As I slid the empty suitcase under the bed, I wondered how long I would be here. It was hard to tell. The way everyone talked, Frannie could be dying any minute—or she could hang on for weeks. I hoped it ended up being the latter, of course, especially for poor Zed, who loved his grandmother so much. If she could hold on at least until his Christmas break, he could spend time with her.
Back in the living room, I saw that Frannie was still asleep but doing fine. I was feeling too antsy to sit and do handwork, but I wasn’t in the mood to go through the box of papers, either. I had noticed an iron and ironing board in the linen closet earlier, so I decided to use the time to press the runner for Susie.
While the iron heated on the stove, I set up the board and arranged the runner on it. I enjoyed ironing and found something about it quite peaceful—except on those rare occasions when I became distracted and burned a finger. I laid the handle aside, on the counter, and after a few minutes reattached it to the hot iron. I pushed it over the fabric quickly, pressing the wrinkles out of a good-sized section before it cooled. Then I placed the iron back on the stove, detached the handle, waited another three minutes, and repeated the process. Occasionally as I worked, I glanced over at Frannie, who continued to sleep.
Once I finished the runner, I readied it for transport along with everything else I’d made since the last batch of items I sent to Susie. I left the iron in the kitchen to let it completely cool. Then, after putting the ironing board away, I looked at the time, noting that Frannie would need her medication soon. Klara hadn’t come yet, so I headed to the house.
Sure enough, she was sound asleep in the living room, softly snoring on the couch. With a smile I walked into the kitchen and reached for the container that held Frannie’s meds, which we’d decided to keep on the shelf nearest the sink. It was one of those plastic boxes divided up by days and times. I scooped the pills from the correct square into my hand and then carried them back to the daadi haus.
I hated waking Frannie when she was resting so well, but knew I needed to. I remembered from my training how important it was for stroke patients to get their blood thinners at the correct times.
In the kitchen I filled a glass with water and plucked a straw out of the box by the sink, and then I returned to her side.
“Frannie,” I said, leaning close to her. “It’s time for your pills.”
She stirred a little.
I repeated myself.
She opened her eyes.
“Where am I?”
“You’re at home, in your very own daadi haus.”
Her gaze wandered the room for a long moment before coming to rest on my face. She smiled. “You’re still here.”
“Ya, I’m staying with you. As your caregiver.”
She seemed pleased by that even though I’d already told her earlier. I raised the bed with the control, and when she was high enough I told her to open her mouth. I slipped in the first of the pills and then positioned the straw. She swallowed and sputtered but then took another sip and swallowed fine. It was a blessing the stroke hadn’t hindered her ability to eat and drink. Otherwise she probably would have needed someone more skilled than I was, someone who could handle a feeding tube.
When she’d finished taking all of the pills, I put the glass on the table and asked if she would like something to eat.
“Goodness, no,” she replied, seeming concerned. “Is it time for supper? Or breakfast?”
I shook my head and gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s a little after three in the afternoon. I just thought I’d offer.”
“I see,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
I was about to ask if she needed another sip of water when I realized she had already fallen back to sleep.
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, punctuated only by a quick visit from Alexander and several from Klara. Frannie dozed off and on, and though Klara expressed concern that her mother hadn’t been sleeping this much in the hospital, I assured her it was likely the transfer from there to here that had worn her out so.
“I bet she’ll be better by tomorrow,” I said.
And I was right. The next morning I was up and dressed and at my post by the time Frannie awoke, and I could tell right away that her mind was a bit clearer than it had been the day before. She also spoke with a stronger voice, and her eyes seemed more alert.
I got her to eat a little yogurt for breakfast, administered her morning meds, and then helped clean her up for the day.
Though she dozed off and on throughout the morning, she fell into a deep sleep after lunch. I wasn’t in the mood to do handwork, so I decided to use the afternoon to do a thorough job of sorting through the box my daed had brought to me from Rod’s.
I carted it into the living room, placing it on the floor by the settee, and began to go through it more slowly than before. The task reminded me of Verna, and I noticed that for the first time since she died, the familiar pang of loss was tempered by a warm, happy fondness of her memory. I wondered if that was how the process was meant to work, that slowly the pain faded while the warmth of happy times grew and eventually eclipsed it.
Late that afternoon, Frannie woke again, still fairly lucid. I had papers from the box in piles around me on the floor and as I quickly put them away, she asked what I’d been doing.
“Researching some of my ancestors.” I didn’t go into detail about the chapbook or the other things I’d found, but I did say, “Zed is doing a new film, and I’m gathering information to help him with the script.”
Frannie smiled a little and said, “I still haven’t seen his first film, but I’ve really wanted to. It’s about my own great-grandfather, Abraham Sommers, you know.”
I did know. Abraham Sommers was the name of the wood-carver from Switzerland featured in the film.
“Zed promised to bring over his computer and show it to me, but we never got around to it. And I got permission from the bishop and everything.” She paused in thought. “Will this next movie also be about Abraham Sommers?”
“No. Zed wants to focus on an ancestor again, but this time he’s going with the ones who settled in Lancaster County in the 1700s.”
