Leaving Lancaster (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Beatrice's words—intentional knife wounds—assaulted Esther, what she'd expected and why minutes ago had no intention of entering the house. But then she'd fainted, her legs giving way and her vision diminishing into one tiny dot.

She recalled Jeremiah's arms catching her, then someone else—a younger man—assisting her up the steps.

At the Fishers' kitchen table, her vision still blurry, Esther wanted to plug her ears and make her escape, but might as well have been tethered to her chair. Anyway, she reasoned, if she jettisoned out the back door she'd come face-to-face with Wolfie standing sentry outside. Esther wasn't afraid of dogs, but this animal might pick up on Beatrice's hostility and turn aggressive. And Esther shouldn't desert Holly, who looked as forlorn as Esther felt. Protecting her daughter had been Esther's goal in coming here in the first place.

Had Holly received a smidgeon of welcome from Beatrice upon her arrival? Unlikely. Holly's fairytale happily-ever-after ending was falling flat, like Esther's last sweet potato soufflé attempt.

Esther's gaze came back to rest on Matthew. Now that she focused on her beloved Samuel's double, she was fascinated by the similarities and couldn't help staring. She decided both men had taken after their father in appearance and temperament. Until her death, sitting in the same room with Matthew was the closest she'd ever be to Samuel.

Speaking to Beatrice, Jeremiah's voice interrupted Esther's crippling thoughts.

“Ain't ya being a bit harsh?” He gave his wife a stern look, demanding silence. “Can we put this dispute aside until after we eat?”

“Yah, I'm starvin',” Matthew said. “The boys are done with their chores.” He directed his words to Holly. “Our nephew Leo, my sister Naomi's son, headed home, but Seth and Aaron should be in any minute.”

Rachel served him coffee. “Clarissa's still in bed.” She set the sugar bowl next to his cup and he stirred in two teaspoons, the way Samuel had.

Rachel told Esther, “Our youngest daughter, age twenty, is still in her Rumspringa. She stays out late and sleeps in, all lazy and smart-mouthed, when she should be finding an Amish beau and gettin' married.”

“After four years of her shenanigans, I'm about to toss her out on her own if she don't shape up,” Matthew said. He consumed half his brew in a single gulp.

“Yous should have done that last year,” Beatrice said, her words ragged. “She needs to be in baptism classes, not kicking up a ruckus with her fancy Englisch friends.”

“I hear tell she owns a car, if you can imagine that,” Jeremiah said, shaking his head.

“We think she hides it somewhere.” Rachel set plates around the table. “She works part-time at Bird-in-Hand Family Restaurant to afford the gasoline.”

Esther was tempted to offer to counsel Clarissa, to warn her not to get baptized until she was 100 percent sure she was satisfied with the Amish life, and also share with her the heartache of severing ties with her family. But she didn't dare open her mouth. Esther felt like a wounded pheasant, huddling in the field, hoping a hunter would pass her by unnoticed. She was still stunned to find Jeremiah and Beatrice had other grandchildren. The fact their nephew, and then their daughter, had adopted an Asian child struck her as impossible. She was consumed with curiosity. How could Beatrice spurn Holly, her own flesh-and-blood granddaughter, but feel unconditional love toward Aaron?

“Rachel,” Beatrice said, her cheeks carving hollows, “we mustn't air our dirty laundry in front of strangers.”

“Esther and Holly ain't strangers,” Jeremiah said. “They're family whether ya like it or not.”

“
Himmel!”
Beatrice turned down the burners but left the food on the stove. She pointed at Esther as if she were an inanimate object. “I will not sit at a meal with that woman. Have one of the boys hitch up the buggy, won'tcha, Matthew? I'll fetch the bishop. He'll have something to say to Esther about comin' clean and confessing her sins.”

“My mother's brother Isaac is a preacher,” Holly said.

Esther's scalp tightened. “Whose side are you on, daughter?”

“Mom, I thought you'd be proud of him.”

Isaac was the last person Esther wanted to see. As a minister, he might jump on Beatrice's bandwagon.

“Your mother's brother Isaac has little jurisdiction over us,” Beatrice said, with what sounded like pride, a trait uncharacteristic for Amish. But Beatrice had never been a typical submissive Amish wife. “We're in a different district now. Our population doubled, so we split in half, twice. Our bishop will know how to handle this situation. He's mighty strict.”

