Piecing It All Together

by Leslie Gould

  I’d never be a big sister—Mom finally told me only a miracle would make me one—so I poured the love I had stored up inside of me for a sibling onto those babies. It wasn’t until after Mom died that I realized she’d done the same thing. She’d poured all of her grief for the baby she’d lost and the ones she’d never have into those babies and mamas and their husbands and the children they already had.

  She turned grief into love.

  She did all that after she’d already poured so much into Dad and me. She never sat down. She was always on the go. At the time, I thought it was because she was such a good person, such a good mom. But now I wondered if that fast pace was a mask for her insecurities and fears. She didn’t have the best example of being a wife and mother. Did she fear becoming like her own mother? Did she think that working nonstop both at home and as a midwife would protect all of us from that? I think, looking back on the tension between them from an adult perspective, that all Dad wanted was more time with her—not the unpredictable life that we ended up living. He’d been raised with the certainty of his mother’s availability. With the security of community. With a schedule set around chores and seasons and farm work. He had that at his job but not at home.

  It wasn’t that Mom shouldn’t have worked as a midwife—she was amazing at it—but maybe she shouldn’t have taken on so many clients. Maybe she needed better boundaries. Not that I blamed her death on any of that.

  It did snow in Grass Valley, where we lived, but not nearly as much as it did east of town, up on the pass. That night Mom didn’t arrive at that cabin, Dad and I both stayed silent as he drove as fast as he could up the mountain. We saw the sheriff’s lights before we saw Mom’s car. It had gone over the guardrail, straight down a ravine.

  As my heart raced at the memory, I slowed Uncle Seth’s pickup, signaled to turn, and eased down Mammi’s driveway, only to find her shoveling the walkway leading to the house. I parked and jumped down, leaving the bags in the pickup. “I’ll do that!” I called.

  She shaded her eyes against the rising sun. “How is Arleta?”

  “Fine,” I answered, taking the shovel from her. “So is the baby—a little girl.”

  I wouldn’t tell her about Miriam disappearing. If I’d learned one thing from Mom when it came to midwifing, it was not to talk about any client’s business.

  “The neighbor boy who does the chores didn’t have time to shovel this morning. Are you sure you don’t mind doing it?” she asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I’ll go start breakfast.”

  That sounded like a fair trade. I was starving.

  I soon grew warm under my down coat. It had been years since I’d shoveled snow—since I’d moved away from Grass Valley, in fact. There was no snow to shovel in Los Angeles or San Francisco.

  I kept moving—bend down, scoop, stand up, fling—until I reached the driveway. My eyes watered. It took me a minute to realize I was crying. I brushed my gloved hand against my face. Arleta was fine. The baby was fine.

  The last baby, the one Mom had been on her way to deliver, wasn’t fine. He was born with the cord wrapped around his neck, something Mom would have most likely been able to slip over his head, but the father didn’t know what to do.

  I brushed my tears away, tears for Mom and that dead baby in the cabin on Blue Pass. But also tears of relief for Arleta and her new little girl.

  When I’d finished shoveling, I grabbed Delores’s bags from the pickup and trudged into the house. Mammi had coffee and oatmeal ready. After she led us in a silent prayer, she asked, “How are the roads?”

  “Not cleared yet,” I answered as I ate. “I slid a bit in the pickup coming home. Last night too—before it broke down.”

  “Oh no,” Mammi said. “What did you do?”

  “I got a ride-share. Do you know what that is?”

  She nodded. “I know you have to use a smartphone and have an app for it.” She smiled. “I just use the ‘dumb phone’ in the shed and call for a driver.”

  I laughed. “Do you have church today?”

  She shook her head. “It’s our off Sunday.” The Amish met every other Sunday for services. Often they’d visit a church in another district on their off Sundays or visit family and friends. But Mammi hadn’t made any such plans.

  I ended up sleeping most of the day—and all night too. When I awoke, I thought of Ryan first. Thoughts of our last phone call played in my head over and over.

  The next morning, when I came down for breakfast, Mammi said, “I’d like to go to the quilting circle this afternoon, but it snowed more during the night. I don’t think I can take the buggy unless the plows come through.”

