My Amish Boyfriend

by Melody Carlson

  “Now come inside.” Mammi puts her arm around Mom’s waist. “I know you have been sick, Anna. And you must be weary from travel. You do not look good to me. Too thin. Too pale.”

  The inside of the house seems very stark with its wooden floors and plain wooden furnishings, but everything looks clean and neat. However, the space seems very small, and it feels even smaller when all three of us are standing in the living room together. I wonder how there can possibly be room for Mom and me in this miniature home.

  “Your room is here.” Mammi opens a door right off of the living room to reveal a very tiny room with a full-sized bed pushed up against one wall.

  “Oh?” Mom tosses a concerned look at me as she sits down on the edge of the bed.

  “We’ll both sleep here?” I ask Mammi.

  “Ja. Is it a problem?”

  “Maybe I can sleep on the floor,” I offer halfheartedly.

  “You don’t want to sleep with your mamm?”

  “She’s been really sick,” I explain. “And I’m a very restless sleeper. I’m afraid I’d disturb her if we shared the same bed.”

  Mammi frowns. “Oh . . . ja, ja, I see what you are saying.”

  “I don’t mind sleeping on the floor,” I declare weakly. However, the hard wood floor doesn’t look inviting.

  Mammi looks uncertain, but then she nods. “Ja, that is fine. You can sleep on the floor. Come with me, Shannon. I will show you where there is more bedding.”

  “Maybe you should stay here and rest,” I tell Mom.

  “Yes. That might be wise.”

  I pull the two spare pillows from the bag. “Maybe we can prop you up with these so your head will be up.”

  “Thank you.” She waits for me to arrange the pillows against the wall behind her.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to miss your La-Z-Boy,” I tell her.

  “What?” Mammi gives Mom an odd look. “You have a lazy boy?”

  “It’s a chair, Mamm.” My mom leans back against the pillows and wearily closes her eyes. “A very comfy chair.”

  “A chair that she can sleep in,” I explain to Mammi. “It leans back like this.” I use my hand to show her. “It’s called a La-Z-Boy.”

  She makes a confused frown. “That does not sound good to me. Laziness is sinful.”

  Feeling almost as dazed as Mammi looks, I tell Mom to get some rest and then follow my new grandmother out into the main room where she opens a closet that has a sparse selection of sheets and towels and blankets.

  “Tonight you can get what you need for your bed from here,” she says as she closes the door. She opens another door. “This is the bathroom.”

  I peek into the tiny and rather odd-looking bathroom. The toilet looks normal enough, but the shower space is very small and the sink has a strange faucet. Still, I don’t feel comfortable questioning every little thing.

  “It was your uncle Benjamin who said we must have indoor plumbing,” Mammi tells me. “Jacob—that is your dawdi—he did not want pipes in the house. But Benjamin insisted.” Her gray eyes twinkle when she smiles. “I am glad that he did. Especially in the wintertime.”

  Next she shows me another small room with a bed the same size as the one Mom is resting in now. “Your dawdi and me, we sleep here.”

  “Dawdi?” I ask. “Does that mean grandparents or grandfather?”

  “Ja, ja. It’s both.” She nods as she opens the window to let some air into the stuffy room. I am curious as to why there are no curtains over the windows, but then I am curious about a lot of things. “I forget you have been raised as an Englisher.”

  “A what?”

  “Englisher,” she says a bit sharply as she turns around to face me. “The ones that live outside and are not Amish. They are Englishers. Your mamm did not tell you about that?”

  “No. But she didn’t tell me that she was Amish either.”

  “She is not Amish.” Mammi scowls. “She left us.”

  “I know,” I say quietly.

  Mammi’s dark countenance brightens. “But now our Anna has come home to us. And she has brought you.” She reaches over to touch my hair, twirling it in her fingers. “Such a color.”

  “My dad had hair like mine.”

  “Amish girls must pin up their hair and cover their heads—when they are out of the house.” She removes some pins from her white bonnet, then slowly lifts it from her head and places it on a shelf by the door. “Our prayer covering is called a kapp,” she tells me. “It is to be treated with respect.”

