Secret, The (40 page)
He’d gone for another walk earlier today—pushing away the underbrush with his arms to make his way through a less-traveled path in a wooded area near Mill Creek. This time, he did not flail and lash out but rather offered a simple prayer that Lettie might know, somehow, that he loved her.
Stroking the lamb in his arms, he considered Grace’s eagerness to begin her search. And he could kick himself for relenting.
Where will she look?
He had no idea himself. The rigid stipulations he’d put on the whole thing were his saving grace, because not a soul would be willing or able to leave family and farm chores behind to accompany Grace next month.
Yet what if she does find Lettie?
The possibility nagged at him. Not that he didn’t want his wife to return—with everything in him, he did. But he longed for Lettie to come home on her own, not due to pleading. Nor because of Grace’s attempt. Judah wanted the bride of his youth to decide to come back because she loved them . . . loved
him
.
In his mind’s eye he pictured Lettie walking up their driveway, the worn brown leather suitcase in hand. She might simply slip into the house unnoticed, before any of them began to stir, just as she had gone away in that dreadful darkness while they’d slumbered so soundly.
And wandering down to the kitchen, ready to greet a new day, Judah would see her there, back where she belonged, and the words locked away for much too long would tumble at last from his lips.
T
onight the rain was a mere drizzle as I went out front to sit on the porch swing. Soon, though, it started making down harder, splashing on the railing . . . and at times, onto me. Still, I stayed put in Mamma’s spot, curling up there, pulling my bare feet beneath my long dress. Creating a shelter, of sorts. And, ach, how I needed it!
I couldn’t help thinking of Becky’s short visit here earlier today, when she shared how befuddled she was over their Virginia guest, Heather. The young woman has suddenly become distant and even looked to be crying one afternoon, according to Becky, who wonders if she is heartbroken or maybe ill. Now I knew that must have been the woman I saw crying and running down the road that day. Honestly, as Becky described the way she isolates herself most of the time, I couldn’t help feeling sad for the girl called Heather.
But knowing Becky and her family, surely they’ll draw her out in due time.
I told Becky about my own growing eagerness to go looking for Mamma. I asked her what
she’d
do, but it’s awful hard for a person to know something like that. Becky looked all thunderstruck and said, “Oh, Grace . . . your family needs you here now more than ever.” Of course, it wouldn’t do for both Mamma
and
me to be away—least not till after lambing season, like Dat suggested. I’m glad he’s agreeable, but I heard all too clearly the hesitancy in his words. If only he hadn’t made it near impossible for me. ’Twill be nothing short of a miracle to find someone to accompany me.
Yet find someone I must, for all our sakes—Dat’s especially. Who would’ve thought Mamma’s leaving would get the best of him, putting him flat on his back?
Something must’ve happened while he slept away the days. There are times now when he’ll utter more than five words in a row, as if he regrets being so quiet with Mamma. And so it seems good can rise out of turmoil and disappointment. So many feelings we’ve all experienced since Mamma’s leaving. All’s forgiven on my part, but I know I’ll be offering up a prayer for a forgiving heart yet again tomorrow . . . and the next day. I only hope Mamma doesn’t turn silent on us again, after her one and only phone call.
Mammi Adah’s reaction to the whole thing continues to bewilder me. For sure and for certain, I’m thankful to her for giving me the address of the Ohio inn. But why should I suspect Mamma might have gone there? And why doesn’t Mammi Adah seem surprised by my mother’s need for a secretive journey?
The way Mammi Adah stares at me sometimes—it’s unnerving, to say the least. I can’t help thinking she might know why my mother would wish so hard for something she didn’t have here in Bird-in-Hand. What would compel a forty-year-old wife and mother to rush out into the world like that?
Mammi says it’s human nature to wish for more than we have. The thought convicts me, if only briefly, when I think of Henry’s and my brief betrothal . . . and my failure to go ahead with the wedding. Was I wrong to hope for something more? Truly I don’t think so. These past few days since we’ve parted, my heart is at peace with what I did. If I am to live out my life as a Maidel, then so be it.
On the porch, the wind suddenly gusted, and the rain became a real downpour, forcing me inside, lest I “catch my death,” as Mamma used to warn—back when things were a bit calmer under our roof. Yet even then, there was a charged atmosphere, a buildup to our present storm.
Retreating to my room, I wrapped up in a cozy afghan and enjoyed looking at Becky’s recent drawing of three hummingbirds. I traced the outline of the smallest one and imagined it coming to life, hovering near Mamma’s feeders out back. I’d always wondered why I was so keen on these delicate birds, and now I thought I knew. It was much more than their freedom of flight; it was their persistent search for the sweetness that sustained them.
I found myself reciting a stanza from a poem Mamma had taught me from one of the McGuffey’s Readers.
Quickly, I opened my dresser drawer and reached for the journal presented to me on my birthday. Filled with an unexpected sense of hope, I wrote the beautiful words from “April Day.”
The very earth, the steamy air,
Is all with fragrance rife!
And grace and beauty everywhere
Are flushing into life.
I held my pen and again studied my friend’s lovely drawing. Becky’s ongoing friendship is ever so dear.
Eventually, I dressed for bed and then brushed my hair. Mandy called softly from across the hall, and I hurried to meet her—going and sitting on her bed for a while, before time to outen the lanterns. Together we joined our hearts in earnest prayer for our mother, just as we do each and every night, waiting not so patiently for her return.
C
reating a new series is always a special beginning—the joy of the fresh slate of characters and their circumstances.
The Secret
is not based on any particular true story or life event shared by any of my Amish friends or Plain relatives. It is rather the collective story of countless women who have given up a child at birth to adoption, either willingly or otherwise. Lettie Byler’s heartrending journey, and her daughter Grace’s response to it, is particularly dear to my heart as an adoptive mother.
During the writing of this novel, numerous people offered their assistance and encouragement. Their input is so essential that they really deserve their own paragraph!
My ongoing thanks to my husband, Dave, who loves the brainstorming process as much as I do. And to our daughter Julie, who lives and breathes my first drafts and is, thankfully, not reticent to point out embarrassing mistakes!
I offer heartfelt appreciation to my outstanding editorial team and reviewers—David Horton, Rochelle Glöege, Julie Klassen, Ann Parrish, and Jolene Steffer.
Thanks also to my clever cousin Kendra Verhage, an artist in her own right, for naming the Bylers’ beloved mare, Willow, during Thanksgiving last year—so much fun! And to her sweet mother, my auntie Judy, who offered prayerful support during the final weeks of my writing deadline.
To my astute and ever helpful consultants in Lancaster County—both Plain and English—your prompt responses still astonish me and are a great blessing. Also, many thanks to Barbara Birch, proofreader extraordinaire. And to John Hen-derson, as well as the Mennonite Information Center and the Lancaster Historical Society.
To Carolene Robinson and Sandi Heisler, dear friends and medical consultants, your insight and knowledge are vital to this series. Thank you!
For the faithful prayers and quick feedback to title ideas, I send not-so-cyber hugs to Dave and Janet Buchwalter, Debra Larsen, Donna De For, Bob and Aleta Hirschberg, Iris Jones, Jeanne Pallos, Barbara and Lizzie, and to my own little grand-girls, who say the sweetest prayers. And, last, though he should be first, I give my love to my dear dad. Your prayers are precious!
All honor and praise to our heavenly Father, Creator and ultimate Mender of broken hearts, without whom no story would be possible.
