Portrait of a Sister

by Laura Bradford

“That was some, yah. But it was more the way he listens.”

  Miss Lottie leaned forward, grabbed hold of Katie’s hand, and held it until Katie looked up at her. “I have seen Abram with you. He cares very much for you, Katie. And I know he listens, too.”

  She returned Miss Lottie’s squeeze and then, pulling her hand back, rested her head against the upright, as well. They’d come full circle, back to the reason she was there in the first place—a reason that churned her stomach with dread.

  “Katie?”

  “You’re right, Miss Lottie, Abram does listen. But there are things he cannot know.”

  “Tell me, child.”

  She looked from the wooden-beamed ceiling above her head, to Sadie and Digger, and then back again, all the while praying silently for the same peace Mamm always seemed to have after a talk with Miss Lottie. “I draw things I should not draw.”

  When she heard nothing but silence in response, she peeked out. Miss Lottie was simply sitting there, watching her, with an odd expression on her gently lined face.

  “They are things I should not draw, Miss Lottie.”

  “Is that what is wrapped inside?” Miss Lottie asked, directing Katie’s attention back to the folded quilt she’d set aside upon her arrival.

  “Yah.”

  “May I see it?”

  Wordlessly, she stood, crossed to the table on the other side of the porch, and slowly unwrapped her sketch pad, her shoulders heavy.

  “Bring it here, child.”

  She did as she was told, but it wasn’t easy. The knowledge that she would soon see disappointment on the elderly woman’s face was almost more than she could stand.

  Miss Lottie set the sketch pad on her lap and flipped the cover over her knees. Page by page, she made her way through the book—

  Mamm gardening.

  Samuel chasing the chicken with Mary looking on and laughing.

  Mary and Sadie walking across the pasture, hand in hand.

  Hannah dangling upside down from a tree.

  Dat guiding the team back to the barn after a long day in the fields.

  Annie looking up from her crib, her thumb unable to hide her joy at seeing Mamm looking back.

  Jakob playing leapfrog with Sadie in the front yard.

  Fancy Feet licking herself in the center of a sunspot.

  A bedridden Mamm during her final weeks of life—

  “Oh, Katie . . .”

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Lottie. I know I should not draw such things. I-I know—”

  “It is like looking at a photograph,” Miss Lottie said, her voice husky.

  She swallowed, but it did nothing to dislodge the lump that had suddenly affixed itself midway up the inside of her throat. Instead, she cast her eyes down at her feet and waited for the reprimand she deserved.

  “How did you learn to draw like this, Katie?”

  Snapping her head up, she stared at Miss Lottie, the disappointment she expected nowhere to be found. “I-I just try. I make lots of mistakes and erase many times, but I try until it looks the way it does in my memory.”

  “When do you draw these?”

  “At night. After Mamm—” She shifted her weight across her feet and tried again. “After Dat blows out his candle.”

  “Do you draw by lantern?”

  “I draw by moonlight when I can. When there is no moon, I wait until I am sure Dat is asleep and then, yah, I light a candle.”

  Miss Lottie paused her fingertips on the side of Mamm’s face and peered up at Katie. “And the pacing Mary spoke of yesterday?”

  “I didn’t know she could hear me. I will find another way to keep from drawing. But it is just that it . . . well, it’s . . .” At a loss for how best to explain her feelings, she looked out at Sadie.

  “It’s become a part of you, hasn’t it?”

  She turned her watery gaze back on Miss Lottie. “Yah.”

  “Oh, Katie . . .”

  Lowering herself to the floor, she stared out over the carefully tended lawn she could see through the slats of the railing. “I know I should not draw such things. I know I am making graven images I should not make. But the memories I draw are so vivid in my head, and it is something that is just me. It is not something Hannah taught me or helped me do or did for me because I was too afraid. It is something only I do. On my own. As Katie, instead of Hannah’s sister.”

  Miss Lottie stopped, mid page-flip, and stared at Katie. “You have always been Katie. Do you look like Hannah? Of course. That is what twins do. But you and Hannah have always been different.”

