My soul was sick with panic; my throat ached with sorrow. So much so that when Emmy and the Landis kids began to sing along, I tried to hum but nothing came out.
After supper, Aunt Mimi’s two older daughters and I cleared the table and washed and dried the dishes without any assistance. We made quick work of the kitchen while Emily and the boys played Parcheesi on the living room floor.
I was deep in gloomy thought, staring at a wooden market basket filled with dried Queen Anne’s lace and other wild flowers, when Aunt Mimi came into the dining room. She was carrying two wrapped presents with bows made of yarn. “Emily, come see what I bought for you and your sister.”
Emmy didn’t have to be called twice. She came bounding over to have a look. “Oh, pretty,” she said, eyes wide. “How come?”
Aunt Mimi’s face grew pensive. “No reason, really. Just wanted to do something nice, since your Momma’s sick.”
Emily unwrapped hers first. I cringed as she ripped off the green tissue paper and yellow bow, eager, as always, to get to the best part.
“Oh, it’s just what I needed!” She held up the pink plastic case to house her many paper dolls.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
“It sure is. Thank you!” Emily threw her arms around Aunt Mimi’s neck, then turned and focused her eyes on the remaining present. “Becky’s turn,” she said.
I was careful not to tear too much of the paper or break the bow. Emily, and now the Landis girls, were gathered around, watching. Made me a little uncomfortable, being hovered over like that.
The lid came off easily enough, and I lifted out an Amish doll, complete with long black apron and head covering. “She’s darling,” I whispered, noting the peculiar lack of facial features.
“I found her at Central Market, downtown. Might be fun to play with her, just like you would a regular doll,” said Aunt Mimi. “But mostly, I thought you could talk to her . . . sometimes.”
“Maybe so.” I studied the blank face now, remembering that Amish folk don’t believe in “making any graven images,” which included photographs, drawings of themselves, or sewing eyes, noses, or mouths on their dolls.
When I turned to thank Aunt Mimi, I realized that Emily and the other girls had left the room. “I guess I was thinking too hard just then,” I admitted. “Where’d everybody go?”
“Out back,” she said. “The car has a sprung sprizzle. Mel and the kids are all out there looking under the hood.”
I wasn’t sure what a “sprung sprizzle” was exactly, but it sounded like something was busted, probably bad enough to allow time for a heart-to-heart talk with Aunt Mimi.
“Thanks for such a nice gift,” I said. “Lately, I’ve been doing too much worrying . . . talking to myself, too.” I told her how the boy on the way to the bus stop had teased me for it. “Guess I oughta try to pull myself together.”
“Aw, now, Becky.” She led me into the living room where she sat down and patted the sofa cushion beside her. “Ain’t all that good to be worryin’ so, love. Maybe when you feel the fear a-comin’, you could talk to your faceless Amish doll instead. It’d almost be like talking to the Lord, ’cause, after all, He’s listenin’ in all the time anyway.”
I glanced down at the doll in my lap. Maybe Aunt Mimi was right. Looking at the handmade gift, I realized the benefits of talking to something that couldn’t see you, couldn’t stare a hole right into your heart. “She can’t talk back, either,” I said, and we both laughed about that.
When I played my Schubert piece for Aunt Mimi, I felt right at home on her old upright piano. Seemed to me not many people could afford much else in the way of a nice instrument these days.
As I played the stormy section, I thought of Mommy, wondering how she was feeling tonight, and then I did a strange thing. I imagined a battle going on between her good cells and her bad ones.
Tears welled up, making my hands appear to swim over the ivories, and I was thankful that Miriam Landis had gone to look out the front window.
Long after the final chord died away, my fingers lay on the milkwhite keys, stroking the soft ivories, worn from years of use. I gazed lovingly at the old instrument and my young “piano hands,” as Mommy often referred to them.
The good cells had to win out.
I kept staring down at the keys, and as I did, something began to settle in my mind. Maybe the idea I’d had earlier was possible. With God’s help, I could do anything. The Bible said so.
Trembling, I realized what such a promise to the Almighty would mean: my greatest sacrifice. And I’d do it, too, in order to get His attention. Surely, then, the Lord would heal Mommy.
Chapter 10
On Sunday morning, Daddy came and picked us up for church. We could’ve gone to the Mennonite meetinghouse down the road with the Landis family, but Daddy wanted us with him.
I was glad, too, because I couldn’t picture myself going forward to a church altar other than my own to present myself to God. Today was the day, even more critical because of Daddy’s words to us in the car.
“People will be asking about your mother.” He drove till we came to open road and pastureland on either side. Something was on his mind, because after he pulled into the parking area, he turned off the ignition and looked at us without speaking.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?” I asked softly.
He shook his head, holding on to the steering wheel with both hands. “I wish Mommy could come to a healing service” was all he said.
“Can she leave the hospital?” Emily asked.
“Not in her weakened condition,” he said. “It’s out of the question.”
So she was worse.
“Why not take the service to her?” I suggested.
Daddy looked at me, somewhat startled. “How do you mean?”
