Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

to open the door for the bishop to help him out when I hear the screen door slam. I look toward the house to see Mattie Borntrager rush down the steps, her dress swishing at her calves, a lantern thrust out in front of her.
    “Hello?” she calls out. “Paul? Is that you? Who’s there?”
    I start toward her, lower my beam. “Mattie, it’s Kate Burkholder and Bishop Troyer.”
    “What? But why—” Her stride falters, and she stops a few feet away, her gaze going from me to the bishop and back to me. “Katie?” Alarm resonates in her voice now. Even in the dim light from her lantern, I see the confusion on her features. “I thought you were Paul,” she says. “He took the children into town. They should have been home by now.”
    She’s fully clothed, wearing a print dress, a prayer kapp , and sneakers, and I realize she was probably about to leave, perhaps to use the phone.
    When I say nothing, she freezes in place and eyes me with an odd mix of suspicion and fear. She’s wondering why I’m here with the Amish bishop at this hour when her husband and children are missing. I’m aware of Troyer coming up beside me and in that moment, I’m unduly relieved he’s here because I’m not sure I could do this on my own without going to pieces and making everything worse.
    “Why are you here?” A sort of wild terror leaps into her eyes, and for an instant, I think she’s going to throw down the lantern and run back to the house and lock the door. “Where’s Paul? Where are my children ?”
    “There’s been an accident,” I say. “I’m sorry, Mattie, but Paul and two of the children were killed. David survived.”
    “What? What ?” A sound that’s part scream, part sob tears from her throat and echoes like the howl of some mortally wounded animal. “No. That’s not true. It can’t be. They were just going to town. They’ll be home soon.” Her gaze fastens onto the bishop, her eyes beseeching him to contradict me. “I don’t understand why she’s saying these things.”
    The old man reaches out to her, sets his hand on her shoulder. “It is true, Mattie. They are with God now.”
    “No!” She spins away from him, swinging the lantern so hard the mantle flickers inside the globe. “God would not do that! He would not take them!”
    “Sometimes God works in ways we do not understand,” the bishop says softly. “We are Amish. We accept.”
    “I do not accept that.” She steps back, but the old man goes with her, maintaining contact.
    I reach for the lantern, ease it from her hand. “David is in the hospital,” I tell her. “He needs—”
    Before I can finish, her knees buckle and hit the ground. I rush forward; the bishop reaches for her, too. But the grief-stricken woman crumples. Shaking us off, she leans forward, and curls into herself, her head hanging. “Nooo!” Her hands clench at the grass, pulling handfuls from the ground. “Nooo!”
    I give her a moment and glance at the bishop. The resolve and strength on his ancient face bolsters me, and not for the first time, I understand why this man is the leader of the congregation. Even in the face of insurmountable tragedy, his faith is utterly unshakable.
    The old man kneels next to Mattie and sets his hand on her shoulder. “I know this is a heavy burden, my child, but David needs you.”
    “ David ! Oh, my sweet, precious boy.” She chokes out the words as she straightens and wipes the tears from her cheeks. “Where is he? Is he hurt? Please, I need to see him.”
    I step forward and, gently, the bishop and I help her to her feet. She’s unsteady and I’m afraid if I let go of her, she’ll collapse again, so I maintain my grip. Her body shakes violently against mine and I wish there was some way I could stave off those tremors, absorb some of her pain, bear some of her burden.
    “He’s at the hospital,” I tell her. “I’ll take you.”
    Silent tears stream from her eyes. She brushes at them with shaking hands, but the effort is ineffective against the deluge. Slowly, haltingly, we start toward the house. When we reach the steps, I move ahead and open the screen door. The bishop helps her inside. We shuffle through a small porch where an old-fashioned wringer washing machine watches our sad procession. We end up in the kitchen. A single lantern burns atop a large rectangular table with bench seats on two sides and a blue and white checkered tablecloth draped over its surface. I look at the table and I think of