The Shunning (29 page)
“No, no, it’s somewhere else in the state.”
“Well, I’ll just have to get me a map, I suppose,” Katie said. “A map of New York State, since I’ve never been outside Lancaster County.”
“So . . . will you be tryin’ to find her, then?” Mam’s voice now sounded thin and pathetic—almost childlike as she sat back down in the rocker.
Even though Katie was momentarily distracted by the compassion she felt for her mother, a startling surge of resolve followed, surprising her with its power. “I have to look for her, Mamma, you know I do. I can’t just forget about her now.” She rose and took Rebecca’s hands in hers, gently pulling her up and out of the rocking chair. “I don’t mean to hurt you with all this. You do understand . . . don’t ya?”
Her mother couldn’t speak for the tears, and Katie hurried on before she weakened. “I can’t stay here much longer anyway, not with the shunning and all. I thought about going next door to the Dawdi Haus, but it’s no use. I can’t see confessing now . . . or later. It’s time I think about leaving.”
“Aw, girl, no!” Then, more softly—“Where will you go?”
Katie took a deep breath. “Lydia Miller has a room for rent. I saw the sign yesterday on my way home from Ella Mae’s.”
Her mamma shook her head and fumbled for a handkerchief. “You’re not going to leave Hickory Hollow, are you?”
“Laura Mayfield-Bennett doesn’t live anywhere near Lancaster, now does she?” Katie hugged her weeping mother. “Oh, Mamma, I’m so happy you finally talked to me today. So very happy.”
“It must not happen again,” Rebecca declared, giving way to a coughing fit before clearing her throat. “I can . . . not speak to you again . . . not until you repent.”
“I know, Mamma,” Katie replied. “You’re a good Amishwoman, and I understand.”
When Rebecca’s desperate hacking subsided, the two women clung to each other as though it was to be the last embrace of their lives.
Mattie was thrilled when Elam Lapp called her to deliver Annie’s first baby, a full six weeks before the due date.
About time I catch a Lapp baby again!
she thought as she rode back with Elam to the young couple’s farmhouse. Silly how she’d carried on over not being asked to assist with Katie Lapp’s birth. But now she knew the truth and felt quite ashamed of herself for making such a mountain out of a smidgen of a molehill.
Still, it was hard to believe that Samuel and Rebecca had been able to keep such a secret. But when she tried to draw Elam out about it, it was obvious from his intense frown and pursed lips that he had more important things on his mind—like becoming a father in the next few hours.
When the horse pulled the carriage into the lane, Elam jumped out and dashed into the house ahead of her, leaving Mattie to attend to the unhitching of the horse. “These new papas,” she clucked. “I do declare!”
By the time Annie’s contractions were less than two minutes apart, word had spread to several Amish farmhouses, including Rebecca Lapp’s—thanks to Lydia Miller’s telephone and her fancy car.
Katie could hear the cries of the newest little Lapp as she helped her mother out of the carriage. “Sounds like a hefty set of lungs to me. Must be a boy.” She smiled at her mother even though by this time, she didn’t expect a reply.
Rebecca said nothing, lips tight.
They hurried up the front porch steps, meeting Elam as he burst through the door to greet them. “Mam, Wilkom!” he said, without so much as a glance in Katie’s direction. “You have yourself a fine, healthy grandson!”
He ushered them into the downstairs bedroom, where Annie lay, perspiring and exhausted, holding the tiny bundle.
“He’s mighty pretty,” Katie whispered as her sister-in-law handed the baby to Elam.
“Mamma, I want ya to meet my first son . . . Daniel Lapp.” Elam held the infant up for Rebecca and the others to see. “The name’s for Annie’s brother, ya know.”
The reference to Dan pierced Katie’s heart. But she was drawn to her new nephew like a bee to honeysuckle. “May I hold him?”
Elam ignored her request, placing the baby in Rebecca’s arms instead. “He may be a bit premature, but he’s a fine, sturdy boy, ain’t?”
