by Linda Byler
Nancy arranged her face into a caricature of unconcern, expertly gathering her pride and hiding it behind her eyes, the way she always did.
“I guess then it would be God’s will, Becky. You know, choosing a boyfriend is a spiritual matter. We have to let God rule our lives in matters of the heart, same as everything else. You’ll learn that yet as you grow older.”
Becky caught Mam’s look of pure adoration, admiring her oldest daughter to the point of worship. “That’s so true, Nancy. You can’t go wrong, placing your trust in God the way you do.”
A slow burn began somewhere in a region of Becky’s mind, which turned into a light that flamed in her eyes. She actually did try to keep quiet for about five seconds, but in the end she said evenly, “Yes, it is always good to have that kind of faith, Nancy,” knowing it was the only thing that would be acceptable in that anxious kitchen.
So Nancy had a strong faith and no will. That was always good, now, wasn’t it? Well, she hoped things would turn out well for Mam and Nancy and that Allen would come around and ask her, but it wouldn’t surprise her if it didn’t happen.
What did Nancy know about giving up? She lived in the realm of Mam’s approval, with adoring brothers, a boy’s admiration, and a good job. She had no clue what it meant to give up before you even started.
Becky couldn’t put it into words. She just knew what it meant to accept the fact that she was still on the bottom rung of the ladder of popularity, and that she’d likely never climb to even the second or third rungs. Recognizing that took giving up. But here was the thing. If she suggested as much to Mam and Nancy, they’d hoot her right out of the kitchen.
So she kept her peace like a round little owl, watching and blinking and thinking her thoughts.
The two oldest boys, Aaron and Abner, worked for North Wisconsin Roofing. With the recent snowfall, they shoveled snow off flat roofs, finishing just before noon. So they ate their lunches and came home.
Mam met them at the laundry room door and asked them to please hang their wet things in the basement by the woodstove. Obediently, they clumped down the stairs.
Quickly, Mam hid some of the fudge and hurriedly whipped the Rice Krispies Treats behind the pantry door. But there was nothing to be done about the chocolate-coated crackers.
The boys fell on them with glee, scooping up five or six each, then sprawling on kitchen chairs and teasing Nancy unmercifully, which produced only a regal bearing and a mask of pride from her.
“How come you weren’t in Allen’s load, good sister? You must have gotten lost somewhere. Did you know he’s going to Tioga next weekend?”
Becky winced. Ouch.
All of Nancy’s resolve fell away, melting off her like candle wax. Up shot her eyebrows as her face lost color, fading like evening light. “What does he want there? Did he say?”
The boy’s faces were alive with interest, driving Nancy straight into an unabashed dither.
“He didn’t say, I don’t believe. As far as wanting something, I couldn’t say. He didn’t mention names at all.”
Quickly, Nancy gathered herself, turned her back, and busied herself at the counter.
Aaron and Abner raised their eyebrows and laughed aloud, clearly enjoying Nancy’s discomfort.
Becky kept on spreading peanut butter, observing all of this without comment. She felt a sort of displaced sympathy, weak and filmy, but she did care, nevertheless. It must be awfully hard work, keeping up that queenly image, she mused. The princess of pride. Well, what goes up must come down, she reasoned, and so it would probably be.
Today she found herself hoping Allen would ask her sister. Her own rumschpringa was a source of amusement, actually. Now at Christmastime, especially. There were endless rounds of places to go and things to do, so naturally she had come to know the youth better than ever.
Tonight a group of the young people were going caroling at Round Oaks Elder Care, a small, local facility for the aging and infirm, elderly people who needed special care. Some were bedridden or not capable of speaking or walking, often crippled with rheumatoid arthritis or worse.
Becky had never been there, but Nancy had told her about it, saying it was hard to visit, but how much it meant to these elderly folks when you spoke a few words to them and wished them well.
Becky put on her red Christmas dress, fresh off the sewing machine, which she had hemmed and pressed all by herself. She was proud of that dress, especially the sleeves, which she had made so neatly with a plain cuff, then pressed with a wet handkerchief and a sad iron, which the Amish used as a kind of steam iron. It worked like a charm.