  “Did my mom used to wear these clothes too?” I ask.

  “Ja, ja. All the girls here dress like this.” She looks down at my khaki cargo pants, then shakes her head. “English girls who dress like boys. I do not understand.”

  Feeling self-conscious, I turn to leave the bedroom. “You have a nice house,” I tell her when we are in the living room again. It isn’t a heartfelt compliment, but I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “Our home is small and humble, but it is enough.” Her stern countenance softens again. “But you have not seen the best room yet.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The kitchen.” She tilts her head to the other end of the house.

  To my surprise, the kitchen is by far the largest part of the house. But it is unlike any kitchen I’ve ever seen. The big sink has what looks like a pump for a faucet, and there are no modern appliances whatsoever. In the center of the room is a long, wooden table with a chair at the end and a bench on either side. “Looks like you can have lots of people for dinner here.”

  “Ja. We always have plenty of room at our table.” She goes over to open the door on an old-fashioned black stove. I notice some pieces of wood and wood shavings stacked neatly but am surprised to see Mammi striking a match and lighting the stove.

  “You’re making a fire on a hot day like this?” I ask her.

  “I can’t cook supper without a fire in the stove.”

  “You cook in that thing?”

  “Ja.”

  I look around the kitchen now, remembering something I’ve read or heard before. “You don’t have electricity, do you?”

  “No. No electrical wires can come into our homes.”

  “What do you use for lights?” I ask.

  She points to a kerosene lamp hanging on a hook by the sink. “This is good light. Also candles. And we have some battery lights too.”

  “So batteries are okay?”

  “Ja. Just no wires to the house.”

  I wonder how I will manage to charge things like my iPad and phone. “What about phones?” I ask. “My neighbor said you have a phone. She gave me a number. Is it a cell phone?”

  “Benjamin put a phone into the barn. It is to be used for business. Since the wires don’t come to the house, it is allowed.”

  “Allowed?” I consider this. “So the Amish have a lot of rules?”

  “We have our Ordnung.”

  “Ordnung?”

  “Ja. Our Ordnung lights the path to a godly life.”

  So many questions are running through my mind now, but I don’t even know where to begin. I feel like I’m visiting a foreign country.

  “Would you like to help me make supper?”

  “Sure,” I tell her. “Although I’m not much of a cook.”

  Her brow creases. “Your mamm did not teach you to cook?”

  “Not really.”

  She says a word in another language, but it doesn’t sound like a happy word. “Get the milk,” she tells me as she sets a big kettle on top of the stove.

  “Milk?” I glance around the kitchen. “Do you have a refrigerator?”

  “It’s out there.” She tips her head toward a screen door that appears to lead to a back porch.

  Curious if it’s an electric appliance, I go out to the porch, and sure enough, there’s an old-fashioned looking refrigerator. Inside of it I find what looks and smells like a pitcher of milk, so I carry it back to the kitchen.

 
“I thought you didn’t have electricity in the house,” I say as I hand the pitcher to her. “What about that refrigerator?”

  “It runs on propane.”

  “Ah.” I nod as if that makes sense. The truth is, I’ve never heard of such a thing.

  But I think I’m starting to get it. These people are green. They like keeping life simple, and they obviously know how to live off the grid. I must admit that as I work with Mammi in the kitchen—asking questions and hearing some rather interesting answers—it is all becoming pretty intriguing. There’s no denying that this kind of life has an appealing sort of charm. I’m wondering more than ever why my mother ever left this place.

  5

  Anna is not coming to the table to eat with us?” Mammi asks me for the second time.

  “She can’t,” I explain. “Sitting up in a chair and eating will probably make her sick to her stomach.”

  “She needs to eat,” Mammi insists. “To get strong again.”

  “She’ll have to eat in bed,” I tell her.

  “Eating in bed?” Mammi frowns as she removes something she calls shepherd’s pie from the oven.

  “She’s not really used to eating too much solid food either.”

  “You think she cannot eat this?” Mammi asks.

