by G. P. Ching
It’s a sweet offer, but it’s unrealistic to expect Bradford to support multiple weekly visits to my father, especially considering I’d have to masquerade as an Englisher. The risk is too great. Even if I accepted, the time commitment would be burdensome on both of us. Crater City is more than three hundred miles away.
“I’m sorry. I need some time to think.” I attempt to stand to show him out, but the walls start to wobble. My bottom hits the chair hard enough to slide the legs backward on the wood floor. I close my eyes. When I open them again, there is a glass of lemonade in front of my lips.
“For your father’s sake, please take care of yourself,” Bradford says.
“I’m so sorry. Don’t trouble yourself with me. I’m just tired.” I sip the lemonade and force a smile. “Thank you for coming. I’m going to rest now.”
He watches me take a gulp of lemonade and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The corners of his mouth sag.
“Really, I’m fine. I need rest, that’s all.” I give my most convincing smile.
“Okay. I’m going to go. Come see me if you need my help.”
As soon as he leaves, I set the lemonade down and bury my face in my hands, giving in to the wave of grief that plows into me. The door opens again. I rub my eyes in a weak attempt to cover my tears. “Did you forget something?”
“It’s me.”
I lower my fingers.
Jeremiah frowns at me, a large basket hanging from his arm.
“I don’t want you to see me like this.”
He remains silent but sets the basket down. The next thing I know, he’s swept me up into his arms. Carrying me to my bedroom, he props me up on every pillow he can find. Then leaves the room and returns with the basket. “Dinner, compliments of Maam Yoder.”
“Jeremiah, you didn’t—”
“She insisted.” Out of the basket, he pulls a soup urn and a spoon and sits down beside me on the bed. He ladles the hot soup and brings it to my lips. The savory liquid courses down my throat, so delicious I moan.
“You’re hungry,” Jeremiah says.
“Chicken dumpling. Your mother’s was always the best in Hemlock Hollow.”
Jeremiah feeds me again. While I chew, his attention sweeps away from me toward the wall. “I’ve always loved that quilt.”
How embarrassing. The blue and gray log cabin style on my wall was my first. “Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not. I love it.”
“The corner is messed up.”
He spoon-feeds me another bite of soup, locking eyes with me. “I love it.”
“Thank you,” I say around the bite.
He rests the bowl on his leg. “Bradford told me about your father’s condition.”
I nod.
“This is our chance. Rumspringa.”
I swallow the bite of chicken in my mouth. “Not this again. Don’t you understand? My father wouldn’t want me to go.”
“That was before, but now your father isn’t here.”
“Just because he’s sick doesn’t give me the right to disobey.”
“You don’t understand what I’m saying. He isn’t here, Lydia. He’s out there. If we go on rumspringa, you can live where he is, in Crater City. You can see him every day. Maybe this is God’s way of telling you it’s the right time.”
I try to derail his logic but come up short. Clutching the base of my neck, I attempt to calm my racing heart but the untrustworthy organ pounds against my palm, speeding at the thought of leaving home. Even after a few deep breaths my shoulders are still hunched in tight knots.
“I’ve known you since you could walk,” Jeremiah says. “I think, maybe, it’s not just about your father’s wishes or about the dream being better than reality. I think, maybe, you might be afraid. A little bit?”
For a moment, I’m speechless as I ponder the accusation. Me? Afraid? “I trust my father and if he says the world outside is dangerous, I believe him. I want to visit him but I am afraid. I think we both should be.”
“It’s normal to be afraid. Everyone is. But we aren’t the first Amish to do this. There’s an English house that helps people like us with the transition. They provide papers, names. They’ll help us find jobs at places that will be discreet about us. We’ll get to see all of those things we’ve talked about. Remember how Eli told us about the television? Don’t you wonder what that will be like? Or how it would be to flip a switch to light up any room, instead of hanging the gas lamp from the hook above the table? I know it’s scary, but it might also be wonderful.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore the pounding in my ribcage. I picture what it would be like to live in a house with Jeremiah. Without the expectations of Hemlock Hollow hanging over our heads, we might finish what we started in the barn. His lips look soft, wanting. We’ve been inseparable for as long as I can remember, but we’ve never even kissed. In the English world there would be no limits, no chaperones.
