by Marta Perry
“I know. I remember.” She crossed the barn floor toward him. “What’s going on, Samuel? Where are you taking my car?”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Your daad sent word over by Matthew. He’s arranged for the junkyard man to come for it today. He asked if I’d haul it out of the barn for them, not wanting the tow truck to come in here.”
“Today.” She’d been expecting it, but still it seemed to catch her by surprise.
“Ja, today. You did tell him to get rid of the car, ain’t so?”
“I did.” She hesitated, but after everything else she’d said to Samuel, she could say this. “I just didn’t think it would bother me so much when the time came.” She moved closer, patting the dusty fender much as Samuel had patted the horse. “This was Jannie’s car. I couldn’t afford one. As you can see, she couldn’t afford much of a car.”
The tension in his expression eased. “Your friend left it to you.”
“I hadn’t driven since the accident, just used public transportation, but she insisted I had to try. In case I needed to get the baby to the hospital or anything.”
“So she cared about the baby’s future, even knowing she wouldn’t be there.”
Anna ran her finger along the side mirror, her thoughts drifting into the past. “We drove out of the city one day, when she felt well enough. She wanted to see the country, she said. To see trees and grass again before she . . .” Her voice failed her.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was a low rumble. “It’s brought up sad memories.”
Anna shook her head. “Bittersweet, maybe. Not entirely sad. She was happy that day.”
“If you don’t want to get rid of the car, you can tell your daad why. He’d understand.”
“No point in that. It’s so far gone it’s of no use anyway, I guess.”
For a moment Samuel stared at her, as if absorbing her words. Then something flared in his eyes. “Were you planning to make a quick getaway, Anna?”
The edge of anger in his voice caught her on the raw, startling her. Samuel, who never lost his temper, was furious with her.
Her own temper rose in an instant. “If you’re thinking I’d run off and leave Myra when she needs me, you don’t understand me as well as you think, Samuel Fisher.”
He seemed taken aback by the direct attack. He took a step toward her, the anger fading from his face, and something solemn taking its place.
“If you left, I would be sorry on my own account, not just on my sister’s. I would be disappointed in you, as well.”
The mood had changed so quickly she felt oddly off balance. Everything that might be between them seemed to hover in the air, unspoken. She wanted to touch him, to assure him that she was here forever, that it was safe for them to love each other. But how could she? The doubts still clung.
She shook her head, trying to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. “I don’t want to disappoint you. Or anyone else. I just . . .”
It was hopeless. He wouldn’t understand. He’d have only the simple answer that she belonged here, so her child did, too.
“Tell me.” He caught her hand in his. “What is troubling you so?”
Anna couldn’t seem to turn away from his intent gaze. Finally she shook her head.
“It’s foolish to let it trouble me, maybe. But when I was working at Rosemary’s yesterday, she said something that . . . well, it raised a question in my mind.” She stopped, not sure she should continue.
“What did she ask?” Samuel obviously wouldn’t let it go.
Anna took a breath. “She asked whether it was right, to raise a child born English as Amish.”
Samuel was quiet for a long moment. She had the sense that beneath his calm surface, tension roiled.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said quickly. “Just forget it.” She tried to smile, but it probably wasn’t very convincing. “I’ve gotten into the habit of confiding in you, and that isn’t fair.”
His hand tightened on hers. “We are friends. We should be able to say the difficult words, ja?”
She nodded, her throat tight.
“So tell me what it was your friend Jannie expected from you.”
She took a shaky breath. “At first, she counted on me as you would on any friend. She thought she was going to be all right. She floated along on that belief for months, it seemed, ignoring what the doctors told her.”
Her throat thickened still more, so that it was an effort to get the words out.
“When she finally accepted that she wasn’t going to survive, all her strength went to the baby.”
“It’s what a mother does,” he said quietly.
She nodded, tears pricking her eyes. “Jannie had always been so timid. Malleable. She never seemed to have a thought of her own, just went along with what everyone else wanted. Suddenly she was a mother lion. She decided what she wanted to do and pushed everyone into line. Got the lawyer, got Pete to sign the papers, arranged for me to adopt. The lawyer was doubtful about me. He tried to get her to give the baby to an agency for adoption, but she was determined that I would be Gracie’s mother.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“She said she could count on me to raise Jannie right.”
“If she thought that, it was because of the person you are, ja?” His voice was gentle.
“Of course.”
“And you are who you are because of how you were raised. How could she trust you with her baby without trusting what you come from?”
His words seemed to sink into a place deep in her heart, easing and soothing. They rang true, and she knew he was right about what Jannie had intended.
“Jannie knew I was Amish,” she said slowly. “She was the only one out there who did know. She must have realized, must have thought all along that coming home was what I would do.”
“That is what I would think, from what you’ve said about her.”
“Denke, Samuel.” She looked into his face, gratitude welling in her. “Thank you.”
“There is something else I must say. Something you might not want to hear.” His voice was very grave. “Your friendship with the English woman . . . I don’t think it is a gut thing.”
