At Home in Pleasant Valley (12 page)

“There, now, there.” She held it firmly, in spite of Elizabeth's instinctive withdrawal. “Just leave it there, Elizabeth. The water will make it feel better. I promise it will.”

“Maybe some butter,” he said, with distant memories of his mother's remedies.

“That just seals in the heat. We need to get the heat out, and then it will stop hurting so.”

Sure enough, Elizabeth's sobs lessened, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. The two boys pressed close, their eyes round, and Jonah's lower lip trembled.

Leah glanced at them. “Elizabeth is going to be fine,” she said, still in that calm manner that he realized was her teacher attitude. “Matthew, do you think you can bring me some ice from the refrigerator?”

“Ja, Teacher Leah.” Matthew hurried across the kitchen.

Jonah tugged at her skirt. “I want to help Elizabeth, too.”

“Fine. You can get me some dish towels. Do you know where they are?”

Jonah nodded, scurrying to pull out the drawer that held dish towels, spilling several on the floor in his haste.

“Should I hitch up the buggy?” Daniel asked in a quiet undertone.

Leah turned the small hand, still in the water, studying it carefully. “I don't think so. I don't see any signs of blistering. Let's just keep cooling it down.”

Matthew returned with the ice cubes, and she directed him to drop them into the bowl, giving him a quick smile of approval. Elizabeth whimpered a little, the sound tearing at Daniel's heart. Leah turned to her, patting her cheek.

“You're tired of leaning over to keep your hand in the water, I know,” she said. “But it's making you better. I see you were cooking sausage.”

“I was making supper for Daadi and the boys,” she said. Her voice trembled. “But it's all spoiled.”

“Elizabeth, I told you I would fix supper after the milking.” He didn't want to scold her, but she shouldn't have attempted to manage that on her own.

“Well, the dog will have a fine meal instead. He'll be wanting to come inside,” Leah said. “Luckily my mamm made a lot of extra chicken potpie today, so your daadi and the boys won't go hungry. Do you like chicken potpie?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Elizabeth nodded.

“Maybe you can come over one day when she's making it and help her,” Leah said. “Now, let's get you a little more comfortable.”

She eased the hand out of the water. Elizabeth caught her breath when the air hit the burn, but Leah was there instantly with a cold compress, wrapping it gently.

“You can sit on Daadi's lap at the table.” Leah deftly transferred the bowl of ice water and the extra towel to the table. “I'll clean up the sausage.”

“You sit,” Daniel said, urging her toward the chair. “I'll do better cleaning up, I think.”

She didn't dispute it but sat down, taking Elizabeth on her lap, guarding her hand from any contact. His daughter leaned against her trustingly.

He turned away, bending to pick up the pan and sausages, glad to hide his face for a moment. His fear had subsided, but its remnants lingered, tight in his stomach, stinging his eyes. He hadn't been here, and Elizabeth had been hurt.

He dumped the pan and its contents into the sink. Matthew began picking out the sausage, putting it into the pail of scraps for the dog.

Daniel glanced toward the table. Elizabeth, calm now, leaned against Leah's shoulder, her gaze intent on Leah's face as Leah told her a story. Jonah leaned against her knee to listen as well.

His heart clenched. He'd admitted his children needed a mother. He was looking at the woman who would be perfect—for them and for him, if not for that dangerous link she kept to the outside world.

•   •   •

It
had been natural enough to stay for supper with Daniel and the children, Leah told herself as she dried the last dish. She glanced out the window. The boys were practicing baseball in the backyard while Elizabeth watched from the porch, seeming to enjoy her invalid status at the moment.

Natural enough to stay, she repeated to herself, but now it was time to go home, before she gave folks even more to talk about than they had already. She was hanging the towel on the rack when Daniel came in the back door.

“Leah, you did not need to wash the dishes. I said that I would do them later.”

He bent to stow the pail he carried under the sink. His hair was thick, growing vigorously from the whorl on the top of his head, and the brown had lightened where the sun hit it.

“It made no trouble,” she said. She'd best be going home, if she was noticing things like that about her neighbor. “I'm just happy that Elizabeth is all right.”

He straightened. “You don't think I need to have a doctor look at it?”

