The Missing

by Beverly Lewis

  Again, Lettie thanked the woman who, when her lips spread into a smile, looked like she might be someone’s guardian angel. With a long sigh, Lettie lay down on the soft mattress and wondered if Baltic, Ohio, might just be a sampling of heaven.

  Grace hurried along the road to the Riehls’, aware of the cawing and chit-chatter of the crows high in the trees. Not far from the chicken house, a hen and several tiny chicks ran unsteadily across the lane. The perfect day for a buggy ride, she thought.

  Before she could step foot in the house, Heather emerged from the back door and walked quickly to her car. “Hi, Grace! Nice to see you again.”

  Grace waved and smiled. “How are you?”

  Heather opened the car door. “Actually, this is the first I’ve been outside today.” She glanced at the sky. “It’s warm enough to sit under a tree with a good book.”

  “I agree,” Grace replied, surprised Heather was getting into her vehicle. Does she assume we’re driving it to Sally’s? She hesitated, hanging back.

  Heather poked her head out the window and looked at her curiously. “Okay with you if we take my car to Smuckers’?”

  “Actually, we prefer not to ride in cars on the Lord’s Day ’cept for emergencies.”

  “Oh, my mistake . . .”

  “I should’ve been more clear.” Grace explained what she’d had in mind—that they might walk back to her house. “Then, we can take the horse and buggy. It’s a bit slower, but—”

  “No, that’s fine,” Heather said, getting out of the car.

  Grace sensed she was still somewhat taken aback. “Sure you don’t mind?”

  Heather shook her head. “Not at all.”

  “All right, then. Let’s head over to my place.”

  While they walked, several families in buggies rode past them on the short stretch of road. A pony cart rumbled along, too, filled to the brim with young children, an older teenage boy at the reins.

  “Is there a legal age for road driving?” Heather asked. “If so, do your people adhere to it?”

  “No driver’s license is required, and there’s no buggy training manual, either. But boys are usually fifteen or sixteen before they drive for long stretches out on the two-lane highways.”

  “Such a young kid handling a buggy on a busy road . . . it seems crazy.”

  Grace didn’t know what to say. She’d taken their pony cart back and forth to Riehls’ when she was only eight. “I s’pose there’s plenty that seems peculiar ’bout us,” she ventured.

  Heather fell silent, and Grace wondered if she’d upset her.

  Once at her house, they found her father’s gray buggy already hitched to the horse, and headed out onto the road. Grace tried to enjoy the landscape, but she was aware of the tension in the front seat as Heather eyed the dashboard and folded her arms. Stiff as a two-by-four.

  Finally, though, Heather began to warm up. “What did you do this morning?” she asked.

  Grace held the reins steadily as she mentioned making breakfast and reading seven chapters from Dat’s old German Bible. “Then I read the same amount from the King James,” she said. “What ’bout you? How’d you spend your morning?”

  “I slept in, something I often do on Sundays. My family used to attend church once in a while . . . back before my mom died.”

  “No longer?” Grace asked softly.

  “We just got out of the routine,” Heather said. “I can’t say I miss it much.”

  “Maybe you haven’t found the right church, then.”

  Heather looked at her suddenly. “I guess I never thought of that.” She quickly changed the subject to the health-related chat room she was enjoying visiting. “I’ve even exchanged a few IMs with someone I met there—his screen name is Wannalive.”

  “Screen name?”

  Heather tried to explain instant messaging, but to Grace’s thinking it sounded like a secret code. Why not just say who you are? “Wannalive’s an interesting choice of a name, ain’t so?” she remarked.

  Heather laughed. “It caught my attention.”

  “I daresay.” Grace urged the horse onward, glad Heather seemed more talkative now.

  “But enough of that.” Heather pushed her hair back behind her shoulders. She let out an audible sigh. “I don’t know how to bring this up politely, but Becky’s little sister Sarah asked a rather startling question yesterday.”

  “What about?”

  Heather glanced at her. “I guess I should first ask if Lettie Byler is related to you in any way.”

  Grace’s heart sank. “She’s my mother.”

