by Leslie Gould
I told him the service would be held in Pennsylvania Dutch and German. He knew a smattering of both but not enough to keep up. He assured me he’d enjoy it anyway. It warmed my heart that he wanted to attend with me.
He asked about my plans for Christmas. I exhaled. Honestly, I wasn’t sure. I doubted I’d spend it with Mamm and David. Or Arden and his family. Hopefully, one of my sisters—or both—would invite me to spend it with them.
People in Mamm’s district helped clean the house from top to bottom, pack up the things she was taking to David’s house, and clean out the rest of our things so Arden and his family could move in. I stopped by on Wednesday after work to see if I could help.
As Milton and Luke moved the furniture Mamm wasn’t taking to David’s house out to the storage room in the barn, I asked if I could have Dat’s desk.
“Definitely not,” she answered. “I’m leaving that for Arden.”
When she was distracted by Aenti Suz asking about the rocking chair, I slipped into Dat’s study for one last look. Mamm had packed up all of her material and quilting supplies. Dat’s desk and chair were pushed against the far wall and all of the bookcases were empty. Even the set of encyclopedias was gone.
At one time, when it was Dat’s study, the room had been the heart of the house for me. Now, I stood in the middle of it, overcome with grief.
As I stared at the empty bookcases, I thought of my missing copy of Gray’s Anatomy. Perhaps it had turned up when Mamm went through everything. I couldn’t imagine her giving it to me if it had. More likely, she stashed it somewhere.
Dat had a row of built-in cupboards on the left side of the room. I checked each one, but they were all empty. I was sure Mamm had cleaned out the desk, but I decided to open the drawers anyway. She’d left pens, pencils, and unused notebooks for Arden in the top drawers. The right bottom drawer was completely empty, but as I opened the left one, I could tell by the weight of it that it wasn’t.
I pulled out the drawer. There were several books inside. I took them out, one by one. Dat’s Bible. An old, fragile copy of Martyrs Mirror that had been in the family for generations. An Ausbund hymnal. A collection of family directories. And then, at the very bottom, there it was. My copy of Gray’s Anatomy—oversized with a white cover and a medical illustration of a body from the shoulders up.
I lifted it from the drawer and sat on the floor, cradling it, remembering all of the conversations Dat and I had based on the information inside. I opened it carefully.
I leafed through it, soaking in the familiar illustrations once again. Bones. Muscles. Arteries. Organs. I stopped at page 258 and stared at a piece of white paper, folded in two and wedged in the center of the book, next to an illustration of the right atrium and ventricle of the heart. Leisel was written on the outside in Dat’s handwriting.
My own heart raced as I pulled the paper from the book and opened it, feeling both the loss of not finding this until now and the blessing of finding it at all.
Dear Leisel,
If you are reading this, then I am gone and your mother has given you the book we both love so much, with this note tucked inside. I hope you will come across my message sooner rather than later. I’m praying for God’s timing.
Eighteen is young to lose your father. I’m so sorry to be leaving when your adulthood is just beginning. Your care for me has made the last months bearable. I’ve known for years that God has given you a special gift—I just never thought He would use it to serve me.
In writing this, I am not being a good Amish father, and I know Bishop Jacobs and others in our community would not approve, but if you decide to leave for other pursuits, please don’t second-guess your decision. Don’t believe God will punish you, no matter what others say. Please continue listening to God and His story. Those who don’t end up writing their own—with added superstitions. Please do all you can to avoid that situation.
I’m praying for wisdom for you, that you know when to speak up and when to stay quiet. But know that confronting others is sometimes a good idea. I’m afraid I haven’t always set a good example for you when it comes to that. Which brings me to my next point:
Don’t give in to fear. Trust. Move forward. Take risks. Whether you stay or go, find a way to use the gift God has given you, and find a husband—God willing—to support you in whatever you decide to do.
Do your best to stay connected to your mother. Life has been harder for her than most. Be gentle with her and kind. Encourage her to love again, to trust. To give up her fear. Always remember that she cares for you.
Most important, know how much God loves you. He perfectly designed you. Live for Him. Love for Him. And serve for Him.
Yours, Dat
I struggled to breathe. Dat had written the letter over four years ago. Whatever he had planned for it, Mamm hadn’t followed through. Had she leafed through the pages and found the note? And then hidden the book from me?
I turned on my heels to go find her, the book in one hand and the note in the other. She was on the back porch, directing Milton and Luke to bring in the church benches. I held up the note. “Look what I just found.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Your book?”
“The note from Dat. The one he wrote to me before he died.”
“Oh, that.” She held the porch door open wider for the boys to come through.
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“Your father said he prayed you’d read it at the right time—it hasn’t come yet.” She shrugged. “I don’t think now is the right time either, but perhaps God has a different plan.” Obviously, she didn’t think it would ever have been the right time.
I hugged the book to my chest. Why hadn’t Dat just given me the note? Why had he tucked it inside the book and relied on Mamm? Perhaps in his foggy state he hadn’t been thinking clearly. On the other hand, he wasn’t known for his directness. Had he avoided conflict? Was that where I got it from?
