The Redemption of Sarah Cain

by Beverly Lewis

  ‘‘I’ll do my best to locate you’’ came the polite reply.

  Lydia thought, at the time, Sarah’s answer seemed a bit weak, like she wasn’t sure if she was truly comin’ or not. But Lydia was wise and recited their house address just for so.

  ‘‘I do have the street address,’’ Sarah answered.

  ‘‘But the house isn’t really on a street . . . it’s set back a ways from the main road.’’

  ‘‘And what road would that be?’’

  Lydia tried to explain, giving various landmarks, as was their custom in giving directions. But Sarah wanted specifics—highway numbers and street markings.

  ‘‘The Lord will guide you here,’’ she said at last.

  There was a pause. Then, ‘‘What did you say?’’

  ‘‘Just let God lead you to us.’’ Lydia echoed the words, more softly this time, because she felt less sure of herself now. Not uncertain of her faith in God’s divine direction, but whether she wanted Sarah Cain disrupting their lives further. She didn’t honestly know how she felt anymore about Sarah’s coming . . . or Mamma’s strange choice. Neither one.

  If Mamma were still alive, Lydia would like to question her. ‘‘Why’d you ask for an outsider to look after us?’’ she would be pleading. ‘‘Oh, Mamma, what were you thinkin’?’’

  Lydia awoke with a start and looked across the room at the row of pegs on a narrow wooden board attached to the far wall. There, Mamma had last hung her brown choring dresses, two blue cape dresses for good, and one black woolen shawl, along with several clean white Kapps .

  Staring at the hand-sewn garments, Lydia rose and moved slowly, reverently toward them. She stood, regarding the dresses with a sigh, then reached up and removed the more faded of the two blue ones. Ach, Aunt Sarah might just dispose of them anyways— not give them a second thought. She wondered who in their church might like to wear, or just have on a hanger, one or all of the dresses her mother had worn.

  Susie Lapp and several others came to mind, but Lydia knew Susie could never fit into Mamma’s clothes. Not even her aprons! But, as close a friend as Susie had been, there was a good chance she just might like to have one hanging in her bedroom. For the memory’s sake.

  Nary a promise for the morrow. . . .

  Lydia, too, wanted to keep one of Mamma’s dresses. And she removed the hanger from the peg, carrying the older of the two better ones to her own room.

  Standing next to her own strip of wooden pegs, she lifted Mamma’s dress to her face and breathed deeply, wishing for the slightest scent. Knowing full well that these clothes had been thoroughly washed and dried, she was able to detect only the fresh smell of detergent and sunshine.

  Touching the dress, she hung it on the wall under her own things, fondly recalling the last Sunday Mamma was well enough to attend Preachin’ services at the Old Meetinghouse. . . .

  It had been an exceedingly warm October day. Oak trees sang the colors of gold and bronze. Sugar maples wore flaming crimson, their portly arms extended out over the lane as Caleb drove Dobbin to church, east on Route 896 to Rohrer’s Mill Road, then south onto Iva Road.

  During the sermon, Lydia had to try to squelch a coughin’ fit, till she knew if she didn’t slip out and blow her nose somewhere, she would cause too much commotion in the meeting.

  Turned out the only bathroom was in use, so she tiptoed outside where she happened on Emma Flaud and two other mothers discreetly nursing their infants. Without sayin’ a word to any of them, she fished for a handkerchief and walked the length of the sidewalk, far enough away from the Meetinghouse to give her sinuses a more than gentle blow.

  While she waited to see if another tickle might creep into her throat, Mamma came outside, too. She sat on the steps, next to Emma Flaud. Lydia remembered standin’ there behind a tree, observing her best girlfriend’s mamma and her own sickly mother sitting side by side, not speakin’ a word to each other, surrounded by gentle women . . . sisters in the Lord, suckling their wee babes. Just content to be sittin’ there.

  She watched as Mamma fanned herself with her long white apron, her face much too flushed to lay blame on the warmth of a mild Indian summer Sunday. Mamma stopped fanning long enough to reach over and touch the soft, round head of Emma’s new little one.

  Lydia had to swallow the lump in her throat, realizing that Mamma’s heart was slowly giving out on her, that she might not live long enough to see her own grandbabies born into the world.

  Live ev’ry day as if it’s your last. . . .

