He worked harder and harder, faster and faster, almost as if he were trying to outrun what was happening to his head, or maybe his heart. Finally, he stopped and dropped down to his knees, head hung low, eyes squeezed shut. The silence of the early morning felt almost overwhelming to him. Even the birds weren’t singing yet.
He’d never been on the other side of this kind of damage. He’d never had to clean up a mess. He’d never had to see the look on someone’s face whose property had been carelessly damaged, for no good reason. He’d never had to hear their memories, like he did when Amos told him about building the farm stand with his first wife, Maggie. He’d only been on the “for kicks” side. To be perfectly honest, he enjoyed knowing he’d caused distress to others. It made him feel powerful.
The thought revolted him.
For the first time in years, Amos lay in bed long after Fern got up to start the day. He hadn’t been able to fall asleep until nearly dawn. His mind kept replaying images of his Maggie, of building that farm stand together when they were newly married. And then of his children, working the stand each summer.
Amos had three daughters and one son from his first marriage with Maggie: Julia, Sadie, M.K., and Menno, who was a special child. Menno’s thoughts had circled slower than most people’s did, but his heart had responded more quickly than others. Amos put his hand over his heart, feeling the scars beneath his pajama top. Menno had a fine heart. He knew that for a truth.
They were a happy family, living at Windmill Farm, tending the orchards the way his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had done. Amos and Maggie had been grateful for what God had given them, and did their best to teach their children to love God, and love being Plain. In that order.
And then Maggie died an untimely death. Amos knew that God was sovereign in all things—all things—but losing his Maggie broke his heart to pieces. She was so young, so full of life, and she didn’t deserve what had happened to her. She’d gone to help an English neighbor with her children, and she never came home. Something had gone terribly wrong.
It seemed as if the world lost its color for Amos after Maggie’s death, like it was all in black and white. It took him a long time to surrender his anger with God over allowing Maggie’s passing. A long, long time.
And then, one day, Fern Graber appeared as the new housekeeper at Windmill Farm, thanks to an advertisement in the Budget that his uncle Hank had placed. She soon became indispensable to them all. Shades of color started coming back. Not quite as brilliantly as when Maggie was still alive, but there was color, nonetheless. One by one, his children left the nest to marry and start families of their own. Somehow, Fern brought more in. Motherless children who needed them. Jenny Yoder. Jesse Stoltzfus. Izzy Miller, his favorite. Luke Schrock, his least favorite.
And in the midst of caring for these young people, Amos was learning the greatest lesson a man could ever learn—love wasn’t finite. Just the opposite. It was limitless. There was always more love left in this world to give, and to receive.
Fern had always known that truth. She opened her heart to those in need, reminding Amos of David Stoltzfus in that way. The two of them never gave up on anyone, and over time Amos had learned to trust their instincts. Izzy was a different girl than when she first arrived here. It took her six months to look Amos in the eyes, as if she automatically didn’t trust him and thought he might try to hurt her. He took care never to touch her, not even brushing shoulders past her in a doorjamb. He wondered about the men in her life, and it made him ashamed for his gender.
He still had reservations about Luke’s boarding at Windmill Farm, even if he was stuck in the barn. He wasn’t going to let Luke Schrock throw any kind of glitch into this important time of healing for Izzy. He often reminded Fern as much, and she would give him a look. The look. “Luke is in a healing time too. They both need us, Amos Lapp. You just watch and see what the Lord can do.”
Amos hoped she was right. He might be the head of this family, but he knew that Fern made all the decisions.
Still, if Luke caused any trouble that set Izzy back, he would feel he was to blame. And with the doctor wanting to run more tests on his heart, he felt troubled that he might have allowed Fern to open the door to something bigger than they could handle. Even Fern had her limits.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the time on the alarm clock. Good grief. It was already past seven in the morning. He threw off the covers and rolled out of bed to get the day started.