He’d asked me to be gentle and kind with Mamm, to know she cared for me. Right now, I wanted nothing to do with her. But it was the day before her wedding. I couldn’t honor my father and tear into her at the same time.
She turned away from me and headed out the back door toward the church wagon. I muttered good-bye and left through the front.
What would the last four years have been like if I’d had Dat’s note? Would I have been walking an imaginary line, trying to straddle both the Anabaptist world and the Englisch world as best I could? Coming up with my own rules to keep God from punishing me? Would I have been more willing to listen to Nick? To understand his point of view?
Feeling ill, I drove home, the note tucked into my purse and the book on the passenger seat beside me.
I picked up Marie at five o’clock the next morning and headed back to the farm. Jessica was already there, but in the bathroom, when we arrived. I heard a retching noise and knocked on the door. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t answer, but the toilet flushed and then the water ran. When she opened the door, she was pale.
“Morning sickness?” I whispered.
She nodded.
I couldn’t help but grin.
She put her finger to her lips. Perhaps she wanted to wait to tell Marie, although I was sure our sister would be as happy as I was.
We cooked breakfast while the men did the chores. After we’d all eaten, we started finishing up the details for the meal. Stephen arrived at eight and helped put the aluminum pans full of meatballs that we had made the day before into the ovens to warm, while Marie and I put out the plates and silverware for the meal.
Jessica was back in the bathroom. Marie gave me a questioning look, and I shrugged. She smiled at me in return. I directed Stephen to sit by Arden on the men’s side when it was time for the service. Once Jessica came out of the bathroom, the three of us girls, along with Ruby, slipped into the second row on the women’s side. Gordon had arrived with Caden and sat in the back.
Bishop Jacobs led t
he service, first preaching about marriage and then calling Mamm and David up front.
Both of my sisters had had difficulties with the bishop, but I never had. He did write me a letter after I moved to Pittsburgh, outlining his concerns for my soul if I didn’t join the Amish. Honestly, I felt unsettled about it. But at the time it wasn’t enough to make me question leaving.
I never wrote Bishop Jacobs back or responded in any way.
Now he said a few more words about marriage, and then about second marriages in particular, and then took Mamm’s and David’s hands in his. I was happy for my mother, I truly was. David was a good man. I just hoped she wouldn’t let fear control her second marriage the way she had her relationships with all of us.
For a moment, I wondered what Mamm and Dat’s wedding had been like. Dawdi Joe and Mammi Martha would still have been alive, although not for much longer. I thought of them and Dat. Their stories would live on. We would not forget them. Even though they were no longer with us, they were still a part of our Samling, our gathering, because I’d never forget what they’d lived for and what they’d taught their children.
Bishop Jacobs asked if all of us would support Mamm and David in their marriage, and I joined the others in saying I would. And I meant it, which also meant at some point I needed to confront Mamm about her fears.
After the ceremony, we worked in the kitchen while the men, including Stephen, set up the tables. As I watched him, I thought of Dat’s letter to me. Don’t give in to fear. Trust. Move forward. Take risks. Whether you stay or go, find a way to use the gift God has given you, and find a husband—God willing—to support you in whatever you decide to do. I don’t remember ever being fearful around Dat. Why would he caution me not to give into fear?
David’s family pitched in to clean up after everyone was done eating, and then it was time for all of them and Mamm to leave. She’d ride with David in one of the three vans his children had hired. For a moment she seemed flustered as she turned toward us. But then she collected herself and said good-bye. It was never her way to be affectionate, which was the norm, but she did pat each of us on the back and say, “I’ll write once I’m settled.”
We followed Mamm and David and his family out to the vans and watched as Mamm climbed in and disappeared, and then we waved as the vans headed up Oak Road. Mamm was in the first one, and I knew she couldn’t see us any longer, but we still stood there until the last van was out of sight.
I swallowed back my tears. My childhood was over. And I was all alone.
Stephen stood a few feet away beside Gordon. I inhaled sharply. Why had I assumed Stephen could take the place of Nick? Paisley and Autumn would have told me that I was in a rebound relationship, an unhealthy one. And they would have been right. Aenti Suz had tried to tell me. And Jessica and Marie. But I hadn’t been able—or willing—to do anything until now. Panic seized me. That old adrenaline rush and the urge to flee, which I usually did. After Jessica and Marie and their families left and Aenti Suz went out to the Dawdi Haus, Stephen and I sat down at the old oak table for another piece of rhubarb pie and a cup of coffee.
He took a bite, savored it, swallowed, and then smiled. “What a treat. It reminds me of home.”
I took a bite too, but I was afraid my face was sour.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m sorry.” I put my fork down. “I can’t do this anymore.”
He held up his fork, which was loaded with another bite. “You don’t like rhubarb?”
I exhaled. I had more choices than fight or flight. I could trust. And move forward.
And talk.
“No, I do like rhubarb. That’s not it. I can’t do our relationship. I’ve been unfair to both of us. I don’t love you.”
He put his fork in his mouth. Swallowed. And then took another bite. He swallowed again and said, “This probably isn’t the best time to talk.”
Obviously he hated conflict as much as I did. “No, it is,” I answered.
