Child of Mine

by Beverly Lewis

  “And, get this, she drives,” Danny had told Jack during one of their rare phone conversations. “Never heard of an Amishwoman with wheels, have you?”

  At the time, Jack hadn’t, although he now knew of a few Plain groups that allowed car ownership, including Laura’s Beachy Amish cousins with whom she lived in Apple Creek, southeast of Wooster.

  According to Danny, Laura had been raised and baptized into a conservative church in Lancaster County until she was excommunicated.

  “What happened?” Jack had inquired, but Danny didn’t know, and he didn’t seem to care. Laura was wonderful with Nattie, and that’s all that mattered. All that mattered to Jack, as well. So here they were, these many years later, and Jack still knew little about the young woman who ran their lives so efficiently and kept Nattie on the straight and narrow.

  Unfortunately, Laura’s unexplained Old Order Amish past exasperated San, who was a magnet for mysteries, a moth-to-the-flame for drama, and as Danny had often said, “Our sister likes to poke the bear, if for no reason other than to hear the bear growl.”

  “She may be shunned, but she’s still Amish. It’s not like she’s plunged into the world,” San had argued.

  “Beachy Amish,” Jack corrected.

  “Whatever.” San rolled her eyes. “So why hasn’t she repented?”

  I’m glad she hasn’t, Jack thought, otherwise they’d have lost her to her former community by now. It was selfish, certainly, but Laura’s unresolved issues were their gain, and yes, none of it seemed to hang together, but who cared? He couldn’t imagine their life without Laura. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out the Amish were known to shun for the strangest reasons, like wearing a hat with a too-narrow brim, or owning a cell phone, or opening a forbidden Facebook account.

  Whatever her secrets, Laura kept them to herself, and if she hadn’t consistently behaved in contrast to someone shun-able, they wouldn’t have wondered. The mere word shun seemed reserved for rebels, not for someone as gentle and submissive as Laura Mast.

  Jack was still leaning over the upstairs railing when Laura looked up. “Hullo. Wie geht’s?” she asked.

  He complimented her on breakfast, and she beamed her thanks. Nattie wheeled around. “Uncle Jack! Laura’s taking me to the park.”

  He pretended to be chagrined. “Again?”

  “Yes!” Nattie squealed. “Again and again and again, until I’m old and gray like you.”

  Jack cinched his robe tighter and joined them downstairs for his second cup of coffee. Busy with her latest list, Nattie gestured to the stool beside her. “Belly up, Uncle Jack.”

  Laura was now scrubbing the stove top, occasionally wiping the perspiration from her forehead, then stepping back and putting her hands on her hips, as if appraising her progress.

  Nattie announced, “Laura’s wearing purple today. I think she looks good in purple, don’t you, Uncle Jack?”

  Jack whispered in Nattie’s ear. “Don’t start.”

  “Just sayin’.”

  Laura looked down, studying her own clothing. “Ach, the color ain’t too bright, is it?”

  “Not at all,” Jack replied, eyeing Nattie.

  “It’s breathtaking,” Nattie said. “And zimmlich—pretty.”

  Laura said something to Nattie in Deitsch, which was lost on Jack. Nattie replied quickly, and he smiled, amused that his little girl and her nanny shared their own private language.

  In a few minutes, Laura left to gather the laundry from upstairs. Shortly, she returned to review the grocery list. “Any special requests?”

  Nattie spoke up. “We’re out of Pop-Tarts.”

  “I’m afraid three a day is not a balanced diet,” Laura replied.

  Nattie looked horrified.

  “You heard her,” Jack said, sipping his coffee.

  “But I like Tarts.”

  Laura placed the list on the counter. “Well, I think we’re all set, then.” She strolled out to the family room. Nattie took this moment to offer another unsolicited suggestion. “I was just thinking about your date, Uncle Jack. You could take Laura out to lunch, you know.”

  Our date? Jack whispered a quick, “Drop it, young lady, and mind your p’s and q’s if you ever want to eat another Tart for as long as you live.”

  Sitting up straight, Nattie pursed her lips, taking a deep breath and blowing the dejected air between her lips. They traded glances again. He raised his eyebrows, and she sniffed defiantly.

