by Becki Willis
Her reply was so calm, so matter-of-fact. Taryn couldn’t imagine herself ever being so complacent, even as a child.
“When was this? How old was she?”
“That’s the other thing. She was seventeen. Old enough to leave, if she so wished.”
“But you don’t think she wanted to. I hear it in your voice. You don’t believe she left of her own free will.”
Lillian worded her answer carefully, “I don’t believe she wanted to leave.”
Taryn put a hand to her spinning head. For one glorious moment, she thought she had found her mother. She had found her roots. Now her mother was gone, and those roots, still so fragile, were snatched away from her.
She took a deep breath and tried to make sense of it all. “When did this happen?”
“She disappeared on the fifth day of March, 1979.”
“And you never heard from her again?”
Lillian squirmed on the seat but remained silent. Taryn noticed immediately.
“Lillian. I thought you said you never heard from her after that day.”
The older woman hesitated for a long moment. The indecision was there upon her face, whether to speak up or to remain silent. It played across her features like a tug-of-war.
“Please,” Taryn pleaded softly. “If Rebecca was my mother—and I truly believe she was—I have a right to know what happened to her. If you know something, anything at all, please, please, tell me.”
Another moment of debate, before Lillian spoke. “I never saw my sister after that day, but I did hear from her. She wrote to me. She never told me what happened, never explained why she left without saying a word, but she wrote to tell me she was safe.”
“Where was she?”
“She wouldn’t say. She refused to tell me. The letters were postmarked from different places.” Lillian’s apron twisted beneath nervous hands, mimicking her mouth, twisted now with old memories. “One letter revealed she had married. Even though she missed her family, she was happy, and in love. She was expecting a bobbli.”
Lillian turned toward Taryn on the swing. “It was due just after the new year.” Her voice softened as she said, “I believe that child was you. I believe you are Rebecca’s baby. You have her facial features. Her strong chin, and the slight curl of her hair.”
She reached up to take off her eyeglasses, revealing eyes the same unique shade as Susannah’s, and as Taryn’s. “And you have the King eyes,” Lillian stated.
Chapter 10
If her heart hammered earlier, it was nothing compared to now. For one long, tentative moment, it stuttered, stalling there in her chest as if its maestro had forgotten how to play. When it kicked back into rhythm, the beat was wild and erratic. Too fast, and too intense, to resemble any tune. Its maestro was as confused and disoriented as she was.
This was what she had come for. The answers she sought. These were the words she had wanted, the news she had always longed to hear. She had a name for her birth mother. She had family. Roots.
Why, then, did it feel so different from what she had imagined it would?
Her senses were numb. The only thing Taryn could feel was the blood draining from her face. For all she knew, it pooled there at her feet, leaving her lifeless and spent.
“Taryn Clark? Are you all right?” Lillian asked in concern.
Taryn attempted to speak, but the words would not come. She gave a slight shake of her head. When Lillian’s concern deepened, Taryn attempted a nod, hoping to convince at least one of them. She ended up with a deep, sorrow-filled sigh, strangled by a sob.
She finally found her voice. After a couple of false starts, she managed to speak, “I have more questions now, than ever.”
“So do I, Taryn Clark.”
It was illogical, but it was the first question out of her mouth. “Why do you always call me by my first and last name? Is that an Amish custom?”
“No. Although with so many of our friends and family having traditional names, the clarification does help,” Lillian admitted with a slight smile. It did little to dim the sad light in her eyes. “But the truth is, I heard the name from Rebecca. It means innocence. I call you by your full name, because I, too, named my first child Taren, spelled with an ‘e.’”
The news stunned her guest. “But—But Susannah never said a word!”
The sadness deepened. “She wouldn’t, now would she? My innocent Taren never drew her first breath.”
“Oh, Lillian. I’m so sorry,” Taryn breathed the whisper-soft words, at a loss for what else to say.
“Who am I to question God’s plan?”
