chapter
fifteen
When Adah wandered across the downstairs hall and into the kitchen through Lettie’s sitting room, she was surprised to see Grace wiping off the counters. “A bit late to be cleanin’ up after breakfast, jah?” she teased.
Grace nodded and kept cleaning.
“Is your Mamma around?” Adah asked, then noticed her granddaughter’s peaked face. “Ach, girl . . . are you feelin’ all right?”
“Just a little tired, I guess.”
“Well, if you see her, tell her I’d like some help with a quilt top I’ve been puttin’ off.”
“Mamma’s not here.” Grace’s lower lip trembled. “She’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
Grace stopped scrubbing and folded her dishrag. “Wish I knew.”
Has Lettie taken one of her long walks? Adah wondered. “Come, sit . . . let’s talk.” She gestured to Grace.
They moved into the cozy sitting room. Grace sat on one of the hard cane chairs, while Adah sank down into an upholstered one. The spacious square room was darker than the kitchen, which gave it a feeling of confidentiality. “Why do you say your mother’s left?”
Grace inhaled slowly. “I saw her go.”
Adah had known Lettie to traipse around outside after Judah was sleeping. Why would Grace think this was different from other nights?
“You saw her . . . just like other times—is that what ya mean?”
“No, I don’t think you understand, Mammi. I saw her get into a car.”
“Maybe you were dreamin’, dear,” suggested Adah.
“Honestly, I might’ve thought that, too . . . ’cept Mamma left me a good-bye note.”
A note?
“Ach, we’d best slow down.” Adah fanned herself with the white hankie she’d pulled from beneath her sleeve. “You have something from your Mamma in writing?”
Grace nodded, explaining also that she’d seen her mother running away from the house, carrying a large suitcase. “She went down toward Route 340.”
This made not a whit of sense. Lettie left?
“I wish I’d imagined it,” Grace said softly, her eyes moist.
“Has your father gone looking for her?”
“Jah. Adam and Joe said he left early this morning, even before takin’ his turn with the newborn lambs. He didn’t find her, though.”
Adah had a dark, sinking feeling and leaned her head back against the wing of the chair for a moment.
“You all right?” Grace came to kneel beside her.
“The room’s turnin’ awful fast.”
“You take it easy,” Grace said. “I’ll get some water.”
Adah took several slow, deep breaths. “If I can just sit here quietlike . . .”
She fanned herself, trying to remain calm. Truth be told, Lettie’s disappearance was the last thing she’d expected from this daughter.
The very last thing.
Grace hurried to get a glass from the cupboard, letting the water run. I could get cooler water from the springhouse, she thought. But no, her grandmother shouldn’t be left alone. Not as dizzy as she was.
The pain and fright of early this morning came rushing back. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she leaned her head against the cupboard. She struggled to control her emotions, wanting to be strong for her grandmother, who was clearly as distraught as Grace herself.
Not willing to be gone for long, she wiped her eyes and dabbed at her wet cheeks with her apron hem. Taking a long breath, she carried the glass of water back to the sitting room.
Adah was relieved when Grace returned. Merely seeing her granddaughter again helped Adah regain her own composure, and she accepted the water. “Denki, Gracie.”
“You feelin’ a little better now, Mammi?” Grace asked once Adah had taken a few sips.
Adah finished a long drink, then said, “You’re not to worry, dear.” She leaned forward to look in the direction of the kitchen but saw no one. “Where’s your father now?”
“Must be out with Adam in the barn,” Grace said softly, appearing very much as though she was trying not to cry again.
Adah reached out her hand. “Everything’s going to be just fine, ya hear?” Grace came over and took her hand, regarding her with those tender eyes. Adah recalled having to help Lettie through the dreadful loss of Naomi. How difficult that had been to bear! “We’ll be all right,” she said again, assuring herself as much as her granddaughter.
Grace’s lips parted, but she looked away, falling silent.
“What is it, dear?”
