Surely by June or July—ach, she hoped so—they’d be back on better terms, maybe even long before then. She secretly wished there might be a chance to see him at church today after the common meal to be held in the meetinghouse basement. With her whole heart, she prayed Levi might speak to her, let her know there were no hard feelings between them. Yet she couldn’t blame him for thinkin’ so, if he did. Not after the way she’d put him off right after his heartfelt marriage proposal and all.
If only he would think back to their kiss, how she’d let him pull her close, didn’t push away from him one iota, allowed him to snuggle with her much longer than ever before. If he did, he’d most surely know that she loved him ev’ry bit as much as he loved her.
‘‘Whatcha think’s come over Aunt Sarah?’’ Caleb said unexpectedly as ol’ Dobbin waited calmly for the light just one block from the meetinghouse.
‘‘What do you mean?’’ Lydia replied.
‘‘She’s different somehow,’’ Caleb said. ‘‘Not nearly so vexed as when she first came.’’
Josiah laughed. ‘‘Well, now, she’s sick , ain’t she?’’
‘‘That’s not what I’m sayin’,’’ Caleb spoke up. ‘‘Mamma’s sister isn’t the same as when she came here a week ago, I tell ya.’’
Lydia listened, moved by what her brothers had observed. What she herself had also noticed.
Little Hannah tugged on Lydia’s coat sleeve. ‘‘She’s even startin’ to look more like Mamma, seems to me.’’
‘‘No one looks like Mamma ’cept Lyddie,’’ Josiah insisted, grinning at her.
Lydia felt she oughta say something. ‘‘Well, now, haven’t we been prayin’ for our aunt?’’
‘‘To stay with us for always?’’ Hannah asked.
‘‘No, to find what she’s searchin’ for,’’ Lydia said.
‘‘And just what might that be?’’ Anna Mae said at last.
Lydia turned to face her younger sisters behind her in the backseat of the carriage. ‘‘Why do you think Aunt Sarah came here?’’
‘‘ ’Cause Mamma wanted her to?’’ little Hannah asked.
‘‘Maybe that’s it.’’
Anna Mae frowned and shrugged. ‘‘Seems to me she’s here to find love.’’
‘‘And not just any kind,’’ Josiah said.
‘‘It’s God’s love she’s after, prob’ly,’’ Caleb said softly.
Lydia smiled back at her sisters, then turned to face the road. ‘‘Jah, I’m thinkin’ all of you are right, most likely.’’
Sarah spent the morning drinking several glasses of water and dozing off and on. She had given in to taking an aspirin every four hours to control the fever she knew she had. Along about noon, she put on her bathrobe and slippers and plodded down the long staircase to the kitchen, where she found a note from Lydia directing her to a large plastic container of leftover chicken soup.
P.S. Heat up what you want to eat. We’ll be back from Preaching service in time for afternoon milking. Hope you’re feeling better soon.
—Lydia
Her spirits were lifted by the cheerful note, and after a half cup of the hearty soup, she felt even better. Still a bit weak, she made herself some herbal tea and headed back to bed. There, she nursed her symptoms by nestling down with several more of Ivy’s journals.
Halfway through a diary marked, ‘‘In the Year of our Lord, 1993,’’ Sarah came upon an interesting account. A mutually shared recollection between herself and Ivy. The entry was untitled and there was nothing to characterize it or set this writing apart from any other day in the life of an Amishwoman. It was merely the retelling of an extraordinary afternoon that happened so long ago Sarah had nearly forgotten. . . .
August 22, 1993
Today, while sorting through my dresser drawer, I came across an old letter from Dad.
It was odd, really, how I stumbled onto it. The children and I had just returned from an afternoon picnic in the daisy-filled meadow out behind the barn. I had the urge to ret out some old papers and things. That’s when I discovered the letter. For some reason, Dad had felt a need to remind me of one particular day along the shores of Watch Hill, years back.
He wrote that Sarah had been seven and I thirteen the day the most amazing thing happened. We had been strolling along the beach, tagging along with Dad as he inspected one seashell after another, when out of nowhere a beautiful long-necked swan came up out of the water, heading straight for us.
