The Redemption of Sarah Cain

by Beverly Lewis

  ‘‘You may not know much ’bout your mamma’s last wishes,’’ Miriam continued.

  ‘‘I know she loved us with all her heart.’’

  The older woman nodded, her eyes blinkin’ to beat the band.

  ‘‘Jah, so there’s a gut reason why she wanted her fancy sister to come to Amish country.’’

  ‘‘Maybe so Aunt Sarah would go Plain on her own accord, ain’t so?’’

  Chuckling, Miriam placed a hand on her ample bosom. ‘‘Oh my, no. I’d say that was the last thing on your mamma’s mind.’’

  Seemed to Lydia that the woman was talkin’ in circles—riddles, really. ‘‘I don’t understand,’’ she said softly.

  A mysterious, almost angelic look passed over Miriam’s face. ‘‘Sometimes it’s best if we sit back and let the Good Lord work in His own way and time.’’

  Well, Lydia wasn’t one to argue with that. She’d heard it aplenty from Mamma. Had seen for herself God’s hand at work when a good portion of patience was applied to a situation.

  The smooth, creamy texture of Miriam’s pie felt wonderful on her tongue. ‘‘Mm-m, this is awful gut,’’ Lydia said, changing the subject.

  ‘‘Glad ya like it. Take some home with you—for the others.’’

  She finished up her dessert and milk, sayin’ a quick good-bye and headed out to the horse and buggy, several pieces of pie in tow. All the while she wondered what it was that Mamma had confided in tight-lipped Miriam. And what did the Lord have to work out anyhow?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Long after evening prayers and Bible reading, Sarah sat in her room, concocting an appropriate reply to Bryan’s morning email. She had deliberately refrained from dashing off a quick response. Had learned from past business mistakes to think through every point before committing the conclusion to paper—or computer screen, as the case may be.

  Bryan,

  Good to hear from you.

  I’ve thought about your most recent message all day, and I really don’t know how to respond. I guess I hope this is just one of your many one-liners . . . or was it two?

  I’ll give you a call when you’re rational.

  Sarah

  Feeling dreadful, as if she might be coming down with a sore throat or worse, Sarah took a warm bath and rubbed her neck and chest with Vicks VapoRub, hoping to soothe her symptoms. Lydia had insisted that she try some chamomile tea after supper. But Sarah was adamant about doing things her way.

  By Saturday morning, Sarah’s throat was swollen and her temperature had soared. She wouldn’t be traveling home anytime this weekend. Besides, there was the matter of acquiring foster parents for her sister’s children. Certainly, she could not leave here until she accomplished what she had come to do.

  Sarah succumbed to Lydia’s pleas and sipped the herbal brew her niece brought on a tray first thing in the morning.

  ‘‘I’m praying you’ll feel better soon,’’ Lydia said, standing near the doorway. ‘‘I can bring you more tea when you’re ready . . . more water, too.’’

  She nodded, unable to squeak out a reply of thanks. This was what she got for walking with the children in the bitter wind three days ago. Sampling the tea again, she took a longer drink this time, wondering how Ivy had gotten hooked up with herbs.

  Their dad had been big on them, enjoyed growing several different varieties in a small garden plot just off the back porch. But his interest had flourished long after Ivy married and moved to Bridgeport. Was there a connection? Had Ivy written as many letters to Mother and Dad as she had to Sarah?

  Ivy and Dad had always been close. They shared a rapport she had never experienced with either her father or her mother. Ivy drew people to herself. She was a magnet of appealing looks and personality. People had always said the same of Sarah, yet the results had been far different.

  Leaning back on the pillow, she breathed in the peppermint vapor exuding from the small humidifier Lydia had set up in the room. Oddly enough, she felt well cared for—almost pampered— like a young girl looked after by an attentive mother.

  Lydia was nursing her back to health. Ironically, the intended roles were completely reversed.

  Sarah dragged herself out of bed before noon to write and send another email message. This one to the real estate broker in Portland, her boss, Bill Alexander.

  Bill,

  Due to an unexpected illness, I will have to postpone my return for a few days. Would it be too much trouble for you to handle my scheduled closings for the upcoming week? Heidi can easily help you with the necessary info. If you need more clarification, feel free to phone me at: 717–555–0239.

  Thanks a million!