Shrugging, Grace hesitated at first. Then she knelt beside Adah’s chair, her hands on the upholstered arm. “I wanted to share somethin’ wonderful-gut with Mamma. Something important.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “And now I can’t.”
“Aw, honey-girl.” She was fairly certain Grace’s news involved a serious beau, but she wouldn’t think of assuming Lettie’s rightful place as confidante. “Your Mamma will be delighted ’bout your news when she returns. Whatever ’tis.”
Shaking her head, Grace wiped away her tears. “I don’t want to foster unkind feelings toward her, Mammi. Never . . .”
“Of course not.” The sound of the day clock in the kitchen, its pendulum ticking, was unmistakable in the quiet. Adah’s heart was ever so heavy for Grace . . . and for her daughter, too. “I’m sure she’ll return right quick.”
After a time, with Grace’s help, Adah got up from her chair. She made her way to Lettie’s gas stove and set the teakettle on the burner. “Would ya like some tea?”
“No.” Grace said she had work to catch up on. “If you’d like, I’ll help finish your quilt top later, though.”
Adah nodded. “That’d be mighty nice.”
“All right, then.” Grace headed for the arched doorway and out into the hallway.
Adah heard the front door open and close. Poor, dear thing.
Pushing her hankie back up her sleeve, she was nervous about Lettie’s rash decision. More than anything, she hoped Lettie hadn’t gotten a bee in her bonnet and let her curiosity overtake her. She’d been known to be an impulsive sort. But now Lettie was older . . . and a good deal wiser.
Moving through the morning like a swimmer in a pond, tangled up in willow roots, Grace longed to be free of the mental weights—the wearisome questions. All of them devoid of answers. She could not voice her concerns further to Dat or to Mammi Adah. She worked quickly, yet carefully, on the quilt with Mammi, glad her grandmother was also silent. Deep in thought, no doubt, as they sat together in the cozy third-floor sewing room on Mammi’s side of the house.
Later, when it came time to put food on the table at noon, Grace carried the baked chicken and rice casserole from the counter. She placed it near Dat’s spot, the way Mamma always served the hot dish.
After the blessing, Mandy spoke up about Mamma again. “It’s not like her to disappear in the daylight, too,” she said once they’d helped themselves to the large casserole.
“Sure ain’t.” Adam looked up, then back down at his plate.
Dat said nothing, his eyes vacant as he occupied himself with buttering his bread and salting his green beans.
It wasn’t until close to dessert that Adam asked, “Haven’t we all known Mamma wasn’t herself lately?”
Joe and Mandy nodded. “Jah, like she’s not feelin’ so well,” Joe suggested.
Adam turned toward Dat. “Could she be visitin’ one of her sisters . . . for a bit of rest?”
Dat nodded slowly. “Might be.”
“Did she say anything to you, Dat?” asked Mandy, her fork clinking on the plate as she set it down. “She would, wouldn’t she? I mean, if she was goin’ to go off visiting somewhere?”
“You’d think so.” Joe glanced at Mandy while Adam’s face grew more flushed by the second.
“None of us knows where Mamma is . . . or when she’ll return,” Grace intervened, studying first Adam and then Dat. She felt she must interject lest the talk
get out of hand. No need to jump to conclusions.
“What should we tell our neighbors . . . our friends?” asked Mandy, her face knit into a tight frown. “With Preachin’ being held here, everyone will know come Sunday . . . unless Mamma returns before then.”
“I doubt she’ll be back anytime soon,” Dat surprised them by saying.
Grace gripped her fork. She’d assumed as much from the size of the suitcase Mamma had hauled up the road.
Dat continued. “Your mother wrote a note . . . to Grace.”
Startled at having this dumped in her lap, Grace stiffened.
Mandy shook her head, as if uncomprehending. “Well, what did it say?”
Quickly, Grace replied, “Mamma didn’t reveal where she was going or why . . . something ’bout not having the courage to leave if she talked with Dat . . . or us.”
Grace saw her father’s pained grimace.
