But why, why, had Mom been so determined for Hannah never to meet the rest of her family?
Looking at the kind face of this man who had mourned her all these years, Hannah came closer to hating her mother than she had ever imagined she could. She had moments of bitterness about going hungry because Jodi had quit another job, staying in homeless shelters because they’d been evicted, fleeing whatever they’d called home in the middle of the night because creditors or social service workers were about to close in—or because a man had become too demanding, or too rough. She’d fought that bitterness, almost convincing herself that Mom had done the best she could.
But all of that was nothing compared to the cruelty of stealing her daughter from so many people who had loved her, leaving them not knowing what happened to her—until they were told, falsely, that she was dead.
Eventually, she’d ask Mom why she’d done such a thing . . . but how likely was it that her mother’s answer would even approach the truth?
“Come. My wife and your sisters and brothers are eager to meet you.” Samuel held out a hand to her and smiled.
Hannah’s stomach seemed to flip. She knew that smile. Not from memory, but because it looked so much like her own when she saw herself in the mirror or a reflection on window glass.
Fighting to resist new tears, she started forward again.
* * *
* * *
Hannah had confined herself to small servings of everything, because she’d seen the array of desserts on the counter. Since she especially loved to bake, she could hardly wait to sample the pies and cakes for which the Amish were well known.
She felt so odd, looking around the table, almost dizzy with the wonder of being here. She’d long since given up on ever finding out who her father was—as an adult, she’d decided he was one of her mother’s transient “boyfriends” and that maybe Mom herself didn’t remember which one. But now she not only knew, she was sitting at his table, stealing astonished peeks at the bearded face that really didn’t look like her, but had already slotted into a place in her mind where she’d kept a blank labeled “Father.”
I must remember him. What else could explain how right he feels?
And then there was the rest of the family, starting with her other grandmother, Samuel’s mother. A tiny woman, Ruth Mast had the most wrinkled face Hannah had ever seen, yet she was still lovely. Her skin looked soft, as if delicate fabric had crumpled. The shape of those lines described her character to anyone looking at her. Smiles had to come most naturally to her. She was almost eighty, Samuel had told Hannah quietly. She’d had eight children, Samuel the youngest. She moved between the homes of all her children, but several were out of state, one south in the Ozarks, and she didn’t travel well anymore. She currently lived in what he called a grossdawdi haus, a wing built onto the farmhouse that was apparently a self-contained mother-in-law apartment—with his sister and her family. There’d been a time she traveled between her many sons and daughters, but no longer.
“I went to get her tonight. Lucky it is that she’s here right now, when you came back to us.”
When Ruth could reach Hannah, she’d pat her arm or cheek ever so gently, but her English was broken and her accent strong enough that Hannah had trouble understanding her. Still, her delight at Hannah’s presence was palpable, her smile a blessing. This woman had cared for Hannah when she was young, cooked and cleaned for the family. Loved this granddaughter.
Hannah’s stepmother, Lilian, was likely ten or even fifteen or twenty years younger than her father, but had been a widow when she married him, already having a child. Daad had beamed as he laid a hand on the shoulder of a lanky boy who was fourteen years old, claiming him, saying he was their oldest. The boy’s name was Mose. Hannah’s half sisters and brothers stairstepped down from there: a shy girl named Emma, ten years old; Adah, eight; Zachariah, five; and Isaiah, three. Hannah had the impression that Lilian was pregnant again. And if Daad was . . . heavens, he was a few years older than Jodi, according to Helen, which meant he was at least fifty-three or fifty-four, possibly even older. Lilian was certainly in her mid- to late thirties, at least.
The two little boys didn’t understand a word she said. Her father explained that Amish children didn’t begin to learn English until they started school at age six.
“Although you were different, of course,” he added.
With the little Emma had said—whispered—she had a strong accent, as did her mother. Adah, too, but she was a chatterbox. Mose just seemed alarmed by this much older sister. His cheeks flushed whenever she spoke to him.
Samuel or Lilian translated much of what Hannah said for the benefit of the younger children—kinder, they called them. Hannah found herself silently shaping the sounds and the words: mammi, daadi, grossmammi, stoppe, schnell, sehr gut, komm, wilkom. Zachariah called his brother doppick and was scolded by his mother. Hannah had to hide a smile.
She understood more words than she would have expected, partly because plenty were self-explanatory, possibly because she’d taken German in high school, even though she didn’t get very far because most of the schools offered only Spanish or French.
The desserts were every bit as delicious as she’d expected, although she could eat only a bite or two of each, to the apparent astonishment of everyone present except her grossmammi, who had also eaten lightly.
“I’ve always picked at my food,” she tried to explain. “I guess you can tell I’m not a big eater.” She wrinkled her nose. “Plus, I’m a chef, and we tend to taste often but not really sit down to a meal.”
“A chef?” her daad asked, obviously not knowing the word.
“Well, a cook.”
They all beamed.
“I went to school to learn how to cook, and now I work at a fancy restaurant. We create dishes instead of using ones from recipes.”
“Ach, we do that sometimes, too,” Lilian agreed.
