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Authors: Kate Lloyd

Tags: #Amish, #mothers and daughters, #family secrets, #Lancaster County

Leaving Lancaster

BOOK: Leaving Lancaster
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LEAVING LANCASTER

Published by David C Cook

4050 Lee Vance View

Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.

David C Cook Distribution Canada

55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5

David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications

Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England

The graphic circle C logo is a registered trademark of David C Cook.

All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes,

no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form

without written permission from the publisher.

The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resource to you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of David C Cook, nor do we vouch for their content.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

With the exception of Ephesians 4, Genesis 2, and Philippians 4, Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. (Public Domain.)

Ephesians 4, Genesis 2, and Philippians 4 Scripture quotations are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

LCCN 2011938728

ISBN 978-0-7814-0508-9

eISBN 978-1-4347-0472-6

© 2012 Kate Lloyd

The author is represented by MacGregor Literary.

“Great Is Thy Faithfulness” lyrics in chapter thirty-four written by Thomas Chisholm in 1923, published in
The Complete Book of Hymns: Inspiring Stories about 600 Hymns and Praise Songs
© 2006 William J. Petersen and Ardythe Petersen, published by Tyndale House, ISBN 978-1-4143-0933-0

The Team: Don Pape, Jamie Chavez, Nick Lee, Renada Arens, Karen Athen

Cover Design: Amy Konyndyk

Cover Photo: Steve Gardner, Pixelworks Studios

First Edition 2012

For my husband, Noel

Note to Readers

Thank you for adventuring with my fictional characters to Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, a glorious location near to my heart. Any resemblance to real members of the Amish or Mennonite communities is unintended. I ask your forgiveness for any inaccuracies.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

—Ecclesiastes 3:1–8

PROLOGUE

Anna Gingerich stood in the barnyard waving good-bye to four of her five sons as her neighbor Beth's minivan pulled away, transporting the men to the Lancaster railway station.

“Ach, why Montana?” Anna voiced her complaint aloud, though no one but the orange tabby and the Lord could hear her grumblings.

She shuffled around the side of the house for one last wave, but the van had already sped from view, leaving an empty hollow in its wake.

The oak trees across the way snagged Anna's attention. Clusters of leaves lay scattered on the ground, decomposing and mingling with the aroma of dew upon the greenest grass on earth. Did grass even grow in Montana? How would she walk barefoot during the summer? Were all of Montana's trees evergreens? How would she mark the changing seasons if the trees never shed their foliage?

Quit your griping, Anna admonished herself, and tried to be grateful for the help of her Mennonite neighbor, Beth. Though a gulf as wide as the Susquehanna River ran between the two women spiritually, over the last thirty years Beth had felt more like a daughter to Anna than Esther—her own flesh and blood she'd probably never set eyes on again.

Anna stuffed her hands in her apron pockets. Like a spinning wheel rewinding, she recalled her and her daughter Esther's final argument—more like a screaming match.

“I'm leavin' and you can't stop me,” Esther had said, her nutmeg-brown hair out of its prayer cap—all
schtruwwlich,
streaming down her back in defiance. Esther stomped her foot. “It's my running around time—
Rumspringa
. I'm goin' ta see the world.”


Nee!”
Anna had barred the doorway. “You're scarin' me. Wait 'til your dat gets home.” No matter, though. Levi's meeting hadn't disbanded for hours, and by then Esther had slipped out of the house.

If only Anna had listened patiently instead of lashing out, Esther and her beau, Samuel Fisher, might not have severed their family roots that threaded deep into the Pennsylvania soil. They might have returned home, eventually become baptized, and gotten married instead of …

A rustling breeze lifted the hem of Anna's skirt.

Today, according to her sporadic letters, Esther lived an
Englisch
life and belonged to what she labeled a nondenominational church in Seattle.

“Meanin' what?” Anna said, and glanced around to make sure she was still alone. For sure, her daughter's church ignored the Ordnung and the ways of the People.

She watched her youngest son, Isaac, stride toward the barn, hours of work ahead of him. He'd already milked their two dozen Holsteins, but corn demanded harvesting, a fence in the back field was sagging, and a buggy wheel needed repairing. And the veterinarian would stop by later to evaluate Cookie's fetlock. The old mare's deterioration—Isaac called Cookie a nag—reminded Anna of herself.

Now that Anna was standing still, a vague dizziness visited her, spun her off-kilter. She leaned against a fence post for support. Over the last few years, she'd sought the opinion of several doctors, but had left their offices feeling brushed aside, discounted—because she was almost eighty. None was able to solve the mystery of her afflictions and forgetfulness other than citing her declining age. With dismissive words, they'd offered pain medication and antidepressants, but she'd refused.