“Well, I'm not a doctor, for sure. But my brothers managed to hurt themselves on a regular basis, and Anna wasn't far behind, so I've seen my share of burns. I think it will be fine, as long as you keep it clean and put the burn ointment on it often.”

“That much I can do.” His voice roughened. “Even if I did let her get hurt.”

Her heart twisted, but she kept her voice firm, even tart. “That's nonsense, Daniel, and you know it. Children hurt themselves.”

“Not like that.” His face tightened with pain. “You told me that she was trying too hard to be perfect, and I didn't listen to you. And this is the result.”

“I certainly wasn't imagining anything like this. I just thought that it worried her too much when she didn't do things perfectly.”

“She shouldn't have tried to fix supper.” He glared at the gas stove, as if it were to blame. “I should have come in from the barn more quickly or taken her out with me and the boys.”

“It's natural to blame yourself when a child in your care is injured.” She knew that well enough as a teacher. “But you couldn't have predicted that would happen. As for her attempts to be perfect—” She hesitated, but it had to be said. “Have you thought that maybe she is trying to take her mother's place?”

He stared at her, eyes wide and appalled. “No.” He tried to push the thought away with his hands. “No. I never wanted, never expected—” He stopped, seeming to catch his breath. “I've never wanted Elizabeth to do more than the chores that would be normal for a child her age.”

“I'm sure that's true. I didn't mean that it was coming from you. But
often a girl models herself on her mother, and she may be sensing the lack—”

She stopped, because he was shaking his head. Because he disagreed with her? Or because he feared what she said was true?

“Have you talked to her much about her mother?” she asked gently.

Anger flared in his eyes at that. “No. Do you think I wanted to remind them of that time when we were apart? I want them to forget that. To forget that they ever lived in the English world.”

“They can't forget their mother.” Didn't he see how wrong that would be?

His face twisted. “How do I separate it? How do I divide what I feel about what Ruth did—” He stopped. Shook his head. “You don't understand. She took my children away. For two years I didn't see them. I didn't know where they were. I didn't even know if they were alive or dead.”

His voice broke. Hurting for him, she put her hand on his arm, feeling the muscles so tight it seemed they'd never release.

“I'm sorry. That's the worst thing I can imagine.”

To be without your children was dreadful enough. Not to even know if they were alive—the utter desolation of it swept her soul.

“Ja.” He took a strangled breath. “I didn't go to the law. That's not the Amish way. But now I wonder if I did right. Ruth—” He shook his head. “When she said she'd marry me, I was the luckiest man in the world, I thought. She was so bright, so lively, so happy that she made everyone else smile, just to be near her. Half the Amish boys in the county wanted to marry her, but she picked me.”

Did he even realize he was telling her this? Or was he just talking out of a soul-deep need to say it out loud to someone? It didn't matter. If all she could do was listen, she'd listen.

“Something went wrong,” she said softly.

“Ja.” His voice was rough. “When the babies were born, she seemed so happy, but afterward—she couldn't settle down to being a wife and mother. She always wanted more. Not more things, you understand. Just—” He shrugged, as if he couldn't find the words for it. “She was restless, always. As if looking for something and not knowing what it was.”

He stopped. Blaming himself for that, the way he'd blamed himself for Elizabeth's accident?

“She started working at a quilt shop that her cousin ran. Lots of English shopped there, some of them taking lessons in quilting. She started wanting to be like them—to wear pretty clothes, have everyone looking at her the way they did when she was a girl.” He spread his hands. “I tried to understand, tried to pay more attention to her, tried to make her happy. What did she want?” He sounded baffled.

She hurt for him, sympathized with him. But somewhere in her heart, she had sympathy for Ruth as well. She'd known what it was like to long for more.

Not pretty clothes, like Ruth. But more learning, more knowledge, more experiences than she could ever have in Pleasant Valley.

“I don't know,” she said softly. “Maybe she didn't know, either.”

“She took my children.” The pain in his voice was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. “Two years, and every minute of it I was asking God to keep them safe and bring them back to me.”

“He answered your prayer.”

“Ja. But Ruth—” His lips twisted. “The state police troopers came to tell me. How she'd been out with a man. Drinking, both of them, and she was driving. She ran the car into a tree. The police went to the place where she'd been living—a couple of rooms, it was. They found the children there alone. Nothing to eat, no one to watch them.”

