SummerHill Secrets, Volume 1

by Beverly Lewis

  “About twenty purple martins,” I said of the four-sided birdhouse with the green gabled roof. “Martins are like the Amish—they stick together. And they return here every spring to raise a new family.”

  “That’s what I need,” she said softly. “A new family.”

  I peered sideways at her. “Maybe you’re ready for God’s family.”

  She glanced at me quickly. “How do you know God wants me in His family?”

  “Because He sent Jesus to earth, that’s how. And you can be adopted into the family just by asking. Then you’ll have a big brother, too. One who died so you can live with Him in heaven someday.” Where Faithie is, I thought.

  Silently, we watched wispy clouds loop over the moon like butterfly nets. I could feel Lissa’s shoulders stiffen, and I knew she wasn’t ready.

  Chapter

  14

  Lissa gripped my arm. “Stay here with me overnight. Please?”

  “I would, but Skip’ll freak out if he discovers I’m missing. Besides, we can’t risk his getting suspicious again.”

  Her eyes flashed fear.

  “You’ll be safe with the Zooks,” I said, hoping I was right.

  Someone knocked at the door and I went to answer it, expecting to see the grandmother again.

  Rachel stood in the doorway, dressed in a long white cotton nightgown and robe. Her light brown hair hung down her back in a single braid. In the golden glow of the lantern’s light, she looked like an angel.

  “It’s good to see you again, Merry,” she said, appearing surprised. “Is this your friend?”

  “This is Lissa,” I said, purposely leaving off her last name. Just in case.

  “We are ready for evening prayers.” She smiled as always. Still, I could tell she was probably wondering why Lissa was dressed Plain and here in their house so soon.

  We followed Rachel through the kitchen, down the short hallway connecting the grandparents’ side of the house to the main house. Three generations of Zooks met silently in the large kitchen, where only a few hours earlier I had snacked on shoofly pie.

  Abe Zook sat in the corner of the kitchen, near the gas lamp, still dressed in his white shirt, suspenders, and black trousers. His wife, Esther, sat to his left with all the children gathered around them in a semicircle. All but Levi, who sat a short distance away from the rest.

  The grandparents sat at the kitchen table across from Lissa and me, each with their own sets of grunts and groans as they got situated.

  Abe Zook picked up his German Bible and began to read, first in German, then in English, probably for Lissa’s and my sake. “Romans twelve, two,” he began. “ ‘Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—His good, pleasing, and perfect will.’ ”

  After a short prayer of thanksgiving for the Bible and its final authority, for the blessings that come from total obedience to its words, and for the work and toil of the day, Abe Zook said, “Amen. We’ll have lights-out by nine.”

  Lissa looked surprised. “Why so early?” she whispered as we followed the grandparents down the connecting hall to their part of the house.

  “Five o’clock comes fast,” I answered. “You’re going to find out firsthand exactly what it’s like being Amish.”

  “I am?” she said as we headed for her bedroom.

  “Well, to start with, tomorrow’s the day before Curly John’s wedding. I’m sure Rachel will invite you to help with preparations for the wedding feast and all the festivities. Don’t be bashful about it, okay? It’s the Amish way of including you—extending their welcome.”

  “I can’t wait to wear real clothes again,” she said, eyeing the gym bag. “These clothes aren’t my style.”

  I helped unfasten the waist of her long apron, then watched as Lissa carefully folded it, placing it over the back of a wooden chair. “I can’t imagine wearing a dress like this all the time,” she said.

  “Amishwomen don’t seem to mind.”

  Lissa sat on the edge of the bed, gently rubbing her right thigh. “Guess you better get back before Skip wonders where you are,” she said, looking more confident.

  I nodded. “I’ll see you as soon as I can after school tomorrow, okay?”

  She wiggled her fingers in a tiny wave.

  “Oh, you should probably wear your Amish clothes tomorrow so you fit in around here. Just in case.” I threw her a quick kiss and left.