  A gasp escaped Heather’s lips. “Well, I certainly know how to put my foot in my mouth.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, Sarah asked if Lettie had passed away.”

  “Ach . . . poor, dear girl.” Grace was hesitant to say more.

  “She was upset. Marian took her and Rachel inside the house after that.”

  Grace gripped the reins taut, her shoulders tense. “I s’pose lots of young children in the church are wonderin’ what’s happened to Mamma.” Just as I do. “It’s become all hush-hush amongst the People.”

  Heather looked worried. “Is . . . your mother all right?”

  Grace appreciated her concern. Everyone around Bird-inHand knew of Mamma’s disappearance, so why keep it quiet? As they rode toward Preacher Smucker’s farmhouse, she mulled over what she might say . . . and on the other hand, what might be better left unsaid.

  Grace took a long breath. “To be honest with you, my mother left us . . . and I don’t know why. No one does.” She was quick to explain that such a thing was nearly unheard of amongst the People, “although it’s happened for any number of reasons.” Ach, that was much more than I needed to say.

  “Has anyone looked for her?” asked Heather, turning to face her now.

  “Mamma wasn’t kidnapped, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

  “That did cross my mind.”

  Grace revealed how Mamma had hired a driver to take her to the train station. “She’s since made a phone call to that person’s home, just to let us know she’s all right.” She stopped talking to cough. “And last week, a letter came from her, postmarked Ohio.”

  “Surely your father must know where she’s gone . . . and why.”

  Suddenly, the conversation had become much too personal. “Puttin’ it respectfully, none of us knows. Not even Dat.”

  Heather seemed to consider this. “I can think of reasons why a woman might leave her husband,” she offered. “But are you suggesting Amish wives and mothers don’t have the same struggles as other women outside your community?”

  This conversation was extending far beyond what Grace had intended. She felt nearly disloyal. “Not knowing much about English women, I’d be hard-pressed to say.”

  Heather looked flabbergasted. “If I may be so bold, I can’t imagine living so totally under a man’s control.” She seemed to scrutinize her. “You appear to be rather independent, Grace—working away from home at Eli’s like you do. Surely you have your own opinions and thoughts.” Heather was staring at her now. “Is it . . . well, hard for you to remain Amish?”

  “It’s all I know . . . all I care to know.”

  “Did your mother have a different opinion? I mean, since she’s gone?”

  “That’s difficult to say. But if she’s not home in, say, half a year, then we might think she’s left us for gut.” Grace saw Preacher Smucker’s place coming up, and she wanted to hurry the horse to a gallop to bring this awkward discussion to an end.

  “She left sometime in April?”

  “The twenty-third,” Grace said, recalling her birthday with sadness.

  Thankfully, Heather didn’t press further. In fact, she fell silent.

  I wish I could be more forthright with her, Grace thought, hoping Heather, too, might share more fully about her own mother’s illness and subsequent passing.

  But the peaceful sweep of Josiah’s rolling
green lawn and the stately rise of his three-story farmhouse lay just ahead. Perhaps another time.

  chapter

  twenty - one

  As they walked across the vast backyard toward May Jaberg’s farmhouse on this Lord’s Day morning, Susan kindly reassured Lettie. “You’ll enjoy meeting May,” she said, her skirt swishing against Lettie’s own. “She scarcely knows a stranger.”

  Being it was a no-Preaching day, just like back home, Lettie was happy to visit Susan’s big-hearted neighbor, with her adopted older children. “Is May comfortable talking ’bout her adoptions, do ya think?” Lettie asked, her eyes on the woman’s tall, four-sided purple martin birdhouses.

  “Oh, you’ll see. May’s quite open ’bout all of that.”

  I’ll bring it up gently, Lettie promised herself as she matched Susan’s stride and ducked her head beneath the long rows of clotheslines. Her heart sped up at the thought.

  Rosy-faced and pleasantly plump, May Jaberg stood at the door, smiling broadly at the sight of them coming up the back walk. She inched out the screen door as she waved them in. “Hullo, there . . . Kumm rei—come in.”