She made a small sound of pain and distress.

He looked at her. “Ja. I forgive her, because God commands it. I try to forget, and that's what I want my children to do. That's what they must do.” He sounded desperate.

He had trusted her with this, and she had to do the best for him she could. That meant she had to say something he wouldn't want to hear.

“I understand why you feel you can't talk to the children about it,” she said carefully. “But I think Elizabeth needs to talk to someone. Some adult who can help her sort it all out, help her find out why she's trying so hard to be grown-up before her time.” She hesitated. “There is a woman at the clinic, a psychologist. I think she could help Elizabeth—”

“No.” It came swift and hard. “I will not turn to the English to help my daughter. She cannot help a child adjust to being Amish.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that Lydia had once been Amish, but that would hardly recommend her to Daniel under the circumstances.

“Elizabeth needs help,” she said. “Perhaps maybe more than you can give her. There's no shame in seeking out a specialist when you need one.”

His hands shot out to grasp hers in a firm, warm grip. She couldn't turn away from the intensity in his eyes. “We are an Amish community. You are the teacher, with more knowledge and experience than most. You are our specialist. You can help her.”

All her instincts told her to refuse. Told her that deeper involvement with Daniel and his family could only lead to difficulty later.

But her heart was thudding to the beat of the pulse she felt in his hands, and his need struck at her core. She couldn't say no. She was afraid to say yes.

She took a breath. “All right,” she said, feeling as if she took a step from which there was no going back. “I'll try.”

S
he
was being confronted with one thing after another that she didn't feel capable of handling. Leah gripped the set of interview papers in her hands as her taxi driver, Ben Morgan, the elderly Englischer who enjoyed driving the Amish for a small fee, stopped in front of the clinic.

It was the last week of school, and she should be dealing with a hundred last-minute details for the picnic and program. But Johnny had recommended she do a trial interview and bring the forms in to discuss with him before she started working on the project in earnest once school was out, so here she was.

Thanking Ben, who had brought a book and announced his plan to park in the shade and wait for her, she headed for the door, her mind going faster than the car had.

She was avoiding thinking about the most serious problem facing her, she knew. Elizabeth Glick. How had she let Daniel persuade her to attempt to counsel Elizabeth? A wave of panic went through her. She wasn't equipped to do that. What if she tried and made things worse?

Father, was I becoming too confident, too prideful in my own abilities? Have You sent me these things to show me that it is You, and You only, who is capable? Guide me, Lord, and show me the path You would have me follow. Amen.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to the clinic.

Two Amish families waited in the reception area, and she stopped to greet them. It gave her a breathing space before she realized that she was stalling, putting off the moment when she'd see Johnny again.

With a final smile for the children, she removed her bonnet, hanging it on a peg in the hallway, and entered the door to the research side of
the building. A young man with long hair tied back at the nape of his neck glanced at her, dark eyes curious, before turning back to something he was doing with vials of blood.

He didn't challenge her, so she walked down the hallway. Perhaps she should have asked Johnny exactly where she was to meet him. The place still felt alien to her, with its whirring noises and the equipment whose function she couldn't even guess.

The young woman she'd met on her first visit—Stacie, her name was—walked swiftly out of the computer room and came to a dead stop when she saw Leah. “Oh. It's you.”

“Yes.” There seemed no other answer to that question. Who else would she be? “I am supposed to meet John Kile this afternoon. Can you tell me where he is?”

“He's not here. He asked me to go over the interview form with you and make sure you know how to do it properly.”

Her tone said that she doubted that was even possible, and her demeanor was so unwelcoming that Leah wanted to flee.

“I can come again when John is here—” she began, but Stacie cut her off with a decisive shake of her head.

“Dr. Brandenmyer has him assigned to a much more important project.” Stacie held out her hand. “Let me see them. I'll have to take time from my work to catch your mistakes, I suppose.”

Leah had been treated more rudely than that at other times, she supposed. Most Amish had. But she wasn't sure it had ever bothered her quite so much. When a tourist stuck a camera in your face, it was rude, but it was also not aimed at you, specifically. Any Amish person would do.

Stacie's attitude was personal, and she had no idea how to handle it.

Submit.
The word echoed in her mind. That was the Christian response, the Amish response.