Of course, I remembered the incident ever so clearly . . . how the graceful creature seemed eager to make friends with us. Dad fished around in his pockets and found small packages of crackers he often carried with him to feed the sea ducklings. We’d never seen such an enormous swan, and what a neighborly one, at that!
The more crumbs Dad tossed, the closer he came. Soon he was eating directly out of Dad’s hand. Other folks who observed the situation from the dock must’ve thought it somewhat miraculous, too. Three fishing boats shut down their motors and drifted toward the shoreline to snap pictures. Dad waved to them, all the while talking softly to the swan, who seemed to trust us completely.
At one point, Dad, Sarah, and I sat on a long piece of driftwood, fully expecting the enormous bird to turn and swim back into the broad inlet. Yet he remained.
I was brave enough to extend my hand with a piece of cracker in my palm. Sarah was too afraid to try, and even after Daddy encouraged her to ‘‘keep your hand flat as can be,’’ she refused.
The encounter with the swan was truly a special gift. Dad believed almighty God wanted to give us a ‘‘one-and-only moment in time.’’ The lesson we gleaned from the experience was the incredible knowing that the swan met us in our world, making our place his. Making one world between us.
I wonder if Sarah remembers that afternoon . . .
Reluctant to move past this particular entry, Sarah closed the journal, keeping her finger between the pages. She reveled in the memory, so aptly penned by Ivy, who, not more than a few months before the swan event, had entered her teen years.
A one-and-only moment in time , Dad had referred to the rare episode.
The sun had shone its diamond-shaped brilliance on the shore as seagulls seemed to hang in the air above the water. Children scoured the seacoast for shells and other tokens washed up by the tide. And that day Sarah had found her first and only double-sunrise shell and offered it to Daddy. He swept her up in his arms and carried her home, more than pleased for both the shell gift and the personal rendezvous with a swan. Best of all, neither Ivy nor Dad had criticized Sarah for being afraid to feed the bird, she now recalled.
Holding the journal close, she whispered into the stillness, ‘‘Yes, Ivy, I do remember.’’
After the Preaching service, Susannah’s mother caught up with Lydia and gave her their New York address. ‘‘Susannah wanted you to have this.’’
‘‘I promised her I’d be writing,’’ she told Nancy Stoltzfus.
‘‘Just give us a little time to get moved and settled before you do,’’ Nancy said with a broad smile.
‘‘Oh, I will.’’ Lydia collected her sisters, allowing Caleb and Josiah to head outdoors with the men, while the women set the long tables in the basement of the meetinghouse. She made note that Levi King and his three brothers were also in attendance, and once she caught him lookin’ her way, if only briefly.
‘‘Too bad Aunt Sarah had to be sick today,’’ little Hannah said as they helped by turning the plastic plates right side up on the tables.
‘‘Jah, ’tis,’’ Lydia said.
‘‘She’s missin’ out on the common meal,’’ Hannah said innocently. ‘‘Lookee, all kinds of gut food.’’
‘‘What makes you think Aunt Sarah would enjoy eatin’ with us Plain folk?’’
Anna Mae had an answer. ‘‘Ach, she might like it just fine, if she ever decided to become one of us.’’
‘‘I doubt that’ll happen . . . ever.’’ Lydia straightened her apron and w
ent to help the older women with the serving platters. ‘‘You best not hold your breath hopin’ for it, hear?’’
‘‘You don’t know for sure, now, do ya?’’ Anna Mae had followed her, insisting on continuing the conversation.
‘‘We’ll talk ’bout this later.’’ When we’re not bein’ overheard or observed , she thought.
‘‘I have a gut mind to ask Aunt Sarah right out . . . what she’s planning to do ’bout us,’’ Anna Mae blurted.
‘‘Please, not now,’’ Lydia said, glancing ’round to see if anyone was listening.
‘‘Maybe it’s a gut thing she did get sick.’’ Anna Mae spun on her heels, nearly bumping into Miriam Esh.
What an awful thing to say , thought Lydia.
‘‘Hullo, Anna Mae,’’ Miriam said with a smile. She wrapped her arms ’round Anna Mae, whose face turned a blazing pink and whose wide eyes told Lydia just how awful bad the plump woman must be smellin’. ‘‘How’s everyone at your house?’’
