The Forbidden

by Beverly Lewis

  Honestly she was so weak she couldn’t think of getting up early to bake tomorrow, as she always did on washday before helping Mamma and Nan with the laundry.

  Maybe none of the regulars would notice if the bakery shop was closed. She felt sure she would still be lying there flat on her back come morning, so hot was her brow . . . and nauseated her stomach.

  Is it the flu? Or did I eat something bad?

  Oh, she wished Mamma had stayed home to warm up some chicken broth or brew a pot of chamomile tea. In her haze of intermittent discomfort and rest, Nellie missed Caleb even more.

  When she did at last fall into fitful slumber, she dreamed they were walking along the millstream, only she was on one side and he was on the other, the water rushing between them.

  Caleb was telling her she was old enough to make a stand for or against the old church . . . and her family. “What will you do, Nellie?” he asked.

  She wanted to say that while she was an obedient daughter, she was also ready to be out from under the control of her father. Ready, too, to make a life with her husband someday soon.

  “You know how much I despise conflict,” she managed to say in her dream.

  “Well, who doesn’t? Anyway, you haven’t said which side you’ll be on, if things heat up.”

  Her mouth felt dry. “You think it’ll come to that?”

  “Oh jah, there’ll be a battle. I’m sure of it.” Then he asked again, “Whose side, love?”

  In her dream, she hoped it wouldn’t mean having to choose. Such things created horrid complications between siblings, parents and grown children, close friends. . . . She’d heard plenty of reports about families here and there leaving the Amish community for the Mennonites and other Plain groups. Yet even in the midst of her very mixed-up dream, Nellie seemed to know that this battle had already taken place, and she was simply reliving the church split that now divided so many.

  When she awakened, the anxiety the dream had stirred up lingered, and she hoped Caleb might never goad her in such a manner in real life. She curled tightly into a ball beneath Mammi Fisher’s warm winter quilts and pushed the awful dream far, far away.

  A while later, thirsty and wishing to know the hour, Nellie crept out of bed and down the stairs, then limped dizzily toward the kitchen. After managing to pour a glass of water, she propped herself up with her arms on the counter and squinted up at the day clock. Nearly time for Preaching to come to a close, she thought as she eyed the clock’s blurry face.

  Her head ached with the effort and Nellie moaned. She should have spoken up and given Mamma a clearer explanation as to why she was staying home. Her family might find it a bit too coincidental that she had begged off attending their church yet again. Certainly Rhoda had seemed to view her resistance to their invitation with some disdain.

  Serves me right, their abandoning me, she thought ruefully, slowly heading back toward the stairs.

  Then, glancing out at the snow-covered fields and yard, she noticed a tall black shape moving down the road. Inching nearer the window, Nellie tried her best to make out who was there. Could it be she was sleepwalking and merely dreaming?

  She leaned on the windowsill, almost too feeble to stand. The man headed straight to their mailbox and stopped in front of it. “What on earth?” she muttered, frowning as she watched.

  A wave of nausea forced Nellie back to the stairs, and she pulled herself up step by step, gripping the railing, until she came at last to the landing at the top, where she fell into a heap on the floor. There was no way she could get out to the mailbox to look inside . . . not in her sick state. The best she could do was edge down the hall and climb back into bed, hoping Dat and Mamma wouldn’t tarry at the common meal following church. Hoping, too, that if Caleb had risked placing something in the mailbox for her, her family would remain none the wiser.

  If, indeed, it was Caleb at all. . . .

  CHAPTER 6

  Long before dawn Monday, Nan surprised Nellie by coming in and sitting on the bed. “You never woke up for supper last night,” Nan whispered. “Mamma tried to nudge you awake several times.”

  Nellie stretched her legs beneath the quilts, achy all over. “Ach, I slept ever so hard . . . yet I’m still all in.”

  Nan touched Nellie’s forehead. “I’d say you’ve got a fever.”

  “Can you . . . would you mind puttin’ a sign on the bakery shop?”

  “Why sure. But you stay put, all right?” Nan smiled sympathetically. “Seems you’ve got the old-fashioned flu.”

