SummerHill Secrets, Volume 1

by Beverly Lewis

  He continued, “Lissa is missing and her mother and I are gathering information from her friends. Have you seen her by any chance?”

  I hesitated. What would happen if I said the wrong thing and gave away Lissa’s secret?

  My heart began a fierce pounding, but I spoke slowly. “Yes, I’ve seen Lissa.”

  “Where? When?” the frantic questions came.

  “Yesterday at school,” I replied. It was the truth, at least part of it. Still, I felt guilty.

  “Did she say anything to you about running away?”

  “No, sir.” Again, the truth. But my deceitful words haunted me.

  “Well, if you happen to see or hear from her again, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d give me a call. Thank you, Merry. Good-bye.”

  Confused, I hung up the phone. Lissa’s father had always treated me cordially the few times I’d visited there. Now he sounded concerned, almost panic-stricken. Not like a child beater.

  I hurried down the hall to my bedroom. Lissa was stretching her arms and yawning as I came in. She sat up, her eyes still puffy and her bottom lip slightly swollen.

  “How’d you sleep?” I plopped down on a shaggy rug near the bed.

  “I dreamed my dad was out looking for me.”

  “He is looking for you.”

  She gasped. “At school?”

  I nodded.

  “Merry, you didn’t talk to him, you didn’t—”

  “I promised, remember? But…”

  “But what? Tell me!” Her cheeks were flushed and she leaned forward as if her whole world dangled on a thread.

  “Everything’s fine, trust me,” I began. “But your father just called here a few minutes ago. He sounds very worried.”

  Lissa pounded her fist into my comforter. “He knows how to do that. Don’t you see, Merry? He changes. He fools people!”

  The desperate feeling returned. This time it was a jerking, twisting knot deep in the pit of my stomach.

  Chapter

  6

  I studied my friend. “Please, Lissa, let’s talk to a professional—”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she interrupted. “No one can help my dad!” Her eyes glistened. “We’ve been through all this before.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Lissa’s lips were set. “It’s not that easy to talk about.”

  “And it’s hard for me to relate,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.” Glancing at my blue-striped wall clock, I thought of the long-distance call she needed to make. “It’s almost four. We’ve got about an hour before Skip shows up. Why don’t you call your grandmother now?”

  Lissa looked at me, tears coming fast.

  “Stay here. I’ll get the portable phone.” I ran downstairs to my dad’s study. Poor Lissa. Things just had to work out for her.

  Back upstairs, I offered to leave while she made her call. “You could use some privacy,” I said.

  “No, I can be alone any old time,” she replied, punching the numbers on the receiver. “It feels good having you here.”

  Seconds passed. Then she spoke. “Hi, Grandma, it’s Lissa. I miss you like crazy.” She sounded sugary sweet. I couldn’t help noticing the change in her countenance. It was obvious Lissa loved her grandmother. Trusted her, too.

  I sat at my desk, studying Aunt Teri’s unopened letter. The words The Hanson Family jumped out at me, so I tore open the envelope.

  Then without warning, Lissa was sobbing. “I want you to come get me, Grandma,” she pleaded. “I can’t go back home.”

  There was a long pause. Her grandmother was probably trying to comfort her. Maybe arranging transportation.

  Then I heard, “No, they don’t know where I am. Can’t you please come?”

  I held the letter in my hand, waiting breathlessly for the response. But there was only more pleading from Lissa. My heart throbbed with worry. What if Lissa’s grandmother couldn’t help?

  “It’s no use,” Lissa cried into the receiver. “Dad’s a cop; the police department only sees his good side. They’ll never believe me, Grandma. You’ve got to help me!”

  It didn’t sound like Lissa’s grandmother was going to budge. Now I knew for sure I was in over my head.

  Silently, I prayed, Dear Lord, please help Lissa out of this mess. And help me, too. I want to do the right thing.

  While Lissa continued to talk through her tears, I began to read Aunt Teri’s letter. My eyes stopped on the second sentence. I shook my head. “Just what we don’t need,” I muttered.

  Aunt Teri and Uncle Pete were coming to Lancaster on Wednesday night—tomorrow!

