The Days of Redemption (68 page)

Peter supposed the discussion he was having with Roman was long overdue. But that didn't make it feel any less painful. It was difficult for a man to know that he'd disappointed his son—especially when he knew that his son was justified in his disappointment.

As he stood next to the wagon and watched Roman unload the supplies he'd bought early that morning, Peter felt even more at a loss for words than usual. Roman had refused his offers to help, and now seemed to be afraid to give him any responsibilities.

It was tempting to walk away, to give them both some space. The Lord knew that there had been more than one occasion when his father had walked away from him when they were at a standstill.

But he didn't want to be a man like his father. He yearned to be closer to his son.

At the very least, he had to try.

“Roman, I won't be leaving you again,” he repeated, not even caring that his voice sounded as strained as he felt. “You don't need to shoulder everything any longer.”

“I'm not doing that.”

“But you're not letting me do my fair share.” He held out a hand to stop Roman's continual unloading. “Son, I would have gone to the supplier with you this morning if you'd told me you were going.”

“Daed, there was no need for you to go. I handled it.”

“But I could have gone. I used to meet with the supplier by myself.”

“Daed, this is my farm, too.” Roman's voice was harsh sounding. Clipped.

“I'm aware of that,” he soothed. “But you have other responsibilities now. You're preaching, you're attending to our community, plus you've got Amanda and little Regina, too. Trust me, there's no need for you to put in forty or fifty hours a week on the farm, too.”

“You're talking like I've been doing a poor job.”

“No, I'm saying that you mustn't spread yourself too thin.”

A shadow of annoyance crossed his face. “I'm not.”

Knowing that his son thought he was being criticized, Peter chose his next words with care. “Sometimes trying to do too much only causes more problems. I found that out the hard way.”

“Daed, you're making too much of this.”

“I hope I am, but part of me feels like you're doing all this . . . to shut me out. Part of me feels like you don't want to forgive me for having a problem. And that worries me.”

“Daed, it ain't my place to offer forgiveness. Only the Lord can do that.”

“I know. . . .” He let his voice drift off, hoping Roman would pick up the conversation and share more of what he was feeling.

But all he did was reach for another sack of grain.

Determined to smooth things over, Peter was just about to try another tack when Marie stepped out the back door. “Peter? Roman?” she called out, her voice bright with tension. “Come inside. We need to talk.”

“Can't it wait, Marie?”

“
Nee
, I don't think so.”

Roman tossed down the sack in frustration. “Can't anything ever just be fine around here?”

“Go ahead. I'll make sure the horses are watered.”

After a moment's pause, Roman nodded, then strode toward the house, impatience dogging every step.

After checking on the horses, Peter followed in his son's steps, his pace much slower.

He, too, was curious about Marie's summons. But to his great relief, he realized he didn't feel that knot that used to be ever present in his stomach. Instead, he felt like he could handle anything now without any help from a bottle of liquor.

Every day he was getting stronger. That was a wonderful sensation, indeed.

M
amm, you should be in bed, not standing in the doorway, calling for Daed and Roman, Elsie said as she watched her mother pace the kitchen floor. “You're going to get sick again and end up back in the hospital.”

“I feel much better, Elsie. I'm almost back to normal.”

“But you're still recovering. The nurses said it would take days, if not weeks, before you were back to your regular self.”

“Elsie, I am fine. Don't start telling me what I can and can't do.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Elsie grumbled under her breath as she sneaked a look at Viola. Viola shrugged her shoulders, but didn't look all that calm, either.

Already things were going poorly and she hadn't said a word yet! For at least the twelfth time, Elsie wished that Landon would have listened to her and simply let her go inside by herself.

Instead, he'd carefully walked her inside, announced that Elsie had learned some important news at the doctor's office, then left.

Leaving her to answer a flurry of questions, which was exactly what she'd hoped to avoid.

Now the boys were coming in, and Amanda had joined them, too. For once, she wished her grandparents hadn't left for Pennsylvania. Her
mommi
had always been her greatest supporter, and Elsie would have certainly appreciated that support right now.

“Viola, do something,” she hissed into her twin's ear. “Mamm is going to make herself ill.”

“I'm afraid there's nothing I can do,” Viola answered. “I'm just as curious as she is.” Lowering her voice, she inflected a tinge of guilt that set Elsie's teeth on edge. “I also happen to be pretty disappointed that you had intended to keep us in the dark. Thank goodness for Landon.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Elsie turned away and walked into the living room by herself. If she couldn't prevent what was about to happen, she was determined to at least have a place to sit.

She was sitting there grumbling to herself, silently blaming Landon, when everyone joined her.

As Elsie stared at her family, she noticed that not a one of them was looking at her in a sympathetic way. Instead, each looked wary and a little perturbed.

“Well, Elsie?” Roman said impatiently. “What news did you learn? Tell us and be quick about it. I have things to do.”

Amanda squeezed his arm. “Roman, you are being rude.”

He tapped a foot. “I'm sorry, but I don't understand why we couldn't have talked about Elsie's appointment at supper.”

Elsie wished she was anywhere else. “Don't worry, Roman. This won't take long.” She took a deep breath. “Um, first I must admit that I've been lying to you a bit.”

Her mother raised her brows. “A bit?”

“
Jah
. Um . . . the truth is that my vision has been blurrier than ever. Sometimes it's been so bad it's made me feel a little queasy. The appointment I had today wasn't the regularly scheduled checkup. I asked to come in.”

“But you never said a word,” her father said.

“I could tell you that I never said a word because everyone's been so busy.” She looked around the room, pausing a second on each person's face. “You all have been getting engaged and married.” She smiled slightly. “Or you've been sick and out of town. It's been a rare thing, to have all of us in the same place at the same time.”

