Still Life in Shadows (18 page)

“You grew up without a freezer, right?”

He smiled then, catching on to her reason for asking. “Actually, we had a freezer. I know that most people think Old Order Amish don’t have any modern appliances because we don’t use electricity, but there are ways around that.”

“Ways around it?”

“Gas-powered refrigerators are quite popular. Some Amish use kerosene ones.”

“So you did grow up with ice?”

“My father allowed us to have ice trays, so we had that.”

“Amos tells me that you and Moriah were raised with an iron rod.”

And a stiff stick
, Gideon thought, but decided to abstain from making that comment.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have this feeling that it must have been an unhappy childhood.”

Her empathy moved him. He wanted to ask her then, right then, under the fluorescent kitchen light if she’d consider going out with him. But he knew that there were times his emotions got the best of him, and this was more than likely one of those times. He thought of Moriah then. His brother knew how to charm the ladies. He wondered where Moriah had acquired that trait—certainly not from their father.

With dinner on the table, Mari went to get Kiki. Kiki’s face was flushed and she walked with a slight limp. Mari asked if her leg was bothering her and the child replied that she was okay now and not to treat her like a baby.

Gideon looked over the meal. He hoped it tasted as good as it looked. When he was first learning to cook, he accidentally forgot to add sugar to a chiffon pie, and another time he’d overbaked a leg of lamb so badly that it blackened his teeth as he ate it. He was glad that both of
those times he hadn’t been cooking for guests.

Mari lowered her head and said, “Let me give the blessing.” Her prayer was simple, thanking God for the meal and for each of them, as well as for God’s faithfulness, forgiveness, and love. She asked for Kiki to regain her health. When she finished, she raised her head and taking her napkin, placed it in her lap.

“Do we pass the food?” Kiki asked eagerly, eyeing the bowls.

Gideon was still thinking about the serenity of Mari’s prayer.
Thank You for Your faithfulness, forgiveness, and love.
When Mari talked to God, it was as though He was seated next to her and would soon be passing around the plate of biscuits, His knife ready to spread butter inside the flaky interior.

Kiki smiled at Gideon and cried, “You can cook here every night!” She helped herself to a large piece of meatloaf, jabbing it with a serving fork. “This looks amazing!”

Mari wanted to know where he learned to cook, and Gideon said, “I got tired of eating from cans all the time.”

Mari smiled. “I guess I am just too lazy to try out new recipes.”

He hardly thought her lazy. She was raising her sister and running a tearoom. Plus he knew she was fighting her own demons—things from her past—just like he was.

Kiki finished her slice of meatloaf and piped out, “Where’s Moriah?”

Gideon did not want to ruin the evening with a conversation on Moriah, so he changed the subject, asking her how she was feeling.

Kiki said she was much better and Mari suggested she go to her room to do her homework.

Kiki started to protest but eyeing Gideon, simply nodded, and easing out of her chair, took her plate to the sink. She ran water from the faucet over it, opened the dishwasher, and added it with a clank into the compartment. Then she pranced out of the room, saying, “Here I go to tackle math! Wish me luck!”

“Looks like she’s feeling much better,” Mari said as the bang of her
sister’s bedroom door resounded over the hallway.

“May I ask a question?” Gideon whispered when she was gone.

“What?” Mari leaned closer to him.

“Was … has … Kiki …” He struggled for the right way to form his thoughts.

Mari offered, “Has Kiki always been like this?”

“What?”

“Isn’t that what you were going to ask?”

“Yes.” He rested his elbows on the table. “Yes, I guess it was.”

“She’s autistic.” Mari lowered her voice as the hum of the fridge subsided. “She’s always been different. As a toddler, she grew frustrated and screamed often. I hated her tantrums and there were times I wished she was normal … or dead.” Mari avoided his eyes as she said, “I know, I’m really not proving to be that angel you once thought I was.”

“I bet it was aggravating for you,” Gideon said with feeling.

Mari let a sigh escape as though this action helped her maintain her serene composure. “She was slow to speak and often repeated the same word over and over. I’d go to sleep hearing her say, ‘Cookie, cookie, cookie,’ as she tried to settle in her bedroom. She never wanted the typical girly toys. I remember this one toy—an action figure—that she played with all the time. On its back, it had a button that caused its arms to move and it would shout, ‘Super power!’ Kiki hit that button again and again. I kept thinking that maybe she thought that if she hit it for the hundredth time, the figure might do something different. Kiki kept pressing the button, and each time the toy responded the same way, thrusting its arms over its head like it was going to fly and crying in that animated voice, ‘Super power, super power.’” Mari’s eyes glazed as she swallowed. “I was selfish. When I turned fifteen and she was two, I just wanted to get away from home and not have to put up with her.”

As she talked, Gideon felt the urge to comfort her with a hug or by holding her hand. Uncertain what to do, he simply placed his own hands on the table and folded them, noting his grease-stained fingertips. At last he said, “I can’t imagine.”

“My mother didn’t know how to handle her, and my father was out of the picture so much …” Mari paused as though deep in thought. Lifting her eyes to meet Gideon’s, she explained, “One day—the day after Kiki turned three—a neighbor alerted Mama that Kiki needed some help. Kiki started going to a speech therapist. Then it was to a behavioral therapist every week. She was given meds to control her anxiety and aggression, as well as a mood stabilizer to keep her focused. Then we had to have these sessions with all of us to learn how to help Kiki cope.”

Gideon nodded, taking it all in. Warmly he said, “She’s lucky to have you.”

Mari shook her head. “I don’t know about that …” Her voice trailed off as she stared into her empty plate. “Sometimes I tell God that she’s more than I can handle.”

“And what is God’s reply?”

