Leaving Lancaster (5 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

After the topsy-turvy day we'd experienced, I didn't know what to expect when we neared Beth Fleming's house. A ramshackle cabin with a beat-up truck and goats munching on weeds out front? No, that wouldn't be in keeping with what little I knew of Lancaster County traditions. Catalogues arriving at the Amish Shoppe illustrated expansive, well-maintained farms, like those we'd driven by. Impressive.

Mom had mentioned Beth was a Mennonite, a religious-type cousin of the Amish. Apparently, hundreds of years ago, while they were still in northern Europe, the Amish split from the Mennonites because they weren't strict enough—something to do with excommunication. Mom went on to say many Mennonites had adapted their lifestyles to the modern world and their traditional, conservative Christian beliefs were much as hers—and what she hoped were mine, most likely. But doubts about God's goodness and sovereignty still plagued me.

I felt apprehensive as I pulled into Beth's driveway and saw an early twentieth-century gray fieldstone home and a two-car garage, its doors shut. I parked next to a light-blue metallic Dodge Caravan. So far, so good.

“We're here, Mom,” I said. “You nod off?”

She rubbed her eyes and looked around, yawning. “Yah, guess I did.”

I opened my door. A black-and-white border collie, its tail flagging, bounded from around the side of the house and barked.

“Hello, there.” I relaxed for the first time all day as I stroked its luxurious coat. “Mom, why didn't we ever get another dog?”

She climbed out and stretched her arms. “I offered several times, but you always declined.”

I remembered my first and only dog. “Oh, yeah, never mind.”

“You said you couldn't stand another loss, unless I'd guarantee the pup outlasted you. I bet no dog could take the place of Maxwell, anyway.”

“You're probably right. And once I land another job, I won't have time to walk and care for one.” I surveyed the sweeping lawn enclosed by a split-rail fence. “But if I lived out here, with a huge yard—”

The front door opened and a tallish woman about Mom's age strolled out wearing a midcalf-length skirt, a small-patterned flowered blouse, and a cardigan. Her blonde hair was parted on one side and held back with a clip. She descended from the porch. The dog romped over to her and pranced at her feet.

“Good evening, I'm Beth.” She gave Mom a one-armed hug, and helped her haul her suitcase from the rental car's trunk. “I'm so glad to see you, Esther. After all this time. And you must be Holly. Your rooms are ready and waiting.”

“Thanks for taking us in.” I scanned a fenced-in vegetable garden—most already harvested—and a small barn out behind the garage. Turning back to Beth, my gaze settled on the rose bushes growing below the front porch; many had shed their petals, leaving tomato-colored rose hips.

“Beth, are you the gardener?” I hoped to get a conversation rolling on a topic all three of us might enjoy.

“I am, but my roses are past their prime in spite of our warm autumn. The nights grew chilly a couple weeks ago.”

I expected Mom to comment about the weather or the flowers, but her lips were smooshed together, her gaze avoiding Beth.

“Don't feel shy.” Beth spoke to Mom, who looked as bedraggled as I'd ever seen her. “Please, come inside.”

Though tired to the bone, I held my ground. “First, can you show me where Grandma Anna's farm is from here?”

Beth pointed at a dimly lit home about a half mile away. “Down yonder.” Her face broke in to a grin. “Want to go over there right now?”

Mom and I said, “No,” in unison. I chuckled, not sure if my response was out of fatigue or trepidation.

But Beth's words gave me fortitude: If Grandma Anna actually existed, my father may have too. Mom might have told the truth. I'd lived with a deep-seated fear I'd been born out of wedlock, a love child sired by a druggie living in a San Francisco commune.

Growing up, even my best friend Joanne had no clue about my family's true origin. In middle school, I'd fabricated tales about my father, born in Normandy, bragging he was a racecar driver who died in a NASCAR pileup. That scenario got the boys' attention. I never revealed Dad probably hadn't learned to drive a car. Or maybe he had in the army—maybe he was forced to operate a tank or a jeep. How could I find out? Were any of his army buddies still alive? No way to locate them now.

Back in the 1970s, soldiers drafted into Vietnam were given bad media coverage. As far as I could tell, everyone denounced that war and its final outcome. We lost, deserting our allies. My dad died for nothing. Not until the Vietnam Memorial Wall was erected in Washington, DC, did the public begin to change its opinion.