  “I can take you in Uncle Seth’s pickup,” I said. “Delores said he’s under the weather and to go ahead and use it if I needed to.” As long as it started again.

  “Denki,” she said. “It begins at one. I’ll call Seth and make sure he doesn’t need it back today.”

  “Ask him how he’s feeling and if he needs anything.” I took another bite of oatmeal. Of course she would want to check with Seth and make sure it was all right to use the pickup. She didn’t want to take advantage of anyone, not even her brother. I’d need to tell him at some point about the engine trouble, but I wouldn’t bother him with it now. If it broke down on the way to the quilting circle, I could always use the ride-share app.

  Or call Kenny M.—whoever he was.

  CHAPTER 5

  I ended up accidentally taking another nap that morning. I’d curled up on Mammi’s couch, and the next thing I knew, I’d woken up with a start, cold and unsure of where I was, with that hollow feeling I’d struggled with since Mom had died.

  Had I been dreaming about her? About her accident? About finding her that day?

  I fished around for my cell phone. 12:15. The battery was at three percent. I’d charge it in the pickup again. Maybe I could get it up to ten.

  As I stood, my phone rang. It was the florist again. I let it go to voicemail. I’d deal with it once my phone was charged.

  Mammi had a bowl of chicken noodle soup ready for me when I stepped into the kitchen. “I called Seth,” she said. “He wondered if we could stop by the store for cough syrup and crackers. I have soup for him too.” She patted the top of a jar on the counter.

  Ten minutes later, we were in the pickup, which luckily started on the second try. Once we were on the highway, I passed two Amish men on bicycles, their stocking caps pulled down over their ears, and then a buggy driven by a young woman. They all seemed to be undaunted by the twenty degree weather. Farmers were outside, breaking ice in watering troughs, spreading bales of hay, and checking on their livestock.

  No more snow had fallen while I slept, and the plows had cleared the country roads. Mammi wore a wool coat, and I guessed she had long underwear on under her dress and long socks too. She wore boots and mittens, and had a scarf wound around her neck. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, leaning forward just a bit. I double-checked that her seat belt was fastened. It was.

  The quilt shop was about a three-mile drive from Mammi’s house, far enough that the thought of her going there in her buggy alone and in the dead of winter bothered me. It sounded as if she went several times per week.

  As we approached the driveway of Plain Patterns, an Amish man on a tractor with a snowplow attached to the front of it exited the parking lot of the shop. Two large mounds of snow sat at the back of the lot.

  “That’s Jane’s brother, Andy.” Mammi pointed to a small house across the lane. “And that’s where Jane lives.” It was a cute cottage with window boxes and a wide porch. “Her brother built the quilt shop a few years ago. Before that, she hung a shingle in front of her house. Her living room was the store back then.”

  I frowned. That sounded crowded to me. “That’s the farmhouse over there.” Mammi pointed across the lane to a large white house back in a grove of trees. “The original house, built in the late 1830s, was up here, closer to the
road.”

  I whistled. “It’s quite the property, isn’t it? With quite the history, I bet.”

  “Jah,” Mammi said. “No doubt, Jane will tell you more about it someday.”

  I waited for Andy to pull out onto the lane, and then I turned into the parking lot. There were two buggies parked in front of the shop, sans horses. I guessed they’d been taken to the small stable near the side of the shop. Thankful Mammi didn’t have to deal with any of that today, I parked, turned off the pickup, and then opened the door and jumped down, scurrying around to Mammi’s door to help her. But by the time I arrived, she already had both of her feet firmly planted on the ground.

  Just then, a black buggy pulled by a black horse approached. I was struck by the contrast of the two against the snow-white background. I couldn’t think of anything as graceful and comforting as a horse pulling an Amish buggy. The beat of the hooves against the pavement had always soothed my soul. Even though it was freezing outside, I stayed still for a moment so I could hear it. The horse, head held high, trotted past, a reminder of the steadiness and predictability of Amish life.

  Mammi smiled up at me. “I’m so glad you came today. You met Jane when you were little, but I’m pleased you’ll get to see her again.”

