A Mother's Love

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Isn’t it just like Gracie to speak such a truth? Out of the mouths of babes . . .

  Rose blinked back tears, refusing to break down in front of Matthias. There would be plenty of time to cry after she returned home—and perhaps she would feel better if she ate some of this wonderful meal. She hadn’t felt like cooking anything as elaborate as mashed potatoes and baked chicken for weeks.

  Your mother would be appalled if you left all that food untouched on your plate, she cautioned herself.

  The first bite of mashed potatoes and gravy made Rose realize how famished she was. The oven-fried chicken was crisp and moist; the fried apples swam in buttery juice and cinnamon; the green beans had been cooked with onion until they were soft and delectable. After she’d cleaned her plate faster than usual, Rose looked up to see Matthias and Gracie watching her.

  “Pie, Mamma? Please can I have butterscotch?” Gracie asked wistfully.

  Rose smiled. She did feel better now that she’d eaten. When she turned to gaze at the table where Barbara Lambright was setting out slices of pie, she was amazed at the variety still available after most folks had taken a piece.

  “What kind shall I bring you, Rose?” Matthias asked as he stood up. “Gracie gets her butterscotch, and I’m having apple—unless the cherry strikes my fancy when I see it.”

  “No one would mind if you took one of each,” Rose pointed out. “I’d like peach—and denki, Matthias. I don’t know how to act, being waited on, you know.”

  Matthias’s face lit up. “Maybe I can change that, Rose. I’ll be right back.”

  Chapter 8

  On Friday afternoon, as Matthias carried groceries into his new place in Morning Star, he shook his head. Other than milk, eggs, bacon, cheese, and hamburger, his food consisted of boxed mac and cheese, loaves of store-bought bread, cold cereal—stuff he could whip up without much effort. It was a far cry from the dinner he’d enjoyed yesterday at this time in Cedar Creek with Rose and Gracie.

  Was the food really so fabulous, or was it the company that made me so happy?

  Matthias set three heavy bags of provisions on his small kitchen table. “Yes, and yes,” he mumbled, talking to himself yet again.

  Living alone was going to be a huge adjustment, after sharing the home place with Adam, Annie Mae, her five siblings, and the new twins. Moving to Morning Star tomorrow was in his best interest, but Matthias hadn’t realized how the rooms in this place echoed when he walked through them. His life would be very quiet from here on out.

  Gracie would bring this place to life in a heartbeat.

  Matthias smiled as he went outside for the last couple bags of groceries. What a treat that little girl was! Somehow, he’d won Gracie’s heart without even trying. The moment she’d called out his name and pleaded for him to eat with her and her mother, he’d been wrapped around her little finger. As Matthias unloaded cans of fruit, beans, and pasta sauce, he knew the truth, however: it was Rose he longed to get better acquainted with.

  You want to get a lot more than acquainted, Wagler. All of a sudden, you’re feeling like a man after being without a wife for three years. It’s like the sun’s shining again, sending the birds and the bees into high gear.

  Matthias laughed. At first, he’d thought sharing the house with newlyweds Adam and Annie Mae had rubbed off—made him aware again of the intimacy men shared with their wives—but it was Rose who’d brought his needs into sharp focus. Matthias felt really good about this—downright joyful—even though spending time with a man was probably the furthest thing from Rose’s mind right now.

  Patience is a virtue, he reminded himself. And cleanliness is next to godliness.

  Rose would take one look at this place and walk away—not that it was filthy, but the clutter was a sure sign a bachelor would be living here, come tomorrow. Matthias spent the next half hour finding places for the new dishes, silverware, and kitchen linens he’d bought—items he’d never needed until he’d left Willow Ridge. This would be the first time in his life he’d lived alone. And he felt uneasy about it.