Another thought unfolded its wings: Was Dad's name engraved on the monument's marble surface? I wondered if his parents knew. But I shouldn't let myself contemplate meeting them. According to Mom, they wanted nothing to do with her. In fact, Dad's parents could have died or moved away years ago.

One piece of the puzzle at a time, I told myself.

The dog flounced over to me and licked my fingertips. I scratched it under the chin. “You're a pretty one, aren't you?”

“Her name's Missy,” Beth said. “She's expecting her first litter in a month.”

“What fun.” I noticed Missy's wide girth. I remembered the joy of carrying my eight-week-old Maxwell the first day we brought him home. “I bet they'll be darling.” The only fragrance sweeter than a puppy was the back of a baby's neck.

“We can't wait,” Beth said. “Here, Esther, let me help you with that.” She insisted on lugging Mom's suitcase up the porch steps.

What was my mother's problem? She didn't smile or thank Beth.

I grabbed my carry-on and my suitcase, and followed them into the warmth of the house.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Esther felt like a zombie. Counting backward, she calculated it was four o'clock on the West Coast, but she was wide awake, no falling back to sleep now. In Beth's guestroom, once her daughter's bedroom, Esther had tossed most of the night, her legs tangling in the sheets.

Around midnight, she'd listened to the pattering rain on the rooftop and tried to subdue her racing thoughts, but images of her mother barring her from the farmhouse swirled around the room like a Frisbee ricocheting off the ceiling and walls. Every hour or so, Esther's bleary eyes checked the digital clock, then her thoughts spanned the country to the Amish Shoppe. Could Dori handle sales transactions? What if a customer came in with a return? Esther expected new merchandise, and it would need to be priced and displayed. Next month, November, introduced the Christmas shopping season, Esther's bread and butter.

She climbed off the bed, her feet sinking into the carpet, and dressed in her skirt and a clean blouse.

Taking hold of the banister as she descended the stairs, Esther asked herself if the Amish Shoppe had turned into the center of her universe. No, she loved Holly a zillion times more than any business.

In the living room, she glanced out the front window at fog rising off the lawn, lifting through giant maple trees, half their garnet- and sienna-colored leaves strewn at their roots.

She followed a man's voice into the kitchen and saw a tall and slender fair-haired man sitting at the dining room table chatting with Holly and Beth over coffee. Holly's voice sounded cheerful; Esther hoped her mood had improved.

Esther made sure her blouse was buttoned properly and tucked in. She'd arrived the image of a bag lady last night, in front of Beth of all people. Esther reminded herself she needed to improve her attitude. Had she adequately thanked God and her daughter for escorting her here safely? No. She hadn't even thanked Beth for her kindness. In Seattle, folks seemed friendly on the outside, but rarely invited strangers into their homes—certainly not to spend the night.

Not that she and Beth were really strangers.

Esther entered the dining room, with its oval table, sideboard, and glass-fronted cabinets chock-full of Depression glass and china. A cleanly shaved man in his midthirties stood and put out a hand to shake hers. His hair was styled short, and he wore a collared shirt and khaki slacks.

Driving last night, Esther had explained to Holly that Amishmen held their barn-door style trousers up by suspenders, and married Amishmen wore beards but shaved their upper lips.

“Good to meet you, Mrs. Fisher. I'm Beth's son. Please call me Zach.” He gave Esther's hand a firm shake. “Sorry to dash off so quickly. I should be at the clinic.” He nodded to his mother, who remained sitting, and gave her a wink.

“Thanks, honey,” she said.

“Bye, Zach,” Holly said—a casual farewell. “Nice to meet you.”

“I hope we run into each other again.” He gave Holly a lingering look, making Esther smile. Men coming into the Amish Shoppe often paused to admire Holly's appealing features—her eyes, trim silhouette, and wavy hair. But Holly didn't seem to take note of Zach's attention. Esther bet her daughter was jet-lagged and suffering from the same jitters she was. And Esther definitely didn't want her daughter falling for a man from around here and leaving Seattle to be with him. Especially Beth's son. A catastrophe. She hoped the young man Holly knew from church—was his name Larry?—would hold her fickle attention until she got home. But Esther hadn't noticed her daughter checking her cell phone for text messages.

When Zach was out the door, Holly told Esther, “He's a veterinary doctor. Isn't that cool?” So she had noticed him. Holly had always loved animals—from afar.

“Yes,” Esther said. “Quite an accomplishment.”

