Leaving Lancaster (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

Esther praised God when Dori agreed to look after the Amish Shoppe while she and Holly traveled to Lancaster County.

Speaking to Dori on the phone, Esther pressed the receiver against her ear. “If Holly agrees to accompany me. She might refuse—a real possibility.”

“Then we'll switch to plan B.”

“You mean go by myself?” Distressing images assaulted Esther's mind. “I can't.”

“Let's cross that road when we come to it,” Dori said. “Say, do you mind if I hold my knitting class at the shop on Tuesday afternoon? Several of my gals have never been in your store. I think they'd love it.” She spoke as if all were settled.

Esther tried to make her voice sound light-hearted while doubts plagued her. “Of course not. Make yourself at home. If you like, invite your book group Wednesday night too.”

“Great, then Jim won't have to hide out in the basement all evening.”

Esther heard the back door open and saw her daughter trudge into the kitchen. “I've got to run,” she told Dori and hung up.

Esther had set the kitchen table with care, using cloth napkins and her best china, and had prepared one of Holly's favorites, beef and vegetable stew, hoping to put her daughter in a cheerful mood. But now she realized Holly might see her acts as manipulative. There was no way for Esther to win.

She watched Holly scuff the soles of her shoes on the floor mat. “How did your day go, sweetheart?” Esther said.

“The worst.” Holly shrugged off her raincoat. “Tomorrow's my last day at work. To give my boss a break, I offered to quit. There was nothing left for me to do, anyway. Mel already reassigned my accounts. He was more than relieved—you could see it in his eyes. One less paycheck.”

“I'm so sorry. I know how much your job means to you.” Esther had never understood the appeal of the stock market, nothing a person could grasp hold of. Intangible numbers, charts, and speculations.

“Come have a seat,” she said, pulling out Holly's chair. “Dinner will make you feel better. Your face looks drawn. Have you lost weight?”

“No. I weigh one hundred and twenty-five pounds, exactly what a five-foot-three woman should.”

Why had she mentioned Holly's slim stature? Holly objected to remarks about her weight. She'd been a skinny adolescent, the last of her girlfriends to fill out, but as an adult she was near perfect in Esther's eyes. Most women would kill to have Holly's figure.

Esther brought the pot to the table while Holly hung her coat in the front hall.

Esther had fussed and worried all day. She'd channeled her excess energy into dusting the shop, rearranging displays, and washing the floors on her hands and knees. Still, she had no idea where to start a lifetime of explaining.

Minutes later, Holly sat at the table and scooted in her chair—partway.

Esther ladled stew onto her plate. “I've never mentioned this before, but when we were in our late teens, your father and I hitchhiked all the way to California.”

Holly shook open her napkin. “You would have killed me if I pulled that stunt.”

Had she already spouted too much? Esther prodded herself to continue. “I'm not saying it was a good idea.” She served herself a small portion, more than she planned to consume. “In fact, it was the worst move of my life.”

“That doesn't sound like you. When I was growing up, you were always uptight. A regular prude.”

Esther knew Holly was hurting over the loss of her job. No matter, she refused to argue this evening. Turn the other cheek, she reminded herself. “As a teen, I was strong willed. Out of control, is more like it. But your father and I made it all the way to San Francisco, with the Lord's help.”

Holly walked her chair in; the armrests bumped the table. “God's your answer to everything.” Sarcasm hardened her voice.

“And for good reason. It wouldn't hurt you—” Esther sucked in her lips; now was not the time to lecture her daughter about her wavering faith. Holly attended church, but Esther hadn't seen her open a Bible other than in the sanctuary for years.

Her hands steepled under her chin, Esther bowed her head and prayed, “Thank you, Father, for our home and for this meal. Please help Holly find a new job.” A multitude of requests inundated Esther's mind, but she calmed her thoughts and praised God. Then she begged him for forgiveness, even though her minister had assured her no sin was too great for God's pardon. Yet she felt compelled to confess her transgressions over and over again, a never-ending figure eight.

Holly also tipped her head forward, her longish bangs covering her eyes, but Esther wasn't sure she was praying, even when Holly muttered, “Amen.”

Holly sliced into a square of meat. Her knife grated against the plate, the scraping sound heightening the tension. “I can't believe your parents let you hitchhike. Wasn't that dangerous even back then?”

