Leaving Lancaster (23 page)

The words to the hymn “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” threaded their way through her inner ear. She'd sung the hymn many times at church, but the lyrics hit her anew: “Thou changest not, Thy compassions they fail not; As Thou hast been Thou forever wilt be.”

Then uncertainty shadowed the room, dimming her sight. Why would God give a nickel for a woman who'd abandoned her parents and brothers, and repeatedly lied to her daughter? Nattering anxieties crisscrossed Esther's mind. Was Bishop Troyer using a biblical parable to manipulate her? Had Mamm or Isaac told him about Esther and engineered this meeting? Had Nathaniel already asked the bishop's permission to marry her and inquired about her getting baptized? Had the bishop refused?

Well, she wouldn't ask with people milling nearby. Bishop Troyer tipped his head at several and Esther said, “May I fetch you something to eat and drink?”

He patted his flat stomach. Judging from his lean frame, Esther assumed he was a farmer. “Sounds gut,” he said.

Mary Ann strutted up next to him balancing a plate heaped with food. “Bishop, I brought ya your favorite cookies and a nice wedge of pumpkin pie with extra whipped cream.”

Taking the plate from her, he said, “What will I do without you?”

“Well, ya won't be able to depend on Esther, that's for sure.”

Esther bet Mary Ann wished she'd married a man chosen by God, which would have given her more status. Esther imagined her poor sisters-in-law and her brothers living in Montana with this prickly woman. Yet she knew she had no right to be indignant. She'd treated the family shabbily and deserved any verbal darts hurled her way.

“I'll be right back with Kaffi for ya, Bishop,” Mary Ann said. “Just the way ya like it.”

Esther glanced around the room she'd grown up in. Where was Nathaniel? Surely he wouldn't miss visiting Mamm unless he were avoiding Esther. She wouldn't blame him, but her heart would surely be broken. She'd awakened this morning contemplating marrying Nathaniel and living together. First thing, should they wed, she'd remove most traces of his former wife. No, she had no right being jealous or acting spiteful toward a woman she'd never even met. She recalled her precious photo of Samuel. She'd give it to Holly; that's what she'd do.

“
Wie geht's
, Jeremiah,” the bishop said as Samuel's father entered the house dressed in his Sunday best. Beatrice's hands impelled the small of her husband's back until she gained space to squeeze past him.

“Gut
ta see ya, Bishop Troyer,” she said before Jeremiah could get out a word.

Esther felt like bolting into the front room, but Jeremiah and Beatrice had already spotted her. Beatrice's features grew sharp and her face white, like her hair was fastened too tightly under her prayer cap.

Esther sensed a change in her breathing, as if standing at a high altitude—atop Mount Everest—the air too thin.

“Welcome,” she managed to say, glad the bishop was standing close by to act as a buffer. She hoped Beatrice wouldn't mention Esther and Holly's early morning visit or how their dog, Wolfie, had pegged them as intruders.

Holly ambled over to them, and hugged Jeremiah and Beatrice. Jeremiah clasped her in his arms, but Beatrice's hands hung at her sides.

Holly turned to the bishop and shook the man's large hand. “Hi there, I'm Esther's daughter,” Holly said. “Jeremiah and Beatrice Fisher's granddaughter.”

“This is Bishop Troyer,” Esther said, wishing she'd informed Holly about his stature in the community.

“Hi there,” Holly said, as if he were any old neighbor. “Do you know my grandparents, the Fishers?”

“Yes, my whole life. And they lived in my district before we split.”

Holly turned to Jeremiah and Beatrice. “Thank you both for coming. There's so much I want to ask you. Please stick around so we can talk. Okay?”

“What's so all-fired important?” Beatrice glanced at Esther with a look of disdain, then her gaze drilled into Holly.

“I want to hear the whole story.” Holly raised her volume to include anyone in earshot. “How and why my father, Samuel Fisher, left home and got drafted. Was my dad really a pacifist? A bona fide conscientious objector?”

“Yah, 'tis true of all of us,” said the bishop. “Most Mennonites, too.”

Was he referring to Beth? Esther wondered. Beth was turning Holly against her own mother out of spite, the epitome of aggression as far as Esther was concerned.

“I recently learned my mother refused money provided by the military to widows upon their husbands' death.” Holly glared at Esther, who felt the blood draining from her face. She would have taken the same course of action again, as she'd been taught by her parents and the Ordnung, that relying on insurance was not relying on God and the community. Not that she had much community in Seattle—her own fault for not joining a small group at church or a Bible study. And she'd paid into unemployment, workers' compensation, and Social Security, benefits she never planned to collect, on principle.

“Holly, let's discuss our personal affairs at another time,” Esther said.

Holly narrowed her eyes, furrowing her brows. “I'm not letting you snake out of this conversation, Mother. I'll never forgive you for making me grow up poor because you enjoyed being miserable.”