She could only stare at him. “Rosemary? Why would you say that? True, she did raise doubts in my mind, but that’s just because she didn’t understand. I’m sure she meant well.”
“When you are with her, you start to think like an Englischer again, ain’t so?”
Think like an Englischer. The words echoed. Maybe they were true. Maybe that’s why they stung so much.
She straightened. Grateful as she was to Samuel, she wouldn’t let him dictate who her friends were.
She managed a smile. “I appreciate your help. Now I had better let you get back to your work, and I’ll get back to mine.”
She turned and walked quickly out of the barn.
“Komm, komm.” Myra’s hands fluttered as she gestured Samuel toward the bedroom. “The boppli’s crib must go in the corner of our room, where I can get to it easily.”
Samuel carried the crib mattress through the doorway, his misgivings growing. “Myra, you have months to get the crib ready for the boppli. Why must we do it today?”
“Over here.” Myra ignored his question. “The crib must be here.” She sketched the shape of the crib with her hands against the wall.
He set the mattress down. “I will go and get the tools and the other pieces.”
“Ja, ja,” Myra said absently. She stared at the spot where the crib would go, smiling.
He hurried out of the room and back down the stairs, wishing he knew what was going on in his sister’s mind. She had taken a sudden fancy to set up the crib she had borrowed from Barbara, since little Gracie now occupied the one that had been Sarah’s. She didn’t want Joseph doing all that bending, so she’d decided that Samuel must do it.
He glanced into the living room, where Joseph was keeping the two little girls occupied. Joseph met hi
s eyes and gave a helpless shrug. He didn’t know what to do, either.
If Anna were here, she might be better equipped to handle Myra’s sudden whim, but Anna had gone over to Leah’s house this morning to help her prepare for a party at the school.
Anna was never far from his thoughts these days. He sorted through the crib components, which Levi had stacked on the back porch, making sure all the bolts and nuts were there.
He’d gone over and over the conversation he and Anna had had in the barn yesterday, trying to assure himself that he’d said the right words. He could understand her worries about what the English woman had said. It was no simple matter, bringing up an English child to be Amish.
But Gracie had been Anna’s child since she was born, and Anna had never stopped being Amish, despite her attempt to live in the English world. He believed with all his heart that what he’d told Anna was true. Her friend must have known that the way Anna was raised made her the person she was.
He carried an armload of crib bars up the stairs and into the bedroom. Myra still stood where he’d left her, looking with dreamy eyes at the place where the crib would go. Concern edged its way to worry.
“I’ll get the rest of it,” he said, and escaped.
Coward, he accused himself as he hurried down the steps. If Anna were here, she’d know what to do. He felt a flare of resentment that he knew was totally unreasonable. Anna had every right to go to Leah’s or anywhere else this morning. He should just be relieved she wasn’t back at Rosemary’s again.
He wasn’t wrong, was he, thinking that the Englischer’s friendship wasn’t best for Anna right now? Most Amish had some English friends, but for Anna, so recently returned, he feared the lure of that other life might be too great.
Anna hadn’t liked it when he’d said so. He’d seen the flare of resentment, quickly suppressed, in her eyes.
In the old days, Anna wouldn’t have bothered to suppress it. Maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad. At least then she wouldn’t have been treating him with such cool politeness.
That bothered him more than he’d like to admit. Worse, it made him wonder whether his concern over that friendship was for Anna, or for himself.
He carted the rest of the crib pieces upstairs. He’d best concentrate on the job at hand. Worrying about Anna didn’t get him any further, did it?
But he couldn’t shake her from his mind so easily. He squatted, pulling the crib pieces together under Myra’s watchful eyes.
“I will put Sarah’s quilt on it for now,” she said. “But I’m going to make a new one, just for him. He’ll like that, don’t you think?”
“Ja.” Samuel’s voice sounded strangled, and he cleared his throat. “When do you think Anna will be back?”
“Sometime this afternoon.” The faraway look faded from Myra’s face, thank the gut Lord. She smiled. “You like our Anna, don’t you?”
“I like her fine. Don’t you go matchmaking, now.”
“Why not? Who else will say it to you, if not your own sister? You and Anna would make a fine pair.”
“Why?” He attached the side rail to the headboard. “Just because Anna needs a daadi for Gracie and I’m past the age of courting a teenager doesn’t mean we’re right for each other.”
“Don’t be ferhoodled. Because you two fit together perfectly, that’s why. I wouldn’t have thought that three years ago, but you’ve both changed. You’ve grown into yourselves, in a way.”
“Maybe. Anna has grown and changed, that’s certain-sure.” He stared at the screwdriver in his hand, wondering why he’d picked it up. “But I don’t think the changes in me have made me any more suited to marriage. Maybe less, if anything.”
“Ach, Samuel, you must not think that.” Myra dropped to her knees next to him, startling him. “This is because of Daad, ja?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.” He tried not to say more, but the words seemed to press at his lips, wanting to come out. “You know what it did to us, him leaving like he did. What if I did that?”