She felt good about her hair as she sprayed it liberally with her Fructis hairspray. I may be large, she thought, but I can comb my hair along with the best. Her covering was white and crisp, her face glowing with excitement.
She sighed, feeling her jawline for the dreaded bumps. Turning her head, she viewed them in the glaring light of the battery lamp. Horrible. Just awful. Like a dinosaur’s skin.
She groaned. No one would want to stand beside her, and certainly not touch her, not even brush against her sleeve. Everyone would ask what was wrong with her face. Poison ivy? Not in winter. Measles? Nope.
She clenched her fists and opened her mouth, letting loose a wail of despair that brought Nancy pounding down the hall.
“Whatever, Becky?”
“My face!”
“I noticed.”
“What can I do? It’s so disgusting. No one will want to stand beside me to sing. It’s like I have rabies or mange. Like a coon or a possum Dat and the boys would shoot.”
Becky was surprised to hear her sister laugh wholeheartedly.
“No one’s going to shoot you.”
“Well.”
“Let me get you my medicated covering lotion. And powder.”
Becky went straight to the mirror to examine the horrible red pimples, almost in tears when Nancy returned.
“Hold still.” She held Becky’s face, swabbed the offending marks with a cool cloth, then applied a cream with her fingers, lightly patting the affected area.
“Don’t tell Mam I have face powder, okay?” Nancy said. “She hates this stuff. Thinks it’s makeup, which it isn’t, really. It just covers things when there’s an emergency, like now.”
She giggled, turned Becky’s face, and said, “Now look.”
Becky’s eyes opened wide and a broad smile creased her face, revealing the two dimples in her round cheeks. “Nancy, I can’t believe it!”
“Only for emergencies, Becky. Promise?”
“I promise.”
Nancy stayed, watching Becky adjust her covering. Becky glanced at her in the mirror. “Oh, I forgot. Thank you.”
Nancy waved her away. “I just wanted you to know that you look very pretty in your Christmas dress. I guess I feel clumsy giving you a compliment. I don’t believe I ever have.”
Her face took on a tenderness, a softening. “You really are the cutest, roundest little thing.”
Becky turned and, without thinking, threw her arms around her sister, giving her such a hefty squeeze that she heard Nancy’s breath leaving in an astounded whoosh.
Stepping back, Becky’s eyes were wet with tears, and her mouth wobbled only a bit. “Ain’t that somepin’, Nancy! You mean it, don’t you?”
Nancy nodded, whereupon Becky flung her arms around her sister a second time, with the same muscular clamp that surprised Nancy again.
“Thank you, thank you. That’s what sisters are for. And, Becky, I’m sorry for the times I insulted you. I have to realize God made us very different, and I need to accept you just the way you are. And I do.”
Round Oaks Elder Care was only about six miles from the Enos Esh farm, but Nancy and Becky bounced around back roads picking up lots of the youth until the fifteen-passenger van was filled to capacity. Close to an hour later, they turned off Route 433, the main road into the town of Waverley, and followed a wide, winding driveway up to a long, low, brick
building. It had a wide porch along the front, with white pillars wrapped in festive lights and a lengthy row of windows decorated with evergreen wreaths.
The combination of the snow on the roof and the Christmas tree with colorful lights delighted Becky. She thought this would surely be one of the nicest places on Earth to spend your final days. Curious and eager, she piled out of the van with the six girls and eight boys. She noticed Allen Kauffman’s absence and felt genuinely sorry for Nancy now.
They were greeted by the other youth group who had arrived with their driver. They immediately distributed songbooks and made their way to the front door. A smiling English woman wearing a brilliant red dress and black high heels ushered them inside.
“Welcome to Round Oaks. We’re happy to have you. Come this way, please.”
The room they entered was pleasant and well lit with high ceilings, low comfortable chairs and couches, thick rugs, and cozy lamps. The Christmas tree gave off a warm holiday glow. The scent of spiced pinecones hung in the air. What a lovely place, Becky thought again.