He pushed back the chair. “Is there another guy?”
There had been another guy, but there wasn’t anymore. However, the memory of him, plus Dat’s note, made it clear Stephen wasn’t right for me. But it didn’t mean Nick was.
I told Stephen about finding Dat’s note and realizing that I needed more. “I’ve given up my dreams this last year,” I said. “I need to get them back.”
I’d finally stepped up and spoken my truth.
Perhaps I’d overestimated how much Stephen cared for me because he honestly didn’t seem that upset. It wouldn’t be long until he found another woman to date. He wouldn’t be alone for long, whereas I might be alone for the rest of my life. But that would be better than marrying a man who wouldn’t challenge me and who wasn’t willing to take risks with me. A man I didn’t love.
23
The next day, sitting on my secondhand couch, I texted Paisley and Autumn and invited myself to see them in Wilmington the next week, if possible. Both had to work the night before Thanksgiving, so they wouldn’t be going home to Philadelphia, but they both had the next day off.
Plan to be here by late Thanksgiving Day, Paisley texted back. We can hang out on Friday.
The next thing I did was pull out the piece of paper from the diner in Somerset. I stared at the number for a long moment, guessing it was the woman’s cell phone number. I hated making phone calls. I was tempted to text her—but I couldn’t do that. I’d been awful enough as it was.
I dialed the numbers slowly. A woman answered. “This is Shari.”
“Hi,” I said and then quickly explained who I was.
“Oh, hello. I’d given up on you ever calling.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, dreading what she’d say next. Would she blame me for her husband’s death? I fought back against my fear and kicked into Nurse Leisel mode. “I’m so sorry your husband didn’t make it.”
“His name was Sonny.”
I said I remembered. “What did he die from?”
“A massive heart attack.”
There wasn’t anything I could have done to stop it. I hoped she realized that.
She continued, “The doctor said even if he’d been in the hospital when it happened, they probably couldn’t have saved him. He had severe blockage. Ninety-nine percent.”
I winced. “Did he have any symptoms? Prior to that night?”
“Looking back, yes. A few times he’d had shortness of breath. And he thought he had the flu a few days before, but not much more than that.”
“He was so young,” I said.
“Yes,” she answered. “And he had no family history of heart disease, that we know of.” She paused a moment and then said, “Do you remember he had a heartbeat when the ambulance arrived? Because of the CPR?”
“Yes.” I swallowed, not trusting myself to say any more.
“He was still alive when he reached the hospital—at least his heart was beating. They put him on a ventilator to keep him breathing until his parents arrived. His daughter from his first marriage, who is twenty now, and his ex came from Cleveland. And my parents also, although they live close. We all got to say good-bye. . . . It meant so much. And, you know, I hope it meant something to him too.”
I read between the lines. He was brain-dead by then. The blockage had been bad enough that it prevented any oxygen from getting to his brain, even though the CPR brought his heartbeat back. But she was right—at least it got him to the hospital and onto a ventilator.
“We were all able to tell him good-bye because of you.”
“But I couldn’t save him,” I said.
“No. But I was able to run my hand through his hair one last time. To hold him.” I could hear the tears in her voice. “All three of his kids curled up on the bed beside him. I used to have a strained relationship with his ex, but not anymore. We’re the best of friends now. And our children will always have each other.”
Tears stung my eyes.
“We all thanked God that you stopp
ed by the diner that evening. The pastor even talked about you at the funeral, saying that even though things didn’t work out the way we wanted, God put you there to ease our pain and make letting go of Sonny a little bit easier.”
I swiped at my eyes with my free hand.
“So thank you,” Shari said. “And please don’t feel bad about him not surviving. You have a gift. I felt that as you worked on Sonny, as you directed those other men, as you did your thing. And as you spoke with me and my children.” Her voice grew stronger. “And it means so much that you called today, it really does.”
I didn’t want to burden her with all I’d been through the last six months, especially when it paled in comparison to her own pain, but I did manage to say, “You can’t know how much this means to me, to hear your story.”
Her voice was strong as she said, “Life is so unpredictable. If there’s someone special in your life, hold him close.”
I sighed. “There isn’t.”
“Well,” she said, “when there is, don’t ever take him for granted.” I thought of Mildred and John. Joe and Martha. Jessica and Silas. Marie and Gordon. Even of Mamm and Dat. And now Mamm and David. Marriage had been wonderfully designed. It was a blessing.
After we said good-bye and ended the call, I felt a freedom I hadn’t since Jessica called to tell me Marie was in the hospital. God had been at work the evening I stopped at the diner. His ways weren’t our ways, but He hadn’t abandoned Shari and her children. And He hadn’t abandoned me either.
Years ago, when I was fourteen or so, a woman in our district had come to see Dat. Her husband had died in a buggy accident the year before, then her oldest son had been arrested for selling drugs. She’d been caring for her mother who had dementia, along with her younger children too, trying to make ends meet. She believed God was punishing her. There wasn’t anything specific she believed God was angry with her about, just generally who she was.
Dat reminded her of the story of Job. Then he quoted from Matthew 5:45, “. . . for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.”