  Later,

  Sarah

  ‘‘When you’re well, would it be all right if we talk ’bout your conversation with Preacher Esh?’’ Lydia asked, her eyes imploring.

  Sarah nodded. ‘‘Sure.’’

  ‘‘These are for you,’’ Lydia said, offering Sarah two homemade cards. One was from Caleb, the other from Josiah.

  ‘‘Your brothers must be the artists in the family,’’ she rasped, studying the rather crude drawings of farm animals, birds, and trees.

  ‘‘They just wanted to do something nice for you, since they won’t be servin’ you tea or toast or whatnot.’’

  Sarah understood suddenly what her niece was saying. Of course, her nephews wouldn’t think of stepping foot in the bedroom of a woman. After visiting in a conservative community for nearly a week, she should have known.

  ‘‘Please thank them for me,’’ she said in a weak voice.

  ‘‘I will.’’ Lydia smiled. ‘‘Is there anything else I can get for you?’’

  Sarah pointed to Ivy’s diary. ‘‘I’m finished with that one,’’ she whispered. ‘‘May I have another?’’

  ‘‘I’ll be more than happy to bring all of Mamma’s journals for you. And . . . I doubt Mamma would mind one little bit.’’

  Sipping the last half of her third cup of herbal tea, Sarah found it remarkable that Lydia seemed quite content to share her mother’s diary with an English relative. Today , that is.

  What had changed the girl’s mind?

  Anna Mae brought up a lunch tray with the homemade chicken soup Lydia must have made. The girl inched her way across the floor, holding out the tray as she approached the bed.

  Not wanting to expose Anna Mae to her germs, Sarah nodded her thanks, accepted the offered tray, and waved her away.

  ‘‘Will ya be needin’ any salt?’’ asked Anna Mae.

  ‘‘Thank you, but no . . . this is fine.’’

  Anna Mae pointed to a small silver bell in the upper lefthand corner of the tray. ‘‘Lyddie says to ring the bell if ya need anything at all . . . or when you’re through with your tray.’’

  Again, Sarah nodded. ‘‘I appreciate that. It’s very thoughtful of you,’’ she said, almost before she realized that she had complimented the shy girl.

  ‘‘Denki.’’ Anna Mae dipped, turned, and exited the room like a miniature French maid.

  Now that she had refused the salt, Sarah tasted the soup. It was beyond delicious. She must have the recipe for herself. To think doctors were baffled by the mysterious ingredient in chicken soup that supposedly helped cure the common cold!

  Even so, if her fever didn’t break soon, she would definitely surrender to the modern method of fighting such miserable symptoms—an old-fashioned aspirin!

  Caleb and Josiah worked to shovel the heavy wet snow off the walkway leading to the barnyard while Hannah and Anna Mae used their brooms to sweep behind the boys. Indoors, Lydia washed the dishes, scrubbed the kitchen floor, and wiped down several walls and all the appliances. She darned the rest of her brothers’ socks, mended rips in dress seams, and, last but not least, made a quick ‘‘gratitude list’’ like her friend Fannie often did, jotting down things she was most thankful for.

  Right away, she knew what the number one spot should be. Thinking of Miriam Esh’s revelation—va
gue as it was—Lydia wrote at the top of her list: I am thankful for God’s providence .

  Lydia was ever so excited to meet with two seasoned teachers— Mary Fisher, from the Esbenshade Road School, and Susannah Stoltzfus, the present teacher at Peach Lane School, who was leaving her teachin’ post due to her parents’ relocating to northern New York. Both young women arrived long before supper and stayed for a good two hours. They seemed happy to share their ideas, showing Lydia how to plan the school day, fitting in all subjects from vocabulary studies to geography to German. She, in turn, offered them some coffee and cherry pudding.

  When all was said and done, Lydia decided to keep the same starting time of 8:30 in the morning, followed by a Bible story and the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. What she would change was the appointed time for unison singing. Her pupils would sing three songs from the Ausbund , the Amish hymnbook, after the prayer. Next was arithmetic, followed by recess at ten o’clock, lasting just fifteen minutes, then the children must return to their lessons. At noon the big rush to the lunch buckets began. If she remembered correctly, most of the children gobbled up their lunches in ’bout five minutes, then ran outside to play for the remainder of the hour. Silent reading followed the long recess. After that, she planned to assign lessons to each of the eight grades, lined up in specific grade by rows of desks. Students would be dismissed at three o’clock in the afternoon to walk or scooter home on nice days.