  Even though he’d prayed diligently on the subject of moving—and he knew that locating his harness shop near the Hartzler Carriage Company in Morning Star would be good for his business—Matthias now realized he’d have to make new friends, attend a new church district, and shop in different stores. He’d be fixing his own breakfast, washing his own dishes, doing his own laundry—chores he was perfectly capable of handling, but the prospect of spending his evenings alone weighed on him. He’d sometimes gotten impatient with the constant commotion Annie Mae’s little brothers and sister created, yet he’d never lacked for company. He’d had Adam and Annie Mae to chat with, usually with a kid or two in his lap.

  Deal with it, Matthias told himself as he walked through his nearly-empty front room. If you say one word to Adam about being lonely, he’ll remind you that he tried to talk you into staying home.

  Home. The whole concept was changing for him now.

  “Redefine it. Start again,” Matthias whispered as he prepared to go back for his last night in Willow Ridge.

  Start again with Rose. You can’t give up on her, no matter how many times she turns you away. It’s a real good time to be your hardheaded, persistent self, Wagler.

  * * *

  As the sun slipped behind the hills Friday evening, Rose’s spirits sagged. Gracie was at Matt and Rosemary Lambright’s house for her very first sleepover with their daughter, Katie, who was four. The girls were constant companions at the common meals and visiting time that followed church services. Gracie had been so excited about staying at Katie’s house—and taking her new chalkboard and chalk—that Rose hadn’t had the heart to keep her daughter home.

  So now she was alone. And she realized how much time she’d been spending at Mamma’s bedside these past weeks, in the home where she’d grown up—the house she’d considered home until she’d married.

  As Rose sat in the unlit front room, however, the house closed in on her, smothering her in its silent grief as the dusk deepened. There was no getting around it: not only was she alone, but she was nearly broke as well.

  The bills for Mamma’s final chemo treatment and medications had arrived, and the total would all but wipe out Rose’s bank account. Bishop Vernon had assured her the church’s aid fund would cover these bills, but it still scared her half to death that she would be penniless after Mamma’s funeral was paid off, with no income in sight.

  Rose blinked back tears. “Enough crying already,” she muttered as she headed for the kitchen. She smeared peanut butter on a slice of bread, and then jelly. The makeshift meal settled her edgy stomach, but it did nothing to satisfy her soul.

  You’re not really alone, you know. You have another mother out there.

  Rose exhaled slowly. The past few days had been so crammed with activity that she hadn’t thought about Roseanne—Anne Hartzler—but now the hidden letters beckoned her. What else did she have to do this evening? Mamma had told her about those letters for a reason, after all. Maybe rereading them would give her an idea of how to proceed with her life. She was grasping at straws, because both Mamma and Anne had insisted that Rose wasn’t to go looking for her—

  If Mamma didn’t want me to find my real mother, why didn’t she pitch those letters? If Roseanne didn’t want me to know about her, why did she write them?

  Rose hurried upstairs, grabbed the stationery box from her shelf, and lit the lamp on her nightstand. She plumped her pillow against the head of the bed and kicked off her shoes, determined to find some peace—or at least the purpose behind these letters—while she had time alone to reconsider them.

  My Dearest Rose,

  If you’re reading this, it means your mother Lydia has passed on and I am so sorry for your loss.

  Rose blinked back tears. She’d heard this sentiment so many times over the past few days, she should’ve been immune to it, yet words written by a stranger nearly thirty years ago made Mamma’s death sting fierce
ly, all over again. Would Anne still feel sorry after all this time, if she heard about Lydia Fry’s passing?

  Mamma’s obituary will be in the Cedar Creek Chronicle. If Anne lives in this area, will she know Mamma’s gone?

  Rose held her breath, wondering where such an idea would lead. Then another thought sent goose bumps up her spine. Will Anne try to find me? If my birth mother still thinks of me every day, like she said in these letters, will she make an effort to comfort me? Even if she doesn’t seek me out, she might write me another letter in care of the funeral home....

  What an idea that was! Rose sensed it might be dangerously foolish to make assumptions—to succumb to wishful thinking—about how Anne Hartzler would react to Mamma’s passing. Anne might have died or moved away from the area after she’d gotten married. Rose knew of Hartzlers that were scattered around this region, but she hadn’t heard of any fellows named Saul.