“Take the elders and deacons and anoint her with oil.”
He nodded. It was a wonderful idea. And we walked into church holding hands. Three trusting souls.
The sermon was based on the fifth chapter of Job. I’d heard it preached before, but not by Daddy.
“ ‘But if it were I, I would appeal to God; I would lay my cause before him,’ ” my father quoted.
I underlined the Scripture in red ink, staring at the words. The verse was doing something—giving me an even stronger, more determined spirit. But the best part was yet to come. Verse nine: “He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted.”
Scarcely able to sit still, I waited for the sermon to end, for the last hymn to begin. My shyness seemed to disappear as Brother Harris offered the benediction. Folding my hands, I closed my eyes in reverence.
I would appeal to God; I would lay my cause before Him. . . .
Over and over, the verse whispered to my heart.
Lee Anne stayed at the altar and prayed with me for a while before going back to the nursery to help with her baby brother. I needed privacy and scanned the area, making sure no one was within earshot.
He performs wonders . . . miracles that cannot be counted. . . .
Jittery with anticipation, I began to pray at last. “Dear Lord Jesus, You know the end from the beginning. You know what I have on my mind and in my heart. So please hear this humble prayer from me, Becky, one of Your faithful children.”
I forged ahead, uncertain of my confidence. “I feel it is Your will for me to offer the music gift You have given me. . . .”
Pausing, I bit my lip.
“I offer it in exchange for Mommy’s healing. This means that I’ll give up playing the piano forever—all the days of my life—if You’ll take my mother’s cancer away.”
I sighed. “Starting today, I am placing my musical talent on the altar of sacrifice—just like Abraham did with Isaac. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.”
I hadn’t realized I was crying until I opened my eyes and saw the evidence. Quickly, I found a tissue in my pocket and wiped the altar rail dry.
A tide of joy washed over me, and I ro
se to my feet and went to find Emily.
On the way home, we stopped off at the hospital, waiting in the parking lot for Daddy to run inside and visit with Mommy briefly.
I looked up at the third story, trying to decide which room was the sunroom. One of these days, Daddy had promised, we’d catch a glimpse of Mommy at the window.
In the backseat of the car, Emily played with her new paper doll case, arranging and rearranging the clothes and hats and accessories, mumbling to herself.
I turned around and watched for a while before she ever noticed.
“Wanna play?” she asked.
“Paper dolls aren’t for tweenagers.”
She frowned. “You’re not a tweener or whatever—not yet.”
“I’ll be thirteen next April,” I reminded her.
“So what’ll you do with your Amish baby doll then?”
“I’ll give it to you.”
“Oh no, you won’t,” she retorted. “I don’t like that doll.”
“How come? I think she’s unique.”
Emily positioned a long, beautiful gown on her paper doll, holding it in place as her fingers pressed the tabs down on each shoulder, then under each arm. “She’s got no soul, that’s why.”
“Because there’s nothing on her face?”
“The eyes are the windows to our souls, aren’t they?” she asked. “Isn’t that why Mommy’s are so pretty?”
No arguments from me about our mother’s aqua blue eyes. “I guess I could sew on some eyes,” I offered.
“Good idea.”
“Might spoil her looks.”
“No . . . do it right away,” Emily insisted.
“Won’t be today; we don’t sew on Sundays.”
“Tomorrow, then, after you practice for Winter Festival.” The conversation came to a sudden end as I contemplated what I would tell Mrs. Patterson come Tuesday. Of course, I wouldn’t go into a lengthy explanation about dropping out, nothing like that. But I’d have to be leaving her piano studio for good, that was certain.
Even harder would be giving up the coveted pianist position for the Christmas Ensemble. I took a deep breath, pondering the situation.
Monday after school, I sorted through our classical records, looking for Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.
Deliberately keeping my back to the piano—to avoid seeing the beloved instrument—I placed the record on the turntable. Then, because the house was empty except for Emily and me, I turned the volume way up. Lofty, triumphant music filled the living room.
“I love this piece,” I shouted over the thunderous orchestra. “We’re studying it at school, in music class.”
Emily agreed, “playing” the cello as I directed her.
When it came to the section featuring the exploding cannons and repetitious descending scales, I pretended to conduct the entire orchestra, waving my arms gleefully to the beat. “There’s something about Tchaikovsky,” I told her. “He grabs you and won’t let you go till the very end.”
“I know what you mean.”
“His music stirs my soul,” I admitted.
She laughed with me, bowing rambunctiously on her imaginary cello. I was still playing conductor as the music moved toward the boisterous finale.
“Which do you like better—your Schubert Impromptu or this piece?” she asked.
I caught my breath but kept going. Having done my absolute best to divert my attention from this specific hour after school—the hour I had always devoted to piano practice—I was peeved that Emily had brought up the Impromptu.
“Well, which is it?” she persisted.
I let my arms fall to my sides and stared at her. “Is it really possible to have a favorite piece or composer?”
“I think so.”
“Who’s your favorite?” I asked, turning the tables.