  When I arrived back home, I could hear the TV still blaring. I hurried up the back steps to my room, nearly falling over my cat trio. “Hello, little boys.” Abednego followed me into my closet. “It’s nice to see you hanging around here for a change.”

  He responded with a cheerful meow.

  I undressed and brushed my teeth, wondering if Lissa had tucked herself in for the night. Before crawling into my own bed, I thanked the Lord for providing a safe place for her.

  Slipping into bed, I thought back to my efforts to protect Lissa from her abusive father. Now that she was hidden in the Amish community, I ought to feel relieved, but a veil of guilt hung heavily around me. I tried to pray it away.

  Then I reasoned with God. “I don’t have a choice. I have to take care of Lissa. She’s a helpless victim.”

  Exhausted, I gave up the struggle and fell into a deep sleep.

  In the midst of my aimless dreaming, someone called my name. It was a familiar voice. I tried to sit up, but my head seemed too heavy to lift off the pillow.

  “Merry!” A child’s voice rang out.

  I forced my eyes open, overwhelmed with an intense desire to see my twin again. “Faithie?” Even as I said the words, my heart beat with anticipation.

  In confusion, I watched Faithie’s voice take on first one shape, then another. It was as though I was observing a passage of time, from the dreadful diagnosis to the very day she died three short seasons later. Like flashing lights, the eerie forms sprang up one after another until all that was left was a frail little girl beneath hospital sheets, her cheeks sunken and eyes lifeless.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting, longing for tears—the tears locked away in my heart. I tried, but I could not cry, even as I saw Faithie dying before me again.

  “I’m here to help you,” her voice called.

  “Where are you, Faithie? I can’t see you.” I tried to shake off the sleepy haze paralyzing me. “Please let me see you again.” I longed to touch her, to tell her how much I missed her. To ask her to forgive me.

  A hush fell over the room. And then I heard her voice again. “Will you cry for me?” The question hung like snowflakes suspended in midair, building intensity in the silence.

  I struggled to speak, but the words dried up in my throat. Thrusting my hands out of the covers, I reached for her with my trembling fingertips, aching to touch her.

  “Please cry for me,” she said again, this time more softly.

  “I want to, Faithie,” I shouted. “I want to with all of my heart.”

  Thud!

  A door slammed and I heard Skip’s voice. “Merry, wake up! You’re having a nightmare,” he said, inches from my face as I opened my eyes.

  Startled, I looked around. Disappointed.

  He touched my forehead the way Mom did when she suspected a fever. “You feel hot,” he said. “We better check your temperature.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, lying back on my pillow. “If I’m still hot in the morning, I’ll check it then.”

  A thin golden light from the hallway allowed me to see the concern in his face. “You sure, cat breath?”

  I forced a smile at his lousy nickname. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure.” He glanced up at my wall clock. “It’s almost four-thirty. Get some sleep.”

  I heard the click of his door as he headed back to bed. Seconds passed as I waited, listening to the deathlike silence. “Faithie?” I whispered, certain that Skip was
wrong. It was not a dream. It couldn’t be. It—she—seemed so real! The wall clock ticked away uncaringly as I lay in bed, holding my breath for Faithie’s return.

  It was nearly five o’clock when I gave up trying to go back to sleep. I heard the muffled sounds of horses and buggies clip-clopping down SummerHill, heading for market.

  Emotionally exhausted, I went to my closet, searching for one of my scrapbooks. I found it on the shelf above my hanging sweaters and shirts. Powder blue with a silver lining around the cover edges, this scrapbook held some of my best early photography.

  I turned on the lamp beside my bed, propped up my pillows, and prepared for a quiet visit into the past.

  Chapter

  15

  Besides being a photography enthusiast, I was a scrapbook freak. I’d always been partial to pictures. For me they were better than words.

  I opened to the first page. Four photos, all scenes from my childhood, greeted me. I preferred settings and things over pictures of people.

  I studied the first picture—our gazebo. White and latticed, its frame was surrounded by our tall backyard maples. Flaming reds and fiery oranges told an autumn story. A sad, hopeless story—the season we were told about Faithie’s cancer.