  “Young lady . . .”

  “I was just breathing,” she huffed. “I can breathe, can’t I?”

  Jack took another sip, then reached over, grabbed Nattie’s tiny piglet creature, and slowly walked it over all the way to Nattie’s finished cereal bowl. “Please don’t eat me, Mrs. Farmer,” he beseeched her in a high-pitched pig squeal.

  Nattie giggled, and all was well. Well enough to share with him her summer activities list:

  1) Riding bikes

  2) Swimming at the pool

  3) Watching hummers with Laura

  4) Going to DQ

  5) Playing at the park—(it’s number 5 ’cause I’m basically nine)

  “Ambitious list,” Jack said, reading on through number fifteen, pretending to study it, and noting the placement of watching hummingbirds before going to Dairy Queen or playing at the park.

  “That’s your copy,” Nattie said.

  “I don’t see piano practice listed.”

  Nattie frowned. “It’s summer.”

  Jack chuckled. He pointed to number nine’s sleepover request. “And I don’t remember Hannah. I have to meet all of your peeps’ parents first. Remember? And if I don’t approve, all bets are off.”

  Grinning, Nattie saluted respectfully. “Aye, aye, captain!”

  After folding last night’s movie blanket and straightening the family room, Laura came over and put her hand on Nattie’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be rather hot today, honey-girl.”

  Nattie replied in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “A good day for shorts,” Jack seconded, mentioning the dearth of nectar for their hummingbirds.

  “Jah, gut.” Laura promptly added white sugar to the list. When he finished his coffee, Laura swiped his cup and carried it to the dishwasher.

  Returning upstairs, Jack showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Afterward, he settled in for an hour of work in his office, located at the far corner of the house, where an entire wall was dedicated to aviation history: trinkets, flight DVDs, aircraft posters, and a single wooden shelf holding several models.

  Set against the wide window overlooking the tree-dominated yard, Jack’s oak desk was piled with bills, statements, and receipts. An aviator Snoopy mug—a gift from San—sat at his right hand, where tendrils of steam curled from his third cup of the day, his limit.

  He worked for a while in silence, studying the latest monthly P&L report for his business, Higher Ground Aviation, Inc. Some of the numbers were lower than he’d anticipated.

  When he heard the knock at his office door, he looked up. “It’s open,” he said.

  Laura’s head appeared around the door. Smiling demurely, she went to sit in the chair nearest the door, the typical routine when they reviewed her plans for the week. She brushed back a loose hair and bumped her Kapp slightly off-kilter.

  “I forgot to mention, Cousin Peter dropped me off today.” She met Jack’s gaze. “My car’s on the fritz again.”

  Jack waved off the imminent request. “I can always drive you, Laura. Besides, Nattie loves to visit the country.” Amish country.

  Laura seemed relieved but a little embarrassed. He mentioned the two o’clock meeting at school to discuss Nattie’s progress, and Laura nodded to confirm this. She looked at her notes. “So, it’s the grocery store, Bill’s Hardware, and Walmart.” She bit her lip. “Oh, and how much do you want to spend on flowers this year?” she asked, referring to the annuals that graced the perimeter of the house each summer.

  “I’ll leave that up to yo
u, Laura.”

  “Denki. I mean, thanks.” She blushed.

  After all these years, he still found her shyness endearing.

  “Something else I’ve been thinking about.” She began to describe her ideas for a terraced garden out front. “It’s time to replace the one I made some years back.”

  “Sounds great,” Jack said. “Do whatever you’d like.”

  Laura twisted in her chair and peeked around the door, no doubt looking for Nattie, then reached up to close the door, signaling the start of their private discussion.

  Leaning forward, Jack filled her in on his chat with Nattie last night, leaving out Nattie’s obsession with playing matchmaker. When he finished, Laura covered her face with her hands for a moment. “I daresay this all got started at the park,” she said, beginning her “sad tale.”

  Apparently the place had been crammed with Nattie’s classmates and their mothers. Things were going along just fine, according to Laura, until Nattie began calling her Mom. Not wanting to embarrass Nattie, Laura had played along, but during the walk home Laura felt the need to explain tactfully that while she was flattered, she wasn’t really Nattie’s mother. Therefore, it wasn’t appropriate for her to accept such an honored title.