“They had no idea until it was too late and we were long gone.” The words were like puffs of steam from a kettle escaping into the atmosphere. “After four or five days, I finally wrote them a postcard from Arizona. Imagine, how selfish I was. I'd do anything to take my actions back.” She pushed a morsel of diced carrot around her plate with her fork. “I didn't write my parents again for another two months, from San Francisco, and left no return address. My mother must have been frantic, worried sick.”

“That's sad they passed away before you could apologize.” Was Holly testing Esther's memory? Did she still not believe her grandmother was alive?

Esther felt like a barnacle clinging to a boulder at the bottom of Puget Sound. “I never spoke to my father again. He passed away soon after.” She set her fork aside. “Once my Samuel got drafted into the army and I realized I was pregnant, I moved up here with Dori and Jim. My mother and I stayed in touch through letters. She implored me to return to the farm, but I was ashamed. I decided to wait until Samuel got discharged. But he never did.”

Holly gave her a crooked smile—her father's mouth. “Instead of going home, you opened the Amish Shoppe in Seattle? Sounds rather dubious.” Grasping her knife like a dagger, her words spewed out. “So why do you call yourself Pennsylvania Dutch to our customers?”

“Some Amish came from the Netherlands.” Esther patted her mouth with her napkin and found her upper lip trembling. “The Dutch part is really
Deitsch,
meaning German. The Amish immigrated mostly from Germany, Switzerland, and what later became Alsace-Lorraine.” This conversation was veering off track; Esther needed to adhere to pertinent facts. “In any case, I was raised Amish.”

“So you say.” Her words were spoken with distrust, as if sampling zesty East Indian food for the first time.

“It's true. Your father, too.”

“Then why don't you ever talk about your childhood?”

“This shop and all that's in it, the buggy out front—I thought you understood.”

Not true. Esther had intentionally kept her background vague, like on a foggy morning when she could barely see the buildings across wide Fifteenth Avenue Northwest.

CHAPTER FIVE

To find my mother had been fibbing to me all my life was like discovering Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were dead. No, ten times worse: like Mom had revealed Jesus didn't really die for our sins. Maybe he didn't, if everything Mom had taught me was a lie.

I'd always struggled with the concept of a heavenly Father because I never had a dad. My main male figure growing up was Dori's husband, Jim—a nice enough fellow who generously lent Mom money as a down payment to buy her house and start her shop. But he wasn't my dad.

As for God, my prayers never got answered. For instance, what happened to my stellar career, and where were my husband and SUV teeming with children?

My appetite nonexistent, I forced myself to swallow a mouthful of stew.

Mom twisted in her chair, reached to the side table, and picked up a Keds shoebox held closed by a rubber band. Setting it between us, her face took on a rueful expression, like the day back in middle school when she'd told me my beloved terrier mix, Maxwell, had died and she was waiting until I got home to bury him.

She rolled off the rubber band, lifted the lid, and prodded the shoebox in my direction. Inside lay letters—dozens of them—in stamped envelopes like they'd arrived yesterday. But they emitted a musty smell and brought on a sneeze.

I dabbed my nose with my napkin, then flattened it across my lap. “Must we continue?” There was no law forcing me to peruse Mom's Pandora's box.

“Please, have a look.” She seemed pathetic—how I must have appeared at work today.

At random, like an archaeologist—more like a snoop, one of those for-hire detectives tracking down wayward husbands—I removed one from the middle and took a moment to examine the postmark, thanks to Larry's tip. Two years old, mailed from New Holland, Pennsylvania, no return address on the upper left-hand corner. It was sent to Esther Fisher, in care of Dorothy Mowan—Dori. Odd. And frightening. Because how many other secrets was Mom keeping from me?

The hairs on my arms prickled. “A letter came from my grandmother two years ago and you didn't show it to me?” I was fuming, my heart hammering in my ears. I had every right to be angry.

I unfolded the paper and studied the fluid cursive script.

Dearest Esther
, it started, giving me the confidence to continue. But just to make sure I wasn't stepping into some futuristic sci-fi movie, I scanned to the end to see it was signed:
Your loving Mamm.

I inflated my lungs—guess I'd stopped breathing—and started again. Someone claiming to be Grandma Anna discussed aunts and uncles and cousins I'd never heard of, and Lancaster County trivia, like unseasonably cold weather. She mentioned their milk production—they had dairy cows?—and Cookie, an aging standardbred going lame, making me sad because I'd always loved horses, even though I'd never ridden one other than a docile pony at Woodland Park Zoo.

