A Second Chance

by Linda Byler

  Her face turned red, and her voice rose until she shrieked the word “mother.” Emmylou began to cry, quietly.

  Edna grasped Marie’s forearm in her hand, shook her gently and said, “I am your stepmother, Marie, and I expect you to listen to me. You know better than to fry bacon without my help. Now you clean up this mess, and we’ll have to show the ruined countertop to your father.”

  “He won’t care.”

  “We’ll see. After you’re finished, come help me with the corn, the way you were supposed to in the first place.”

  “I hate doing corn.”

  Edna wanted to slap her, standing in this smoky kitchen that already felt as if it was approaching ninety degrees. Her shoulders ached from the corn picking, her foul mood enhanced by the atrocity of the previous evening. Would anything ever be right again?

  Was this union with Orva destined to be riddled with ill feelings and wrong moves?

  God grant me the serenity . . .

  To accept the things I cannot change . . .

  Well, she wasn’t about to accept Marie’s cheekiness. That little girl thought entirely too much of herself, same as Neil, and if she didn’t nip this in the bud now, she would never accomplish any form of discipline.

  Emmylou was different, too young to know her sister was being too bold.

  Grosfeelich. Marie’s attitude was plain grosfeelich. She’d had the upper hand with those pictures, and here she was a gain, expecting Edna to accept everything she wanted to do. She thought of the sympathy she’d felt for the poor motherless girls, the love she felt sure would come easily, the showers of blessings that would follow.

  So what was going wrong so soon? Was this a pattern that would be drawn up month after month, year after year, until it pried her and Orva apart? The thought was despicable, sickening. She couldn’t let this happen. She had to control the children in a loving way, but she’d need Orva’s support, wouldn’t she? Wasn’t that the way decent, loving families operated, like a smooth, well-oiled machine that was maintained on a regular basis?

  The temperature climbed steadily until late in the afternoon when the thermometer on the north side of the house registered only a shade below 100 degrees. Edna’s thin dress stuck to her back and armpits, and the outdoor cooker boiled and steamed as she cooked the yellow ears of corn, then plunged them in the cold water. The Rubbermaid totes were filled and running over, with the garden hose draped over them with a steady stream of water coming from the nozzle. Marie and Emmylou were soaking wet, generously allowing the ice-cold water to spray wherever they wanted, laughing uproariously, the morning’s incident forgotten, eating corn and talking to Edna about little girls’ thoughts and events.

  By the time Orva and Neil came home, Edna had everything cleaned up. The last quart bag had been taken down the steps to the freezer, and she was turning on the grill to prepare steak, while the corn bubbled away on the stovetop.

  She felt her heart racing. Would he still be angry?

  She occupied herself, busily scraping residue from the grill racks with a wire brush, her back turned. She straightened, stood to face him and welcome him home, but stopped, her mouth open in disbelief when he let himself into the house without acknowledging her presence.

  So it was worse than she thought.

  Heartsick, her hands trembling now, she finished cleaning the racks, the strength draining from her arms. She vowed never, ever, to confront Orva about Neil again, and bit her lips to stop the tears from pricking her eyelids.

  She jumped when she felt Orva behind her.

  “Edna, I’m sorry.”

  Gently he turned her, and gently he took her in his strong arms. She shook with the force of her sobs. He stroked her back, murmured endearments, told her it was all his fault, not hers. She clung to him and said she was the one who should have kept her mouth closed.

  Marie found them in a close embrace, laughing, with Edna wiping her streaming eyes and her face red with the heat and the force of her crying. Marie stepped away, around the corner of the house to run on bare feet to her rabbit hutches, opened the door, took out a bunny, and held it in her lap.

  The steaks were tender on the inside, crispy on the outside, just the way Orva and Neil liked them. The sliced tomatoes were perfect, laying on a bed of mayonnaise atop fresh homemade bread, the corn steaming with a river of melted butter glistening like liquid gold.

