Trading Secrets (11 page)

I look around the modern café and suddenly feel like I've just returned from a trip back in time. Like the time machine that swallowed me whole has just spit me back out. Now it's sending me home—almost against my will. It's hard to admit, since I don't have a choice, but I don't think I'm ready to leave yet.

As I sit here I ponder what it would be like to live like that—
always
. I doubt I'll ever admit this to anyone—maybe not even fully to myself—but I'm curious what it would be like to actually convert to being Amish. Despite my recent visit, I know that I have little idea what I'm truly contemplating. Not that I'm really contemplating anything. Besides, I doubt it's even possible for an outsider to become Amish. Seriously, why would I want to? For most of my visit, I've been painfully aware of how much I don't fit in there.

Yet there's an undeniable allure to the Amish lifestyle. There's so much that Zach's family does right—so many values and things that I truly enjoy. Like their commitment to simplicity. The peaceful and beautiful countryside. The strong sense of family. The sweet animals. And the food!

As Zach strolls toward me, straw hat in hand and looking handsomely out of place among the other English-attired café customers, I gaze fondly at him and allow my mind to wander. What if he asked me to live out the rest of my life by his side? What would I say? What would I do? What if he
wanted me to become Amish and become his wife and remain in his world—could I do that? As he sits down across from me, I feel my cheeks flushing. I can't believe I'm thinking such craziness. I can only blame it on the strange experiences of these past few days.

W
hen I finally call my dad, announcing that I'm ready to come home, he tosses out a new idea. “If you could stay put a couple of days, I'm flying into Davis Field on Wednesday afternoon, and that's just a few miles from Hamrick's Bridge. I could fly you home with me.”

“Wednesday?” I frown down at my empty coffee cup. It's only two days away, but it feels like a long time to be stuck in this small town. Not to mention that I barely have enough money for even one night at a cheap hotel, let alone two. Still, I haven't told Dad about that yet. I'm not sure I even want to.

“I've got to make that delivery,” he continues. “And I seem to recall you telling me how your pen pal wants to fly in a plane sometime.”

“That's true. Zach has always wanted to go up in a plane.” I glance at Zach as I say this.

“This might be his big chance, Micah.”

“But not until Wednesday?”

“Doesn't Zach still need help with the planting? Or did you finish that already?”

“No, the planting's not done yet.”

Zach is peering very curiously at me, and I wonder how much of this conversation he can hear.

“Do you think the Millers would mind putting up with you for another couple of days?” Dad asks hopefully. He clearly doesn't get how this has been going down the last few days. Of course, that's my fault, because my brief texts and conversations have all painted a happy little scene. My way to keep Dad from worrying. But it's not like I can go into the details of the real situation right now. Not with Zach sitting right across from me. Talk about awkward.

“I, uh, I don't know, Dad. But maybe I should stay in a hotel here in town until Wednesday afternoon.”

Zach holds up a hand, motioning to me as if he wants to say something.

“Just a minute,” I tell Dad.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Zach says quickly. “And sorry for eavesdropping too. But is your father picking you up in his airplane on Wednesday?”

“That's his plan.” I make a half smile. “He has a delivery near here, and he offered to take you up in his plane, if you like.”

Zach's eyes light up. “
Ja
,
ja
. I'd like that! And you will go back home with me? And help with the planting? That way I can go with you on Wednesday.”

“But what will your parents say? I mean, since they thought I was gone.” Specifically I mean, what will his mom say?

He shrugs. “What can they say?”

I can only imagine.

He urges me to agree to his idea, and when I get back on the phone with Dad, I tell him that it will work. He promises
to text me the time and place where we'll meet. Just like that, my fate is sealed, at least for the next two days. I decide not to fret over how Zach's mother will respond. Maybe if I keep making myself useful, she won't complain too much. Besides, this means more time with Zach. For some reason that's becoming even more important to me.

“I hope your sisters don't mind sharing their room with me for two more nights,” I say as we walk back to where the buggy is parked.

“They like you.” Zach gives me a hand, smiling warmly at me as he gently helps me into the buggy. I feel a warm rush running though me and decide this could be a pretty cool moment, except for one thing. I can feel several pairs of onlookers' eyes upon us. Something about an Amish boy hanging with an English girl is a real attention-getter in this town. An oddity.

“Did your father say it's all right for me to fly in his plane?” Zach asks eagerly as he gives the reins a shake and the horse begins to move.

