The Redemption of Sarah Cain

by Beverly Lewis

  Lydia’s face burned as she dipped her knife into the pumpkin pie. Both her mamma’s sister and her mamma’s best friend were actin’ like children, of all things! What was the matter with them?

  ‘‘It’s beyond me why Ivy wanted an English woman to pick up the pieces for her family,’’ Susie huffed.

  Aunt Sarah said nothing, but her face went white as the snow on the front stoop.

  Lydia cleared her throat and brought two dessert plates filled with generous portions of pie and ice cream. She set the plates in front of Aunt Sarah, then Susie Lapp. ‘‘We best talk ’bout other things,’’ she said, fully aware that she was speakin’ out of turn, ’specially in the presence of her elders. Still, she felt she had to put an end to this prattle.

  ‘‘Lydia’s right.’’ Aunt Sarah caught her eye, then turned her attention toward the pie in front of her.

  Several minutes passed before Susie spoke again, her gaze on her dessert. ‘‘I shouldn’t have said what I did, Sarah. It was wrong of me.’’

  She didn’t go on to offer a clear apology, which Lydia thought was necessary. Still, the remark did seem to clear the air a bit. ’Least enough to get through their coffee-drinkin’ and, later, sorting through Mamma’s clothes and personal things.

  Hours after Susie Lapp had hitched her horse to the carriage and carried off several armloads of Mamma’s dresses, aprons, and prayer veilings, Lydia set more hot cocoa to simmerin’ on the stove.

  She was mighty glad the sad ordeal of goin’ through her mother’s belongings was behind them. Susie had settled down a bit, minded her manners, but still was adamant ’bout taking the upper hand with nearly every aspect of the sorting process, from what should be done with the Sunday dresses, capes, and aprons to who might want the nightgowns, Kapps, and shoes.

  Going upstairs, Lydia brought down a pile of socks to darn at the kitchen table while she waited for her brothers and sisters to arrive home from school.

  Aunt Sarah was foolin’ with some kind of flat typewriter attached to a square with lit-up words. ‘‘Your mother’s friend seems to thrive on conflict,’’ she said from across the table.

  ‘‘Oh, now and then, maybe. She and Mamma used to have their moments sometimes, too, but, oh my, how they loved each other; even more than they fought, guess you could say.’’

  ‘‘So they argued often?’’

  Lydia, surprised at her aunt’s inquiry, looked across the table. ‘‘So . . . I guess Susie’s definitely out of the question?’’ She didn’t wait for her aunt to answer. ‘‘I’m thinkin’ Susie’s not someone you’d pick to raise us.’’

  Aunt Sarah’s face broke into a grin. ‘‘I wouldn’t wish her on my own worst enemy.’’

  Lydia had no intention of fussin’ with Aunt Sarah and changed the subject. ‘‘Well, then, how do you feel ’bout going to the quilting . . . at Susie’s house?’’

  Turning pale again, Aunt Sarah mumbled something unrecognizable to Lydia. Maybe a cuss word. Maybe not, though she couldn’t be sure.

  When no further comment came from her aunt, Lydia forged ahead. ‘‘Miriam Esh will be there. Preacher Esh said so.’’

  ‘‘Was it your minister who came earlier?’’

  Lydia nodded.

  ‘‘Sometime I want to speak with him,’’ Aunt Sarah said unexpectedly. ‘‘Not ’bout last night, I hope?’’ She felt ever so bold speakin’ up.

  Sarah got up at that moment and, without excusin’ herself, left the room.

  Fearin’ the worst, Lydia darned much too fast and pricked her finger, spurting blood on Caleb’s church sock.

  Sarah was desperate to contact Bryan, but she didn’t want to disturb him in the middle of an important meeting. She wrote a short email message, hoping he might read between the lines.

  Bryan,

  This place is closing in on me. What was it you said about Amish country doing me good? Well, think again! The truth is I’m going stark raving mad. I need to hang at a club somewhere. Care to join me on a binge?

  Sarah

  Almost as soon as she’d sent the hasty message, she regretted her spontaneity. Sure, Bryan would come to her rescue—he always did—but had she been too presumptuous to ask?

  While Sarah chopped lettuce for a salad, she overheard Anna Mae mumbling to herself. Sarah was certain the girl had no idea she was being observed, yet the more she listened to the idle chatter, the more she felt she should approach Anna Mae.

