by Amy Lillard
“Then I’m sure she’ll be very happy.”
“Happy?” Blue Sweater laughed. “She’ll be just fine. That place has everything, and the best of it. She’ll be watched over and cared for. I hope someone does that for me when I get old.”
“You’re too mean to get old,” Orange Shirt said.
Blue Sweater laughed. “Thank heavens.”
* * *
“Bah, all this fuss.” Her grandfather crossed his arms and stubbornly refused to get out of the bed. The night had been much easier than she had anticipated. Someone on the hospital staff came in and checked on Dawdi every hour like clockwork. Ivy slept on the sofa, while Zeb somehow managed to sleep sitting up in the armchair. It wasn’t the kind that lent itself to sleeping. The back and seat had hard, vinyl cushions, and the rest was made of some sort of wood. But Ivy knew she wouldn’t be able to budge Zeb. And if she were to be completely honest with herself, it was something of a comfort to have him near. She would never admit that out loud. Setting the words free would not change one thing between them.
Neither will allowing him to do your chores and stay with you at the hospital.
She pushed that voice away and concentrated on her grandfather. “If you don’t get in the wheelchair, they aren’t going to let you leave.”
“They can’t keep me against my will.”
“They can if you don’t follow the rules.”
“Bah,” he said again.
He looked at the wheelchair, then at her. “Your jaw’s set at that angle like your mamm.”
“And what would Mamm say?” She folded her arms, hoping the new position was even more intimidating. She was ready to get home. And she still had to get dressed for work.
The hospital orderly shifted in place, his big hands curled around the handles of the wheelchair.
“Dawdi?” she prompted.
“Bah,” he said and slid from the bed. With a shake of his head, he settled into the chair and allowed himself to be wheeled down the hallway.
“Where’s that boy?” Dawdi asked.
“What boy?” She knew exactly who he was talking about, but she didn’t want him to know that.
“Zebadiah.”
“He had to go home and take care of his own chores.”
Zeb had stayed with her all through the night. This morning, when they had gotten the all’s well release from the doctor, he’d told her he needed to be getting home. He had done more than his share to help her grandfather, and Ivy was grateful.
Her grandfather’s injury wasn’t as bad as it looked. He had lost what appeared to be a lot of blood, but the doctor had assured them that head injuries always bleed more. Once it was cleaned up, a nurse put bandage strips on it to hold both sides together, and now they were on their way. Her grandfather had groused that without stitches he wouldn’t have an interesting scar, but Ivy didn’t comment. It was better not to engage him any more than necessary. If he’d gotten stitches he would have fussed that they were making the scar worse.
“Where’s your car?” the orderly asked as he whisked them through the front door.
Ivy scanned the row of vehicles idling in front of the hospital. “Do you see an Uber driver?”
The orderly looked about, then pointed to a small silver SUV sitting at the front of the line.
Ivy let out a sigh of relief. One of the nurses had arranged for an Uber driver once Ivy had exhausted all her driver contacts. She had never used Uber before, but how different than a regular driver could it be?
If you still had the Mustang, you wouldn’t have to be worrying about this.
She pushed that thought aside and led the way to the car. She confirmed it was her driver, helped her dawdi into the front seat, and offered the driver instructions on how to get to their house. He smiled indulgently and said he had everything he needed, but would be sure and ask if he had any questions.
Ivy eased into the back and did her best to relax. She glanced at the dash clock. She had just enough time to get home and change for work. But that would mean all her chores would go undone until she got off that evening. She’d thought she had plenty of time. Who knew getting released from the hospital could take so long?
Not being able to complete the chores wouldn’t be so bad if Obie had managed to come by the night before and take care of them. She could feed Chester before she left, and everything else could wait until she got home. But if he hadn’t . . . she would have to do them. Animals had to eat. Chickens needed water. And she would be late to work. She was certain that this would give them all the reasons they needed to fire her, and there was nothing she could do about it.
She laid her head against the window and watched the land whirl by. If she didn’t think about it too hard, the crazy spinning didn’t make her dizzy or sick, but she closed her eyes anyway and allowed her thoughts to drift. In the front seat, the driver and Dawdi talked about corn, winter rainfall, and how quickly Christmas had come around once again. Their driver didn’t have a smidgen of Prayer Kapp Complex, so she supposed that he had picked up a few Amish during his driving days.
So unlike the women in the hospital kitchen. They had shifted and cast their glances to the side. She had to hand it to them though, they did manage to keep up their conversation. Some folks couldn’t even do that.
Ivy had no idea what made a person feel intimidated around her. She supposed that was what it was. Intimidation. Perhaps they felt like her life was extremely pious because of her faith. If they only knew.
A nursing home. Someone was going into a nursing home. Someone’s grandmother who couldn’t take care of herself. Someone who needed someone around all the time. This family loved her and wanted the best for her, so they shipped her off. To a nursing home.
Nursing home.
The words echoed inside her head, and as the miles passed, Ivy fell asleep.
Chapter Five
Her grandfather whistled low and under his breath. “That boy has it bad.”