“I’ve loved to cook since I was a girl. My mother mostly opened cans or bought frozen food to be heated in the microwave.” Maybe it had been tactless for her to mention her mother at all, but she forged ahead anyway, although she wasn’t about to tell them how often there just hadn’t been any food at all. “So, well, I took over.”
Lilian turned her smile on her oldest daughter. “Emma is already a fine cook, and Adah is learning, too. Mose just eats everything set in front of him and then asks for more!”
Mose turned beet red.
“Boys do that,” Samuel said tolerantly. “Hard worker, he is.”
When Lilian and the girls rose to clear the table, Hannah jumped up and tried to help, but Lilian wouldn’t let her. She gave her a quick hug and murmured, “Your daad has waited so long to be able to get to know you.”
Hannah hesitated, but sat down at the table again. Her grandmother—her grossmammi—smiled gently at her. The two little boys had disappeared toward the living room, Mose out the back door.
Samuel lifted his coffee cup to his mouth, but watched her over the brim with keen blue eyes. “How long will you stay?” he asked, before taking a sip.
“I . . . don’t know.” Already, she was in turmoil about this. “I asked for a two-week break from my job, but . . . I think I’d feel guilty leaving that soon. You know my grandfather is in poor health?”
“Ja, Helen told me, but I could see for myself.” His voice was kind. “It’s a blessing he was able to see you.”
“Yes.” Her smile wobbled. “I don’t want to say, ‘Hi, nice to meet you,’ and just leave. You know? I think Grandma Helen could use help, and . . . I’ve missed so much. I didn’t think I had any family except for Mom, and now—” She shook her head. “I always wondered especially who my father was.”
He took her hand in his work-roughened one. “Losing you was terrible. You were so bright, so happy, everything a father could want.”
“Gran
dma said, oh, that I’d run to you to be swung into the air, always trusting you to keep me safe.”
A spasm crossed his face, and she felt guilty because they both knew that he hadn’t been able to keep her safe.
But all he said was, “Ja, we were close. Your mamm . . .” He paused.
Hannah saved him from having to criticize her mother. “I know what she’s like. She was always loving, and really good at playing—she made up wonderful stories—but . . . I still love her, but . . . she wasn’t responsible.”
Still isn’t responsible, she silently corrected herself. Had her mother ever really grown up?
Then an awful thought struck her. “You married again because you thought she was dead.”
Samuel grimaced. “Ja, I have talked with the bishop about this. To make things right, I’ve asked your grossmammi Helen to speak to Jodi about filing papers to get a divorce in the Englisch court. Not what I would have chosen, but—” His eyes rested on his wife, washing dishes as his oldest daughter dried them while sneaking peeks at her daad and this strange new sister.
Not his oldest daughter, Hannah corrected herself. The thought was somehow startling. I am.
“Mom could remarry, then. I always wondered why she didn’t. Although . . . I never had the feeling she especially wanted to.”
“I think,” he said a little gruffly, “she got tired of being married quickly. Or maybe it was our way of life she didn’t like. She was fun loving, as you say, but not so happy about digging into work.”
“I know,” Hannah whispered.
“I can see her in your face, but are you like her in other ways? I don’t see that.”
“No, I don’t think I am.” In wondering about herself, she reflected often on Proverbs 22:6. Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it. Jodi hadn’t really trained her daughter in any meaningful way. Could it be true that her father and grandparents and the aunts Helen told her were often there, cooking and watching over her, might really have given her that foundation? Trained her in the way she should go? She’d have to think about that later. Although . . . that especially made sense since she’d so instinctively taken to cooking and felt such unexpected joy the first time she went to church.
What had she been? Eight or nine? Jodi had assured the man she’d begun to date that naturally she and her daughter attended church every Sunday. Hannah didn’t say a word. The relationship fizzled without really going anywhere, but they’d gone to several services, Jodi restless and bored, Hannah enraptured.
Shaking off the memory, Hannah continued with what she’d meant to say. “And right now, I’m mad at her for what she did to you and to my grandparents. And to me, making me believe I had no family. It was so lonely.”
Her father’s hand covered hers. “Ja, I understand, but you must forgive her. Our Lord tells us that if you forgive the trespasses of others, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive the trespasses of others, neither will your Father forgive yours.”
She smiled shakily. “Matthew is my favorite book in the Bible.”
“You’re a churchgoer?”
“Yes. Once I was old enough that Mom didn’t pay much attention to what I was doing, I’d find a church wherever we went. The services opened a door for me. My faith gave me solace.”
Samuel nodded, sadness deepening some of the lines on his face.
Why, Mom? Why?
Chapter Four
“The cucumbers are coming along well,” Hannah commented as she swiftly pulled weeds and dropped them in her bucket. The first time she offered to help in the garden, Lilian had been careful to show her what was a weed and what was a plant to be encouraged.
“Ja, May will be the start of our busy time.” Two rows away, Lilian, too, was weeding. Her girls were currently in school, while the boys were with Samuel in the barn. Lilian continued, “Peas, potatoes, rhubarb, and strawberries. But later, so much ripens it’s hard to keep up.”
