Realizing it’s past eleven and I have no idea when my relatives will actually return from church, I decide I’d better get dressed. The idea of being discovered running about the house in my nightie is not pleasant. I go wash my bowl and breakfast things, then hurry back upstairs. I consider putting on my own clothes, but the thought of Aunt Katrina scowling at me makes me decide on the Amish clothes. Perhaps I’ll try out the purple dress today.
I manage to get the undergarments on okay, but when it comes to pinning the back of the dress, I am all thumbs. Bloody thumbs. I glance at the crisp white kapp and, not wanting a bloody scalp, decide to skip it. I doubt anyone will be too concerned about that. Especially since Rachel said it wasn’t necessary to wear it around the house. Besides, I doubt I could smooth my hair back as well as she did.
Satisfied that I look somewhat respectable, I go downstairs and write a note on the back of the one my aunt wrote to me. Mine is even simpler than hers. I want to add that I felt left out by not being invited to church, but I decide that would be rude.
Dear Aunt Katrina,
I have gone to visit my mother.
Thank you for breakfast.
Shannon
As I walk through the grass pasture between my uncle’s house and the dawdi house, I can tell it’s going to be a hot day today. I remember how my mom hated to waste money on air-conditioning. Perhaps that was good because it has prepared her for life in Amishland where AC is about as likely as TV.
“Hello?” I call into the house after I knock a couple of times. “Mammi?” For some reason I assume she will be here. I don’t think she’d want to leave my mom alone. But not hearing any answer, I go in and knock on the door to my mom’s room. When she doesn’t answer, I get concerned. Surely Mammi and Dawdi couldn’t have taken her to church. More likely she’s sleeping.
I push on the door but am surprised to see that it only opens a few inches. Something on the floor seems to be blocking it. I push harder, sticking my hand in to discover that it’s my mom’s body that’s blocking the door. “Mom!” I cry out. “Are you okay?” I shove my shoulder into the door, pushing with all my strength, but hearing her groan, I’m afraid I’m hurting her.
Remembering the open window, I run outside, take a chair from the porch, prop it up beneath the window, then climb inside. “Mom?” I cry as I run to her side. “What happened?”
“Dizzy,” she tells me as I help her sit up.
“Are you okay? Anything broken?”
“I . . . am . . . okay . . .” She looks at me with relieved eyes. Throwing her arms around me, she starts to cry. “Oh, Shannon.”
As we hug I realize that the floor is wet and her clothes are wet. When I point this out, she explains she had an “accident.”
I clean her up and find her some dry clothes, then help her back to her bed. “Where’s Mammi?” I ask as I position pillows behind her.
“They went to church.”
“And left you here alone?” I say indignantly.
“I told them to go. I thought I would be fine.”
“What happened?”
“I needed to use the bathroom. I thought I could do it. But I got dizzy, and then I fell.”
“How long were you on the floor like that?”
“I don’t know.”
I hand her a glass of water. “Here, drink this.”
“I need a pill,” she says.
“Did Mammi give you one?”
She shakes her head. “Mammi says I don’t need them.”
“What?”
“She says they aren’t good for me.”
I consider this. On one hand I agree with Mammi. On the other hand, after finding Mom like this—on the floor—I’m not sure. “Well, I think you might need a pill now,” I say. But when I look around the room, I don’t see the bottle. “Where are the pills?”
She shrugs. “Mammi keeps them somewhere.”
I go out to the kitchen, and after looking around a bit, I finally locate them in the pantry, next to a jar of cinnamon. I shake a pill out and take it to Mom. She is so grateful that tears fill her eyes again.
As she takes her pill, I clean up the wet floor. Then I take her soiled clothes out to the back porch, wondering where Mammi keeps the dirty laundry. Not seeing a hamper, I set the sodden pile by the door, then wash my hands and return to check on Mom. She seems more relaxed now but looks perplexed as she stares at me. “What are you wearing?”
I explain about Aunt Katrina wanting me to wear Amish clothes and about Rachel’s help.
“Oh. Well, I suppose that’s okay. As long as they’re not recruiting you to become Amish.” She chuckles like this is a good joke.
“Judging by the way I pinned this dress together, I don’t think that’s likely.”
“Come here,” she says. “Let me see.”
I sit on the edge of her bed, waiting while she fixes the mess I’ve made of the pins. “I forgot you used to dress like this,” I say as I turn around. “So pinning a dress is kinda like riding a bike?”
“I suppose.” She still has a pin in her hand. “Let me show you how it’s done, Shannon.” She folds fabric from my skirt, then pins it, showing me how to slip the pin in and out of the fabric. “See how it holds?”
“Yeah.” Now I try it a couple of times, finally getting it without drawing blood. “I’m not so sure I can figure out the kapp, though. It might help if I could use a mirror.”
She smiles. “It’s actually pretty simple.” Using my skirt again, she explains how the hair would go and how the pin would go through the kapp, weave into the hair, and then come back out into the kapp again. “See, this part of the pin would hold the kapp in place because it’s fastened to the hair.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
She frowns. “But I really don’t like seeing you dressed up as an Amish girl, Shannon. It’s giving me the creeps. I didn’t raise you the way I did just to let you get stuck in a place like this.”