After a long moment of reflection, other questions penetrated Taryn’s numbed brain.
“My mother’s letters never said why she left?”
“Her letters spoke of other things. Her new husband, and the tiny apartment where they lived. She never mentioned the city it was in, but she told me all about her new home. Described each room, and the wondrous English inventions she had discovered. She spoke of the plans they had for the future.”
“Who was my father, Lillian?” she asked softly.
“A handsome young man named Ahndray Lamont. He came here, to work on my father’s farm.”
“Was he Amish?”
Lillian actually laughed. “Oh, no. He was French. Your mother was immediately smitten with his dark eyes and his exotic accent.”
“Was that unusual? To hire someone who wasn’t Amish, I mean?”
Lillian took pause, cocking her head to one side as she considered the question. “Daedd had to get the bishop’s permission, of course, but he knew so much about horses. And Daedd was eager to improve the quality of his herd.”
Confused, Taryn tried to sort it in her own mind. “The bishop? Of France?”
“Nee. Of our district. Amish communities are divided into districts,” she explained. “Each district consists of about twenty-five to thirty families. They are our church family. We’re guided by a bishop, a deacon, our elders, and our preachers. If there is anything we question, we go to our bishop. Some bishops are more progressive than others. Some are more traditional. We trust his guidance to be in accordance with the Lord.”
Taryn couldn’t help the grooves forming between her drawn brows. “You must have permission to hire workers on your farm?”
“Normally, no. But Daedd was concerned about bringing in someone so different from us. He was worried about, I think you call it, owed influence?”
“I think you mean undue influence.”
Lillian looked a bit confused but nodded in agreement. “Jah. And you can see, his concern was justified. Rebecca fell in love with the foreigner.”
“They ran away together?” Taryn guessed.
“Not exactly. But jah, in the end, they were together.”
“Is my father… Do you have any idea what became of him?”
“He was forced to leave your mother. He was forced back to France.”
The surprises just kept coming. “He wasn’t a legal citizen?”
“I think not. I think the men came for him and forced him to go.”
Taryn’s heart ached for her birth mother. No wonder she was so frightened. Forced to go through labor without her husband, it was, no doubt, easier to say she was a widow, than to explain deportation laws.
“Why didn’t she just come home?” Taryn wondered aloud. Her eyes drifted to the adjacent horse farm. Her voice fell as she softly asked, “Would she have been welcomed?”
Lillian took a long moment to answer. “I want to think so,” she finally chose to say. “But I’m not certain.”
Taryn stared into the distance, wondering about the people who lived there. Her grandparents, so it seemed, but she felt no connection to them. What kind of parents wouldn’t welcome their daughter home at a time like that?
“I’ve heard of shunning,” she said, her voice still low. “Did they shun her?”
For this, Lillian shook her head. “Nee. Your mother was never baptized. Shu
nning is only for members who turn their back on the Church and the People.”
“But she left the farm. She left her family, and their way of life.”
“We do not force our faith upon our children. They must choose it for themselves. That is what our rumspringa is about. It allows each young person to choose for him or herself. Once baptized, they make a pact with God. A solemn oath to abide by the ways of the Church. Rebecca never made such a pact. She… left, so young. Before she was baptized.” A sigh escaped, and her next admission sounded troubled. “That doesn’t mean she would have been welcomed home with open arms, but she wasn’t shunned.”
“I must admit, I don’t understand some of the Amish ways.”
Lillian’s smile was bittersweet. “And we don’t understand all the ways of the Englisch.”
Taryn still had many questions, but one troubled her more than any other. Her voice came out raw.
“Tell me the truth, Lillian.” She gathered her courage around her like a shield and asked the most difficult question of all. It was a question she had avoided asking. Taryn wasn’t certain she wanted to know the answer.
Still, she had to ask. Had to say the words. Had to know the answer.
“Is my mother still alive?”