  I looked up to see Lissa turning off the phone as she scooted off the bed. “Grandma’s got her own ideas,” she complained. “I guess she doesn’t want to get involved this time.”

  Exasperated, I slipped the letter back into the envelope. “So she’s helped you out before?”

  “Yeah, but this time she told me to call my mom.”

  “Sounds like a winner,” I replied.

  Lissa turned to me, looking horror-stricken. “How can you say that? After everything?”

  I stood up, hands on my hips. “I want you to tell me everything, Lissa, starting with last night. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  She glared at me. “So now you think it’s my fault.” Two giant tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “I never said it was your fault, Lissa. I just want you to level with me.”

  “You won’t believe me anyway,” she scoffed.

  “Whoa, wait a minute. I don’t deserve that and you know it,” I shot back. “Your grandmother believes you, and she thinks you should call your mother. I happen to agree with her. Rethink what your grandmother said.”

  “Oh no, you don’t. I’m not calling my mom and that’s final.” Defiance laced her words.

  “Your mom deserves to know you’re safe, Liss. I’ll call her.”

  Lissa shook her head. “You can’t do that. We have caller ID.”

  I groaned. “What about the abuse hotline on TV? You can call them without giving your name.”

  “They can trace calls from the hotline,” she said. “Besides, my dad goes on duty pretty soon. I can’t take any chances.”

  I wished my parents were here. “So much for that idea,” I mumbled, thinking about my mother. What would she do if she were me?

  To begin with, Mom wouldn’t have promised Lissa she’d keep her secret. She was smart that way—didn’t let people push her into a corner. I missed her now more than ever.

  Lissa leaned back against the pillows on my bed, looking thin and frail. She scarcely filled out my clothes. “There’s something you don’t know,” she began. The tone of her voice had gone deep and sad. “It’s about my mother.”

  I shivered, not sure I wanted to know more.

  “My dad hits her, too,” she said softly. The truth hung heavily between us. “Mom knows all about abuse. But if she can’t help herself, how can she help me?”

  Her words cut through me. I sighed. “I know someone who can help.”

  Lissa leaned up on her elbow, an eager look in her eyes.

  “My dad’s a doctor.” I sat on the bed. “He’s good friends with this lawyer who goes to our church. My parents’ll be home on Thursday—if I can hide you out till then, I guarantee they’ll help us.”

  “That’s only two days away,” she said, looking more hopeful.

  “But there’s a problem. My aunt and uncle are coming tomorrow on their way to Pittsburgh.”

  Lissa looked as frantic as her father sounded on the phone. “What’ll we do?”

  “Don’t worry, I have an idea.” I slipped my hair behind my ear, thinking about a plan to hide her. “But there’s something we should talk about first.”

  “What?”

  I pulled my camera out of my schoolbag. “This.”

  “I don’t get it.” She looked totally confused. “What’s the camera for?”

  “Your bruises migh
t start fading before my dad gets back,” I said. “He’ll need documented proof.”

  Lissa groaned.

  “It won’t be so bad,” I assured her as she exposed the bruise on her thigh. “Now hold still.” I took several good close-up shots of her leg, then her swollen lip.

  When the cap on the lens was secure, Lissa limped over to my walk-in closet. She opened the door and hobbled inside. “I could hide in here, easy,” she announced with a face full of sunshine.

  She’s desperate, I decided. The closet was spacious, but hardly big enough to set up housekeeping. “It won’t work. My aunt and uncle always stay in this room when they come.”

  A disappointed look replaced her sunny countenance. “What about your parents’ room?”

  Out of the question. “It’s just too risky, but don’t worry. I think I know what we can do. C’mon, let’s grab a snack. You’re hungry, right?”

  I helped Lissa down the stairs. She moved slowly, one step at a time. “What’s your plan?” she asked.

  “I have to work some things out first,” I said, holding out my hand to her at the bottom of the staircase.

  When we arrived in the kitchen, she stared at the wallpaper. “Your mom must like strawberries.” She traced the outline of leaves on the wall.