“You wouldn’t.”
The total confidence in her voice comforted him, but he couldn’t let go of his fears so easily.
“Nobody would have thought that about Daad, either, but he did.”
Myra was silent for a moment. “Didn’t anyone?”
That brought Samuel’s startled glance to hers. “What do you mean?”
Her gaze slid away from his. “I . . . nothing. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He took her chin in his hand, turning her face toward his. “Tell me. Did you know Daad was thinking about leaving?” It seemed incredible that little Myra would know something like that.
“Not know, exactly.” Her eyes darkened with the memory. “But sometimes when he was away from home working with the carpentry crews . . . well, when he came back, he talked differently. Like that other place out there was his real home.” She shook her head, as if bothered by her inability to explain it all. “And he wasn’t so very gut at keeping his word, Samuel. We all knew that, even you.”
He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. He didn’t know what surprised him more, the fact that such words were coming from little Myra or that they rang so true.
“Daadi . . . maybe it’s true that he didn’t always do what he said he would.” His memory provided him with too many examples of that. “But there was always a gut reason. And he’d make it up afterward.”
Just saying the words made him see how lame they were. Could a man ever make up for not keeping his word?
“You see,” Myra said, as if she knew what he was thinking. “I loved Daadi, but I guess I always knew I couldn’t count on him.” She put her hand on Samuel’s arm. “It’s harder for you. You were his favorite, and you’d have done anything to please him.”
Samuel wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t. “If that’s true . . .” His voice sounded like someone else’s. He cleared his throat. “If that’s true, it makes it even worse. I always wanted to be like him. What if I am?”
“Ach, don’t be so foolish.” Her tone scolded lovingly. “Look at yourself. You’ve never broken your word one single time in your whole life. Everyone knows that about you, except maybe you.”
He shook his head. He couldn’t sort it out. He needed time to get his mind around it.
“I’m not telling you what to do.” Myra patted his arm. “I just want you to be as happy as I am.” She reached out to touch the crib with a gentle caress. “I have Joseph, and Sarah, and a fine home. And now the new baby. My perfect little boy.”
Her words stabbed Samuel, chasing away every other preoccupation. “Myra, the doctor said—”
“Ach, don’t even think about that. The doctor was wrong, that’s all. I’m sure of it.”
“But Myra . . .”
She rose, hand cradling her belly. “Komm, get working on that crib so I can see how it looks. I will get the bedding for it.” She hurried from the room before he could say another word.
He sat down on the floor, feeling as if gentle Myra had just taken his heart and shaken it. First the revelation about his father, and now this . . .
He’d misjudged the situation with Myra, dismissing Anna’s concerns. He should have listened to her. She’d been right.
They had to persuade Myra to get help, but how? His heart quailed at the thought of arguing with her about her baby.
He had to talk to Anna the minute she got back. Anna would know what to do.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Anna clucked at Myra’s buggy horse, and the animal obediently picked up speed along the narrow road. It was surprising, really, how quickly she’d felt familiar with the horse and buggy again. After not driving a buggy in three years, the lines had felt odd in her hands at first, but now it was as if she’d never been away from it. The tension she’d felt after the near-miss coming home from the fair was still there, but it was under control.
She had to admit there was at least one advantage to driving a horse instead of a car. T
he horse had instincts a car never could. Myra’s buggy horse was on her way home, and if she didn’t stop her, the mare would keep going until she got there.
She had a stop to make, now that she’d delivered the baked goods to Leah for the school sale. She’d picked up a phone card the last time she went to the grocery store for Myra, so she could finally make a long distance call to Liz in Chicago.
A phone shanty stood at the intersection of two farm fields. She checked the horse and turned into the dirt lane that led to the shanty.
The idea of putting a telephone in a shed far from the house was so foreign to the English world that she was glad she didn’t have to try to explain it to anyone. People out there made being constantly connected a necessity, as if they couldn’t survive for even a few hours without cell phones and e-mail. She’d seen people in the restaurant trying to eat and talk on the phone at the same time, and ignoring the human being sitting across the table, like as not.
To the Amish, a telephone in the house would encourage idle chatter with others instead of concentration on the family. Still, they recognized that a telephone was necessary for emergencies and sometimes for businesses. So the answer was simple—put the phone far enough away from the house so that one wouldn’t be tempted to idle talk but near enough to be reached when needed.
Betsy, apparently deciding that the phone shanty was Anna’s only possible destination, came to a stop next to it without being asked. Anna got down quickly, pulling the phone card from her pocket.
At last she could talk to Liz. Maybe hearing her friend’s voice would erase the unsettled feeling that had haunted her lately.
Not lately. She ought to be honest with herself, at least. She’d been unsettled since the car had been hauled away, to be exact. It had taken her last illusion, irrational as it had been, that she still controlled her ability to come and go. And that conversation with Samuel certainly hadn’t helped, either.
He had been so kind, so reassuring when she told him about what Rosemary had said. His calm, reasonable approach had comforted her. More, it had restored her faith in her own judgment.