For the longest moment, Taryn thought she would not answer. The other woman stared into the pond, her violet eyes staring vacantly into the rippling water. There was pure heartache in her voice when she finally spoke. The words came slowly.
“My mind wants to believe she is. That she finally found peace, and happiness. Sometimes I think she may have made her way to France, to be with her beloved Ahndray. But my heart. My heart knows otherwise. Rebecca would never have forsaken her family in such a way. There can be only one explanation. Die Schweschder, my best friend and my confidante, my partner in mischief and fun, my dearest Rebecca…” Her voice hitched, but she soldiered on. “Your mother. In my heart, I know she lives in Heaven now.”
When Taryn offered her hand, Lillian clutched it within her grasp. They sat in silence, tears rolling down both their faces.
After a long moment, Taryn confided in the woman beside her. This stranger, who was also her aunt. “I came here, searching for my roots,” she admitted. “I’ve always felt so ungrounded. So adrift. Can you—Can you tell me a bit about my mother? What she was like?”
Lillian leaned toward her, a conspiratorial tone in her voice. To Taryn’s surprise, she wore a smile. “I can do better than that. I can introduce you to her.”
“What? How can that be?” In spite of her best intentions, Taryn pulled back just a bit. Was this woman deranged?
“Wait here. I won’t be but a few minutes.”
“But—”
“Wait here, Taryn Clark.” Lillian stood from the swing and adjusted her long skirts and apron. Just before slipping her eyeglasses back on, a shy smile stole over her face. “My niece.”
Taryn’s mind was full. Her brain actually hurt from the overload of unending questions, unexpected answers, and the enormity of them all. When her head became too heavy to hold upright, she propped it against the swing’s chain for support. Too overwhelmed to process the information, she rested her eyes and concentrated on calming her still-clamoring heart.
That was how Lillian found her, ten minutes later.
“Are you asleep?” she asked softly, fearful of disturbing her.
Without opening her eyes, Taryn replied, “My mind is too busy to sleep. In fact, I may never sleep again.”
“Then I bring you reading material for those sleepless nights.” There was almost a playful lilt in her voice, which snapped Taryn’s eyes instantly open. Lillian smiled, holding a cloth-covered book toward her.
“What is that?” Even to her own ears, her words sounded suspicious.
“One of your mother’s prayer journals. I thought you might like to read it.”
“Are you kidding me? I’d love to!” When she reached for it with eager hands, Lillian laughed aloud.
“I thought you might appreciate that. It will be almost like meeting her in person.”
“Well, not really,” Taryn said with a frown, even as she thumbed through the pages. She recognized the writing immediately. The loose, flowing script was so precise, yet so graceful. Exactly like the letter from the jewelry box.
If she still harbored any doubts about Rebecca being her birth mother—which she didn’t—this journal dispelled them.
“Well, I have chores to do, and I suspect you have an afternoon of reading ahead of you. Do you need anything in the cottage? Fresh towels? More linens?”
“I’ve barely gotten settled. Everything is perfect but thank you.”
“Very well. Again, if you need anything, knock at the house.”
When Lillian turned to go, Taryn stopped her with a heartfelt acknowledgment. “Thank you. Thank you for giving me this. It means the world to me.” She hugged the journal to her heart, already bonding with the young girl who wrote it.
“I hope the journals give you the answers you seek.”
“Wait. Journals, as in more than one? There are more?”
“Jah. And letters, too.”
“Really? Can I read those, as well?” she asked, the excitement glowing in her violet eyes.
“All in good time. Patience, my Taryn Clark. Patience.”
Chapter 11
From the Journal of Rebecca King
My name is Rebecca King. My teacher says the best way to learn perfect English is to immerse ourselves in it. Im-merce. I like that word. It reminds me that I am (I’m) surrounded by our Lord’s great mercy. I am immersed in it.