“I have cousins?”

“Yah. Many.”

In the back of the envelope lay a folded newspaper article clipped from the
Lancaster New Era
, a publication I'd never heard of, mentioning the skyrocketing price of farmland, a problem with break-ins, and several paintball shootings aimed at buggies. Nothing I could relate to.

“People still drive horse and buggies, like the one on our front porch?” I asked, and Mom nodded.

“Please, read them all,” she encouraged.

“Mom, you've hidden these from me for years. The letters can wait!” My fist pounded the table harder than I'd meant, rattling our water glasses. “Why didn't Grandma write directly to you here? None of this rings true. Like one leg of this chair is suddenly three inches shorter.” I was tempted to unleash my frustrations and rip into my mother, who was obviously not the nicey-nicey woman she pretended to be. “Does Grandma Anna even know I exist? Or are you embarrassed of me?”

“No, darling, I'm proud. I've told her all about you. Maybe I exaggerated a little bit.”

“Meaning you told her I'm happily married and have a dozen kids. Don't the Amish have large families? Seems I learned that fact somewhere.”

“Most of them do.” Mom grinned, like she used to when I was a little girl who'd just nabbed an extra snickerdoodle out of the jar and hidden it in my pocket. “I have five younger brothers, but we weren't considered a large family.”

“Five brothers and this is the first I'm hearing of them?” Glaring at her, I tried to recall what little I knew about the Amish, other than what I'd learned scanning the brochures accompanying products we sold in the store. I'd seen a movie once, but was the Hollywood version remotely factual? I envisioned my teenage parents hitchhiking to San Francisco during the hippie era like a couple of vagabonds. “Did you and Dad get kicked out of the Amish community? Shunned—isn't that what they call it? Is that why you couldn't go back?”

“No, we left before getting baptized into the church. My mother would still like me to return and be baptized, even at this late date. My assurance to gain entrance into heaven. But I've learned, since I've lived here, we are saved through God's infinite mercy.”

Her religious speeches annoyed me; I should be lecturing her on honesty. Not that I'd always been up-front with her.

I creased the letter and article and jammed them back into the envelope. “Why are you unloading this soap opera on me, right when I should be concentrating on finding a new job? You want me to have a nervous breakdown?”

Her knowing smile told me she didn't buy into my theatrics. Did she think I could handle anything? I wasn't putting on a dramatic performance. As a matter of fact, I was coming unglued. Unhinged.

“I'm sorry about your job,” she said. “I realize how much it meant to you.” At least she was listening. “But with you out of work, this makes the timing ideal. You and I will visit my mother and brothers. Together. I can't face them alone. Not after all this time.”

“And you think I can?” Random thoughts flicked through my mind. I had to find a way to avoid being sucked into her scheme. “Under their microscope, I wouldn't know how to act or what to say.”

“Just be yourself.”

“I'm sure they won't like me.”

“Of course they will.”

I recalled the fifth commandment: Honor thy father and thy mother. I'd tried to show Mom respect while living under her roof, all the time wishing I could luxuriate in a studio apartment in the heart of bustling Ballard or near Dori and Jim on Phinney Ridge with a grand vista of the Olympic Mountains. But I could no longer afford Seattle's high rent; I was stuck sharing the second floor with my mother like a little kid.

Mom stood and cleared the plates. Neither of us had eaten much. “So, your last day of work is tomorrow?” She set them in the sink.

“Yes. I'll clear out my desk and leave the only job that ever meant anything to me.”

She walked to my side and placed a hand on my shoulder, then sank back onto her chair. “I hope you know how badly I feel about your job. But, as I was saying, this makes the timing perfect. You'll come with me to the farm.” Her eyes were wide and expectant, like I was the one who held the answer to her unsolved crossword puzzle clue. Newsflash: I didn't. I felt like I'd tumbled off a speedboat and was treading water, gulping for air. And sinking.

“When should we leave?” Mom said, apparently not noticing my distress.

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“Yah, I must.”

I eyed the shoebox. She'd always told me honesty was the best policy. Did I even know her? “Why so sudden?”

“It isn't sudden. I've been living with remorse for years.”

Call me codependent, but I couldn't say no to her, seeing her look so despondent, her eyelids drooping.

My arms flopped to my sides. “Okay, I'll go with you,” I said, then wished I could retract my words. “For a short visit only.”

“Did I hear you right?”