  Returning to Mamma’s bedroom, her gaze fell on the tall bureau on the opposite wall. She wandered over to the chest of drawers Dat had made for Mamma years ago. For a moment she stood and stared at the bottom drawer, as if just lookin’ at it would make any difference. Deep in the drawer, she knew there must be plenty of scrapbooks with birthday and Christmas cards she and her brothers and sisters had handcrafted at school, poems clipped from The Budget and Ideals magazines, newspaper articles, and obituaries. Lovely things such as hand-tatted bookmarks and colorful handkerchiefs with crocheted edges or embroidered flowers any Amishwoman might want to cherish. But it was her mother’s diaries and the letters she’d saved over the years that piqued Lydia’s curiosity most.

  A girl perty near goes through her life tryin’ ever so hard to walk the straight and narrow—doin’ a right fine job of it, too— till somewhere along the line, the things of the world jump out and allure her. As they were temptin’ her now.

  Slowly, heart pounding, Lydia leaned down and opened the drawer, her hands on either side, steadying the heavy drawer as it slid out. A shoe box marked ‘‘Seashells’’ lay off to one side. On the opposite side were dozens of letters, all of them tied in plain white ribbons, prettily, like nothin’ she’d ever seen.

  She pulled out a small packet, hoping against hope that God himself might ultimately have mercy on her for what she was about to do. Spying the name on the return address—Miss Sarah Cain—and the date November 7, 1996, she trembled. What would Mamma think of her this minute if she knew?

  Quickly, she put the letters back. But her eye caught the bright floral color of a diary, bound like a real book.

  Can it be? she wondered.

  Was this the journal where Mamma had recorded her most private thoughts, her sadness and loss over Dat, a possible explanation for her choice of Sarah as her children’s guardian?

  Without another thought, Lydia opened to the first page: New Year’s Day, 1998 . Sighing, she held in her hands the last year’s writings of her dead mother. ‘‘Ach, what’ll I do?’’ she whispered.

  She scanned the first page, then the next, her heart wanting desperately to read—to savor—every single word, but her eyes flew over the lines irreverently, searching for a clue, anything referring to Sarah Cain.

  And then she spied something. It’s been ever so long since I’ve had a letter from my sister. I pray she is well, but more than that I pray that she will come to know the Savior soon .

  So . . . it was just as she thought. Aunt Sarah was not a believer as they were. And not only that, Sarah was also an unheeding, neglectful sister!

  Lydia read on.

  I don’t know just what it will take for the Good Lord to get Sarah’s attention. I just have no idea how He’s going to bring her into the fold. But I trust the loving heavenly Father to do that .

  Suddenly she heard, ‘‘Lyddie, come quick!’’ Anna Mae was shouting from downstairs. She leaped up and nearly dropped the notebook. Pushing in the drawer till it was secure again, she called back, ‘‘What is it?’’ She rushed pell-mell out of the room and scurried toward the top of the stairs.

  ‘‘The snow fort caved in on Hannah!’’ Anna Mae hollered.

  Lydia stumbled down the steps, her heart in her throat. Whatever had happened to her baby sister was prob’ly the judgment of God on her. Ach, how swiftly it had come.

  Dear Lord, please . . . please let Hannah be all right!

  She grabbed her long b
lack coat off the wooden peg in the utility room, tripping momentarily on her skirt tail as she followed Anna Mae out the kitchen door into the frigid air.

  Chapter Ten

  Let God lead you to us. . . .’’

  Her niece’s words resonated in Sarah’s mind while she stood in line at the Budget rental car desk at the Harrisburg airport. She turned her attention to the various travelers awaiting their luggage on the carousel across the wide corridor.

  Sarah lamented anew her predicament. Last evening’s phone call had turned into a dismal affair. Lydia had not adequately described—in specific terms—the whereabouts of the Cottrell farmhouse. It sounded so rural, quite remote. What had Ivy done to her children, taking them to live among Amish folk?

  Waiting her turn at the rental car counter, Sarah recalled years-old arguments, how Ivy and her husband had made one eccentric choice after another for themselves and their children. They’d deprived their offspring of a normal American life, isolating them from the real world.

  ‘‘It’s how we want to live,’’ Ivy maintained. ‘‘And it’s no one’s business but ours.’’