She returned from the barnyard to mount the stairs leading to the kitchen. Had she remembered to put in the bread? Or even turn on the oven?

Her toe caught on the second step and she stumbled forward, landing on her knees and palms. Again, she was grateful for solitude; no one had seen her clumsiness.

She'd planned to put up tomatoes for most of the day. By herself. She was in no mood for chitchat. But how would Anna get the lids on tightly enough to seal them, let alone stand for hours on end in the kitchen? Her hands and shoulders ached as though they'd spent the night in the icebox. She might as well go back to bed.

It was moments like this she missed Levi the most. But he lived in heaven, at the feet of the Lord, she hoped. At rest. In peace. She'd come to accept his passing as God's will—what the bishop had suggested at his funeral.

Not that she didn't miss Esther, too. Every day.

Anna believed Esther's leaving had set her husband's death in motion. His buggy wouldn't have been on the road that night weeks later if word hadn't circulated throughout the community that Esther and Samuel were camped out in an
Englischer's
basement in New Holland, north of their farm. Her husband would have been home sitting in front of the fire recounting his day, and Anna would have been quilting.

In fact, the night he died, Esther and Samuel were clear across the country. Esther hadn't attended her father's funeral.

Anna knew she harbored resentment, for which she rebuked herself. God demanded forgiveness. Stewing over the past only bogged a person down. She prayed she'd truly risen above her bitterness and regret, and wished Samuel's mother felt the same way.

Anna entered the house, but instead of checking her bread, she sat at her writing desk to contact Esther one last time. Anna would spill the beans, tell her daughter the truth, admit how ill she was, and beg Esther to come home before the men sold the farm. But she knew Esther wouldn't.

If only Anna's elusive illness would consume her in one swoop this very afternoon and spare her the agony of leaving Lancaster County.

CHAPTER ONE

“Holly Samantha Fisher,” Mom called from down in the shop. “Come talk to me.”

When she summoned me by my whole name, it spelled trouble, so I grabbed my half-empty coffee mug and trotted down to the first floor like a good little girl, when in truth I was thirty-seven years old.

Clad in my bathrobe over pj's, my feet snuggled in suede moccasins, I stepped across the wooden floor into my mother's pride and joy, the Amish Shoppe. I found her in the living room—used as a showroom—on the easy chair, her knitting basket and handbag at her feet.

“Hey,” I said. “Where've you been? When I got up, the house was empty.”

“On an errand.” She wore a charcoal-colored cardigan over a matching calf-length skirt that didn't flatter her figure. Three inches taller than me, she was plumpish in all the right places.

I perched on the straight-back bench near the gas fireplace and glanced out the front window to the buggy—minus the horse—glistening on the porch from a recent shower. Mom's customers' kids loved playing in the covered box-shaped carriage pulled by a make-believe spirited mare, as I had many times as a girl. If I closed my eyes, I could still imagine the clip-clopping sound.

The clock on the mantel chimed eight times. “I'd better get showered,” I said, wishing I could tunnel back into bed. “I need to be out the door in thirty minutes.”

Mom let out a breathy sigh. “First, we need to talk.”

I didn't bite into her dangling carrot like I usually did, but let the words drift around the showroom. Every square inch of the house's first floor, except the kitchen, was crammed with handmade Amish products from Indiana and Ohio, all for sale: chairs and tables displaying jars of jams, apple butter, the best pickled beets, and chowchow. The walls were adorned with men's straw hats and women's bonnets of the plainest sort, aprons, and several patchwork quilts Mom had sewn herself.

The scent of baking raisins and molasses beckoned me to the kitchen. “Something smells yummy. You cooking bran muffins?”

“Yes, but they're not done.”

I held up my mug. “I'll get us coffee.”

“Hold still, girl of mine.” Mom's mousy hair, graying at the temples, was tucked into its usual bun, but flyaway strands wisped loosely around her ears. “I need to tell you—I've got big trouble.”

“To do with money?” I felt a throb at the bottom of my throat. “I apologize, I haven't chipped in enough on groceries and owe you three months' rent.” Last year, I'd given up my apartment and was now camping out in my childhood room. “If only the stock market would turn around and our clients flock back.” I felt like a botched NASA rocket launch, toppled on its side. Five, four, three, two, one—“I've been putting off telling you. Last week my boss gave me notice.”

“I'm so very sorry, dear heart.”

“After all the work I've put into building a new career, I could scream.”

Her lips clamped together like clothespins. She looked pale. Washed out.

“Mom, did I miss something? You're in some kind of trouble?” My spine straightened. “Are you going out of business? Is the bank repossessing the house?”

“I wish it were that simple.” Her hand wrapped the back of her neck. “There's an illness in the family.”