A benefit to writing my journal in English is that my younger siblings (we learned that word today) Lillian, Rose, Abigail, and John cannot read English letters yet. I can keep my thoughts to myself. Josiah and Gilbert read, but they have no interest in the foolish ramblings of their eleven-year-old sister.
Thank you, oh great and mighty God, for our blessings. Thank you for my family and my siblings. Even the nosy ones.
Today I helped my mother with baking. (It is hard to remember not to call her Mamm, but teacher says we must write entirely in English.) It will be our turn to host Church next week, so the cleaning and the baking are well underway! The men brought the bench wagon yesterday, so my brothers are busy mucking out the barn and cleaning it. Mother says it must shine! When they are done, we will line the benches up for the service, in nice, even rows. Little John is old enough now to sit with the men, and not with our mother on the women side. He missed last service because of his cough, so he is excited to be among the men next week. It is sometimes hard to be excited about a three-hour service, preached entirely in German, while sitting on a hard, backless bench. At least he has this small accomplishment to look forward to.
Thank you, oh great and merciful Lord, for all of life’s small pleasures.
Twenty snitz pies. Ten apple pies. Two gallons of smear cheese. Two gallons of peanut butter spread. Twenty loaves of bread. We have whipped and fluffed, beaten and kneaded, baked and cooked.
Thank you, our dear Lord, for letting it be over. Tomorrow is Church.
Further pages in…
Today is my thirteenth birthday. Mother made my favorite meal and my very own chocolate shoofly pie. My best friend Constance came for dinner. She gave me a new bookmark, one she crocheted herself. Her stitches are so neat and even, unlike my own. I would much rather spend my time with the horses than with the crochet needles.
Please give me patience, dear Lord, to count neat stitches and showcase your talents and mercy through my humble hands.
An English came today, to see my father’s horses. He drove a silly-looking little car, no bigger than our courting carriage, and not half as tall. I wonder how he folded his long legs to fit inside the cramped space. It must feel strange, sitting so low to the ground!
He asked to buy one of Daedd’s (here the word was marked through and corrected with its English translation) Father’s hors
es. They talked for a while, and the man examined each horse with care. Before he drove away, they shook hands, so he must have purchased Sweet Sage. I will miss her.
Dear merciful Lord, please watch over the man who is buying our horse and guide him in caring for Sweet Sage. She is one of my favorites. Please help me to remain humble and ever grateful for your many blessings. Amen.
Chapter 12
The journal continued throughout that year and part of the next, offering snippets and insight into her mother’s pre-teen life.
Lost in the pages of flowing script, Taryn had no concept of time. The shadows of the day lengthened, and still she read on. She moved from the gazebo to the deck. When darkness fell, she moved indoors to the couch. She snacked for supper, finishing the journal well before bedtime.
By the time she crawled into bed, she felt a new connection to the woman who gave her life. She still had no idea why Rebecca had given her up for adoption. Why she checked into the hospital under an assumed name, or why she was so paranoid about being discovered. Taryn still didn’t know why she left the farm in the first place, or why she never returned.
But there were so many other things she knew about her mother. She knew that she favored the color red. She knew she liked to read, and that she adored horses. Rebecca spent as much time as possible in the barns, combing the horse’s manes and grooming their slick, shiny coats until they shone. She gave them all names, even when their official papers registered them under more auspicious-sounding monikers. She dreamed of one day owning—or of marrying a man who owned—a horse farm of his own. Rebecca adored her father, but she hinted at things she would do differently, if the choice were hers.
The journals offered Taryn not only a glimpse into her mother’s thoughts, but into her everyday life. Living on a farm, her childhood was vastly different from the one Taryn had known, and yet it seemed that eleven and twelve-year-old girls were much the same, no matter where they lived or what their faith. Rebecca worried about the same things Taryn had worried about at that age, had enjoyed many of the same pleasures as her, and shared similar tastes and opinions. Even though Rebecca was raised Amish and Taryn was raised with no particular faith, they still had much in common.