“Silence,” Jeremiah said. “I'm the head of this household. I'll decide if and when anyone's fetchin' the bishop.”

Esther was glad she and her naïve daughter wouldn't come under the scrutiny of the Fishers' bishop, what with Holly's dress and apron, coupled with her unkempt hair. Not to mention Esther's own vulnerabilities.

Her thoughts flung her back in time like a barbed hook cast into a murky lake. She recalled the evening she and Samuel ran away—decades ago, but the night seemed like yesterday. With Samuel waiting below her bedroom window, she'd scrambled into her Englisch thrift-shop clothes. A week prior, her preacher had taught from the Bible: “Be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God”—in German. But Esther had ignored the preacher's instruction as if she were a temporary visitor all along.

An hour later, a truck driver steering a semi heading west had picked up Samuel and her. “Where you headed?” he'd asked.

“As far as you're going,” Esther had answered, feeling like a firehouse-red cardinal taking flight. As she spoke to the driver, Samuel glanced out the back window.

Beatrice directed her words at Esther. “Matthew's daughter Clarissa reminds me of another young woman I once knew.”

Esther wanted to shut off her mind, but she couldn't help her memory from spinning in on itself and landing on the fall of Saigon in 1975, her ears hearing the whirling chopper blades slashing the air, mingled with the pleas of refugees. She'd watched the terrifying footage on the TV news; the images remained imprinted in her memory.

Why had Samuel disappeared, when every other living GI in his unit returned to the States? In the chaos of the escaping refugees and military personnel had an enemy combatant snuck up behind her beloved and hidden his lifeless body, or did Samuel panic, lose his sense of direction, wander into the dense forest, and step on a land mine?

“Come on, Mom.” Holly stood, patting her skirt and apron, bringing Esther back to the skirmish at hand. “We'd better go so the Fishers can eat their breakfast. Maybe I could swing back later by myself, if that's okay.”

“I'm hoping ya do,” Rachel said.

Beatrice cut Esther a look of reproach and Esther got to her feet. She felt lopsided and wondered if her legs would support her.

Jeremiah said, “Tomorrow, on Sunday—'tis not a preaching Sunday—the rest of the family and our neighbors will stop by. You're invited.” He clasped Holly in a tight embrace, the hug Esther longed to receive from her father-in-law. She felt jealousy rising though she knew she should be happy for her daughter.

“We'll be expecting ta see ya,” Jeremiah told Holly, who leaned her head on his shoulder, leaving a moist spot on his shirt.

Beatrice spun around, grabbed a damp rag, and wiped the stove's surface so hard Esther thought she might scrub off the enamel.

“Beatrice will calm down by then,” he said in Holly's ear. “I'll throw salt over my left shoulder, what she claims prevents quarrels.”

“I don't blame her for being upset.” Holly blinked several times. “We should have contacted you first instead of propelling ourselves over with no warning.” She frowned at Esther. “Mom, the car's out front. Can you make it?”

“Yes, like I told you, I'm perfectly fine. I came because I thought you might show up. I hoped to pave the way—”

“With splinters of broken glass?” Holly sounded as grouchy as Beatrice, right when Esther needed her daughter's support.

Holly turned to Matthew. “Do any of you see much of Mommy Anna and her family?” she asked.

“Now and again,” he said. “At barn raisings and weddings. The such.”

Beatrice flung the rag in the sink. “And funerals.” Her voice sliced the air.

“Is my father buried nearby?” Holly asked.

“Just a marker, since his body was never recovered.” Jeremiah let out a sigh, his chest seeming to cave in.

“I'd like to see it,” Holly told him.

“Sure, on another day I'll show ya.”

Esther suspected the Fishers had a family plot somewhere on their hundred-plus acres. Not that Samuel resided in the ground—wherever that might be. He was in heaven with the Lord.

Her thoughts jumbled together like the ball of yarn one of her customer's children had plucked out of his mother's bag and kicked across the floor. After the conclusion of the war—the mad scramble to evacuate Vietnam—the military claimed it conducted a thorough search to locate all POWs and remains of MIA soldiers. But her Samuel never surfaced and was declared dead. Visiting the makeshift graveside might put Esther's doubts and turmoil to rest, finally.

