He stepped out of his truck, talking to her father. As Mr. Carlisle leaned against his truck, he looked up at her bedroom window. She jumped back as if she’d touched a fire. Could he tell what had happened just by looking at her? She crawled between the sheets and buried her head again.
Moments later a rapping on the bedroom door seemed to shoot through Hannah’s last nerve. She lay still, with her head under the covers. She heard the door open and tried not to budge so whoever it was would go away and leave her alone.
“Mr. Carlisle stopped by.” Her mother’s reassuring voice worked its way through Hannah’s mind. Mamm sat on the side of the bed. “It’s almost suppertime. You’ve got to eat. You can’t hide forever.”
Hannah squeezed her eyes tighter. It couldn’t be suppertime. Hadn’t Mr. Carlisle just left? Something odd was happening. Time kept jumping—as if it were no longer bound by any rules.
A clinking metallic sound, like an eating utensil against a plate, filled the silence. “You haven’t eaten anything in two days, Hannah. I peeled and chopped the fruit for you.” She patted Hannah’s leg through the bedcovers. “Come on, child. Sit up and eat.”
Hannah remained quiet, hoping her mother would give up and go away.
“Now.” Mamm tugged at the covers over Hannah’s head. At first Hannah resisted, but out of dread that her mother might call Daed, she let go of the sheets.
“That’s my girl.” Mamm’s soft hands caressed Hannah’s cheeks, brushing wisps of curly hair from her face. “I know this is hard. But it’s time to push against how you feel and do what’s necessary. Do you understand?”
Fresh tears slid from the corners of Hannah’s eyes. She nodded.
“Good. Now, dry your eyes.” Her mother lifted the bowl of fruit. “Sit up and eat.”
Hannah sat up and took the plate of fruit her mother held toward her. Mamm rose and grabbed a hairbrush from the nightstand. With the fork, Hannah stabbed a piece of green fruit. Mamm ran the brush through Hannah’s long curls. The soothing strokes of the brush and the delicious medley of fruits provided a welcome relief from the isolation of the last … She didn’t know how much time had passed.
Her mother worked on Hannah’s untamed curls without complaint. She twisted Hannah’s hair into a bun and pinned it. She then placed the translucent white Kapp over her head and fastened it to her hair with straight pins.
Mamm laid the brush on the side table. “Slip into your clothes and sit with us in the yard. There’s a cool breeze. It’s enough to refresh anybody’s soul.”
Hannah didn’t want to, but to refuse would cause more problems than it would solve. “What has Daed told everyone?”
Pushing the sheet off Hannah’s legs, Mamm seemed unable to look her in the eyes. “As little as possible. They think a car hit you and the fall caused the gashes on your hands.” She took a blue dress off its hook and laid it on the bed. “He wasn’t going to say that much. But you’ve holed up in this room so long, they knew you hadn’t just fallen on your way home. If you don’t get out of bed and return to normal chores, they aren’t going to accept that story either.”
Her mother turned to leave. “We need you, Hannah.” She faced Hannah squarely this time, her brown eyes filled with sorrow. “The house never runs as well without you.” She gave her daughter a forced smile.
When Mamm pulled the door closed behind her, Hannah sank back onto the bed. Is this what her life would be like from now on? Pretending she was fine in order to hide the truth of the unmentionable from her siblings, and hiding from her parents the fact that she was going insane? She stared at the floor, trying to gain enough strength to go downstairs and pretend.
Ten minutes later Hannah stood at the back door, running her hands around her waist to verify that she’d pinned her apron securely. She peered through the screen, watching her family. Mamm and Daed sat on the bench, watching the children. The younger ones were catching fireflies in the open field while the older ones helped them place the bugs in a jar. Hannah tried to take a breath, but a stabbing pain in her chest stopped it short.
As she pushed the door open, the squeaky noise drew her parents’ attention. Willing herself to walk, she started across the lawn. Her chest ached. Her skin felt as if someone were peeling it off. But worse, here in the open she had no ability to silence her thoughts. She came to a halt in front of her father, her gaze fixed on the ground, her arms limp at her sides.
