by Becki Willis
Susannah perked up, her own eyes revealing the same violet sparkle. “Deal! What kind?”
“Pie is pie, right?”
Pushing in her chair, she warned, “Snitz pie may be an acquired taste. I’ll bring peach or strawberry.”
“Sounds delicious. Have fun canning.”
With her morning companion gone, Taryn eagerly pulled out the journals. She found the one sequential to the first one she had read and settled in for a day of reading, but her playful mood soon soured.
She found that the tone of the journals had changed.
From the Journal of Rebecca King
The man with the funny little car came again. This time, he came with a truck and trailer, and he left with three of our horses. He pulled out the largest stack of money I have ever seen, and he handed several of the bills—dozens! —to Father.
Dear and generous Lord, please bless the man and keep him safe, so that he might return and share more of his wealth with our family.
His generosity brings this thought to mind:
The joy you give to others is the joy that comes back to you.
Little John continues to cough. The sound echoes in his lungs and rattles his small chest and turns his face purple. He has not grown as he should. He’s four now, and still wearing clothes meant for the cradle.
Please, sweet Jesus, heal my little brother and make him whole. In your precious name I pray, amen.
I heard my parents whispering again tonight, after the house was dark and quiet. Their voices sounded sad. When Little John began his nightly cough, I heard my mother crying. Please, Lord, lay your hand upon this child and make him well.
We have tried everything we know for Little John’s cough. My parents have finally taken him to a doctor in the city. I know my father is worried how he will pay for it, so I will say a special prayer that the English man returns, even though I don’t think I like him much. Forgive me, Lord, for my uncharitable thoughts. Please send the man back for more horses.
One of the horses is sick. I asked Father what is wrong with her, but he did not answer. The mare had a strange look in her eyes. They looked glassy and wild, as if she had a fever. I hope it is not contagious. With Little John still so very sick, the horses are the one bright spot in my day. It’s been so long now, over a year, and still my little brother coughs and cries, and grows weaker each day.
Sometimes, I see that same glassy look in his eyes, and it frightens me.
I think I made a mistake. I prayed for the man to return, and he did. But I heard him arguing with my father. Father never raises his voice, but he did today. I will no longer pray for the man to return. I will pray for someone new to buy our horses. Someone who is kinder and gentler. I do not like the way this man touches the horses, or the way he forces them to run. I do not like the way he speaks to my father, no matter how many bills he pulls from his pocket.
I try to keep charitable and positive thoughts in my mind while the man is here, like this one:
Live in such a way that if anyone should speak badly of you, no one will believe it.
The mare has that look again, and this time, she truly went mad. She crashed through the fence and trampled the hay field. She tangled herself in the clothesline and destroyed a day’s worth of laundry. Her cuts are deep, and her eyes are still glassy.
The saddest sound in the world has to be the echo of Father’s gun, echoing through the hills as he put the mare out of her misery.
I was wrong. I heard the absolute saddest sound in the world tonight. I shall never forget it.
Little John’s cough was worse than ever. I heard my father pacing the floor, and my mother sobbing. The sounds of his cough reached a frightful peak, and then gradually grew weaker.
And then, there was no sound at all.
Today is my fourteenth birthday, but we are not celebrating. Today, we are turning our dear, sweet Little John over to God’s eternal care. Lord, please bring peace and healing to our family, and to my mother, whose heart is most surely broken.
Chapter 15
The journal ended there. After reading the heart-wrenching entries, Taryn had to get out for a while. She took a drive into town, but the roads were busy on a Saturday afternoon. Tourists clogged the otherwise sleepy backroads and crowded into the quaint shops and businesses.
Still seeking an outlet for her dark mood, Taryn visited one of the malls in the area. After the rainstorm the other day, she was short one pair of pants, and she had few to spare. She could do a little shopping and hopefully shake the gloom that settled upon her shoulders like a heavy cloak.
An hour or so later, Taryn exited the stores.
Although normally not one to believe in retail therapy, she had to admit that even with two bags dangling from her arms, her shoulders felt lighter already. Maybe there was something to the phenomenon, after all.
A cluster of people gathered outside the complex, and a television news van sat squarely in her path, blocking the way to her car. Curious as to what the commotion was about, Taryn stopped to look.
It appeared to be a ribbon cutting for a new restaurant. Now that she thought about it, she could eat. She had skipped lunch, lost in the pages of the journal, with only a slice of strawberry pie to fill her belly. Maybe she could hang around long enough to get an early table.
A dozen or so people posed for the cameras, their smiles practiced and overly bright. Two men balanced a gigantic pair of golden scissors between them. A beauty queen, or so the sash stretched taunt across her ample bosom claimed, took center stage, her smile the brightest of all.
