Laurie Kingery - The Preacher's Bride

Faith nodded, and he closed the door behind him. For a while she busied herself with straightening the crisp sheets and light blanket over the preacher’s slight form, checking the slow, steady pulse at his wrist and watching his chest rise, but at last she settled herself in the cane-bottom rocker. The wind sighed around the building, and the old house creaked back in reply.

She’d brought a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets to keep her company through the long hours of the night, for she’d known there would be little else to do to help her stay awake. Caroline Wallace had praised it and lent it to her, but she found the antique language of the poetry slow going and the flickering lamp light soporific. Her schoolteacher friend must certainly have an elevated intellect to penetrate the irregular spellings and obsolete words, Faith thought. If she persisted in trying to read it, though, she’d fall asleep, despite the still-warm cup of black coffee she sipped.

After a while she laid the slender leather-bound volume aside and walked quietly to the window that faced Fannin Street. A full moon hung low behind the church, bathing it and the parsonage in its ethereal glow.

The windows were dark at the parsonage. Was Gil sleeping or was he keeping a prayer vigil on his knees, beseeching his God to spare his father? She hoped the former—he would need his strength, regardless of the outcome of his father’s illness. It would do little good to wear himself out pleading with a deity who either wasn’t there, or if he was, had never given Faith much evidence that he cared.

She looked back at the unconscious man on the bed. What kind of reward was this for a lifetime of faithful service, being stricken at his pulpit, in front of his son and the entire congregation? Now, if nothing changed and his heart continued to beat, he would die a lingering death from dehydration and pneumonia, his body withering slowly. What had happened to the brilliant mind that had memorized practically the entire New Testament and psalms and could recite them, chapter and verse? Why hadn’t he been granted the mercy of a peaceful passing in his sleep? If that was how God rewarded His faithful servants, she was wise to want no part of it!

She turned back to check on the preacher, and was astonished to see that his eyes were open and he was gazing at her.

She gasped, hardly able to believe what she saw. “Reverend Chadwick?”

He made no attempt to speak, but the faded old eyes were full of intelligence. He knew her.

“Can you...can you squeeze my hands?” she said, reaching under the covers and grasping his cool, gnarled hands. The right one lay limp and unresponsive in her grasp. She could not be sure she felt an answering pressure from the left, so slight was his effort. He continued to regard her, blinking occasionally, and she could feel appreciation radiating from his eyes.

“I’ll get Dr. Walker,” she said, feeling a rising excitement. “He’ll be so encouraged!” She turned, about to rap on the wall behind her, but looked back one more time.

The old man’s eyelids were once again closed.

“Reverend Chadwick?” she called softly, but there was no response. Gently, she shook the old man’s shoulder. “Reverend Chadwick? Please open your eyes again. Squeeze my hand, sir, please?”

He lay immobile, as if he had never opened his eyes. She sagged back down on the chair, unsure now that she had really seen what she thought she had. Had she forgotten that she had sat down again and perhaps fallen asleep? Had the sight of his opening eyes been but a fleeting dream born of wishful thinking?

Faith was still thoroughly discouraged when Dr. Walker came in to check his patient near dawn. She told him what she thought she’d observed, then watched as he bent to listen with his stethoscope to the old preacher’s heartbeat and his breathing, and check his reflexes.

“Come to the kitchen,” he said, beckoning. “I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

“But...” She glanced back at Reverend Chadwick.

“It will be all right to leave him alone for a little while,” he assured her.

Once they’d reached the kitchen, he spoke again. “It’s best not to speak frankly in front of a patient, even when the patient seems completely comatose,” he explained. “Hearing seems to be the last sense to go. A soldier in my care once came out of a coma and reported everything that was said in his presence while he was supposedly insensible—much to my embarrassment, for I had told another army doctor right at the bedside that I didn’t think the fellow would make it.” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Then you believe the reverend’s brief waking was a good sign?” she asked, hopeful again. “You don’t believe I fell asleep and dreamed the whole thing?”

He studied her. “You seem too responsible a lady to let yourself doze,” he said. “It’s quite possible he awoke and knew you. But does it mean that he will recover?” He shrugged. “I couldn’t say as yet. It’s not a bad sign, certainly, but I’ve seen unconscious men have moments of apparent lucidity, then die anyway. We’ll have to see if he wakes again, and I’ll be more hopeful if it lasts this time. We must continue to pray,” he added.

Faith winced inside, but kept silent. If only she believed prayer would do some good.

“I’ll heat water and help you give him a bath,” Dr. Walker said. “Perhaps the stimulation of that will help bring him back to consciousness. And then you’ll go home and get some well-earned rest yourself.”

Faith glanced out the south-facing window, and saw the faint light of dawn.

“The sun’s coming up,” she murmured. “I expect Gil will arrive before long. I imagine it’s been hard for him waiting through the night for news. It would be wonderful if he found his father awake, wouldn’t it?” She wanted to give him that gift—the sight of his father conscious and in his right mind, no matter what other damage the apoplexy had left.

“It would,” he agreed, as he pumped water from the kitchen pump into a deep iron pot. “And I’d have a better idea of his prognosis.” The doctor’s blue eyes held a Yankee shrewdness as he set the pot on the stovetop. “You’re fond of Gil, aren’t you?”

The question had come out of nowhere, and she could not stifle a gasp nor summon a quick denial.

“H-how did you know?” she asked, feeling a telltale flush spreading up her neck.

The corners of the doctor’s mouth quirked upward. “We doctors are trained observers of signs and symptoms, and human behavior,” he said gently. “This is probably not the appropriate time to tease you. But there’s nothing wrong with being fond of a man of such sterling character, and I know my wife wouldn’t mind if I pointed out you’re a kind and generous young lady as well as a pretty one. You might make a very good wife for the young preacher.”

He couldn’t know how wrong he was about that. She bit her lip, not knowing what to say, wondering if Dr. Walker would hint of her feelings to Gil. She cleared her throat, trying to find the right words.

He’d seen her dismay, though, and waved a hand. “I’m sorry, Miss Faith, forgive my frankness. My wife is always telling me I’m so used to dealing in life and death matters that I think I can say anything that pops into my head. It’s none of my business, and I won’t mention it again.”

“No apology is necessary, Doctor,” she said.

Before either of them could say anything else, they heard footsteps, and Sarah appeared in the kitchen, dressed in her wrapper, yawning, her golden hair still confined in its nighttime braid.

“Good morning, dear,” Dr. Walker said, kissing her before he updated her on the events of the night. Faith looked on, wistfully envying the obvious tenderness between husband and wife.