The Redemption of Sarah Cain (6 page)

S
aturday’s farm chores were the same as any other day— sweeping out the barn, feeding chickens, and milking three cows to supply milk for themselves and a good many payin’ English customers.

‘‘Fresh raw milk is a wonderful-gut source of income and makes for healthy English bones as well as Amish,’’ Mamma often said if any of the younger children fussed over having to crawl out of bed in the dark.

Along with everything else, there was forever a growin’ basket of mending, hand stitching, and other sewing to be done, ’specially with youngsters like Hannah and Josiah in the house. Anna Mae wasn’t nearly so rambunctious, though, and for that, Lydia was grateful.

Plenty of cookin’ and bakin’ needed to be done, too. Caleb was a lanky boy, nearly as tall as Dat was before he died, though sometimes it was hard to remember just how tall without any pictures to jiggle her memory. Lydia often wondered how it would be to own just a picture or two of her deceased parents. Even black-and-white snapshots would be awful nice. But she never questioned the unwritten rules of the
Ordnung
, nor Bishop Joseph and church members who passed down the centuries-old blueprint for the People. This was the life Dat and Mamma had chosen for themselves and their children.

Forgetting those things which are behind . . . I press toward the
mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus
, she recited mentally as she stirred the batter for blueberry pancakes.

Tomorrow, the Lord’s Day, would be another story yet. There’d be no extra chores, just what
had
to be done in the barn—milkin’ and whatnot. She would be cookin’ food ahead for her siblings today. A right-gut baking ham was just the thing. She’d slice and serve it with other cold cuts tomorrow, along with strawberry-banana Jell-O, cup cheese, and homemade bread. Josiah had been beggin’ for Apple Dapple cake here lately, so she’d prob’ly go ahead and bake some for the whole family.

She’d never been tempted to cook or bake on Sundays. It never crossed her mind to do such a thing. Mamma was always so careful to follow the ways of the People when it came to food preparation. Lydia sometimes fretted that if Sarah Cain
did
come to stay, they’d be forced into doin’ things the fancy way, the English way. She shuddered to think they’d have no choice but to go back on their parents’ solemn vow to the church and to God.

’Course, if she had her way all ’round, she and her brothers and sisters would just continue doin’ the things they were doing each and every day. Really, there was no need for Sarah Cain to come. Not at all. And by the looks of it, with no hide nor hair of Aunt Sarah yet, she must be feelin’ the selfsame way.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Lydia moved to the utensil drawer. ‘‘Come now, Anna Mae . . . Hannah. Time to set the table,’’ she called.

Hearing the pitter-patter of scurrying feet—helpin’ hands on the way—she thought how appreciative she was to the Lapps and Fannie’s mother, Emma Flaud, too, for havin’ kept a close watch on her and her brothers and sisters all week.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder how long before the Children and Youth Agency might come a-calling, knockin’ on their door, inquiring of them, possibly escorting them out to a waiting police car and whisking them away to strangers. The what-if visions in her mind made her shiver sometimes.

If Aunt Sarah did come and they could talk her into settlin’ down here—look after them the way Mamma wanted—at least they’d be spared bein’ split up. And Lydia’s promise would become a reality. It was the one and only reason why she ever pleaded with the Lord God heavenly Father. ‘‘Please, Lord, change Aunt Sarah’s heart, if it needs changin’, that is. And . . . if it’s not too much to ask—and in your divine will—won’t you send her to us real soon?’’ She’d prayed this every single night now, for over a week.

Quickly, Lydia dipped out one-fourth cup of batter from the large mixing bowl and onto the black-iron griddle. She watched as the sizzle ceased to sing on the griddle, the tiny air bubbles beginning to appear.

Lord Jesus, take my hand and lead me through this day
, she prayed silently, squeezin’ fresh oranges for their juice.
I trust you
always, puttin’ a smile on my face for those ’round me to see your
grace at work in me. I’ll keep on lovin’, workin’, and prayin’. For as
long as I live. Amen
.