“Yes, I might as well give in now. You're going to break me down eventually. You always do. And I can't imagine your traveling by yourself.” How would she react when she arrived to find her former life had disappeared? I owed her support as she'd given me my whole life. She'd attempted to be two parents in one.

I set my napkin on the table. “Let me get online right now and see about buying a couple discounted plane tickets.”

With Mom trailing me, I left the kitchen and moved to the computer behind the counter near the front door. I'd have to charge the tickets on my nearly maxed-out credit card. I knew Mom didn't have spare money, just enough to buy inventory and make her mortgage and utility payments.

“Must we ride on an airplane?” Mom glanced at the crack on the ceiling.

“Yes, I'm not traveling across country by bus or train.” I signed on to cheaptickets.com. “Let's get this over with. Although I can think of a hundred places I'd rather travel, preferably with warm weather and salt water.” I scanned the screen. “Here's a nonstop to Philadelphia. Is the day after tomorrow too early?”

She let out a gasp. “That soon?”

“I'm serious about finding a new job, even if it means working at Starbucks. When I do, I may not have time off for a year.”

“All right, then, buy the tickets.”

“You can set things up with Dori in less than twenty-four hours?”

“Yah, I spoke to her and she agreed.”

“What if at the last minute she says no?”

“Then I'll lock the front door and put up a Closed sign until we get home.”

I punched in my credit card number, then printed out our itinerary and receipt. “It's settled. Let's get this ordeal over with so I can start the rest of my life.”

I plodded upstairs, removed my pinstripe pantsuit and blouse, and eased into sweatpants. I glanced down at my beloved pantsuit, deflated on my bed, and my heart sank. I was determined to wear my downtown outfit again in the near future at an interview—for what, I had no idea. Using a wooden hanger, I folded the slacks and hung up the jacket with care.

The next evening, after a supper of leftovers, I opened my bureau drawers to pull out a pair of jeans, corduroy pants, and navy slacks. I dumped them, a blouse, a sweater, and several T-shirts atop the patchwork quilt Mom made for me as a girl. On a whim, I dropped a bathing suit on the bed. Not practical for mid-October, but for all I knew we'd end up staying at a motel with a heated pool. Then I stuffed four days' worth of clean underwear and socks into plastic ziplock bags. I hadn't mentioned to Mom we were only going for five days, including travel time. Which could be four days too long.

I heard Mom mounting the stairs. A minute later she poked her head in my room and frowned at my bathing suit. “You won't be needing that,” she said.

“Then tell me, what shall I pack? Cowboy boots?” I released a weary sigh. Saying farewell to my coworkers and emptying my desk this afternoon had been an emotional roller-coaster ride. “I haven't taken a vacation for years. Shouldn't we be jetting off to somewhere sunny and lazy like the Baja or even San Diego?” I bet Larry Haarberg would whisk me to a posh resort. But I'd sworn not to go down that road again unless I was on my honeymoon.

Mom smiled at the word
vacation
. “This time of year, most of the crops have been harvested,” she said. “But there's plenty of chores to be done.”

“Like plowing fields and milking cows? We'll be working the whole time?”

“No, for the most part the men take care of that. As a girl I helped my mother clean house and preserve fruits and vegetables to get us through the winter. And I fed the chickens and gathered eggs.” Her words brought a fresh gush of turbulence to my chest. The closest I'd ever been to barnyard animals was the Puyallup Fair and the petting farm at the zoo.

“I still don't have a clue what to bring,” I said.

“Mostly casual clothes. No revealing necklines. And a modest bathrobe. Your Grandma Anna installed an indoor bathroom, but it's on the main floor.”

I let out a gasp. “You grew up using an outhouse? Even in winter?” No wonder she and Dad wanted to escape to California.

“You get used to it.”

“I never would. And the smell? Yikes.”

“Your grandmother still doesn't have central heating or electricity. In her kitchen, she uses a gas stove and a gas-generated refrigerator, and kerosene lamps.”

“No dishwasher or coffeemaker?” I said. “How can she stand it? What about Internet connection and recharging cell phones? I can't go anywhere without my phone and laptop.”

“We'll find you an Internet café in New Holland.”

“Won't you miss your favorite TV shows?”

“No, I mostly watch TV to fill the time.”

“Yeah, right. I bet we'll both be bored stiff. At least you have your knitting.”

“Yes. In fact, I'll knit on the plane to soothe my nerves.”