Leaving Lancaster (6 page)

Esther scanned the hundred-year-old home where she'd literally been born and raised. The two-story structure looked the same. Green shades covered the windows of the smaller Daadi Haus off to the left, connected to the main house at a corner to provide light to all rooms. But she noticed subtle differences: a new white picket fence and a curved arch now graced the entrance leading to the front porch.

Esther lowered her window partway, allowing air to surround her, filling her nostrils with the heady aromas of sod and drying cornstalks. But she didn't open her door; her hands wouldn't move.

“Mother, what's wrong?” Holly bopped out, rounded the hood, and strode to Esther's door, just as Mamm bustled onto the porch, wearing a navy dress and black apron.

Esther hesitated, knowing she must appear to be one of those fancy folks Mamm used to complain about with distrust. And Holly? Would Mamm see her as an
alt maedel
—an unmarried spinster trapped into caring for her aging mother?

“
Willkumm!
It's
gut
to see you!” Mamm hastened down the steps. The strings of her prayer cap were tied under her double chin, a sign the old ways hadn't changed.

Esther tried to smile through the window, but her upper lip stuck to her teeth. Using all her concentration, she opened the car door, swiveled her knees, and stood, barely able to maintain her balance. Mamm swooped closer, her arms reaching to embrace Esther, who leaned back against the car and waited for a verbal assault, since she hadn't written or left a message on the phone shanty before arriving.

“I've been expectin' yous,” Mamm said. She'd aged considerably and added inches to her middle. Esther could see her thinning hair, blanched the color of dust, through her heart-shaped prayer cap. Fine lines mapped her face and a veneer of tears moistened her once bottle-green eyes, now faded like driftwood.

Mamm patted her breast. “Zach drove over to tell me you were in town so I wouldn't faint when I saw ya.”

Esther stared at her mother's animated face. Hadn't Esther intended to recite a significant phrase to reverse the decades? She finally mustered up, “I'm sorry to hear you've been ill,” rather than hugging Mamm as she longed to do—or fall to her knees and beg for forgiveness. She didn't deserve her mother's love. “I regret it's taken so long,” she said. A shallow remark, and not true. Half of her didn't want to be here, even now.

“This is gut,” Mamm said. “A gift from God. Ain't so?”

Esther nodded. She wondered if God had orchestrated her homecoming or if Mamm was trying to make her feel guilty. She couldn't feel smaller than she did already, the size of a mouse. Would that she could scurry away.

“Truly, 'tis of God.” Mamm grinned, showing crooked teeth, then turned her attention to Holly. What must Holly think of her grandmother's sing-songy accent? Her grandma must sound like a country bumpkin.

“I want to hear all about my precious
Grossdochder
.” Mamm's plump arms encircled Holly, who stood the same height, but half her girth. Esther was surprised Holly hugged her grandmother back. She hadn't received an authentic embrace from Holly for ages—just pecks on the cheek.

A gamut of emotions—feelings of isolation, nostalgia, shame—inundated Esther's mind, quickening her breath. She'd deprived Holly of her grandma, yet all these years she'd been certain she was making the right choice.

Mamm stepped back, her gaze glued to Holly. “Let's have a look at ya. You're a fine young woman, as pretty as any in the county.”

Who looks like her father, Esther thought. The morning light sloping through the branches of the oak trees on the other side of the road highlighted Holly's hair, much the hue of the sorrel mare grazing amongst the neighbor's herd of Holsteins—Samuel's rusty-brown hair. He'd be older now too: Esther's age. Would a day ever pass by when she didn't long for him?

“I hope we're not intruding,” Holly said.

“Nee!—no! Silly me,” Mamm said, her hands steepled. “I should have invited you in immediately.
Kumm rei
—come in. Esther needs no invitation. This will always be her home. Her old room's
redd
up with two beds in it these days.”

The three women climbed the porch stairs. Esther expected to hear the second step creak as she had as a child, but the boards must have been replaced and repainted. New planters housing pink chrysanthemums stood on either side of the front door.

They passed through the entryway, lined with bookshelves, the floor covered with threadbare throw rugs that must be fifty years old; Esther recognized several. Mamm had always been frugal, but maybe she was living in poverty, barely scraping by. To the left stood the closed door leading to the Daadi Haus; to the right lay the sitting room, illuminated by a gas lamp.