  “I’m not sure.” I sniff it. “It smells delicious. The potatoes on top are soft, so it might be okay. But most of the time, I just fix her things like soup and smoothies.”

  “Smoothies?”

  “That’s when you put fruit and yogurt and things in a blender.”

  “Blender?”

  “It’s an electrical appliance that blends food.”

  She nods. “Ja, ja, I think I’ve seen that before.”

  Having convinced Mammi that Mom needs to have her meal in the bedroom, I proceed to fix a plate of food that I hope might tempt her to eat. But when I take it in to her, she holds up her hands. “I can’t eat that.”

  “The shepherd’s pie smells yummy, Mom.”

  “I’m sure it is.” She leans back with her hands pressed to the sides of her head and closes her eyes. “But I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can,” I tell her. “At least you can taste it. I know you can eat the applesauce and the bread and butter. You can get those down if you’ll try. I know you can.”

  “No, I cannot.” With her eyes still closed, she juts out her jaw.

  I don’t like to do this, but I know it’s time to resort to bribery again. “Well, Mom,” I say in a firm tone. “If you can’t eat your dinner, I can’t give you your pill. You know you shouldn’t have diazepam on an empty stomach.”

  Her eyes pop open. “But I need my pill, Shannon.”

  “I know.” I hold out the plate to her. “You need to eat too. Besides, it will hurt your mom’s feelings if you don’t at least try to eat what she’s worked so hard to fix for you.”

  She frowns, and I can tell I have her now. Although I feel sorry for her, I will not relent. After a long moment, she reaches out for the plate. Not trusting her, I remain by her bedside, watching as she takes a tentative bite of the applesauce. I stay there until I see her sample everything and I hear Mammi calling me to come to the supper table.

  “You’re doing great,” I tell Mom as I go to the door. “Keep it up, and I’ll give you your pill when I come back.”

  When I return to the kitchen, Mammi is already sitting at one end of the table and a weathered old man with a gray fringe of beard circling his chin is sitting at the other end. He is wearing a disgruntled expression, and I suspect it’s because I’ve kept them waiting.

  “Sit down,” Mammi commands in a stern tone. “It is time to pray now.”

  I sit down on the closest bench and bow my head, waiting for the man I assume is my grandfather, although no introduction has been made, to say a prayer. When no one utters a single word, I glance up. They both still have their heads bowed down and eyes closed. I feel confused. Do they expect me to say a blessing for them? If so, why didn’t they just ask me? But suddenly my presumed grandfather lifts his head and, seeing me looking at him, scowls as he says, “Amen,” and picks up his fork.

  “Amen,” Mammi echoes, giving me what feels like a warning expression.

  “Amen,” I say quietly.

  “Jacob,” Mammi says sweetly, “this is Shannon. Anna’s girl. Your granddaughter.”

  “I know who she is,” he grumbles as he sticks a large bite of food into his mouth.

  Pleased to meet you too, I think as I slowly butter a piece of bread.

  What little conversation that transpires at this table seems related to farm chores and church services. None of it includes me. I could be invisible and it would make no difference. From what I can see, my grumpy grandfather either is an old curmudgeon or else resents having guests in his tiny home, or maybe both. To make matters worse, he starts talking to Mammi in a different language. At first I think he’s pulling my leg, but I can tell by her face that she understands what he’s saying. I’m pretty sure they’re talking about Mom and me. Gramps does not seem happy about us being here. At least that’s what I’m thinking.

  When Gramps is finished, he shoves back his chair loudly. But as he stands, he lets out a growling sound, rubbing his elbow as if in pain. Without saying a word—not even a thank-you to Mammi for the nice meal—he leaves the kitchen through the back door, slamming it noisily behind him.

  “Is he in a bad mood?” I quietly ask Mammi.

  “A bad what?” Her brow creases as if she doesn’t understand.

  “I mean, he seems to be angry about something,” I explain.

  “Oh no, Jacob is not angry. It is sinful to be angry. Jacob hurt his arm doing farm chores yesterday. It is paining him some. That is all.”

  “Oh.”

