A Plain & Fancy Christmas

by Cynthia Keller

  She almost laughed, thinking about it. “Control freak extraordinaire,” she said aloud.

  As she finished washing her face, she remembered the letter her mother had given her that afternoon. She changed into a tank top and cotton sleep shorts, then went to retrieve it from her purse on the hall table. She plucked the envelope out of the bag and took it to her desk in the corner of her bedroom. Grabbing a silver letter opener from the drawer, she sliced it open, then pulled out several sheets of paper. It was a handwritten letter. A rare sight these days, she reflected, as she smoothed down the pages and sat in the desk chair to read it.

  Dear Rachel,

  You wouldn’t recognize my name, but I was a nurse in the hospital where you were born …

  She read the entire letter through. Paper-clipped to the last pink page, she found two birth certificates, one a copy of her own, and one for an infant girl named Rachel King, parents Leah and Isaac King, with a date of birth two days after Ellie’s. The home address was in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, the father’s occupation listed as farmer.

  Ellie put down the letter. A joke, maybe a prank by a coworker at the office, or a game someone was playing with her. According to the letter, these people, the Kings, weren’t just some couple who lived in Pennsylvania; they were Amish. Amish. Of all the things a person could come up with, that was definitely way out there. Hilarious. Obviously, it was the Lancaster hospital connection that gave somebody the idea.

  She forced herself to put the matter out of her head, getting into bed and drifting to sleep as she considered what she was going to say in an important meeting at the office on Tuesday. Then, at three A.M., she suddenly found herself wideawake.

  Being Amish. It was hilarious. Except that it wasn’t.

  A chill crept up her spine. It was not something she had ever been able to put into words, or even fully admit to herself, but how many times had she felt that, somehow, she didn’t quite belong in her family? She was always the one with the different opinion from everyone else’s, just like when they were discussing that movie at dinner. And she certainly didn’t look like the rest of them. She looked so different from the others that it was assumed she got her looks from a long-gone relative no one could quite remember. A.J. and Nick had that thick, brown hair, while hers was fine, light blond. Their eyes were brown and large, friendly-looking somehow; hers were a cool blue. Her complexion was fairer than theirs. The shape of their mouths, the planes of their faces, their height, their builds—everything about them was similar, clearly derived from one or the other of their parents, and completely unlike her.

  She suddenly felt afraid. Stop it, she commanded herself. Stop it right now. This was absurd. Completely ridiculous. It was obviously just a joke or some kind of scam.

  She decided the fastest way of getting at what was behind this letter was to start with the basic facts. Who would benefit from writing it, and why? She closed her eyes. It was an odd sort of scam, she reflected, with so many intimate details from her past, and that decades-old paperwork.

  First thing tomorrow, she would go online to see what facts she could gather about the hospital, that nurse, and her doctor husband. One step at a time. After that, she would decide what to do. Perhaps she would call a lawyer to learn how to make whoever was behind this explain him- or herself, or even better, clear it up and leave her alone.

  Ellie lay in the dark for a very long time, trying to figure out what reason someone might have had for making up this strange story—and about her, of all people. She couldn’t come up with a single one.

  Chapter 6

  Rachel was seated at the quilting frame, which was positioned just beyond the kitchen area near a window to maximize the daylight. She typically began her quilting around six or seven, after breakfast was done and she had finished the first cleaning chores of the day. Tending the garden and yard took up much of her time in spring and summer, so she was less productive at the frame in those seasons. During the winter months, she could spend more time on this work, and she particularly enjoyed doing it in the evenings, the family gathered in the room, talking or playing games, her mother making hot chocolate or popcorn. Her favorite evenings were when Katie sat beside her. Rachel taught her about piecing and appliquéing, and they would often sing hymns together while they worked. So far, however, Katie hadn’t shown an overwhelming interest in quilting, but Rachel hoped she might develop one later on. Amish mothers usually gave several quilts as wedding gifts to their daughters, and Rachel had already started on the first one for Katie, wanting these to be the most beautiful and complicated ones her talents would allow; she worked on it whenever she could find a free hour or so.

  This morning, she was finishing the top of a quilt for a double bed. The pattern, a traditional one known as Log Cabin, featured concentric light and dark diamonds, each composed of many small fabric pieces. Although quilting had always been one way to make use of leftover scraps of fabric from worn-out clothing or sewing projects, like most quilters, Rachel now planned out the colors in advance and purchased fabrics from a store. Her preference was to work on more complex patterns, as she found them more satisfying in the end, but she alternated them with simpler ones such as this so that she could complete several in a shorter period of time. Occasionally, at different points during the process, the other women in the family would help, one of them stenciling, or another one pinning on fabric pieces. They might gather to put the final quilt together, stitching the top to a middle layer of batting and the backing on the bottom, which could be a solid colored cotton or cotton flannel. They would sit around a large frame that kept the quilt stretched taut, each working on a separate section. As they completed their sections, they readjusted the quilt to reveal the next portion by rolling it around wooden poles to which the ends were attached. It generally took a full morning and part of the afternoon to finish a large quilt, and sometimes they were able to help Rachel put together some additional smaller items, like pillows or crib quilts. Spending that time together also gave them a chance to talk about everything from gardening to weddings, while the younger children crawled underfoot or played nearby. Usually, though, Rachel finished the items herself, working on smaller pieces stretched tight on a huge embroidery hoop.

