Leaving Lancaster (16 page)

“Glad ta meetcha.” Rachel's handshake was gracious but firm, I guessed from years of kneading dough. She eyed my car and smiled. “Seems we're distant kin. Most of the Fishers around here don't drive.” She tilted her head toward the woman at the front door. “I'm married to her son. But like I said, we're not the only Fishers in the district. Could ya give me their first names?”

A raindrop splatted against the top of my head. “I don't know. My mother never told me.” Intentionally? How many secrets was Mom keeping?

Another droplet landed on my shoulder.

“You're welcome to come in while we sort this out.” Rachel spoke sotto voce. “Ya pay no attention to my husband's Mudder. She'll warm up to you once she gets to know you.”

I closed the car door and followed her up the steps, but the old woman barred our way. “Who's your father?” she demanded.

While growing up, that question bombarded me countless times at open houses, parent-teacher meetings, you name it. But I had rarely admitted the truth. “I never met him.”

“And you're lookin' for him?” Rachel said.

“No, he died before I was born.”

She let out a lengthy sigh, full of compassion. “Sorry ta hear that.”

“Your mother.” The older woman still hadn't introduced herself. She reminded me of a Halloween witch; all she needed was a broom and a black hat. “What's her name?”

I crossed my arms and stared into her eyes through her thick-lensed glasses. “Esther Fisher. Anna and Levi Gingerich's daughter.” My words seemed to bullet into her, the way she recoiled.

“You'd better come in,” she said, stepping aside.

An angry squall ruffled the hem of my dress and the clouds opened up, spewing down raindrops pinging against the car's roof.

I hesitated as I weighed my options. Why enter a house where I was obviously unwelcome? The surly old woman and her dog still looked ready to tackle me.

“Come along,” Rachel said, her hand on my arm. “We have a good breakfast waitin' for us.”

I followed her into the house. The dog growled, but remained on the porch.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Esther sat on a wooden bench in the barn with Samuel's father at her side for twenty minutes and watched the three young men milk the cows, what her Samuel might be doing if he were still alive.

Jeremiah must have been contemplating the same notion because he said, “No one could milk faster by hand or with more skill than our Samuel—ain't so?”

“Yes, 'tis true.” Decades ago she'd perched right here, admiring Samuel's brawny arms and shoulders, all the while envisioning their upcoming adventure to California. She recalled the evening they left—the scene spooled through her mind with clarity. “Wear Your Love Like Heaven,” she'd sung, a Donovan hit she'd heard on a jukebox in New Holland. That tune, and others like it, persuaded her to discard
das alt Gebrauch
—the old ways.

Was she blaming her wicked escapade on a once-popular singer or the Vietnam era? A lifetime of excuses instead of taking responsibility.

Her chance to speak to Samuel's father in private would end any moment. She hoped the three young men couldn't hear her. “Jeremiah, I'm sorry.” Her voice came out like a wisp of smoke, curling up to the rafters. She wasn't sure he'd heard her. “Truly, I am.” After avoiding these words for decades, Esther couldn't believe she was wading into this dreaded conversation.

She paused to ask God for courage, then prodded herself to continue. “I regret my reckless actions more than you can know.” Her elbows on her knees, her forehead fell forward into her hands.

“I expect ya do.” Jeremiah stroked his beard; it covered his chest. “
Du bischt lezt
—you were wrong. But there's no need to apologize. We hold no ill feelings.”

“But Samuel's mother—”

“When my wife found he was gone, she … well—she went crazy.
Wiedich
. She hopped in the buggy and drove straight to the bishop and brought him back with her.”

Esther couldn't force herself to look Jeremiah in the eye. “If she held me responsible, she was right. I was a terrible influence on Samuel. You two must hate me.”

“
Fer was?
Esther, ya know that's not our custom. We're instructed to forgive others as God forgives us. The bishop preached many a time that no transgression is too big for God's pardon if we repent and live according to his will. And our Samuel wasn't yet baptized.”

Esther took Jeremiah's statement to mean Samuel wasn't restrained by the rules of the Ordnung. Neither Samuel nor she had been baptized, thankfully, or the two of them would have been shunned. Not that being put under the Bann would have changed her life much. She had in effect exiled herself.