  Now it’s my business , thought Sarah. If there’s a God, He’ll have to lead me. No question .

  Lydia clutched her throat as she spied Caleb running across the barnyard, carrying Hannah’s limp body.

  ‘‘Call the Amish doctor,’’ Caleb was shouting. ‘‘Hurry!’’

  ‘‘Ach, no!’’ She knew better than to do such a thing. Dat and Mamma had never wanted anything to do with the powwow doctors in the area. Preacher Esh had even spoken out from the pulpit against occult practices such as that. She had no idea what Caleb was thinking, askin’ her to do such a thing. Still, someone should be called. She could see it sure as day.

  ‘‘We might be needin’ help from the Brauchdokder, ’’ he said again, his eyes more serious now as he approached the sidewalk leading to the house. ‘‘She seems to have the wind knocked out of her.’’

  ‘‘Let me have a look at her,’’ Lydia insisted. She followed Caleb through the screened-in back porch, utility room, and kitchen to the front room, where he bent low, placing Hannah gently on the flat cushions of the straight-backed sofa.

  Josiah and Anna Mae hovered near. ‘‘Looks like she’s breathin’ all right now,’’ Josiah was first to say.

  Little Hannah was trying to sit up, moaning all the while. ‘‘W-what happened to me?’’ she asked, rubbing her head.

  ‘‘The snow fort fell in . . .’’ Caleb’s voice trailed away.

  ‘‘I nearly got suff’cated,’’ Hannah cried.

  Lydia knelt beside the couch to attend to her sister. ‘‘Can you breathe all right?’’

  Hannah drew in her breath and held it a second, then out. ‘‘Jah, I think so.’’

  Lydia felt her sister’s head. ‘‘Do you have any bumps anywhere?’’ ‘‘Back here.’’ Hannah pointed.

  Lydia felt where her sister’s hand rested, under a warm winter bonnet. ‘‘Let’s take this off you.’’

  ‘‘Am I gonna be all right, Lyddie?’’

  Nodding, Lydia truly hoped so, because without Aunt Sarah here, they—all of them—might find themselves in hot water with the local authorities. Though her parents never put their hope or trust in anyone but God himself, still, if Hannah needed medical attention . . . Well, Lydia just hoped and prayed she wouldn’t have to risk puttin’ her family in jeopardy, not that-away.

  Mamma’s lawyer had said the five of them had to have an adult guardian, couldn’t just live on their own the way they knew how to. ‘‘Your aunt Sarah is in charge of you children.’’ Mr. Eberley’s strong words annoyed her. ‘‘We’re required by due process to abide by Sarah Cain’s wishes.’’

  ‘‘Whether we take much to the idea or not,’’ Lydia had muttered offhand.

  But now, feelin’ the hard knot on the back of little Hannah’s head, Lydia wished Aunt Sarah would arrive this minute!

  ‘‘If you won’t call the Brauchdokder, then I will !’’ Caleb declared, removing his coat and black felt hat.

  ‘‘Now, just wait a minute,’’ she replied, putting the slightest pressure on Hannah’s head. ‘‘I think all we need is some ice.’’

  Caleb was gone in a jiffy, which was just what she’d hoped for. She could think more clearly without stress-filled remarks spoutin’ out of her worrywart brother’s mouth.

  She stroked her sister’s forehead. ‘‘You’re goin’ to be all right,

  Hannah,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I believe you are.’’

  ‘‘My head ain’t broke, is it?’’ Hannah asked, trying to move it and wincing a bit as she did.

  ‘‘Prob’ly just a bump.’’

  ‘‘You won’t let the powwow doctor come, will ya?’’

  She shook her head. ‘‘Mamma always said we should pray to God for our needs. So that’s what we’re goin’ to do.’’

  Hannah’s head moved up and down slowly, and her eyes seemed to be getting brighter as she did. ‘‘Mamma knew things ’bout God, didn’t she?’’

  ‘‘Jah, she did.’’

  ‘‘So why don’tcha pray for my head the way Mamma used to?’’ Hannah’s hand reached out to grasp Lydia’s own.

  ‘‘I . . . I don’t know for sure what to pray.’’ And she didn’t, not really, but when she thought of the possibility of policemen coming and snatchin’ them away, separating them far from each other, she knew there was something —surely, there was—that she could be prayin’ in front of her hurt sister and the others.