  Rose focused on the letter again. Her swirling thoughts were influenced by her exhaustion and loneliness, and she could easily fall prey to her romantic imagination.

  Please understand that I am only sixteen, in love but unmarried, and your new parents will give you the stable home I can’t provide. Myron and Lydia Fry are dear people who have allowed me to live with them so I can nurse you until you’re weaned.

  Rose blinked. Which room had her birth mother stayed in? Her parents had always slept in the largest room at the front corner of the house, and the room she was in now had always been her bedroom. That left two other rooms—

  Why does that matter? Rose chided herself. What you really need to know is whether Lydia and Myron treated Roseanne as family while she was here. Did your birth mother hole up in her room, or did she visit when the neighbors came over? Did she attend church and get to know folks? Eight months is a long time.

  Rose thought about this idea. Did she dare ask Barbara Lambright or Beulah Mae Nissley what they recalled about the girl who’d stayed with Mamma and Dat after she’d been born? Instinct told her not to ask Preacher Sam or the other men about it—but Barbara was a midwife, so maybe she would understand Rose’s need to know more about the young woman who’d nursed her so long ago. Maybe Barbara had delivered her—

  Barbara would’ve only been in her twenties then—awfully young for a midwife. See how your tired mind is leading you astray?

  Rose skimmed the rest of the letter, until she reached another part that made her stop and think.

  It will sadden me greatly to leave you behind—I’ll have a huge hole where my heart has been—but I know you’ll have a secure, happy life with two generous, compassionate parents who already love you as though you are their own. From now on, my name will be Anne, for I will have left my Rose behind.

  Rose unfolded the watercolor portrait and studied it carefully. Once again, she was drawn in by her mother’s bright green eyes, freckles, and the wisps of brown hair that escaped her kapp. The girl’s facial features resembled her own—

  And that’s what she was when she wrote this letter—a mere girl, Rose reminded herself. It sounds so romantic that she changed her name, but isn’t that really a sign that she was confused—maybe caught up in her fantasies about Joel, still hoping he’d come back for her?

  Rose took the final letter from its envelope—the one in which her birth mother insisted that Rose shouldn’t try to find her because she was being courted by a deacon. The twenty-year-old postmark and some mental math told Rose her mother had been about twenty-six when she’d married Saul Hartzler. A paragraph near the bottom of the page held Rose’s attention:

  The way I see it, your mother gave both you and me a chance at a normal life without the shame our faith would’ve heaped upon us because I had you out of wedlock. Please don’t think too harshly of me for giving you up—or of your dear mother for not telling you about this while she was alive. We were both doing the best we could at the time.

  Rose sighed tiredly. In her heart, she knew that Anne and Lydia had indeed done the best they could—and they had put a tiny, helpless baby’s welfare ahead of their own. They had probably endured nosy questions and had become the subjects of nasty gossip because Roseanne hadn’t been married. Some of the men might have quizzed Dat about why he would allow such a wayward girl to stay in his home . . . but Mamma’s cancer had put a cruel end to the Frys’ ability to have a family. So Lydia and Myron had taken the opportunity they felt God had brought them.

  And they did it for you, Rose. They loved you despite the circumstances of your birth—and they welcomed Roseanne into their home so her breast milk would give you a stronger start. They loved you so much; they didn’t care what other people thought. It was all about you.

  With a little sob, Rose got off her bed. She had to move around, had to think about something else so her emotions would settle. She slipped the letters and the portrait back into the stationery box and carried them downstairs to the kitchen table. Tomorrow, in the light of a new day, she would read the letters again. Gracie wouldn’t be home until midmorning—or later, if she was having a good time with Katie—so Rose would use that time alone to get her emotions under control. She would figure out how she really felt about Mamma and her birth mother, and what she would—or wouldn’t—do next.