She listened to the three young men chatting in Deitsch as they worked. Minutes later, they dumped their final buckets of creamy liquid into the silver refrigerated vat against the wall nearest the road, then commenced to muck out the stalls.

She straightened her back and stabbed her hands into her coat pockets. “There isn't a day I don't miss him,” she said, when she thought the young men were out of earshot.

“We miss him too, Esther.”

She was determined to come clean, as the Bible said in Isaiah, to change her sins from scarlet to as white as snow. “I wasn't honest with your son. I promised Samuel we'd return home within the month. And I lied about leaving my parents a note.”

“One lie brings the next one with it.” Jeremiah quoted a proverb Dat often recited when he caught her fabricating the truth. “But what's done 'tis done.” Jeremiah added a log to the potbelly stove and stood near it, his hands out to catch the warmth. “For the longest time, my wife couldn't accept our Samuel had passed away. She wrote every military hospital and mental institution.”

A tear threatened the corner of Esther's eye, but she willed it away. She had no right to cry. “So did I. Several men fit his description.” Each time, disappointment thrust Esther into the pit of depression.

“Our hope is we'll see Samuel again in heaven,” Jeremiah said.

“I'm counting on it.” Esther's minister back home had assured her Samuel was with the Lord, but no need to get into a theological debate with Jeremiah. She came this morning to smooth the path for Holly, should she show up. Which reminded her: She didn't want to be here when and if her daughter arrived.

“I best be getting back.” She felt drained, a sponge squeezed dry. She appraised the vast interior of the barn and the hayloft, several handsome standardbreds and ten mules. In the old days, Samuel's father preferred mules to draft horses because they tolerated the heat and ate less. Jeremiah had a keen eye for horses—their confirmation, gait, and temperament. If he'd lived, Samuel would have attended many an auction with his father.

“I missed my dat's funeral.” As if kneeling in a confessional, Esther anticipated each admission of guilt would lighten her burden, but her heart felt as heavy as a rock at the bottom of a well.

“Yah, I know.” He massaged his calloused hands together. “The night your dat died he was on his way to a meeting with the bishop, preachers, and me to talk about you and Samuel.”

“I wish Dat had put his foot down and locked me in the chicken coop. Anything to keep us from leaving.”

The Ordnung's decrees didn't sound stifling to her anymore. She recalled a ballad Janis Joplin had sung about freedom being a word for nothing left to lose. In truth, Esther had everything to lose.

“Young folks must experience the world before committing themselves to a lifetime in the church,” Jeremiah said. “Although both of your mothers would have liked to lop your running-around years off early.”

“If they'd had their way, Samuel would still be alive.” Holly would have been brought up Amish, be wed, and have a family of her own. At her age now, Holly's chance of marrying and bearing children was slim-to-none.

“As I tell my wife, 'tis water under the bridge.”

Esther pictured Mill Creek, flowing smooth as silk, drying into an arid riverbed, void of fish and vegetation. If she were in Jeremiah's place, she didn't think she could ever let go of her outrage.

“Ich bedank mich” was all she could get out her cottony mouth.

“Come join us for breakfast,” Jeremiah said. “My wife will be glad ta see ya.”

Samuel's mother had always been
batzich
—haughty—although she'd hidden her animosity when Samuel was in the room, and on preaching Sundays she'd emulated the picture of humility. Two-faced is what she'd been. But who was Esther to make accusations?

“Thanks for your kind invitation, but I'd better go.” Esther's right leg ached from her grueling hike. “My mamm will be worried about me.” Relishing the smell of the feed and livestock, she inhaled one last lungful of air. She doubted she'd ever enter this peaceful oasis again.

“Don't go 'till ya meet my grandsons,” Jeremiah said, snagging Esther's attention. He aimed his finger at the oldest, coming their way carrying a shovel. She guessed he was twenty.

“That's our son Matthew's boy, Seth,” Jeremiah said.

Jeremiah had another son? Esther's mouth gaped open. She must have misunderstood him or was losing her hearing.

The tousled-haired man, his bangs skimming his eyebrows, said, “Hullo.”

Esther turned to Jeremiah. “Did I hear you right?” she asked. “You had more children?”

“I figured you knew. My wife was pregnant with Matthew when you and Samuel left. She never mentioned her condition to anyone but me. She was, and still is, mighty superstitious and was afraid of another miscarriage.”