  Nellie’s head throbbed. “Much too early for you to be up, ain’t?”

  “Don’t worry over me. You’re the one burnin’ up.” Nan rose slowly. “I’ll get a cool washcloth for your forehead.”

  Closing her eyes, she felt relieved that Nan wanted to take care of her. As much as she desired to get up and bake and go about her regular Monday routine, she simply could not.

  Hours later, when she’d awakened again and daylight had come, she heard voices downstairs. Was it her lively niece Emma with her mamma and younger siblings? Normally Nellie would hate to miss a morning’s fun with her five-year-old niece and her two younger brothers, Jimmy and Matty. Six-year-old Benny, now a first-grader, would be at school.

  Soon Nan brought in another cold cloth to replace the warm one, and Nellie tentatively sipped the cup of lukewarm chamomile tea, sweetened with honey.

  “This’ll do ya good . . . not too hot to spike your fever.” Nan’s voice was as gentle as Mamma’s might have been . . . or Suzy’s.

  “Kind of you.” Nellie lifted her eyes to Nan, whose blue eyes were ever so bright. Her sometimes-distant sister was being unusually attentive. Whatever the reason for the change, Nellie Mae was grateful.

  “Martha’s downstairs with the children,” Nan said, confirming Nellie’s earlier hunch. “Here for a quick visit.”

  “I’d hate for any of them to get this flu.”

  Nan agreed. “We’ll keep the little ones downstairs, but I’ll be checkin’ on you in a bit.”

  “Denki, sister.” Nellie offered her best smile.

  Nan left the room, leaving the door ajar.

  Once, when Betsy Fisher was in her teens, she’d gone walking along one of the back roads, only to be knocked down by the thunderous boom of a low-flying jet plane.

  She recalled the sensation of being stunned by the sound and sight of the enormous plane even now as she held her granddaughter Emma on her lap while sitting at the kitchen table. This time, though, the shock had reverberated from a few simple words.

  “We’re looking into buying a tractor.” Had her daughter-in-law really said such a thing?

  But clearly she had, and Martha went on to add that her husband, James, and his younger brother, Benjamin, had recently hired a driver to take them into town to talk to a contractor about installing electricity in both their houses.

  Ach, what a big can of worms we’ve opened. Betsy was appalled, knowing even more was sure to come.

  Her head spun with the realization that yet another group had obviously exploded forth from Manny’s New Order church, this one bent on all things modern. For sure and for certain, the Beachys were much too fancy for her liking.

  She suddenly realized she must have been holding Emma too tightly, because the little sweetie protested and slid off her lap. She felt stricken, similar to the way her eardrums had been assaulted years before, although presently it was her sense of right and wrong that was being shaken. Betsy had lived long enough to know that when certain things were set in motion, one simply could not stop the coming change.

  Before Cousin Kate was to arrive for the babies’ midmorning feeding, Rosanna wanted to prepare two loaves of bread to bake. She’d missed kneading bread dough, missed the feel of the flour between her fingers. There’d been precious little time for either baking or quilting—her two fondest interests—since Eli and Rosie had arrived. Even so, she cherished her time with her babies, holding them longer than necessary, spoiling
them at every turn. Oh, the joy of cradling such snuggly wee ones close to her heart, where she had longed for them as dearly as any birth mother.

  No wonder Kate offered to be an occasional wet nurse, she thought. How could anyone resist such adorable children?

  It nagged at her, though, that Eli was Kate’s obvious favorite. Rosanna brushed away her frustration and began to measure the sifted flour. Then, setting it aside, she combined the shortening, salt, sugar, and boiling water, mixing them together till the shortening was dissolved. At last she was ready to add a mixture of yeast, sugar, and warm water and thoroughly blend all the ingredients in her largest bowl.

  She thought of her mother, deceased now for many years. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to have Mamma here, helping to nurture Eli and Rosie, offering loving advice on everything from feeding schedules to how to burp Rosie when she seemed so tense and colicky, tucking her tiny knees up close to her tummy.