Ivy looked around the barn and scoffed. “He doesn’t have anything.” Except maybe a way with barns. Hers was the cleanest she had ever seen it. And she knew there was only one person responsible: Zeb Brenneman.
She wandered into the tack room, noting that everything was in its proper place. Some things that had never had a proper place were now neatly hung on the walls where she could easily find them.
And that wasn’t the only thing he had done. He had fed and watered all the animals, raked the yard, scooped out the chicken coop, and swept the front porch.
“See?” Dawdi held up a piece of paper like it was a winning lottery ticket. “I told you that boy has a crush on you. Do you believe me now?” He handed the paper to her, and Ivy quickly scanned it.
Zeb had come over and done everything he could to help her. The inside was up to her, but the outside was taken care of. He had signed it with a Z.
He had to have worked for hours cleaning up the place. And until it was this pristine, she hadn’t realized how run-down it had become. The farm was really too big for one person to manage. If she could afford it she would hire someone to help out, but as it was, she would have to take care of it.
“He doesn’t have a crush on me.” She made a noise to show her skepticism, but her grandfather wasn’t listening.
“I always thought he liked you.”
There had been a time when she thought he had more than liked her and she had more than liked him. But that time had passed.
“It’s good to be home,” Dawdi said as they headed back to the house.
“I’ve got to go to work.” She would be on time since the animals were fed and the yard cleaned. She could go to work and not worry about all the things she hadn’t done before she left and all the things she had to do when she got back home. And all because of Zeb.
* * *
“What do you know about nursing homes?”
It was just after the after-work rush. Seven o’clock and the store would be closing soon. The question had been knocking aro
und in her head since the night before. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she wasn’t entirely sure what a nursing home was. Or a retirement center, for that matter. She knew that the Englisch used them as a place for their elderly. But that was about it.
Sue Ann shrugged. “Not much. Why?”
Ivy sprayed down her conveyor belt and tore off a handful of paper towels to wipe it down. “No reason. Just thinking about them.”
“Amish don’t use them.”
“No,” Ivy carefully said. She wanted to know what Sue Ann knew, but she didn’t want Sue Ann to know why she wanted to know. “I heard some people talking about them the other day, and I wondered what they were all about.”
Sue Ann nodded. “There are all different kinds. Some are for people who can’t care for themselves any longer. Some are for people who can care for themselves but don’t want to live alone. I guess those are called assisted living.”
Didn’t Lorie Kauffman work at one of those places in Tulsa?
“Are they good places?”
Sue Ann shrugged again. “I suppose. I mean, some of them are good, and others . . . well, you can’t believe everything you hear on the news.”
Ivy put away the spray bottle of cleaner and the roll of paper towels.
“Why do you want to know?”
“No reason,” she lied. How many of those had she told in the last few weeks? Couple of years? “Did you know they built a new one between here and Taylor Creek?”
“It’s supposed to be really nice. They came in the other day and talked to Bill about supplies.”
“Oh, jah?” She tried not to look too interested.
“I suppose we’ll be seeing more of them now they’re all settled in and open.”
“I suppose,” Ivy repeated. Thankfully she was spared having to say any more, as a customer came up with an overflowing handbasket of canned goods and ears of corn.
* * *
She shouldn’t be here. It had taken a full hour to decide to come and another to decide how she was going to get here, and now that she was actually standing outside the crisp brick building she was doubting herself once again.
This was not something Amish did. They didn’t put their elders in homes, locked away. But this didn’t look so much like locked away as like living in style with friends around, shrubs outside, and a caring staff. At least everyone she had seen through the large plate glass windows seemed caring.
She sucked in a deep breath and started toward the tinted glass doors.
The place smelled new, like paint and carpet mixed with cleaners and some type of wax air freshener that burned on the front table.
“Can I help you?” The blond-haired woman behind the circular desk smiled as she asked. She didn’t seem to have Prayer Kapp Complex, and Ivy approached her, returning her smile as she went.
“I wanted to look around.”
Her smile froze a bit, but she recovered nicely. “Of course. Were you looking for someone?” Her gaze was steady, almost searching. Yet still friendly. She was heavyset, with deep dimples on either side of her smiling mouth and hoop earrings that glittered when they caught the light. Everything she wore was black, like the women did in some of those stores in the mall. The first time Ivy had seen one of those women, she had thought they were in mourning. Now she knew that Englisch women just seemed to like wearing the color. She found it drab and would rather wear red regardless of what the bishop said or how badly her mother claimed it clashed with her hair.
The woman also wore a small white name tag. ANGIE.
Ivy sighed and twisted her hands together. Why was this so hard? “My dawdi,” she started. “Grandfather. He’s been having some problems, and I was hoping . . .”
“You were hoping that we might have the answer?”
She shook her head. “It’s dumb. I know.” She needed to leave. Get out of there before someone saw her tractor parked out front. Before someone called the bishop or the bishop’s wife and told them that she had truly lost her mind. This went beyond extended rumspringa. Beyond letting everyone in town think that she was fast and loose, that she really wore jeans when she thought no one was looking, and that she had honestly kissed three boys.