Jeremiah held Holly's jacket out and she pushed her fists into the sleeves. “Guess you know four of my mother's brothers are in Montana, scoping out property,” she said.

“Yah, I hear tell.”

“As you probably know, their neighbor Nathaniel King is buyin' Anna's farm,” Matthew said.

“You've got to be kidding.” Holly's voice rose to falsetto. “All this talk about moving to Montana and no one said a thing.”

“Nathaniel told me himself,” Matthew said.

“Did I hear ya right?” Esther's mind reeling, she stood, her legs wobbly as a one-legged stool. “He never mentioned it to me.”

“He wouldn't tell you of all people,” Holly said.

The floor seemed to undulate beneath Esther's feet. Why would Nathaniel ask for her hand in marriage, yet never share his plans to buy her family's property?

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

My foot slammed down on the accelerator pedal harder than I intended. The tires spit up dirt and rocks. Mom and I jerked along the Fishers' driveway—not the farewell departure I'd planned.

I slowed the car and waved out the window, hoping my first good impression hadn't dissolved. Rachel had just reinvited Mom and me to return to the Fishers' on Sunday for visiting and fellowship with relatives and friends. “Plenty ta eat,” she assured us. Then she asked us to participate in a quilting frolic several days later, which I supposed was like a quilting bee. But my mother had the audacity to turn down the invitation, saying she had her hands full looking after her mother. But she wasn't busy.

“Why be so rude?” I asked, all the while hoping my rowdy driving hadn't caused Rachel to rethink her invitations. She and Daadi Jeremiah had walked us through their sitting room and front hallway to the porch. I was glad Beatrice and Matthew remained in the kitchen. Beatrice might have hurled another insult and my mother could have retaliated.

Mom clipped on her safety belt. “See, I was telling the truth when I said your father's parents want nothing to do with me.” She wiped her forehead, then the back of her neck.

“Jeremiah was as nice as can be.” I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw him and Rachel waving good-bye.

“But you heard Beatrice compare me to the devil. She doesn't want me near them.”

Wolfie chased the car, nipping at the tires until we reached the main road. He let out a howl, his tail raised, then turned and trotted back to the house. If anything was satanic, it was that dog.

“Take a right on Centerville Road,” Mom said. “Then after we cross Mill Creek, turn onto Zeltenreich.”

I followed her instructions, glad I'd entered Beth's address in the car's GPS in case Mom and I got lost. I had to face the facts: Mom's logic and actions were helter-skelter.

“Beatrice was caught off guard,” I said. “I don't blame her, the way we materialized, stirring up the past, bringing with us heartbreaking memories.” I couldn't say I harbored warm fuzzy feelings for Beatrice, but I'd call her my grandma whether she believed her son Samuel was my father or not.

While sitting at the kitchen table, I'd examined my uncle Matthew's features. The strong bridge of his nose, his eyes, and his full lips assured me half my DNA came from my father, Samuel Fisher. The way Mom gawked at Matthew, like Dad resurrected from the grave, confirmed my opinion. I wanted to question the Fishers at length, to delve into every detail of my father's childhood, the family my mother had hidden from me. An act of cruelty, as far as I was concerned.

“Mom, I'm not going to allow you to take the coward's way out. Even if you don't come back Sunday, please go to the quilting frolic with me. I'll feel like a fish out of water.” I envisioned my bed's quilt in Seattle: burgundy birds perched on wreaths of tulips applied to an off-white background—six stitches per inch—each sewn by my mother's hand.

“It's you they wish to see, daughter.”

“But you're the quilter in our family. I'll bet you could teach them a thing or two.”

“The Amish women, particularly Beatrice, wouldn't look kindly if it appeared I was showing off.”

“I wish you'd taught me how to quilt,” I said. One of my many regrets.

“I tried, but you refused after the second lesson.”

She was right; I wouldn't quilt or knit, beyond fashioning a simple scarf. Why had I been so headstrong? A grain of friction always rubbed between us; too bad our abrasive relationship never produced a pearl.

“You should have forced me.” I pictured the quilts we sold at the Amish Shoppe—meticulous hand stitching, bold geometric shapes, brilliant colors juxtaposed. Ever since we'd arrived in Lancaster County, I'd wondered why the Amish women wore subdued hues—the opposite of their quilts. In Seattle, I wouldn't think twice about coupling my fuchsia turtleneck with navy or forest-green slacks.