I laugh. “Don’t worry. That will never happen to me. And it’s no big deal dressing like this. I have to admit, though, it was nice sleeping in a real bed last night.” I tell her how I slept in and then got up and wandered about the house in my nightgown. “It was kinda fun.”
“Well, that kind of fun will only happen once a week,” she warns. “On the Sabbath.” She makes a sleepy yawn, and I can tell the pill is starting to work.
“Well, I think I’d better spend Sunday mornings with you,” I say. “I don’t think you should be left home alone.”
“No . . .” She sighs. “Maybe not.”
“I can come over during the week too,” I assure her. “Although I suppose I should make myself useful to Aunt Katrina and Uncle Ben, to show appreciation for taking me in.”
“Yes, please do that, Shannon. Benjamin is a good guy.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And he’s a minister too.”
Her sleepy eyes look surprised. “My brother Benjamin is a minister?”
“Yeah. I guess that puts some pressure on the family.”
Her head barely nods. “Oh, yeah. For sure.”
“Just rest,” I tell her. “I’ll stay here until Mammi gets back.”
After I’m sure that she’s asleep, I go back to the kitchen for a drink of water. Standing by the sink, I drink it and stare blankly at Mammi’s calendar and notice that she’s flipped the page to July. Since July 1 is a Sunday, that means Wednesday is Independence Day. I’ve always enjoyed fireworks on the Fourth of July; however, since I haven’t heard anyone mention it, I suspect that the Amish don’t observe this holiday. Things like “independence” aren’t exactly encouraged in this community.
I go outside and sit on the porch in the shade. I am wishing and wishing with all my might that Ezra might happen to come by. Maybe he has another tool to return to Dawdi, or perhaps his mother wants him to borrow an egg—some neighborly excuse to come over here and discover me sitting on the porch by myself. I run my fingers through my hair, which is curl
ing around my shoulders and glowing in the sunshine. I suspect he would be pleased to see me like this. That is, unless he’s still in church. I wonder how long church lasts. It seems like it’s been hours already. I hope it’s not an all-day deal. Too bad I didn’t think to ask anyone about this.
Thinking about them all at church together, I feel left out again. I know I’m not shunned like my mom is, but I do feel snubbed. As if I’m not good enough to be invited, just because I’m not Amish? But what if I wanted to become Amish? How can I find out about their religion if they exclude me? I remember when Ezra said he wouldn’t mind being Amish if I was Amish. Despite assuring Mom that I would never become Amish, I am not so sure. If that is what it would take to win Ezra—I mean, win him for life—well, I might consider it. Okay, I know that sounds crazy. I can’t even imagine what Merenda would think. Or my mom. But it’s my life, isn’t it? I have the right to live it as I want. I know that sounds selfish, but if I don’t look out for myself, who will?
As I gaze out over the peaceful green countryside, mentally comparing it to the noisy, messy chaos of life in the city, I wonder why I shouldn’t want this. What would be wrong with living in a place like this for the rest of my life? Seriously, what would I possibly have to lose?
14
To my relief, Mammi seems very concerned when I explain my mom’s need for more supervision. “I could move back here,” I offer, thinking it might be for the best since Rachel would probably prefer seeing less of me anyway.
“No, no,” Mammi says firmly. “It is better for you to stay with your aunt and uncle. I will take care of your mamm. Even if it means I must miss church. It is all right.”
“Maybe I can come over here when you go to church.”
She frowns. “You do not think you will want to go to church, Shannon?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Is it okay if I go?”
“Ja,” she says eagerly. “It is good for you to go.”
“Well . . . maybe we can figure it out by next week.”
“Ja. That is what we will do. And you can stay with your aunt and uncle.”
It seems decided that I am to continue rooming with Rachel. As a result, I’m determined to be as congenial as possible to my pretty cousin. And if she ever shows interest in talking about whatever it is that’s bugging her, I am more than willing. However, I don’t think I’ll try to force this conversation out of her. Usually she’s so busy that there’s little time for a cousin-to-cousin chat anyway. Perhaps that’s for the best.
If I thought Mammi and Dawdi were hard workers, Aunt Katrina could actually put them to shame. Honestly, that woman almost never stops moving. Rachel is only a few steps behind her. I’ve been in their house for nearly a week now, and the Amish might not believe in automation, but I’ve decided my aunt is practically a machine. Whether it’s food preparation, washing clothes, gardening, or whatever, she is in constant motion, and her house is always in perfect order. The only time she sits down is to eat or to work on her quilts.
“I would love to learn to sew,” I tell her as I’m sweeping the dining room floor after the midday meal on Friday. She has colorful quilt pieces spread out over the table and is arranging them into an attractive geometric design.
“You do not know how to sew?” She peers up at me.
“No, but I’d like to learn.”
“Do you want to help with my quilts?”
“Could I?”
“Ja, but you must do as I say, Shannon.”
“I will,” I promise.
So instead of working in the garden with Rachel, where it’s getting pretty hot, I spend the afternoon inside the relatively cool house. My first task is learning how to cut out shapes, which feels sort of like kindergarten to me, but I keep my opinions to myself.