  I laughed, glancing at the strawberry clock and cookie jar to match. “We don’t live on the corner of Strawberry Lane and SummerHill for nothing!”

  She looked at me. “Merry, merry strawberry,” Lissa rhymed.

  “Hey, I like that.” I got sandwich fixings out of the fridge. “Did I ever tell you how I got my name?”

  Lissa shook her head, leaning her elbows on the oval table.

  “My parents said I didn’t cry when I was born. I laughed!” I spread mayonnaise over two pieces of bread.

  She chuckled. “Brain damage?”

  “Probably. Mom says they named me just right because I’m a happy person.”

  Lissa’s face turned solemn. “Then I must’ve bawled my eyes out when I was born, because I’ve been crying ever since.”

  “Ham and cheese sandwich comin’ up,” I announced, ignoring her morbid comment.

  She pulled the bread apart and peered inside. “Where’re the pickles?”

  “Who’s boss around here, anyway?”

  Her face lit up. “You’re wonderful, Merry,” she said. “Wouldn’t it be fun if we could be sisters somehow?” She bit into her sandwich while I poured a glass of milk for each of us.

  So that’s what Lissa wanted. Not to run away from a family, but to belong to one. Really and truly belong.

  I slid the pickle jar out of the fridge. “I had a sister once. A twin sister.”

  A frown appeared on Lissa’s face.

  “Faithie died of leukemia when we were seven. It seems so long ago, it’s hard to know if my memories of her come from pictures and what my parents say, or if they’re my own.” I cut a pickle lengthwise.

  “Did she look like you?” Lissa asked.

  “We weren’t identical twins, if that’s what you mean, but everyone said we had the same eyes.” I paused, handing her the pickle slices. “I miss her. Every day of my life.”

  Suddenly, a knock came at the back door. Lissa leaped off her chair, almost falling. Panic shot through her eyes like those of an animal caught in a deadly trap. “Remember—you haven’t seen me!” And she limped off toward the hall closet.

  Chapter

  7

  When Lissa was safely out of sight, I went to the back door and pushed the curtain back. Outside, a friendly face smiled at me. It was Rachel Zook. She held a basket of fresh eggs in her gloved hands.

  I opened the door. “Hi, Rachel.”

  She smiled. “Hello, Merry. Fresh eggs for my English cousin.”

  I brightened at her warm greeting. Rachel thought of me as a close friend because our family trees branched back to the same ancestors. She called me “English” because I wasn’t Amish.

  “Thanks to Skip’s giant omelets, we’re all out of eggs.” I took the basket from her. “He uses up twice the eggs Mom does.” And with that, I went to find the egg money in the utensil drawer.

  Rachel twinkled a smile. “Come on over for Curly John’s wedding on Thursday, jah?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, feeling rude about not inviting her inside.

  “Curly John wants all of you to come,” Rachel said. She adjusted the black woolen shawl draped over her shoulders. It was fastened in front with a safety pin.

  Curly John was Rachel’s nineteen-year-old brother—two years older than Skip. I couldn’t imagine my brother getting married, tending a farm, and raising a family at that age.

  “Mother and Daddy won’t be home till Thursday night, but Skip and I can come for sure.”

  Rachel pushed a strand of light brown hair back under her black winter bonnet. “Such good fun, weddings.” She turned to go.

  “Thanks for the invitation,” I called after her.

  She waved. “Wilkom, Merry.”

  I watched as Rachel hurried past the white gazebo in our backyard. The deep purple skirt whipped against her ankles, covered with black cotton stockings. “Please don’t misunderstand, dear friend,” I whispered, leaning against the door, wishing I’d taken a chance and invited her in.

  Remembering Lissa, I dashed to the hall closet and opened the door. “Come finish your sandwich.”

  “Who was that?” Lissa asked, moving out from behind the vacuum cleaner.

  “Rachel Zook, my Amish friend.”

  Lissa eased herself into a kitchen chair. “Do I know her?”

  “She lives down the lane.” I pointed in the direction, still hoping I hadn’t offended Rachel. “She went to the one-room Amish school.”

  Lissa drank some milk. “Went?”