  She would think about finding work, too. If she wasn’t to become dependent upon the generosity of others, she had to find a decent job—and quickly.

  God helps those who help themselves. The old saying ran through Rose’s mind as she turned off the lamps and got ready for bed. Becoming a charity case is not an option. Your parents always put your needs first, and you must do the same for Gracie.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, seated at the kitchen table, Rose was so busy writing out index cards that she didn’t realize Bishop Vernon had arrived, until he called through the screen door.

  “Rose, how’s it going?” he asked in a resonant voice. “Thought I’d see how you and Gracie are doing.”

  “Come in!” Rose called out. “I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

  Vernon entered the kitchen with a smile on his face and a plastic sack in his hand. He removed his black straw hat and smoothed his snow-white hair. “By the time you’ve got that coffee on, I’ll have your screen door fixed. I noticed how the bottom was dragging the other day. A little persuasion’s all it needs, most likely.”

  Rose watched the bishop pull a small mallet from the sack—one of the tools he used for building furniture in his shop—before he laid the sack on the table. She suspected Jerusalem had sent some goodies, judging from the way the plastic draped over a boxlike object inside it, and her stomach rumbled in anticipation. Vernon stepped out onto the porch. As she measured coffee into the percolator basket, filled the pot with water, and set it on the stove to boil, she heard a couple of sharp whacks and the bishop whistling “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.”

  “Gut as new,” he announced when he returned to the kitchen. “Anything else need fixing while I’m here?”

  Rose almost declined his offer—but if the bishop could get Gracie’s window open, then her daughter couldn’t pester Matthias about it anymore. “If you wouldn’t mind looking at a window upstairs—”

  “Consider it done. Which room, dear?” Vernon smiled kindly at her, as if he had the entire morning to devote to household repairs.

  “The smallest one, at the end of the upstairs hall. We haven’t been able to open the window on the north wall since Gracie and I came here to live with Mamma.”

  Vernon strode through the front room and up the stairs, whistling. Rose wondered if she should slip her index cards into a drawer—she’d been writing out some “job wanted” notices to post on the bulletin boards of Plain stores in nearby towns. Rose believed this was her best chance to generate some income, but she knew the bishop would object to her working away from home.

  A steady pounding came from the room above her head, and then it stopped.

  Rose braced herself, deciding Vernon migh
t as well find out about her intention to look for a job. He was a staunch believer in Old Order values—but even if he lectured Rose, quizzing her about Gracie’s welfare if she did take a job, he might think of an opportunity for her. Vernon was resourceful, and he knew an incredible number of people in this part of Missouri. Members of the Cedar Creek church district believed he was capable of bending God’s ear and getting anything he requested—including miracles.

  Rose sighed. She could use a miracle about now.

  She heard the stairs creak beneath the bishop’s weight. “Denki so much, Bishop Vernon,” she said when he entered the kitchen. “It’s very kind of you to look after us this way.”

  “Once I got the window loose, I used the bar of soap from your bathroom to lubricate the metal track. Wish all home repairs were as simple as yours.” The bishop took a lidded container from the plastic sack. “Jerusalem’s looking after you, too. She wanted you and Gracie to have some of these fresh cinnamon rolls—but it seems your little chickadee has flown the coop.”

  Rose took two small plates from the cabinet. “Katie Lambright invited her for a sleepover. I can just imagine how lively things must be for Rosemary with two little girls scampering around.”

  Vernon laughed. “Glad to hear that. It’s important for Gracie to spend time with her friends—what’s this?” he asked as he picked up an index card. He skimmed it, frowning. “Rose, your most important job is raising your daughter. Even if you didn’t have Gracie, it’s too soon for you to consider looking for work,” he said sternly. “This tells me you’re so upset about your mother’s passing, you’ve lost sight of your priorities. Lost your perspective.”

  Rose steeled herself. If she’d learned anything from losing her parents and her husband this past year, it was that she had to depend upon her own strength—had to be resourceful—or nothing got accomplished.