  I didn’t remember meeting her, but once we were inside and Mammi introduced us, she seemed familiar. Jane wore a navy blue dress with a white apron. I guessed she was in her mid-sixties or so. She was slim and probably five foot four. Her silvery hair was tucked under a white Kapp, except for the strip at the front. She wore a pair of reading glasses attached to a plain blue cord around her neck.

  Her complexion was smooth and her eyes a deep brown. I could still see a hint of the girl she once was in her lively smile, as she greeted me. “Welcome, Savannah,” she said. “I remember you from when you were small.” She held her hand to her hip and then raised it to the top of her head, indicating I’d grown up. She grinned. “It’s so good to have you join us.”

  I thanked her and then glanced around the shop as she and Mammi spoke. The store was filled with bolts of fabric, thread, patterns, and beautiful quilts that hung from racks. A wood stove, located in the far corner, provided heat. In the back room was a small kitchen area and a quilting frame surrounded by chairs, with a large queen-size quilt stretched over it.

  I didn’t recognize the pattern, but that wasn’t surprising. My expertise didn’t go beyond the usual log cabin or double ring patterns. Now I only looked at quilts on Pinterest instead of making them.

  Turning toward Jane, I asked, “What’s the pattern called?”

  “Hearth and home,” she said. “It’s a little fancy, but I think we can get away with it.”

  Each block was made of six squares in the central part and three squares and four triangles in the border. It was definitely more complicated than a basic block quilt. The colors were all shades of blue, with just one patterned fabric that looked like forget-me-nots. I exhaled. They were Mom’s favorite flower.

  “Who’s it for?” I asked.

  “I don’t know yet.” Jane smiled at me. “But I will soon enough. The Lord always reveals who needs a quilt, a specific quilt, when the time is right.”

  Two Amish women, both probably in their early fifties, were already quilting, pushing tiny needles through squares of the forget-me-not fabric.

  I kept my coat on and introduced myself to the two.

  “Hallo, Savannah,” the closest one said to me. “I’m Phyllis Raber.” She was plump with a full face and a wide smile.

  The other woman poked her head around Phyllis and said, “I’m Lois Shelter.” She had a sharp chin and gray eyes.

  I sat down next to Phyllis and pulled a needle and thread from the solid blue fabric in front of me. I hoped I could still make tiny stitches.

  I started, following the pencil marks on the quilt top. When Jane and Mammi joined us, Lois said, “I heard Arleta had her baby the night before last. A little girl.”

  Neither Mammi nor I said anything, but Jane did. “Did everything go all right?”

  “As far as I know.” Lois looked at me. “I heard an Englischer by the name of Savannah delivered the baby because Delores has the flu.”

  My face grew warm, even in the cold room. “Delores is my cousin.” I wasn’t sure what the HIPPA rules were when it came to midwifery in Amish country, but I didn’t want to reveal anything.

  Lois nodded, as if my reaction explained everything. Then she continued, “I also heard Miriam has gone missing.”

  Jane peered over the lenses of her reading glasses. “What?”

  Lois glanced at me. I redirected my eyes to the quilt.

  “And Tommy Miller was the last person to see her.”

  “Tommy?” The needle slipped out of my fingers. “Not Kenny Miller?” Immediately, I feared I’d said too much.

  “No, it was Tommy posing as Kenny,” Lois said. “And now he’s suspected of kidnapping Miriam.”

  Jane gasped, and so did I.

  Wouldn’t I have recognized Tommy? He’d been my childhood friend. But maybe his coat, scarf, and hat had concealed who he was. Or maybe I wouldn’t have recognized him anyway. It had been thirteen years since I’d last seen him.

  “That’s impossible.” Mammi was just as surprised as Jane and I were. “Is there any proof?”

  “I heard it from the bishop’s cousin.” Lois kept her eyes on the quilt top. “And it doesn’t surprise me one bit. Tommy’s not nearly as trustworthy as people think.”

  No one responded to Lois’s accusations. Mammi and I continued stitching, while Jane stepped to the front of the shop to wait on a customer.

  Perhaps Phyllis felt uncomfortable with the silence—or maybe she felt the need to come to Lois’s defense—but she finally asked, “Savannah, did you know Tommy?”