  After supper, I check on Mom and am relieved to see that she’s eaten most of her food. I give her a pill and then help her to the bathroom.

  “Indoor plumbing?” she says in surprise. “That’s something new.”

  “You still have to pump the water into the sink,” I explain. Mammi already showed me how this room works.

  “Yes, but even so, it’s a big improvement from what I grew up with.”

  “The shower comes out of that bucket.” I point to the bucket hanging from the ceiling. At the bottom of the bucket is a funny-looking showerhead. “Mammi says you fill it with hot water from the kitchen, with some cold water too, of course. She says if you do it just right, you can make one bucket work for a shower.” I frown. “But I seriously doubt one bucket can really get you clean. I plan to bring an extra gallon of backup water with me.”

  “At least you are figuring things out here, Shannon. Good for you.”

  “I guess.” I shake my head as I close the door, giving her some privacy. I have a feeling I have barely scratched the surface on figuring things out here.

  As I wait for Mom to finish, I can’t help but think about how strange everything here feels. In a way this Amish lifestyle reminds me of the time I went camping with Merenda and her dad. Except that was outside. And only for a few days.

  After I get Mom settled back into her bed, I return to the kitchen to help Mammi clean up. Neither of us talks much as we work to wash the dishes. It’s bad enough to have no dishwasher, but besides that, I have to hand pump cold water into the sink and then warm it up by adding hot water from a kettle on the stove. Then I have to refill the kettle to make more hot water. My initial impression of the charming Amish lifestyle is swiftly fading. This is hard work, and I can imagine how it could get old in time.

  After the kitchen is cleaned, Mammi invites me to come outside to see her garden. “I enjoy being out here this time of day,” she says as she pauses to pull a small weed.

  “It’s a nice garden,” I tell her as I examine the tidy, even rows of green, tender plants.

  “It will be nicer next month.” She stoops down to pull another weed. Slowly standing, she holds the weed out to me. “It is easier to pluck the weeds when the
y are small.”

  I nod.

  She points to a weed by my foot. “Go ahead, Shannon.”

  I bend down to pull out a weed, and before I know it, I am pulling out more weeds with my industrious grandmother. We work together like this for about an hour. When we finish our chore, my back is starting to ache. As we walk back to the house, I rub my lower back to get the stiffness out.

  “You are not used to hard work?” Mammi asks as we go into the kitchen.

  “I guess not.”

  “Bend the tree while it is young,” she says mysteriously. “When it is old, it is too late.”

  “Huh?”

  She shakes her head as she opens the pantry. She begins pulling out canisters and jars and things.

  “What are you doing?” I ask curiously.

  “Getting things out for baking,” she says simply. “In the summer, I like to do my baking in the cool of the evening.”

  “Oh?”

  “Ja . . . and then we have what we need for tomorrow.”

  I know I should offer to help her, but the truth is, I am exhausted. Completely and utterly exhausted. It feels like this has been the longest day of my life. So I tell Mammi that I think I should get my bed ready.

  “Ja, ja,” she says without looking up from where she is measuring flour into a bowl.

  “I might just stay there with Mom and read awhile,” I tell her, “before I go to bed.”

  She gives me a tired-looking smile. “Gute nacht, Shannon. Schlaf gut.”

  “Huh?” I peer curiously at her.

  “Good night. Sleep good.”

  “Oh, yeah. You too. Good night, Mammi.”

  As I walk through the living room, I nearly collide with my grandpa, who has just come in the front door. As before, his expression is grim, and he simply grumbles as he passes by me on his way to the kitchen.

  “Good night,” I call out to him.

  “Gute nacht,” he mumbles back at me.

  I go to the closet and select some things that I hope will make a comfortable bed, although as I carry the meager pile to my room, I have my doubts. I see that the pills have taken effect and my mom is soundly sleeping with her head still propped up on the pillows against the wall. I try to be quiet as I attempt to make a bed across the room from her. There is only a narrow pathway between her bed and mine. I hope she doesn’t decide to get up in the middle of the night and accidentally step on me.