“That's no reason to keep secrets,” Viola chided. “We would have made time for you. We always have.”

The gentle reminder of how Viola—and the rest of her family—had seen themselves as her caregivers was all Elsie needed to continue. “Like I was saying, I could tell you that . . . but it wouldn't be the truth. The truth is that I haven't wanted to face what was really happening.”

“Which was what?” Roman asked, concern now lacing his tone.

That concern made tears prick her eyes and her bottom lip quiver. It took everything she had to keep her voice calm. “The truth is that my kerataconus disease has gotten mighty bad and it ain't going to get any better. I could be technically blind in a year's time. Unless I have surgery,” she added.

“What kind of surgery?” her mother asked.

“It's called a corneal transplant.”

“Transplant?” Her mother looked at Elsie's
daed
in concern. Even with her impaired vision, Elsie could tell her
mamm
was on the verge of tears.

Elsie cleared her throat. “It's when they replace my corneas with someone else's corneas.”

Stunned silence met her statement.

She understood their disbelief. She felt the same way. The Amish she knew weren't ones to embrace experimental procedures like this. Some didn't even trust modern medicine, preferring to rely on tried-and-true treatments that had been passed down from generation to generation.

Viola was the first to speak. “What will happen if you have this surgery?”

“I might be able to see perfectly well.”

“You'd be cured? Forever?” Her mother looked like she was about to cry.

“I think so. The
doktah
gave me some papers to read. I mean, for you all to read. He said I was a
gut
candidate for the surgery, because I am young and healthy.”

“Elsie, you could be cured?” Amanda said with a smile. “What a true miracle that would be!”

Elsie bit her lip. “To be honest, the idea of having another person's corneas doesn't set well with me.”

Her father sat down. “We're going to have to give this a lot of thought and prayer, Elsie. I'll talk with your mother about this, too.”

“But it's my eyes, Daed,” she whispered. “It's my decision.”

“But it's our values.” He shook his head slowly. “I just don't know what to think.”

“I'll speak about it to the other preachers and the bishop,” Roman said. “Perhaps they could give us some guidance.”

All at once, the family started talking and planning. Elsie leaned back in the chair, listening to the chatter. Letting the words
bake sales
and
fund-raisers
and
schedules
float over her.

It would be so easy to let all of them lead the way, to tell her what she should do. After all, she'd done that before. Elsie realized that, to some extent, she'd always let her family take the lead. It was easier to meekly follow instead of fighting or to argue.

But this time? She couldn't do it.

These were her eyes, and her future, and no matter how much her family might think they knew what she was experiencing or thinking or going through, she knew they didn't.

No, this decision was up to her, and her alone. She was the one who would have to deal with the consequences, just like she was the one who had been losing her vision little by little for most of her life.

“Shtobb,”
she said quietly.

But still the conversation continued, no one paying her any mind. Irritated, she repeated herself, only far more loudly. “Stop,” she said again, this time in English.

When that didn't get their attention, she gave in to her impatience and practically yelled. “Everyone, hush now! Stop your planning!”

And like a light switch getting flipped, the room fell silent.

As a group, they stared at her. Some wore expressions of shock, others seemed irritated.

At the moment, she didn't care how anyone else felt. She wanted to speak her mind and be heard. Before any of them could chastise her for speaking like she did—or begin to argue yet again—she stood and started talking fast.

“Roman, yes, please do speak to the bishop about this surgery. But I'm not saying I'm going to do it. I may not.” Actually, right at this moment, she didn't want to have the surgery.

“But—”

She neatly cut him off. “We don't need to talk about this, Roman.”

“You're making a mistake,” Viola warned.

“
Nee
. I don't think so.” She took a deep breath, feeling braver by the second. “Actually, I think it is time for me to make some decisions, especially since it concerns
my
eyes.”

“But, Elsie,” her mother said, “I don't think you're thinking through things clearly. You need our help.”

Ironically, Elsie felt as if for the first time she was actually thinking with a clear head.

While it was true she couldn't see well, she realized that was really all that was wrong. She was just as capable and strong as the rest of the family. And maybe even more so, too, because she'd been living with a disability while everyone else had not.

Indeed, no matter what happened, she would be the person who had to live with the consequences and repercussions.

Weighing her words carefully, she said, “Mamm, Daed, right now, I can't help but think about Mommi and Dawdi. They both made decisions that none of us knew about for years and years and years.”

“But they regret that,” her father said.

“Do they? Do you think they would have changed things all that much if they could do it again? Something tells me that Mommi and Dawdi are glad they got married. They are glad that they stayed Amish. I think they're glad they didn't burden their children with their pasts, either.” She shrugged.

Viola, ever impatient, scowled. “Twin, what does this have to do with you getting new corneas?”

“They made their choices and, for better or worse, they've lived with them. No matter what I decide to do, it will affect the rest of my life. It sounds like both Mommi and Dawdi did things that their parents and siblings didn't understand, but they did them anyway.”

“That doesn't mean you have to act the same way,” her mother said.

“I realize that. But I also realize that at the end of each day, when they said their prayers at night, they had to live with their decision. For better or worse, at the very least they knew that the things they decided were what they wanted, not what someone else thought they should do. That is what I need. I need to be able to go to sleep, feeling at peace with myself.”

Taking a deep breath, she continued. “I need to know that even if I'm not proud of my decision—or if you aren't proud—that I did it because it was what
I wanted
.
What I needed
. I need to be able to stare in the dark and know I did what I wanted—not because I wanted to make the rest of you happy.”