“Yes, absolutely. It was his idea. He's inviting you.”

Zach leans his head outside of the buggy and, crooking his neck, looks up. “To really fly . . . up in the sky.” He makes a low whistle as he puts his head back inside. “It will be great, Micah.” Now he turns to look earnestly at me. “But you won't tell anyone about this, will you?”

“No, of course not. Not if you don't want me to.”

“It must be our secret.”

“Your parents wouldn't approve?”

He somberly shakes his head no.

“But what about
rumspringa
?” I ask. “Isn't this your time to try new things, to experiment and see what's out there?
To help you to decide what you want to do with the rest of your life?”

“Yes . . . and no.”

“Oh.”

“Parents want to give their grown children the freedom to find their own way. Except that they want them to find their way to God and into the church. Not to go flying around in airplanes.” He chuckles.

“So if your parents knew that my dad was taking you up in his plane . . . I'm guessing they would be unhappy. And they'd probably blame me for leading you astray?”

Zach frowned. “Oh, sure, they might blame you in some ways. But because you're English, you can't help it. They would blame me more because they know that it's my choice to make. If I make the wrong choice, I'm the one who must live with it. Not you.”

“Yes, but if I hadn't come here, and if I hadn't tricked you into believing I was a boy—”

“You didn't trick me, Micah. You said so yourself. I assumed you were a boy because of your name and—”

“I know. But you get what I mean. I came to your home dressed as a boy and I embarrassed you in front of your whole family. You have to admit I got off on the wrong foot with your parents. If they knew that I was enticing you to go up in a plane, they might be really angry at me.”

“You're not enticing me to anything, Micah,” he says firmly. “I'm my own person, a grown-up. I turned eighteen last month. Even in English culture, that's considered an adult. And I've wanted to go up in your dad's plane for years. You know that.”

I nod. “Yes, that's true.”

“You know the money I used for the vet's bill? Well, it was money I'd saved to go visit you—just for the chance of flying with your dad in his airplane. And, well, to meet you too. When I thought you were a boy. But that money is gone now. If your dad hadn't made this generous offer, I would never get the chance.”

I'm touched to think how Zach sacrificed his dream of going up in a plane just to help Molly. It makes me extra glad that Dad offered to fly down here and that he offered to take Zach up. It seems only fair, and now I don't even care about how his parents might feel. Like he said, he's a grown-up. Good grief, he's old enough to get married and have children if he wants. Surely he's old enough to fly in a plane!

It gets quiet for a bit as the buggy continues on the road that leads out of town. The only sound is the pleasant clip-clopping and occasional jingles from the horse's harness as we slowly make our way down the nearly deserted country road. “I'm really thankful that I got to come visit you,” I admit. “Even though it started out kind of rocky, it's been really cool to see you—I mean, to be in your world, with your family and your farm and everything.” I gaze out over the fields of green. “I appreciate you bringing me back with you today. And not just because I'm short on cash. I'm actually looking forward to seeing your farm again.”

“Really?” He looks skeptical. “Why is that?”

“Why?” I frown. “Because it's so pretty and charming and interesting.”

He just shakes his head. “Maybe for you.”

“Not for you?”

“Don't get me wrong, Micah. I respect the farm. It's my family's livelihood. And even if I don't agree with my
family about everything, I do love them. But like I already told you, I don't love being a farmer. And that's probably for the best since the farm's going to belong to Samuel in time.” He glances curiously at me. “Would
you
want to be a farmer?”

I can't help but laugh. “It's not like a person can just become a farmer, can they? I mean, you have to have a farm first. But to be honest, it's never been a serious dream of mine—I mean, to be a farmer.”

“
Ja
. You've never written about that in your letters. Although you did mention interest in other things. Like at one time you wanted to become a pilot like your dad. Then a fireman. And the last ones I remember were about becoming a lawyer and then a doctor.” He chuckles. “You like a lot of different things.”

I sigh. “Yeah, and those were some pretty big dreams. But most of them were just phases. I think I've decided I'd rather not do law school. Medicine still interests me some . . . probably because of what happened to my mom.”

“You mean because the doctor was unable to save her life.”

“Yeah. I always thought they didn't try hard enough after the accident. I'm sure they did, but I was a kid and I just didn't get it. I thought if I was a doctor I never would have given up on somebody's mom.”

“You'd probably be a good doctor.”