With all the fanfare of the local dignitaries and the pretty girl, Taryn couldn’t even see the name of the restaurant. She shook her head with a mild sense of amusement.
Any amusement she may have felt promptly died when she caught sight of one of the scissor bearers’ faces.
“What is that man doing here?” she muttered between clenched teeth. He was like a bad penny, turning up where she least expected him.
Taryn ducked her head and scurried away, before Thomas Baxter saw her there in the crowd. With that man’s ego, he would surely think she was there for him, following him around like some political groupie!
No doubt, this all tied into his upcoming bid for public office. It never hurt, being seen with beauty queens and small-town officials, particularly while welcoming new businesses to the area. He would probably be kissing babies next, and helping little old ladies across the street, whether they wanted to cross, or not.
Feeling her dark mood returning, Taryn decided to treat herself to dinner, at a restaurant far, far away.
Or, at least, one town over.
Back in her room, Taryn tried on the clothes she had just purchased. She had nothing better to do, and the ego boost might keep her spirits buoyed. An excellent meal, followed by an even more excellent glass of wine, had gone a long way in doing its part to lift them. Trying on the figure-flattering outfits might push her cheerful meter right over the top.
Taryn studied herself in the full-length mirror. So maybe without the specialized lighting—and after that delicious but fattening meal—the outfits didn’t look quite the same now, as they had earlier. But they still looked fairly good, and she needed the additions to her closet.
Yes, she decided, they would just have to do. She peeled the blouse from her body and snipped off the tags, before she could change her mind. Her phone dinged as she padded across the room in only her underwear.
Her cheerful meter pegged out when she saw Bryce’s name on the screen.
Any new relatives today?
A smile touched her face. Today, he was the first to reach out. That had to account for something.
Not yet, but the night’s still young.
Bryce:
Really? Feels late.
She plopped down onto the couch and typed a reply.
Another hard day?
Bryce:
Taking depositions. Always long and tedious. Headed down t
o the pool to relax. How was your day?
Reluctant to tell the truth, she went with an amended version.
Ended well. Did some clothes shopping and discovered an amazing restaurant.
She could all but hear his chuckle.
I didn’t think those pants would survive.
Taryn laughed at the reminder, knowing she must have looked a fright that day.
They’re goners. Bought a nice, mud-proof gray.
There was a brief lag in response. So much for scintillating conversation. She was an idiot, discussing her sad little wardrobe with the man.
Her phone finally binged.
Looks hot.
Taryn’s breath caught in her throat. She threw a hand over her scantily covered chest, clad only in a lacy bra. Her fingers flew frantically across the screen.
You can’t actually SEE me, can you?
Bryce:
No.
Then,
What are you wearing?
She gasped. Even she knew the sound was only part outrage. The other part, she had to admit, was just the tiniest bit of thrill. Was he sexting her?
Okay, a fourth bit thrill.
Half, tops.
When the screen remained blank on her end, he wrote again.
It was a joke. A bad one, at that.
And a typo before that. Should say pool’s hot.
Taryn wracked her brain for a smart comeback. She couldn’t let him know how the ill-fated joke affected her.
Too bad.
It was all she could come up. To clear up any confusion, she inadvertently made matters worse.
About the pool. Not about the joke.
She could practically hear him laughing at her. Her cheeks flamed in embarrassment, even though he, blessedly, could not see her. His reply came with a built-in chuckle.
We’d better quit now, before we get ourselves in real trouble.
Was he being a gentleman, saving her from further humiliation? Or was this line of conversation simply too outrageous to continue?
Either way, she wrote back,
Agreed.
Bryce:
Say good night, Taryn.
She followed his instructions.
Good night, Taryn.
With that smart reply, she fell sideways on the couch and buried her heated face into the pillow.
Chapter 16
From the Journal of Rebecca King
I wonder if our world will ever return to normal. It’s been almost a full year since Little John passed, and still we mourn. Mamm is not the same. There is an emptiness in her eyes. If the eyes are truly a window to the soul, it does not bode well for our family.
The man came again today. It has been so long since he was here, I hoped he had forgotten us, but no such fortune. I overheard him arguing again with Father. I couldn’t hear the words, but I know the look. Father is not happy. The man is smug. And Mother still weeps at night when she thinks we don’t hear.
Samuel Stoltzfus has asked me to Sunday singing with a group of friends. I am not quite fifteen and do not wish to go, but Mother says I should spend more time with people my own age, and less time with the horses. I suppose I must go, if only to make her happy.
I have completed my eighth-grade studies at school and am moving on to three-hour school. Unless I’m needed at home or have a job elsewhere, the state says I must go, once a week, until I turn fifteen. I must also keep a journal, which I do. At my next birthday, I may stop my schooling, but I like getting out of the house, if only for a few hours a week.