Esther's attention turned to Holly, who scanned the house's drab interior; she wondered what her daughter saw. The surroundings were the opposite of the Amish Shoppe, its every inch decorated and prettified, and the electric lighting intense.

“We apologize for not contacting you first,” Holly said.

“No apology needed. I've waited so long.” Mamm's voice quivered with excitement. She fixed her gaze on Esther, until Esther looked away. “What can I give yous ta eat?” Mamm asked. “
Kaffi
or hot chocolate? Whoopie pie? Essie, remember how much you loved my whoopie pie?”

“No one made it better.” Esther inhaled the familiar aromas of warm chocolate, rising bread, and baking squash. “Maybe later, thank you, we just had breakfast.”

Followed by Holly, she wandered through the sitting room into the kitchen—the hub of the house. The same long table, with six chairs and a bench crowded around it, dominated the room. She noticed a gas-run refrigerator and oven where the icebox and sturdy iron wood-burning range once resided.

“Where's Isaac?” Esther peered out the window above the sink and saw the chicken coop, mended in several places, and the barnyard she'd once crossed daily to collect eggs.

“He's looking after old Cookie.” Mamm brought a stack of plates to the table. “It wonders me that mare has lasted this long.”

“I want to see her,” Holly said. “I've never been in a barn.”

“Well, then, I'll ask Isaac to give you a tour after breakfast. He'll be in soon. He'll be pleased to see ya both.” Mamm was speaking of Esther's youngest brother, only five years old when she'd left home. Esther had once helped prepare his meals, laundered his clothes, and baked him cookies. She'd left Isaac without a farewell hug and never written, not once. And she'd disgraced the family by not getting baptized into the Amish church. Why would he be glad to see her? If anything, he'd resent her return.

Mamm arranged the plates—nine of them. “Did Beth tell ya your other brothers have gone to inspect property in Montana? Clear across the country.”

“Yes, she did.” Hearing Beth's name, Esther's stomach knotted. She imagined Beth bringing her children and grandchildren here to help Mamm make pies and cookies. Having a grand old time in this very room.

Mamm turned to Holly. “Other Amish communities have moved to Montana, but I can think of half a dozen locations I'd prefer, if we must leave. Like New York State, Indiana, or Ohio. I'll miss this house.”

“Then why leave?” Holly unzipped her jacket. “I don't understand.”

“As the population grows, the county's shrinkin', meaning we're running short on land. One of your uncles, my oldest son, Adam, lives southwest of here in Gordonville. A development company made a substantial offer on his farm, and then recently a neighbor asked to buy our place, offering us enough money to purchase acreage ten times the size of ours, in Montana. Enough property for all my children and grandchildren.”

The kitchen door leading to the utility room burst open and three kids bustled inside. The oldest couldn't have been more than four; the youngest was perhaps two years old. The barefoot girl wore the same clothes Esther had as a child, a below-the-knee apron over a dress. Straw hats covered the boys' heads and suspenders held up their trousers. They were giggling and jabbering in Deitsch. The scene was both comforting and off-putting, as if Esther's feet were sliding into her favorite bedroom slippers and finding a pebble at the bottom.

As if she were awakening from amnesia, childhood memories mushroomed, coming to life in 3-D. When Esther was young she assumed she'd remain in Lancaster County forever, but she'd suffocated under the weight of Mamm and Dat's expectations. Like a slingshot, she'd catapulted herself to the other side of the country and didn't belong here anymore.

CHAPTER NINE

“They don't speak English yet,” Grandma Anna told me, describing the three preschool children trouping around me, chattering in Pennsylvania Dutch. “These are Isaac and Greta's
Kinner:
Joe, Luke, and Sarah.” In their Amish outfits the two boys were hard to tell apart. No Mariner T-shirts or baseball caps here.

I caught snippets of what they said and was delighted they called me
Aendi
Holly.

Grandma Anna corrected them. “They think you're their aunt, but I told them you're my granddaughter. So you're their cousin.”

“I probably look the age of their parents.” I didn't care if they thought I was as ancient as Mount Rainier. The kids treated me like a celebrity. I wore jeans, blue flats, and a matching belt. And makeup—had I applied too much mascara this morning? I felt over my head and out of place, and also thrilled to be in the spotlight.