Adam leaped up from his spot on the wooden bench, glaring at Dat. “Mamma didn’t tell you?” He wore a fierce frown. “Why not?”
Their father shook his head.
“Was it ’cause she didn’t think you’d listen?” Adam was red in the face now, his right foot planted on the bench as he bent forward.
Grace cringed, her feet curling tightly beneath the table.
“What’ll we do without her?” Mandy sniffled.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Mandy,” Adam said, raising his voice. “Ain’t like you need takin’ care of . . . or do ya?” He ran his hand through his thick shock of blond hair. “You’re grown now. We all are.”
Grace saw her opportunity. “Adam’s right.” She directed her comment to her sister. “Besides, this isn’t the time to worry ’bout ourselves, jah?”
Dat set down his knife and fork and folded his hands as he would if he were ready for the final prayer. Yet they hadn’t finished the main meal, let alone dessert. Leaning back in his chair, he slowly spoke in a low, measured tone, ignoring Adam’s accusations. “Above all, we must pray for your mother’s safety. That is what the Lord requires of us.”
Mandy’s face clearly registered her pain.
Dissatisfied with Dat’s lack of response to Adam, Grace felt only frustration with her father’s suggestion that they commit Mamma into Providential care. She wanted to know when their mother was coming home, for goodness’ sake!
When they were washing dishes—Mandy was drying and chattering anxiously about where Mamma might be—Grace merely listened to her sister, lost in thought. Had her father no opinion about what had transpired to make Mamma leave?
Throughout the meal, Grace had noticed how he’d often stopped to swallow before speaking. That and the unmistakable misery in his eyes combined to encourage Grace somewhat. In a peculiar sort of way, Dat’s struggle gave her heart. He’s missing Mamma, just like the rest of us.
She lifted the last plate out of the hot, soapy water and began scrubbing the large pots and pans, glad this chore was nearly done.
The minute the last pan was dried, Mandy flew out the door, not staying to help sweep the floor or gather up the trash. Secretly, though, Grace was pleased to be alone.
She went to get all the throw rugs on the first floor and lugged them out front, draping them over the porch railing. When they were lined up, she beat them with the broom. With each blow, she contemplated Henry’s marriage proposal, his reticent manner even at this most joyful moment.
“I’m fond of you,” he’d told her.
Oh, how happy she’d been last night. Any thought of being passed over as a bride had vanished with his visit. And then, within hours, so much had changed. Now she pondered whether it wasn’t best to talk to Henry about postponing the wedding, at least till Mamma could be present. Yet the wedding season was some months away. Surely her mother would come to her senses before then. Grace could only hope for that, but the contents of the letter—and Dat’s bleak outlook—made her wonder.
As for Adam, she was sure he hadn’t meant to lose his temper at the table. So unlike him. The whole family was on edge, and no wonder.
Yearning for peace, she remembered Becky’s hummingbird birthday card, drawn with such care. She dried her hands and ran upstairs to look at it once again.
Unfettered by the earth and its woes, hummingbirds fly free.
Upstairs, she was surprised to see Mamma’s letter lying on her dresser. She sat down with it, anxious to read her mother’s words yet again, searching each one for an answer.
The rhythmic sway of the train lulled Lettie into a more restful state than she’d experienced since first boarding. Closing her eyes, she attempted to block out the memory of Grace’s cries on the road. “Mamma, please . . . don’t leave!”
She shuddered. She’d refused her dear girl, of all horrid things. Grace would surely question everything Lettie had written in the hasty letter, based on her apparent rejection. And how unthinking she had been, failing to write in Grace’s birthday card till Mandy had come waving it at her, all upset. To think she’d chosen to run off to the phone shanty to call for a driver instead of staying put at home, where she could have signed it.
What’s come over me?
She dared to think of her husband; she hadn’t even taken time to write a good-bye note to him. She’d simply run out of time . . . and felt helpless to put her thoughts into words. Well, on paper anyway.