Frannie blinked, her forehead wrinkling. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. My family immigrated to Indiana, not Pennsylvania. And that wasn’t even until the 1870s.”
Puzzled, I said, “But Zed believes his nine-greats-grandfather lived here. A Hubert Lantz?”
“Oh, I see. He’s talking about my late husband’s family line. He’s right. Malachi descended from a group of Amish settlers who came here in the 1700s. They were originally from Germany. I think their ship was called The Virtuous Grace.” She smiled, seemingly pleased with her memory. “The whole Lantz clan ended up moving on to Indiana a century later, so I tend to forget they lived in this area for a while first.”
I smiled back. Those were indeed the ancestors Zed was trying to get information on. A few years ago, he and I had worked together on a genealogy project, and we’d learned that we’d both had ancestors on the same ship, for the same sailing. Looking into it further, we found out that the two families even ended up in the same general region and were in the same church district.
At the time I had wondered if such close proximity between the two families had led to any marriages down the line, because, if so, that would mean Zed and I were related. But then I learned that his family ended up leaving the region to resettle further west. When I pointed out that probably meant we weren’t related after all, Zed reminded me that Marta was not his birth mother, so biologically, at least, such a connection wouldn’t matter anyway. At the time, I was a little disappointed, but now that I was in love with him and not just his “buddy,” that was a very good thing to know.
“It’s nice of you to help him,” Frannie said. “You helped with the last film too, didn’t you?”
“Ya, I made the costumes. And I’ll be making the costumes for this one too. I’ll need to research the period, though.”
“Look through the shelves in my bedroom. I have quite a few history books, some of which might have drawings that show the period dress.” She went on to tell me about her daughter Giselle’s work with fabrics and weavings. “She’s sent me quite a few books over the years on fabrics and textiles too that might also be helpful. Feel free to help yourself.”
“Danke,” I said, as pleased as could be. “I will.”
Later on she had a little bit of an appetite and ate almost a whole bowl of soup for supper. After that I readied her for bed and she was soon back to sleep again. To the sound of her gentle snoring, I took the lamp down the hall with me and stepped into her room. A beautiful old quilt covered her bed. I’d guessed it to be sixty years or older, perhaps her wedding quilt. Beside her bed was an old Bible.
The bookcase was along the far wall, next to the small window. I put the lamp on the floor and knelt beside it. The light cast an eerie shadow upward over the books. I had to squint to read the titles. Martyrs Mirror, The Ausbund hymnal, and a prayer book caught my attention. Then The Rise of Protestantism in Switzerland.
The next book that caught my eye was Stoff und Kunst, which was German for fabric—or maybe material—and art. I slipped it from the shelf and held it down by the lamp. On the cover was a weaving of a mountain scene. I scanned through the first few pages. It was in German, and there were lots of photographs, all in color. First the photos were mostly of weavings, but as I continued through the book, I saw wall hangings made from fabric, including appliqué, as well.
Near the end of the book was a picture of a wall hanging that depicted the profile of a girl in an Amish bonnet. I peered closer. Behind her was a waterfall. A shiver rushed up my spine at the sight of a Plain girl in the beautiful piece of art. The caption ended in two words that took me by surprise: Giselle Lantz. Zed had said she was an established artist, but I had no idea her works had been published in any books.
Seeing this, I truly hoped Giselle decided to come to Lancaster County to be with her mamm. Despite the family drama such a visit might create, I wanted to meet her more than ever. She and I weren’t related, but we definitely shared a common interest.
I took one last book from the shelf, Native Americans in Colonial America, and then carried it and the German one back to the room I was sleeping in. I put them on the nightstand. After I readied myself for bed, I slipped under the quilts and left the lamp burning as I opened the book about the Native Americans. A painting on the first page was titled “Penn’s 1701 Treaty with the Indians at Conestoga Town” by Edward Hicks. It showed barely clothed Indians with feathers in their hair and white men wearing brown, tan, and red coats; black, broad rim hats; knickers; and stockings. At first I thought there was one woman in the painting, sitting down in a dress, but as I studied the image more closely, I realized it was a man with some kind of fabric spread across his lap.
Except for him, their clothing was typical for that period, as far as I knew. Examining their English dress, I felt sure I could emulate the styles, though it wouldn’t be easy to find the right fabrics. These were rough and knobby and carried the imperfections of having been woven by hand on a loom.
As for the Indians, that would be harder. Even if I could find real buckskin to use, I would never make costumes so scanty. Thinking about that, I decided I would need to keep looking for more drawings until I found at least one that showed how the natives dressed in colder weather.
On the bottom of the painting were the words Penn’s Treaty with the Indians, made without an Oath, and never broken. The foundation of Religious and Civil Liberty, in the U.S. of America.
I closed the book and put it on the nightstand, sick at heart at the thought of how that treaty was eventually broken—possibly even by my very own ancestors. More than that, for some reason those ancestors had turned against the tribe they had supported and loved for so many years before.
Closing my eyes, I prayed that God would somehow help me find the reasons behind that astounding betrayal.
TWENTY
Frannie slept most of the next day.