“We're very proud of him.” Beth stood halfway to glance out the window to watch Zach roll his pickup out the drive with caution to avoid Missy, who trotted back to the house once Zach neared the road. “Being admitted to and making it through veterinary school was an enormous feat. Now, he has a thriving practice.”

“He'd never want to leave that,” Esther said, thinking aloud.

“I should hope not.” Beth sat and straightened her blouse at the neck. “My two daughters live a ten-minute drive away, so I get plenty of time with my grandchildren. But my Zachary hasn't met the right woman yet, so it seems. He's thirty-seven and was engaged once—”

“Holly's age,” Esther said, and received a scowl from her daughter.

“You two must be hungry,” Beth said, abruptly. “They don't feed folks much on airplanes anymore. Ready for breakfast?”

“Thanks, but it feels too early,” Holly said, and yawned. “I don't even want to contemplate what time it is in Seattle.” She was clad in skinny jeans and a clingy turtleneck sweater. Esther imagined her daughter through her mother's eyes and decided Mamm would not approve. Should Esther suggest Holly change into a less revealing outfit? Maybe lend her a sweater a couple sizes larger? No, a negative comment might spin her daughter right back to the airport.

“We should get moving,” Holly said. She raked a hand through her hair.

“What's your hurry?” Esther wanted to delay the inevitable. She peeked through the doorway into Beth's kitchen and saw modern amenities, including a Cuisinart food processor, a refrigerator with an icemaker, and a glass-top stove you'd never find in Mamm's kitchen. The cupboard doors were painted buttermilk yellow, and a pink and lime-green flowered apron hung from a hook by the wall phone.

“I haven't had coffee yet,” Esther said. “It surely does smell good.”

“I'll get some.” Beth stepped into the kitchen and returned with a brushed aluminum coffee urn and an empty mug.

“I hear Grandma Anna's house doesn't have electricity,” Holly said to Beth. “Would you mind if I left my laptop here to charge the battery? I forgot to plug it in last night.”

“That would be fine, dear. An excuse to come back.” Her hand reached across the table and patted Holly's. “You're welcome anytime.”

“Thank you, Beth. You're the best. I don't know what we would have done without your hospitality last night.”

“I enjoyed your company. When my husband Roger's out of town I get lonely.”

“Do you think there's room for both of us at Grandma's?” Holly set her elbows on the table, cupping her chin like her neck wasn't strong enough to hold up her head—exactly how Esther felt.

“Anna's house is of good size. The far end, the
Daadi Haus
—where your grandparents once lived, Esther—is vacant. Anna sleeps on the second floor now, with the children. Your Uncle Isaac and his wife, Greta, use the
Kammer
on the first floor, the bedroom behind the parlor. Four of Esther's brothers own homes of their own, but the men are out of town looking to buy land in Montana.”

“Are you sure?” Esther's back arched. “They're moving? Mamm never mentioned it in her letters. You must be mistaken.”

Beth's shrugged. “I dropped them off at the railway station five days ago.”

“Sounds like you know them well,” Holly said.

“We've spent plenty of time together, that's for sure. When I was a young woman, Anna taught me how to garden, to can and preserve, and how to quilt, among one hundred other skills. In return, I helped look after the boys. When I got my driver's license, I became the family's chauffeur and go-for, the least I could do.”

“Like a second daughter?” Holly said, making Esther gulp her coffee too quickly, then cough.

“I feel like one of the family,” Beth said. “Soon after my parents moved here, when I was fourteen, my mother died, leaving my busy dad to raise me. Anna was a godsend.”

Esther knew she had no right, but an ocean of jealousy roiled in her chest, churning like a river at the bottom of a waterfall. Of course her mother would adopt an orphaned girl after her own daughter had willfully deserted her. In her sorrow, Mamm would have been grateful for Beth and grown to love her as her own.

Esther's vision took in the room and she wondered if Mamm's hands had woven the runner on the sideboard. What was she doing here? Why had she agreed to come to Beth's, of all places?

Holly poured herself more coffee and added a slurp of milk. “Beth, is there anything we should know before going to my grandmother's?”

“Not that I can think of. The house should be relatively quiet. One of your uncles, Isaac, your mother's youngest brother, stayed behind. He and his wife and kids live there.”

“If you think about it, they live together in a commune.” Holly smirked and glanced at Esther. “Like you and Dad did.”

Esther crossed her legs, smacking her knee on the table. “It's nothing like that, I assure you. Please excuse my daughter's sense of humor.”