  “But Hannah is better.”

  “Katie!”

  She felt the lump rising still farther, the effort to speak becoming greater. “She is funny and strong and . . . brave.”

  “Bravery comes in all shapes and sizes, Katie.”

  “Eric says brave is brave.”

  “And he is right. Yes, bravery is climbing high in a tree. And, yes, it is following what you know to be right in your heart. But, Katie, it is also things like helping your mother when she is dying, finding your own way through unimaginable grief, and establishing a new normal for your siblings in an effort to ease their sadness, as well.”

  A pair of tears escaped down her cheeks and she rushed to wipe them away before they could multiply. “People, in New York, think I have talent, Miss Lottie. That my pictures are good.”

  “You do. And they are.”

  “Mr. Rothman, Hannah’s boss, owns an art gallery. It is this wonderful place with paintings that people come to see. The artist wears a pretty dress and everyone wants to speak to her and ask about her work.”

  Miss Lottie turned the page, her eyes guiding Katie’s across the nuances of another memory her pencil could not ignore. “Keep going.”

  “In the back, in another, smaller room, Mr. Rothman has started to show things that different people have done. Things he fears will never be seen any other way.”

  “I take it he wants to show your work?”

  Somehow, she made herself answer despite the quiver in her lips. “He already did. When Hannah came home for Mamm’s service, she took two pictures without asking.”

  “I was wondering about these jagged edges.” Miss Lottie pointed upward toward the pad’s binding and then settled her gaze on Katie once again, waiting.

  “She showed them to Mr. Rothman.” A soft tisking from Miss Lottie simply hurried her words until they were pouring from her mouth. “When I met Mr. Rothman during my visit with Hannah, he saw the rest of the drawings in my sketch pad and asked if he could display those, too, but I told him no. I didn’t know Hannah had already given him permission to display the two she took.”

  “And he did?”

  Hunching forward, mid-nod, she gave in to the tears she was no longer fast enough to wipe away. For a while, Miss Lottie let her cry, her quiet hand on Katie’s back a comfort. When the tears finally slowed to a more manageable pace, Katie looked up. “I walked into the room to see what was inside and I saw a man and woman standing in front of a picture I could not see. They said such nice things about it I wanted to see it, too. But when I stepped closer to see, I saw that they were looking at one of my pictures—the one of Mary with the barn cats that Hannah had taken from my sketch pad after Mamm’s funeral.

  “I yelled at Hannah for letting that happen but”—she pinched her eyes closed, trying to slow her breath and her words—“I liked what those people said about my drawing. I liked that it made them happy and that it made them think of their daughter when she was young. And I liked them saying they wanted to buy it.”

  Miss Lottie’s quiet gasp ushered in the part of Katie’s story she still couldn’t believe. “After I ran out, they must have bought it. Because when I got home here, to Blue Ball, and unpacked the suitcase you let me borrow, there was an envelope inside with money—lots of money.”

  “Where is the money now, child?”

  “It is under my mattress, where I keep my pencils and”—she poin
ted at Miss Lottie’s lap—“my sketch pad. It is wrong to have such things. I know this. But it is even more wrong that a graven image of Mary now hangs in someone’s house in New Hampshire!”

  The tears were back. Only this time, when she dropped her head forward, Miss Lottie’s arms were there to pull her close. “Katie, Katie, please don’t cry. It will be okay . . .”

  She pulled back in horror. “If Dat finds out . . . if anyone in the district finds out . . . I will be shunned.”

  “You’ve stopped, haven’t you?”

  “Yah. But now, with the newspaper story, I—”

  “What newspaper story?” Miss Lottie asked.

  “The people who said such wonderful things about my drawing of Mary bought it for their daughter. The newspaper in the town where she lives did a story on her. She is a veterinarian who has loved animals since she was Sadie’s age. There is a picture with the story—a picture of this woman and one of her dogs. Behind her, on the wall, is the framed picture of Mary and the barn cats. Underneath the picture, it says my name as the artist who drew the picture!”