“He’ll show me a sky of stars or Mrs. Klass’s rose garden. Mrs. Klass is our neighbor across the street, and her roses have won awards.”

“So God replies by having you see creation?”

“I think He does that to remind me how vast His powers are. Anyway, it reminds me of the passage that speaks of His ways being higher than ours. His thoughts aren’t ours. While I’d like for Him to make life easier, instead, He keeps supplying me with strength.”

Gideon thought of all the verses from the Bible he’d been taught about God’s provision and strength. Wasn’t there one about God’s grace being sufficient? And something about being able to do all things through Christ who strengthens me? His mind felt rusty, like a water pump left idle for years in a forgotten field riddled with weeds.

“You are strong,” he said, and hoped she believed that he meant it.

She gave him a crooked smile. “I’m grateful that God helps me. I was managing Another Cup’s sister store in Atlanta when I realized I needed to get a job closer to where Mama and Kiki lived in Asheville. Just then this position here opened up for me. I thought I’d move here, be on my own, and visit Kiki and Mama on a regular basis.” Her smile was gone now, evaporated like a rain puddle after the summer sun dries
it up. “Instead I got to bring Kiki here to live with me.” After a few moments, she added, “There are times I’m so fed up with my mom. I wish God would get her mind back to a normal state. I blamed her for Kiki’s autism. But in college when I took a class in psychology—you know, to figure out why my family was messed up—I learned that autism is a chemical and biological disorder.” She attempted a smile. “It isn’t caused by a mother who hoards puppets.”

Gideon nodded.

“The day Child Protective Services took Kiki away from Mama was an all-time low for me. Kiki was crying, my mother was wailing. And I …” Pausing, she bit her lip.

“And you?”

“I thought I’d … die.” She let the weight of her words slice the air for a few seconds. Pensively, she added, “But you don’t get to die every time you think you could.”

He reached for her hand, gently at first and then when she laced her fingers between his, he clung tighter. “You’ve been through a lot.” Her hand was warm, soft, like clover on a summer day.

“Haven’t we all?”

He was about to reveal something, just a tiny bit about his father, a question he’d pondered over the years. Did he leave Carlisle solely because of his father’s relentless behavior, or was his leaving due to not wanting to participate anymore in the Amish rituals and isolation? The question that he’d rarely shared with anyone was on the tip of his tongue. He’d just opened his mouth when his cell phone rang and instead, he scrambled to remove it from his pocket.

Extending it to his ear, he heard a static voice say, “This is Sheriff Kingston.”

“Henry! How are you?” Gideon’s voice was cordial, glad to hear from his friend and grateful that it wasn’t another one of his Amish brethren needing help. He didn’t want anything to interfere with continuing his conversation with Mari.

A few lines followed, all congested with the same static so that
Gideon realized he was only getting every third word. “What was that?”

“I have Moriah here.”

“Moriah?”

“That’s right,” said the sheriff. “He’s here at the station.”

C
lutching the cell phone, Gideon strained his ears, dreading to hear the worst. Slowly, he asked, “What’s he done?”

Henry’s voice, usually as cheerful as his rosy complexion, was firm. “He’s been causing a ruckus. Had to bring him in.”

Gideon hated the panic that surged into his veins. “What did he do? Is he all right?”

Henry’s voice only buzzed, incoherent, and then Gideon realized the call had ended.

As he closed his phone, Mari’s expression shifted to worry. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Moriah. I need to go.”

She pressed her hand into his arm, her tender fingers like little embers of heat. “What happened?”

“He’s at the sheriff’s. Don’t tell Kiki.” Kiki would worry and Mari didn’t need Kiki fretting over Moriah. Pushing away from the table, Gideon looked at the kitchen counters by the stove. They were covered with dishes, utensils, and pans that needed attention. “Let me clean up first.”

Mari stood. “No, just go. I can clean.”

“I hate to leave you with this mess.”

“You’re the one with the mess.”

He supposed that she meant Moriah. Pulling on his jacket, he thanked her.

“You made dinner. I want to thank you.” Her eyes showed a mixture of gratitude and concern.

“You’re welcome.” Then he left the house, glad he still had Ormond’s car and the keys to it in his pocket. As he started the Buick, he felt badly that he hadn’t phoned Ormond earlier to say he would be late returning the car. Wanting to show responsibility, especially to his boss, Gideon called him, apologizing for not having phoned sooner. Ormond eased his worry, saying that he had other means of transportation. “I got a ride home with Luke and I’ll drive the Oldsmobile to work tomorrow.” He inquired about Kiki; Gideon said she was much better, and then before Ormond could ask any more questions, Gideon said goodbye.

I
t was then that he felt his heart lurch in his chest. Henry had not given any details as to why he was holding Moriah at the jail. But Gideon knew it couldn’t be good. Although the drive was only three miles, Gideon hit every red light, and at each stop he wondered just what his brother was in trouble for. Causing a ruckus. Gideon visualized what that statement could mean. Moriah was most likely drunk.

Escape.
At a time like this, he’d like to run from whatever it was that would soon face him at the sheriff’s. His mind took him to a cozy cabin high in the Smoky Mountains, far from the reach of cell phones or visitors. He thought of Mari and imagined her seated next to him, overlooking the mountain range as the sun rose over the peaks, lighting the clouds with swirls of orange and gold, the start of a new day with promise—a day free of trouble.

Inside the small sheriff’s office heavily perfumed with mildew and ant spray, Henry and his deputy, Tomlin, were discussing rifles and a recent hunting event they’d been to in a spot beyond Cove’s Peak.

When Henry saw Gideon, his smile dissipated. Rising from his desk, he said, “Sorry to trouble you this evening.” His voice was flat like he was trying to keep his composure. “But you know how it can be when folks get to complainin’. That’s when I come in.”