SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (2 page)

I took a deep breath. “Do you think your mom’s friends influenced her to leave?”

Chelsea shook her head. “All I know is that Mom seemed desperate to make some sort of pledge or oath, but she couldn’t get Dad interested. From what I overheard, he thought the whole thing was ridiculous.”

“An oath? What for?”

“I don’t know exactly,” she replied. “Mom wanted to keep attending the meetings. She pleaded with Dad, trying to persuade him, but he wouldn’t go back.”

“Did your mom ever go again?” I asked, wondering what on earth had really happened with Chelsea’s mother.

“Three or four more times, I think. In fact, Mom was hardly home all last week. Oh, and something else …”

I cringed. There was more?

“She suddenly started cooking up these vegetarian meals for us—wouldn’t allow red meat or pork in the house. And she refused to drink water or anything else with her meal. Crazy stuff like that with no word of explanation.”

This was beginning to sound truly strange.

“But the weirdest thing about it—Mom seemed super relaxed. Content, I guess you’d say,” Chelsea added. “And she’d been horribly miserable before and depressed about losing her position at the hospital.”

I’d heard about the cutback. “Too bad her job was phased out. Your mom loved her work.”

“The hospital only needs so many administrative nurses, and she had worked there the fewest years.” Chelsea puffed out her cheeks, then forced the air out. “Then these people, this couple, seemed to appear out of nowhere.”

“What do you think they wanted—I mean, isn’t it a little bizarre?”

Chelsea gathered up her books and we headed for the hallway. “I wish I knew.”

My heart went out to my friend. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you,” I volunteered, keeping pace with her.

“Thanks.” She gave me a pained smile. “And, uh, Merry, if you don’t mind, could you keep it quiet—you know, all the stuff I told you?”

“Count on me,” I reassured her.

We walked down the hushed hallway to the long row of lockers. It was late. We’d missed the school bus, yet Chelsea took her time opening her combination lock, and I found myself deep in thought as I did the same.
How would I feel if
my
mom vanished into thin air?

We dropped off our books and sorted out only what we needed for homework. I cast a rueful glance at my friend several lockers away. Chelsea had just confided a deep secret, not knowing I’d been praying for her all through junior high and now as a sophomore in high school. Sometimes she put up with my talk about God—the God she said didn’t exist. Most of the time, she wasn’t interested.

But what Chelsea said next really rattled me. Shook me straight to my heart.

“I’m … I’m scared, Mer,” she cried, standing in front of her locker. “I’m afraid I’ll never see my mom again!”

I ran to her and let her bury her face in the shoulder of my jacket. “Oh, Chelsea, you will. You will.” I hoped it was true.

She clung to me, her body heaving with sobs. “I have to find her … I want her back,” her muffled voice said into my shoulder.

I could almost feel the autumn chill, the cold, damp rawness, seeping through the cracks in the windowpanes as Chelsea cried.

Silently, I prayed.

After Chelsea dried her eyes, I gave Mom a quick call from my cell phone.

Mom answered on the first ring. “Where
are
you, Merry?”

“Still at school, but don’t worry. Something came up. Could you come get me? Chelsea too?”

“I’ll leave right now,” she said without probing.

It would take Mom about fifteen minutes to arrive. We lived in a remote Amish farm community on the outskirts of Lancaster County. We weren’t Plain folk or farmers, but most of our neighbors were. SummerHill Lane was actually a long dirt road that wound its way past fertile fields and pastureland owned by Old Order Amish. I must admit, it wasn’t easy leaving the picturesque setting behind every morning, even to come to school.

Chelsea and I decided to wait inside the school’s double doors, peering out through the window every now and then. To pass the time, we read our boring English assignments out loud. It was Chelsea’s idea. “This way, we can knock down some homework before we get home,” she said.

Soon, my mom pulled up to the curb, and we hurried out to meet her. Chelsea sat in the backseat, I in front.

“Something came up and we missed the bus,” I offered as an explanation.

“Nothing academic, I hope.” Mom’s eyebrows flew up.

“Oh no, nothing like that.” I was quick to set her scholastic worries at ease.

Off we sped toward the highway. Chelsea blew her nose. I hoped she wasn’t crying again, but I didn’t turn around to investigate.