Mamm rose from the bench. Her fingers cupped Hannah’s face, and she kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll fetch us some lemonade.”
“Dankes,” Hannah whispered.
Daed patted the empty spot beside him. “Come and we’ll talk.”
Hannah eased onto the far end of the bench.
With both feet planted on the soft earth, her father placed his hands on his knees and straightened his back. “God will get us through this, Hannah. Our ways are not easy, but they are right.” Her father removed his straw hat and lowered his head. “I’m not yet sure what’s the right thing to do between you and the bishop.”
Hot pain shot through her chest. She lifted her head and stared into her father’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
He turned toward the fields. “I should inform him of what happened so he can make a ruling of what needs to be done.”
Swallowing hard, she willed herself not to cry. “Daed, no, please. No one can know.”
His sigh assured her he understood her feelings. “I’m not saying I’m going to tell him. I haven’t decided yet. To keep this from the bishop is wrong. He’s our spiritual leader. He can’t guide us properly if we keep secrets from him.” His jaw clenched as he stood. “Because this is so uncommon, if we share it, he’s likely to seek counsel from the church leaders, maybe even from the head of each household. Then it’ll be impossible to keep it from spreading to our whole community and beyond. That’ll mean the news will reach any prospective beaus.” He glanced at her, sorrow filling his eyes. “And that will ruin your chance of ever having a family of your own. You’ve lost your virtue, child, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
As she stared at the bend in the dirt road that led to Mrs. Waddell’s, guilt threatened to swallow her. Maybe God had allowed this attack so she wouldn’t leave the community He’d placed her in. Who was she to consider changing God’s plan for her life?
Guilt gave way to anger at the injustice of her situation. How could she not want to get away from this place?
She stood. Like nectar to a bee, her bed called to her. But she couldn’t continue to give in to the urge to bury herself in it. She had duties, responsibilities. “I should take a loaf of bread to Mrs. Waddell,” she said, dreading even that chore.
“No,” he said, his voice gruff. “You’re not to return there for now. Luke or Levi will take Sarah back and forth to help the elderly lady until she can hire someone else.”
Hannah turned to look at her father. He seemed to expect her to plead for the right to work at Mrs. Waddell’s, but she had no energy to walk on eggshells while she argued with him. The set of his jaw was a clear indication that his patience with her was used up.
He stared at her, as if reminding her of his rights as head of the household. “You must help out around here. Your family needs you.”
Numb, she trudged toward the house.
The round-faced clock that hung on the wall behind the professor’s head showed that class should have been over ten minutes ago. Nonetheless, the man droned on, making Paul later for work by the minute.
School had been back in session for three weeks, and he missed Hannah so badly he couldn’t sleep at night or concentrate during the day. If a letter would arrive, maybe that would take some of the edge off his misery. Letters from Hannah were always slow in coming, but it’d been weeks since he’d left.
Writing to him was problematic. She had to have time alone to secretly pen him a note. Then she had to get it to his gram’s place so she could mail it without Hannah’s family getting wind of
it. Even though he often went up to six weeks without hearing from her, he’d never gotten used to it.
Scribbling notes as quickly as he could, Paul tried not to think about the interview he had coming up this afternoon. He was hoping to land an internship as a caseworker with social services. If he landed this position, he would get enough training so that he could find a job closer to Owl’s Perch after he graduated. If he found a job near Owl’s Perch, he could juggle working for Hannah’s father and for social services.
His boss at the tire store wouldn’t be too thrilled when he arrived late. He’d be even angrier when Paul requested time off during the middle of his shift to go on his interview.
His part-time job at the retail tire store came with long hours and unfriendly co-workers. But it was his own fault. Instead of putting in his job applications in May for the fall, he’d hightailed it to his gram’s place the day school was out so he could see Hannah. And he hadn’t returned to campus until the weekend before classes began. Now he’d spend the entire school year paying the price for his impatience.