The fragments on the horizon had amassed, steadily growing into a partial cloud cover. The sun would be sinking into the great sea to the west a few hours from now.

Bryan had often referred to the Pacific Ocean that way, especially after Sarah first moved to Portland.
‘‘The great sea beckons,’’
he liked to say with a glint in his dark eyes. His way of enticing her away from the office for a few hours . . . he was well aware of her weaknesses. Walking barefooted along the shore, the tide tickling her toes, was definitely one of them.
‘‘Come with
me, Sarah, let’s go beachcombing.’’

Sometimes, especially if the day was a sky-blue Saturday like today, she would give in and allow him to take her to the ocean. Their impulsive getaways rarely occurred more than once or twice a summer. They weren’t actually dating, but Bryan called whenever he was ‘‘in the area,’’ which, in the past eighteen months or so, had been rather sporadic. She had even wondered if he was losing interest in her. Maybe he had found another love interest, someone to return his affection, the way she had at first, before the subject of their fierce disagreement emerged toward the end of their senior year in college. The great debate had been to blame for their demise. Ultimately, Sarah blamed Bryan.

‘‘We can work things out,’’ he had declared repeatedly. ‘‘I know we can.’’

She was unyielding. ‘‘I don’t think so.’’

‘‘We should try, at least.’’ His eyes searched hers, desperate for answers.

Bryan’s stubborn stance—his reasoning askew—coupled with Ivy’s ceaseless sermonizing letters collided in a colossal reaction in Sarah’s mind. ‘‘It’s a pointless discussion.’’

‘‘Please, Sarah, help me understand why you feel this way.’’

She had never brought herself to reveal the truth to him— the reality of her debilitating fears coupled with her inability to get past his unreasonable insistence on wanting so many children. She felt he was hung up on the idea, and his position continued to annoy her.

Yet he attempted to woo her, repeating her name sweetly, obviously enamored with her.

To no avail.

Sarah
. . .

Over the years, she had taken issue with her mother for assigning her a name with obvious religious overtones. Sarah with an ‘‘h’’ had automatically linked her in primary school, if only subconsciously, with the Hebrew spelling. That old-fashioned spelling used by so many conservative types these days.

Sarah coupled with Cain was pure misery. She could hardly forgive her parents for this unseeming and unnecessary blight on her persona. There had been ample opportunity, back before her parents’ deaths, to change things. Often she had considered altering her names, at least the spellings, though she’d never followed through with the legal contacts. Changing her last name to
Kane
, she’d decided months ago, would be far better suited for an auspicious real estate agent.

She wouldn’t have admitted to being preoccupied with name changes, though the association with two rather unserving ones tended to push yet an additional thorn into her psyche.

Stopped in rush-hour traffic, Sarah became restless and reached for the glove compartment. Opening it, she located a card from Bryan, sent months ago. She dared not reread the amusing verse and the familiar signature.

Sarah, please help me understand. . . .

The past was too far behind her now. Had she accepted his marriage proposal instead of sashaying out of his life, her last name could have changed rather effortlessly.

She laughed softly. Their romance was neither here nor there, yet Bryan continued to hang on. Why?

Just as the traffic jam loosened up a bit, her cell phone rang. Shaking her head, she was exasperated to see that it was the real estate office calling. She reached for the cellular phone. ‘‘Sarah speaking.’’

‘‘Sorry to bother you, but a long-distance call just came in . . . for you,’’ Heidi informed her.

She felt her throat muscles tense. ‘‘Long distance?’’

‘‘Charles Eberley from Pennsylvania. Can you take the call?’’

Sarah was frustrated, staring at the clock on her dashboard. It had been days since she’d first heard from Mr. Charles Eberley. She’d hoped he wouldn’t call back.

‘‘Can you handle this for me?’’

‘‘Get rid of him, you mean?’’

It wouldn’t be wise to stonewall any longer. She couldn’t put
this
man off forever.

‘‘He asked specifically for you,’’ Heidi urged.

