Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

since the accident, she’s not crying.
    “I hope I didn’t wake you,” I say.
    “I must have drifted off.” She looks past me and smiles at her son.
    The boy grins back, and she returns her attention to me. “The doctor says he can go home tomorrow.”
    For an instant, she almost looks like the girl I once knew. The one with the infectious laugh and mischievous expression. But grief returns quickly, making itself known in the hollows of her cheeks and the circles beneath her eyes. “That’s great news,” I tell her. “How are you holding up?”
    “These chairs aren’t exactly made for sleeping.” Putting her hand to her back, as if in pain, she chokes out a laugh. “I feel the way my brother must have felt the day he got tangled in the reins and the horse dragged him from the hayfield to the barn.”
    I hadn’t thought of the incident in years, but it rushes back with enough clarity to make me laugh. I’d been at Mattie’s house, helping her and her older brother, John, spear tobacco. At some point her brother, who had a crush on me, decided he wanted to show off his horsemanship skills and hopped onto the back of a young plow horse. The animal bucked him off. John’s wrist somehow became tangled in the reins and the horse dragged him all the way to the barn.
    The recliner across the room creaks. I glance over to see the Amish woman who’d been snoozing rise, eyeing me with unconcealed suspicion. “Hello,” she says.
    I nod a greeting, then I turn my attention to Mattie. “Can I speak to you privately?” I motion toward the door. “In the hall?”
    “Of course.” She looks at the woman. “Can you stay with David for a few minutes?” she asks in Pennsylvania Dutch.
    “Ja.”
    Mattie follows me into the hall. When we’re out of earshot of the room and the nurse’s station, I stop and turn to her. She’s looking at me expectantly, a little perplexed, and I still don’t know how to break the news. “I need to let you know,” I begin, “the driver that hit the buggy left the scene. It was a hit-and-run. We’re trying to find him.”
    “What?” She stares at me in disbelief. “The person didn’t stop?”
    “They didn’t stop. And they didn’t call the police. Failure to render aid is against the law, so we’re looking for the driver. I wanted to tell you because it’s all over the news. I wanted you to hear it from me.”
    “Paul and the children…” Her voice breaks. “How could someone do such a thing?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe he got scared and panicked. Maybe he was drinking alcohol. Or texting. We don’t know.”
    She stares at me, her eyes wide, then her mouth tightens and she surprises me by saying, “I will pray for him.”
    I look away, not sure if I’m in awe of her capacity for forgiveness or annoyed because the son of a bitch doesn’t deserve it. My own feelings aren’t nearly as charitable.
    “Is it unusual for Paul to be out so late with the children?” I ask.
    “He’d taken them to the doctor in Painters Mill. He was on his way home. They had the last appointment of the day. Sometimes he bought them ice cream afterward.”
    “Were the kids sick?”
    Her eyes flick away and I realize the question hit a nerve. “All three of my children have Cohen syndrome, Katie. We take them to the clinic every week.”
    A wave of sympathy ripples through me. I’ve heard of Cohen syndrome, but I don’t know much about it. It’s a genetic disorder that causes mental and physical developmental problems in children. It’s thought to be caused by the small gene pool of the Amish. And I realize that parenthood for Mattie and Paul had been challenging. “I’m sorry.”
    Her mouth curves, but the smile looks sad on her face. “Sis Gottes wille.”
    I don’t believe a lifetime of mental and physical difficulties is what God had in mind for her children, but since many of my opinions are unpopular among my former brethren, I keep it to myself. “Mattie, I don’t want you to read anything in to what I’m going to ask you next, but I need to know if Paul had been involved in any recent disputes or arguments.”
    She blinks, wide gray eyes searching mine, and despite my request that she not read anything into the question, I see the wheels of her mind begin to spin. “Katie, I don’t understand. Why are you asking me that?”
    “These are routine questions,” I tell her. “Part of the investigation.”
    It’s a canned reply, and she’s astute enough to