The Englisch Daughter

by Cindy Woodsmall

  “Chris!” his Mamm called.

  He opened the bedroom door. “Coming.” He went down the stairs, pulling his suspenders over his shirt, and then stopped short. The bishop and his Daed were at the kitchen table, each with a cup of coffee in hand.

  “You’re out early today.” Chris went to the percolator on the stove and poured a cup of coffee.

  “I am.” The bishop took a sip of his coffee. “I have some things on my mind.”

  “Okay.”

  The four of them had talked almost nightly for two weeks, being open and honest about Chris’s desire to join the church. He was glad for that amazing moment at the end of his last fight when Mike assured him he could make good money boxing. In that moment, life made sense. Chris saw himself. He also saw fighting for what it was. He loved the adrenaline rush and the training. The training goals had been really cool for someone raised Amish—to punish his body, demand it do as he said, and see amazing progress. But that wasn’t who he was. It was something he could do but not something worth giving up his family and community for. A man his age might have seven or eight years of boxing. Who would he have been by the end of that time? He didn’t want to find out.

  But Dan’s gambling debt was paid. The air was clean between his parents and their two wayward sons. As for the other four sons, well, they’d been coming to the house often, and they talked about real life—the difficult, messy realness of life as men on this planet—and compared that to the struggles of men in the Bible. Something about this mess made them want time together.

  “I don’t think it was rebellion,” the bishop said.

  Chris took a seat. “What wasn’t?”

  “The issues that caused you to stop going through instruction seven years ago. I think having to break off the wedding shortly before you were to marry changed you.”

  “The breakup did a number on my head, that’s for sure.”

  She’d dragged his name through the mud after the breakup, saying untrue and hurtful things about him. He’d kept his mouth shut, although even now he wasn’t sure that was the best way to handle it. It had taken a long time to heal from all she’d said about him. But he wouldn’t say any of that out loud.

  “You asked to go through instruction this spring and summer, and I’ve made my decision. I see no reason for you to prove yourself for a year before being allowed to become a member.”

  “Denki.” Chris took a sip of his coffee.

  “And you may have your freedom back.”

  “Already?”

  “With the exception that we’ll continue meeting once a week for a while longer, but ya.” The bishop stirred sugar into his coffee.

  From behind Chris, Mamm patted his shoulders, showing her approval.

  “What will you do with your newly given freedom?”

  “I’m still unsure, but one thing I enjoyed on the Graber farm was working with special-needs kids. I could see that being part of the picture.”

  “That’s different”—the bishop smiled—“so I’d say it fits you to a T. Are you talking about doing that here or in Mirth?”

  “Here.” His life in Mirth was as much in his past as fighting was.

  The bishop tapped the spoon on the rim of his mug. “I know the bishop in Mirth well. He runs the recovery house there. Good man. I called him a few days ago while trying to sort out how strict to be in my decisions concerning you. He said that you had worked beside his niece Abigail and that you were very helpful to the Grabers.”

  “I’m glad he feels that way.”

  “He also said that Abigail thought well of you and that she’s one in a million.”

  “She is, no doubt. But”—he shook his head—“no one is more disappointed with the fighting than Abi.”

  The bishop nodded. “You’ll find the right woman.” He rose. “Denki for the coffee.”

  His Daed got up too. “I’ll walk out with you.”

  Mamm moved their mugs to the kitchen sink. “I’ve heard you mention her a few times.”

  “And thought of her a gazillion.” He drummed his thumbs against the table. “I’m not sure she’s left my thoughts for even a second, whether I’m awake or asleep.”

  “And you’re sure there’s nothing to hope for?”

  “Ya, Mamm. I’ve done nothing but think about this for weeks, and the conclusion I’ve come to is part of her being one in a million. She sees and thinks about situations completely differently than the nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine other women in that same situation. In her mind and heart, I crossed a line, and it’s not what I did as much as what she sees will be baggage from it that she would have to help me carry for the rest of my life.”

  “So she’s walled off?”

  “Apparently.” How had he not seen this before now? “But it’s in a unique and subtle way. Still, that wall is thick and tall.”

  Mamm clicked her thumbnails together, thinking. “Well, if nothing else, you two have that in common.”

  “The difference is I’m cautious. I think she’s unattainable.” He thought of the information he had, trying to piece things together. “She’s open and honest and caring, so that hides the wall. And the wall seems to be there only for potential life mates.”

  “For every single man who crosses her path?”

  “Probably.” Chris imagined that it might take her a few weeks to see an issue with some men, but she’d find the issue and be convinced of the baggage that would go with it.

  “Chris, honey, that is just a different way of coping with the same issue of being wounded. Part of being a couple is helping each other heal from the wounds.”

  He shook his head. “No ex has wounded her.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “And her relationship with her Daed?”

