is about to hurl.” Annie put aside her crochet work, stood, and brought him a glass of ice water. “Drink this. It will help.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Do what I say, bruder. This one time.”

  Adam downed the small Styrofoam cup of water in one gulp. He did feel better. Standing, he walked around the room. It was too small to pace in, but at least he could look out the window. Seeing the half-inch of snow in the parking lot, covering the trees, helped to ease some of his anxiety. Nature marched on regardless of what was upsetting his little world.

  “Where did Belinda go?”

  “She had an appointment to check on one of her mothers-to-be.”

  “Do you still have Samuel’s phone? In case we need to call her? We might need a ride home. It’s possible they could release her early if—”

  Annie put a hand on his arm. “Try not to worry. I sent the phone with Belinda. She’s going to give it back to Samuel. He might need it.”

  “But—”

  “We have the phone on Leah’s nightstand. It’s free to use. We can call Belinda or even Samuel.”

  “Ya. That’s right. I forgot about that one.”

  Annie sat back down and resumed her crocheting.

  Leah continued napping.

  And Adam went back to worrying. “Do you think we’ll be able to go home tonight?”

  “Nein. They’ll want to give her the magnesium through tomorrow. It’s possible—”

  He never heard the rest of her sentence, because the door to Leah’s room opened. Dr. Kentlee walked in and Adam knew, positively knew by the look on his face they were not going home. In fact, he had the sickening feeling what the doctor was about to say was much, much worse.

  12

  Annie pushed the crochet needle into her yarn and the yarn into her quilting bag. Leah had begun to stir as soon as Dr. Kentlee walked into the room. It was nice to see Gabriella trail in behind him. The clock on the wall said ten minutes after three. Either Gabriella’s replacement was late, which was doubtful, or she was staying around to complete final rounds with Dr. Kentlee.

  Annie made eye contact with the woman and nodded her thanks.

  “I can’t believe I fell asleep.” Leah’s expression turned sheepish as she accepted a cup of water from the nurse.

  “Your body’s adjusting to a lot of things,” Annie said. “Sleep is one way of coping.”

  “Leah and Adam, I’d like to talk to you about your test results.” Dr. Kentlee’s expression appeared very grave. He continued staring at the screen on the tablet, apparently scrolling through reports. Finally, he handed it back to Gabriella. “I assume you want Annie to stay in the room while I go over this?”

  “Ya. We do.” Adam had been standing near the window, but he moved closer to her and Leah, not stopping until he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Annie, who was right next to Leah’s bed. Everything about Adam’s posture and their position together seemed to scream red alert, as if together they would be able to confront whatever was coming next and draw strength from one another.

  Annie prayed they could.

  “I’m not going to sugarcoat this. The ultrasound indicates the babies aren’t as developed as we thought.”

  “You said their heartbeat was gut.” Adam ran his fingers over and through his curly hair, sending it into complete disarray.

  Dr. Kentlee held up his hand, palm out. “Yes, and that hasn’t changed. However, since this is your first sonogram, Belinda was guessing at your exact date of conception. You thought you were into your thirty-sixth week. The sonogram you had a few hours ago suggests the babies may be younger.”

  “How much younger?” Annie asked. She understood where the doctor was headed now, and why he was worried. She also knew that Adam and Leah were lost as to why this was so important.

  “Ten days, certainly a little more than a week.”

  “So what does this mean?” Leah spoke up as she placed a protective hand over her stomach. “That the babies aren’t actually due at the end of December? Instead they’re due the first week in January?”

  “Yes . . .” Dr. Kentlee drew out the word. “But, Leah, you’re not going to make it until January. My goal, our goal, will be for you to make it until December, another two weeks. If you can wait to deliver until then, the chances of complications will be much less.”

 
“Complications?” Adam’s voice hardened. “What types of complications?”

  “Low birth rate is tied to many things. We don’t have to go into those now—”

  “Tell us. We need to know, if we’re to make informed decisions.” Adam gripped the side rail of the bed with both hands.

  Annie glanced down and saw that his knuckles were white, his grasp on the rail was so fierce.