  “Denki, May,” Susan said as they stepped into May’s kitchen. Then, turning toward Lettie, she added, “I’d like you to meet Lettie Byler, from Lancaster County.”

  May nodded her welcome, her Kapp strings tied neatly under her double chin. “Wie geht’s, Lettie? Would ya care for some pie and coffee?” Quickly she put a pot of water on to boil. “Or does tea suit you better?”

  Susan glanced at Lettie, a twinkle in her eye, as if to remind her of May’s benevolent nature. May busied herself with cutting thick slices of banana cream pie while the water boiled. Lettie began to relax, not nearly as tense as she thought she might be. She could certainly see why such a woman might be drawn to having a good many children.

  By the time peppermint tea was brewed and poured for both May and Lettie, and coffee for Susan, the three of them had already exhausted the weather talk . . . and even the subject of the hen party this coming Wednesday. “You must join us, Lettie,” May invited her.

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Well, if you’re still here, why not?” Susan urged.

  If I am. Lettie reached for the sugar bowl.

  “It’ll be a nice time of fellowship and busying our hands,” added May. “My two married daughters are comin’ to help with the little ones, which is awful nice.”

  Lettie’s ears perked up, and suddenly she was quite eager to take May up on her kind invitation.

  Later, during a lull in their pleasant conversation, Lettie said thoughtfully, “Susan tells me you and your husband adopted several of your children.” Since talking with Minnie, she’d pondered what it might mean for her own daughter to discover she was adopted.

  Her mouth full, May bobbed her head, a bright smile on her face. “I must say, we were in a hurry to start our family and weren’t havin’ any luck at first. But once we adopted our first three, the Lord saw fit to start sendin’ along a whole line of babies. So we’re doubly blessed.”

  Lettie listened, considering what May had said. “Did any of them want to search for their natural parents?”

  “Well, the oldest of the three, Ruth, wanted to, before she joined church.” May wiped her mouth on a paper napkin. “But after she found her birth mother, it turned out she came to resent her, and now she has no contact with her at all. It’s all very sad.”

  Susan caught Lettie’s eye, encouraging her to ask more questions—or so it seemed.

  “Did any of the other two also search?” Lettie held her breath.

  “The middle of the three hasn’t yet, no,” May replied more softly. She paused, staring at the remnants of pie left on her plate. “But she’s said ofttimes that she’s never felt complete, not knowing, and talks some of wanting to find her birth mother someday.”

  “How old is she?” Lettie’s words nearly caught in her throat.

  “Vesta Mae’s twenty-four.”

  Lettie’s heart pounded. Might Vesta Mae be my very own?

  Susan dished up another sliver of the pie and set it silently on her plate. Meanwhile, May did the same, although her second piece was more generous, and she clucked like a pudgy, contented hen.

  Lettie didn’t have the courage to ask May about Vesta Mae’s date of birth. But the question lingered in her mind long after she’d finished tea at the woman’s big kitchen table.

  “Yoo-hoo!” Grace called at the Smuckers’ back door.

  Always fond of impromptu visits, Sally’s eyes lit up when she let them in. “Oh, Gracie, so gut to have you visit,” she said. “And, Heather . . . it’s nice to see you again.”

  “You know each other?” Grace was surprised.

  “We met the other night,” Sally said, smiling. “Heather and her father, Roan, came to look over the lay of his property—on paper, that is. Josiah’s buildin’ them a house.”

  “Actually, the house is for my dad,” Heather added.

  “But aren’t you goin’ to live there till you marry?” asked Sally; then she caught herself. “Ach, I mean . . .”

  Heather laughed, evidently understanding. “That’s okay,” she was quick to say as they followed Sally through her spotless kitchen, the dishes washed and put away.

  Grace couldn’t help noticing how quiet the house was. “Your little ones must be down for a nap,” she said while Sally led them into the smaller sitting room, adjoining the kitchen.

  “Oh, goodness, they certainly are.” Sally offered the most comfortable chairs, taking the cane-back chair for herself. “So, now . . . how did the two of you meet?” she asked, folding her arms and leaning back.