“I can only imagine.” Hannah had never had the chance to garden, and the extent of her experience preserving fruits or vegetables had been making freezer jam.
This garden was vast, at first sight looking like a commercial enterprise, but Hannah was slowly learning what it took to feed a family of seven, soon to be eight—well, already often eight, as much time as she was spending here. This family raised enough vegetables and fruit to keep them year-round. Lilian and her girls must can daily for several months on end. They purchased only what couldn’t be raised here in northern Missouri, or not without devoting entire fields to it, like wheat and sugar. They kept chickens and pigs, traded eggs with a neighbor for milk. They raised a couple of beef cows each spring, too.
An enterprise like this first surprised, then impressed and intrigued Hannah. To cook with ingredients you’d raised from seed or egg was something she’d never pictured doing, probably because it wasn’t common in this country anymore, certainly not on this scale. This wasn’t a backyard garden that provided treasured, if limited, sweet corn or peas for a few nights’ worth of dinners.
The sun felt wonderful, although Hannah had plastered herself with lotion to keep herself from burning. She didn’t tan well at best, and working lunch through dinner and into the night until the restaurant kitchen was clean didn’t allow her many daytime hours to hang out at the park or the public swimming pool. Since she lived in an apartment with a tiny balcony, the only gardening she did was plop some geraniums and the like in pots.
Thank goodness she hadn’t started any annuals, she thought, because they’d be brown and brittle by now with her away so long.
She reached the end of a row and straightened up, stretching her back.
“I’m thinking of looking for a rental in town,” she announced. “And probably a short-term job, too. I’m not ready to go so soon. I’ve loved getting to know all of you, and then there’s my grandfather.”
Even though Lilian had already started down another row, she, too, straightened. “Ja, Samuel doesn’t think he has long.”
“No.” She hesitated. “I’ve been meaning to ask about Grossmammi. Is she well?” They’d gone to Aenti Gloria’s house for dinner one night, and Mose had gone to get Grossmammi another evening.
“Stronger than she looks,” Lilian said, “but . . . fading a little. In her mind, you understand?”
“Ja. It’s hard for me to tell because I can’t totally understand what she says anyway.” She frowned. “Although I’m getting better.”
Lilian smiled warmly. “Mose says he has been giving you lessons in speaking our language.”
“Ja, he’s patient. I sit and watch him measure and saw and nail while he grills me.” As young as he was, Mose had an apparently thriving business building doghouses, most sold at the local lumberyard and farm store. To his daad’s disappointment, he had no interest in becoming a farrier like his father, or metalworking in general. Samuel had told her with open pride that Mose was determined to build houses someday.
“Grills?” Lilian’s forehead crinkled.
“Tells me words, makes me repeat them, then waits a little while and demands I come up with the right word again.” She grinned. “He can be sneaky. He makes me work.”
Lilian laughed. “Ja, his sisters, he helps them with their homework. Harder on them than their teacher, Emma says.”
Hannah laughed. “I believe it. He’s a smart boy.”
Mose’s mother looked justifiably pleased.
The two women worked in harmony for another two hours, until Hannah’s back ached and she began to fear she should have reapplied the suntan lotion. Finally, on completing a row, she said, “I promised Grandma Helen I’d have dinner with them, and I’d better go by my hotel room to shower and change clothes first.”
Lilian took a swipe at her forehead, beaded with sweat, and studied Hannah. The knees of her
jeans were stained with green and brown, and she had wet circles under her arms and probably between her shoulder blades. Feeling like a weakling, Hannah couldn’t imagine working this hard in the garden in July or August when the temperatures climbed into the nineties and hotter.
Lilian went with her to dump their buckets in a compost bin—a whole row of them, some full and only being turned, others empty or partially filled, containing everything from grass clippings to kitchen waste. Saying she thought she’d had enough, too, and must get supper cooking, she walked Hannah to her car.
There, she startled her with a hug. “Will we see you tomorrow?”
“You must be getting tired of me.”
“Never,” Lilian insisted. “God brought you to us. Samuel has never been happier, and the kinder all love you, a new big sister.”
Swallowing a lump in her throat, Hannah said, “Thank you for saying that. Yes, I’ll come help you in the garden again tomorrow, if you’ll let me make any desserts for dinner.”
Lilian’s plain but sweet face lit with happiness. “Certain sure!”
Hannah surprised herself by hugging Lilian in turn before jumping into her car and starting it.
Paradise was supposed to be a beach in the Caribbean, the sand white and the water turquoise, wasn’t it? So why was she increasingly feeling like this farm was the most wonderful place on earth?
* * *
* * *
Rebecca King’s enthusiasm for the job of caring for Gideon’s kinder as well as doing basic housekeeping and cooking had noticeably dimmed in the past two weeks. To his relief, she hardly ever stayed to eat with them, but the quality of the meals slipped along with her attendance.
Today, rain threatened, so Gideon forced himself to collect the clean laundry Rebecca had left on the clothesline. A wind had picked up enough to snap the sheets out of his grip. One billowed and flew away. Zeb and Rebekah chased it, but when they handed it over, he could see that it would need washing again.
Finding Hope Page 4