  Miss Lottie noticeably stiffened. “How did you find this out?”

  “Hannah sent it to me in her letter yesterday.”

  “Where is the article and the picture now, Katie?”

  “I scrunched it into a ball and hid it under the mattress with the money and my pencils.”

  The sound of Digger’s paws on the steps stole their attention and redirected it toward the four-year-old bounding toward them with an empty bubble jar in one hand and a wand in the other. “Me and Digger blew all the bubbles, Miss Lottie!”

  Katie wiped all remaining tears from her cheeks with her dress sleeve and stood. “That’s okay, sweet girl. Annie is probably awake by now and we need to be getting back to help Mary.”

  Sliding forward on her rocker, Miss Lottie took advantage of her goodbye hug with Sadie to address Katie. “I’ll be sure to have a brand-new bubble jar come nap time tomorrow.”

  Chapter 26

  This time, thanks to a little coaxing via a scrap of cheese and a bowl of milk, Sadie and Digger were joined by a trio of cats. Digger jumped, the cats ran this way and that, and Sadie sat on the grass, blowing bubble after bubble for her animal friends. For a while, Katie watched while quietly working through the sounds happening on the other side of the screen door.

  Miss Lottie opening the refrigerator . . .

  Miss Lottie setting something on the table . . .

  Miss Lottie’s approaching footsteps . . .

  And, finally, the smack of the door as it closed behind Mamm’s dearest friend.

  “I brought out a bowl of apples instead of cookies. Sadie seems a bit tired today.”

  She looked out at her little sister and mentally compared the view to the previous day’s—a view that had had Sadie jumping alongside Digger, again and again. “Perhaps she is afraid she will hurt one of the cats.”

  “Maybe you are right.” Miss Lottie set her tray with the bowl of apples and glasses of lemonade onto the small table and then lowered herself onto her rocking chair. “How did you sleep yourself, dear?”

  “If I could quiet my thoughts, I would sleep better.”

  “I spoke with Hannah yesterday. After you left. And I’m glad I did because you have one less thing to worry about now.”

  She pushed off the steps and, instead, perched herself against the railing, her back to Sadie. “I do?”

  Miss Lottie nodded.

  “But how?” she asked, glancing back at Mamm’s friend. “If someone from Blue Ball were to see—”

  “The picture came from a very small town paper in New Hampshire. I did a search after our call and found the circulation is quite minimal.”

  Snapping her focus back to the rocking chair, she stared at the elderly woman. “But Hannah got it in New York!”

  “Because the couple who bought the drawing of Mary sent it to Mr. Rothman in a thank-you note. Mr. Rothman, in turn, gave it to Hannah.”

  “But why would it be in that picture?”

  “Because the piece resonated with the couple’s daughter so much, she hung it in her veterinary office. When the local paper did an article on her, as per the note to Mr. Rothman, the woman insisted her picture be taken in front of your drawing. She even walked the reporter through its background, which included you as the artist. Hannah sent it on to you as a memory of your work and why it resonates with people.”

  “I don’t need to be reminded of why I draw.” Katie stepped away from the railing and headed back toward the stairs, her footsteps heavy against the wood boards. “And I know how it makes me feel when I do it.”

  “Then tell me.”

  She sat on the top step and rested her chin atop her knees. “Drawing my memories makes me happy. It is like I am reliving them all over again . . . Like whatever it is I am drawing at that moment is happening in front of my eyes right then and there. And then, when I am done, and I really look at the paper and the memory my pencil has recorded, I smile even more.”

  “I can see why. But I think there is more to it than that, Katie.”

  She wanted to argue, to insist it was all about the memories, but she couldn’t. Being there, with Miss Lottie, was about owning up to her sins. “When we were on Rumspringa, Hannah would buy these English magazines at the store. She liked to try to make herself look like the girls she saw on the covers. But that is not what I liked about them. I liked to read the stories about girls our same age who did such interesting things. One was a rock climber, one helped care for pets who didn’t have homes, one designed clothes, and another took beautiful pictures of people on bridges and paths. Samantha was the one who took pictures. She was sixteen, just like I was. She talked about how photography made her happy.