“Ya wouldn't have needed to worry about money if you'd lived here,” Isaac said. “The People would have cared for you.”

“They would?” Holly said.

“Yah, 'tis true,” the bishop said.

“We would have taken you in,” Jeremiah said.

Beatrice crossed her arms. Esther feared what might spew past her teeth. She hoped Beatrice was clueless about the lump sum or monthly benefits the army wanted to give Esther—and still might, for all she knew.

She placed her hand on Holly's forearm. “I'd like the chance to explain. In private.”

Holly yanked out of her grasp. “I've already waited a lifetime for your phony explanations.”

“Ain't no secret she bewitched our son away,” Beatrice said. “Esther claims they got married, but I have my doubts.”

Assailed by memories of filling out Holly's birth certificate at the hospital—Father: Samuel Fisher, deceased—Esther felt ready to explode. “We got legally married in our friends' small church.” Here Esther was standing before a bishop. What must he think of her? She'd have some explaining to do.

“Mom, why wouldn't you accept the money owed to you by the army?” Holly's disruptive voice drew the attention of guests throughout the house, who were wandering into the brimming kitchen. “You made me live like a pauper!”

A combination of anger and regret flooded Esther as she looked upon her daughter's crimson cheeks and white mouth; she was acting like a spoiled child on the verge of a tantrum. Esther felt like reprimanding her, but she locked her knees and held herself still, refusing to put on a show for Beatrice.

“Come on, Holly, that's not true.” Esther tried to defuse the commotion by speaking in monotone. “All over the world people are starving and suffering. You've always had food and shelter, and a mother looking after you.”

“But no father. I would have given up everything for a dad.”

Over Holly's shoulder, Esther saw men, women, and children gawking at them. Friendly banter snuffed and coffee growing cold, a density as impermeable as granite enclosed the room like the walls were caving in. Mamm, hunched in the rocker, worked her lips together. Isaac lowered his chin, his mouth drawn back. Martha's little girl hid behind her mother's skirt. Mary Ann's hands clamped her hips.

Holly spun around and said, “I'm looking for the truth about my father. Did any of you know him?” Several bobbed their heads with what looked to be reluctance.

“He was younger than I was,” Bishop Troyer said. “But I remember him well.” He probably knew every detail of Esther's departure and agreed with Isaac and Beatrice's assessment: Esther was the crummiest daughter in the world. She wished she could vanish into the wooden floor, melt right into it like a puddle of warm wax. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

Nathaniel.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The room's temperature spiked as relatives and neighbors drifted closer like a rising tide. I glanced around the crowded kitchen and noticed Nathaniel and Zach had arrived. They were gaping at me, but I didn't care. Neither man knew what it was like growing up in Mom's spiderweb of deceit.

I writhed internally as a lifetime of pent-up emotions and frustrations coiled together, urging me to strike out. Until recently I'd felt sorry for my mother, the lonely widow stuck raising her child on a minimal income. But no longer. I couldn't believe anything she said.

“There's much you don't know about our ways,” Bishop Troyer said to me.

He must be a real live bishop by the amount of respect everyone showed him. Even feisty Beatrice, who made Mom look like a wimp. Well, my mother was a wimp. Honesty required backbone and she'd proven herself to be spineless, or she would have told me the truth and returned to face Mommy Anna, her brothers, and Dad's parents decades ago.

Isaac stepped to the bishop's side, the two of them like a castle wall.

But I wouldn't be thwarted.

I folded my arms across my chest. “Uncle Isaac, you haven't forgotten Mom deserted your parents, didn't return for your father's funeral, or set foot in this house, have you?”

He tugged his untrimmed beard. “Not forgotten, no. But I've forgiven her.”

“How could you? I never will.”

“
Du bischt letz
—you're wrong,” the bishop told me.

“Me? What have I done?”

“'Tis no way around it, God commands us to forgive as we ask for his forgiveness,” Bishop Troyer said.

“That includes us.” Jeremiah directed his words at his wife. “Tell me, Beatrice, that you've truly forgiven Esther,” he said. “For the love of the Almighty and for the future of our people.”

Beatrice seemed to age before my eyes, the way her features sagged and her shoulders slumped. “I thought I had, honest,” she said, “until I saw Esther in our kitchen. It made me so mad I felt like—” Her hand flapped up to cover her mouth.

“Then 'tis time to repent,” Bishop Troyer said. “To ask God to forgive you for your sin.”

She licked her upper lip and stared at his feet, as though a heated discussion raged inside her head.

“Beatrice, did ya hear the bishop?” Jeremiah asked.

She looked up into her husband's face. “Then I'll have nothin' left of our Samuel,” she said, her eyeballs veined and rimmed pink.