She had only kissed one. Zebadiah Brenneman. But that was long past.
“Are you and your grandfather having problems?”
She stopped, the kindness in the woman’s voice almost her undoing. “He forgets things. And I’m afraid—”
She didn’t have to finish. The blonde nodded. “I understand. My grandmother was like that. It took years before we had to do something.”
“It’s just the two of us,” Ivy explained. “I can’t always be there. It worries me when I go to work.”
“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
“Matthew,” Ivy whispered. She couldn’t remember the chapter or verse, but her mother quoted it often. Perhaps Ivy had been worrisome all her life.
“Chapter six, verse thirty-four.” Angie held up a small desk plaque, the words written there in scrolling letters. “I need to be reminded from time to time.” She rocked her head from side to side. “Okay, a lot. So I keep this here.” She set the plaque back in its spot.
Ivy could do with a bit of reminding herself. It seemed she worried about everything these days. Everything except what the good folks of Wells Landing thought about her. But that was something beyond her worry. The damage had been done.
“Maybe you can find someone who can come sit with him. There have to be others who need company.”
There probably were, but she had managed to push everyone away when Zeb left. How was she supposed to get them back now?
It’s not for you. It’s for Dawdi. You can do this for him.
“Maybe.” Her voice sounded anything but confident.
“You’re welcome to stay and look around.” The woman obviously felt bad about turning her away. That wasn’t her job, after all, keeping people from placing their elderly in their home.
“Danki.” Ivy nodded, started to turn back to the door, then spun around to face the receptionist woman. “I can look around? Maybe talk to people?”
“Of course.” She pointed to a clipboard on the desk and a nearby pen. “Just sign in. We like to know who our visitors are.”
Ivy signed her name, the date, and the time.
“If you go down this hallway, you can go to the rec room.” She turned and looked at the clock on the wall behind her. “Right now they should be doing some sort of craft. Painting, maybe. The cafeteria is down this other way. You can go down and have dessert with the residents. There’s always an extra pudding cup for visitors.”
“Thank you.” She made her decision quickly, heading toward the rec room and whatever craft the residents were up to.
The hallway was softly lit, creating a homey feel. Framed pictures of the ocean and soft-colored bowls of fruit graced the walls. Ivy didn’t understand the connection, but she found them soothing all the same. She was certain the residents did as well.
Residents. It seemed like such a strange word. But she supposed that was what they were.
Double doors with small glass windows waited for her at the end of the hallway. A plaque above the doors declared it to be the “rec room.”
Ivy pushed her way inside and stopped immediately. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. Rows of tables held rows of easels, with chairs and residents behind. But the strangest thing of all . . . Lorie Kauffman was leading the class.
She had heard that Lorie was teaching art to senior citizens, but she hadn’t known that she went to more than one elderly home. Or maybe she was there as a substitute.
Ivy wanted to slip into the back row and watch, but for some reason she didn’t want Lorie to know that she was there.
Too late.
Lorie’s eyes widened, then she smiled, but she never once stopped teaching the class. She looked happy,
content even, in her Englisch clothes with her long blond hair spilling down her back.
Calhoun. The name suddenly came to Ivy. She wasn’t Lorie Kauffman any longer. She had married the Englischer Zach Calhoun.
Ivy eased down into the back row by an elderly lady who was painting her heart out, but only in shades of purple. That wouldn’t have been so bad, except they were supposed to be painting a Christmas scene, complete with fireplace, hearth, and Christmas tree.
“You should have an easel, dear,” the lady said.
It took a moment for Ivy to realize that she was talking to her. Not once while she was speaking did the woman look up from her painting.
“Me? Oh, no. I’m just visiting.”
“Of course you are. I bet you’re Ethel’s granddaughter. Please tell me I’m right.”
“Sorry.” Ivy smiled even though the woman wasn’t looking anywhere but her canvas. “I’m not here for Ethel.”
The woman tsked. “Shame. She could use a visitor or two.”
“She doesn’t have many visitors?”
“Well, none of us do, really. I mean, our families come when they can. Mostly on weekends and such, but when the holidays start coming around, everyone gets too busy.”
“That’s sad.” She looked around. Everyone in the class seemed to be having a good time, and she figured those who were eating dessert on the opposite side of the building were enjoying their pudding cups. They all seemed well cared for. No one was dirty or unkempt. Someone loved these people, and yet they had put them here and forgot them until the weekends. The thought broke her heart.
“Between you and me,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, her gaze firmly fixed on her purple canvas, “Mr. Dallas is the one.”
“The one what?” Ivy asked.
“Why, the one you should pray for. Wasn’t that what you were thinking? That you were going to pray for us to have visitors?”
“The thought did cross my mind,” Ivy admitted, though she didn’t understand how this woman knew her thoughts. Just as much as she didn’t understand her Christmas painting all in purple.
“He’s a nice man. Came here after surgery.” She tsked again. “Not sure what for. But I don’t think he’s had visitor one since he unpacked. So sad.”