  “Eighth grade was her last year.”

  Lissa’s eyebrows shot up. “She dropped out?”

  “Amish go only eight grades. After that, they get ready to settle down and marry.”

  “At fifteen?”

  “Right now Rachel’s helping out her mom, learning everything an Amishwoman needs to know. At sixteen, she’ll start running around, as they call it, hanging out with friends like we do. Except Amish teens get together on Sunday nights at singings. It’s where guys meet girls.”

  “While they’re singing?” Lissa’s eyes were as big as windows.

  “They sit around a long table with boys on one side and girls on the other. And…guess what else?”

  Lissa snickered. “Can’t wait to hear this.”

  “Adults aren’t allowed.”

  “So what?” Lissa stared at me. “Doesn’t sound like much fun anyway.”

  I got up and looked out the window. “They pick out fast hymns and sing for a couple hours. Sometimes it turns into a square dance, but it’s not supposed to.”

  “How come?”

  “The older Amish don’t want their teens dancing.” I peeked out the back window again, watching for Skip’s return. “Sometimes they have secret dances and disobey the Ordnung anyhow.”

  Lissa frowned hard. “What’s Ordnung?”

  “All the agreed-upon rules for the Amish community.”

  “How do you know all this Amish stuff?”

  “You won’t believe it,” I said. “Rachel and I traced our ancestory back to Switzerland to the original Amish immigrants. They sailed on The Charming Nancy in 1737.”

  “What a cool name for a ship.”

  “Cool, but slow,” I told her. “It took eighty-three days to finally dock in Philadelphia.”

  “So why aren’t you Amish?” Lissa asked before taking the last bite of sandwich.

  “One of my great-great-grandfathers pulled away from the Amish faith.” I glanced at the strawberry clock on the wall, keeping track of time before Skip’s arrival. I went to the sink, which was still piled with dishes from his marathon midnight snack. Slowly, I opened the dishwasher.

  Lissa took another sip of milk, then se
t the glass down firmly. “Somehow I can’t picture you being friends with a girl like Rachel Zook.”

  She sounded jealous, but I let it go. I’d heard that sometimes abused kids are insecure. Lissa was probably suffering from a lot of things like that. As her friend, it was my job to protect her, not judge her.

  After scraping the dishes, I loaded the dishwasher. “I really think you’d like Rachel if you got to know her.”

  “You see beauty in everything, Merry. Maybe it’s the photographer in you.” She looked depressed again. “What’s wrong with me?”

  I turned the dial on the dishwasher. “Nothing’s wrong, Lissa.”

  She sat up. “I love the guitar. I had one before we moved here, but my dad sold it out from under my nose.” She paused for a moment, as though reliving a sad moment. Then she asked, “Ever make up a melody?”

  I breathed deeply. “No, but Jonathan Klein has.”

  “Your boyfriend, right?”

  I wiped the crumbs off the counter. “Oh, he’s nice enough.”

  “C’mon, Merry, I know you like him!” She leaned back in her chair and squinted at me. “But I still can’t believe a guy would propose to a girl based on her singing.”

  “Let’s face it, Liss, if you were Amish, you’d be livin’ for Sunday nights.”

  We burst into giggles.

  Just then I heard the front door open. I grabbed Lissa’s arm and whispered, “Quick! Upstairs!”

  It was slow going for Lissa, but we managed to get up the back steps. Like frightened mice, we scurried to my room.

  Chapter

  8

  “In there,” I whispered, pointing to my walk-in closet.

  Lissa pulled me inside with her. “For how long?”

  “What?”

  “C’mon, Mer, you say ‘what’ when you don’t know what else to say.”

  “Hardly ever,” I huffed.

  Lissa sat cross-legged in the middle of the closet floor, straightening a row of shoe boxes. “Did you know you have six of these?” It was obvious she didn’t want me to leave yet.

  “Take a peek.” I motioned to the shoe boxes.

  Hesitantly, she opened the first one and discovered a plastic bag brimful of granola. Sliding the lid off the second shoe box, Lissa stared in amazement at a variety of fruit leather.