  Leaving the salad fixings behind, Sarah washed her hands and went to the doorway to the utility room. There stood Anna Mae, facing a row of winter coats, hats, and scarves, a glazed look in her green eyes.

  ‘‘Anna Mae, are you all right?’’ Sarah asked.

  Startled, the girl turned to face her, eyes too wide and the look of a polished plate on her face. ‘‘I . . . uh . . . Lyddie!’’ hollered Anna Mae.

  Puzzled, Sarah stood her ground. ‘‘You don’t have to call for your sister. You can talk to me , if you like.’’

  Anna Mae put her hands over her ears, lowering her head to her chest, still talking, but nonsensically. ‘‘Mamma’s gone away . . . she’s gone away from here. Ach, Mamma—’’ ‘‘Anna Mae,’’ Sarah interrupted, ‘‘look at me!’’

  The whispered chanting continued. ‘‘Mamma’s gone home to heaven now . . . gone far away to heaven now.’’

  Suddenly Sarah fought tears that threatened to blur her vision, though she could see only Meggie Holmes in her mind’s eye, remembering her student’s mildly autistic mannerisms—recalling the breakthrough that had come at long last, after months and months of reaching out to the pixieish girl. All for naught, in the end. . . .

  ‘‘Anna Mae?’’ she whispered, crouching down to the child’s level. ‘‘Your mamma didn’t want to go away. You must believe that.’’

  Her young niece said nothing in response. No more muttering or covering her ears. But she was quivering hard.

  ‘‘Please . . . let me help you.’’ She reached out to the girl.

  But Anna Mae backed away, stumbling backward, falling into the wall of coats and scarves. ‘‘No . . . no . . . no,’’ she whimpered.

  Just as she was about to touch the girl’s shoulder, Lydia emerged in the doorway. ‘‘What’s wrong with my sister?’’ she asked, a ring of accusation in her voice. ‘‘Aunt Sarah, what’s happened to Anna Mae?’’

  The heartfelt moment—that glimmer of verity—had passed, burst like a bubble against a barbed wire.

  Lydia’s hands were on her hips, demanding an answer. ‘‘Anna Mae was yelling for me. I heard her.’’

  ‘‘Your sister’s upset,’’ Sarah replied, turning toward the kitchen. ‘‘I couldn’t seem to help her.’’

  ‘‘I want Mamma back,’’ Anna Mae was crying, still in the utility room. ‘‘Please make Mamma come back to me!’’

  Sarah returned to the kitchen and picked up the knife. She slashed through the head of lettuce, her mind replaying the insinuations, the vicious whispers that had turned to public furor after the accident in Stonington. Remembering caused her to feel nauseous.

  Bryan, please hurry , she thought, chopping the lettuce into much finer pieces than necessary.

  ‘‘What happened with Anna Mae earlier?’’ Lydia asked her while they washed and dried supper dishes.

  ‘‘I think your sister may need to talk to a therapist. Do you know what I mean by that?’’

  ‘‘Head doctors are for English folk,’’ Lydia said softly but firmly, wringing out the dishrag.

  ‘‘You don’t understand. I’m quite familiar with cases like Anna Mae.’’

  Lydia spun around to face Sarah. Her eyes were fire. ‘‘My sister is not a case study!’’

  ‘‘I didn’t mean—’’ ‘‘But you’re thinkin’ it all the same. I can see it in your face.’’

  Sarah was struck by the similarities between her deceased sister and Ivy’s daughter. The slant of her lips in a display of anger, the tilt of her stubborn head.

  �
��‘Anna Mae needs love and attention, that’s all. She’ll be fine, you’ll see.’’

  ‘‘I do hope so’’ was all Sarah said.

  ‘‘Our mamma knew how to care for us,’’ Lydia said, almost sadly, suffering her own loss anew. ‘‘She loved us through the Lord Jesus himself. She always said it was God’s love pouring out through her to us. But more than that, Mamma was a kind and loving person , too.’’

  Sarah listened, amazed. This was a side to Ivy she had not known. The things Lydia was saying about Ivy were difficult for Sarah to grasp, but she wouldn’t admit her feelings to her niece. She did think, however, that this might be an opportune time to inquire of Ivy’s journals, if such writings existed. ‘‘I’d like to know more about my sister’s adult years,’’ she said, tempering her words. ‘‘If you don’t mind . . . if you feel comfortable . . .’’