  Edna and Orva chatted about everything, their gazes holding and locking, their smiles wide and frequent. Neil said his knee buckled under him on the job, and Orva took on a look of concern, asking him if he wouldn’t need to have a doctor look at that leg.

  Neil nodded, said gruffly, “Maybe I should.”

  Orva asked Edna if she’d mind calling his orthopedic surgeon, seeing if she could get him in as soon as possible, and Edna was lifted to the heights of euphoria, thinking how clearly the Lord had heard her pleas for help.

  To change the things I can’t accept . . .

  That was the evening that Neil carried his own plate through the screen door, into the kitchen, and lingered at the sink for a self-conscious moment before saying gruffly, “The steak was really good, Edna.”

  She turned to face him, but he was walking away, so she said, “Thanks, Neil.” He didn’t answer. He’d called her Edna, not Mam, but that was O.K. Perfectly alright. He had spoken to her all by himself, given her a compliment.

  Was there no ceiling for joy and gratitude?

  Orva found the blackened countertop later that evening, lifted questioning eyes to Edna. Without missing a beat, Edna explained about Marie and the bacon, saying she should not have been as frantic about getting the corn done all in one day.

  Orva frowned, ran his fingertips across the ruined surface.

  “I’ll have Marlin Yoder come look at it. He’s the one who installed the cabinets. Marie shouldn’t have been frying bacon. I’ll talk to her.”

  “I did. But it would be best if you talked to her as well. Sometimes I just upset her more.”

  “Why don’t we both talk to her?”

  Edna was doubtful but accompanied him to the rabbit hutches, where Emmylou was holding two white rabbits while Marie cleaned the hutch with a short-handled hoe, taking out the wisps of hay and droppings.

  Emmylou handed over two bunnies, her eyes shining. Marie stopped scraping, straightened, her eyes clouded with suspicion.

  “Hey. Marie. Good job.” Orva said, smiling at her.

  “I do it often, you know.”

  “Good. That’s good. Marie, I saw the ruined countertop, O.K.?”

  She nodded, all defiance and little-girl bluster.

  “I don’t want you frying bacon again, without Mam’s help, O.K.?”

  “My mam is dead.”

  Orva recoiled, his eyes wide.

  “Marie! You should not say that to Edna.”

  “She’s not my mam.”

  This was Orva’s first encounter with Marie’s hardened attitude, and Edna could tell he was reeling in the face of it.

  “Marie, she is your mam because I married her.”

  “She’s not going to boss me around, though.”

  Orva nodded toward the house, gave Edna a small shove, and said softly, “Take Emmylou.”

  Edna walked along the flagstone sidewalk, with Emmylou skipping behind her. When Edna sank into a patio chair, Emmylou climbed up on her lap, laid her head on her shoulder, and said it wasn’t her that didn’t want a hug at night, it was Marie, who was being a brat.

  Edna held her close and said Marie was simply having a hard time accepting her as a new mother. It was a long time before Emmylou answered, but when she did it was the most memorable little speech Edna had ever heard.

  “Well, my mam is in Heaven, you know. She was awful skinny and it hurt everywhere in her body. Now she’s an angel, and she sings up there with Jesus every day. It’s better now. I miss her, but you’re here, and you help us a lot.”

  She sighed. “Plus, Dat likes you, I think.�
��

  Oh, he does, he does. Edna’s heart sang as she sat on the patio and felt the cool of the evening creep across her feet and legs.

  Summer gave way to the cooling breezes of October. The leaves on the maple tree turned to a blinding shade of gold, the smaller maple at the edge of the lawn to an orangey red so brilliant it appeared to be fiery.

  Edna was cleaning house. House-butza. The twice-yearly deep cleaning that most women who were raised in Amish homes adhered to, the tradition handed down for generations, the roots in Switzerland where the forefathers lived their scrupulous lives on well-kept farms, working from dawn to dusk.

  Although it was rare for the modern hausfrau to lug buckets of hot, soapy water up the attic stairs to get down on her hands and knees to scrub the wide planks of the attic floor. Some of the old cleaning practices were no longer viewed as necessary and were replaced by common sense.