  She remembered how elated she and Elias had been at the babies’ birth—how much more would her mother have delighted in having these unexpected grandchildren, Rosanna’s blood cousins. She’d spent hours studying the set of their eyes and the shape of their earlobes, seeking any resemblance to herself and her many brothers . . . longing for even the slightest connection.

  She continued working the dough, adding the remaining flour until the mixture was soft and no longer sticky. Now she would let it rise for a couple hours or so.

  Moving into the front room, she sat for a time, enjoying the quiet before Kate’s arrival, knowing it would soon come to an end. Maybe today’s visit will be more comfortable for all of us. With that hope in mind, Rosanna began to talk to the Lord, her very own Savior, according to the Good Book. She had Linda Fisher to thank for opening her eyes to this most priceless truth.

  It was past ten o’clock when Reuben finished rubbing liniment on several of his older horses’ legs. He thought ahead to writing out detailed feeding regimens for his growing colts as he moseyed out to the road to mail a feed payment. Observing the graying sky, he wished for the piece of blue over toward the south to spread this way. The days had been too long dreary. Some steady sunshine would undoubtedly lift the spirits.

  Having son James’s wife and little ones visit there that morning might be precisely what he needed, though he knew Betsy would enjoy the visit, as well. Thankfully his wife didn’t seem so much blue anymore as mighty busy. And a busy person—as opposed to a busybody—was a wonderful-good thing.

  Truth was, he was miffed at Cousin Jonathan, getting this whole car-buying thing started. The man who’d been the first among them to talk openly of salvation was now a believer with a car, of all things.

  Just what was Jonathan thinking? Didn’t he know others would follow? The idea of his own cousin driving a car gave Reuben the heebie-jeebies as he lifted the flag and opened the mailbox. He would have slid his envelope right in but stopped when he noticed a piece of mail already inside. Has the postman arrived? He looked down the road a ways, to the neighbors’ mailbox. Their flag was still up.

  That’s odd.

  Reuben pulled the envelope out before placing his own letter in the box. He saw what looked to be a personally delivered letter to Nellie Mae. C. Yoder was boldly written in the corner, yet there was no return address.

  David’s boy’s courtin’ our Nellie?

  The idea peeved him. David Yoder was one of the most outspoken, bullheaded men he knew, and although Reuben had shown kindness toward those in his former church, he struggled now with the notion that Caleb might be pursuing Nellie Mae. Surely Caleb hadn’t bargained on the letter’s being discovered by anyone but Nellie, her being home alone yesterday for no-Preaching Sunday.

  He glanced again at the lackluster sky. Disheartened, he decided to let Betsy be the one to deliver the letter to Nellie Mae, tempted as he was to destroy it or return it to the boy. Still, he would not fall prey to David’s own tactics. He’d heard from Deacon Lapp himself that David was encouraging an arrangement between one of the deacon’s daughters and Caleb, all to the end of keeping the youngest Yoder boy firmly planted in the old church.

  Seems David might be a bit late, Reuben thought wryly.

  CHAPTER 7

  “I hope you and Rhoda don’t get this awful bug,” Nellie said softly. Nan had come upstairs again after Martha and the children left, and Nellie was glad for the company. The silence of the house now was a stark contrast to the playful noises of her little niece and nephews.

  “Ah, well, the flu’s missed me the past several years,” Nan was quick to say. “I’m ever so lucky, really.”

  Nellie looked at her slender brunette sister—so obedient and loyal to attend Preacher Manny’s services with Dat and Mamma. “Don’t you mean you’re blessed, not lucky?”

  Nan cast a sideways glance. “You must’ve heard that at the new church, jah?”

  “Prob’ly.” Now that she thought of it, she had heard it on the one Sunday she’d succumbed and gone.

  “If you ever want to borrow our Bible—Rhoda’s and mine—just say so.” Nan smiled pleasantly. “It’s ever so interesting to read for oneself, truly ’tis.”

  Nellie had often wished she understood the Scriptures read in High German at Preaching service. “In English, is it?”

  “Jah. Dat says sometimes it’s best to read a verse several times. Let it sink in, ya know.”

  “Never heard it put thataway.”