I felt my face twisting as tears brewed behind my eyes. I understood where she was coming from. She didn't even own a photo of her son. Had she kept a memento, perhaps childhood clothing, to remember him by? Or had my dad's younger brother, Matthew, worn them, a daily reminder of the son she'd lost?

Beatrice hesitated, then finally shuffled over to Mom, who shrank back against the refrigerator.

“Esther,” Beatrice said. “
Es dutt mir leed
—I'm sorry, and I'm askin' ya, please forgive me.”

A tear rolled down Mom's cheek. Her hand slid up to stop its descent. “I don't deserve it, Beatrice. Yours or anyone else's.”

I felt like agreeing with her, but noticed Mommy Anna's grief-stricken face, her lips sucked in. My tirade had ignited the confrontation and ruined her get-together. On the other hand, this roomful of relatives and neighbors might answer the questions Mom had evaded.

The bishop's voice filled the room like a balm. “None of us deserves forgiveness,” he said. “But God sacrificed his Son for our sins. The Lord died to cover them. We must not refuse his gift.”

My memory scrolled in on itself. I replayed my life like rewinding a movie, the innumerous transgressions I'd committed without even living within the confines of the Ordnung. Yes, I attended church most Sunday mornings. In the safety of the sanctuary I praised God and sang hymns along with the congregation, but the rest of my week was a spiritual wasteland. I couldn't remember the last time I'd asked God for guidance and then listened for his answer. He wasn't my friend because I barely knew him.

The room lay swathed in silence. I glanced over to Beth, standing beside Mommy Anna's rocker. At supper the evening before, while Beth and her husband thanked our heavenly Father, I'd stared at my dinner plate, my mind raging with vengeful thoughts centering on my mother, when in fact I was as much a sinner as she was. I couldn't begin to recall half the sacrifices Mom had made for me. I'd shown her a pittance of gratitude.

Beatrice reached out her trembling arms to my mother. Mom flinched at Beatrice's touch like she'd received an electric shock. Then Mom stepped into Beatrice's embrace. The two women grasped onto each other, Beatrice sobbing on Mom's shoulder and Mom's face buried against Beatrice's.

“
Alles ist ganz gut
—all will be well,” Jeremiah said to the bishop with exuberance. “At last, this feud has ended, praise the Lord.”

“Yah, I promise.” Beatrice removed her glasses, wiped her face with a Kleenex, and blew her nose. “No amount of fuming will bring our Samuel back.”

She spoke to everyone, even the youngsters who'd followed their parents into the kitchen. “Before all of yous, and before God, I ask for forgiveness. I've been harboring bitterness and setting a bad example.” She said to the bishop, “Ya want me to come in next Sunday and confess before the congregation?”

“Nee, you've repented, I can see that.”

“Yah,” she said, and sniffled. “For sure and for certain.”

Jeremiah's arm encircled her waist and she leaned into him—I figured their show of affection in public was a rare occurrence.

As I watched Nathaniel offer Mom a cloth handkerchief to dry her eyes, the scene vaulted me back in time, listening to my pastor read from Proverbs, how God hates haughty eyes—a proud look. Over the last week, I'd sent Mom my iciest stares as if I were far superior. And what about Zach, who'd stopped by Beth's last night after supper to chat with his father? I'd exhibited contentiousness ever since meeting him. Had I even thanked him properly for giving up his busy morning to rescue Mom and me, and treat the wounded cow? Yet last night he'd offered me a tour of his veterinary clinic tomorrow. After my display of hostility just now, he'd probably changed his mind. I wouldn't blame him.

As I recalled, the proverb went on to say God hates those who stir up dissension among their brothers. What role had I played to smooth the turbulent waters between my mother and Uncle Isaac? Between Mom and Beth? Nothing. I was a wasp, itching for a fight. Was my anger obvious? Yes.

“Mom, it's my turn to apologize,” I said, and every face rotated toward me.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” She dabbed under her eyes and stuck the handkerchief in her pocket. “I'm the one who did wrong, my dearest girl.”

“I've been critical,” I said. “I've treated you rottenly this whole trip.” I'd embarrassed her in front of family, old acquaintances, and the bishop, but instead of chastising me, she hastened over like I was a girl who'd skinned her knee.

“None of that matters,” she said.

“Yes, it does. I need to grow up.”

She stood before me for a moment, worrying her lower lip. “Holly, can you ever forgive me?” Her voice came out a whimper. “I wouldn't blame you if you said no.”

Despite my intentions, I felt conflicted, like vinegar and oil repelling each other. As much as I loved my mother, could I honestly forgive her deceitful behavior: hiding my dearest Mommy Anna, my aunts and uncles, not to mention the details of Dad's death? And the benefits owed to us by the military? Her money, but the cash could have helped pay for my education if nothing more. Not that money would bring Dad back.