  “Leah and I are adults,” Adam continued. “We are parents to these children, even though they aren’t born yet. Now what are these complications?”

  The doctor didn’t avoid the question. Instead he moved his gaze from Adam to Leah and then back again. “Infants with low birth weight have an increased risk for a wide variety of problems—everything from mental retardation to cerebral palsy. There can also be vision or hearing loss. This doesn’t mean your babies would have these problems if they were born early. Only that they could.”

  “What about their lungs?” Annie asked.

  “Should be fine. Up to thirty-four weeks, we administer a steroid called betamethazone to help develop the babies’ lungs more quickly.”

  “But the contractions have stopped,” Leah protested.

  “And that’s a good sign. Also, you’re definitely past thirty-four weeks, so the steroid isn’t necessary. Our problem is that your babies are very small.” Dr. Kentlee handed the tablet to Gabriella and pushed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. “What I’m going to suggest will be very difficult for you, I suspect. I’ve worked with other Amish families over the years, and I understand your ties to your family and your home. In my opinion, Leah needs to be under close observation for the rest of this week and all of next—until the babies pass the thirty-six-week mark.”

  “You want her to stay here?” Adam’s voice rose in disbelief. “In Lewistown? For two weeks?”

  “No. No, I don’t. We don’t have the facilities here, don’t have a neonatal unit. I’d like to transfer her to a hospital that does.”

  Annie closed her eyes. Some part of her had known this might be coming. When they’d first stepped into the corridor of the Lewistown Hospital, she’d known this might be the first of several stops.

  “Another hospital?” Adam turned and began pacing back and forth across the five feet in front of the window. “What other hospital? Where?”

  “There are several good facilities in Philadelphia.”

  Adam sank into the chair, speechless, his mouth half open.

  The room grew so quiet that the sound of the clock ticking increased until Annie thought it would surely plop off the wall. Then she remembered her time working at Mercy, her time of rumspringa.

  “Adam, Mercy Hospital has a neonatal unit.”

  He stared at her as if she’d spoken in French.

  “It’s true,” Dr. Kentlee said. “We’ve transferred to Mercy before.”

  “I was on staff there for a while,” Annie explained. She turned to Leah. “It’s a gut place. They are one of the top medical facilities in the state with kind people, and it’s a quiet, gentle setting.”

  Leah glanced around the room. Adam was now sitting with his head between his hands as if he were suffering from a throbbing headache.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” Leah said abruptly, as if the conversation going on around her was not where she’d be spending the next two weeks and where her children would most likely be born.

  “Oh, all right.” Annie lowered the safety rail on the side of the bed.

  “Let me help you.” Gabriella moved to adjust the pole holding the two IV bags.

  Together they assisted Leah, being sure she was steady on her feet, before helping her shuffle over to the small bathroom.

  What happened next happened so quickly that even Annie would later have trouble telling Samuel about it when she called him on the hospital room phone.

  It seemed Leah cried out, with a sound like a small animal caught in a trap. She tried to collapse to the floor, but Gabriella and Annie were both there on either side of her, and they had her by the arms before she could do more than sink an inch or so.

  The blood spreading down her legs and onto the floor was substantial, and when Adam saw it he turned white and fainted dead away. Dr. Kentlee strode to the wall and hit the emergency button, calling for help. Then he was at their side. Together they picked Leah up and placed her back on the bed.

  By that time, she, too, had lost consciousness.

  Leah woke in a different room.

  She opened her eyes and fought through the fog to remember all that had happened. More than anything, she wanted to raise her hand, caress her stomach—her babies, but her hand was so heavy she couldn’t. So, instead she focused on Annie, who was sitting a few feet away.

  In her lap she held the white fabric they’d picked out together, and she seemed to be working on one of the appliqués for the baby quilt. She turned the fabric toward the window, where the blinds were partially open to allow a patch of light through. Leah could make out the dark and light blue fabric Annie had chosen to use in one of the Sunbonnet Sue dresses.

  Tears stung her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks.

  Surely her babies were okay. Annie wouldn’t be making the quilt if . . . if anything had happened.