My cheeks burn. Emotions swirl within me that I can’t even name. I press my hand into my chest as if I can hold my heart at bay. Pressure on a wound stops the bleeding, after all. But a flood of memories comes back to me. Ever since I was a baby, my father has lectured me on the evils of the English lifestyle. This is one edge I’m not sure I can throw myself over, even if Jeremiah is holding my hand.
“Open,” he says.
I obey, drinking in the spoonful of broth he brings to my lips.
“Good girl.” Jeremiah drops the spoon into the bowl and sets the lot down on the bedside table. Then he leans over me. With a hand propped on the bed on either side of my chest, he accepts my eye contact as he would an outstretched hand. I relax into the down pillow. The sight of him hovering over me fills me with intense joy and a sense of security. If we had time alone, if we shared an uninterrupted kiss, would I feel for Jeremiah what a wife feels for her husband?
“Please, Lydia. Just this once, do as I say. Come with me. I want you to be the one I experience the world with. We’re seventeen years old. A few months—just until your father has recovered—and then we’ll come home.”
The way he says home, his breath brushing my face, sends a shiver across my skin and makes my heart skip against my breastbone. He says home like the word is intimate: our home.
“Besides,” he continues in a whisper, suddenly intent on my mouth. “Until old Frank is home, I have no one to ask to court you. And I will court you, Lydia, whether the English way, the Amish way, or both.”
A curl of his blond hair falls across his forehead. I sweep it aside and caress his cheek with my knuckles.
Some decisions are carefully constructed towers of logic framed in lists of pros and cons, shingled in trusted advice. As I throw my arms around Jeremiah, pressing the apron of my dress against his vest, the choice I make is based on none of those things. It springs straight from my heart to my lips.
“Yes, Jeremiah. I’ll come with you. I’ll go on rumspringa.”
The smile he gives me is as much a reward as the embrace that leaves me longing for more and anxious to begin.
3
Bishop Kauffman agrees to my rumspringa request with little concern. In fact, the way he claps me on the shoulder suggests he expected the turn of events. Literally, rumspringa means “running around,” the only time in Amish life when the Ordnung overlooks transgressions. The Amish only baptize adults, so as a teenager I’m not bound to church law, but at seventeen, I’m considered old enough to make my own decisions. That means between now and the time I choose to be baptized, I am free of all expectations except those of my conscience.
But my conscience has a loud voice. My father has made sure of that.
“Lydia,” Bishop Kauffman says, placing a calloused hand on mine, “where you are going, they don’t have rules like we do. The reason we’ve come to this, living behind this wall, is because they chose a life without limits, without conscience, and we chose to preserve ours. I want you to go and experience that life so that you know wh
at it is you’re giving up, the good and the bad. But remember your roots. Remember who you are. You may walk through the valley of darkness, but remember you come from the light.”
I smile and nod. “I won’t let their world change me.” As the words leave my mouth, I truly believe them.
His eyebrows dart toward the ceiling. “Oh, child, that’s not what I’m saying at all. You should let it change you. When you leave here, there is no halfway. You will live, dress, and speak the English way. There’s something wrong if living that life doesn’t change you.”
“Oh,” I say. I knit my eyebrows.
He gives my shoulder a gentle shake. “It should make you more committed to our way of life.”
I bob my chin. “Okay.” My stomach twists with my impending reality. I will have to live English. All of my lessons, my schooling, it was all for this moment—so I could walk among them if I had to.
“Then, go. We’ll take care of your father’s farm while you’re gone. I will miss you.”
Tossing my arms around his neck, I squeeze hard enough for the hug to last until I return.
Balanced between reluctance and excitement, I pack my father’s small brown suitcase. I start with a kapp to cover my head and the box of pins I use every morning to bun my hair under it. Will they make me cut my hair? Winding a loose tress around my finger, I watch the honey brown tighten like a noose against my pale skin. I bite my lip. I don’t want to change my hair.