  Periodically, Rachel or another family member brought her finished pieces to a quilt shop two miles away to be sold. It was an Amish family-run business operating out of a shed behind the main house. The shop was filled to overflowing with quilts, table runners, and pillows produced by local women. The high quality of the items sold there made Rachel feel honored to have her work among them.

  She sat up straighter in her chair and twisted from side to side, stretching her back. A door on one side of the room opened. Hannah King, Rachel’s grandmother, entered the kitchen. She was coming from her house, which was a second attachment built onto the main house where she lived with her husband, Amos. A corn-picker accident ten years before had cost Amos two fingers on his right hand and he was losing his hearing, but he still helped around the farm as much as he was physically able. Along with Hannah, he devoted a lot of his time to keeping the farm’s financial records, and searching out the best opportunities for well-priced equipment or whatever large purchases might be necessary for the household.

  Hannah suffered from arthritis, and moved slowly across the room with the help of a cane, smiling at her granddaughter despite the evident pain in her back.

  Rachel stuck her needle into the quilt and hastened over in case Hannah needed help. “Can I get you something?”

  “I’m just here for my vinegar and honey,” Hannah replied in a pleasant tone. “I don’t know how I could have run out of honey, but I need to use yours today.”

  Over the years, their grandmother had tried countless remedies to ease her arthritis. For the past few months, Hannah had subscribed to a remedy she repeated periodically, drinking a mixture of vinegar and honey with water several times a day. Rachel knew better than to ask her if it was working. She wou
ld, as usual, act as if her condition was a minor annoyance, and the drink just something to quench her thirst.

  Rachel helped her grandmother to a chair, then measured out the mixture according to Hannah’s instructions. The older woman gripped the glass with her swollen hands and drank, the expression of distaste on her face making her granddaughter laugh.

  Even Hannah realized she wasn’t fooling anyone into thinking she chose the drink for its flavor. She smiled as she set the empty glass down. “Delicious. I highly recommend it.”

  “I could tell how much you liked it.” Rachel took her seat once more and turned her attention back to her sewing.

  The front door opened. Katie came in holding hands with Sarah’s two younger children, Nicholas and Christine. When the little ones saw their great-grandmother sitting at the kitchen table, they ran over to her, squealing, both trying to clamber up onto her lap.

  “Now, now,” Hannah said to them, rising, “we can’t all fit there. Let’s move to the sofa. I’ll read you a book. Katie?”

  “I’ll get one.” She went over to a bookshelf and scanned the titles of children’s books there before selecting a short book featuring a picture of a horse on the cover. She brought it to Hannah, who was helping the children get settled next to her, one on either side.

  Rachel stuck the needle into her quilt one last time, then got up and went to the kitchen area. It was time to start setting out the midday meal, which was why Katie had come in.

  “How are you?” Rachel asked her daughter.

  Katie began removing plates from the kitchen cabinets to set the table. She leaned in close to her mother and dropped her voice. “Last night … My bed. You know …” Her voice trailed off.

  Rachel nodded. Katie had wet her bed frequently as a little girl. No one made a fuss over it, and she seemed to have outgrown it, although occasionally she still had an accident. On those occasions, the eleven-year-old was mortified, even though neither Rachel nor anyone else had treated it as anything but normal and unimportant. The two of them had worked out a system that satisfied Katie: She would tell her mother the next day, so Rachel could collect the wet sheets from their spot of concealment behind the door of Katie’s room.

  Any further discussion was halted by the arrival of Leah King, carrying a basket of newly gathered radishes and lettuce. She greeted everyone pleasantly before setting down the basket and heading for the propane gas–run refrigerator. She, Katie, and Rachel removed food they had prepared earlier that morning, and assembled whatever needed reheating. Without words, they warmed and set out the meal: bowls of chicken soup, three-bean salad, and corn bread.

  Katie went out to the barn to call the men in for dinner. Isaac, his eldest son, Judah, and Sarah’s husband Moses were the first to arrive in the kitchen. Within minutes, Judah’s wife Annie appeared with Sarah, both women carrying babies, older children trailing behind them. Rachel’s younger brother, Daniel, worked for a construction company, and ate his dinner at work; he would, however, be home for supper that night.

  The family settled in around the table. After a silent prayer, everyone helped themselves to the steaming food. The conversation primarily revolved around milk production and those cows about to calve, who were now kept mostly outside.

  As soon as the midday meal was over, the men went back to the fields while the women cleaned up and dispersed to resume their other chores.

  Rachel was the only one left in the kitchen when she picked up the black straw broom to give the front steps a sweeping before going back to her loom. She opened the door to the porch and stepped outside into the bright afternoon. It was a breezy, welcoming day, and, closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the sun’s warmth before getting to the task at hand.