“You might think that cutting is not important,” my aunt tells me as she pins some pieces together. “But you would be wrong. The pieces must be cut exactly right. Then the seams must be sewn exactly right. Otherwise the quilt will not fit together perfectly. Cutting the pieces perfectly is like building a good foundation for a house. It must be square and true and solid.” She locks eyes with me. “It is the same with your life, Shannon. If God is not the foundation of your life, your life will not be square and true and solid.”
“Oh?” I pause in the middle of cutting a purple triangle. “But God is the foundation of my life,” I say. I’ve already told her that I believe in God and that I used to go to church with my mom. But she didn’t seem to think that meant anything. At least not in her world.
“You can say the words, Shannon. But are they true?”
I consider this. “I think it’s true,” I say as I set the purple piece on a small stack of others. “I want it to be true.”
“Your uncle is a minister,” she tells me, as if I had somehow missed out on this. “If you want to build a good foundation for your faith, and if you want to learn more about what we believe, perhaps you should speak with him.”
“All right,” I say as I start cutting another triangle. “I’d like that.”
As we quietly work together I question myself. Am I really as interested in learning about their ways as I’m acting? Am I motivated by God? Or by Ezra? I think I know the answer to that question, and I have a feeling my uncle will be able to see right through me.
Next Aunt Katrina shows me how to pin the pieces together in the right order for how they are sewn together after basting, which she explains means loosely pre-sewing pieces together in order to hold them in place—not what you do to a turkey. “I think of these pieces like people,” she says as she bastes some pieces. “See how they are cut in different shapes and colors? In the same way, people are created differently by God.”
I nod. “That makes sense.”
“The way they are similar is that each one is cut exactly right. God prunes us so that we will fit in with one another.”
“Ja.” I nod, taking this in.
“The sewing part,” she says as she carries a section of basted pieces over to her treadle sewing machine, “is like God uniting his children together so that we can be strong—all together in one useful piece. Like a quilt.”
She invites me to come over and watch as she runs the sewing machine. She explains how to use the foot pedal to make the needle go up and down. She shows me how to use one hand on the wheel that moves the needle up and down, as well as how to guide fabric through the machine as it sews a seam. “Would you like to try?”
“Can I?”
“Ja, but only on scrap fabric,” she tells me. “Let’s see if you can sew a straight line.”
I take her place in the straight-backed chair, trying to remember what she showed me as I lower the presser foot onto a doubled piece of blue fabric.
“Go ahead,” she tells me. “Move your feet. Just do not get your finger under the needle. That hurts.”
Being careful of the sharp needle, I work to move my feet, and before long I am guiding the fabric along, making the seam into a fairly straight line. She has me try it again and again until I finally feel like I can do it.
“Now you can try it with this.” She hands me a section of quilt, showing me how to line it up so that the seam will be exactly a half inch.
“Are you sure?” I ask uncertainly. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“If you mess it up, you will have to rip it out. That too is part of sewing.”
Although I’m nervous, I focus on what I’m doing and make it all the way to the end of the piece with what I think is a pretty straight line. But my aunt is frowning.
“Isn’t it good enough?” I ask as I examine the seam.
“No, it is not.” She shakes her head as she reaches for a tool. “This is a seam ripper.” She shows me how to poke it into the threads and cut them. “Carefully pick out all the threads. It must be redone.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her as I go back to the dining room table to take apart the seam I sewed.
“You do not need
to be sorry,” she tells me. “Just learn to do it right. And do not damage the fabric as you remove the seam.”
As I pick out the stubborn threads, I hear Rachel washing something in the kitchen. Probably some produce from the garden. Although Rachel has been polite and kind to me, she has not been nearly as warm and friendly as she was when I first met her—before we went to that party together. Several times, when we’ve been alone, I’ve considered talking to her about Ezra, but for some reason I have been unable to make myself do it. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want her to know how much I care about him or because I hate to see her hurting. I can’t seem to forget how she cried herself to sleep last Saturday night—and I can’t help but think it has something to do with me and Ezra.
Thinking of this is a painful reminder that I haven’t seen Ezra since last Saturday. I really thought he’d come by here to see me, and I’ve even taken evening strolls by myself in the hopes that I’d run into him, but I haven’t seen him once. I tell myself this is simply because he is hard at work on his parents’ farm. I see how hard my cousins Isaac and Jeremiah work with my uncle and grandfather. Everyone, including me, gets up before sunrise. But while Rachel and I help Aunt Katrina in the kitchen, the guys go directly outside to tend to the animals and start in the fields even before they come back inside for breakfast. Then they work until the midday meal, coming in hot and tired and dirty and hungry. After that, they slave until suppertime, when once again they are hot and tired and dirty and hungry. I cannot believe the amount of food we prepare—or how much of it they are able to eat. Yet no one has a bit of fat on them. The guys don’t even stop working after supper. They’ll polish off a big serving of dessert, and then without a word of complaint they’ll return to their work. They don’t usually come back into the house until after dark. By then it’s bedtime.
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