  She thanked Mary and Susannah for their help and encouragement, then went with them to the door to see them off.

  ‘‘You must let me know how you get along,’’ Susannah said as she headed outside. ‘‘Mam can give you our new address at Preaching service tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘Jah, I’ll write a letter to you soon as I can.’’

  Susannah grinned. ‘‘I can tell you one thing—I’ll be missin’ your little brother Josiah. He’s a handful but still lotsa fun.’’

  ‘‘You aren’t tellin’ me anything,’’ she replied. ‘‘Denki for puttin’ up with his shenanigans.’’

  ‘‘Well, what’s a teacher for?’’ Susannah said. ‘‘Remember, there’s quite a difference between joyful and rowdy, jah?’’

  Lydia nodded, remembering that Mamma had often said the same thing. ‘‘What ’bout Anna Mae?’’ she asked hesitantly. ‘‘Has she caused you any trouble?’’

  ‘‘Sometimes she’s off in a world of her own, that’s all.’’

  ‘‘Daydreamin’, wouldja say?’’

  ‘‘That . . . and a bit of mumblin’ to herself.’’

  Lydia had hoped her sister might’ve taken their late-night talk to heart. ‘‘Mamma’s passing has been ever so hard on her— all of us, really.’’

  Susannah came back to the door. ‘‘Truth be told, I’m glad your mamma’s sister is here now. Her coming seems to have helped Anna Mae some. She’s doin’ better at school, ’specially the last day or two.’’

  ‘‘Do you think so?’’

  ‘‘I know so,’’ Susannah said. ‘‘And I hope your aunt Sarah will stay ’round here . . . ’least for the younger children’s sake.’’

  ‘‘Me too.’’ She paused, thinkin’ how to say what she honestly wanted from Susannah. ‘‘Will you pray for me . . . that I’ll do a right gut job as a teacher?’’

  ‘‘Ach, Lyddie, you’ll do just fine. Don’tcha worry none. I have all confidence in you.’’

  She waved as the women scurried through the snow to their waiting buggies. ‘‘Da Herr sei mit du —the Lord be with you!’’ she called, the weight of responsibility settlin’ over her just then. Yet she could hardly wait to begin, hoping against hope that nothin’ would come up to spoil this wonderful-gut opportunity. A dream come true!

  After closing the back door, Lydia hurried into the kitchen and noticed Anna Mae had already begun peelin’ potatoes. The water was boiling, too. ‘‘I see you got supper started,’’ she said. ‘‘That’s gut of you.’’

  ‘‘Thought I’d best help a bit, since our aunt’s under the weather,’’ Anna Mae replied.

  ‘‘How’s she doin’ anyway?’’

  ‘‘ ’Bout the same. She could use a gut dose of cod-liver oil, prob’ly.’’

  Lydia chuckled. ‘‘Have you had your portion for the day?’’

  Anna Mae’s eyes were suddenly downcast. ‘‘I hate cod-liver oil.’’

  ‘‘You don’t wanna catch what Aunt Sarah’s got, now do ya?’’

  ‘‘Can’t!’’

  ‘‘What’d you say?’’ Lydia asked, mindful of her sister’s belligerence. ‘‘I hate the taste of fish oil . . . and I won’t be catchin’ no fancy woman’s illness neither.’’

  ‘‘Don’t be Bensel —a silly child—Anna Mae.’’ She thought on what she should say next. ‘‘Best not to say ‘hate,’ neither.

  Doesn’t become you.’’

  Her sister made a face. ‘‘What you mean to say is that Mamma would be dismayed if she could hear me, ain’t so?’’

  Lydia sighed loudly. What am I to do with her?

  ‘‘Well, ain’t so ?’’ Anna Mae insisted.

  ‘‘Sister, don’t talk that way.’’

  ‘‘What way—’bout the fish oil or ‘ain’t so’?’’

  Ever so frustrated, Lydia wondered what it would be like teachin’ her own sisters and brothers at school, as well as tryin’ to be a good example to them at home. Somebody had to, ’specially when it came to Anna Mae. The girl needed a firm and steady hand.

