He shook his head and leafed through the brochure once again. “You know, Heather, if I could return to the past and do everything differently—and if it would bring your mother back—I would in a heartbeat.”
“Please don’t, Dad . . .”
He pulled out his wallet. “You’re as stubborn as I am.” He handed her his credit card. “Here’s my contribution . . . at least for now.”
Surprised, she accepted. “Thank you,” she said, assuming he meant he’d pick up the tab for the final bill. “I wish I could say I know you won’t be sorry.”
“It’s a crapshoot, right?”
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be. Mom sometimes prayed about things.” She put the card in her purse.
He nodded, turning to look at her with soft and now glistening eyes. “I’ll be back to visit you at the lodge next week.” He reached for her hand. “You’re not going through this weirdness alone, okay?”
“Thanks, Dad.” She choked back her own tears. “I mean it . . . thanks.”
chapter
twenty - six
Lettie awakened on Wednesday morning anticipating both a possible letter from Cousin Hallie and May’s hen party. After all, May had said her married daughters were going to be present to help entertain the younger children, and Lettie dearly hoped to be introduced to them. If Vesta Mae was indeed her daughter, might the young woman resemble either Samuel or herself, clinching the truth?
With Susan off again to help her sister Edna today, Lettie needed to keep her mind and hands busy. Rolling out pie dough with a group of other Plain women just might be her cup of tea, especially when she was discouraged at not having heard back from Cousin Hallie yet.
Moving about Susan’s kitchen, Lettie hummed while packing the food to take for the noon meal—her contribution. She’d already discussed the items with Susan: three dozen pickled red-beet eggs, a generous bowl of potato salad, and the remaining chocolate chip cookies she’d baked Monday to cheer up Susan.
Glancing out the kitchen window now, Lettie saw several black buggies already pulling into May’s narrow, tree-lined lane. As she watched the flurry of activity, a sudden urgency gripped her. The loneliness she felt was enormous. She must hasten to go, must see for herself if May’s adopted daughter was truly the reason she’d found herself here in Baltic.
Will I see her face-to-face at last?
Lettie had no idea they would be making pastries and cookies, as well as enough fruit mush to feed seven neighboring families. The enormous batch, to be frozen for next winter’s meals, consisted of crushed pineapple, sliced bananas, and maraschino cherries in a syrup of orange juice, sugar, and water. She’d often made the concoction with Grace and Mandy, but there were thirty women on hand this morning—a very efficient assembly line. May comically offered a running tally of helpers as she welcomed Lettie at the back door.
Worktables had been set up in the kitchen and sitting room. Three young women were already mixing batter for four hundred cookies—peanut butter oatmeal and snickerdoodles. In one corner of the kitchen, there were food hampers filled with sandwiches and other luncheon items brought along for the noon meal. And two women were working together in the summer kitchen, setting a long table with paper plates and plastic utensils. Like a picnic, thought Lettie, enjoying herself.
All the while she kept an eye out for May’s daughters, Vesta Mae particularly, although one bubbly woman said they were upstairs telling stories to a group of toddlers. “The children are draping themselves with old scraps of quilting fabric,” she was told.
Since Vesta Mae’s married, does she have little ones? That thought led to another, and in short order Lettie imagined what it might be like to not only meet her daughter, but her first grandbaby! How can I manage to sneak up there and have a look? She kept glancing toward the stairs, hoping the girl might simply appear.
May, however, was nearly omnipresent as the ultimate hostess, flitting from one location to the other as she coordinated the various groups. She chattered as they worked and visited leisurely. May took the time to talk with one young woman, who looked downright blue. “Oh, Anna,” she said, “I know it isn’t easy, but try even harder, dear . . . marriage is a sacred thing. You just have to work it out.”
Try even harder, thought Lettie as she pulled out a chair and introduced herself to a woman around her age named Maryann. They began to cut oodles of fresh pineapple, gently putting the small squares in a large bowl. And because Maryann seemed nearly as shy as Judah always was, Lettie found herself recalling her wedding day. Her husband had never smiled as much in all the years she’d known him. She remembered being a little startled at his happy state and wishing she might have felt the same. For his sake. Truly, she had been ever so grateful to wed a hardworking man who was so well thought of, especially by her father. By Mamm, too.