Grandma Anna removed the boys' straw hats and hung them on pegs at the back door. She turned to Mom, who stood watching us from afar. “This is Esther Fisher,
mei
Dochder
from Seattle. Esther is Holly's
Mudder.
”

The kids seemed to understand, because they smiled.

“Hello, children.” Mom's eyes—I knew her every look—told me she was glad I was fitting in, but her shoulders and feet angled toward the front door like she couldn't wait to scram.

I had to ask myself again: Was Mom's memory failing? Unlikely. She ran the Amish Shoppe, rarely missing a beat when it came to checking in orders and recalling customers' names. What was her problem?

I heard footsteps on the staircase leading to the second floor. A moment later, a woman wearing an eggplant-colored dress and black apron entered the kitchen cradling a baby. Grandma Anna introduced us to Mom's sister-in-law—Uncle Isaac's wife—Greta, her prayer cap veiling sandy-brown hair, her strings hanging loosely.

“Good ta meetcha,” Greta said. “This here's three-month-old Lydia.” Greta stroked the baby's rosy cheek. “Our older two Kinner are in school. Have ya met my husband, Isaac?”

“Not yet.” I figured Greta was my age. While admiring her baby girl, I noticed Greta's gaze analyzing me from head to foot. I reminded myself: My mother was the prodigal daughter, come back from sampling the wicked world and returning with nothing except me, a fancy Englischer, which is what Mom told me Grandma Anna labeled anyone who was non-Amish.

“My sisters-in-law went to town to do the shoppin' and will swing by in a couple hours,” Greta said, rocking Lydia. “If they'd known you were comin' I'm sure they'd be here to greet ya.”

Grandma chuckled. “Ach, even I didn't know they were comin'.”

“I look forward to meeting them,” I said. “How will I keep everybody in the family straight?”

“We share the same last name as your grandmother Gingerich, since the women married her sons,” she said with a smile.

“You're right.” I tried to memorize Greta's round face and her fair complexion, and repeated her name in my head, a trick I used with our customers.

“I hear you, your husband, and kids live here,” I said.

“For now, anyways. Until we move west.”

“Then there can't be room for Mom and me.” I was thankful I'd left the suitcases in the car. But I wasn't sure what we'd do now.

“Sure there is.” Grandma Anna laid her speckled hand on my forearm. Her nails were clipped short and her fingers beautifully gnarled. “There's plenty of space. You'll sleep upstairs.”

“I couldn't take someone's bedroom,” my mother said, finally sounding halfway like herself. But she was wringing her hands.

“Mom, I'd like to stay.” I moved to her side and whispered, “We can't afford a motel room.”

“You should have come last night.” Grandma Anna opened a drawer and selected flatware. “Why did you go to Beth's?”

“Holly and I didn't want to wake you.” Mom stared at the linoleum floor.

“That makes no speck of sense,” Grandma said.

“Don't blame Mom,” I said. “It was my idea not to show up on your doorstep without warning last night. I'll have to thank Zach for stopping over to announce our arrival this morning.”

No, I wouldn't. Although he was good-looking and friendly, I thought he'd acted like a busybody—a mama's boy.

“Zachary Fleming's the best vet in the county,” Greta said. “And his mother is like one of us.”

I imagined those words piercing Mom's eardrums and my chest felt heavy, like when I had pneumonia as a kid. But my mother had brought this situation upon herself by rejecting her parents. I wasn't sure she deserved my pity.

“I'm glad you have neighbors to count on,” I said. “Beth's extremely nice. She took us right in without question.” I envisioned her transporting the Gingerich family in her minivan, saving them the trouble of hitching up horses, which is what my uncles' wives must have done today. After playing in the buggy at the Amish Shoppe as a child, I had a hankering to ride in one, to hear real horseshoes clopping.

The kitchen door rattled open and a man wearing an untrimmed beard—minus the moustache—a wide-brimmed straw hat, black suspenders over a blue shirt, and black trousers sauntered in, bringing with him a gust of glacial air.

“Holly, here's your Uncle Isaac,” Grandma Anna said. “Did I tell ya he's a preacher?”

He didn't look like any minister I'd ever seen. “You must be proud of him.”

Her features stiffened. Had I said the wrong thing?

Isaac cut me and Mom a cursory glance. The two little boys ran over to him and hugged his legs. He tousled the tops of their heads, then removed his hat, exposing flattened brown hair trimmed in a bowl-like fashion.