I glanced at my mother, her face sunken, and saw her lifeless hands in her lap. I noticed a thickening at the top of her spine, causing her shoulders and head to bend forward.

“Mom, you haven't knitted since we arrived.” Another oddity for her. I was used to seeing her hands in motion—as if of their own volition—my entire life. When I was young, she'd knitted in the dentist's waiting room, in front of the TV, and as a passenger in my car or on the bus. Her hands were always occupied like they had minds of their own. And she took great care selecting yarn, as if on a treasure hunt.

“My needles were confiscated at the airport.”

“So you claim. I didn't actually see the guard impound them.”

“Now you don't believe one thing I say?”

“In any case, you could borrow a pair from Mommy Anna or Greta, if they knit, or I'll drive you to a store. Greta said there's a fabric and yarn shop named Nancy's Notions and Clothing in Intercourse.” I smiled at the town's quaint name, which had taken on a new meaning since the nineteenth century.

“I'm not in the mood.” She chewed her thumbnail.

“That's like my saying I'm not in the mood for your snickerdoodles.” I waited, but she didn't smile. “How could I manage at a quilting frolic without your help?” I asked in all sincerity. “Won't the women be speaking Pennsylvania Dutch?”

“They'll speak English for you, and I wouldn't be surprised if some of their Mennonite cousins or neighbors came.”

“But what do I know about quilting?”

“There will be plenty of women to help you get started.” A smile finally raised the corner of her mouth. “I remember my mother's mother,
Grossmudder
Emma Mae, teaching me the Ninepatch, a simple pattern, stacking the quilting squares …” Her voice trailed off. She gazed out the windshield at the plowed fields—fertile earth the color of coffee beans—all part of the Fishers' property. It might have been partly ours if she hadn't run away from home like an idiot.

“Other than cows, what does Daadi Jeremiah raise?” I asked, as we passed a herd grazing in a field. The clouds were parting and the sunshine turning the pasture chartreuse.

“When I left, his mainstay was tobacco,” Mom said. “I noticed his tobacco barn is still standing.”

“The Amish smoke cigarettes?”

“Rarely, but they're good businessmen. And tending the leaves gives the men work during the winter.”

I'd smoked as a teen and in college battled to quit the habit. “I hope he's changed his crops. I should have asked. I will. On Sunday. I'm coming back.”

“I wouldn't dress like you are today. Please put on your normal clothes.”

“I wish I'd brought a skirt. The zipper on my slacks is jammed.”

“I'll help you fix it.”

“I hope you can, because I agree with Isaac. My jeans are too tight for this group of women. If you'd warned me ahead of time I would have brought looser fitting clothing. My cords are baggy, but their bishop disapproves of corduroy.” I wanted to fit in, to be one of the family more than anything. “I wonder—I could launder these and don a prayer cap.” Would my unruly hair submit to being parted down the middle and fastened into a bun? “No makeup, but I didn't bother with it today. Do you think I'd be accepted?”

“I'm warning ya, Holly, don't go acting foolhardy.” She didn't seem to notice we'd crossed Mill Creek again.

“You make the Amish sound like a cult,” I said. No way would I fall for her scare tactics. She reminded me of the horror-spoof movie
An American
Werewolf in London
that my girlfriends and I rented on Halloween night years ago. “Stay on the road. Keep clear of the moors,” the driver had warned. Thinking of the movie still gave me the willies.

“Were your parents and brothers hypnotized to stay against their will?” I allowed derision to rule my voice.

“No. They were happy, for the most part.”

I slowed and turned onto Zeltenreich Road. “Then come with me to the frolic and get reacquainted with old friends and relatives.” With one hand I stroked my apron's fabric. “What will you do with yourself if you don't?” I wondered if she held an ulterior motive.

“Don't ya worry 'bout me, I'll keep busy,” she said. “Mamm, Isaac, and Greta might be entertaining friends and relatives themselves on Sunday,” she said. “If you go to the Fishers' you'll miss seeing your aunts and their children.”

“No I won't. Not if I stay here until they move to Montana. Who knows, maybe I can get them to change their minds about leaving.”

“Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“So Mommy Anna won't have to move.”

