The Hope of Refuge (7 page)

“Come on, kid, give me a break. It’s an empty beer bottle.” Cara took it from her.

“Don’t throw it.”

Unwilling to provoke her daughter’s taxed emotions, she nodded and held on to it.

As they went up the porch stairs, Cara set the bottle on a step. She knocked and waited. When no one answered, she banged on it really hard. “Hello?” She heard no sounds. “Let’s go in for a minute.”

“But, Mom—”

“It’s okay. No one’s home, but if they were here, they’d give us some Band-Aids and some shoes that fit you, right?”

“Yeah, I think so. But I don’t want to go in.”

Leaving Lori near the front door, she hurried through the house, scavenging for clean socks, bandages, ointment, and shoes. With two pairs of shoes, a bottle of peroxide, a box of bandages, fresh socks, and a tube of ointment for her daughter’s blisters in hand, Cara hurried out the door, tripping as she went. The items scattered across the porch.

Lori had the beer bottle in her hand, and Cara snatched it from her and set it back down on the porch. “I think one of these pairs will fit. Try this set on, and let’s get out of here. Can you wait until later for us to clean the blisters and wrap them?”

“I think so.”

“That’s my girl.”

While helping Lori slip into the shoes, Cara looked around the yard. A man stood at an opened cattle gate, watching them. Her heart raced. How long had he been standing there? But he didn’t seem interested in confronting her. Based on the description from the man at the ticket counter, this guy might be Amish. He appeared to be past middle age and had on a dress shirt and pants, straw hat, and suspenders.

Keeping an eye on him, she left one pair of shoes on the porch and gathered up the rest of the items and shoved them into the backpack. “Will those do?”

“Yeah, but my feet still hurt.”

She glanced at the man, who remained stock-still, watching her.

“I’ll put medicine and Band-Aids on later. We need to go.”

Cara tripped as she stood, knocking the beer bottle down the steps. Without meaning to, she cursed.

Wordlessly, the man continued to stare at them.

Cara took Lori’s hand and hurried down the steps and toward the road.

“Mom, wait. You forgot the beer bottle.”

“Lori, shh. Come on.” She elongated the last word, and Lori obeyed.

The man seemed unable to move other than rubbing his left shoulder. “Malinda?”

Her heart stopped as her mother’s name rode on the wind.

He blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but he said nothing.

“Daed?” A young woman called to him.

He turned to glance behind him. Cara couldn’t see who called to him, but based on her voice, she was close. The man looked back to Cara. “It makes no difference who you are, we don’t need thieves, drunks, or addicts around here.”

“But I’m not—”

He wasted no time getting inside the pasture and shutting the noisy metal gate, ending Cara’s attempt to defend herself.

Part of Cara wanted another chance to explain herself and ask questions or at least follow them as they turned their backs to her and headed through the field. Why had he called her by her mother’s name? But she feared he might lash out and scare Lori if she dared to ask questions. It would do no one any good if her search for answers began badly. Awash in emotions, she took Lori by the hand and continued down the road. Did she look like her mother had? Did that man know her mom?

“Mom, what’d that man say to you?”

Unwilling to tell her the truth, Cara improvised. “Something about monks and leaves being in the attic… maybe?”

She giggled. “I think he’s confused.”

“I think you’re right. I’m feeling a little confused myself. How do the shoes feel?”

“Pretty good. Thanks. I might not need those Band-Aids.”

“You’re one tough little girl, you know that?” Cara bent and kissed the top of Lori’s head.

She’d thought it could mean a sense of connection for herself and Lori to meet people who knew her mother… but now it felt like a mistake. Her mother’s past was hidden to her, and the man looked horrified to think she might be Malinda.

They walked on and on, putting more than a mile between them and that man. While trying to sort through his reaction, she studied the land. Another barn in need of paint stood a few hundred feet ahead of them, but not one thing felt familiar. Her arms and shoulders ached from the miles she’d toted Lori. Surely they’d covered nearly every mile of Dry Lake—every road, paved and dirt. As they walked Mast Road, she had no hint of what to do now.

She tripped again, and it seemed that stumbling got easier as the day wore on. Whatever they were going to do for shelter, Cara had to find an answer soon. There wasn’t a house in sight, but perhaps they could sleep in that slightly lopsided barn.

As they approached the old building, Cara spotted something of interest on the other side of the road. Holding on to Lori’s hand, she crossed over. Walking up a short gravel driveway, she noticed a huge garden planted beside it. Ahead of her lay a bare foundation with only a rock chimney still standing. She stepped onto the concrete floor and walked to the fireplace. The stone hearth had a rusted crane and black kettle.

“That pot looks like a witch’s cauldron, huh, Mom? Like in
Harry Potter.”

Cara ran her fingers along the metal. “It’s for cooking over an open fire. The house that used to be here must’ve been hundreds of years old.”

Something niggled at her but nothing she could make sense of.

Lori tugged at her mother’s hand. “Look at that tree. I’ve always wanted to climb a tree, Mom. Remember?”

She remembered.

“I think I can climb that one.”

“Maybe so.” With reality pressing in on her, Cara tried to hold on to the positive. They were free of Mike. She had Lori. Still, she had no idea how she’d start over and pull together a life for them with no help, no money, and no belongings.