Izzy put the stamped envelope into the mailbox and gazed up at Windmill Farm, at the squeaky red windmill, the woollies that dotted the green pasture, the marten houses with birds zooming in and out like it was an airport. Oh my soul, how she loved it here.
This morning, nosy Luke Schrock had asked her what brought her to Windmill Farm and she had hedged, avoiding a response. The answer was no business of his. That, and it was a complicated answer. She’d been thinking of it all day long.
It was a strange path that brought her to this Amish farm. It had to do with alcohol, a graveyard, and an old woman.
An older girl had smuggled booze into the group home, right under the housemother’s nose, and taught Izzy the benefits of a buzz. By fifteen, Izzy never went a day without a drink or two. Or three.
This girl talked Izzy into running away to move in with her cousin in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. After plotting and planning their escape, the two slipped out of school during lunch period one day to hitchhike all the way to Pennsylvania. The cousin looked Izzy up and down and invited the girls in. That very night she found out why he was so welcoming. She ran from him, ran from the apartment, walking the city streets until dawn, and ended up wandering through a graveyard. She followed the smell of wood smoke to find an old woman living in a makeshift tent. Over a little campfire, the woman was stirring a pot of hot water. Izzy watched her open a package of Quaker Oats oatmeal and pour it in. Izzy was so hungry, her stomach practically twisted inside out. The woman noticed Izzy, lifted another package of oatmeal, and waved her over to the fire.
That old woman, her name was Sheila, offered Izzy more than food. She took her under her wing and taught her how to live on the streets. “Sleep in a graveyard, darlin’,” Sheila said in her raspy voice, “and no one’ll ever bother you.”
She told Izzy to disguise her looks so that she didn’t attract attention. She cut Izzy’s hair short, gave her a Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap to wear, showed her how to keep her head down, chin to her chest, and to never look anyone in the eye. She taught her how to identify likely candidates for handouts and which garbage cans near the public market were the best ones to scrounge food for the day.
A few months later, Izzy went back to the graveyard at day’s end to discover that Sheila had packed up and moved on, without a word of warning. She’d left the tent behind for Izzy but nothing else. It was another abandonment for Izzy, another moment of realizing she couldn’t, shouldn’t, depend on anyone.
One afternoon, near the Lancaster Public Market—a good place Izzy had discovered for easy pickpocketing among distracted crowds—she noticed a horse and buggy parked at a hitch.
Seeing the buggy evoked a long-forgotten memory. An Amish family had lived near the house where she and her mother had been staying. When her mother left her at home alone, which was often, Izzy would wander over to that Amish family. There were children there, all ages, all varying shades of redheads—she remembered that vividly—and they waved Izzy into their circle to play with them. The older ones spoke English to her. One time, they even took her for a buggy ride. It was her favorite childhood memory.
She longed to be one of them. Their home was so peaceful. The family sat around the table for meals, three times a day. The father, that kind, kind father, he was home. Sometimes, she remembered, when the father mowed his lawn, he would slip across the street and mow theirs too.
She walked over to the buggy and circled it. On the front seat sat a wool scarf and a pair of gloves. Too trus
ting, she thought. She reached in and snatched the scarf and gloves, pocketing them. Emboldened, she slid open the buggy door wider to look for loose change or anything else that might be valuable. She found a few dollars tucked under the floor mat and stuffed them in her coat. She slipped out of the buggy and walked up to the horse to stroke its velvet nose.
“My horse likes you.”
Izzy whipped around, startled. Her heart started to pound as she realized this Amish man had probably seen her rifle through his buggy. She backed away, but there was something about this bearded man’s eyes that made her stop. She dipped her head, but not before she’d given him a quick once-over. Those eyes, she thought. They were gentle. She’d expected accusing eyes.
“His name is Bob,” the Amish man said. “He’s been my buggy horse for eight years now. He’s a fine Thoroughbred. Bought him off my neighbor Galen King when he was only two years old. Right off the tracks. We think of him as one of the family.”