“I'm ever so glad,” Esther said, awash with astonishment, followed by gratitude. “An answer to prayer, I'm sure.”

“Yah. The good Lord smiled upon us. Two years later, he gave us a daughter, Naomi. She and her husband and six children live not far from here.” He pointed to a young man, opening the barn's side door to let the cows out. “That's Leo, one of my daughter's sons,” Jeremiah said. “He stops by twice a day to help with the milking.”

Leo opened a side door. “
Kumm,
Bossie, Firefly,” he said, and the herd filed outside.

Jeremiah glanced up to the hayloft at the last young man with almond-shaped eyes and black hair as straight as straw. “That's our Aaron, tossing down hay to line the milking stalls. He's seventeen, but works as hard as any grown man.”

“Your son married an Asian woman?” The words sprang out of Esther's mouth before she could filter them. Many Asians populated Seattle, but here in Lancaster County?

“My nephew and his wife became Mennonites,” Jeremiah said. “They adopted Aaron months before my nephew's wife died. Aaron came to live with my daughter and her husband, and calls me Daadi, just like my other grandchildren. I couldn't love Aaron more. 'Tis a long story I'd be happy to share over breakfast.”

The dog barked as a large vehicle pulled up to the barn and came to a stop, its engine running. A whirring motor kicked in. “'Tis the milk truck collecting from our cooling vat,” Jeremiah said.

“I might ask the driver to give me a lift if he's headed in the right direction.” Esther placed a hand on Jeremiah's forearm. “Should my daughter, Holly, show up, please promise to treat her with kindness.”

“Of course we will. We've been longin' to meet her. I sent ya letters.”

“You have our address?”

“My wife said she gave my letters to your mother to send.”

“Are you certain? We never received them. Not one.” Had Samuel's mother intercepted them?

“All the more reason to come in the house, won't ya?” he said. “My wife and I live in the Daadi Haus, but we gather each morning for breakfast.”

Esther's stomach grumbled with hunger and she thirsted for a cup of coffee, but she'd wait until she got home.

“A question before I leave,” she said. “I noticed wires running to the barn.” She gazed at the large metal container. “The milk cooler—is it powered by electricity?”

“Nee, an alternator and a car battery cool the milk. The electrical and telephone wires run to the shop next door, where our son Matthew and his partner make furniture. Since it's separate from the barn, the bishop gave him permission to keep a fax machine and telephone.”

At that moment a man wearing a straw hat strolled into the barn. He was the spitting image of her beloved Samuel, but wore a beard.

The backs of her knees weakened as she studied his eyes, his familiar smile. If she didn't know better, she'd think Samuel had returned from Vietnam—that he'd come home.

White noise filled her ears.

The room spun, her vision blurred, and she collapsed against Jeremiah. She felt him grab her around the waist and lower her to the floor.

“
Was is letz, Esther?”
—What's wrong? “
Kumm schnell!”
—Come quick!—Jeremiah said to the man.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Through coke-bottle glasses, Beatrice glared at me from across her kitchen. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and shriveled face. I saw nothing to like about her.

Why had she allowed me in? From the moment we met, it seemed this irritable woman hoped to antagonize me into retreating to the rental car. If it weren't for Rachel's invitation, I wouldn't have agreed to stay for breakfast, although delectable aromas of cinnamon, yeast, and melting butter filled my nostrils.

“Wu is dei Kapp
?” Beatrice said to me, then turned to the stove to pour pancake batter onto a cast-iron skillet atop a gas burner.

“Do you mean: Where is my cap?” My hand moved to my head and I raked renegade strands away from my face. Of course—my borrowed dress and apron had confused her. “I'm not really Amish,” I said.

She glowered over her shoulder, the corners of her mouth stabbing down. “A
Dummkopf
can see that, what with your automobile and your accent.” Using rapid movements, she lifted the lid off a pot of oatmeal.

“Please, Mamma,” Rachel said. “Holly can't help it. She's obviously not from these parts.”

I tried to ignore Beatrice's harsh words and see my haphazard attire through her eyes. Judging from her cement-gray hair and severe part, she probably hadn't gone without a prayer cap since childhood.

“I'm from Seattle.” I removed my jacket. “I didn't think I spoke with an accent.”

“That shows what little you know.” Beatrice flipped strips of sizzling bacon with a fork.

