“Taking my time is all. It’s a big step.”
“So says a woman who left her entire life behind at the age of eighteen and hooked up with me.” Contemplative, she shakes her head. “I hate to state the obvious, but what you’ve got … it seems like a good thing.”
“It is.”
“You’re not getting any younger.”
“Thank you for pointing that out.”
“Maybe you ought to stop overthinking it and just do what makes you happy.”
I’m mulling the advice when the tempo of the children’s voices changes. A yelp draws my attention. I see Lizzie and Annie holding hands, facing each other, skating in a circle. Then I spot Sammy. Head and shoulders sticking out of the ice next to the tree trunk. At first, I think he’s down on his knees, playing. Then I notice his arms outstretched, the distress on his face, hands clawing at the ice.
“Sammy!” I jump to my feet. “Adam!”
Next to me, Gina stands. “Girls, get off the ice! Come here!”
A dozen things register at once. The girls standing too close to their fallen brother. A shout from Adam. Heavy footfalls from the direction of where he was chopping wood. Then I’m on my feet, running to the creek, skidding down the bank, sliding on trampled snow.
“Get a branch!” I hit the ice, slide, nearly go down, but my foot lands on snow, grips, and I manage to stay on my feet.
I reach the girls, grab their arms, pull them back. “Go to the lacing log! I’ll get him.”
I hear Gina behind me. “I got them.”
To my left, I hear Adam say something. I glance that way, see him step onto the ice, start across it, eyes fastened to his son. “Grab the edge of the ice!” he shouts to his son. “Hold on!”
I don’t know how deep the water is. I can tell Sammy isn’t standing. His head is bobbing, his arms are splashing; there’s shock and panic on his face. This is likely a deep hole, over his head. If there’s a current, he could be sucked beneath the ice and the situation will become deadly serious.
“Datt!” the boy shouts.
I stop four feet away from him. The ice is gray where water has washed over the surface. “Stay calm,” I tell him. “Grab the edge of the ice like your datt said. We’ll get you.”
His face is anything but calm. His mouth trembles. Water on his face. Skin pale and blue, cheeks blushed red.
I hear movement behind me, see Gina running across the ice, a big branch in her hand. “Take it!” She tosses the branch to me.
I catch it, drop to my belly, spread my legs. The branch is too small. Not substantial enough to pull seventy pounds of panicked boy from the water. But it’s all I’ve got, so I shove the branch at him. “Grab the stick,” I say. “I’ll pull you out.”
The boy looks at me. Panic in his eyes. Teeth chattering. Face wet, water dripping over cheeks that have lost their color.
I hear movement next to me, glance over to see Adam slide to his belly, wriggle next to me. “Grab the branch.” His voice is calm, laser focus in his eyes. “Grab on, son. I’ll pull you out.”
“It’s … c-cold,” the boy says, teeth chattering.
Adam inches closer. “Both hands now. Grab it. Quickly, son.”
The boy raises his arm, but it’s shaking violently. He reaches for the branch, but his sleeve is soaked and heavy and he misses. His gloves are wet, hindering him, and his coat is waterlogged.
“Datt,” he squeaks.
“Grab it.” Adam says the words equably, but I see strain and alarm on his face. “God is with you. Stay calm.”
Bracing one arm on the ice to keep himself from being pulled down by the weight of his coat and skates, the boy tries again. His hand breaks through some of the small branches, fingers clutching and ineffectual.
“Both hands,” I tell him.
Sammy lets go of the ice and lunges, tries to grab the branch with both hands. But the branch crumples, his glove catching and sliding off. His hand smacks the water. His shoulders sink. Water washes over his face. His head goes under.
“Mein Gott.” Adam slithers closer. Too close. The ice gives beneath his elbows. Water rushes over the surface, soaking his coat. He doesn’t seem to notice the shock of cold or the danger of his position.
“Here!”
Gina’s voice. Behind me. I look over my shoulder, see the sturdy branch in her hand. Quickly, she drops to her knees, then dives onto her belly and slides toward the boy. She’s closer to him than Adam or I, coming at him from the opposite side. Gray water washes into her coat, but she pays it no heed. Clenching her teeth, she sweeps the branch across the ice with such force that it nearly strikes the boy, but she stops it just in time.
“Grab it!” she shouts. “I got you! Grab on.”
The boy’s head breaks the surface. He’s sputtering and choking, beginning to cry. He lifts his hand to grab it, but the waterlogged glove weighs down his arm.
“Shake off your glove!” I shout. “Grab the stick!”
The boy slings off the remaining glove, makes a wild grab for the length of wood, gets it on the second try. Small blue fingers cling to the branch. Adam scrambles closer to Gina. The ice groans beneath their weight. He’s shoulder-to-shoulder with her and takes the stick from her.
“Hold on tight!” Adam gets to his knees, wriggles backward, pulling. “I’ve got you, son. Hold on. Don’t let go.”
At first the ice crumbles beneath the boy’s weight, his body acting as an icebreaker. Adam continues to pull and finally the ice holds. The boy’s shoulders, hips, and finally his legs emerge until he’s facedown on the ice.
Adam scrambles to his feet, bends, and scoops up his son, wraps his arms around the boy. “I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
I sidle away from the hole on my hands and knees. Still on her belly, soaking wet, Gina scoots away from the hole in the ice, using only one elbow due to her injury. When I’m a safe distance away, I get to my feet. Watching her, realizing she risked going through the ice herself to save a little boy she barely knows, I’m moved. The punch of emotion that follows surprises me. That’s the thing about Gina. She’s loyal to a fault and sometimes it’s all or nothing. It’s one of the reasons I loved her.
Bending, I offer my hand to her. She takes it, her glove dripping. She winces as I pull her to her feet. For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, breathing hard. When her face lights up with a grin I can’t help but return it.
“Don’t get cocky,” I tell her.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Turning away from her, I work off my coat and follow Adam. The Amish man carries his son to the bank, water dripping, the droplets turning the snow gray. Gina walks beside Adam, her hand on the boy’s forehead, making eye contact with him, talking softly.
Annie and Lizzie huddle next to the lacing stump, watching. Annie has begun to cry. Lizzie looks on, frightened.
The three of us reach the bank at about the same time.
“Get that wet coat off him,” Gina tells Adam.
Next to the fire, Adam drops to his knees, lays the boy on the ground. With shaking hands, he struggles to remove his son’s sopping coat. All the while murmuring gentle words in Deitsch, letting Sammy know he’s going to be all right.