Marta stopped by in the late morning, and before she left I gave her my items for Susie. Then I started on Christmas gifts for my mamm and sisters—handmade cloth bags for shopping days.
I managed to get a little bit of soup into Frannie around noon, but she fell right back to sleep and I continued with my work.
As I did, I found myself thinking about the costume designs for Zed’s film. Back then Plain people wouldn’t have dressed too much differently than the average country person, except maybe drabber with no ornamentation. Certainly, their dress would have been quite different from society people in the city. How fun it would have been to research it all so as to make every stitch historically accurate. Of course, without the rougher-hewn fabrics of that period, which had likely been handmade on looms, nothing I would make could ever be exactly correct.
I continued with my embroidery, keeping a watch on Frannie as I did, and after a few more days, we had fallen into somewhat of a routine. I had expected to see the Gundys in the first day or two that I was there, but according to Marta, Abe’s stomach bug had moved on to other family members, so they were staying away. As it turned out, it wasn’t until the following Wednesday—eight days after I’d started working with Frannie—that Ada and the twins were finally well enough to come over. They stopped by after school, the two girls, Mel and Mat, wearing matching blue dresses, aprons, and kapps. Ada had left little Abe back at home with his big sister Christy, much to Frannie’s disappointment. “Bring him the next time you come,” she said to Ada. “And Christy too. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen them.”
“It was right before your stroke, Mammi. Just two and a half weeks ago.”
Frannie just shook her head and then lay back on the pillow.
Seven-year-old Mel gazed up at me with her big brown eyes, as if to say, “She doesn’t even remember?”
Taking her hand and pulling her aside, I gave her a reassuring smile and whispered, “You know how it is when you don’t feel well. Your days can get all jumbled.”
Her twin sister, the bolder of the two, opened her mouth to say something in response, but Ada cut her off and instructed them both to head into the main house to see their grossmammi Klara. They went happily, and in the quiet their exit left behind, Frannie drifted off to sleep almost immediately.
Turning to me, Ada asked if there was anything I needed. I told her I was fine, and that things had been going very well.
“Are you sure you’re all right caring for Mammi all by yourself, Izzy? I can come and help while the girls are in school.”
She was being kind, but I knew that with a baby, the twins, Christy, and her husband, Will, Ada already had her hands full at home.
“Really, I’m okay for now. I think it’ll be obvious when more help is needed. So far, though, it’s been very doable for one person.”
“But aren’t you going stir-crazy?”
I motioned toward the kitchen and led the way. I didn’t like to speak in front of a patient, even if they were asleep. It seemed disrespectful, and besides, we didn’t know Frannie was asleep for sure. Perhaps she was just too exhausted to keep her eyes open.
“I mean,” Ada whispered, leaning against the counter. “Don’t you need to be around other people? Get out? Talk to someone?”
I shook my head. “No, I enjoy being alone.”
Ada gave me a rueful smile, and it struck me that as an only child, she had probably grown up living a solitary life. Now she was part of a large, chaotic household—and that seemed to suit her much better.
We were still in the kitchen when we heard the front door crash open.
“Mamm! Mamm!” a little voice cried out.
Mat stood in the doorway, breathing hard.
“Hush!” Ada scolded. “You’ll wake up Mammi—”
Mat’s eyes were full of tears. “Something’s wrong with Mammi Klara!”
We tore
out of the daadi haus just as Alexander came running from the barn with Mel behind him.
“Mammi Klara fell,” Mat said, running ahead of us to the back door of the main house. “Like hours ago. And she can’t get up. She’s crying because her back hurts so bad.”
We made our way into the house, through the kitchen, and into the living room. Klara was on the floor beside the couch. The afghan covered her in a haphazard way, as if she’d fallen with it still wrapped around her.
“Mamm!” Ada cried, kneeling at her mother’s side. “Are you okay?”
Sure enough, just as Mat had said, Klara was crying, big, wet tears that rolled down the sides of her face and into her ears.
“It’s so stupid,” she wailed. “You’d think a grown woman could get herself up off the floor.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Too long. I don’t know,” Klara said, accepting the tissue Ada handed her and dabbing at her face. “A few hours. I woke up and forgot that the afghan was around my legs. I managed to trip and couldn’t catch my balance because of my back.”
Oh, no. I knew checking on Klara wasn’t my responsibility, but still I felt bad to think I’d been so close but totally unaware of what she was going through.
Alexander came around to her. “Klara,” he said. His voice was tender, but she just looked embarrassed.
“Please, get me off this cold, hard floor and back on the couch. Then give me a muscle relaxer.”
“But what if the fall injured you somehow?” I couldn’t help but say. “Worse than you already were, I mean.”
Klara just shook her head. “The only thing I injured in the fall was my knee—and even that’s just a bruise, I’m sure. I banged it on the floor when I landed.”
Alexander helped her roll onto her stomach and then raise herself up on all fours. She was obviously in a lot of pain, but with his help she stood and moved back to the couch. She wasn’t able to sit, though, so I stepped out of the way as he helped her sort of lean downward, sideways, until she was lying horizontal again. As she sank into the cushions, Ada slipped a pillow under her knees.
The Amish Seamstress Page 24