As the woman marched them into a narrow hallway, the scent of pinecones evaporated, replaced by a nose-burning, indistinguishable odor that left Becky bewildered. What was that smell? Doors to her left were flung open, showing another welcoming, well lit room, filled with Christmas cheer, another tree, and warm shaded lamps casting a cozy yellow glow on the carpeting, and again, the invigorating scent of pinecones.
Becky blinked, then blinked again, adjusting her eyes to the various forms seated on chairs and a few on wheelchairs. All their heads were bowed, all with white hair, some sparse and balding, with age spots like flecks of dirt or sand. A few of the men lifted their heads, their eyes alert and knowing, as they studied these Amish youth who had come to sing.
The tall woman in red clapped her hands, asked for attention and duly received it, as all heads lifted obediently like well behaved classmates in a schoolroom.
Becky was unprepared for the quick rush of pity she felt, her sudden wish to hold these people’s hands and beg to hear their stories. Why were they here? Did they want to be here? Were they happy? Did they have a spouse? Children? Were they allowed pets?
Oh, she wanted to know. She wanted to find out about their lives, listen to their stories, wipe their tears, bring them a Kleenex or a cold drink of water. Or perhaps they preferred juice.
Once when Mam was in the hospital to have a hernia repaired, the nurse brought her a snack in the evening. Graham crackers with peanut butter and cold apple juice. The snack tasted so good, it made Becky feel snug and warm. Mam had let her eat most of it, and she kept eating the very same thing at home for weeks afterward.
Tonight her mind was not on the Christmas songs as she observed the elderly with a keen gaze. She noticed the emotion on one woman’s face, the look of enjoyment on another, the tapping of gnarly old fingers keeping time on the arm of a wheelchair upholstered in blue leather. She wondered if they had children, family who came to visit. Were they allowed to leave, to go home for Christmas dinner? Did they still have another home?
She watched the attendants. One rotund woman was dressed in the same clothes as the dentist’s hygienist, wearing a loose wrap around top and pressed polyester pants, just like a nurse. Her hair was dyed an unnatural shade of jet black; her face was puffy and pale, without expression. She reached down to adjust a lap robe and to place a helpless foot on a footrest, patting a shoulder and smiling as she did so. She was definitely not unkind—just detached, yet good at her job.
How many caregivers were here? How many residents? Or did you call them patients, like in a hospital?
The singing stopped. Becky felt an elbow in her side and jumped. She looked up to find Daniel looking down at her.
“Your turn.”
“What?”
“Your turn.”
Confused, Becky looked up to find Daniel’s eyes almost closed by his full grin.
“You were so busy checking out these old folks, you were barely singing.”
That irked Becky. What she was doing was none of his business. Why was he worried about what she was looking at? Duh.
She told him so in a fierce whisper. She was glad to see him wince and turn his head. She hated for him to see her observing these aging people. He had probably even noticed the tears she tried so hard to keep from forming. The pity she felt was hers alone and not his concern. He could act so superior. But she had put him in his place, now hadn’t she?
They sang on. Becky led “What Child Is This?” aware of Daniel’s deep alto voice above hers. Now that she knew he was standing so close, she kept her eyes on the words of the song and tried to put the elderly residents from her mind.
They were served red punch in tiny, thin glasses. A tray of crackers and cheese was passed around, with small red napkins featuring a picture of Santa Claus printed in white.
“Miss.”
Becky turned.
“Miss?” An elderly gentleman crooked a forefinger in her direction, beckoning her.
Quickly Becky went over to him and sat down on a folding chair at his side. He reached for her hand and shook it, his hand cold and dry and papery, but with a grasp that was soft. He continued holding her hand, which Becky allowed, hoping Daniel was occupied elsewhere.
The old man’s mouth shook visibly as he strained to control his voice. “Your voice, Miss, is like a bell. You sound like, well, you wouldn’t know her, but you bring to mind the quality of Aretha Franklin’s voice.”
Becky smiled, shaking her head. “I don’t know her.”
The old man smiled. “No, you wouldn’t.”
Releasing her hand, he patted her arm, telling her she had a gift, the gift of song.
“Thank you.”