I couldn't keep Matthew's comment about Nathaniel's buying the Gingerich farm from pestering my thoughts. Could Mommy Anna afford to rent the Daadi Haus from Nathaniel and remain living there if he didn't have other plans? If Mommy Anna stayed in the area, I could stick around and take care of her.

At least I thought I could. Just days ago I was desperate for a job in the stock market and considered myself a citified woman, through and through. In the past, I'd joked I never wished to be more than a ten-minute drive from a Nordstrom store. If I was honest with myself, would I go stir-crazy out here in the country? I still hadn't checked out nearby New Holland, but heard the population was a mere five thousand—not exactly a booming metropolis. The townships of Bird-in-Hand and Intercourse were dots on the map I had yet to see. Something to look forward to next week.

After crossing Peters Road, I took a left onto Hollander Road, heading north. My vision took in postcard-perfect farms—many Amish, I could tell by the missing electrical wires and cars—pastures, fields of drying corn Mom had mentioned would soon be harvested for cow fodder, and a distant forested hillside to the east, the trees clinging to vivacious flashes of ruby-red and mustard-colored leaves.

I considered the Plain people, surrounded by the Lord's bounteous gifts. Could I be happy living here? Did I even know what happiness was? I imagined my grief when Mommy Anna passed away. I was more determined than ever to keep my grandmother in my life as long as possible.

“When I drop you off, I'm heading over to Beth's to use my computer,” I said. “I'd better let Mommy Anna know where we are so she doesn't worry about us.” I reached for my cell phone, nestled at the bottom of my apron's pocket, but then remembered my grandma didn't own a phone. “How can the Amish manage without telephones?”

“They write letters. And they have their phone shanties and Mennonite neighbors.”

“Thank goodness for Mennonites like Beth,” I said, but Mom didn't nod in agreement. “Why don't you like her? Don't deny it.”

Straightening her collar, she ignored my remark.

Rolling at fifteen miles an hour, I passed a buggy driven by a bearded man. I thought of my deceased grandfather, my mother's father, Daadi Levi, perishing in a hideous collision with a car. I assumed the horse had died too. My grandfather never would have been on the road that night if my mother and father hadn't run away. I should inquire about my Daadi Levi Gingerich while Mommy Anna was still around to be the family genealogist.

“Why didn't I think of it earlier?” I said. “I know Uncle Isaac disapproves, but I'm going to ask Beth to help me make a doctor's appointment for Mommy Anna. First, I'll get online and google her symptoms to see what comes up.”

“How are you going to pay for an office visit? What if the doctor wants to put Mamm on medications? I'd better warn ya, she'll most likely refuse if Isaac tells her to.”

“I'll cross those hurdles when I come to them. Why are you painting such a bleak picture?” With a delivery truck on my rear bumper, I sped up again. Gee, the cars drove quickly for such a narrow road. “Don't you want Mommy Anna to get better?”

“Yes, but I don't like seein' ya disappointed, truly I don't.”

As the truck accelerated to pass me, I brought out my cell phone. “I'll call Beth to see if it's too early for a visit.”

“It's against the law to drive while using a cell phone.”

“Don't make me laugh. It's a felony to intercept the US mail the way you did my whole life.”

“If Jeremiah's telling the truth and he tried to contact you, one of your grandmothers never forwarded the letters,” Mom said. “But don't believe everything he or Beatrice say.”

“You have some nerve wagging fingers, you and your shoebox. Like it or not, Beatrice and Jeremiah Fisher are my grandparents. On Sunday, I may bring Beatrice chocolate-covered cherries to sweeten her up.”

“She could see a gift as a bribe.”

It felt like Mom was forcing me to swallow cod liver oil. “Why must you morph my ideas into negatives?”

I knew for my own sake I should let bygones be bygones. Last month our pastor quoted from the book of Ephesians: “And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you.” My remembering scripture was a near miracle; I often daydreamed during sermons and had never taken the time to memorize Bible passages. At church, I'd been assured I was saved by God's mercy, so I figured I was off the hook.

I rarely prayed outside of church, but on a lark I said out loud, “Okay, God, if you're listening, please bless the rest of our visit here, which for me might be a very long time.”

“You're stayin'?” Mom swiveled in her seat, her hand coming to rest on my arm. “Ach, you don't mean that, do ya?”

“I honestly don't know.”