  She did start in the attic, however, and planned on working her way down. She had garbage bags, broom, brush and dustpan, Windex and paper towels for the windows.

  She shivered as she mounted the attic steps. She should have started this job on a warm day but thought once she got going, the exercise would keep her warm enough. She had only been in her attic a few times, so she never took the time to assess the boxes and broken pieces of furniture.

  She groaned when she saw the accumulation of dead flies and upturned stinkbugs, the silvery flash of silverfish that were very much alive—despicable little things. If you saw one of those little critters, there were hundreds, probably thousands more in every available hiding place. She may as well give in immediately and write “foggers” on her store list.

  She stood on top of the attic steps and surveyed the jumble with eyebrows drawn, mouth taut. By all appearances, no one had ever organized seriously, the way cardboard boxes, broken chairs, and plastic bags were scattered about. She decided she’d start at the far corner and work her way over. This would take up most of her day, so there would be no bread baking and likely vegetable soup for supper.

  What a mess.

  It didn’t take long to realize there was enough old furniture here to fill another house. She opened and closed dresser drawers, dusted, wiped, then pushed, pulled, and yanked until she had a semblance of order.

  She was beginning to enjoy this, as she viewed the clean, orderly corner she’d already accomplished. But she couldn’t help wondering why Sarah never cleaned her attic. This dusty jumble was more than a few years of neglect.

  No one had been up here for a very long time, likely as long as the house was here. Well, who knew? It was certainly none of her business, so she wouldn’t ponder too much.

  The top of the cedar chest was warped, and the varnish was peeling as if the heat in the attic had damaged the smooth finish. It was not an old cedar chest, but one a local Amish furniture builder had designed.

  That was strange. Why wasn’t this beautiful chest in the guest room, the way all cedar chests were, containing lovely hand-stitched quilts or hooked rugs, all items handed to young brides from her family?

  She tried lifting the lid but found it to be impossible.

  Locked.

  Hmm. Curious now, Edna ran her hands over the entire surface of the chest. Nothing. She stood looking down at it, contemplating her options. She should walk away, let it be. Don’t waste time on this, she thought. But still.

  She got down on her hands and knees, reached up under it with her fingers, searching for a bump, a key taped to the underside. People hid keys all the time, and often in an area close to the locked door.

  A bump in the far right corner.

  Aha.

  A piece of tape, with, yes, the smooth head of a key.

  Should she open this?

  She was married to Orva, and this was her house, his belongings were her belongings. Wither thou goest and all that. Even their God was the same, so yes, she had every right to open the chest.

  It wasn’t hard to pick the end of the tape loose or to extract the key, a plain silver one that fit in the slot like magic. Edna turned it to the right, felt the welcome click of the lock, and easily lifted the lid.

  She held the battery light over the contents, her brow lined with perplexity. Baby things.

  She reached down to stroke a small blue quilt. So soft. She lifted the corner, to find more soft baby shawls, receiving blankets, and a small box filled with sleepers and onesies, all in shades of blue or white.

  Baby boy items.

  Edna wondered why the chest contained these items that had obviously been Neil’s, with nothing pertaining to the girls. She dug deeper, searching for anything pink, little dresses or nighties, but there was nothing.

  On the opposite side of the chest, there was another box, a decorative box with navy blue and white artwork with a gold clasp. Gingerly, Edna lifted it, slowly opened the lid to find hundreds of photographs.

  Obviously Neil, but who was the English girl holding him?

  She peered closely, then picked up another one.

  Her again. With Neil.

  Edna thought it must have been his babysitter, or perhaps an aunt who had left the Amish faith. She shuffled through more pictures.

  Neil as an infant. Neil being held. Always by this same girl. She was so young. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen at the most, perhaps even sixteen.

  Puzzled now, she riffled faster, picking up and laying down picture after picture. She finally concluded the photographs stopped after the baby—was it even Neil for sure?—was three or four.

  Walking. Riding a trike.