Head shaking, I resolve not to worry about a problem that hasn’t even happened. Keep busy, I tell myself. The modest gray dress I pack is without zippers or decoration, and the tights I’ve sewn myself. Leather shoes made by an Amish neighbor go in next. It all fits easily. I won’t be able to wear this clothing once I’m on the outside, but I want a change of clothes for the trip home. Plus, it feels good to bring something of my life with me into the void.
I clean my house spotless and turn off the gas that powers the lamps and refrigerator at the tank. Both run on methane collected from heating pig dung—an Amish invention. The Yoders will use our pigs’ chips while I’m away. As for the water, I turn that off too and empty the pipes, in case I’m not back before the first freeze.
Everything is prepared, but I startle anyway when Jeremiah knocks. I scurry to the door, a mess of jittery limbs.
His smile melts when he sees me. “Are you all right?” He takes my waist as if he expects I might fall over at any moment. “You look pale.”
“Just nervous,” I answer.
“Do you need to sit down? Some water?”
“No, I’m fine.” I turn to grab my suitcase. “Besides, I shut the water off.”
“Just as well. I have a surprise for you in the buggy.”
Through the door, I notice the Amish buggy in front of the house. Huh? “I thought we would be going in a car. Won’t someone see us in that?”
“Baby steps, Lydia. Baby steps.” He lifts the suitcase from my hand and leads me out the door. “The safe house is in Willow’s Province, just outside the gate. The only neighbors are Doc Nelson and Bradford and Hillary Adams. No one will see.”
It sounds risky, but I trust in his plan. Besides, the familiarity sets me at ease.
Jeremiah’s horse, Abe, swats flies with his tail, the jingle of metal against leather mixing with the songs of sparrows in the summer wheat. It’s all the encouragement I need. I climb into the cab and wait as he loads my suitcase. He takes the bench next to me and scoops up the reins. With a cluck of his tongue, Jeremiah spurs Abe into the road, where he quickens to a rhythmic trot.
“So, what is this surprise?”
Jeremiah raises an eyebrow. “Patience is a virtue.”
“And so is initiative. Should I look for it myself?”
“No need. It’s there.” He motions behind me with his head.
I pull the covered pail that rests next to Jeremiah’s suitcase toward the bench. When I lift the lid, the most glorious scent fills the cab. Two soft drinks are wedged next to a large, colorful paper bag with the Ready Bell Express logo.
“You brought fast food from the English world?”
He flashes me a conspiratorial grin. “Jacob met me last night to make arrangements and brought it. I thought you might like lunch. Reheated it this morning myself. Cheeseburgers, French fries, nuggets, and something called a pie that looks nothing like one. And soda, still cold from the fridge.”
“You are my favorite person in the world right now.” I kiss his cheek, then pull the drink from the pail. The ice-cold cola bubbles up the straw, courses down my throat. After the last swallow, I burp appreciatively.
I’ve only had soda pop once before, when Mary returned from rumspringa with a case of it. It was just a small taste because we all had to share. I slurp on the straw again, anxious to have my fill. Wedging the cup between my feet, I unwrap a cheeseburger, offering the first bite to Jeremiah, since he’s holding the reins and can’t feed himself properly. He wraps his lips around half the burger, only thwarted by the ridge of paper I’m holding.
“I see that large mouth of yours is gut for something, Jeremiah.” I use the German pronunciation for emphasis, like a mother scolding her child. “Did ya leave any for me?”
“Not gut, Lydia. Good. From here on out, you have to speak like an Englisher. We can’t slip into German, ever.”
“Gooood,” I drawl.
Waving a finger, he says, “When in the English world, act English. Always. Have you been looking through your book?”
He’s talking about the book each of us is given with pictures of new technologies so that we don’t embarrass ourselves the first time we see a dish sanitizer or an irradiator. Of course I’ve reviewed mine. As if the eight years of English culture we had to take in school weren’t enough.
“How’s this for acting English?” I shove the entire other half of the burger into my mouth until my cheeks bulge.