  The picture had been captured by the cheap camera I’d won in first grade. Even so, the fall colors stood out as a brilliant backdrop to the stark gazebo.

  I studied the second picture—a winter scene. Again, the gazebo was center stage, but it seemed nearly lost in the white fury of snow and ice. Just as our hopes had been dashed as the cancer took its toll on Faithie.

  Skipping to the third picture, I remembered the spring. Mom had placed flowering plants around the gazebo, making the outdoor room especially pretty for Faithie’s afternoon visits. The empty chaise, surrounded by spring flowers, described the emptiness I felt as my sister’s illness worsened.

  Then came summer. The most heart-wrenching season. The fourth photo displayed a sun-drenched gazebo, minus the chaise lounge. Dad had removed it promptly when Faithie died. But along the white railing, small brown pigeons with pointed tails perched and twittered in the hot sun. Seven mourning doves—one for each year my sister had lived and laughed—had chosen to summer in our gazebo.

  The mourning doves called and called during those long, scorching months. They continued for days at a time. Dad said they were calling for rain. It was bone dry, after all.

  I stared at the sad scene, reliving the emotions. The mourning doves never did call down enough rain, at least not enough for the farmers around us. A fierce drought had come that year. And like the rain, my tears were dried up.

  Closing the scrapbook, I placed it gently on the lamp table beside me. I turned the problem over in my mind. How do I unlock my heart? Allow my tears to fall?

  I thought back to a long-ago morning recess when Faithie had first told me her head ached. I’d thought it was no big deal. She’d gone to the school nurse, rested for a while, and felt better. Several weeks later, the same thing happened. Faithie never told anyone at home and I thought nothing more of it.

  When the final diagnosis came, months later, the cancer had already become too advanced for effective treatment. I blamed myself.

  I closed my eyes, drifting into a troubled sleep. Morning came all too soon.

  Skip knocked on my door more calmly than usual. “Merry, how’re you feeling? Still hot?”

  I felt my forehead. “Can’t tell,” I said. But I thought of Lissa suddenly and realized how much better it might be if I stayed home from school today.

  “I’ll get the thermometer.”

  “Okay,” I said, hoping for the chance to stay home. I sat up as he knocked again, feeling dizzy from lack of sleep. “Come in,” I called, and the cats scampered out of the room as the door opened.

  Skip came in sporting a thermometer in one hand and rubbing alcohol in the other. “Stick this under your tongue.” He placed the thermometer on my lower lip and slid it into my mouth as if I were a child. “Keep your lips tight.” I nodded and he stepped back to survey the situation. “You look wiped out, Mer.”

  It turned out I didn’t have a fever according to the thermometer, but Skip decided I should stay home anyway. He said I looked pale.

  Probably from a lousy night’s sleep. Without arguing, I slid back under the covers.

  “Don’t forget, Mrs. Gibson comes to clean today,” he said before closing the door, and without much effort, I fell back to sleep.

  Around nine o’clock, I woke again. I could hear vacuuming downstairs. Feeling renewed after the extra sleep, I headed for the bathroom to shower. It didn’t take long to dress and grab a bowl of cereal and some juice. I was all set to dash out the back door when Mrs. Gibson came into the kitchen. Her hair was wrapped in a blue kerchief, but her eyes were bright and alert.

  Now, here’s a morning person, I thought.

  “I hope you’re feeling much better,” she said. “Your brother left a note about you.” I thought she was going to touch my forehead at first, but she stroked my hair instead. “If you’re not planning to go back to bed, I’ll clean your room now. I understand you’re having company tonight.”

  “My aunt and uncle are coming,” I said, reaching for the newspaper. I nearly choked when I saw Lissa’s school picture plastered on the front page.

  Br-ring! I scooted the kitchen chair back to answer the phone. “Hanson residence.”

  “Oh, Merry, it’s you,” Miss Spindler said. “I wondered who that was wandering around with Mrs. Gibson in your kitchen. Are you ill?”