  “Over at Eli’s.” Grace looked at Heather, who seemed impatient for the small talk to be over.

  “Willkumm to ya both,” Sally said. “We’ll have us some dessert in a little bit. I’ve got a homemade pie just begging to be tasted.”

  Grace had spotted the perfectly golden pie when they passed through the kitchen. “But I’ll bet it’s full of all kinds of healthy ingredients,” she remarked.

  Sally smiled. “And sweetened with grape juice, too.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Grace said. Then she mentioned that Heather was interested in hearing about Sally’s healthy way of eating . . . and her natural path to healing.

  “Wonderful-gut . . . I’d love to talk ’bout that.” Again, Sally brightened, looking from Grace to Heather. “Grace may have already told you of my recovery from cancer, I s’pose?”

  Heather nodded. “She shared a little . . . Grace thinks what you did for yourself might help me.”

  When it dawned on Sally that Heather must be suffering from a serious illness herself, she moved her chair over beside Heather’s. Leaning forward, she directed her gaze solely at the English girl. “Well, let me start by saying that I believe God led me to Dr. Marshall’s Wellness Lodge. I was dying, with only a few months to live, when I enrolled.”

  Heather’s face was drawn as she listened.

  “I’m free now of cancer, and I can’t say enough gut about the program.” Sally narrowed her eyes. “You . . . you’re not as sick as I was, I hope . . . Heather, dear.”

  Heather grimaced. “As of last month, my cancer had spread to three regions of lymph nodes,” she said quietly.

  Sally frowned and looked concerned. Then she shook her head. “Ach, I don’t know much ’bout other cancers . . . but if you make an appointment with Dr. Marshall, she will teach you all about a healthy diet.”

  “I’ve already seen her,” Heather volunteered. “But I’ve encountered a significant obstacle.”

  The room was hushed, as if no one knew what to say. It was clear Heather wasn’t going to reveal more.

  At last Sally said, “Whatever it is, Heather, I hope it can be solved quickly. Many of Dr. Marshall’s patients have been helped greatly. There are numerous testimonials . . . all of them ever so inspiring.”

  Grace noticed Heather’s face had turned
pale, and she worried Sally might seem too pushy. “Could you maybe just share your experience, Sally?” Grace suggested gently.

  Sally nodded and spent the next half hour explaining the treatment procedures at the lodge. “If you go, Heather, you’ll meet some of the nicest people ever. I’m talking ’bout just the staff alone. Some were patients who were so much improved after goin’ through the program, they returned to give of their time to others.”

  They talked further about following through with the helpful instruction offered at the lodge. Sally likened it to putting one’s hand to the plow—“as in the Scripture”—and never looking back. “It’s a hard row to hoe, but I want to live to see my children grow up.”

  Grace rose and walked to the kitchen, leaving Heather and Sally to talk more privately. She wandered about, turning her attention to the pie on the counter. Sally certainly had a talent for making delicious dishes while maintaining a healthy diet. How difficult was it to make a tender crust out of spelt flour?

  Later, after they’d enjoyed the dessert, Grace thanked Sally for the tasty treat, topped off with a nondairy “ice cream” made from brown rice syrup and tapioca starch. As Sally thanked them for coming, she urged Heather, “Visit again anytime, just whenever you’d like. I’ll help you all I can.”

  Grace and Heather left the house by way of the back door, walking through the small soap shop there. Trying to absorb all that Sally had shared, Grace stopped outside to stroke Sassy’s neck and mane while Heather got in the carriage. She really hoped Willow might look as healthy as Sassy once again. Adam was kind to lend me his horse today. How can I hold a grudge against such a brother?

  After they were back on the main road, Heather said, “Sally must be incredibly disciplined to eat that way.”

  “Oh, I’ll say.”

  “Does she ever slip up and eat what she refers to as ‘bad food’?”

  “I really doubt it.”

  Heather seemed taken aback. “But how does she do it? With a husband and children, does she serve two meals every time she and the family sit down to eat?”

  “Well, the whole family eats healthful, organic food now, which is an interesting howdy do.”