She turned back toward the kitchen, then pivoted toward them. “Soup’s nearly ready. Will you stay with us, Thomas?”
He looked to Abigail, who nodded enthusiastically.
“I’d love to. Danki.”
The meal did more to ease Thomas’s worries than a thousand assurances would have. Abigail was relaxed around Mammi, as if she could finally stop showing such a tough exterior to the entire world. Who wouldn’t be a gut patient under Mammi’s supervision? The woman was strangely convincing for someone so small in stature.
The soup was delicious, served with fresh bread and thick slices of cheese. Abigail would be eating better as long as Mammi was there.
But more than the food or the sleeping arrangement, Mammi had managed to bring a warmth to the little house that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps having someone close by would do more than provide Abigail a measure of safety; perhaps Mammi’s presence would begin to heal her heart.
He drew the line when Mammi stood up to do the dishes.
“Nein. You fed me. It’s only fair that I clean up.”
“A man doing the dishes?” Abigail rubbed her stomach and tried to look shocked. “I might faint.”
Mammi laughed along with Abigail. “My Joshua always did the dishes with me. Unless I was pregnant, then he insisted I sit on the porch or in the living room and let him tidy up. He was a gut man.”
“How long has he been gone?” Abigail’s tone had turned suddenly serious.
“Fourteen years, and I still miss him. That never changes when you lose someone you love, but the pain? Well, the pain left after a time, and for that I thank the good Lord.”
Thomas drove home that night less worried than he had been since first climbing the steps to Abigail’s house.
There were still a lot of questions, and those piled up on him as he drove back to his small apartment. How would Abigail manage for the next six weeks? How would she care for the baby alone once it was born? What would become of Asher’s estate? And what was with her own mother? How could the woman have refused to come to Shipshe and care for Abigail?
His shoulders slumped under the questions until, by the time he climbed the steps to his apartment, he felt as if he were eighty years old.
It was a job, nothing more.
He shouldn’t take Abigail’s problems so personally.
Only they felt personal, and he kept remembering holding her in his arms.
Though he had eaten at Abigail’s, he was still hungry. He’d turned down second helpings, thinking she and Mammi might be able to eat it for lunch the next day. Now his stomach growled, reminding him that he’d put in a full day of work. Instead of making a sandwich, he dumped cereal into a bowl, poured milk over it and stood at the kitchen counter eating.
He was getting too close; that was the problem. Abigail had handled things before he’d arrived. He remembered the goat blocking her front porch steps and shook his head. Mostly, she had handled things—other than the goat and the harvest and the vegetable garden.
The barn’s roof needed patching, and there were sections of fence that needed to be shored up before the snow started piling against it.
He finished his dinner, set the bowl in the sink and filled it with water.
The truth was that Abigail needed him, whether she realized it or not. She didn’t need him in the house, though. She had Mammi now. Problem solved. He’d stay away from the house—stay in the barn and the fields.
As he readied for bed, he vowed that he would not look at any more baby books.
Though the image of a watermelon-sized stomach was enough to give him nightmares. He climbed into his own bed and doused the light.
If you had a stomach that large, how would you turn over in bed at night? How would you stand up? How would you carry it around all day long?
He’d never thought of those things when his schweschdern were pregnant. Somehow, he’d imagined the process involved a few months of being larger and then you have a boppli. Easy enough.
He tossed onto his other side.
Abigail would be fine. He didn’t need to worry about her. He needed to do his job and not get involved.
That was the ticket.
Don’t get involved.
But a voice followed him into his dreams, taunting him, and telling him that it was a bit late for that.
Chapter Eight
The first week that Mammi stayed with Abigail, everything went smoothly enough.
Yes, Abigail was tired of lying around.
Yes, she was ready to have this boppli and move on to being a mamm.
And also yes, she understood the importance of giving her doschder as much time in the womb as possible. That last reason was more than enough. She let Mammi do the cooking. Clare and Naomi stopped by twice a week to help with the laundry and cleaning. Abigail was allowed to bathe, occasionally sit up on the couch, read and knit.
Turned out that one of Mammi’s boxes had been full of books—pregnancy books, devotional books, baby’s-first-year books, gardening books, quilting books and even knitting books.
Another box had been filled with fabric, thread, quilt batting, yarn and knitting needles.
When Abigail had confessed that she didn’t know how to quilt or knit, Mammi had smiled and clapped her hands. “Wunderbaar, I will teach you.”
Every day they spent at least two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon working on their projects. It was oddly satisfying to create something with her own hands, though her knitting projects tended to have skipped stitches, and her quilting was uneven at best.
“No single thing on this Earth is perfect, Abigail. I’ve had Englischers ask if we put a mistake in every quilt.” Mammi hooted—the laughter, combined with the large glasses, caused her to resemble an owl more than ever. “As if we’d need to put a mistake in something. There are always mistakes. But we press on, doing the very best that we can.”