  “Excellent. Those things aren’t the issue. She goes on a few dates with someone and sees something that makes her call it off.” Everything he knew about her said she should’ve had at least a few serious boyfriends by now. “She’s incredibly creative and smart and irresistibly cute, and her energy level is a force she has to contend with daily. She should’ve found someone long ago that she bonded with, right?”

  “Sounds right to me.” His Mamm sipped her coffee, and they sat there in silence.

  “Wait.” Mamm slapped the kitchen table. “She has been wounded. Secondhand wounds or secondhand trauma, which I was reading about the other day in one of my daily devotionals, not sure which one.”

  “What?”

  “It usually happens to children when one parent cheats on or abuses the other. The children take on the hurt as if it happened to them. The pain and fear from that can be far more intense than it is for the person it happened to, because children are so tenderhearted and are completely powerless to process the events and emotions the way an adult is capable of doing.”

  This was so like his Mamm. She loved to analyze people and had spent years reading devotions that paired the spiritual with the psychological. She tapped on the table. “The question is, who had that kind of trauma in their lives so that she became a sponge for the pain?”

  His heart skipped a beat. “The recovery house,” he whispered, chills skittering across his skin. “But why would strangers matter enough that it caused secondhand trauma?”

  “When I was a girl, I saw a teenager—a kid I didn’t know—fall from a roof he was repairing. I couldn’t eat or sleep for days, and I had nightmares for months. The article said it can even happen to therapists who just listen to someone else’s trauma.”

  “She’s been helping her uncle in that recovery house since before she was a teen. She’s witnessed addicts as they fell apart, often sobbing with remorse as they saw who they were and the damage they’d done to loved ones. Since her teenage years, she’s been in a group with
the spouses, comforting those who carry unbearable pain. I can see how she would’ve absorbed the trauma with them and absorbed regret from those who felt it for marrying that person in the first place.”

  “That’s a lot of other people’s pain to take on as her own, Chris.”

  Was he on the right track? Obviously his actions had separated them. But maybe he was onto something they could work through. Or was he simply piecing things together in a way that gave him a story he wanted to believe? Did Abigail have a wall around her, or was she being reasonably cautious and wise concerning men and marriage?

  “Thoughts?” Mamm asked.

  “In every other area of life, she’s open and loving. If there’s a wall, it’s just in that one area. Still, it could mean she’s terrified of becoming one of those women, so frightened she can’t let herself fall in love. But if she feels that leery of good, steady men, where does that leave me? Despite the Amish ways, I’ve been actively pursuing violence, enjoying it, and making money off it.”

  “Is there something inside that rebelliousness that might work for her instead of against her?”

  “Mamm.” He couldn’t believe she was thinking along those lines.

  “Honey, part of what makes a marriage good is taking our faults and shaping them into something that works on our spouse’s behalf. Can you think of anything in your rebelliousness that would work for her?”

  “I don’t know what it would be. Some women would be intrigued with the so-called bad boy turned good, but not Abi. I just don’t know that I can get past the wall she’s been building for the last fifteen years, maybe longer.” Was Abigail aware of the walls she’d built around her? “I know plenty of other men have vied for her attention.”

  “But they weren’t you.” Mamm tapped her finger on the tabletop.

  “True. They were probably better.”

  “Chris,” she chided, “is that even possible?” Her smile said she was teasing, sort of.

  He laughed. “I checked, and it is.” His mind searched for something he had to offer her that others couldn’t. “She values independence. She needs someone who understands her desire to follow her heart and to have equal say in decisions and to continue in a career. Not just earning money through acceptable Amish ways, but a career.” He could give her that. He didn’t mind if the church leaders or the community thought less of him because of his stance. He would be proud to sacrifice part of each day so she could build a career.

  His Mamm looked perplexed. “That’s a man’s place.”

  “Not solely, not according to the Word. Proverbs 31 describes a woman whose husband is honored through her industry and wisdom and strength, not his. Her husband is esteemed because of her skill in work and decisions and love of family. In the New Testament, God and the apostles trusted women with important work and decisions. To Abigail it’s not an either-or proposition—either remain single and have control over your life or get married and put all power in your husband’s hands, hoping for the best. She wants a balance of power. No one’s desires are more or less important because of that person’s gender.”

  “And this mind-set works for you?”

  “It does.”

  “Then?” She held out both hands, palms up.

  What was he doing here? He and Abi had said their goodbyes, and she’d meant it. Then again, when he was in the ring, his opponents told him they would win, and they’d meant that too. He won some. He lost some.

  If he could get inside that wall with her, it would take time. Worst-case scenario was that he’d fight for her and lose, but at least he would’ve fought. “I’d have to live in Mirth.”

  “I’m sure if her bishop allowed that, our bishop would agree to it,” Mamm said.

  “I need to see Mervin face to face to talk to him about this.”

  “Mervin?”

  “Her bishop.”

  “Oh ya, I remember now. You said he’s also her uncle and that he adores her, so your getting permission to live near her could be rather sticky.”