  Nattie took it well at first, but as the afternoon progressed she became rather dejected. Laura tried to talk to her before she left, but Nattie shrugged it off.

  “I don’t think it bothered her as much as you think,” Jack offered.

  “I hope not.” Laura adjusted her head covering, and the way she did it made him think of Nattie’s bold statement, “And you can’t say she’s not pretty.”

  In the past, Laura’s appearance—her dress, her lack of makeup—had been an occasional topic of dinnertime talk, especially the times San visited. Still unmarried at twenty-nine, Laura Mast had adopted the Beachy Amish tradition of wearing long plain dresses in a variety of colors, her honey-colored hair parted down the middle and pulled severely back in a bun beneath her white formal cup-shaped prayer veiling. Her Kapp, Laura called it, seemed to be a metaphor for her restrained life, as if the freeness of movement was strictly forbidden.

  In spite of her plain appearance, it was impossible to disguise Laura’s soft feminine lines, the allure of her haunting, if beautiful, brown eyes. There was also that inexplicable something that seemed to whirl about her, especially when she smiled, like sunshine breaking through clouds.

  Laura brightened suddenly, getting up and moving toward his aviation wall, to Jack’s custom-made shelf. “Oh . . . I believe I’ve missed this.”

  He followed her gaze proudly, not surprised she hadn’t seen it before, as he’d only recently purchased the autographed model of the Bell X-1, signed by Chuck Yeager. The X-1 was best known for being the first aircraft to exceed the speed of sound in controlled, level flight.

  Studying it closely, her hands clasped as if in prayer, Laura seemed enamored with the addition. He filled her in on the history behind the acquisition, pointing to the empty spot next to it, a place reserved for something—anything—signed by Wilbur Wright.

  Laura whistled softly. “What sort of autograph?”

  “I saw his signed pilot’s license for sale. That would be nice, but too expensive. I can’t justify it.”

  Laura stepped back, surveying the entire wall. “It’s amazing, ya know, how man ever learned to fly, really.”

  Jack smiled, amused with her fascination. As far as he knew, she’d never set foot in a plane, and he felt a twinge of guilt. Although flying was a no-no for the Amish, he’d never thought to ask her.

  Just then Nattie burst in the door. “What’s everybody looking at?” she asked, then groaned. “Oh, just the airplane stuff.” She folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. “Are we going shopping or not? I’m popping out of my skin here.”

  Jack chuckled and Laura dutifully followed Nattie out the door. Moments later, Nattie was back to blow a kiss; he caught it on his cheek and blew one back. Giggling, she twiddled her fingers good-bye, and then was gone.

  Chapter 6

  When her shift was over, Kelly called a quick good-bye to Hailey and drove back to her small apartment, a remodeled attic above Agnes Brown’s creaky house, which smelled of eucalyptus from the vaporizer her landlady constantly ran.

  Alone, Kelly enjoyed a long, steamy shower, washing away the memory of the night shift and of Melody’s sudden reappearance. Later, at the bedroom end of the studio apartment, Kelly put on a white knee-length T-shirt, pulled the blinds optimistically, and hurried to bed. She reached for her room-darkening mask and jerked the covers over her head, and though she rarely eked out more than four hours of sleep at a time, she had high hopes for today. Five’s a bonus, she thought.

  But as usual, Kelly struggled to fall asleep, lying awake for hours, until she finally succumbed out of pure exhaustion. At just after one o’clock her cell phone rang, which she’d forgotten to silence. Frustrated and dog-tired, she ignored it, letting the call go to voice mail.

  Minutes later, annoyed by curiosity, she flipped up her mask and checked the message. The lab results must be in, she realized, feeling a rush of anticipation. Quickly, she called back and reached Cara, one of the clerks she’d gotten to know over the years. “Do you mind scanning it in and emailing it to me, pretty please?”

  Cara agreed but said it might be an hour. “We’re getting slammed here.”

  Bleary-eyed, Kelly changed her mind. “You know what? I’ll be right over.” She hung up and sat on the edge of the bed, her spirits buoyed. This is it! Her trip to Malibu a mere three days ago was about to pay off.