“You did live in a commune,” Holly said. “It's not a secret, is it? I assume everyone who knows Grandma Anna has heard about your outlandish past.”

“A little.” Beth filled her coffee cup to the rim. “How about I scramble some eggs and make whole wheat toast. Sound okay?”

Esther unfolded her napkin. “Yah,
denki
.”

“Denki?” Holly said, and sniggered. “Where did that come from?”

“I meant, yes, thank you.” Esther's first language, Pennsylvania Dutch—she'd tried to erase it from her mind, but still spoke phrases in her dreams—was creeping back. “Need any help, Beth?”

“No, thank you, sit and relax,” she said, leaving her coffee on the table.

Hearing an engine gaining momentum on the road, Esther saw Zach's pickup motoring past. Ach, had he stopped at Mamm's to announce her and Holly's arrival? How had he described them? How did Mamm respond?

After she and Holly finished breakfast, Holly stood and headed for a shower. “I can't believe I ate so much.” She patted her stomach.

“A couple extra pounds wouldn't hurt you one bit,” Beth said.

“You think so?” Holly seemed pleased with Beth's assessment.

Since when did Holly take unsolicited advice from strangers? Esther didn't dare open her mouth on the subject. Instead, when Holly left the room she offered to help
redd
up Beth's kitchen—another expression from Esther's childhood.

“No need, you run along. Anna will be overjoyed. It's been a difficult year for her. Seeing you and Holly will cheer her day.”

The morning was coursing along too quickly, as if Esther had run a marathon and needed to catch her breath. Her joints—especially her newly bruised knee—felt stiff. “I wish there were something we could do to help.” And delay their departure. “Shall we remake the beds?”

“No, leave everything as is.”

Because Mamm might change her mind and send them away once she saw Esther and Holly dressed Englisch? Esther wondered what she'd think when she learned their visit was temporary. As a girl, Esther's parents' bishop had instructed the congregation to forgive seventy times seven. But by now, Esther's mother might have run out of forgiveness.

A chill ran through her like an arctic blast; Esther wrapped her fingers around her coffee cup.

Fifteen minutes later, Holly descended the stairs from the second floor and wheeled her suitcase to the front door. “Mom, are you packed?”

“Not yet.”

“Aren't you the woman who insisted I drop everything and fly all this way? Don't expect me to visit Grandma Anna without you.”

“Yah, okay, I'm comin'.” Esther climbed the stairs, each leg as heavy as if she were wearing waterlogged fishing waders. She folded her belongings into the suitcase and zipped it shut, catching the edge of her cotton nightgown.

Feeling light-headed, she perched on the bed and tried to picture her mother's countenance when she and Holly knocked on her door. Mamm and Dat had never been what Northwest folks classified as easygoing. “Go with the flow,” Holly had remarked last week when Esther fussed about receiving an incorrect order from a furniture factory in Illinois, a magazine rack stained mahogany instead of oak.

Growing up, Esther's parents had insisted she and her brothers obey stringent rules because God expected humility and obedience. Had Esther fled to escape their iron hand? After all these years, she still wasn't clear, only that her life had felt like a prison. How could she explain her actions to her mamm when she didn't understand them herself?

In her mind's ear, Esther heard Bob Dylan's “Blowin' in the Wind,” a tune she and Samuel performed on San Francisco street corners to earn change. At first, Samuel played his harmonica, the only musical instrument the bishop allowed back home. Samuel's tenor voice outshone Dylan's by far.

Esther dragged herself off the bed and carted her suitcase downstairs. Finally out in the nippy morning air and sitting in the passenger seat, she could scarcely inhale. Had she buttoned her blouse too tightly at the neck? She loosened it, but found no relief.

Holly coasted the car down Beth's lane and turned onto North Hollander Road, driving past harvested corn and a bountiful field of emerald-green alfalfa.

Moments later, Esther spotted the farmhouse. “There it is, on the right.” Her voice sounded scritchy, like she was coming down with laryngitis.

The car felt oppressive, the heater cranked too high. The closer they neared her childhood home, the faster Esther's heart galloped, until it seemed to curl in on itself and lurch to her esophagus, cutting off her breath. She thought she might faint.

Holly craned her neck for a better view of the white austere clapboard home, standing in front of the gable-roofed cow barn, the larger main barn, the outbuildings, silos, and windmill. She pulled onto the graveled patch near the mailbox. Esther decided not to tell her most visitors used the back door exclusively. No use making Holly uncomfortable; she'd learn the routine quickly enough.