After interlacing her fingers, she gave Lori a boost up to the lowest branch. If nothing else, she’d finally given Lori one of her lifelong hopes—a tree to climb. This one did seem perfect for climbing—large but with a thick branch within five feet of the ground.

Cara looked across the land, wondering if she’d used what little money they had on absolute foolishness. She should be somewhere looking for work, not chasing after shadows of things that once were.

She knew the reality—all children raised in foster care harbor the belief that they have a relative somewhere out there who loves them. She was no exception. Each night after her mother had died, she’d gone to bed hoping a loved one would stumble upon the truth of her existence and come for her. At first she’d been foolish enough to hope her father would come. But as the years passed, she realized that he’d never wanted her. So the fantasy changed into the dream that a relative she’d never met would show up for her one day. By the time she turned fourteen, she refused to give in to that longing. Life hurt less that way. But the desire to have one relative who cared never truly went away. She wished it would. Maybe then the ache inside would ease.

“Look, Mom. It has a spot to ride it like a horse. And that knot thing looks sorta like a horse’s head.”

Cara glanced. A dip in the branch where Lori sat made a perfect spot for straddling it and pretending she was riding a horse. “It does, doesn’t it? All you need is a set of reins.”

“How’d you know, Mom?”

Cara turned from looking at the field. “How’d I know what?”

Lori held up a set of rusted chains. They were small, probably from a swing set.

“How’d ya know there were reins here?” Lori tugged at the chains that were wrapped around the part of the branch that looked like a horse’s head. “Parts of them have grown into the tree, but they work.”

Cara returned to the tree, running her hands over the mossy bark. She recalled the pieces of memory that came to her when Mike had showed up at her workplace—an old woman, rows of tall corn, a kitchen table filled with food, sheets flapping in the wind. As she studied the tree and the land around her, she began to sense that maybe her fragmented thoughts weren’t her imagination or parts of an old movie she’d once seen.

Deborah held her father’s arm, guiding him up the gentle slope. Their home sat just beyond the ridge of the field, but maybe this wasn’t the easiest route to take. “You’re pale and shaking. What possessed you to go for such a long walk today?” He didn’t answer, and she tried again. “Kumm, let’s go home.”

He pulled back, stopping both of them. “Did you see that woman and child coming out of the Swareys’ home?”

“No.” Deborah slid her arm through his, trying to encourage him to keep moving toward home. “Do you know her?”

Her father’s feet were planted firm, and it seemed she couldn’t coax him into budging.

He looked to the heavens before closing his eyes. “But it can’t be her. She’d be much older by now, and her daughter is seven or eight years older than you.”

“Who, Daed?”

He massaged his shoulder as if it ached from deep within. “Your mother loved her so. Never once believed the ban against her was fair—not even when she came back eight years later with a child. When she returned with her daughter, I’d been a preacher only a short time.” He gave a half shrug, rubbing the area below his collarbone.

“Daed, what are you talking about?”

He turned and headed for the cattle gate. “It can’t be her. A ghost… a mirage—that’s all it could be. Or”—he quickened his pace—”another one sent in her place to finish destroying what little she left intact.”

“Daed.” Deborah took him by the arm again, gently tugging on him to go the other way “You’re scaring me, talking such nonsense. Let’s go home.”

He pointed a finger at her. “I may suffer under a chronic illness, but I’m not a child.”

Feeling the sting of his correction, she nodded and released his arm. They came to the gate, and he waited as Deborah opened it. They went through it, and then she locked it back, her heart racing with fear.

She held her tongue, trying to piece together what he might be talking about.

“Even as a newly appointed preacher, I…still don’t think I was wrong.” He walked a bit faster as he mumbled. “But Pontius Pilate never thought he was either. Rueben swears she has a way about her—a deceiving, sultry, manipulative way. Who should know better than the man who’d been engaged to her? What else could I do? What else should I have done?”

“What are you talking about?”

“And that woman I just saw was stealing from the Swareys and drunk. She wasn’t Malinda. Couldn’t be.”

“Who’s Malinda, Daed?”

“You keep the children close to home. I have to warn our people.”

He wasn’t making any sense. And even though the temperature was barely sixty and a breeze blew, he had beads of sweat across his brow. When he stumbled a bit, she tucked her arm through his, helping him keep his balance.

“Liewi
Deborah.” He patted her arm, calling her “dear.” “It’s not easy being the daughter of a preacher, is it?”

Concerned that he still wasn’t making much sense, she tried to encourage him to turn around and head toward home. There weren’t many phones in the district, but the bishop had approved one for the cabinetry business.

He took a few steps and then paused. “Whether I’m right or wrong in a thing, only God knows. But decisions, tough ones that have the power to help or ruin, have to be made to protect our beliefs.”

“I understand. You’re just and caring and do your best. I’ve always believed that.”

He nodded. “I hope you always do.”

He staggered, and she did what she could to keep him from falling. “Daed?”

His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees.

“Daed!”

Cara tried to think of a plan while Lori played in the tree. That man calling her Malinda haunted her, and she knew the memory wouldn’t fade anytime soon. The sound of horses’ hoofs striking the pavement made her jump. “Come on, sweetie. We’d better get off this property.”
Or at least not look like we’re trespassing
.

“Not yet, Mom, please.” Lori wrapped her legs firmly around the branch and held on tight to the chains.