Lydia went on over to chat with Miriam, rescuing Anna Mae from the woman’s clutches. ‘‘Aunt Sarah’s down with a sore throat and strong fever.’’
‘‘Is she drinkin’ lotsa chamomile tea and honey?’’
Lydia had to chuckle. ‘‘Now she is.’’
The men and boys were beginning to file in, ready to be served cold cuts and Jell-O salads. Lydia was actually glad when Miriam turned around, the woman’s body blocking Lydia a bit during the silent prayer, which Preacher Esh and Bishop Joseph signaled with a few coughs. Then came the hushed silence.
Peeking, Lydia located Levi’s bowed head quickly enough, watching him during the men’s prayer. When the blessing was done, his eyes fluttered open, and he looked across the room at her, as if he’d known where she was standin’ all along. His smile was ever so cautious, but it made Lydia’s heart sing just the same.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Peach Lane School had been standing smack dab in the middle of Peach Lane since the late 1830s, a few years after the Public School Law was decreed in Pennsylvania.
Lydia arrived at six-thirty on Monday morning and, for the first time, noticed the many rounded and crumblin’ bricks. More than a century and a half of wind, rain, and snow had gnawed away at the old schoolhouse. The little white porch dipped and creaked under her snow boots; so did the wood floor inside. The walls sagged a bit, too, marked by patches of new brick here and there, and the student desks wore obvious signs of ink stains, chipped edges, and carved initials. Near the teacher’s desk, an immense wood stove also bore years of wear.
How odd , thought Lydia. She’d never noticed any of this before today. But then, she had never been appointed to the task of schoolteacher in the red brick school, either. Now she was the teacher solely responsible for eight grades and thirty-six students— four of them her own brothers and sisters.
Just now the room was bone-chillin’ cold, and she had only two hours to tend the fire, make the room cozy but not too warm for busy minds and active bodies. There was a fine line between too snug and too cool, she recalled from her own years as a pupil here. Part of being a good teacher was to heed that line, so her pupils would neither doze off nor shiver in their boots.
She quickly reviewed the schedule for the day, eager to pull on the heavy rope at the back of the classroom when it was time. Only once in her life as a student had she ever been allowed to ring the old bell that hung in the wooden belfry above the schoolhouse. Today began a series of days, weeks, and hopefully months of pealing the bell, alerting the children that school was in session. Hard work with little pay. Yet the People had given her the honor of molding the lives of their future preachers, bishops, farmers’ wives, and mothers of a growing Amish community. She hoped her assignment as Peach Lane schoolmistress might also help certain children —’specially too-curious teenagers— remain true to the covenant community and not wander away into the world.
Sarah had managed to come downstairs to oversee the children’s breakfast, but it seemed that Lydia had covered all the bases—notes left in prominent places for Anna Mae and little Hannah, advising them as to what foods to offer their brothers. She was scarcely needed today and was rather glad of it, since her fever had broken in the wee hours, leaving her quite weak. Wishing for a long warm bath, she greeted the children, keeping her distance as they ate scrambled eggs and bacon cooked by Anna Mae.
Josiah was the one to inquire of her health. ‘‘Are you some better today?’’
‘‘She looks better,’’ volunteered little Hannah, smiling from the table.
‘‘Well, thank you, dear.’’
‘‘Guess Aunt Sarah won’t be walkin’ us to school today,’’ Anna Mae said, referring to her as though she were not in the room.
She spoke up quickly. ‘‘I’ll walk with you again in a few days.’’
At that, Josiah and Hannah spun around. ‘‘Then you’ll be stayin’ longer . . . with us?’’ Josiah asked, his face earnest.
‘‘For a while longer, I guess.’’ She had not begun to think through the logistics, however.
‘‘I’m glad you’re gonna be our half-mamma, at least,’’ Hannah remarked.
‘‘Me too!’’ Josiah agreed.
Caleb poured another glass of milk, and Anna Mae reached for a second piece of buttered toast. ‘‘Would you be able to help us out and fold some of the clothes?’’ Anna Mae ventured timidly. ‘‘Lyddie hung them out this morning awful early, so they’re dry already. Right stiff, really, so they’re warming up in the front room.’’