Today, Samuel stopped by for a visit, but I am not interested. He is nice enough, if he can hold his complaints to himself.
While in Samuel’s presence, I often think of Father’s favorite quote:
There is no sense of advertising your troubles. There’s no market for them anyhow.
I find that I like keeping a journal. With my education behind me, it is no longer required, but I think I shall continue.
Constance tells me that Samuel was seen last week, swooning over Beatrice Lapp. I think they make a perfect couple. Both boring as a stick, and skinny as one, to boot.
Since this is no longer a prayer journal, I do not have to ask for Gott’s forgiveness for my wicked thoughts or worry about writing strictly in English. But I know my thoughts are uncharitable, so Gott, please forgive me.
The man came again today. He has traded his funny little car for a long, shiny model. He thinks it makes him look important. Was there a time when I prayed for this man? This toad? He is full of hot air and self-importance, hopping around and issuing orders, expecting everyone to do his bidding. Why does Father not send him away? Why did I ever want him here to begin with? I wish he would leave, and never return, but he is my father’s best buyer.
He always has money. He thinks money means power. He tries to push my father around.
Today, I was in the barn when they came in. I did not mean to hear, but they did not see me, and I did not want to disturb them.
The man said my father must do something. Whatever the something is, Father is reluctant. He said he regretted ever agreeing the first time, but the man only laughed. He said he paid my father well for the deed, whatever it was, and that my father owes him. I know Father dislikes being beholden to anyone, least of all this toad. I wish there was something I could do to help, but I am only a girl.
So I will wait, and I will listen. And I will never trust this man.
Thought for the day:
Think all you speak, but speak not all you think.
Mamm says I should begin to consider my rumspringa. I will be sixteen soon, and several boys have invited me to Sunday singing, and on carriage rides. Robert Beiler has a car now and asked me to go riding with him. Samuel continues to stop by, uninvited.
Oh! Constance and Rueben are a couple now. I am happy for my friend.
Mother is steadily improving. Some days, she is almost jubilant. The mood swings are unpredictable, but they are beginning to level out. The emptiness is gone from her eyes, but I’m not certain I like its replacement. Something seems odd about it.
Father spends more and more time with the horses. Word is spreading about the fine quality of horseflesh he raises. People come from all over now to buy them and are willing to pay top dollar.
Sadly, the man still comes.
Molly returned Taryn’s call on Sunday evening. The farm had been quiet all day, as the family had attended Church at a neighboring farm. It had been just Taryn and the journal, so she welcomed the interaction.
Besides, she had missed her friend.
“When are you coming home?” Molly wanted to know.
“I’m not sure. I’ll be here at least the rest of the week.”
“Whatever are you finding to do down there? Aren’t you going out of your mind, with no television?”
“Honestly, I haven’t even noticed. I’ve been quite busy, actually.”
“Doing what? Don’t tell me you’ve gone to milking cows!”
Taryn made a face through the phone, even though her friend could not see it. Molly knew only the basics. She knew Taryn had discovered her birth mother’s name and located some of her family, but she didn’t know her friend was staying with them.
“No. They use automatic milking machines for that. But I did help Deborah gather eggs this morning. It was actually rather fun,” Taryn admitted with a giggle.
“Who’s Deborah? The owner of the house where you’re staying?”
“Her daughter. Lillian is the owner. She and her husband Peter. And there’s something I didn’t tell you before. Lillian is actually my aunt.”
“Your aunt? Your aunt? You’ve actually met your family and you’re just now telling me? Why would you do that?”
The answer was simple. Taryn had known her friend would react this way. With Molly, everything was loud and exaggerated. It was part of her sunny disposition. Taryn loved her dear friend to pieces, but sometimes Molly made things more complicated than the
y needed to be. Taryn was a fan of simple.
She needed simple in her life right now. With so much being thrown at her, she needed the quiet and solitude of simple, even if it meant keeping this new phase of her life from Molly.
For once in her life, at least since she was a little girl, Taryn had a family. It may have sounded selfish, but she wanted to savor it to herself for a while.
She explained things to Molly now, pausing several times for her friend to make exclamations and interject her thoughts on the subject.
“So what now? What will you do next?”
“I’m reading my mother’s journals, searching for some clue as to why she disappeared. I’m also learning about the person she was.” Her voice warmed with affection. “She was pretty cool, Mol. I know we would have been close, if things had been different.”
“Did you ever hear back from that private eye? Is he going to help you? Or do you even need his help now? It sounds like you’ve learned the things you went for, without his help.”
“I haven’t even started. Sure, I know the names of both my parents now, but that’s all I know. I don’t even know for certain if my mother is dead. Lillian believes she is, but we have no proof. And I haven’t even read the letters yet. I’m still working on the journals.”
“What letters?”
“The ones my mother sent home to my aunt.”