  Just then Caleb marched back into the room, carrying a plastic bag of ice cubes. ‘‘Will this do?’’

  ‘‘Denki .’’ She took the ice and turned Hannah gently on her side, holding the ice bag against her wee head. ‘‘This’ll help the pain and make the bump go down right quick, I’m thinkin’.’’

  Hannah smiled up at her, long lashes brushing her cheek. ‘‘You know, you could be a nurse, too, Lyddie . . . and a teacher both.’’

  She felt gladdened, seein’ the color begin to creep back into Hannah’s cheeks. Relieved, really. Maybe everything was goin’ to be all right after all.

  ‘‘Don’t forget the prayer,’’ Hannah reminded her.

  Lydia caught Caleb’s eyes. ‘‘She wants someone to pray for her the way Mamma always did when we were sick or hurt.’’ She truly hoped her brother might offer to do just that.

  ‘‘Well, what’re you waitin’ for?’’ He sounded timid just now and a bit put out, all mixed up.

  ‘‘Gather ’round, children,’’ Lydia said, trustin’ that she might find the right words, ’specially because she was still feeling guilty, knowin’ she oughta be confessing her sins before almighty God instead of askin’ for favors.

  Sarah paused on the front porch of the old farmhouse before knocking. What she saw through the window kept her hand poised in midair. Inside, two girls and two boys knelt with bowed heads, hovering over a small girl who was stretched out on a tan sofa, wearing snow boots and a long black coat. The oldest of the group—most likely Lydia—also wore a dark woolen coat, her high-topped black shoes showing under the hem of her purple dress.

  Sarah marveled at their clothing—the one thing she’d failed to consider until the passenger next to her on the plane had mentioned the distinctive Amish apparel. The younger boy, the one with golden hair, wore a wide-brimmed black felt hat, a gray coat, and snow boots. But it was the back of Lydia’s head and the cap of white netting perched over a thick hair bun at the back of her neck that captured Sarah’s attention. Observing the cap, she had a feeling it represented something devout, perhaps prayerful.

  Not wanting to interrupt, she waited behind the beveled glass. If the family scene had not been so tender, she might’ve knocked. What they were doing, assembled that way around the youngster, she was not entirely certain. But the serene moment reminded her of another winter day, not so long ago, when children and teachers had gathered, bowed low around the body of a lifeless child on th
e playground’s cold surface. The present scene became somewhat eerie in its scope due to the scalding memory, and she had to look away for a moment to compose herself.

  After a time, the tallest boy rose from his kneeling position and left the room. His gait was measured, though his facial expression seemed to indicate that he was irritated.

  She took advantage of the lull and, inhaling sharply, knocked on the door.

  Instantly a teenage girl came, followed by a younger boy and girl. ‘‘Hullo?’’ said the girl in the dark purple dress and black pinafore-style apron. ‘‘Are you . . . Aunt Sarah?’’

  Stunned, Sarah looked into the face of the beautiful Amish girl, nearly identical to Ivy’s—a youthful rendering of Sarah’s own sister. ‘‘Yes, and you must be . . . are you Lydia Cottrell?’’

  A robust smile spread across the rosy-cheeked face. ‘‘Jah, I’m Lyddie.’’

  The other children, except the youngest, pushed in for a closer look. ‘‘Ask her in out of the cold,’’ whispered the towheaded boy. ‘‘She’ll catch her death . . .’’

  ‘‘Oh, I’m awfully sorry,’’ Lydia said, opening the door wider. ‘‘Please, come in and get warm. Willkomm , Aunt Sarah.’’

  Rather astonished at the children’s reaction to her, Sarah forced herself to remain composed. One child asked to take her coat; another, her knit scarf; yet another, her gloves. ‘‘Thank you,’’ she replied, noticing the girl on the sofa.

  ‘‘We’d best introduce ourselves so you know who’s who,’’ Lydia said, seemingly in charge of the brood. ‘‘But first, will you excuse me for just a minute?’’ She turned toward the kitchen, calling, ‘‘Caleb, come now and meet Aunt Sarah. She has just arrived.’’

  Sarah was surprised at the speed with which Lydia’s brother responded. Ivy’s oldest son was before her in an instant.

  ‘‘Hullo.’’ He extended his hand. ‘‘My name is Caleb.’’