Mammi would sometimes tell Abigail about her family. She’d describe their first home and what Shipshewana had been like then, before tourists had discovered the area. She would talk about her sons, both of whom had died in their fifties—one from cancer and the other from a heart attack, just two years apart. She sometimes quoted Scriptures about the heavenly reunion they had to look forward to.
Every day when they’d first pull out their projects, she’d throw out a proverb, as if it could focus their efforts.
Pride in your work puts joy in your day.
Burying your talents is a grave mistake.
Pray for a good harvest but continue to hoe.
Some of these sayings made sense to Abigail—others didn’t. A few even seemed related to what they were doing. Regardless, she found that she enjoyed their time working together. It was a real joy to sit with someone else, whether they talked or not. Perhaps that’s why she so quickly accepted Mammi as a part of her family, as a part of her life.
As promised, Thomas had found a bed for her and set it up in the baby’s room. Since it was a twin, it fit easily. And since Mammi was so small, a twin-size bed was plenty big enough.
Yes, her life was better with Mammi in it. Abigail could almost be grateful for the emergency scare that had landed her on bed rest. Almost.
While her relationship with Mammi grew richer and more important to her each day, the same couldn’t be said of her relationship with Thomas. It seemed that Thomas, mysteriously, was suddenly too busy for coffee in the morning, oatmeal bars in the afternoon or stew in the evening.
Once, she actually caught him looking longingly toward the kitchen. He was standing as close to the front door as possible, his back practically pressed against it. He’d stepped inside to update her on what he’d done on the farm that day.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner? You know you want to, and Mammi has made plenty of food.”
She thought he might cave, but the wall that had sprung up between them held firm. “Can’t. Gotta go...do some paperwork.” And he was out of there as if Abigail were pursuing him with a dirty diaper and a wet mop.
Only there were no dirty diapers yet.
And no one would let her anywhere near a mop.
What was the man so afraid of? He was acting as if Abigail had a contagious disease. He was acting as if the night when he’d carried her to the buggy had never happened.
She sighed as she gazed out the front window and watched his horse trot away. Finally, she picked up her knitting. She’d found that when she was agitated, the simple rhythm of knitting helped to calm her thoughts and feelings.
Unfortunately, she kept thinking of Thomas looking anywhere but at her. Thomas fiddling with his hat as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Thomas practically sprinting from her house.
Mammi brought her a hot cup of tea and set it on the coffee table.
“Danki.”
Mammi cocked her head, then sat in the chair opposite the couch. “Problem, dear?”
“With the knitting? Nein.” Abigail stared down at her nice, even stitches. She was making a crib blanket of the softest pink-and-lavender yarn—another gift from Mammi’s knitting box.
“Thank you for teaching me to make a blanket.”
“Next week we’ll start on a wee sweater. You’re a fast learner, Abigail.”
Why did the tiniest compliment cause her spirits to lift so? Maybe because she wasn’t used to it. Asher had never been one to throw around praise, which she had thought was normal since her mamm didn’t either.
Her mamm.
The memory of their phone conversation still caused her anger to flare. Or was it shame? Was she ashamed of calling her mamm and asking for help? Or was she ashamed of her mamm’s quick response—a resounding no?
She cleared her throat and focused again on the yarn and needles in her hands. “My mamm wasn’t much of a craftsy person. She always said it was cheaper to buy what we needed at yard sales.”
“Undoubtedly, your mamm was right about that.” Abigail removed her large glasses and wiped her eyes. Then she cast about looking for the glasses.
“They’re beside you—on the table.”
“Ah. Danki.”
“Gem gschehne.”
Mammi was always losing her glasses, and they were usually within arm’s reach. It was absolutely adorable.
“So why do we do it? Why do we knit if my mamm was right?”
“Knitting, crocheting, cooking, even cleaning...the things we do are works of love. The question isn’t always what is easiest or what is least expensive—sometimes we simply need to do something that shows another person how much we care.”
Abigail thought of Thomas describing the patches he’d put on the barn’s roof. She’d thought he was so proud of himself, but perhaps he was trying to tell her he cared.
Ridiculous.
The man had words. He knew how to speak. If he cared, he could say so. She pushed away thoughts of Thomas, something she had to do with an increasing frequency these days.
“I like knitting for my boppli. It makes me feel...connected to her.”
“Indeed, and it’s a gut use of your time. No doubt your baby girl will pass these things on to her baby girl. It’ll be a lineage of love.”
A lineage of love.
Tears sprang to Abigail’s eyes at the thought, and she blinked rapidly.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mammi said softly.
Mammi was old, but she noticed everything. She was maybe the most perceptive person that Abigail had ever known.
“I was thinking of my mamm and wondering why there was no lineage of love there.”
“Perhaps you’re being a bit hard on her.”
“She isn’t here, is she? Nein. She couldn’t come to care for her own doschder. She couldn’t change her plans.” Abigail tugged roughly on the yarn. “Her exact words. ‘Abigail, I’ve already made my plans to come after the baby is born. I’m sure you’ll be fine. You need to learn to stand on your own two feet.’”