  “I read her story many times those first few weeks. And I looked at the pictures she took that they included in the story, too. I tried to imagine my family being photographed in such poses—next to the barn, or seated on our porch chairs, or looking out from Dat’s buggy. But instead of seeing everyone looking at me, I began to see different things—Jakob’s frustration as he chased the chicken, Mary’s joy as the barn cats begged for attention, and so many more memories. I wanted to see them again, Miss Lottie.”

  “So you bought a sketch pad and drew them.”

  Her chin bobbed against her hands. “Yah. I made so many mistakes at first, I almost stopped. But I didn’t. I erased and erased and erased. Each time I erased and tried again, it got better, closer. When I got it right, I felt . . . proud. On nights when there was a moon, I would wait until Hannah was asleep. Then, I would sit on the floor by the window and draw.

  “But when Rumspringa was over, I could not stop. I liked the way the pencils felt, I liked trying to get better, and I liked the feeling I had when I was done and I could see the memory in front of me.” Now that she was talking, she couldn’t stop. “When Hannah left, it gave me something to do besides cry. Then, when Mamm was so sick, I felt better knowing I was awake and nearby in case she needed something. And when she was gone, I just had to keep going so I could . . . breathe.”

  “And now that you’ve stopped?”

  “I-I feel lost.” When Miss Lottie said nothing, Katie sagged against the upright. “You think I’m awful, don’t you?”

  “No. I understand more than you realize, dear.” Miss Lottie stilled her rocker long enough to offer a glass of lemonade to Katie. When Katie declined, the elderly woman took a sip and set the glass back down. “In fact, your pull toward art isn’t really all that surprising.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Your great uncle, Leroy, was a gifted painter. Until he became sick, anyway.”

  “That is not a name I know.”

  “Leroy left after baptism.”

  She parted company with the upright. “So he was banned?”

  “Yes.”

  “If Mamm didn’t speak of Leroy to us, why would she tell you?”

  “She didn’t
need to. Leroy was my brother.”

  All movement in the yard ceased at Katie’s answering gasp. “Your brother? But that would make you—”

  “Your mother’s aunt,” Miss Lottie interjected. “And your great aunt.”

  The air around her grew so still she was almost certain she could hear the grass moving in the afternoon breeze. Yet despite the sudden quiet, her thoughts were anything but as she tried to make sense of what she was hearing. “But you are . . . English. And your name is Jenkins.”

  “Now, it is. But long ago, when I was not much younger than you are now, I, too, was Amish just like you. But like your sister, I left before baptism. So that is why your mamm and I could talk.”

  “But why didn’t she tell us you were family?”

  “Because she didn’t know. Your grandmother—my sister— was only six when I left. Since I moved so far away, I never saw her again. I didn’t know the woman she grew to be or the man she grew up to marry.”

  “My grandfather.”

  “Yes. And, therefore, I didn’t know her children—which included your mamm—either.” Miss Lottie sighed and leaned back in her rocker, her eyes, her focus somewhere far from the porch on which they sat. “When I came here to live just after you and Hannah were born, I didn’t make the connection at first. I knew only that she walked by my home each day with the two of you, holding your little hands. In the beginning, I would just wave. Sometimes we would speak of the weather or the crops that were coming to harvest around us, but that was all. In time, there was more chatter, and finally actual visits. I loved watching you and Hannah, and soon, the others grow. And it wasn’t until years later, while telling me about Hannah’s choice, that I began to put two and two together.”

  “I don’t understand. How could you not have known?”

  “I was a Miller, like my siblings. When your grandmother married, she became a Fisher and moved into another district. When your mamm married, she became a Beiler and moved here, to Lancaster.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Mamm when you realized the truth?”

  “Because she needed an ear, child.”

  “Okay, but what about after? When Hannah had already made her decision?”