by Amy Clipston
A tear slid down her cheek. “You’re not the same Abram I left behind.”
He took a step toward her as his nostrils flared. “Did you really think I would be? Did you think I’d ask you to pick up where we left off? Or that I’d profess my undying love?” He pointed a finger at her. “That love has been gone for a long time.”
She cried harder, and Abram fought the urge to pull her into his arms. He’d punished her enough.
Spinning on her heels, she ran back to the house.
“Wait!” Abram followed her, and she slowed her pace and turned to face him.
“I can’t do this,” she said through her tears. “I knew it would be hard to face you, but I didn’t know you would be so mean.”
Abram’s armor was slipping, like melting lava that burned his senses. He couldn’t bring himself to say he was sorry, even though her crying was about to unravel him.
He took a deep breath, removed his straw hat, and ran a hand through his hair. After he put his hat back on, he took another cleansing breath, knowing he would have to be civil to Sarah to get what he wanted.
“Even if it doesn’t matter anymore, we both know I’ll eventually ask. Why did you leave?”
Sarah swiped at her eyes as her long dark hair blew in the breeze, the last of the sun’s presence casting a glow on her that left a halo impression around her head. A sign from God? No.
“I left because I was pregnant.” She looked somewhere over Abram’s shoulder. “And I would have brought shame to my family.”
“You brought shame to them by leaving the way you did. If it hadn’t been for the driver you hired, we would have wondered if you were snatched from your bed in the middle of the night. But your mother saw you leaving in a car.”
“I was seventeen and alone.” Her gaze still traveled to a place that seemed far away. “I went to Veronica’s house. Remember, my Englisch friend? She helped me plan a trip to Houston. She said there were good jobs and she had a friend there.” Sniffling, she lowered her head. “I took the bus as far as I could, but none of it worked out the way I planned, which made me feel even more alone. Veronica’s friend had a new boyfriend living with her, and sleeping on her couch didn’t feel right.”
“You weren’t alone. How can you say that? Didn’t you think I would have married you? We’d planned that anyway. We weren’t baptized, so we wouldn’t have been permanently condemned for our one premarital indiscretion. We could have been a family, but you took away that option by not even telling me you were with child.” He walked closer to her, expecting her to back up, but she didn’t.
Trying to keep his voice steady, he said, “I know why you’re back now, because of the hurricane. Your mamm explained all of that, but it has haunted me for years why you left. Ya, you denied your parents a granddaughter, which is terrible, but what about me?” The continued shakiness in his voice surprised him. He’d planned to be strong during this encounter, but his resolve was weakening with each word he spoke.
“I wrote letters to my parents, and they were returned unopened. Since I hadn’t been baptized, I didn’t deserve to be shunned, but my parents practiced their own shunning, as I knew they would.” She paused. “My mother anyway. And I’m sure my father went along with it to keep peace.”
Abram’s jaw dropped. “You wrote letters to your parents?” He hung his head as he wondered why Sarah’s mother hadn’t shared that with him. “Why didn’t you write to me?”
She covered her face with her hands when she started to cry harder. “I don’t know. I was so ashamed.”
He took another step toward her and was almost as close now as he was when he kissed her, but her eyes looked beyond him. “Did you love me, Sarah?” He swallowed a lump forming in his throat.
She still wouldn’t look at him. “With all of my heart.”
He took hold of her arms, gentler this time, but she still wiggled out of his grip, keeping her eyes down.
“If my parents had read the letters, they would have understood why I left.”
“Why didn’t you write to me?” he asked again. “Didn’t you think I would want to know I was going to be a father? I would have stood by you, no matter what your parents or anyone else thought.”
This wasn’t what he’d planned. He’d wanted to keep a civil but uninterested tone with her, to prove that he didn’t care or need her explanations, but his emotions had been all over the place since the moment he saw her. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to feel when he met his daughter. Sarah’s mother had already told Abram that Sarah had never married. Sarah told them that during the phone call she had with them when they called her at the shelter. Even if he couldn’t be with Sarah, he at least wanted a relationship with his daughter.
“I want to know my daughter.” He blinked back tears, which he definitely hadn’t seen coming. He should have. He’d shed plenty of them since he found out Sarah was coming home with a child.
She finally locked eyes with him as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Abram . . .” Her face held little expression as she said, “Miriam is not your daughter.” Then she turned and walked away, as if her words would have no effect on him.
Abram’s chest tightened and his mouth dropped open.
The front door closed behind her. He stood there for a long time, thinking, letting her words soak in, until he came to a conclusion.
She is lying.
CHAPTER 4
Barbara unzipped Miriam’s small backpack and took out two shirts, a pair of jeans, and some underclothes. “Is this all you were able to bring with you?”
Miriam shook her head. “No.” She unzipped an exterior compartment. “I have a toothbrush and toothpaste too.” Handing the items to Barbara, the child dug deeper into the pouch and pulled out a doll. “She doesn’t have a face, but Mommy gave her to me when I was little. I brought her with me so the water wouldn’t drown her.”
