Leaving Lancaster (15 page)

The younger men, their eyes groggy, swiveled on their stools and smiled at Esther. A cow craned its neck and bellowed, its tail flipping. The men spun back to continue their task.

“I don't understand.” Esther wished she could retreat into the dawn like a mote of dust.

“Don't ya recognize me?” the man said. “I'm Samuel's father, Jeremiah. Gut seein' ya again, Esther.”

He was happy to see her? Impossible. Clearly the man had gone senile.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I wandered downstairs at six thirty and found Isaac sitting in the kitchen talking with Mommy Anna while Greta worked at the stove preparing breakfast. The succulent aromas of oatmeal, eggs, fried potatoes, sausage, bacon, and toast made my mouth water.

Their conversation quieted when I entered the room wearing Nathaniel's daughter's dress and apron.

“We gotta get that dress and your city clothes in the wash,” Mommy Anna said, smiling.

“Betcha want your jeans back right quick,” Greta said to me as she stirred the oatmeal.

“They're too tight,” Isaac said, from the head of the table. “In those revealing clothes, Holly's a bad influence on the children.”

“Sorry, where I come from everyone wears jeans. They're not considered immodest.” I hugged myself. “I must admit, once I figured out how to attach the straight pins, this outfit is comfy.”

“Now all ya need is a Kapp.” Isaac gave me a nod.

“Hold on, I'm not ready to cover my hair.” Conceal what I considered one of my best attributes with a diminutive white prayer cap? “I'll change into my corduroy pants this afternoon and return these to Nathaniel.” Earlier, I'd found the zipper in my spare pants was snagged; I'd detangle it later.

“Old Order Amish in this district don't wear corduroy,” Isaac said.

“Seriously? What could be more benign than corduroy?”

“Yah, 'tis true,” said Greta. “Our bishop frowns upon it.”

Mommy Anna patted the chair next to her. “
Kumm,
sit by me.” As I neared the table, she peered through the doorway toward the sitting room. “Have ya seen Esther?”

Uncle Isaac tapped his fork's handle. “What's keepin' her?”

“I don't know.” Greta lifted a pan of biscuits from the oven. “I have yet to see her today.”

I didn't blame my uncle for being impatient. Mommy Anna had mentioned he rose each morning at four thirty to milk the cows. After breakfast, he slopped the hogs and his older children fed the chickens before school.

“I'll get her.” I took the stairs two at a time. I knocked, then opened her door. Her bed lay messy, the covers strewn off to the side—not her usual routine. At home, she made her bed right away. I poked my head in the other upstairs rooms, then checked the Daadi Haus's first and second floors.

I dashed back to the kitchen. The abundant breakfast lay on the table and the children were seated.

“I searched the house from top to bottom and can't find her,” I said. “Where could she be? Now that I think about it, her raincoat's not by the front door.”

“My woolen jacket I lent her yesterday is right here,” Greta said.

“'Tis too cold a morning for a lightweight raincoat,” Mommy Anna said. “Must have dipped to freezing last night. I can feel it in my bones.”

I settled on the empty chair between her and one of the younger children. I should have been blissful, feeling the warmth of my grandmother's arm against mine, but my stomach twisted, stealing my appetite.

Isaac said, “Let's not allow the food to get cold.” He bowed his head and gave his throaty signal to commence a silent prayer.

I was getting the hang of their prayers. After all, at home I sometimes prayed in my head, talking to God as I drove my car—asking him to keep me safe on the highway or even supply a primo parking place, which seemed trivial to me now.

“Breakfast looks fabulous,” I told Greta, who was serving Isaac first.

“She prepared the whole meal by herself,” Mommy Anna said. “I overslept for the first time since I can remember. 'Tis so quiet in the Daadi Haus. Why, if it weren't for a bird chirpin' outside my window, I might still be there.”

“
Des gut,
” Greta said. “You've earned your rest.” She spooned eggs on my grandma's plate, then offered me some. “Eat yourself full,” she said.

“I doubt I can until I know Mom's whereabouts.”

I could tell by Mommy Anna's creased brow, she was also concerned about my mother. “Where could our Essie be?” she said.

“Makin' Mamm worry is a
greislich
thing to do,” Isaac said, and munched into a strip of bacon.