She nodded, not speaking, and followed Stacie to a desk. Stacie flung herself into the chair behind the desk, fanning the interview sheets out in front of her. Leah perched on the edge of the chair opposite her, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.

Frowning, Stacie stuck a pencil into her mass of dark hair and stared at the papers. Leah forced down her resentment that the woman
obviously expected to find something wrong. Of course there would be something. That was why she was here—to be corrected, so that she would do it right in the future.

Still, she'd rather have met with John. Only because he'd have done this in a friendly manner, she assured herself. Not because she wanted to see him again.

But it was better this way. The Ordnung—the rules by which the congregation lived, discussed and prayerfully accepted by the people—would find her meeting with an English woman on a matter of business perfectly acceptable. Meeting with a person who was under the bann was considerably trickier.

That could be done, of course. She knew families who lived that way, setting a separate table for those under the meidung, so that they didn't actually break bread together. Would the Kile family come to that, eventually? She couldn't guess.

Stacie came to the end of the form and tapped it with her pencil. “Not bad,” she said, her tone grudging. “Going back several generations is helpful, but only if it's accurate. How can you be sure some of these are facts, not just family stories?”

Family stories
were
facts, but it was hardly worth arguing the point.

“The information came from the genealogical records in the family Bible,” she said. “Amish families usually keep very complete records. However, if you don't wish me to provide that—”

Stacie shook her head quickly. “No, don't stop. It's great as long as you make accurate notes. I don't suppose you could get a photocopy of the Bible page and bring it in, so we wouldn't have to rely on your accuracy.”

Leah tried counting to ten. Supposedly that helped one control an unruly temper. “I don't believe the families would like to have the Bibles taken out of the house to be copied.”

“This will have to do, then.” Stacie shuffled the papers together and put a paper clip on them. “If you could type instead of print them, it'd be easier to read, but I guess you Amish don't use newfangled inventions like typewriters, do you?”

Leah wanted to ask the woman why, if she looked down on the Amish so much, she was involved in research here. She didn't. She kept
her voice colorless. “We do use typewriters in business, but I don't have access to one, and I'm sure I can print them more quickly.”

“And Leah always had the neatest printing in the whole class,” said a voice behind her.

“Johnny.” She couldn't stem her pleasure at the sight of his warm smile as he came in, dropping a case of some sort on the nearest desk. It was a joy to see any friendly face after Stacie's open antagonism. “I thought you weren't here today.”

“Just got back.” He moved toward her with such enthusiasm she thought for a moment that he intended to hug her, but then he seemed to recall himself and touched her shoulder lightly instead.

“You brought back all the information?” Stacie interrupted.

“The files are on my computer,” Johnny said, turning his attention to her, and then embarked upon a discussion that was so technical that, to Leah, they might as well have been speaking in Russian.

Today he wore what she supposed was a business shirt, with a collar that buttoned down and a tie. How long, she wondered, had it taken him to learn how to tie one of those? How long to feel comfortable with a belt instead of suspenders?

Johnny swung back to her so quickly that perhaps he'd felt her looking at him. “If you're finished, let's go have a cup of coffee or a sandwich. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

He smiled at her, and she was transported into the past, becoming again the young girl whose pulse had fluttered when he'd held out his hand to her at a danze with just that smile.

And that was why it was so dangerous. She wasn't that girl now, and Johnny wasn't that boy.

“I don't think—”

His mood changed, lightning fast as always. “You're not going to let some ridiculous rules stand in the way of talking to an old friend, are you?”

He should know her well enough to know that he was making her uncomfortable.

“I can't.”

“Leah promised to have tea with me today.” Lydia Weaver emerged
from behind one of the shoulder-high partitions in the room. She smiled at Leah. “If you're ready, I have the water hot.”

“That is kind of you,” Leah said quickly. She walked away from Johnny without looking back.

•   •   •

“You
have rescued me again,” Leah said as soon as the door of Lydia's office closed behind them. “But it is not necessary to give me tea.”

“It is a pleasure to give you tea,” Lydia replied, nodding toward the rocking chair Leah had taken the last time and busying herself with the tea things. “And I don't think you needed rescuing. It was obvious from your face that you would say no to John's invitation, not because of the Ordnung but because that was what your conscience told you to do.”