Paul sighed and glanced at the clock again. As usual he was half paying attention to the teacher and half missing Hannah. A long-distance relationship was one thing, but no communication other than letters was almost unbearable, especially since it was so long between letters.
A few students slipped out the side door. Paul wanted to follow them, but he needed the details of the next project due for class, and this teacher didn’t pass out info sheets, post assignments on the Web, or write lists on the white board. He gave all pertinent instruction orally, once, as if the students’ presence at the end of class was part of the project itself. Paul drew a ragged breath and began to pack his book bag as he listened to the teacher’s last few recommendations regarding the assignment. As more students slipped out, the professor glanced at his watch and dismissed the class.
Slinging the strap of his backpack over one shoulder, Paul merged into the flow of human traffic. The past month had dispelled any question of how crazy his senior year would be. He wished he’d known four years ago how to plan his required course hours. He should have taken extra classes early on to give himself more time for his most important classes now. He had to graduate this spring.
It would be easier if he could stay in school one extra semester. But he couldn’t do that. He’d promised Hannah they’d be together by summer. Besides, his heart was set on being with her come mid-May. Graduation. What a liberating word. Right now, however, graduation seemed a decade away.
He ran through the corridors, out the main doorway, and across the parking lot. Jerking open the unlocked truck door, he tossed his backpack to the passenger side and dug into his jeans pocket for his keys.
They weren’t there. He tapped the outside of the pockets in his jacket and on the back of his pants.
Couldn’t something go right? One thing? Anything?
He stifled the urge to let an angry scream ring out across the parking lot. Leaning across the bench seat, he grabbed his backpack and searched its array of small pockets. Life had been like this since he’d arrived on campus. Murphy’s Law was working overtime for him, and he wished it would just go to work for somebody else.
Unable to find his keys, Paul climbed into his truck. God, am I off track? Is this not where I’m supposed to be? Or is this just a part of learning patience?
Paul wrapped his fingers around the top of the steering wheel and leaned his forehead against the backs of his hands. Visions of Hannah flooded his thoughts. I miss her so badly, Father. I … I didn’t think it would be this tough. How many times over the past month had he fought the desire to forget school and go be with her?
He lifted his head and squared his shoulders. This was no time to think about quitting school. If life wanted a battle, he’d fight. And he’d win. Because to lose would hurt his and Hannah’s future, and there was no way he was going to allow that to happen. No way on earth.
His stomach grumbled, and suddenly he remembered where his keys were. He jumped out of his truck and ran across the parking lot, back inside the building, to the closest vending machine. He grabbed his keys off the top of the red appliance. All this trouble and he hadn’t even gotten a pack of crackers from the antiquated junk-food source. It wouldn’t take his crumpled dollar, and he had no change.
Running back across the parking lot, Paul was glad his job was only a few minutes away.
Soon he pulled into the parking lot of the tire store and ran inside.
“Waddell.”
Paul stopped midstride. There was no denying that crotchety, booming voice bellowing out his last name as if it were a curse word. He turned. “Sir?”
“You’re late. Again.” Kyle Brown’s face turned a deeper shade of purple than normal.
“Yes sir. I’m sorry. Class was—”
“Give it a rest, Waddell. I don’t care what was going on at that place you call a learning institute. Seems to me you college boys can’t even tell time.”
Paul hated this place. But life was expensive. “I’ll come in early and stay late on Saturday to make up for it.”
“You better believe you will.” The man wiped his hands on a filthy rag and shoved it back into his pocket. “But that don’t change the fact that the guys in the pit can’t begin lunch shifts until there’s a fourth person here. Three men’ve been waiting on you so somebody can go eat.” He glanced at his watch. “At two thirty in the afternoon.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Mr. Brown clapped his hands. “Well, what are you waitin’ for? Get to work.”
“Yes, I’ll do that, sir. But first … I need to tell you that I have to be somewhere at four. I told Mr. Banks about it when—”
“Well, Mr. Banks ain’t runnin’ this department. I am. If you leave before the last customer is taken care of, don’t bother coming back. We’ll mail you your check along with an ‘adios, amigo’ card.”