The conversations between herself and her mother had dropped off drastically following their return from Ohio, Lettie with empty arms, yearning for her wee babe. Yet Judah had never been the wiser. It was as though he just assumed her leaving town had made her realize she cared more for him than for Samuel.
Now, as she pondered that chilly November wedding day, she wondered if Judah had ever considered that she had been less than happy from the start of their union. If so, it must have been so distressing for him to suspect he was her second choice . . . though her father’s first choice in a mate for her, according to Naomi.
Reliving her marriage vows, Lettie recalled how bashful she’d been, standing before the bishop and all the People . . . before almighty God, too. Judah was as soft-spoken as she had expected. Yet, at the same time, she had sensed in his gaze his unwavering commitment to her—he’d believed she was the bride for him.
Does he know that I grew to love him, too?
After filling several bowls with pineapple chunks, Lettie had a kink in her neck. She rose to go into the front room and stretch a bit and discovered two women nursing their babies. Turning toward the stairs, she heard a small child crying and continued up, her heart wrenching at the desperate sound.
She followed the sobbing to a large bedroom, where a pretty young woman sat, rocking a tiny boy, cooing into his ear. “There, there . . . you’ll be all right,” the girl said, rubbing the boy’s back. “Shh, dear one.”
Is this Vesta Mae with her child? Lettie tried not to gawk, but she was so drawn to the lovely dark-haired girl with big brown eyes—nearly black. “Maybe I can help?” Lettie said, going into the room, moving quickly past the bed and around several small children sitting on the floor, playing with blocks. Some still had remnants of playclothes wrapped around their shoulders.
In that moment, when her eyes met the young woman’s and held for the longest time, she realized anew how she longed to know the truth. “Are you Vesta Mae?” she asked softly.
“Jah . . . my Mamma’s the one hosting the hen party.” She rose gracefully from the rocker, walking now and swaying with the towheaded boy, who looked about two, nestled in her arms. His wailing had ceased, but she continued to kiss his chubby red cheeks. “This is my son, Levi.” She stroked his hair. “Smile for the nice lady.”
“I’m Lettie Byler.” She glanced toward the window, giving a nod of her head toward Susan’s house. “Stayin’ over with your neighbor for a little while.”
“Ah, Mamma mentioned you’d come by.” Vesta Mae brightened. “Said you were askin’ about adoption.”
Lettie scarcely heard her now—she was so fascinated by the shape of Vesta Mae’s mouth . . . the deep, rich hue of her hair. Samuel’s father had dark hair.
“There’s a doctor we know who places babies fairly quickly. . . .” Vesta Mae’s voice trailed off as Lettie blocked out her words, still taken by the arch of her eyebrows . . . the line of her chin.
Even now, all these years after the fact, she knew Samuel’s face by heart. Lettie’s gaze darted now to little Levi and she searched his face, as well . . . hoping for some clue. He was as blond as Lettie had been
as a youngster . . . as blond as Adam and Grace still were.
Lettie’s eyes traced the boy’s chin line, his nose, and the set of his eyes. Then, searching . . . searching, she did the same with the young woman, Vesta Mae.
But, standing there, she knew without question this was not her daughter and grandson. As much as she’d wished to, she had not stumbled miraculously into her missing daughter’s life.
“You have a precious son . . . mighty nice meeting ya,” Lettie mumbled awkwardly, moving past the cluster of children on the floor, toward the hallway. She felt spent. “Sorry to bother you,” she said over her shoulder, hoping May’s daughter hadn’t felt slighted.
Don’t give in to sadness, she told herself. Keep your head up.
Gripping the railing, she inched back down the stairs, thinking of the psalm she’d read just that morning: “Why art thou cast down, O my soul? . . . Hope in God.” Heartened, she made her way back to Maryann’s table and the fruit mush. Lettie was not a quitter; she would finish the task. But all she could think of now was Dr. Josh, the man who’d helped place her baby.