  “Definitely.” Chris rose.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To shower and call an Uber.” He’d wasted entirely too much time as it was. She wanted someone she could trust, someone who wouldn’t blindside her with the truth of who he was after they were married, someone who wasn’t carrying the deadweight of wanting to be elsewhere, of wanting life to be something it wasn’t.

  He could do that. Despite his past actions and who he appeared to be to her, he could give her everything she was looking for, because it’s what he wanted too: sharing an Amish life with a unique and exceptional spouse. “If I can get permission to live in Mirth, it could take a long time to prove to her that my decision is a forever one.”

  “Jacob worked seven years for the right to marry Rachel, and another seven to finish the debt.”

  He chuckled. “As a kid, I thought the man was ridiculous. Why not move on and find someone else? Now he sounds wise and patient and I get it.”

  She grinned and hugged him. “You go tear down those walls and win Abigail’s heart. I’ll be praying for you.”

  Twenty-Nine

  The sounds filling the air made Roy smile as he raked onto a plate the leftover scraps of food from their picnic in the side yard. His wife’s laughter mixed with his sister’s while the children played. Jemima and Abigail were sitting on a quilt with the two babies. The red-and-white-checkered cloth covering the picnic table rippled in the late-afternoon sunshine.

  Even though it was a mere two days into April, the earth was warming nicely, giving hope that it would be a sunny, snow-free spring this year. Nice weather was always appreciated, especially by Jemima, who had high-energy preschoolers to wrangle on cold, rainy days.

  A horse snorted, drawing Roy’s attention. He looked up. The buckskin mare nodded her head at him, and he went to the fence and rubbed her fuzzy nose. “What’s the matter? Do you feel left out or something?”

  Abigail had sold his prized stallions several days ago, and it would take him a while not to miss them. All the horses were doing well, but even with Aaron’s help, training them was going slowly. One might think there would be more Amish teens and young men ready to snatch a job on a horse farm, but those who weren’t needed at home on their family’s farm were taking jobs at the local plant.

  “Roy,” Abigail called. “Just as an FYI, a late-afternoon picnic should happen more often when Laura and I arrive after the school day.”

  “Ya?” Roy plunked flatware down on a messy but empty plate. “Then stop dawdling when school is over and get here to prepare it.”

  Abigail laughed. “Not what I had in mind, but thanks.”

  “Would you mind watching both babies for a few minutes?” Jemima said.

  “I’ve got this,” Abigail said. Simeon was on one side of her, sitting up and playing with toys. Heidi was on the other side of her, having some belly time while scratching at the patches of color in the quilt.

  Jemima walked toward Roy. His heart raced. She took him by the hand and led him toward the food truck. “Time for another tour.”

  The truck had arrived yesterday, Monday morning, and Jemima had already filed for the necessary permits to set it up in town. They might not have all the necessary permits before midsummer, but all progress was a process. What was most important was that his wife was happy. Maybe he should’ve pushed to get a truck years ago, but at the time they felt it was best to wait. It wasn’t as if she were hoping to work full time. She’d work one day a week during tourist season until the children were older. Abigail would do the rest and still be off much more than with her teaching job.

  “A private tour,” Roy said. “I’ve not been on one of those yet.”

  “Ya, privacy is hard to come by around here. I can’t imagine why, unless it has something to do with our five children.”


  He loved how she’d begun speaking of Heidi as one of their children. He’d first noticed this shift about two weeks ago.

  They stepped into the truck. It was efficient, with minimum space to walk and move around but lots of space for cooking and storage. It had a closet of a bathroom, but that was much better than having to leave the truck to use a public restroom in town. She ran her fingertips across the silver cooktop. “I intend to make us dinner from here tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  She turned to face him. “You knew about this truck before Abigail arrived with that newspaper in hand.”

  “Ya.” He couldn’t lie.

  She moved in closer. “I thought so.” She cupped his face with her hands and leaned in.

  “Roy!” Abigail yelled, startling Jemima, and she released him and took a step back.

  “Man, she’s supposed to be the reason we get a moment,” Roy mumbled, ready to ignore his sister and kiss his wife.

  “Laura,” Abigail said calmly but firmly, “you do as I said immediately. Get Carolyn and Nevin inside. Move it.” Abigail’s teacher tone had his full attention now. “Hello.” She pounded on the side of the food truck.

  Roy’s heart lurched, and he hurried out of the food truck. “What’s going—”

  Tiffany. She was a passenger in a car that was on his driveway and heading toward his home.

  Abigail had Simeon and Heidi. “Gut job, Laura,” Abigail said as Laura nimbly moved despite her crutches. “In the house, little ones. Hurry along.”

  A broad-shouldered man turned off the car, and Tiffany stepped out of the passenger’s side. Roy’s older children were scurrying into the house.

  “Jem, help Abigail get the babies inside.”

  Jemima lifted Heidi from Abigail’s hip, relieving her of one baby. “She can’t have her, Roy.” Jemima paused, looking him in the eyes. “She can’t.”