Paul nodded. He’d explained his scheduling issues to Mr. Banks. The owner had assured him it could all be worked out. But obviously Kyle Brown didn’t care what his boss had agreed to.
If Paul got this internship, he’d be doing his dream job with child services part-time during the week, but he could work here on days he wasn’t a caseworker and all day on Saturdays. Jobs with decent hours that didn’t make him work on Sundays were hard to come by. He had to keep this one.
Luke clomped up the steps of the old farmhouse. He looked into his parents’ bedroom and found what he was searching for: Hannah. She sat on a low-rise stool with her back to him, sewing. He tapped on the open door.
Hannah jerked as if he’d startled her, but she didn’t turn to see who had knocked. “Kumm uff rei.”
Doing as she bid, Luke entered the room.
He was still baffled as to why his mother had made him move the sewing machine out of the kitchen and into his parents’ bedroom yesterday. Every Amish home in his community had the sewing machine in front of a set of windows in the main part of the house, either the kitchen or the sitting room. It was what the district leaders had agreed upon, long before either Luke or Hannah was born. The bishop’s job was to help keep conformity inside and outside each home to squelch man’s natural bent toward competition.
So why had his mother insisted that he move it upstairs? He wasn’t at all sure the church leaders would approve. But when he had turned questioningly to his father, his Daed had waved a hand in the air and barked at him to do as his mother told him. It had cost Luke the better part of the afternoon to disconnect, move, and then reconnect the machine, the automobile battery, and the converter to the upstairs.
Realizing Hannah wasn’t going to stop sewing, he spoke over the whir of the machine. “I’m not sure if you heard, but there’s a singing tonight. The bishop’s gonna be gone tomorrow, so he moved it to tonight instead of Sunday. Don’t know if that’s ever happened before. But I’d be glad to take you.” He crossed the room to stand beside her.
Accelerating
the speed of the machine, she continued to run a pair of broadcloth trousers under the needle. “You’ve talked me into all the singings I ever care to attend.”
With his middle finger and thumb, Luke lightly thumped her shoulder—half joking and half in frustration. “You beat all. Everybody that’s not married likes the singings. It’s the only way to really get to know someone.”
The machine stopped its annoying hum, leaving the soft ticking of the wall clock as the only sound in the room. His sister shifted her focus and stared up at him. The circles under her eyes and her pale skin revealed exhaustion, although she’d done very little work of late. For reasons that made no sense to him, she was being allowed to do nothing but sew clothes for the family in a private room. She wasn’t even responsible for juggling any cooking and childcare duties while she sewed. That was even stranger than moving the old Singer.
Hannah scowled. “I have no desire to be driven home from the singing by some … man … in hopes of us finding interest in each other.”
Luke grasped a straight pin out of an overstuffed, tomato-shaped cushion and plunged it in and out, over and over. His sister had always had a mind of her own, one that didn’t follow all the beliefs of the Old Ways, but she’d never been rude before. He decided, for both their sakes, to keep his tongue in check with her.
“I didn’t tell ya that the bishop said the singing won’t last long tonight. If you don’t come, Mary won’t either. She’ll think it’s too brazen to be seen alone with me at my parents’ place on a singin’ night. Plus, she’s afraid if we’re together without you, it’ll cause rumors to spread that we’re a couple.” Luke shrugged. “She’s not ready for that. You know Mary gets miserably embarrassed if she thinks people are talking about her.”
He picked up one of Samuel’s newly made shirts and tried to poke his pinky through a fresh-sewn buttonhole. Hannah hadn’t done a good job of cutting the hole inside her stitching. “I was hoping to take Mary for a walk across our land tonight after the singing. I want to show her where Daed and I are considering building me a harness shop. If you’ll come too, no one will think anything about us all going to the pond and millin’ about since the three of us are seen together all the time.”
Sisters of the Quilt Trilogy Page 5