Rachel extended a hand to take my jacket. “May I?” She positioned it on a peg near the back door. “Did I hear ya right? You're from Seattle?”

“Yes, visiting my grandmother, Anna Gingerich.” I scanned the orderly kitchen, much like Mommy Anna's, but with a larger refrigerator, a double sink, and a sizable counter; several loaves of bread sat cooling on its surface. In the center of the room stood a rectangular table covered with a green-and-white checkered oilcloth, ten chairs around its perimeter.

Rachel clapped twice. “In that case, ya could be my husband's niece.”

I gathered my courage and directed my questions at Beatrice, who stood stirring the pancake batter with a long-handled wooden spoon. “Ma'am,” I said, nearing her. “Are you my dad's mother? His name was Samuel Fisher.”

Her right arm jerked and she dropped the spoon, splattering batter on the linoleum floor. She bent down, grabbed the spoon, and threw it in the sink, while Rachel rushed over to mop up the mess with a towel.

“I have no answers for ya, because I don't know,” Beatrice said, her pencil-thin lips barely moving.

“But ya could be, don'tcha think?” Rachel rinsed and laid the soiled towel on the counter next to the sink. “You and Jeremiah had a son named Samuel—ain't?”

Beatrice flushed water over the spoon and shook it dry. “Yah,” she finally said. “We named our boy after my
Grossdaadi
on my mamma's side. But my sister called her second son Samuel too. And our neighbors two farms over—”

The kitchen door shimmied open, rattling its single pane. “Beatrice!” An aged bearded man poked his head into the room. “'Tis Esther. She's come back.”

My mother was here?

The old man called to someone outside. “Matthew, is she able to make it inside?”

“Yah, we're comin'.” The timbre of the other man's voice told me he was younger than Mom and a local.

The elderly gentleman hung his hat, moist with rain, on a peg next to my jacket. Noticing me, his eyebrows lifted. “Hullo, I'm Jeremiah Fisher,” he said, panting. “I didn't know we had company comin' for breakfast.”

“She showed up uninvited,” Beatrice said. “Drivin' a car.”

I heard multiple footsteps on the back stairs. A moment later, a bearded man in his midforties, one arm supporting Mom, steered her inside. Looking bedraggled—her hair and shoulders damp—she trudged into the kitchen with her gaze lowered, not acknowledging me or Beatrice.

“You remember Esther, don't ya?” Jeremiah said to Beatrice. Her husband? I pitied the man married to that mean-spirited woman.

“How could I forget her?” Beatrice narrowed her eyes at Mom, creasing a line between them. “She hasn't aged well.” Beatrice shook her small head. “And dressed Englisch. No surprise there.”

Jeremiah said, “Esther's feelin'
grenklich
.” I took that word to mean ill.

She wasn't the only one. A headache expanded from my temples across my forehead. Questions wormed their way through my brain: Why was Mom here, and why wasn't she defending herself from Beatrice's diatribe? Mom reminded me of the robin that flew into our picture window at the Amish Shoppe and lay dazed, barely breathing for an hour.

If Mom wouldn't defend herself, I would. Beatrice was begging for a confrontation I couldn't resist.

“How dare you speak to my mother that way?” I stepped over to Mom. “Are you all right?” I asked. Her listless face echoed her pale beige blouse and her lips were chapped.

She rubbed her upper arms. “Yes, fine.”

“You don't look okay. Did you walk all the way here?”

She nodded, her lower lip quivering. She must be exhausted from the strenuous trek. She might have had a heart attack or a stroke.

“How did you slip past me?” I said. “You must have left Mommy Anna's on foot before sunup. That stupid dog stopped me from entering the barnyard.”

“He ain't stupid,” Beatrice said. “Our Wolfie protects us from unwanted intruders.”

“That's no way to speak to guests,” the younger man said. “I'm Matthew,” he told me, removing his hat. “Jeremiah and Beatrice's son.”

Rachel guided Mom to the table. “Please have a seat.” Rachel pulled out a chair for her. “What happened? Do ya need a doctor?”

“No, just light-headed.” Mom sat down with a thud. “For a moment I thought—Well, I'm too embarrassed to tell you what I was thinking.”

“She mistook Matthew for his older brother, Samuel,” Jeremiah said, and Mom buried her face in her hands. “That's not so outlandish.” He tilted his head at Matthew, standing near the back door hanging his jacket, then unlacing his boots. “Except for the difference in age, the two boys could have been twins.”