  ‘‘What would you like to know?’’

  ‘‘I wonder . . . may I read your mother’s journals?’’

  Lydia drew in her breath. It was obvious to Sarah that the girl struggled with the notion.

  ‘‘I don’t know . . . I—’’ ‘‘You have every right to guard your mother’s personal things, I understand.’’

  ‘‘Mamma didn’t keep many diaries, really,’’ Lydia blurted. ‘‘She learned from Grandpa Cain about being particular, ’bout taking care to discard the ordinary. If you must know, Mamma kept only a few journals.’’

  How strange to hear Lydia reiterate the words of Sarah’s own father. Grandpa Cain, indeed . It seemed the man had affixed his imprint on his oldest grandchild quite effectively.

  ‘‘One diary will do,’’ she said.

  Lydia frowned. ‘‘You’ll return it, then, when you’re through?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’ She folded the tea towel, noticing the embroidered words for the first time: God’s way is the best way .

  Not a single light flickered on the wall this night as Lydia snuggled down under the warm quilts Mamma and she had made together. Her thoughts were of Levi, a hopeful but somewhat troubling shift from her mental scuffle with Aunt Sarah.

  She’d ended up handin’ over one of Mamma’s journals to Aunt Sarah before going off to bed, having chosen one of the earlier diaries because she wouldn’t be ready to read it herself for several more nights.

  Sick in spirit, she skipped writing in her own journal, finding that it was almost too much to bear, her giving an account of the past day, ’specially with the growing hostility between herself and Aunt Sarah.

  And what was to become of her and Levi’s love? Sadly, they weren’t courtin’ at all, and not seeing Levi broke her heart— puttin’ her beloved off as she had. All because of them bein’ orphans . . . and Aunt Sarah not willing to take her rightful place.

  Turmoil had come a-callin’ when Mamma’s sister stepped foot in this house. And all in just a matter of forty-eight hours.

  Sarah sat propped up in bed with a single pillow, wrapped in her warmest bathrobe. She opened randomly to Ivy’s diary.

  March 17, 1989

  Our Lyddie is seven years old today. She is the apple of her father’s eye, and mine, too.

  Can it be that already we have lived in Lancaster for nearly two years? Susie Lapp has become the dearest friend a woman could ever want. I believe God planned our friendship, bringing the two of us together in a spiritual bond. In some ways, Susie has become somewhat of a sister to me, though we have much more in common than I ever did with Sarah. We are true sisters— Susie and I—in the Lord and otherwise .

  Sighing, Sarah marked her spot in Ivy’s journal. She might’ve thought, for a moment, that she was too tired to read further. The truth was she had no desire to go on. Ivy’s observation about Susie Lapp being a ‘‘true sister’’ pierced Sarah’s soul. And quite unexpectedly, she felt she understood the reason behind the friction she had experienced with Susie Lapp today. Clearly evident were the psychological goings-on between Mrs. Lapp, one of Ivy’s ‘‘spirit sisters,’’ and herself, Ivy’s one and only biological sister.

  Bryan, psychology nut that he was, would have a field day with this if he came and if she decided to divulge any aspect of her discovery.

  And there was Anna Mae, poor thing. Sarah felt helpless to interfere, but the child needed professional help, of this she was nearly certain.

  She placed the diary written by her late sister under the pillow next to her and turned out the light.

  Lydia had just begun to doze off when she was aware of someone in her room. She sat up, peering into the darkness.

  ‘‘Lyddie, it’s me . . . Anna Mae. I’m awful scared.’’

  She lifted the covers so Anna Mae could slip into bed with her. Wrapping her arms around the younger girl’s round little body, she asked, ‘‘Why are you frightened, sister?’’

  ‘‘Aunt Sarah scares me.’’

  Lydia probed no further. She was content to hold Anna Mae near, wondering if Mamma had ever done the same for her little sister when young Sarah was alarmed. Maybe, though, Mamma and Aunt Sarah had never been chummy enough to share their fears or worries. She suspected that was the case. Well, Lydia could not imagine growin’ up like that.