  She was nearly done when she happened to glance up and notice a car idling at the end of the long walkway in front of the house. Sunshine glinted off its bright red surface, and it was impossible to see who was inside. Tourists, no doubt, Rachel thought, looking back down at her task. They were constantly pulling over in front of the house, obviously delighted when one of the family members appeared, as if they were sighting a rare animal in its natural habitat.

  Rachel continued sweeping, but something was bothering her, a feeling of distress. She raised her head. The car hadn’t moved. Without knowing why, she moved to lean the broom against the side of the house, her eyes still on the car. She stepped off the porch and took several steps down the path toward the main road. As she walked, she shielded her eyes from the sun, but still couldn’t make out who the driver might be.

  The car door on the driver’s side opened. A woman got out, shut the door and moved to stand by the front of the car, facing Rachel, but made no gesture and said nothing. Continuing down the path, Rachel saw that the woman had shoulder-length blond hair, with sunglasses pushed up on top of her head. She wore a light-colored blouse and dark pants, a gold belt buckle gleaming in the sun. She wasn’t old, but she was clearly an adult. She, too, raised a hand to shield her eyes, as she focused her gaze on Rachel.

  At that instant, a cloud passed in front of the sun, and the glare disappeared. Both women let their hands drop down to their sides.

  Rachel got her first clear look at the woman’s features. Stunned, she caught her breath with a gasp. The clothes, the haircut—none of that could hide the fact that the woman looked eerily like Rachel’s siblings. Nothing on earth could have been clearer to Rachel than that this woman standing before her was their sister, and a member of the King family.

  The missing member that only Rachel knew existed.

  She saw the woman stiffen, as if seeing something in Rachel that shocked her as well. They both stood, immobilized, for what seemed like a very long time. Then, the woman made an abrupt move back to the car door, yanked it open and got inside, slamming it. Rachel watched as the red car sped down the paved road, then made a right turn at the first opportunity, passing out of sight.

  As if expecting the car to return, Rachel continued to stand there, staring out at the empty road.

  The woman in the car was, without a doubt, Rachel King. The real Rachel King. She had come to reclaim her life.

  Chapter 7

  Ellie’s hands were shaking so badly, she pulled into a gas station and drove around to the side where no one would notice her. Turning off the engine, she gripped the steering wheel, trying to calm herself.

  She had never believed she would really go this far, renting a car and driving to Lancaster to find an address she had scribbled on a scrap of paper. In the end, though, she had to see the spot for herself, had to make the facts indisputably real. Just finding the house, with the children playing on swings, and a cat sleeping in the rocking chair on the front porch—that would have been more than enough to contend with. But Ellie barely had time to consider the sight when that woman came out. She was exactly what Ellie pictured when she imagined the Amish, with the white head covering and its thin strings hanging down untied, the simple dark green dress and apron. Ellie had stared, transfixed, not wanting to acknowledge what she suspected was right in front of her.

  She put her head down on the steering wheel. The woman in front of that house was the real Rachel Lawrence of New York. Was supposed to be her. Who grew up on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, went to college, supported herself in a high-powered job. That was to have been her life.

  The story, the whole crazy thing, was true. Researching it online had been easy. Within a day, Ellie learned how plausible the situation was. The people mentioned in the letter had all existed, and were at the hospital exactly as described. Every piece of the story fit together, but in the end, the research didn’t even matter. One look at that woman coming down the path, even with her brown hair mostly covered, was all it took to confirm the truth. The large, dark eyes, the shape of her mouth and cheekbones—she was the third Lawrence sibling.

  She, thought Ellie. Not me. She was the eldest Lawrence daughter, her parents’ child. Nick and A.J.’s real sister. Even Gramp
and Gram—they were her grandparents. Every relative up to and including rotten Aunt Lillian belongs to her, not to me, Ellie thought.

  She felt a deep sorrow for her parents. They had gone along all these years, loving her, raising her as their own, when, in fact, she was unrelated and irrelevant to their lives. It wasn’t even as if they adopted her. They never chose her. They had their own daughter, and it was this woman, living in another state. More like in another world, Ellie corrected herself, thinking of the woman’s clothes, her bare feet, the covered hair.

  Yet, strangest of all was that something so unimaginable explained so much. All those things she had always sensed, but never allowed to surface in her consciousness. Things that forced her to face how different she was—and felt—from the rest of the Lawrences.

  It was, she thought, like those old test questions in school: Which one of these things is not like the others?

  That would be me.

  Ellie hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in the week since her mother first handed her the envelope from that nurse. Her distress had only grown as she had been forced to concede that the claims were true. By this point, she was barely eating, distracted at work, practically in hiding from the rest of her family. She didn’t know what to say to them, how, or even whether to tell them. This morning, she had gotten up unusually early, knowing without admitting to herself that she was about to rent a car and drive to Pennsylvania. Finding the address of these people had been easy given that the family had lived in the same house for decades. She called the office and told them she had wall-to-wall outside meetings, so they were not to expect her that day. All she had to do was punch in the address on the rental car’s navigation system, and she had wound up here.