Leah sat, the rocker giving instant comfort. “I don't want to be unkind to him, but as much as I like seeing him again, I'm not sure it's wise to spend time alone with him.”

“John Kile is a gifted researcher, but he doesn't understand people well, including himself. He wants two contradictory things at the same time.” Lydia set the cup of tea on the table next to Leah.

Leah appreciated the gesture. Lydia was, without making an issue of it, allowing Leah not to have to take the cup from her hand, which was the letter of the law in most communities in regard to eating and drinking with those under the meidung.

Johnny, on the other hand, had been only too ready to make an issue of it.

Lydia sat down opposite her, holding her own cup. She seemed very willing to let the silence stretch out comfortably between them.

Leah sipped the hot, fragrant brew. Her thoughts drifted to the past, measuring the Johnny she knew against Lydia's words.

“You're right,” she said finally. “When he was a child, if he had to choose between a jumble cookie and a snickerdoodle, he'd end up with none if he couldn't have both.”

Sharing a laugh with Lydia dissipated the last of her tension, but it still left a question in Leah's mind.

“Tell me, if you will. Is Stacie like that with everyone or just with me?”

“Especially with you.” Lydia smiled. “Although, like many researchers, she is impatient of anything that gets in the way of her work, including good manners.”

“But why? She doesn't even know me.”

Lydia's pale eyebrows quirked. “I think you know the answer to that, don't you? She's interested in John.”

“Well, but—” Leah paused, trying to assimilate that. She would want for John to find someone to love, wouldn't she? “I'm not a threat to a relationship she might have with Johnny.”

“Aren't you?”

“You mean she knows that we once planned to marry, and she's jealous? But I can't compare to her.”

“You're his first love,” Lydia said. “She's afraid that knowing you again will make him realize that you are what he wants.”

She wanted to deny it, to say it couldn't be. In a way, this was the opposite of her experience. Those who loved her were pushing her toward Daniel because they feared she would be lured to the English world by her first love. Meanwhile, the person who loved John feared that Leah would draw him back to the Amish world.

She shook her head finally. “He would never return. She doesn't have to worry about that. But if she cares about him, why is she so derisive of the life that he came from? She has so many misconceptions about the Amish that it's hard to understand why she's here.”

Lydia shrugged. “As for that, I think the research is all that matters to her. The Amish are only of interest because their custom of marrying within the church provides such a classic genetic workshop.”

“You could clear up some of her false ideas,” Leah suggested.

“I could.” Lydia looked down at her cup. “Not doing so is one of the accommodations I make to get along in the English world.”

Leah didn't know how to respond to that. It seemed that jumping the fence was not so simple as shedding one life and picking up another.

They were quiet again for a few minutes. Leah let her gaze drift over the wall of books behind Lydia's desk. How much pleasure must it be to have a room like this, with more books than you could have time to read?

“May I . . .” She hesitated. Daniel would not allow her to bring
Elizabeth to see Lydia. But there was no reason why she couldn't use the woman as a resource if Lydia were willing. “May I ask you—consult you—about something?”

“Of course.”

“I've been asked to help a family.” She chose her words carefully. “The three children were taken away from their Amish home by their mother. They lived in the English world for two years before she died in an accident, and then they came back to their father.”

There, that was a neat, anonymous recounting of the facts. Lydia wasn't from the community, so she was unlikely to know about Daniel and his family.

“They're having problems adjusting?” Lydia looked interested. Probably something like this didn't come her way very often.

“The middle child, the only girl, is eight, one of my scholars. She is so determined to be perfect at everything she does that she becomes overly upset when she can't.” She censored herself, not feeling she should trust Lydia with the story of Elizabeth's injury. “She wants to take on duties that a woman would do, instead of a child's chores.”

“Does the father push her to do that?”

“No. Just the opposite, in fact. He's very concerned about her.” She hesitated. Her opinions weren't facts, but perhaps it would help Lydia to know them. “I wondered if she's trying to emulate her mother, but her father doesn't agree. He has difficulty talking with them about their time in the outside world.”

Lydia nodded slowly, as if she sifted the facts through her mind. “Would he allow me to see his daughter?”

“I suggested that already. He refused. He feels that I am the one to help her.” She opened her hand, as if exposing her inadequacy. “I know how ill equipped I am to do any such thing. But if I don't help, there will be no one.”