  Lydia hoped somewhere along the line things might settle down at home with Anna Mae. She just couldn’t stand for any of this back talk goin’ on, and if Anna Mae didn’t respect Lydia’s teacher’s authority at school, she didn’t know what she’d do. For sure and for certain, she must show Preacher Esh and the People—the children, too—that she was in charge. Antwatt- lich —responsible. Jah, on the very first day she must earn their respect.

  ‘‘I understand you begin teaching school this Monday.’’ Aunt Sarah made the comment from her sickbed when Lydia took more tea upstairs.

  ‘‘Jah, I do.’’ She felt hesitant to share more, ’specially since she’d withheld the information earlier.

  ‘‘You have strong leadership qualities, Lydia.’’

  She was surprised to hear such words comin’ from Aunt Sarah.

  ‘‘I’ve observed you with your brothers and sisters for nearly a week, and I have every reason to believe you will do an excellent job.’’

  ‘‘With all my heart, I want to.’’

  ‘‘And you will.’’

  ‘‘I have all confidence in you. . . .’’ Susannah’s words had been heartening, all right. And now Aunt Sarah’s, too. Still, Lydia wondered how to bring up the topic that was truly on her mind.

  Setting the tray down in front of her mamma’s sister, she steadied the mug of hot tea. ‘‘I’ve been meanin’ to ask you something, Aunt Sarah,’’ she began. ‘‘I’ve been wonderin’ . . . will you stay with us till we find someone to live with?’’

  The smooth temples knit into an instant frown. ‘‘As soon as I’m feeling better, we will definitely talk about that issue, as well as some other things.’’

  She hoped Aunt Sarah wasn’t ’bout to spring something on her relating to Levi King, that she’d spilled the beans to

  Preacher Esh. But it was easy to see her mamma’s sister was quite grank —ill. So certain things would just have to wait.

  Meanwhile, she’d be prayin’ ever so hard ’bout Anna Mae’s contentious spirit, Aunt Sarah’s phone conversation with Preacher Esh, and Levi King, too. Just not in that order.

  Lying in her sister’s bed, Sarah sipped her tea, remembering that at their father’s funeral, her contacts had slipped around in her eyes, due to her tears, making it nearly impossible to focus on the minister who stood behind the pulpit. She had not wept so much out of sorrow. It was regret that caused her emotional state that day. Regret due to her seeming inability to connect with either of her parents, or they with her.
And Ivy had made no attempt to reach out to her at the funeral, but that was many years ago . . . before her sister’s supposed spiritual enlightenment. Why she thought of that crucial autumn day at this moment, she did not know.

  She reached for the homemade cards her nephews had created for her. Holding them in her hands, she suppressed the urge to weep. No doubt her physical state was affecting her emotions at the moment. Nothing more.

  Get well she must. The children downstairs—Ivy’s brood— deserved a home where they were encircled and nurtured by Plain folk. Not a blubbering, too-modern aunt, impaired by a vacant soul. A mere shadow of the woman she had once been. Yet she could do little to move ahead with plans while nursing a bad case of the flu.

  As for Lydia’s plea for a chat, she would put it off for as long as possible. Perhaps the girl would forget, though it was rather unlikely. Sarah did not relish the thought of divulging her conversation with the Amish minister. How humiliating for Lydia to hear from her aunt’s lips that Sarah had questioned the girl’s choice of a life partner.

  Preacher Esh had certainly been resolute. Young Levi King was, in his opinion, ideal husband material for Lydia. An upstanding, chaste young man.

  Sarah was chagrined to recall the questions she had posed to a complete stranger. Why had she felt the necessity to probe?

  She gazed about the bedroom, looking hard at the simple furnishings, the barren windows, the lone chair near the bed. But it was the row of wooden pegs along the opposite wall that summoned her attention. There, her various purchases from last Monday’s visit to the outlet stores hung neatly. Yet the thrill of the hunt, the ecstasy of possessing the lovely new garments, had faded sometime during the week. Precisely when, she did not know.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  During the Sunday morning ride to the meetinghouse, Lydia thought ahead to summer and berry-pickin’ days. She could scarcely wait for the warm days of runnin’ barefoot through the meadow out back. And she figured by the time summer came, things just might be worked out with Aunt Sarah. There was another reason for her daydreamin’, though. Levi King.