  Sensing Leah was awake, Annie raised her eyes. She didn’t move immediately. Instead a slow, full smile replaced the look of concentration. She glanced down, worked her sewing needle into the edge of her quilt block, and placed the fabric in her quilting bag. Standing, she adjusted the blinds to allow even more light into the room, then walked to the side of the bed and poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the bedside table.

  “It’s gut to see your eyes open.” She used the control pad to raise the head of the bed. “Try to drink a little. I imagine your mouth feels as if you’ve been swallowing cotton.”

  Leah nodded. She managed to lift her hand to help with the cup, but her arm felt weak and unsteady. She noticed the IV was still in, though this time it was in her opposite arm. With both hands, she gingerly touched her stomach. The babies weren’t moving, but her abdomen was as large as ever and that was a comfort.

  “The bopplin are gut. You can see their heartbeats on this monitor.” Annie pointed to a digital display where two lines marched constantly from left to right. A number showed brightly above each line.

  “The number—it’s what it should be?”

  “Ya.”

  Annie offered her another drink and this time she finished what was in the cup.

  Leah stared around the room, trying to piece together the fragments of what she remembered and separate it from her dreams.

  There were now two chairs in her room—the one Annie had been quilting in and one closer to her bed. Annie sat in it and waited.

  “I don’t remember a lot.” Leah’s voice was scratchy, like the time she’d had a cold for a week and missed school. “We were talking with the older Doctor . . .”

  “Dr. Kentlee.”

  “And I had to . . .” she glanced around the room, her gaze finally landing on the bathroom door, which was now to the left of the door leading out to the hall. “I had to use the toilet, something terrible.”

  Annie nodded, but didn’t interrupt.

  “I think.” Leah could feel her heart beating faster. Had it been a dream, or had it happened? “I think I remember a lot of blood and maybe you praying over me. Or did I dream that?”

  Reaching for her hand, Annie laced their fingers together. “You didn’t dream it.”

  “And then I don’t remember very much clearly . . . faces—some I didn’t know, and some I did.” She stared down at their hands. “But the bopplin are all right?”

  “Yes. Now they are.”

  “Why did they place me in a different room?”

  The surprise showed on Annie’s face. “We’re not at Lewistown anymore. You began bleeding because your placenta separated partially from your uterine lining. When that happened, the doctors at Lewistown sta
bilized you, gave you a blood transfusion, and then transferred you here to Mercy.”

  “In Philadelphia?”

  “Ya. An ambulance brought you, and I rode along. Adam, he rode with Belinda.”

  “Adam was here?”

  “For a while.”

  Leah fingered the white bed covering, digesting all that Annie had said. She’d had a blood transfusion? She’d ridden in an ambulance? Again?

  “Why can’t I remember any of this?”

  “You slept through much of it. And sometimes, when you’ve been through a traumatic experience, your mind chooses not to remember. It could be bits and pieces will come back later.”

  Leah nodded as if she understood, but she didn’t. None of what Annie had said made any sense at all.

  She closed her eyes and began to pray. Thanking God her babies had strong hearts. That whatever had happened, had happened while she was in the hospital. And that Annie was there to explain things to her. She liked receiving information slowly, so she could process it, think about it, and pray about it. She didn’t consider herself stupid, but everything had happened so fast. She needed time to digest all of these changes.

  Annie must have thought she’d fallen asleep. She patted her hand, placed it under the blanket, and stood to move back to her quilting.

  “Explain to me about the placenta again.”

  “It’s what provides oxygen and nutrients to your bopplin.”

  “But it tore?”

  “Yes. Not completely, or you would have gone into labor.”

  “There was a lot of blood.” Leah didn’t open her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “It was my blood though—not the babies’.”

  “Correct.”

  Leah opened her eyes. “I don’t mind losing my blood.”

  “I know you don’t, but we have to keep you strong, and we have to keep the placenta attached as long as possible.”

  Nodding, Leah tried to absorb all that Annie was saying. “When did Adam go home?”

  “Wednesday night, when the doctors said all three of you were out of danger.”

  Leah stared out the window. For the first time, she noticed that beyond the blinds were many buildings—an entire city she hadn’t even realized surrounded her.