I got this itchy feeling something was wrong. At home, Mom often took the bus, but never walked by herself. “She must be burning off calories,” I said, wanting to reassure Mommy Anna.

“Workin' is all ya need to stay healthy,” Isaac said. “Those fancy Englischers
think they're so smart, vegetating in front of televisions and computers, then payin' money to join what they call a health club.”

I couldn't shake off my uneasiness. “It's odd no one heard Mom leave the house.”

“Must be what she wanted.” Isaac speared a sausage with his fork. “Could be she skipped town again.”

“Aw, Isaac.” Mommy Anna said. “You mustn't say that.” She grasped my hand. “Your mother wouldn't take off without sayin' good-bye, would she?”

“I don't think so. Her purse and knitting bag are in her room. She wouldn't leave without them.”

“I wouldn't put anything past her.” Isaac sliced into his sausage. “She could be makin' her way to the train station. Or catching a bus.”

“Not without her purse,” I said, feeling Mommy Anna's fingers tightening around my hand.

“Maybe she's visiting Beth.” Mommy Anna sounded lackluster.

“This early in the mornin'?” Greta said.

From what I could tell, Beth was the last person Mom would visit, any time of day, but I wouldn't voice my thoughts.

A sense of urgency slithered over me. I glanced out the window at the brightening sky, pastel-colored mist to the east, but brooding clouds lurking in the west. I recalled Mom's horrified expression when I announced I wanted to meet my dad's parents. I couldn't imagine her paying them a call before breakfast. But nothing about my mother seemed normal anymore. She was a pendulum swinging from one extreme to another.

“I'd better look for her,” I said, rising to my feet. “Do you know where my father grew up?”

“The Fishers' farm?” Isaac clanked his fork on his plate. “She wouldn't go there.”

“I'm bettin' 'tis the last place you'd find her,” Mommy Anna said, but I insisted she give me directions. Her hand shook as she wrote them on a slip of paper, using landmarks to guide me. “'Tis large,” she said. “Ya can't miss it.”

I stashed the directions and my wallet in my apron pocket, stuffed my arms into my jacket, and hopped into the rental car. Mommy Anna was right about the temperature. The ground sparkled with ice crystals. Shivering, I flipped the car's heater to high.

After a five-minute ride, I neared the grandest farm on the road, as Mommy Anna had described it. I noticed a mailbox with a set of numbers, although it meant nothing to me since she hadn't given me an address. I took a left down the driveway. At the end stood a three-story house, several silos, and a barn twice the size of my family's. I contemplated the differences between a boat and a yacht. This place was definitely a yacht. Meaning my grandparents were rich. Yet my mother had never asked them for financial support while raising me. We'd scrimped and saved. Dori had given me her daughter's old dress for prom night; Mom altered the outdated garment, but it never fit. My shoes came from discount stores and Mom cut my hair until my midteens, when I started earning my own money.

Growing up, I was the only kid on the block with no dad or grandparents. But now that I had my Mommy Anna, did I really want to meet my dad's relatives? I recalled Mom's saying they loathed her. Had they transferred their hostility to me? Maybe Mom had pleaded with them for financial assistance, but they'd refused.

My foot rammed down on the brake pedal and the car jerked to a halt. I recalled Mommy Anna's trembling hand when she wrote the directions. I wondered if she'd made a mistake or if I'd misread them. I'd suggested using the car's GPS system, but Mommy Anna said she didn't know Dad's parents' address. Maybe she was
ferhoodled
, as she'd described herself. Befuddled, I guessed is what she meant. Or was she anxious because she knew the Fishers abhorred us?

I wished I hadn't raced out the door. I should have asked someone to accompany me for moral support. Zach came to mind; he'd know who lived where. As a veterinary doctor, he'd probably visited half the farms in the county.

Dusty heat blasted out the car's vents, making me sneeze. I turned the fan down, but goose bumps erupted on my legs. Fields and trees came into view as sunlight penetrated the fog, brightening the sky the color of cotton candy.

Turning off the headlamps, I reasoned with myself. I didn't know for sure Mom was on her way here; I was acting on a hunch. At this moment she might be scarfing down breakfast with Mommy Anna, Greta, and the kids. Mom might have been in the barn admiring the horses or wandered over to Nathaniel's and was watching him milk his cows. I frowned as I imagined them together.