Barbara smiled. You are still little. She eased the doll out of Miriam’s hands and smelled it, wondering if it still smelled of baby powder, if it still smelled like Sarah. “Did your mother tell you this was her doll when she was your age?” Barbara turned the doll over and eyed the mending she had done on the dress after Sarah tried to run it through the ringer washing machine and ripped the stitching on one side.
“Yes. She said it was her favorite thing.”
Barbara handed the doll back to Miriam. “She took that doll everywhere.”
“That’s why I saved her. I named her Heidi even though Mommy said her name was JoAnne. But there is a girl at my school named JoAnne, and she isn’t always nice to people. She’s not as mean as Billy Dalton, but—” She slammed her small hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as she lowered it. “I called him a bad name on the way up the stairs, a name I’m not supposed to say.”
Barbara stifled a grin and cleared her throat. “I heard you.”
“Please don’t tell Mommy. She reminded me to use all of my good manners, and I forgot.” Miriam crinkled her nose as she scowled. “But when it comes to Billy Dalton, my manners go right out the window.” She waved toward the window.
Barbara put a hand over her mouth as she tried to keep from laughing. This child was as dramatic as her mother was at this age. Fond memories of Sarah floated around Barbara’s mind, reminders of the good life they’d led—until six years ago. But this little one had no role in her mother’s choices, and Barbara didn’t know how long it would be until Sarah rushed away with her again. This might be her only chance to get to know her granddaughter. Loving her wasn’t an option. Barbara already did.
“Mommy’s friend Jack said we should draw a face on Heidi, but Mommy wouldn’t let him.”
Barbara’s ears perked up. “Oh. Was Jack your mother’s boyfriend?” She felt a little guilty quizzing Miriam about such a thing, but curiosity had gotten the better of her.
“No. Just her friend. I liked Jack.” She gazed up at Barbara. “I wanted him to be my daddy because he was nice, but he moved away. And Mommy
said he wasn’t the kind of friend who could become a daddy.” She paused, sighing. “I don’t have a daddy.”
Barbara pushed back strands of hair that had come loose from Miriam’s ponytail, eyeing her high cheekbones and the shape of her mouth. Just like Sarah’s. And there was no denying this was Abram’s child. Miriam had his big blue eyes, wavy dark hair, and dimples. Regret washed over Barbara and she wished she’d opened Sarah’s letters. Surely she would have mentioned having a child. Barbara fought the knot building in her throat. Things could have been so different.
At the time, she thought if she shunned Sarah, her daughter would see the error of her ways and return home. That was the purpose of a formal shunning. Barbara had been wrong. And months became years. She’d missed so much. Teething, first steps, the joy of seeing her own daughter hold her child for the first time. If she thought about it any more, she was sure she would burst into tears. She forced herself to focus on what was happening now and the blessing she’d been gifted.
“I don’t think we can ever go back to our apartment.” Miriam looked down at her doll. “Mommy carried me on her shoulders through the water, and I carried Heidi.” She looked up at Barbara. “I was scared, but I think Mommy was more scared. She saved us though. But she said it was the grace of God that saved us.”
Barbara tried to imagine what it must have been like for Sarah, Miriam, and the thousands of other people affected by the storm. They didn’t have a television, but the newspapers had heavily covered the hurricane and the devastation in Houston. Barbara recalled crying herself to sleep reading about it and wondering if Sarah was safe.
She knew her daughter was in Houston from the postmarks on the letters. Why didn’t I just open them? Could I have convinced Sarah to come home? Was Barbara’s daughter so afraid of being pregnant that she thought they would want nothing to do with her? Back then, Barbara focused on the importance of appearances. Sarah surely would have brought shame to their family.
Barbara was different now. Losing a child will do that to a mother, and that’s what it felt like—the death of a child—when Sarah left. Barbara would do things differently if given a chance. But if everything is according to God’s will, then things had happened as they should. But why? And how was Barbara ever going to shed the bitterness she felt toward Sarah? She needed to have a heart-to-heart with her daughter soon, but Barbara was afraid of that conversation. Fearful of things Sarah might say about her that caused her to go away. Maybe she needed to put her focus on the future and leave the past behind.
Easier said than done.
Sarah went straight to the downstairs bathroom in the hall and tried to compose herself by dabbing at her eyes, blowing her nose, and then shaking her head as hard as she could to lose the image of Abram’s face when she told him that he wasn’t Miriam’s father. But she assumed it was a vision that would be with her for a long time.
When she thought about his cruel words, the forceful kiss, and the way she slapped him, she started to cry again. She’d thought about coming home when Miriam was two but abandoned the plan when she was offered a better job at the law firm. A year later, when she had vacation time, she considered the idea again, but it had been too long and she couldn’t bring herself to face Abram or her parents.
She stared into the mirror, questioning everything she’d done in her life. The one good and beautiful thing was Miriam. And she had always taken good care of her daughter. She and Miriam didn’t have much, but they’d had all they needed. Sarah didn’t grow up with fancy things, and she carried that with her when she left. She tried to instill respectfulness, good manners, and all the values her own parents worked so hard to instill in her. But she didn’t feel like she’d gone overboard like her mother had at times. Sarah learned early on that parenting didn’t come with an instruction manual. Maybe her mother had done the best she could.