“What family?” Then it hit me; she was describing herself. “Are you all right? Please tell me it's not cancer.”

“My health is perfect.”

“Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine, darling.”

“Is it Aunt Dori?” I was referring to Dorothy Mowan. Mom's best friend and her husband, Jim, were the closest we had to family.

Mom picked up her knitting needles and struggled with the olive-green yarn that echoed her eyes. “No, someone else. A blood relative.”

“What are you talking about?”

With shaking hands, she yanked out several stitches—it wasn't like her to make a mistake. “My mother wrote me a letter.”

“Grandma Anna?” I coughed a laugh, because Mom had to be pulling my leg. This early in the morning I didn't find her humor entertaining. “Did I hear you right? Grandma Anna's back from the grave?” I tilted my head and expected my mother to smile. But her stony expression remained fixed.

Her words sounded strangled. “I, I—don't know where to begin. You're going to hate me.”

“Why would I do that? But I need to hustle. I'm running late for work.”

“Promise to forgive me if I tell the truth?” Mom was big on the word
forgiveness,
even when the neighbor kid dented my car's fender and refused to pay for the damage.

“Yes, okay, I promise.” I set my mug on a coaster on a side table. “I won't get mad.”

Mom's eyes turned glassy, like she was holding back tears. I'd rarely seen her cry, only when she was chopping onions.

“I let you believe my mother passed on,” she said. “I know it was wrong.”

“You're kidding me, right?” Before I could demand more information, I saw a UPS truck swerve to a halt at the curb and a man jump out. Moments later, his knuckles rapped on the front door, then he jabbed the bell and turned the knob, but Mom didn't let the deliveryman in, nor did I rush upstairs to get dressed. My mother and I sat frozen in this surreal scene as we listened to his footsteps descend to the street and the truck depart.

“I should have told you years ago,” she said. “My mother still lives on the family farm.”

“I don't understand.” My mind was doing somersaults. Nothing made sense.

As I scrutinized Mom's face—she never wore makeup—she lifted her chin and read the framed needlepoint of Romans 12:2 hanging on the wall, words cautioning believers not to conform to the world. Black thread on a white background, surrounded by a black frame. Black and white, like Mom. No cloudy areas, I'd always thought. Until now.

“Let me get this straight.” I stroked my jawline as my mind explored the convoluted avenues. “The woman who gave birth to you—Grandma Anna Gingerich—is alive. But you told me she was dead, even though you knew I always wanted a grandmother?”

“Yes.”

“Why on earth?”

“I was so young, I didn't know what to do. I thought it best.”

“Well, neither of us is young anymore.” My lungs gasped for air, as if I were sinking chin-deep in quicksand. Was our whole life a sham? If Grandma Anna were living, that meant my mother—the righteous woman who'd hammered the importance of integrity into me—was a liar. And she'd deprived me of what I wanted most in life: family.

A startling thought bombarded me. “How about my dad?” My voice turned shrill. “Is he still alive too?”

“No, darling. Samuel lost his life in Vietnam.”

“If you have to be mixed up about something, couldn't it be about my father? I've secretly prayed he was a prisoner of war with amnesia who'll someday wander out of the jungle.” A dream I'd never admitted before, even to Mom, because I was embarrassed to harbor such naive fantasies.

“I've had the same thought.” She bundled her knitting project and tossed it into the basket like a dishrag. “But you know as well as I do, the army and Veterans Affairs swear there are no more POWs.”

A familiar cloak of sadness as heavy as a lead apron draped itself across my narrow shoulders, making them slump forward, right when I should be marching off to work, even if my lofty dreams of becoming a financial advisor were crumbling.

With all the strength I could muster, I scuffled into the kitchen and poured myself fresh coffee. The muffins were in the oven and the clicking timer read five minutes. My appetite had vanished anyway. Who cared about food at a time like this? I'd always longed for siblings—a humongous family—but my father had died before I was born and my mother never remarried, so Mom and I were a twosome. All those years I'd asked about her parents—she could have told me the truth.

Returning to sit near her, I put my mug on the coaster. My stomach gurgled with a mixture of longing and confusion, like oil and water boiling on a stove top.

“How do you know Grandma Anna's alive?” I asked. There had to be a logical answer.

“She's contacted me many times.”

“This is crazy. What are you talking about?” My hand swung out, colliding with my mug, splashing brown liquid onto the floor. I grabbed a Kleenex from my pocket to mop up the puddle, then decided to leave it. The mess was the least of my worries. “Mom, what are you trying to say? That your mother put you up for adoption and now she's tracked you down and wants to see you?”

“I wish it were that simple.” Mom placed her handbag in her lap and opened it.

BOOK: Leaving Lancaster
4.14Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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