  Nan sighed fitfully and looked toward the window. “There’s much that I’m learnin’.” She was silent for a moment and a tear trickled down her cheek. Swiftly she brushed it away. “Ach, I’m sorry.”

  Nellie’s heart sank. “Nothin’ to be sorry for.” Nellie wanted to add, We’re sisters, after all . . . you can tell me what’s troubling you, but she merely reached for Nan’s hand.

  “I read the Good Book for more than just to learn what’s written there,” Nan whispered through more tears.

  Nellie listened, holding her breath, not wanting this moment of sharing to slip away.

  “My heart’s in little pieces.” Nan pulled a hankie from beneath her narrow sleeve. “Mamma knows . . . but I’ve never told another soul. Not even Rhoda.”

  “Aw, Nan.”

  “Dave Stoltzfus was everything I loved in a beau, Nellie Mae. Everything . . .” Nan wept openly.

  “You cared deeply” was all Nellie could offer without crying herself. This was the first she’d heard the name of the boy who had wounded her sister so.

  Nan bobbed her head, her face all pinched up. “I mostly read the psalms. King David endured much sadness, too, yet he could sing praises to Jehovah God in spite of it.”

  Nellie had never heard the verses Nan spoke of. “I’m glad you’re finding some solace.”

  At this Nan seemed unable to speak, and she looked down at Nellie, whose heart was warmed by this demonstration of tenderness from the sister who’d always preferred Rhoda.

  Nellie woke with a start and saw Mamma standing near the bed.

  Slowly Mamma sat, an envelope in her hand. “I didn’t mean to waken you, dear.” She tilted her head, concern in her eyes. “Your Dat brought this in . . . for you.”

  She’d nearly forgotten about having seen someone near their mailbox earlier . . . yesterday, was it? The indistinct man by the road had become lost in a tangle of confusing dreams to the point Nellie’d felt sure she’d imagined him. “Ach, what’s this?”

  Mamma said nothing, though she remained. After a lengthy moment, she asked, “How are you feelin’ now? Has your fever broken?”

  Nellie shook her head. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be free of the fierce heat in her body. She felt hot all over, even to her own touch. Yet despite the fever, she felt an uncontrollable chill and could not get warm. Even now she had to will herself to relax so her muscles wouldn’t lock up and become so tense she shivered all the more. She craved a reprieve from the sickness that had plagued her since Saturday night.

  Has it been only two days?


  Mamma changed the wet cloth on her forehead and had her sip more tepid tea with honey. Then, laying a hand on Nellie’s brow, she bowed her own head, lips moving silently.

  Nellie felt comforted, yet uneasy, as she wondered if Preacher Manny taught this sort of praying. Truly, she seemed to be learning newfangled things without even attending his gatherings. But she was touched by Mamma’s gesture and hoped the prayer might indeed restore her to health sooner.

  When Mamma was finished, she opened her eyes. “I pray that the power of the living God will raise you up once again.”

  Nellie found herself nodding, although she doubted the Lord God and heavenly Father wished to be bothered with such a small request.

  Mamma lifted the cool cloth and leaned down to kiss her forehead before departing the room. Then, and only then, did Nellie dare to lift the envelope to her eyes. The letter was indeed from Caleb.

  Despite being so ill, her heart skipped with joy, and she quickly opened the sealed envelope.

  My dearest Nellie,

  I haven’t forgotten you, not for a single minute!

  Christmas was terrible, not seeing you. And for that I’m awful sorry.

  I feel like a bird in a locked cage. And confess that I’m sinning to carry this letter to your mailbox today, Sunday, January 13th, by pretending to have the flu, which is sadly going around. So while my family is out visiting, I’m “sick” in my bed—well, I’ll soon be out walking to your house, darling Nellie.

  If ever there was a girl for me, it’s you. The times when I think of you, even dream of you, are more than I can count. I hope you don’t think poorly of me, leaving you without the company of a beau for even a while.For certain I despised doing so.

  And now here it is nearly mid-January already, and I still have not solved our dilemma. Daed has demanded that I shun you and your family, yet I yearn to talk with you and be near you once more.