“Everything okay?” Mom asked, glancing in her rearview mirror. She was like that—picked right up on things.

I’d promised to keep Chelsea’s secret, so I ignored Mom’s question. “What a hectic day. And the homework! I think the teachers have totally spaced out what it’s like being sixteen. You’d think they’d try to ease their youngest students into the halls of higher learning. Instead, I think they have a contest going to see who can pile on the most assignments.” I groaned for emphasis.

Mom smiled dutifully. “Speaking of higher learning, your brother called today. He sounded homesick, says dorm life is dismal.”

I tried not to snicker.
Silly Skip. Probably misses good home cooking and his own bed
. He’d made such a pompous fuss about going off to college—managed to get top grades his senior year—and couldn’t wait to show the world what a cool college man he was. Now he was coming home for the weekend—homesick! It was hard to believe my haughty big brother had actually admitted his weakness to Mom.

I flashed a superior grin. “Is this the same smart aleck we sent off to college at the end of August?”

“Now, Merry, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mom defended. “Skip simply wants to come home for the weekend. I think it’s wonderful.”

She would think that
. Six weeks into the first semester, and he already needed a steak-and-potato fix. Truly disappointing to say the least. I just hoped Skip wouldn’t make a habit of returning often. I’d waited a long time to have the run of the house—and all the parental attention.

Suddenly, my thoughts turned back to Chelsea. Here I was fretting over having to share my parents’ affections, and her mom wasn’t even around anymore. Overwhelming feelings weighed on me—worry and concern for my friend. What would Chelsea do?

Mom turned into the driveway in front of Chelsea’s house, an old, two-story Colonial similar to ours.

“Call me,” I said as Chelsea slid out and closed the car door.

“I will, and thanks for the ride, Mrs. Hanson. ’Bye, Merry,” she called.

A lump rose in my throat as I watched my friend lean into the wind, heading up the brick walkway toward the house.
Please help her, Lord
, I prayed.

I pulled my jacket tightly against me and longed to curl up in front of a crackling fire somewhere, but not because I was cold. I was terrified.

Slowly, Mom backed out of the driveway and headed down the hill. I stared out the window at high, wispy clouds moving rapidly across a hazy October sky. Indian summer days were fast spinning into deep autumn. Flaming leaves of orange, red, and shimmering gold danced on thick, wide branches on either side of SummerHill Lane.

How could a mother abandon her family and her home at such an incredible time? How, at any time? I thought of Mrs. Davis tending her beloved flower beds, now ready to be spaded under for the winter. And her tinkling wind chimes, dozens of them, lovingly crafted by her own hands. How could she leave so much behind?

Most of all, how could she leave her husband, a charming man of forty-two with no sign of balding and apparently no hint of a midlife crisis? And Chelsea, too, their only child?

A horse and buggy caught my attention as it
clip-clopped
and swayed up the hill toward us. I waved, recognizing our Amish friends in the front of the gray box-shaped buggy typical of the Lancaster County Old Order. “Look, it’s Rachel Zook and her mother,” I said, noting their matching woolen shawls and black bonnets.

Mom let the buggy pass before making the left-hand turn into our gravel driveway. “Must be headed for a quilting frolic,” she observed. “Their potatoes are harvested by now, and most of the corn is cut and shocked, so it’s time for visiting and quilting. Amishwomen live for such things, you know.”

I sighed. “I wonder how Rachel likes going to frolics with her mother instead of school.”

“She’s following in her ancestors’ footsteps, and she’s already had a year to adjust,” Mom said. “How would
you
feel about quitting school after only eight grades?”

“I’d miss it. Especially my friends,” I said, thinking of Lissa, Chelsea…and Jonathan Klein.

“I suppose Rachel will be baptized into the Amish church next fall,” Mom said.

“That’s what she says. There’s no reason for her to put it off. Rachel wants to get married and have lots of babies.” I didn’t tell Mom that one of the Yoder boys down the lane had taken Rachel to a Sunday singing recently. Not even her own parents were aware of it. Serious Amish courting took place under the covering of night—the way Rachel’s people had been courting for three hundred years.

Mom glanced at me. “Have you heard from Levi lately?”