  Slowly, she closed the lid on the box, laid it back on top of the other baby items. She picked up a pair of tiny white sneakers, little overalls, and striped T-shirts—a little English boy’s clothes.

  She had only met Sarah twice, then at the last stages of her cancer, the disease that left the body shrunken to near weightlessness.

  Surely this pretty girl without a trace of plain clothing could not be Sarah. She couldn’t think that.

  Determined to find out what exactly had occurred here, she set out a few items, dug to the bottom of the chest, searching for answers.

  At the far left corner, standing upright, a packet of letters tied with a blue ribbon, which Edna thought must be the baby cards she had received.

  Tentatively, she lifted them out, noticed immediately they were not cards, but plain white envelopes addressed to Sarah Miller.

  Edna gasped. Haverstock, Maine.

  Oh, my goodness.

  She glanced over her shoulder, guilty now, as if Orva had come home from work early and found her digging around in his first wife’s past. Or Neil. Neil would never speak to her again.

  Should she read the contents of the letters? It would solve everything. She surely couldn’t turn back now, having come this far. She found her hands were shaking now, and she felt hot, then chilled.

  Slowly, she pulled the top white envelope from the stack, unfolded the lined tablet paper, and began to read.

  “Dearest Sarah,

  “Greetings of Christian love in the name of Jesus. Every day, you are in my heart and mind. Every day. I want to write a letter to you, let you know we will never rest till you come home with your dear little boy.”

  So it was her, Sarah. The thought stuck her with force. Orva was not Neil’s father. Sarah had Neil with someone else, left the Amish faith because of her shame. Or was it shame? Had she followed Neil’s father to Maine, only to be rejected by him?

  Children being born out of wedlock was uncommon among the Amish, but it did happen, and when it did, the couple or the single girl were accepted with love and sympathy. There was support carried in Christian love that rode on the winds of forgiveness. Although the stigma of shame and humility was attached as well, a mark that sent the girl from an innocent young maiden into the circle of the married woman, no matter her age.

  Had the Amish way been too much for the shy Sarah to bear? And who was Neil’s father? T
here was not one photograph of any young man.

  Edna read on.

  “We miss you every day and pray on. You know what is right, Sarah dear, so we will pound on the gates of mercy till you return.

  “I’m so afraid you are suffering financially since Shawn left.”

  Edna drew in a deep breath.

  Shawn. An English youth. Or man.

  But why wasn’t his picture taken with Sarah and Neil?

  Edna steadied herself with a deep breath. She sat back on her heels, then sat down, stretched her legs out and leaned back against the chest, her thoughts rampant. She was definitely intruding, sticking her nose into a situation from the past, one that was buried, forgiven, laid to rest.

  But the fruit of Sarah’s disobedience lived on.

  Neil. Ach my, Neil.

  And there awoke in Edna a fierce love for this handsome, hurting, troubled adolescent. God had put Neil on this earth for a reason, and what other reason but to be accepted and loved the same as everyone else, no matter the circumstances of his birth? He could not help being born.

  Did he know Orva wasn’t his father? But he resembled him somewhat. She had noticed the width of his shoulders, the build so like Orva’s, but was that only a coincidence?

  Now what?

  Should she tell Orva? Approach Neil?

  She knew immediately the latter would be much the same as stumbling on a land mine, with an instantaneous eruption. But Orva would be different.

  He would be willing to share this information of the past, surely.

  CHAPTER 21

  DAYS WENT BY WITH EDNA IN TURMOIL. ORVA CAME HOME FROM work, happy, talking about his day, teasing the girls as if his whole world was centered, stabilized, and he was the recipient of one glorious day after another.

  Neil was his usual sullen self but had actually progressed to the mature decision to sit at the supper table and eat with the family. In spite of separating himself by his silences, Edna took it as a small step toward acceptance.

  So why blow everything by mentioning the cedar chest in the attic?

  It was in the past, forgiven, forgotten. But thoughts swirled.

  Did Neil know? How much had Sarah told him?