  Kelly wandered out to the mini-kitchen, drank some stale coffee, and discovered something bagel-ish. Spreading on cream cheese from the fridge and taking a bite, she promised to improve her diet tomorrow. She hurried back to her room, dressed, and headed out to her Toyota. Thankfully, the testing center was only ten minutes away. She started the car and gripped the steering wheel, resisting the urge to fist pump.

  Hold steady, Kel, she told herself.

  When she arrived at the testing center, Cara was at the front counter fielding calls. The cheap seats were filled with an assortment of folks seeking to satisfy occupational requirements, submit to drug testing, or discover their own personal nutritional profiles.

  Cradling the phone in her neck, Cara reached behind her, removed an envelope, and held it out to Kelly. It was a simple business envelope with Lab Tests printed on the lower right hand corner, identified by Cara’s own handwriting: Kelly Maines.

  Kelly’s stomach filled with butterflies. Back in the car, she placed the envelope on the passenger seat and drove to a nearby park. Somewhere quiet.

  She chose a spot near a row of bushes, aware of the afternoon sun streaming through her windows. She kept the car running with the air-conditioner on full blast. Turning off the radio, Kelly sat in silence for a moment, collecting herself. Here it is, she thought. But I have to open it.

  She smiled, took a breath, and cued up some music. An old tune by Sixpence whispered beneath the whirring sound of the fan. A brisk wind buffeted her car, slightly rocking it. This bucket of bolts could blow away.

  Do it. At last, she opened the envelope, removed the folded DNA Maternity Evaluation Report, and began reading. Ignoring the body of the report, which defined the genetic system and the chromosome location, Kelly skipped down to the conclusion. The words at the end hit her like a punch in the gut, sucking the air out of her.

  Kelly Maines is excluded as the biological mother of Sydney Moore.

  She breathed in, faltering, then exhaled, all the while squeezing the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. If the wind wasn’t bad enough, a swirling cloud crept across the sky, hiding the sun, shrouding the entire park with a dismal shadow.

  Excluded.

  No match. Sydney Moore was not her daughter, after all.

  Old defensive routines kicked in, years of dealing with bad news. “Didn’t I suspect it might be negative?
” she told herself. “It’s okay.”

  But she’d staked everything on this one. This report was supposed to redeem eight years of fruitless effort.

  I still believe, she prayed softly. All things are possible. She closed her eyes as tears slipped through, falling down her cheeks. It’s okay, she assured herself again.

  She reached for her cell phone and called Ernie, her private investigator. When he answered, she blurted out, “No luck, Ernie. We’re still in business.”

  Ernie sighed audibly.

  “She looked so much like me. She really did, Ernie. More than the others, you know? She had my eyes. My hair. My freckles . . .” Her words trailed off into a frustrated sigh as Ernie seemed to digest this.

  “How’re you holding up?”

  She swiped at a rogue tear but sniffed defiantly. “Ready to hit the ground running.”

  “I mean, are you sleeping, kiddo?”

  “Enough,” Kelly replied, exaggerating. She hadn’t slept enough in years.

  Silence spooled out.

  “I can do this, Ernie.”

  “Okay. Then I’ve got one more lead for you.”

  She nodded, feeling relieved. Another prospect. They were officially back on the train they’d ridden for eight exasperating years.

  She’d first met Ernie Meyers at her church. He was a former policeman whose brother, she would later learn, had once worked for the CIA. For all she knew, Ernie had worked for the government, as well, although he’d never admitted to it, and she wouldn’t have asked.

  Semiretired, Ernie offered to work for her “around the edges, at cost.” Cost, however, wasn’t cheap—to the tune of thousands each month.

  In the early years, Kelly went door to door, unafraid and unashamed, pleading for contributions and showing the news clippings for proof. She spoke at churches, talking about keeping the faith in spite of life’s challenges, and passing the plate. Sometimes she even stood on street corners with nothing more than a sign: Help Me Find Baby Emily.

  Buoyed by prayer and encouraged by her church family, there were times when hope and courage streamed through her soul like the mighty Niagara Falls. Today is the day I might find her!