“Not for several weeks.” Levi Zook, Rachel’s older brother, had gone off to a Mennonite college in Virginia, turning his back on his Amish upbringing. Levi and I and all the Zook children had grown up together. Our properties shared the same boundary—a thick grove of willow trees. Levi and I had promised to write to each other this school year.

My parents hadn’t been especially thrilled about the idea of Levi and me becoming close friends. I should say
Mom
wasn’t too keen on it. Dad, however, was more easygoing. He’d even made attempts to get better acquainted with Levi on several occasions.

“Life is much different now for Levi, I would guess. He’s probably busy with his studies,” Mom said, attempting to make me feel better.

Truth was, Levi hadn’t thought it fair to tie me down with a long-distance relationship while he was off at Bible school. He was free to meet other girls. I, however, had my heart set on Jon Klein, a guy in my youth group at church—also a sophomore at James Buchanan High.

Jon was a wordplay freak. I liked to refer to him as the Alliteration Wizard. Unfortunately for him, I was gaining ground—soon to topple his status. The two of us had become so consistently clever at conversing using only similar beginning consonant sounds that I’d begun to talk alliteration-eze almost automatically. Especially at home.

Today, though, a cloud of gloom hung over me. Chelsea’s mom was in trouble, and my friend had asked me not to tell anyone. The secret burden was horribly heavy.

I looked back up at the sky. The fast-moving high clouds were a sure sign of a storm. Trees swayed back and forth in their dazzling costumes. There was so much Chelsea’s mom would miss if she stayed away: the deep orange of the Pennsylvania harvest moon, crisp morning walks, birds flying south for the winter…Thanksgiving Day, Christmas…

I shivered, thinking of Chelsea living out the lonely days or months ahead. There had to be something I could do.

A small-scale investigation might turn up some leads. That’s what Chelsea needed: someone to help her poke around a bit. Someone to help her solve the heartbreaking mystery.

I couldn’t wait to phone her.

Running toward my house, I darted in through the back door, eager to use the phone. I nearly stumbled over my cats—Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego—and one ivory kitten named Lily White, bright as a lily.

All four cats were lined up comically beside two empty bowls near the back door—my cue.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I squatted down beside the foursome. “You’re waiting for snack time, aren’t you, babies? You know I’d never forget you guys on purpose, don’tcha?” I marched to the fridge. “It’s just that I got stuck at school. That’s why there’s no milk.”

Mom joined me inside, car keys jangling. “Oops, guess I overlooked something.” She smiled knowingly, spying the hungry anticipation on the furry faces.

“It’s not your fault, Mom,” I said. “I’m the one who missed the bus, remember?”

We laughed about how spoiled the cats had become. “Thanks to their doting mama,” chortled Mom.

It was true. I
had
spoiled my cats rotten. But wasn’t it the sensible, loving thing to do with felines? Programming them to expect fresh, rich cow’s milk every day after school was part of being a pampering pet owner. Or as Mom said, a doting mama.

“You’ll have to forgive me this time,” I said, pouring the raw, cream-rich milk into two medium-sized bowls. Abednego, being the oldest and fattest, had his own opinion about pecking order. He allowed only his next-in-line brother, Shadrach, to share his bowl.

I grinned and brushed my hand over their backs. “Mama’s so sorry about the late snack.”

Sitting there on the floor hearing the gentle lapping sounds of healthy, contented cats, I thought again of my friend Chelsea. She needed a phone call. Now.

Without another word to my furry friends, I scanned our country kitchen. Mom had evidently gone upstairs.

Quickly, I crossed the room to the phone, picked it up, and listened for the dial tone. I knew Chelsea might not be able to talk openly if her dad was within earshot, but at least she could hear me out.

“Hi, Chels,” I said when she answered. “It’s Merry and I’ve got a genius idea.”

“You say that about all your ideas.” She wasn’t laughing.

I was smart enough to know it wasn’t a compliment. “Can you talk now?” I asked.

“I’m talking, aren’t I?” She sounded depressed.

“But is your dad around?”

“Daddy’s still at work. Someone has to work around here.”

“Yeah.”

“So what is it—your genius plan?” she asked.

“Well, I’ve been thinking. We oughta go over your place with a fine-tooth comb. You know, search for clues.”