Please, Lord, let me hear from my cousin soon!
Returning to the bustling kitchen, Lettie glanced at the banana-slicing table, then back where she’d sat. Someone had taken her earlier spot, so she walked to the sink to get a drink of water. She looked at her wristwatch. Nearly time to eat. She felt as if the other women were gawking at her. She was, after all, a stranger to them. How could they possibly know why she’d come?
She poured a glass of water and drank nearly all of it before stopping to breathe. Then, setting the glass to the right side of the sink, behind a scouring pad set in a small white cup, she turned around and looked for an empty chair where she might sit and resume her work. Someplace to gather my wits.
It was then she noticed Nancy Fisher and her sister Sylvia across the room near the double oven, pulling out several hot cookie sheets.
Quickly, Lettie turned away, hoping not to be seen. As she did, she bumped against a soup ladle on the counter, and it fell clattering to the floor. The abrupt noise made such a ruckus, the Fisher girls looked up . . . right at her.
Nancy’s eyes were wider than walnuts, and Sylvia audibly gasped, “Ach, Lettie Byler . . . what on earth. Is that you?”
Lettie clenched her hands, struggling to keep her emotions at bay. She knew full well this news would quickly wend its way to Judah’s ears.
Ach, no . . . now what?
chapter
twenty - seven
Heather sat on her bed at the Riehls’, eager to tell Wannalive her plans for the Wellness Lodge. He would be in favor of her decision, having gone through something similar months ago in another state.
Hey! I made my deposit for the lodge program. Next Monday’s the first of ten days. I’m ready for the deep-tissue massage, but I’m less sure about the one-on-one counseling and, of course, all the detoxing my body can withstand. Any advice for handling it?
Thanks for your encouragement. I really appreciate the input I got from your blog . . . and from your messages. I’ll let you know how it goes.
After sending the message from her phone, Heather opened a window and peered out, hungry for some sunshine and fresh air. Sitting near Mill Creek with her laptop would certainly qualify as the somewhere tranquil LaVyrle had emphasized in her brochure. Stress, after all, had the power to create a host of health problems . . . as did unresolved grief issues. Physical detoxing was only part of the getting-well equation. Since emotional trauma had a way of getting trapped deep in the muscles—and other places—it was as essential to detox the emotions as it was her body. I need to maintain a mellow mindset.
Heather heard the chime signaling she had a new email. She picked up her phone to check who’d written and found a reply from Wannalive. He must have been online when she’d sent hers.
Courageous move!
Be forewarned that something mimicking euphoria might sneak up on you during the first few days at the lodge. It hit me on the third day of the cleanse regimen—an amazing feeling, like floating through space.
On the fifth day, though, I sank like a rock. It was the day of the liver flush, and I was depleted of electrolytes and dehydrated, according to the doc. But you’ll do fine if you go into the whole thing with a good mental attitude—and drink lots of water. Prayer helps, too.
I believe God leads people who are open to divine intervention. You may have come to the same conclusion. Just think of your upcoming lodge stay as a powerful nudge in the right direction.How’s that?
I wish you well!
Wannalive (aka Jim)
P.S. Keep in touch!
“Jim? So we’re on a first-name basis?” She laughed, feeling a surge of elation. She stared at her iPhone. Do I dare reveal my name? He was probably right there, still online. And he would guess that she was, too. Will I appear too forward if I reply now?
She really wanted to comment on his idea of divine direction—what the Amish around here called Providence or the sovereignty of God. Becky had talked about just that, one of the first times they’d gone riding together.
“Get over yourself, Heather,” she muttered. Why not respond to his nice email? After all, they were adults.
She began to key in her response.
Hey, Jim,
Your comment about divine guidance has me thinking more about “our great God,” as someone recently posted in your blog comments. The Supreme Being with a strategy for the universe He created and for every person on the planet.