She pressed her book—a collection of favorite poems—close to her heart. She’d been ever so nervous about not having made a reservation ahead of time for the 1:52 pm departure for Pittsburg. How could she, without causing more of a ruckus than she already had? And dear Grace had seen her go—unthinkable!
I never wanted that.
Suddenly she felt lightheaded—she’d allowed herself only a few hours of sleep, then sat in the train station for hours, eating her sack lunch there, too, and reading from the poetry book. More than six hours of waiting in all—simply because she could never have slipped away with a suitcase in broad daylight.
Even now, rest was elusive. Weary from planning this day, Lettie offered a prayer for strength. Help me, Lord, to do this difficult thing.
She had a long trip ahead. Sighing, she opened the book to its flyleaf and read the inscription written so very long ago. On your sixteenth birthday.
She pressed her lips firmly together to keep them from trembling. To keep the tears in check.
Gently she placed her hand on the precious words: To my dearest Lettie . . . with all my love, Samuel.
chapter
sixteen
Heather detested the evening rush hour, but she made good use of her time while sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic, typing out a text message and sending it to Devon’s email address. He’d get it later, once he was released from the hospital.
Not hearing anything more from his buddy Don was both nerve-racking and reassuring. Heather hoped her fiancé would defy the viral infection and soon return to health once again.
As terrific as I feel . . . She was still baffled by her energy level and good appetite. Mom had always said you were healthy if you were hungry.
The traffic inched forward and she flicked on the radio to drown out her worry for Devon . . . and her own insidious apprehension.
She’d hung around longer than she’d planned after her exam and now it was close to five-thirty. No wonder she was parked here on I-64. She’d run into several classmates and had mentioned her plans to go north next week, instead of sticking around for the summer to finish her thesis, like most students in her program. Despite their pleas—“Aw, stay with us . . . we’ll do the beach and boardwalk scene”—she dug in her heels, not wavering.
She didn’t have the heart to dampen their enthusiasm by dumping the terminally ill news on them. Who would believe it anyway? Heather was having a hard time buying the doctor’s diagnosis herself.
When she finally arrived home, tired of fighting traffic, she called for her dad, on the off chance he’d come home early. She wandered through the house, looking for sign
s of life. But his bed was still unmade and the same socks were strewn on the floor near his bureau. “Weird,” she said, going into the master bathroom and finding his shaving kit missing. Must be on a business trip and forgot to tell me.
If true, she was disturbed at the thought. Her father came and went quite a lot, but since she’d moved back home, he’d never before neglected to tell her about an overnight trip. After Mom had passed away, he’d poured himself into his work more than ever, keeping constantly preoccupied—his way of dealing with grief. Most of the time, the approach seemed to work for him.
Going into the den now, she noticed his executive-style desk looked the same as it had the other day, when she’d come searching for the Lancaster County brochures and stopped to admire her mother’s picture.
She felt uneasy not knowing her dad’s whereabouts and then realized she’d intended to do the same thing, taking off for Pennsylvania without letting him know.
At least I planned to leave a note!
“Am I that disconnected from my own dad?” she whispered.
Moe and Igor came padding into the room, both meowing. She reached down and picked Moe up, holding him in front of her face and looking into his copper-colored eyes. “Have you seen Dad lately?”
Moe stared back.
“Okay . . . don’t tell me.” She laughed softly, yet inwardly, she sensed something amiss. But she had little time to finish studying for her last exam tomorrow, although she felt confident she was ready.
If Dad didn’t show up in the next couple of days, she would call him, find out where he was holed up. Or send a text message, even though he disliked the whole idea of “reverting” to what he said was an archaic shorthand—“too slow,” he often joked with her, insisting she stick with a phone call. “So nineties,” she’d reply. At this, he’d roll his eyes and she’d pretend to be appalled until he let loose his infectious laughter.
Slipping into her dad’s desk chair, Heather leaned back as she swiveled around in a full circle. She touched his lamp and the light came on—simple . . . easy—just the way he liked things. Mom’s death had been much too complicated. It had really messed up everything about their lives.
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