“That's what my father would have looked like?” I gulped as I took in Matthew's features, his even white teeth, his nut-brown eyes, the same color as mine, and his wavy rusty-brown hair. He was a handsome man, even with his beard and suspenders. In this farmhouse kitchen they suited him.

“I can see the resemblance to Mom's photo of my dad,” I said.

Beatrice's scrimpy eyebrows deepened her frown lines. “Esther owns a photograph of our Samuel? Picture taking is against the Ordnung.”

“I'm glad she has Dad's photograph,” I said. “Proof he existed. You have no idea what it was like to grow up without a father.”

“You have no idea what it's like to lose your son!”

Her words felt like a slap on my face. I recalled our minister in Seattle teaching from the book of Matthew: If a person wanted to see clearly he must eliminate the plank from his own eye before attempting to remove the speck of sawdust from another's. I realized I was being sanctimonious, writing off a woman whose son was sent to war even though Mom said he was a pacifist, as were Beatrice and Jeremiah. No wonder Beatrice bore malice toward Mom and me.

Rachel slid onto the seat next to my mother. “I'm Matthew's wife. Are ya his long-lost sister-in-law?”

“I think so.” Mom studied Matthew intensely as he drew near the table and joined them. He smiled at her, but she turned to me, her eyes searching mine.

I sat across from her. “Don't ask me, Mother. You're the one with all the answers.”

Her glistening eyes blinked. “I'm as shocked as you are, Holly.” She reached across the table to take my hand, but I leaned back, out of her grasp. “I didn't know your father's parents had more children,” she said to me. “My mamm never said a word.”

“Don't blame your circumstances on my grandma.” I recalled the shoebox filled with letters—my outrage when Mom first displayed them. My whole life would have been different if she'd allowed me to read them as they arrived. This kitchen wouldn't be foreign. In fact, Beatrice might love me if she'd met me as a child. Aunt Rachel could have been like a sister.

Jeremiah sat beside me. His face showed eighty-plus years. His upper lip was cleanly shaven, but I bet he hadn't trimmed his beard since forever. “I'm Samuel's father. 'Tis true, our Samuel married your mother.”

“Who's ta say they were legally married?” Beatrice's voice sounded as brittle as ice chips.

“Samuel wrote and told us,” Jeremiah said. “He wouldn't have lied.” He spoke to me gently. “Holly, if you're Samuel's daughter, you're our granddaughter.”

Beatrice charged over to him, her skirt and apron flapping. “Are ya buyin' into Esther's hogwash?” she said. “That woman bewitched our son.”

I felt like vaulting out the door and diving into the car. But I needed to know the truth. Feeling my throat tighten around my voice box, I forced out the words. “Then it's true, you're my dad's parents?”

“Who's ta say who your father was?” Beatrice crossed her arms, tucking her hands under her armpits. “Your mother could have entertained many a man while our Samuel was overseas. She lived in a hippie commune. Ya know that? All sorts of goings on.”

Mom shot to her feet. “I swear before God, Samuel was my only love. I never—”

“How dare ya swear before the Almighty?” Spittle flew from Beatrice's mouth. “You never bent at the knees before the congregation and were baptized. If you had been, you'd be under
die Meiding
—the shunning.”

“I have our marriage certificate,” Mom said. “I'll send you a copy.”

“Proves nothing.” Beatrice sniffed the air, then her head whipped around. Smoke billowed from the fry pan. “Ya made me burn the breakfast!” She bolted over to the stove and dumped the pan's charred contents into the garbage bin, then swung her torso around to face Mom. “What do you want, Esther? To move in with us?”

“Hold on there.” Jeremiah rapped his knuckles on the table. “Let's not start makin' assumptions.”

“Your father's bedroom is still vacant, exactly as he left it,” Matthew said to me. “Should you two wish to stay.”

“Guests use it every once in a while,” Rachel said. “Would ya like to see it? Some of Samuel's clothes are still in the closet.”

Beatrice widened her stance. “Over my dead body.”

Jeremiah said, “Wife, I thought we were past this bitterness. We agreed to forgive Esther years ago.”

“I thought I had. But seeing her in the flesh makes me think we've invited Satan into our home.”