I was gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ached. My imagination was spinning like a hamster on a treadmill. I expelled the thoughts from my mind. Now that I was here, I'd proceed as planned. What did I have to lose? I'd experienced a lifetime of disappointments and was still in one piece.

I watched a hawk dive down to a field, then lift up carrying its prey. Poor little critter. I envisioned my arrival through Dad's parents' eyes, if the Fishers lived here. Should I find my grandparents, would my presence cause them agony as they relived their son's death? They might shush me away and seal the door like a coffin lid. Or would our shared sadness build a common ground? I had to find out before my mother arrived and said or did something to widen the gap.

I'd dawdled enough. I steered the car into the extensive driveway lined by a white fence. To one side lay a field of pumpkins, hundreds of orange globes. On the other side there looked to be harvested corn.

I pulled up to the front of the house, its porch broad. Green shades covered the windows, which I took to mean this three-story clapboard structure was an Amish home. No other automobiles or garage. No electrical wires stretched to the house, but a line hung from the pole on the road to the barn.

I got out and left the keys in the ignition, not worrying about a thief stealing the car—my hunch was I was the only person around here who knew how to drive. Since I'd arrived in Lancaster County, I'd learned most of the household action took place around back or in the kitchen. If anyone were up, they'd most likely be in one of those two places. Wishing I'd worn a warmer jacket, I closed the car door and strolled toward the side of the house.

A dog woofed, then a gigantic mongrel the size of a rottweiler with long wiry hair charged at me from the direction I was headed. Ordinarily, I had an affinity with dogs, but this snarling mutt was off-leash—a menacing animal defending its property.

I drew in my breath evenly and slowly to appear confident, when in fact my heart was beating triple-speed. I back-stepped, my hand groping to feel the metal of the car door's handle.

“Go away.” My thigh finally bumped into the car's fender. The dog snarled, his canine teeth bared like a shark's. I knew Mom; she'd never cross this beast's path. She wasn't anywhere within miles. What a dunce I was for coming.

The front door opened abruptly. “Who's there?” A woman about Mommy Anna's age advanced onto the porch. Clad in an ankle-length pewter-gray dress and black apron, she appeared my height and wore wire-rimmed glasses and a scowl.

“I heard your car,” she said, as if I were trespassing. This crotchety old lady could not be my dad's mother. I refused to be related to her.

“Sorry to disturb you,” I said. “I was looking for someone.” The fleabag stood poised, its rear legs planted, ready to lunge at me. “Would you please call your dog?” I asked.

“Wolfie,” she said. The dog lowered its tail, trotted to the front porch, and sat at her side, facing me.

“Thank you,” I said. “He scared me half to death.”

“Our Wolfie is a gut judge of character.” Her high-pitched voice revealed suspicion. “No one comes at this hour except the milk truck.”

“Sorry, I guess I'm at the wrong house.” And was glad of it.

“Yah, you must be. And you're makin' me ruin the breakfast.”

A younger woman about Greta's age strolled out onto the porch. She also wore a traditional heart-shaped prayer cap, but her periwinkle blue dress and dark apron hung to midcalf. “If the young lady's lost, can we help her?”

I didn't want their two cents' worth if it meant confronting the dog. “That's okay.” I cracked the car door. “My grandmother gave me directions.”

“We know all our neighbors, ain't so, Mamma?” The younger woman's gaze took in my dress and apron, then came to rest on my shoulder-length hair. I hadn't washed my face, not that she was wearing makeup, either.

The delicate strings of her cap fluttered in the breeze. “Give me their name and I'll point ya in the right direction,” she said.

“The Fishers.” Ready to make my getaway, I opened the car door.

“Why, that's my last name, since I married my husband. But there are plenty of Fishers in these parts.”

The older woman scrutinized me like I was a mutant. This biddy didn't look like she'd approve of anything I wore. “What do you want with them?” she said, her words strained. Her cap strings were knotted severely under her pointed chin.

“Mamma, is it our business?” The younger woman—her daughter or daughter-in-law?—wandered down the steps. Her butterscotch-colored hair peeked from under her prayer cap. “
Gude Mariye
, I'm Rachel,” she said.

I put out my hand to shake hers. “Hi, I'm Holly Fisher.”

The old woman on the porch covered her mouth with the back of her hand.