“Jah, he’s strong, all right.” Rebecca began to coo in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Won’t Dawdi Samuel and your uncles be surprised when they get home?”
Mattie, now standing next to Rebecca, began to stroke Daniel’s soft cheek. “I think it’s time for me to be speakin’ to ya about something, Rebecca,” the woman said, looking her cousin full in the face.
Not wanting to stand there and witness the busybody trying to patch things up with her mother—not after the way Mattie had spread the word all over the Hollow about the adoption and all—Katie slipped out of the room, unnoticed. She wondered about Annie’s early delivery. What had made her sister-in-law go into labor so early? Had she counted wrong . . . or what?
Katie walked into the front room, stopping to examine the pretty pieces displayed in the corner cupboard. Seeing the fancy china reminded her of the gay wedding plans she and Bishop John had made. She’d let him down terribly. All the People, really. Now Elam had taken it upon himself to go a step further and punish her by not allowing her to hold his son. Whoever heard of such a thing? Not letting your own sister hold your baby? That wasn’t part of the shunning!
Out of the silence, she heard her name spoken and tiptoed back toward the bedroom, within earshot. It was Mattie, saying something about Katie’s horrible behavior at the wedding. “I think it’s this whole shameful thing with Katie that upset Annie so awful much.”
Elam had a few choice comments of his own. “I think die Meinding upset Annie much more than any of us thought,” he agreed. “Started up her labor too soon, probably. A sensitive one, she is.”
Katie backed away silently and hurried to the front door.
They’re
blaming me!
She was shaking—whether with fear or rage, she wasn’t quite sure.
Who knows—I might’ve killed the poor little thing!
She refused to cry, but took in a deep breath and ran to the carriage to hitch up ol’ Molasses.
Daniel . . . they named my nephew Daniel. How could they?
For a moment she gave in to her sobs, reliving the pain of losing her beloved. Didn’t they understand? No one could ever take his place!
She slapped the reins and the horse trotted away. Her haughty big brother would just have to take time away from his precious new baby and drive their mother home later on.
Meanwhile, now was as good a time as any to stop in and chat with Lydia Miller about the room she had for rent.
A
spill of late autumn sunshine—like molten gold—poured into a glass-walled sun-room overlooking acres of rolling lawn and lavish gardens, now frosted with snow. Well-manicured walkways lined the area directly south of the old English-style mansion, shaded in summer by a canopy of regal trees.
From this vantage point, Laura Mayfield-Bennett could see the waterfall splashing into a lily pond two stories below. Floating lily pads shimmered silver-green in the morning light.
Laura reached for her sunglasses just as her maid came into the sun-drenched room, green with ferns and ivy and spreading ficus trees.
Rosie adjusted the chaise lounge to accommodate her mistress. “If it’s sunshine you want, Mrs. Bennett, then it’s sunshine you get,” she remarked cheerfully.
“This is delightful. Thank you for coming up again, Rosie.” Laura wiggled her toes inside her velvet house slippers, enjoying the warmth of the sun’s rays on her feet and lower legs.
“Will there be anything else, ma’am?”
“Thank you, but no.”
Laura sighed heavily, hearing the rapidly fading footsteps on the marble stairs. Below her, on the circular driveway, one of the chauffeurs pulled up, waiting for her husband. She watched as Dylan Bennett folded his lanky frame into the backseat.
The car sped away—down the long, tree-lined lane—leaving Laura alone with her thoughts. “Well, Lord, it’s just the two of us again,” she began to pray, her eyes open to take in the sweeping view. “I come to you today, grateful for life”—she paused to look up through the skylight—“and for the sky so clear and open, wearing its pale blue gown. I thank you for all that you have provided, especially for your Son, Jesus Christ.
“Please touch each of my loved ones with your tender care this day, especially Katherine, wherever she may be. And, dear Lord, although I fail to understand why her Amish family has not contacted me, I give Katherine to you, knowing that you do all things well.”