Izzy glanced at the horse. Bob. Bob the buggy horse. Like one of the family. She found herself envying Bob.
“Say, are you hungry? You look a little hungry. There’s a food truck right over there. Let me buy you a burger.”
She shifted from one foot to the other. “I didn’t think you people were that type.”
With the lift of an eyebrow, he said, “The hungry type? We’re always hungry for a good hot meal. You stay here, I’ll be right back.”
She watched him cross the street and stand in line at a food truck. Run, Izzy, she told herself. Get out of here while you can. He saw you steal his things. He must have seen you.
But she couldn’t make herself go. Or rather, her empty stomach couldn’t make her go. She hadn’t had a hamburger that wasn’t fished out of cold garbage in a long, long time. Still, she watched the Amish man carefully, making sure he wasn’t calling the cops. She was ready to bolt, if she needed to.
She always had a plan to bolt, wherever she was. Sheila had taught her that particular strategy for living on the streets, and it had proved useful many times. Have a getaway plan figured out for every situation. Each one.
She continued to watch the Amish man as he patiently made his way up the line of the food truck to order a hamburger. He returned with a white bag and held it out to her. “My name is Amos Lapp. I’m Amish, in case you’re wondering.”
Cautiously, she took the bag from him. Inside was a burger and fries, smelling so good her tummy rumbled. Still, she wondered what he wanted from her.
But Amos Lapp only smiled. “Better eat them while they’re hot. French fries taste like cardboard when they’re cold.” He got into the buggy, gave the horse a clucking sound, and drove off, giving her a wave as he passed.
She watched him go, wondering how he knew what cardboard tasted like. The smell of the hamburger and fries overcame her and she sat on a bench to dig into the bag. Hot, crisp, salty French fries had never tasted so good.
A week later, she saw Bob the buggy horse at the Lancaster Public Market again. Same time, same place. She scratched the horse’s big nose and smoothed his forelock, when the Amish man appeared out of nowhere and offered to buy her a hamburger and fries. He never asked her name, or anything else from her. Or of her.
On the third week, she made a point to be there, waiting for Bob the buggy horse and the Amish man to drive in to the hitching post. She hid behind the food truck, watching for them. Like clockwork, the horse and buggy appeared. A young woman hopped out of the buggy and the Amish man followed, after he tied the reins to the hitching post. She must be his daughter, Izzy realized, and the feeling of envy was so strong it nearly made her choke.
This time, as she patted Bob, the man said he had something for Izzy. He reached into the buggy and pulled out a large brown paper bag. “I thought you might like a change of menu. My wife, Fern, she put this together for you.”
So he had a wife. A daughter and a wife. And a horse.
Inside the bag was food. A container of beef stew, a loaf of bread, and a small blueberry pie. All homemade. Izzy made herself eat it all slowly, savoring every bite. She washed out the containers as best she could and hid them in the bushes. The next week, she put the bag of containers on the buggy seat while Amos Lapp was inside the public market. And she added the scarf and gloves. The dollars, she’d spent on beer.
From a distance, she watched Amos walk over to the buggy and notice what was inside. She saw him look around for her, then smile when he spotted her. He waved, motioning her to come to the buggy. There was another bag in the back seat. He handed it to her. “From my wife. Fern loves to cook.”
“You don’t have to do this.” Please don’t stop. “I . . . I can take care of myself.” No I can’t.
“We like helping. I have three daughters, and lots of grandchildren.”
Out of Izzy burst a long-buried question. “Do you happen to know a family named Stoltzfus?”
Amos paused a beat, then tipped his head. “It’s a common name among the Plain people. But our bishop is named David Stoltzfus. He has a big family. One boy and a bunch of girls. He’s a fine man.”
He waited for her to explain more, but she didn’t. He seemed to sense that she didn’t want any questions.