Heckling voices infested my mind like relentless mosquitoes, reminding me I was the wronged party, the innocent fatherless girl raised by a two-faced mother. I felt myself wavering, as if balancing on a branch atop the lofty oak tree alongside the house. I recalled myself as a little girl, always feeling different, not good enough.

I looked at Beatrice, her head bent, and Jeremiah, his arm around her shoulder as if propping her up. If they could forgive Mom, so could I. But not on my own.

Please, Lord, help me, I prayed under my breath
.

My words seemed captured at the bottom of my throat, but “Mom, I forgive you” came out my mouth, tasting sweeter than Mommy Anna's apple pie.

“You do? Truly?”

I nodded.

“Thank you, dearest daughter.”

Seeing her joy, I felt thirty tons lighter, like a lead apron had been lifted from my shoulders. “Now tell me you forgive me, too,” I said.

Her frame went rigid and she shook her head in slow motion.

A buzz of conversation cluttered the room. I scanned the kitchen and saw mom's sisters-in-law huddled together. Zach tipped his head to speak to Beth. Mommy Anna interlaced her hands, her thumbs tucked in.

“Mom?” I said. “This goes both ways. Do you hear me?”

She let out a dry, parched cough. “I feel funny—not worthy.” She turned to the bishop and finally to Nathaniel, who nodded.

I could see from her cowering expression she wished we were alone. She finally looked right into my eyes with a fervor I'd never before witnessed.

“Yes, I accept your apology,” she said. “May this be the first day of a new friendship.”

“An honest-to-goodness friendship?” The transformation would require humongous changes on both our sides. “No more lies or even omitting the truth?”

“I promise. Nothing but the truth.”

“This is fine and gut,” Isaac said with exuberance. He arched his bushy brows. “We can move to Montana as a united family.”

“Hold on there, Isaac,” Mommy Anna said. With Zach and Beth's assistance, she got to her feet. “There's something I need ta tell ya.” She held Beth's hand and Zach supported Mommy's elbow. “I've decided to stay put for the time being.”

“Not go to Montana?” Isaac said. “Ya can't mean it.”

“I'm as serious as can be.” Mommy Anna patted her chest. “I finally have my Esther back—”

“So what? I don't hear her apologizing to ya.” He was right; my mother owed Mommy Anna an apology. Could Mom ever make up for my grandmother's years of anguish?

His mouth set in a hard line, Isaac swung his shoulders around to face Nathaniel. “'Tis your doing, ain't so, Nathaniel King?”

“I have no need for this house,” Nathaniel said, and stroked his beard. “I'm trying to be helpful.”

“You have no right interfering in my family.”

Mom positioned herself between the two men. “Please, Isaac, don't go blaming Nathaniel. He's been more than generous to give our mamm a roof over her head.”

Isaac's fingers curled into fists. “And who's gonna' look after her? Not my Greta.”

“I will,” I said, gazing up into my uncle's glowering face, looming a foot higher than mine. “I've got nothing going for me at home. I'll stay right here.”

Pack up and move to the other side of the country to live with the Amish? When had my radical decision taken shape and solidified?

Mommy Anna's eyes sparkled, capturing the rectangle of sunlight slanting through the window. Tears of sadness or joy? She was witnessing both the reuniting and the splitting up of her family. She might consider her illness the cause. In a way it was.

“It's not your fault,” I told her, stepping to her side and taking her free hand.

Zach's gaze caught mine. We stared at each other and I felt a buzz of attraction. Where did that come from? I had to wonder if he often visited Mommy Anna, or had he arrived today specifically to see me?

Again, I found myself thinking about myself. I should concentrate on my grandma and her needs. I said, “Mommy Anna, I'm going to find out what's wrong with you and make you better if it's the last thing I do.”

“Herbal remedies are what she needs,” Beatrice said, edging away from her husband and seeming to regain her snarly temperament. “My cousin knows a man—”

“Hush,” Jeremiah said, his voice gruff. “Prayer to the Almighty is what Anna needs.”

“What's Anna got ta lose by consulting him? His tea, a recipe in his family for generations, is what cured my lumbago.”

Bishop Troyer rubbed his eyes, his hand blocking half his face. Why wouldn't he speak up? Perhaps with Beatrice living in a different church district, he had less jurisdiction over her. I wanted him to take charge of the conversation, to put an end to Beatrice's advice. Or would an herbal potion help my grandma? I was desperate enough to look into it.

“We've enough problems without your interference,” Isaac said to Beatrice, then moved in on me. “Holly, that includes you. Either move with us to Montana or go back to Seattle.”

“No, I refuse to leave my grandma,” I said. “And certainly not by herself.” I'd need to jet back to Seattle to pack warm clothes for winter and other necessities, then return in a few days.

In the meantime, who would look after Mommy Anna in my absence? Not my mother. Because I'd forgiven Mom didn't mean I trusted her.