‘‘I’d be glad to help with that,’’ Sarah replied. She wondered how Lydia had managed to do so much at home and still rush off to teach school. Resolving to take much of the domestic load off her niece’s shoulders, Sarah would begin by cooking and baking today.
‘‘Just what’s a half-mamma, anyways?’’ Josiah said, a piece of bacon hanging off his chin.
‘‘Don’t know, really,’’ Hannah said. ‘‘But that’s kinda what Aunt Sarah is, ain’t so?’’
‘‘Best not say ‘ain’t’ today at school,’’ Caleb warned.
‘‘Jah,’’ Anna Mae piped up. ‘‘It’s Lyddie’s first day teachin’, ya know.’’
‘‘Best be on your gut behavior,’’ Caleb said. ‘‘I doubt Lyddie’s gonna put up with much from her own brothers and sisters.’’
‘‘No . . . prob’ly not,’’ Anna Mae said, looking rather worried. Sarah stood in the doorway, leaning against the wide wood molding, listening to the children’s comments, finding humor in their apparent oblivion to her.
Suddenly Josiah got up and went to wash his hands and face at the sink. ‘‘Does Lyddie know you’re stayin’ on longer?’’ he asked, his gaze fixed on her.
‘‘She’ll know soon enough,’’ Sarah replied.
Hannah jumped off the wooden bench. ‘‘Can I tell her at mornin’ recess?’’
‘‘No . . . no, I want to!’’ Josiah insisted.
Caleb and Anna Mae exchanged somber glances, saying nothing, sitting motionless.
‘‘Lydia will hear the news from me when she comes home.’’
Sarah turned toward the stairs. I’ll stay only long enough to locate a foster parent , she thought.
‘‘Can’t we say nothin’ at school ’bout it?’’ Josiah called from the kitchen.
Sarah turned to face them, feeling rather breathless. ‘‘That’s right, you can’t say anything at school.’’
He grinned back at her. ‘‘You were a teacher once, too, ain’t?’’
She smiled. ‘‘Who told you that?’’
‘‘Mamma did,’’ Hannah said, coming toward her.
‘‘Better not get too close,’’ she said. ‘‘I want all of you to stay healthy.’’
‘‘Honestly, you do ?’’ Hannah asked.
‘‘Of course I do.’’
‘‘Aunt Sarah’s a wonderful-gut half-mamma,’’ Josiah said, tugging on Hannah’s apron.
Sarah chuckled a little, burstin
g out with it so fast she couldn’t stop it.
Well after the children had left for school, Sarah’s cell phone rang. ‘‘Hello?’’ she answered.
‘‘Hi, Sarah. Are you ignoring your email messages?’’ It was Bryan.
‘‘Oh, sorry. I haven’t even checked lately. I’ve been sick in bed.’’
‘‘Allergic to farm work?’’
‘‘I’m fighting off the flu.’’
‘‘Who’s winning?’’
‘‘Let’s put it this way. I’ve guzzled enough chamomile tea to relaunch the Boston Tea Party.’’
‘‘Boston, hmm, nice place.’’
‘‘So . . . what’s on your mind?’’ She had no intention of addressing the issue of his strange pronouncement—that he’d found God.
‘‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you.’’
She was silent and wouldn’t admit to having thought about him, too.
‘‘Still hanging out in Amish country?’’
‘‘I plan to be here a few more days . . . or so.’’
‘‘May I drop by for a visit sometime this week?’’
‘‘That’s not necessary, Bryan.’’
‘‘But I want to talk to you.’’ His voice was sweet. Too sweet.
‘‘Not about this religious kick you’re on, I hope.’’ She shuddered, pulling her bathrobe snugly around her shoulders. ‘‘You have me worried.’’
‘‘We have some catching up to do, and since I’m in Harrisburg . . . less than an hour away, I couldn’t resist calling.’’
She thought about the prospect of seeing him. ‘‘How long will you be in the area?’’
‘‘Two days, then I fly home.’’ He was silent, then—‘‘It’s important that I see you again, Sarah.’’
An inner voice urged her on. Yet the feeling was foreign, this feeling of wanting to be with him. ‘‘Give me another day to beat this bug. I’ll call you tomorrow night.’’
The Redemption of Sarah Cain Page 20