Drawing a deep yet faltering breath, she continued. “Perhaps it is not in your will that my daughter see me this way. But if it is . . . please allow her to contact me while I’m alert enough to know it’s my darling girl who’s come to me. Grant this, I pray before . . . before you call me home. In Christ’s name, amen.”
What a compassionate gesture if her heavenly Father should grant her last wish, her dying wish. But to fully trust in her Lord and Savior, Laura had learned through the years that she must relinquish selfish desires and wishes.
She reached for a glass of water on the marble-topped table and sipped slowly, retracing in her mind the recent journey she had taken to Pennsylvania—to Hickory Hollow—and the encounter with the elderly Amishwoman sitting in a carriage in front of a general store. The woman had seemed highly reluctant to share information, Laura recalled—had seemed almost offended to be approached. But her acceptance of the letter was tacit agreement, Laura sincerely hoped, that the woman would assist her in delivering it to the proper Rebecca—the one and only Rebecca who would understand the urgency.
Of course, she couldn’t be certain that the letter had been passed around in the Plain community at all. And time was against her now. It was out of the question to think of making another such trip, a five-hour drive from the Finger Lakes region of New York to the farmlands of Lancaster County. She was not up to it—not in her present condition— and worsening by the day. Her physician would never hear of it, even if she were stubborn enough to attempt it.
So there she sat on the top of a hill, within the noble estate of her childhood, passed on to her when her mother, Charlotte Mayfield, had died twelve years before. Breathing in the tranquility, Laura longed to recapture the atmosphere of the Amish community. Something had drawn her to the Pennsylvania Dutch country—something more than her mother’s fondness for the area. She had never forgotten her introduction to Lancaster County, nor the events surrounding the day of Katherine’s birth. . . .
Her mother had coaxed her to take a trip by car that June day. At seventeen and in the latter stages of pregnancy, Laura had been struggling with frequent panic attacks and, in general, needed a change of scene—away from the questions of high school friends who could not understand why she was being tutored at home.
Young and petite as she was, she’d undergone an ultrasound—at her doctor’s insistence—to determine her ability to deliver naturally. In the process, they had discovered that the baby in her womb was most likely a girl. So, to occupy Laura’s time, her mother had suggested a sewing project—a satin baby gown.
For weeks, though, she’d been lonely and sick with grief over the loss of her first real boyfriend, unable to control her tears most of the time. A deep depression had left her restless, and she slept fitfully, if at all. When she closed her eyes at night, she could think only of her humiliating condition and her anger and guilt in having given up her innocence to a boy who’d never truly loved her.
Fearing her daughter was on the verge of an emotional collapse, Charlotte Mayfield had consulted a therapist, who’d recommended the short trip to Pennsylvania, despite the advanced stage of the pregnancy.
In their chauffeur-driven car, they had followed the Susquehanna River south to Harrisburg, turning east to Lancaster.
Soon, there were no more residential districts, no machine shops, factories, or shopping centers. The landscape had opened up, revealing the wide blue skies, fringed with trees—as if seen through a camera lens. The fields were patchwork perfect, like the handmade quilts made by the Amish who lived here. Under a benign sun, farmers were busy working the land, using the simple tools of centuries past. It was a scene straight out of a picture book.
Miraculously, Laura began to unwind. Perhaps it was the way the ribbon of road dipped and curved past fertile fields on every hand. Or the nostalgic sight of horse-drawn carriages. Or the gentle creaking of a covered bridge, flanked by groves of willows—their long fronds stirring in a lazy breeze.
Whatever it was, her mother noticed a change in Laura’s mood and asked the driver to slow the car so they could watch a group of barefoot Amish girls picking strawberries. The girls laughed as they worked, making a game of the backbreaking task.
Laura abandoned the handwork she’d brought along—the satin baby gown—to watch. There was something about these strangely ordinary people. Something that tugged at her heart. Was it their innocent ways? The peaceful surroundings?
Months earlier, she had gone back and forth about giving up the baby for adoption—one day deciding it was best for the precious life within her, and the next, certain she could never part with the baby she’d carried all these months.