“Hard to stand on your own two feet when the doctor insists on bed rest.” Mammi’s eyes twinkled, but there was also compassion in the woman’s gaze. “Tell me about your relationship with your mamm.”
“Not much to tell. She had seven children. I have three older bruders and three younger schweschdern. My parents live in Monte Vista, Colorado, but my siblings all scattered as quickly as they could.” Abigail’s hands fell still in her lap. Why did the memories of home hurt so much? She shook her head. “What I mean is, they moved away—all but the youngest two. It’s expected of us in some unsaid way. When I turned twenty-four and was still home, my mamm decided she needed to speak to the bishop about an arranged marriage. Our bishop spoke with Bishop Luke here, who knew Asher. And the rest is...well, it isn’t Cinderella, but it’s my story.”
“I think Cinderella is overrated.”
“What do you mean?”
Unlike Abigail, when Mammi spoke, her knitting didn’t slow at all. Her needles were a virtual blur. And what was she making with that yellow-and-pink yarn? It reminded Abigail of spring.
“I mean none of us need talking mice or a pumpkin that turns into a carriage. We only need to have faith and believe.”
“That’s what landed me here. I had faith that my mamm and bishop knew best. I believed that it would all work out and I’d somehow have a better life.”
Mammi stopped knitting, cocked her head and looked at her. “Do you regret that? Marrying Asher, moving here, getting pregnant? If you had known it would end up this way, would you have stayed in Colorado?”
Abigail didn’t have to think about that answer for very long. “Nein. I’m happier here—alone, or rather with you and Luke and Naomi and Clare...”
“And Thomas.”
Abigail shrugged. “I’m happier here, even in my precarious situation, than I ever was at home.”
They knitted another few minutes, and Abigail thought the subject had been dropped when Mammi suddenly stood, then moved around the coffee table and sat beside her on the couch. Abigail was sitting with her feet propped on the coffee table atop a pillow.
Mammi covered Abigail’s hands with her own. “There’s something I want to say to you about your mamm.”
Now Abigail fervently wished she hadn’t brought up the subject. Talking about it never helped. People invariably supported her mamm, pointing out that having seven children wasn’t easy and that living in Colorado in a small Plain community was no doubt hard. She hadn’t really talked to anyone but her siblings about it, and she’d given up on that long ago.
The past is the past, Abigail. Move on.
Why couldn’t she move on?
Mammi was still waiting for a response, so Abigail nodded.
“I want you to remember that someone cannot show what they haven’t learned.” She smiled and waited.
“That’s it?”
“Ya.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mammi nodded as if she’d expected that response. “What was your mother’s mother like?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Hmm. Well, I’m just guessing here, but often when people don’t know how to show affection, it’s because they never had affection shown to them.”
“Sounds like an excuse to me.”
“Is it? Could you have knitted if I hadn’t shown you how?”
“Probably not. I’ve tried before, and it always just turned into a knot of yarn.”
“Exactly. We can sometimes learn from reading about a thing, or from watching others, but mainly we learn from experience. Based on what you have shared with me, your mamm was raised to provide a clean home, gut meals and yard sale clothing. If she didn’t cuddle you
as a child, perhaps she herself wasn’t cuddled as a child. How would she know that you needed cuddling?”
“I thought that was intuitive.”
“Perhaps. But our history often drowns out our intuition.”
“I guess.”
Mammi reached out for Abigail’s shoulders and pulled her into an awkward hug—but it was only awkward because they were sitting sideways on the couch. Otherwise, it was becoming quite familiar, quite comfortable, to have Mammi give her a hug or kiss her cheek or even reach out and squeeze her hands.
Abigail swiped at her tears. “Your mamm must have been a gut mother.”
“Oh, she was that.” And then Mammi said the words that Abigail had sorely needed to hear. “And you will be a gut mamm too, Abigail. You will give your boppli all the cuddling and hugging that she needs. And you’ll also provide for her in practical ways, because you learned that from your mamm.”
“I hope so.”
“You can be sure. Blessed Assurance, ya?”
“Ya.” She was suddenly too tired to knit another stitch. Mammi toddled off to check on the soup she was making, and Abigail stretched out on the couch, pulled the blanket atop herself and tried to imagine being a mother—being a good mother.
She might be able to do that.
She was learning so much from Mammi.
But the one thing she couldn’t do was be a good mother and father. It broke her heart to think her doschder would be raised without a father, but really what could she do about that? It wasn’t as if she could advertise for a husband. Bishop Luke might know of someone who was looking to marry, but an arranged relationship hadn’t worked out so well the last time she’d tried it. She didn’t want someone who was merely lonely or someone who felt pity for her.
What she wanted was the kind of love that Mammi had shared with her husband, Joshua. Images of Thomas popped into her mind. Thomas shooing the goat off her front porch. Thomas telling her to stop crying. Thomas carrying her to the buggy.
She thought of those moments much too often.
Thomas had never misled her. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, he was not interested in marrying. At least he’d never broached the subject with her. Nein, she’d be better off not daydreaming about such things.
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