“Isaac,” my grandmother said, “did ya see your sister's come home?”

He hung his hat on a peg, stepped out of his work boots and into slippers, then scrubbed his hands at the small sink by the back door. Drying them thoroughly, he spoke over his shoulder. “Hullo, Esther.”

I sensed a mixed message; his voice was polite but aloof. Maybe he begrudged Mom's arrival. I might feel the same way. My mother had no doubt caused Grandma Anna years of anguish.

“Nice to see you, Isaac.” Mom stared at his feet.

Seeming to ignore Mom—the boys were speaking Pennsylvania Dutch again—Isaac turned to me. “You must be Holly.” His stern features—bushy brows over green eyes—softened somewhat. “I'm Esther's youngest
Bruder
.”

He frowned as he scanned my straight-legged jeans and my sweater. Was he always grumpy? I told myself he'd been up milking cows since dawn and deserved respect.

He moved to the chair at the head of the table and stood with his hands on the seatback. “Ya comin' home to stay, Esther?”

Mom's face blanched as white as Grandma's prayer cap. “No, just a visit.”

“And it's a gut thing she's here,” Grandma said. “Ain't so?”

“If it makes ya happy, Mamm.” His stare bore into Mom. “What took you so long, Esther?”

“Hush,” Grandma Anna said to him.
“Sei net so rilpsich
.”

“What did you say?” I asked her. “I can't understand.”

“I told him not to be rude.” Her mouth produced a thin-lipped smile. “This should be a time of celebration, not arguing.”

Lydia started fussing. Greta laid the baby over her shoulder and patted her back.

“Please, have a seat,” Mom told Greta. “Holly and I will help Mamm set the table. I like keeping my hands busy.”

“
Ich bedank mich
—thank you.” Greta settled onto the bench and Isaac seated himself at the head of the table. My cutie-pie cousin, Sarah, and her brothers, Joe and Luke, sat next to their mother.

I hoped for an opportunity to hold Lydia later. Growing up, I'd weeded and mowed neighbors' lawns to earn money, but never babysat. I was awkward around babies; Greta would have to show me what to do.

Mom and I helped Grandma Anna lay out a plentiful noon meal: meat pie, steamed vegetables, noodles, homemade bread, and jams and jellies much like the preserves we sold at the Amish Shoppe. Mom imported her stock from several states, but never from this area. Now I wondered why.

The kitchen door opened and another bearded man, taller than my uncle, stepped inside.

“This is our neighbor, Nathaniel King,” Grandma said. “He lives next door, the opposite way from Beth. Esther might recognize him from when yous were kids.”

Nathaniel removed his straw hat, revealing espresso-brown hair cut in the same bowl-over-the-head fashion as Isaac's. No wedding ring. But then Isaac didn't wear one either.

“After he milks his herd, he spends half days working here while my other sons are gone,” Grandma Anna said. “We're most thankful.”

I took in Nathaniel's face—tanned from fifty-some years working under the sun. Warmth filled my chest, flushing up my neck to my cheeks. Was I actually blushing upon meeting this bearded local yokel? Larry Haarberg would laugh his head off.

Nathaniel seated himself at Isaac's elbow, next to Grandma Anna.

“Will your wife be joining us?” I asked Nathaniel.

“He's a widower,” Grandma Anna said. “With two grown daughters, both married.”

“Two children, how wonderful,” I said, and Nathaniel nodded. Another Oscar the Grouch! He seemed to be snubbing me, but glanced over to Mom with what appeared to be recognition.

“And you?” Isaac asked me. “A husband? Children?”

“No, never married, no kids. Perpetually single.”

“Holly,” my mother said. “We'll have plenty of time to talk this through in private. These men and children are hungry, and we need to pray first.”

“He's the one who asked.” I figured she was embarrassed about my marital status. So was I, but I'd taught myself to hide my discomfort behind an I-couldn't-care-less facade.

Isaac cleared his throat—a guttural sound—and all at the table bowed their heads for a minute, followed by “Amen” when he cleared his throat again—a silent grace. Mom apparently knew the routine but never prayed this way at home.

Grandma's face filled with elation as she passed me a serving spoon. “Eat yourself full,” she told me. “You look on the thin side, Holly.”

Ordinarily I balked when people implied I was skinny, because I'd been a scrawny kid. But not today. I had a real live grandma!