  “I felt a little sick this morning, so Skip said I should stay home,” I explained, wondering how she could see things so far away. “I feel much better now.”

  “Oh, that’s good.” She cackled a bit. “Then you’ll be able to enjoy the apple pie I baked first thing this morning.”

  I grimaced at the thought of her coming over. I wanted to get going to see Lissa. “Uh, could you bring it over around lunchtime?” I asked.

  “Well, I suppose I could do that, dear.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll see you then.”

  “Have you heard anything more from your parents?” she persisted.

  “Everything must be fine with them, thanks,” I said, eager to hang up.

  “Well, that’s good to know.” She paused as if she was dying to discuss something else. “Merry, dear, how did everything turn out with those policemen last night?”

  She would bring that up.

  “It was, uh…I think everything’s been cleared up.” It bugged me that I couldn’t articulate clearly when I felt cornered.

  “That’s good,” she said. “And I was meaning to ask you about Rachel Zook. What’s happened to her leg?”

  I froze. Had Miss Spindler been watching the kitchen last night? Did she know about Lissa’s Amish disguise? I cleared my throat. “Uh…did you say Rachel?”

  “Yes, dear. I saw her limping down the lane last night after that parade of policemen arrived.”

  What could I say? Was Miss Spindler on to something?

  She sighed into the phone. “What do you suppose Miss Rachel was doing standing out there in the willow grove half the night? My, oh my, she looked cold…and quite alone, I must say.”

  Yee-ikes! I stretched the phone cord all the way across the kitchen and looked out the back door. Miss Spindler’s house was about a half acre away, set on a gentle slope that made it possible to survey things quite nicely from her second-floor bedroom window. And if I guessed correctly, the nosy old lady probably had some assistance—like some high-powered binoculars.

  “Well, you know Rachel’s almost at the running-around stage the Amish let their teens go through,” I said, trying to steer her away from all the questions. “But I don’t think you have to worry about her, Miss Spindler.”

  “Well, I certainly hope every little thing is just fine at the Zooks’ house,” she said. “I don’t want to see fishy goings-on over there.”

  I swallow
ed hard. What does she mean?

  At that moment, I couldn’t decide which was worse. Two policemen by night or a snoopy old neighbor by day.

  In my ultra-polite voice, I said, “Thank you so much for calling, Miss Spindler. I hope you have a wonderful day, and I’ll look forward to that pie of yours at lunch.”

  “There’s a dear,” she said and hung up.

  In one gulp, I swallowed the rest of my juice and left the kitchen, safely out of view.

  Who knows what Old Hawk Eyes would think if she saw me leave for the Zooks’ farm. This was truly horrible. Here I was, stuck at home with no possible way of getting to Lissa.

  Chapter

  16

  I hurried upstairs to Skip’s room. One of his windows faced north, overlooking the Zooks’ farm. Quickly, I looked out, past the willow grove to the strip of dirt leading to Rachel’s house.

  More than thirty gray buggies were parked outside. The Amish farm bustled with activity as men and women hurried here and there, doing assigned chores—helping Rachel’s parents prepare for their oldest son’s wedding.

  A group of bearded men worked an assembly line, unloading two wagons filled with wooden benches used for seating at the Sunday house services and weddings. They unfolded the bench legs before carrying them inside the house, all part of the Amish tradition.

  By the looks of this large crew of helpers, the Zooks were expecting a big crowd tomorrow. I wondered what chore Rachel had invited Lissa to do.

  I remembered when my first invitation had come. It was last year. Rachel and her younger sister, Nancy, had been assigned to bake molasses cookies for her cousin’s wedding, three houses down the lane. It took us almost all afternoon, but when we finally finished, eleven dozen cookies graced the table. For weeks after that, I nearly choked whenever someone so much as mentioned the word molasses.

  The wedding preparations made me miss Lissa. She was probably caught up in the middle of things by now. Rachel would see to that. I just hoped that Lissa was being careful not to give herself away. It was important for her to blend into the Amish community until my dad got home tomorrow night. As for the police, they’d never think of looking for Lissa at an Amish wedding!