Most assuredly, the call was urgent
. Sarah felt as if she had been plunged into a vast tide of formidable responsibility, against her will. She needed more time to ponder, to plan. Her personal and professional future was in peril.

‘‘What should I tell him?’’ Heidi’s voice penetrated Sarah’s thoughts.

‘‘Give me a second.’’ Inhaling, she held her breath long enough to mentally replay the initial call from the Lancaster County law firm of Chatwyn, Dunlap & Associates.

Signaling, she made a right-hand turn onto the exit ramp and headed for a coffee shop. She sensed that a larger circle of time and space was about to encompass her life, demanding immediate attention. Torn between career and conscience, she waited for the receptionist to put ‘‘Amish country’’ on the line.

Staring through the windshield, she focused on a complex of office buildings in the distance. She’d dreamed of—
coveted
— managing her own real estate office someday. For the first time in her life she felt prosperous in her own right, entirely fortuitous.

Certainly, the news of Ivy’s death had been unsettling. With both her parents deceased, and now her only sibling, Sarah assumed she might start to feel alone in the world. But she hadn’t actually mourned. Not yet. To think of sitting down and shedding tears over someone who had merely shared the same genetics seemed a travesty. Not that she was heartless. Simply put, she and Ivy had never clicked. Not as sisters. Certainly not as friends.

Charles Eberley’s voice came on the line. ‘‘Hello, Ms. Cain. I’d hoped to hear from you by now.’’

‘‘Yes . . . things got hectic here.’’

Without skipping a beat, he continued. ‘‘Ivy—your sister— had specifically requested that you be present at the formal reading of her will—’’ ‘‘I realize that, but—’’ Charles Eberley continued. ‘‘I have no choice but to relay her wishes over the phone.’’

Sarah listened silently.

‘‘Your sister appointed a sole legal guardian for her children prior to her death. You, Ms. Cain, are her first and only choice, as stated in Ivy’s last will and testament.’’

Sarah’s worst fear.

By dying prematurely, Ivy was putting Sarah in a bind. Unquestionably, a noose of sorts. What reasoning was behind such a preposterous choice?

‘‘You’ll have to excuse me, but this makes no sense,’’ she replied. ‘‘Well, it’s quite simple. Mrs. Cottrell wished for you, her only sister, to care for her children. Makes perfect sense, Ms. Cain.’’

‘‘I don’t think you understand . . .’’ She stopped short of revealing their rocky childhood and all the adult years of disputatious conversations, not to mention Ivy’s persistent God-filled letters, which were most offensive of all.

‘‘You’re quite right. I
don’t
understand the relationship you had with your sister, but I do respect your unwillingness to accept guardianship. You are under no obligation to do so. You must know, however, that if you choose not to take custody, the state of Pennsylvania will step in and make decisions on behalf of your nieces and nephews.’’

You are under no obligation. . . .

Sarah thought of Ivy’s Amish friends and neighbors, the various women her sister often mentioned in her letters. Ivy had never minced words when it came to her community of ‘‘sisters’’ or the camaraderie they shared.
We’re one in the unity of the spirit
, she would write. If that were the case, then perhaps some of those ‘‘spirit sisters’’ could pitch in and care for Ivy’s offspring.

‘‘What about an Amish family?’’ she asked. ‘‘Why isn’t that a workable solution?’’

He sighed audibly. ‘‘There are few Amish foster homes available, and even fewer who are able to take on
five
children. Social Services will step in, separate the children, and place them in state-authorized foster care—more specifically, non-Amish homes.’’

What’s wrong with that?
she thought.

‘‘Ivy was adamant about
not
wanting her children separated or raised by strangers,’’ he added.

Sarah shrugged, thinking how
she
might’ve welcomed such an idea as a girl, even benefited by such an intrusion by outsiders when her own mother passed away. Living separate from Ivy as youngsters? Why, the thought was positively appealing.

‘‘Ivy named
you
the legal guardian. She wanted you to live with Lydia and Caleb, Anna Mae, Josiah, and Hannah in Lancaster County, preferably.’’