I have to level with you, Jim: I never considered much of this until my diagnosis—I kind of gave up on the whole notion of God after my mom’s death. Then getting slammed with the prospect of dying jolted me into a whole different sphere of thinking. Is there more to life than what we see around us? IS there a great Hereafter, just waiting for us to show up?
That’s where I am now—thinking about my present life and the possibility of the next one coming sooner than I’d planned.And how/where my belief system fits into that reality . . . IF it’s real at all.
I guess you are far more connected to spiritual things than I ever was or cared to be. But even if I get lucky and cure myself, it might be time to give the God-thing a closer look. . . .
Thanks for being there,
Heather
She refused to second-guess having signed her name. A guy who was interested in talking about God seemed pretty harmless. That, and incredibly fascinating.
Reaching for her laptop satchel, she slung it over her shoulder and headed downstairs through Marian’s kitchen. “I’m out to catch some rays,” she said, feeling exhilarated. “Oh, and by the way, has anyone called for me this morning?” She laughed at her own joke.
Marian and Becky snickered, too, their hands deep in bread dough. “Well, Gracie Byler was here lookin’ for ya yesterday. Does that count?” Marian asked. She sported a healthy smudge of flour on her cheek.
Grace probably thought she was forgetful or fickle for not showing up to see the herb garden. “Sure, thanks. I’ll definitely catch up with her soon.”
Feeling surprisingly carefree, she waved to Marian and Becky and headed out the door. She glanced across the pasture toward the Bylers’ house and spotted a group of sheep bunched up along the fence. She remembered how Grace had thoughtfully given up her Sunday afternoon to introduce her to Sally Smucker.
Heather searched for the perfect place to sit, eyeing several locations in the grass, near the running stream. At last she found a pleasing spot beneath a cluster of willows and settled in for an hour or so of writing. It was time she caught up her daily journal.
The day had turned overwhelmingly sunny—a perfect one to do some gardening. Grace had been at it for some time, and now she stopped to raise her head to the sky, squinting up and adjusting her blue-and-white bandana. Yonnie had announced he’d be unable to work this morning, and Grace felt free to roam about the backyard—had even spent a full hour weeding her herb garden. The
chives especially needed attention. She still hoped Heather might come to see it, especially now with everything looking so tidy.
Rising to catch her breath, she’d nearly completed the last long rows. A pot of suey stew had been cooking on low heat in the oven, enabling her to work outdoors for as long as she wished. Closer to time for the noon meal, she would fry up some melted ham and cheese sandwiches.
For now, though, she was itching for a walk. In the distance she heard a dog barking as she wandered toward the road, turning north toward Becky’s house. She paid little mind till she saw Yonnie running on the opposite side of the road, jogging this way, his German shepherd straining on the leash.
“Grace—hullo!” he called, halting the dog.
Nearly like a runaway horse, she thought of his large pet.
“Nice day,” she said.
His familiar smile was infectious as he wrapped the leash around his wrist several times. Quickly, the dog sat at his feet. “A wonderful-gut day, jah?” Yonnie’s hair shone nearly gold in the sunlight.
She breathed in the fresh fragrance around them. “Smell that?”
“Won’t be long till summer.”
Had he somehow planned this encounter? But how could he have possibly known she needed to stretch her legs after hours of weeding?
“Out walkin’ alone?” he asked.
She glanced down at his compliant pet. “I only have barn cats to keep me company, and they don’t much like a leash.” She didn’t know what had gotten into her, joking like that.
“Well, walk with me, then.” His lips parted, waiting for her answer . . . his blue eyes wide with hope.
“All right.” She fell into step with him.
They walked for a ways without speaking. Knowing Yonnie’s inclination for wanting to talk, she was surprised he was this quiet, yet the silence wasn’t at all uncomfortable. She enjoyed watching Dat’s young lambs darting about just beyond the sheep fence.
After a time, he looked at her, a questioning expression on his face. “You know, Grace, I’ve never said anything, but I can see how sad you are ’bout your mother.” His tone was thoughtful. “It wonders me.”
The Missing Page 22