“If you ever need some help, you can call.” He reached inside his coat and gave her a card. “You’ll have to leave a message on the phone shanty’s machine. But I’ll get the message. I’ll do what I can to help you. David will too.”
Izzy hesitated, then reached out to take the paper. Her hand was shaking, she hadn’t had a beer since yesterday, and he noticed.
“There’s lots of ways our church can help you. Just . . . call and let me know you want the help.”
Izzy pocketed the paper. “Why? Why would you want to help someone like me?”
He blinked as if her words had startled him, but his voice remained kind and steady. So kind. “What does that mean . . . someone like you?”
She kept her eyes cast down. “Just a girl on the streets.”
“But you’re not just a girl on the streets. You’re a child of God. You’re of great value to the Lord, a pearl of great price.”
The kind look in his eyes was what undid her. Had anyone ever looked at her like that? Like she was worth something. Amos Lapp reached inside his pocket and pulled out a few quarters. “Just in case you want to call. There’s a public phone inside the market.” He put them in her hand. “Call anytime. There’s a better life you’re meant to live. If my wife and I can help you find that life, we’d like to.”
She felt a shiver of something—hope maybe, longing, or relief. She didn’t know. She just knew she couldn’t turn away from it. Whatever it was this man had, she wanted it.
She could have spent the quarters he’d given her on booze. She should have, because by that night, she was feeling sick from not drinking. Nauseous, headachey, shaky. She hated being so dependent on booze. Hated it! But couldn’t help it. In the middle of the night, unable to sleep, she left her tent in the graveyard and went to the public market to leave a message before she lost her nerve. She remembered feeling as if she might throw up, but her fingers kept pushing those buttons, and she waited, listening for the Amish man’s familiar voice. She should hang up. Hang up, Izzy, hang up. But she didn’t. It was like something bigger than herself was pushing her along, to that life she was meant to live, like the Amish man had said. In a shaky voice she hardly recognized as belonging to herself, she said she’d be at the public market at the same time tomorrow afternoon. That she needed some help. When she hung up, she promised herself that she wouldn’t drink until tomorrow afternoon, no matter how sick she felt. If that bearded Amish man didn’t show up, then she could drink. Not until then.
But there he was, waiting for her, along with Bishop David Stoltzfus.
nine
One of the reasons Izzy liked spending much of her day down by Windmill Farm’s farm stand was that she could be the first to get the mail each day, and the postal delivery guy was quite
inconsistent. You never knew when he was going to be driving by. She never missed him, though. Even if she wasn’t down at the farm stand, she recognized the sound of his squeaky truck wheels as they rounded the bend, and she would stop whatever she was doing to hurry to the mailbox. Before she opened it, she would say a prayer. Please, please, please! Let today be the day.
Izzy had a ten-page list of addresses for women named Grace Miller who lived in the state of Ohio. The entire state. A very nice librarian at the public library had printed off the information for her. For the last six months, once or twice a week, she wrote a letter and mailed it, hoping one of the letters would find the Grace Miller she was looking for. Her mother. In each letter, Izzy explained who she was, where she was currently living, and that she wanted to establish contact with her. So far, most of the letters had come back, stamped Return to Sender, unopened. The rest were never answered. She kept track.
Today, she held her breath and repeated the prayer as she opened the mailbox. In the bunch was the usual stuff. A bill from the Hay & Grain, this week’s copy of the Budget, which would bring hours of delight to Fern. She would spend the evening poring over it at the kitchen table, hemming and hawing over each district’s stories, as if she knew every person in every church throughout all of North America.
As Izzy closed the box, she noticed one more envelope, a small yellow one, addressed to her. Her heart started to race. The return address said Grace Miller. First time. This was it. This was from her! She opened it as quickly as she could, tearing the envelope to get to the letter.
Dear Isabella,
First things first. I am not the Grace Miller you are looking for. You can trust me on that. I am a 95-year-old woman who had three sons, and I’ve outlived them all.
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