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Show in my father's house/ 99 My father bathed Jake's wound with cold water from the milk can. His hands were quick and sure but his face was taut with concern. "We must watch him carefully for convulsions," he told my mother who fluttered around him, her hand at her heart. "He has suffered some concussion." The brethren administered to Jake, then loaded him into the back of Van Helm's station wagon. ' My mother called me to sit on her lap, and we waved goodbye. The priesthood council had decided my father shouldn't go back to the city until they were sure it was safe. As the car rolled down the winding canyon road, Jake got sick on Sister Van Helm's tablecloth and his hair matted red around the bandage. A feeling of prayer passed through my heart, a deep wish that Jake would live. I felt warmth flow to him from my heart. All afternoon I sat beside the couch where Jake slept until early evening. When his eyes flickered open, I went outside and stood in the orchard, watching for my father. He finally arrived as the evening sun cast rays like fishnet through the trees. But when I held out my arms, he brushed past me, and glancing nervously about the yard and down the lane, hurried into the grey house. Jake sat up and my father's face relaxed. "How I've worried about you, my little man!" he whispered, holding Jake's head against his chest. |