Right now, Sarah needed a hug from her daughter. She rounded the corner to go upstairs, but her father cleared his throat from the recliner, the same brown chair he’d always sat in. Sarah slowed her pace and whispered, “Good night,” as she started up the stairs. He cleared his throat again, louder this time. Sarah turned around and joined him in the living room. She sat on the couch.
Her father had aged more than her mother over the last six years. Barbara’s hair hadn’t turned gray, and she didn’t have any lines on her face that weren’t there before. But her father had considerably more wrinkles and his hair was thinning on top and mostly gray, along with his beard. He was much thinner now too.
Sarah waited for him to ask questions, but that wasn’t really his way. He closed the book he was reading and took off a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses, another thing she didn’t remember him needing in the past.
“You’ve been crying,” he said softly.
“I have a lot to cry about.” Sarah avoided her father’s eyes as long as she could, but when she finally connected with him, he frowned.
“We all have a lot to cry about. It’s what you do with the experiences that matters. You can carry the burdens of your past or choose to move forward without the added baggage.”
Sarah pulled her hair over one shoulder, twisting it into a rope, then untwisting it, then repeating the process.
“Still twisting your hair, ya?”
She tried to smile as she slung it back over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Daed. For everything.”
“I know you are.”
They were quiet for a while. “Mamm hates me, I think.”
“I don’t know what you’ve learned out in the Englisch world, but we don’t hate in this family. Your mamm is hurt and bitter.”
Sarah looked into her father’s wise eyes. “That’s carrying the burdens of the past.”
“Ya, and they are your mudder’s burdens to carry and hopefully shed. Not yours.”
“But I caused them.”
“A person cannot cause another person’s burdens. Baggage is the responsibility of the one carrying it, and only they are able to get rid of the weight. God’s will is in everything we do, and we can’t know His plans for us. Your mudder feels cheated out of time with Miriam, and with you.” Her father ran his hand the length of his beard. “But let’s talk about you.”
Sarah let her weight fall back into the couch cushions, tempted to kick her legs up on the coffee table like she did at her apartment in Houston, but that was taboo in her mother’s house. “You want to know why I left.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Sarah felt like she was in a shrink’s office. She’d been twice not long after Miriam was born, when she finally had insurance to cover the visits. But she didn’t keep going. The woman was getting into her head too much about things she wasn’t ready to face—like this. “I was seventeen, pregnant, and scared. I was a different person then.”
“Not so different,” her father said, then smiled.
“How can you be so calm, Daed? I know I hurt you, just like I hurt Mamm. Aren’t you mad at me too? Mamm isn’t even trying to hide it.”
“I see you as the prodigal daughter who has come home to face the people she loves. That’s a hard thing to do. I can hold on to the past or embrace the miracle that you are here. Your mamm will find her own miracle in this situation. She just hasn’t been able to see clear enough to get past her hurt yet.”
Sarah braced herself for the question she knew was coming, the hardest one of all. Abram.
She heard Miriam giggle upstairs, and a few seconds later, Sarah’s mother laughed too. It was a glorious sound, and Sarah wished she could bottle it to listen to over and over again. Maybe she needed to give her mother a chance to forgive her. Sarah wondered if she could ever forgive herself.
More laughter from upstairs, and Sarah smiled. So did her father.
“Perhaps your mudder has latched onto the miracle that will bring her joy. I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a long time.”
Sarah sighed. “We are kind of a package deal, Miriam and me.�
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Her father stared at her long and hard, his eyebrows narrowing into a frown. “And where does Abram fit into the package?”
“He doesn’t.” Sarah regretted her quick and harsh response, but she couldn’t take it back.
“I see.”
CHAPTER 5
Abram walked into his house and was surprised to see his parents on the couch. After he left Sarah, he’d gone to the coffee shop to kill some time, then drove around until he thought his parents would be asleep.
“You’re still up.” He hung his hat on the rack by the front door, then pulled his suspenders over his shoulders, letting them drop to his sides. “What did the midwife say about Mary?” Abram’s younger sister had married a fine man in their community two years ago, and she was due to have their second child any day. It would be his parents’ fifth grandchild. His brother and his wife had three of their own. If Abram’s daughter was included, that would make six grandchildren for his parents.
“I stopped by Mary and Jacob’s today, and the midwife had just been there. She says Mary has a few more days, at least.” His mother folded her hands in her lap and sat taller. “Did you finally get to meet your daughter? When will we get to meet her?”
After Sarah’s mother told Abram that Sarah was coming home with a five-year-old child named Miriam, he and his parents had quickly done the math and assumed Abram was the child’s father. “I didn’t see Miriam.” It would have felt odd to say “my daughter.”
“Why not?” His mother put a hand to her chest. “I thought that’s why you went over there.”
Abram shrugged as he untucked his blue shirt, then sat in the rocking chair in the corner. “Maybe I should have been nicer to Sarah.” He shook his head. “She slapped me.”
“What?” His father’s eyes widened. “That’s not our way.”
“Goodness, what did you say to her?”
“Do we have to talk about all of this now? I’m worn out.” Abram was sure of the answer, but he figured it was worth a try.