  She would cradle Anna Mae till she was fast asleep, maybe even longer. Maybe she’d let Anna Mae share a spot in her bed all night long.

  Mamma would be pleased if she knew. Jah, ever so pleased.

  Softly humming a hymn, Lydia thought of Levi again, wonderin’ if he might consider taking in Anna Mae and the others once he and Lydia were married. If they ever wed, that is.

  But, no . . . the more she thought on it, ’twasn’t fair to expect such a thing. If their courtship ever did get back on track, she shouldn’t be askin’ Levi King to be her sisters’ and brothers’ stepfather. Besides, he might be entirely opposed to the notion. She didn’t know for sure, really. This was a right touchy situation!

  Looking over at Anna Mae next to her, she felt helpless to meet the youngster’s emotional needs. Aunt Sarah was the one best suited, Lydia was nearly certain. Jah, for some reason, she felt Aunt Sarah knew better ’bout whatever it was Anna Mae was goin’ through than most anyone.

  Chapter Twenty

  Five o’clock . . .

  Sarah heard footsteps in the hallway and on the stairs. So soon? Rambunctious chirping of birds outside the window further irritated her. In the distance the steady clip-clopping of horses’ hooves tramped down the snow-packed road.

  Why was everyone up already? Then she remembered—in Pennsylvania Amish country, everyone rose before dawn.

  Sarah groaned and turned over. How was it that each day should be precisely the same as the day before, varied solely by the work that occupied every minute, every hour of every day from the rising of the sun until after dark?

  Plumping the feather pillow, she lay there a few moments longer and gazed at the picture of Megan Holmes in the dim light. Dreaded memories flooded her mind, and she leaned up and reached for the frame. She held it in both hands. ‘‘I won’t let it happen again . . . ever,’’ she whispered, promising herself. How many times had she said the same words to the smiling face? At least a thousand.

  Returning the picture to the small table, she grasped for a ray of hope, something to carry through the day. She recalled the message she had sent to Bryan via email. Had he replied?

  She bounded out of bed to check. Turning on her laptop computer, she found herself eager to hear something from the modern world. The real world, the world filled with sensible decision-making and logical-thinking people. None of these archaic notions and rituals.

  It was while she waited for her computer to boot up that she settled on the best discipline for Lydia’s impropriety, maybe the only beneficial restriction: not permitting her niece to attend the quilting bee tomorrow at Susie Lapp’s home. Not only did she think it was a good idea to deprive Lydia of the social event, but staying home herself would make it possible for her to avoid another uncomfortable encounter with Ivy’s ‘‘true’’
sister.

  ‘‘You’ve got mail,’’ stated the computerized voice.

  Clicking on the appropriate spot, she read:

  Sarah,

  Impossible to get away. Sorry.

  Later,

  Bryan

  She was taken aback by his brief note, so unlike his usual jocularity coupled with an eagerness to communicate. That was always Bryan’s style when either sending electronic messages or phoning.

  Shrugging her dubious thoughts aside, Sarah prepared to bathe and dress for the day. She had survived any number of stressful situations without him. Why should she care if Bryan was busy this time?

  A boisterous rooster crowed as Sarah uncovered her sister’s journal from one of the bed pillows. She turned to the beginning, to the first entry, and began to read Ivy’s words.

  New Year’s Day, 1989

  My lap was full of fabric nearly all day, what with it being the dead of winter and all. While Lyddie was at school, young Caleb was a good little helper, keeping one-year-old Anna Mae happy in her playpen nearby. I must’ve embroidered five or more pillowcases and worked on two different samplers.

  In just a short time, I’ve learned that a wise woman is content with sewing, knitting, and embroidering. Crocheting is a bit tricky yet for me, but I’m doing my best to get the knack of it. When my hands are busy pushing a needle gently through folds of fabric, well, it brings such a deep kind of joy to me, a freedom from the cares of life. Sometimes I actually feel a part of the material I’m sewing, and it’s a wonderful-gut feeling, to be sure.

  Susie Lapp surprised me with a big pot of Chilly Day Stew near lunchtime. It hit the spot, and my children seemed to like it, too. All of us, Gil included, are still getting used to the enormous amount of vegetables used in cooking here in the Amish community, everything from potato rivvel soup to zucchini squash cake. I think we’re already healthier, too.