“Chopin is nice. Especially the waltzes,” she said. “They’re so romantic.”
“You’re too young to be thinking such things.” Nervously, I waited for her to mention Schubert again. Then without warning, she got up and headed to our bedroom.
I didn’t pursue her but carefully placed the recording back in its jacket and hurried past the piano, refusing to look at it.
Emily had sensed something amiss. I was fairly certain of it.
On Tuesday I called Mrs. Patterson during school lunch hour.
The halls were noisy, but this was my only chance to break the news to her before my scheduled lesson time. I didn’t want to be rude and cancel too late in the day.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello, Becky. How are you?” “Fine, thanks.” What I had to say must be said quickly; otherwise, it might be impossible to say at all. “I . . . uh wanted to tell you that I won’t be taking piano anymore.”
An awkward silence followed. Then—”Well, I must say that I don’t understand. Is there a problem we should discuss?”
“No . . . nothing like that,” I answered. “I’ve enjoyed studying with you very much.”
“Well, I guess I don’t know what to say.”
“Are you wondering about Winter Festival?” I asked, bringing up the ticklish subject.
“After all your hard work—my goodness, how splendidly you were performing the Schubert. . . .”
“I’m very sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Patterson, really, I am. I was looking forward to this competition, too. And I hope you know how much I appreciate the help you’ve given me all these months.”
She offered to refund my audition fee, but I declined. It wasn’t her fault I was quitting.
That night, she called and talked to Daddy. He was as shocked to hear the news from her as she had been hearing it from me.
“How can this be?” Daddy asked, sitting down with me after the long phone call. “I thought you were doing well with this new teacher.”
I nodded, praying silently for wisdom. “She’s very good, really. It’s not Mrs. Patterson’s fault.”
He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, though I knew he was puzzled, nothing more. “I’m concerned about what this news may do to your mother,” he remarked.
“W-what do you mean?”
“It will come as a surprise to her, as you must know. Certainly, it would be unfortunate for her to suffer unduly over your quitting. You know how much she loves to hear you play.”
Mommy . . . suffer because of me?
Daddy put his hand on his forehead. “Why would you want to give up the piano, Becky? You’re so very talented. I don’t understand this sudden decision.”
“I adore playing the piano,” I said. “But I love Mommy more.” That was all I could say.
“But, honey . . .”
“I, uh, I can’t talk about it, Daddy. Really, I can’t.”
He seemed confused and distraught, and it pained me to think that my decision had affected him so.
Sighing audibly, he said, “Perhaps, if you’re entirely sure about this, Becky, we should wait and break it to Mommy after her treatments are finished.”
I hadn’t thought about that. “When?”
“Sometime in February.”
Such a long time.
I wondered, too, what I could possibly say if she asked me to play the Impromptu over the phone again. But I dismissed the distressing thought. “How soon can Mommy come home?”
“Her doctor hasn’t said. Could be another week, at least.”
I was upset to hear that, but I was glad about one thing: My father had not pressured me for the real reason behind my decision to give up piano. Had I told him too much?
The true test of my resolve—and willpower—was yet to come.
Chapter 11
It was Emily who had the courage to be nosy and ask. She was setting the supper table while I experimented with a simple but tasty rice casserole I’d learned in Home Ec.
She came right out with it. “Why’d you stop taking piano?”
There was no straight answer other than the truth. But I couldn’t tel
l my sister about my treaty with God. Chances were, she wouldn’t understand.
“Did you quit because of the money?” she asked. I turned around. “What’re you talking about?”
“It must be costing Daddy a lot to have Mommy in the hospital so long.”
Two weeks and one day. . . .
I could’ve nodded or mumbled, giving assent, but it would’ve been a lie. I wouldn’t deceive my sister, or anybody else, about the pure and holy thing between the Lord and me.
Emily was staring at me now, waiting for an answer. I was caught between that rock and a hard place I’d heard some visiting preachers describe in sermons. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” I said as humbly as I could muster.
She shrugged her shoulders and turned to the task at hand. “Hope Daddy makes it home in time to eat with us before prayer meeting.”
I agreed. Our father’s visits to the hospital were beginning to extend into the supper hour. “Let’s ask to go along tomorrow night,” I suggested.
“We’ll do our homework in the hospital lobby.” Emily came over and watched me chop pickles. “Maybe we won’t feel so far away from Mommy that way.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised when I noticed her lower lip quivering. “Aw, Emmy, I know how you feel . . . honest, I do.”
We held each other there in the kitchen—me, wearing Mommy’s ruffled gingham apron; Emily, crying her eyes out.
Wednesday, October 1
Dear Diary,
I had no idea how hard it would be to give up the piano. It was naïve of me to think the first day would be the hardest and that eventually the urge to play would just go away.
To be truthful, the desire grows stronger with each twenty-four hours that pass, and tonight is only the end of the third full day.
I prayed longer than usual at church, reminding Jesus of Mommy’s need for healing. Something else, too. I prayed for strength to carry out my end of the bargain.
The Sunroom Page 5