  I nodded. “When we were children, we used to help each other with our chores.” We also rode horses together, fished in the pond on the other side of the woods, and raced bicycles down the road. For five years, he was like the big brother I never had. He was always kind to me and protective, in a respectful and non-intrusive way. In fact, when I first met Ryan, he reminded me of Tommy. Both were leaders who treated others with dignity and empathy. Or so I’d thought.

  I’d been wrong about Ryan. Perhaps I’d been wrong about Tommy too.

  When I was thirteen and Tommy was fifteen, I arrived at Mammi’s farm, ready for another six weeks of being his shadow.

  But Tommy had changed. His voice was deep, his chin scruffy, and he’d grown a foot taller. It soon became obvious he didn’t want anything to do with me. He wasn’t mean about it, but he avoided me as best he could. A couple of times I saw him in a buggy with other boys his age, and several times I saw him walking with an Amish girl, Sadie Yoder, who lived about a mile away.

  I was crushed. Jah, Tommy had been my first love. But of course I never told him. I’d never told anyone.

  The next summer, he was away working as a farmhand for an uncle in Michigan. And the summer after that, when I was fourteen, he was on his Rumschpringe and driving an old Thunderbird. One time I was biking down the lane and nearly ran into the fence trying to get out of his way.

  That was my last summer going to Mammi’s. For the next three years I assisted Mom, working my way into an apprenticeship. When I spoke with Mammi on the phone, I never asked about Tommy, and she never offered any information. I figured he’d married years ago and probably had a bowl cut, a beard, and a buggy full of kids by now.

  “Savannah?” Mammi was talking to me.

  “Sorry,” I answered. “What did you say?”

  “Was Tommy the driver who picked you up?”

  “I don’t think so. . . .” But, honestly, I couldn’t be sure. The driver wore a scarf and a stocking cap, I hadn’t seen Tommy for over a decade, and I’d never seen him as a grown man. And it was dark—really dark. Perhaps if I’d been expecting someone named Tommy, I would have recognized him. Perhaps my mind was tricked by the
name Kenny.

  “Don’t you think if it was Tommy that he would have recognized you?” Mammi asked. “Did you tell him your name?”

  “He knew it from the app,” I said.

  “Well, he wouldn’t necessarily have admitted to knowing you,” Lois said. “Not if he was pretending to be Kenny.”

  That was true. “Did I ever meet Kenny?” I asked Mammi.

  She squinted a little, as if looking back through the years. “I don’t believe so,” she answered. “He moved here from Michigan after you stopped coming out for the summer.”

  “Kenny was a bad influence on Tommy,” Lois said. “Seems like he still is—or maybe its vice versa now.”

  “I don’t know anything about Kenny,” Mammi said. “But Tommy had a good heart as a boy. I can’t believe he’d kidnap Arleta’s daughter.”

  “Did Tommy join the church?” I asked.

  “No,” Lois answered. “And he was gone from the area for several years. Lots of years, actually. Seven or eight.”

  “He worked all over,” Phyllis said. “New Mexico. Arizona. Nevada—Las Vegas, even. Mostly on the move, usually with Kenny at his side, from what I understand.”

  I glanced over at Mammi, and she nodded. She’d never told me he was so close to California. I would have liked to have seen him.

  Lois picked up the story. “Then they came back here in September. Tommy had been working construction in the fall and then started on an interior renovation project when the weather turned bad.”

  “What about Kenny?” I asked. “Besides being a driver?”

  Lois and Phyllis exchanged glances. Finally, Lois said, “There have been a few rumors. . . .”

  My stomach sank. They must be pretty bad rumors if she was mentioning them.

  The two exchanged glances again, and then Phyllis whispered, “There have been rumors about selling drugs.”

  “Oh. . . .” Amish in the area were sensitive about that topic. Not long before I stopped spending summers in Indiana, a documentary called Devil’s Playground came out about Plain youth in the next county over, and the Amish, even though they didn’t actually see the film, heard all about it. It explored a small group of Amish Youngie on their Rumschpringe who drove cars and partied with large groups of other Amish youth, some of whom came from as far away as Montana. One boy even sold drugs. There were those in Amish communities nearby who feared the documentary would lead people to believe all Amish Youngie behaved that way.