That was the proper thing, wasn’t it? To say thank you when an English person paid you a compliment. She had earlier told Nancy thank you, too. She took this very seriously, receiving two compliments in the course of one evening.
The old man was so thin his shirt hung loose on his wide shoulders that spoke of strength in the past. His hair was sparse, white with an underlying tone of gray. His eyes were blue, almost hidden in folds of skin that had surrounded those eyes for many decades. His face had felt the sun and the wind and the rain during a time when the world had been simpler and calmer, the air not as polluted, the ozone layer still healthy, the atmosphere crisp and pure. There had been little technology, probably TV only in black and white. There was segregation in the South and only a handful of Amish communities compared to what there was now.
The deep wrinkles that lined his cheeks spoke of his old age, the trembling mouth of his receding strength. Becky’s eyes took in the creases and folds of his face, the large old hands with knobs of arthritis disfiguring his long fingers. His wrists were so thin and bony that the blue cuffs of his shirt appeared oversized.
When he spoke, Becky did not know what to say.
“Your voice touched me deeply. I hope you will come back to visit us soon. My name is Harold Epstein. My wife passed away in 2006, so I’ve been here for four years.”
He paused, his hand trembling on Becky’s sleeve. “I have two daughters, Joanne and Julie, but they both live abroad, one in Rome, the other in Africa.”
Astounded, Becky said, “Africa?”
He shook his head up and down silently, the humor in his eyes like sun after rain. “You’re thinking Ebola and witch doctors, right?”
“Well,” Becky hesitated.
“Let me assure you, Julie lives in comfort. She’s a surgeon in a big city hospital.”
“Really? In Africa?”
“Oh, yes.”
And so their conversation ran on, easily comfortable, ending only when Rachel came to tell her they were leaving.
When Becky stood, Harold plucked at her sleeve, the desperation and loneliness in his touch like a brand on her conscience.
“If you would only visit occasionally, I would have something to look forward to,” he said, his bl
ue eyes as if they were underwater, swimming in tears.
“I will try.”
“Please do. I’m in Room 116. Forgive me for being a burden, but I have no one. The staff is good to me, but they don’t care about my life, my story. I want to tell you about the Amish friend I had during the war. Let me tell you my story.”
On the way home, as the van wound its way around the country roads, unloading occupants at homes and farms dotting the snow-covered land around them, Becky was quiet. She gazed out the window at the dark woods that rose from the snow-scape like walls, spiny, undulating thickets of trees that gave her an unexplained sense of loneliness, as if the sight of those dark trees touched an emptiness within herself.
She tried to appear in a holiday mood, to banter and giggle, but she let it go after a time, knowing her heart was not in it. She thought only about the elderly people, the longing and desperation in Harold’s plea. She had not told him her name. And who was Aretha Franklin? That was a nice name, Aretha. She’d never heard it before. She’d have to ask Mam if she could visit. Or Dat. Perhaps they would think it improper and refuse to let her go.
Why had she been so taken by these people? She felt as if she had stepped in a hole, slid down a long chute, and landed smack in the middle of a whole new world, one she had never imagined. She had known of “old people’s homes” or “homes,” the word that made every middle-aged Amish person shudder, roll their eyes, and renew their own inward conviction that none of their relatives would ever suffer the indignation of being “put away.”
The Amish fasark their elderly. It was expected, required, and accepted.
CHAPTER 5
AND YET, AS SHE BRUSHED HER TEETH, DONNED her pajamas, and crawled into bed, shivering as she pulled up the heavy quilt, images of elderly Amish moved through her mind. She heard plenty, reading in the kitchen on the recliner the way she did.
Dat’s parents—Elam and Sarah Esh—were in their late eighties. Back in Lancaster, his eight siblings had to take turns now, sleeping in their parents’ home at night. Elam had had a stroke, which rendered the one side of his body almost useless. During the day he was in a wheelchair. His wife, a companion of sixty-one years, did what she could for him, feeding him the foods that were too messy for him to get to his mouth with his left hand, and helping him to the bathroom. But to bathe and dress him, and get him into his bed in the evening and out of it in the morning, required a stronger, younger person.