Laughing, he shakes his head. “There’s more in there, you know. Please don’t choke on my account.”
I shift the half-chewed mass to my cheek. “It tastes funny. Mushy and bland. Is this beef?”
“I think so.” Jeremiah glances toward the bag.
“So, how far is it?” I swallow and reach for another burger.
“Just a few miles past Bradford Adams’s place. Jacob is coming home to be baptized. He’s going to drive the buggy back for me.”
“I guess the tar didn’t stick,” I say, looking out over the fields of crops that line both sides of the road. I can almost hear my father talking about Jacob. Like a lily-white lamb dipped in a tar bath. Is that what Dad will think of me when all this is over?
“I guess not.” Jeremiah’s quiet chuckle brings me back into the moment.
Abe’s rhythmic clip-clop provides background music. This is how it is with Jeremiah. I’m not compelled to speak to fill the quiet. The miles skip by. Fields give way to hickory and birch trees and then the road melds into two dirt ruts. This isn’t the fastest way to the wall, but it’s the only way to the gate.
Hemlock Hollow borders the Outlands, territory ravaged by radiation during the war. Most Englishers won’t live anywhere near the Outlands because of the radiation levels. There are rumors that certain animals have mutated. Dangerously large rats and bears with two heads are said to make their homes near the remains of the reactor. Once the wall went up, a bunch of men from Hemlock Hollow knocked a hole in the concrete, at the part deepest within the Outlands, and built a wooden gate. I don’t know why the English didn’t think we’d do that. Amish are talented builders and our faith makes us brave. If I were to guess, I’d say it was because they underestimated us and assumed we’d go quickly into death.
I think the rumors about the continued impact of the radiation are made up. While it’s true, I’ve been told, that many people died that first year after the war from the sickness, people in Hemlock Hollow live long and happy lives now. For as long as I’ve been alive, no one has ever seen anything like a bear with two heads
. Our homes are built as far away from the Outlands as possible, within the bounds of our walled existence. I don’t really understand what radiation is or why the English are so afraid of it. All I know is, it doesn’t seem to bother us any. Not anymore.
We reach the wall, and Jeremiah jumps out of the cab and swings the gate open. I take up the reins, guiding Abe through. He closes and locks it behind us. The forest is dark here, thick with trees that twist and tangle together. I scan both sides of the path for two-headed bears, then giggle at the ridiculous thought. Jeremiah climbs back in, and Abe breaks into a trot again.
“Why do you think Bradford and Hillary Adams choose to live so close to the Outlands?” I ask.
“My father says the houses are cheaper in Willow’s Province. Plus, it’s the place you live when you want the government out of your business. The Province is rural and keeps poor records. I’m guessing they aren’t big fans of the Green Republic and decided to take their chances with the radiation.”
“That makes sense. I think the radiation is hogwash anyway. Some invisible force that makes you sick? I don’t believe it.”
Jeremiah shrugs and laughs through his nose.
The forest opens up and Abe’s feet clip-clop on paved road again. We pass the Adamses’ small stone cottage. By the time Jeremiah guides Abe up a long driveway toward a sweet-looking yellow house with a white wraparound porch, I regret eating the second burger.
“Please tell me this is it. I think my stomach is rejecting the fast food.” I blow my cheeks out as a wave of nausea washes over me.
“This is it, Lydia. Fifty-four Lakehurst Drive. Your temporary English home.”
He pulls the buggy up next to a corroded blue hatchback and reins in Abe. Hopping out first, Jeremiah offers his hand to help me down.
“Thanks,” I say.
On the surface, the house looks similar to the ones in Hemlock Hollow, but there are subtle differences. A glass cage over the door houses an electric lightbulb. There’s no knocker. Instead, the button on the frame is an electric doorbell. I’ve never used one, and I decide in advance that I won’t push it. I’ll knock on the wood with my knuckles. A string of party lights in the shape of chili peppers wrap around the porch railing. It’s late afternoon, so they aren’t lit, but I can picture what they must look like glowing in the darkness.