“Except that part about being a little queasy,” I remind him. “Like I was with Molly.”

“
Ja
. That would not be good in a doctor, would it?”

“I'm not really sure what I want to do, but I have taken a lot of things I don't want to do off the list. I'll just take some general courses my first year of college.”

“Do you still plan to go to your local college next year?” he asks. “And to live at your home?”

“Yeah. It's a good way to save money for the first year or two. My friend Lizzie is doing the same thing.”

Zach asks me about Lizzie, and I confess to him that when I wrote to him about “Larry,” it was really Lizzie in disguise. “I had to make her into a boy like me.” We both laugh about this. Then he asks me a lot more questions about my life—my life as a girl, not a boy.

It doesn't seem like much time has passed, but suddenly we're pulling into his driveway. Once again I'm flooded with anxiety and apprehension—almost as much as the first time I came here, which seems like weeks ago. As I get down from the buggy, I feel like that proverbial “bad penny.” I just keep turning up.

“I'm going to see to the horse.” He tosses me my backpack. “Why don't you take your stuff inside? I see Katy there on the back porch. I'm sure she'll be glad to see you.”

I'm tempted to make an excuse to delay the inevitable—interacting with his mom again—but I decide I might as well just get it over with.

“You're back,” Katy says warmly as I go onto the porch where she is filling a plastic bucket with steaming water. “Just in time for the excitement too.”

“Excitement?”

She turns off the tap with a hard to read expression. “Mamm tripped over the cat and hurt her foot.”

“Oh, dear. Is it broken?”

“I don't know. But it's all swollen and she can't walk at all.” Katy holds up the bucket. “She's going to soak it in hot water and some Epsom salt.”

“Where is she now?” I ask quietly.

Katy tips her head toward the kitchen. “In there. And she is not feeling a bit jolly.”

“How about if I leave this here?” I slide my backpack beneath a bench. “I'll go help Zach outside until supper.”

Katy grins. “That's a good idea.”

By the time I get to the barn, Zach's dad is in there too. Together they're checking on Molly and the colt. “You can put them out in the pasture in the morning,” Mr. Miller tells Zach. “Molly looks a lot better.”

“That's because of the medicine the vet prescribed,” I boldly tell Zach's father.

He frowns at me as he rubs his beard. “My uncle is a vet too,” I remind him. “He told me that it was almost certain she'd need antibiotics to get well.”

“
Ja
, that is probably true,” Mr. Miller admits.

Zach exchanges a slightly victorious glance with me but says nothing to his dad as he pours the contents of a capsule into an apple he's mashed up in a bucket. “Here you go, Molly,” he says as he offers it to her.

“I hope you don't mind that I came back,” I say to Mr. Miller. “I decided I want to help with the rest of the planting.”

Mr. Miller makes a grunting noise, then mumbles, “
Ja
,
ja
, that's what Zach tells me. If we work hard, and God willing, we might finish the corn by sundown tomorrow.” I suspect this is a hint that he'd like me to be gone by then too, but I don't say anything about my planned departure.

“That's too bad about your wife's foot,” I say instead.

“What?” He looks confused.

“She fell and hurt her foot,” I explain.

“Oh?” He's clearly surprised.

“Mamm hurt her foot?” Zach looks concerned too.

“Yeah. That's what Katy said.”

“Did Katy say if supper will be on time?” Mr. Miller asks.

I just shrug, suppressing the urge to chuckle over this. Is he more worried about his stomach than his wife's foot? Of course, I realize he's been working hard all day. Naturally, he's hungry. But really?

Zach's dad has no reason to fret. The supper, which was put together by the girls, is all ready by the time we're seated at the big table in the kitchen. To my relief, and thanks to Katy, I'm sure, there is a place set for me between her and Sarah. Mrs. Miller doesn't appear overly surprised—or happy—to see me.

“I'm sorry to hear about your injury,” I tell her as I slide onto the bench.

She mumbles a thank-you with eyes downcast, waiting for her husband to initiate the silent blessing. It's weird this time as I bow my head—I feel like I get it. It's like I really appreciate the silence. It feels good to take this quiet time to express thanks to God. Not just for the food, but for everything. I decide that this is a good tradition and something I might try to incorporate into my own life when I go home. I wonder what Dad would think about it. I remember how when Mom was alive, we always said a blessing before meals. After she died, we kept it up for a year or so, but eventually we stopped. I feel bad about that now.