by Becki Willis
She was smiling by the time they drove from town, back toward the farm. The day had provided her with an excellent lesson that she would be wise to remember. Despite their differences in so many areas—religion, culture, language, dress, and customs, to name but a few—people were still basically the same, the world over. They all craved creature comforts, even when they used different parameters to define them. They all needed food and shelter, even if some of those shelters were void of electricity and most foods were grown at home. They all craved junk food, now and then. They all needed personal interaction and communication, even when it resulted in gossip and misinformation. They needed community.
“Denki for taking me today,” Lillian said as they drove home.
“It was my pleasure. Honestly. I had a wonderful time today, seeing what your world is like.”
A knowing smile played around the other woman’s mouth. “And what did you think?”
Taryn laughed at her own prejudices and earlier misconceptions. “That despite appearances, your world is just like mine!”
“Jah. The truth is, Taryn Clark, we both share the same world. We simply see it through our own eyes, ain’t so?”
“Absolutely.”
After a moment of silence, Lillian turned toward her in the seat. “I have one more favor to ask of you.”
“Absolutely.”
“Will you have dinner with us tonight?”
A wide smile spread across Taryn’s face. “That’s no favor, Lillian. That will be my pleasure.”
Dinner in the Zook household was a noisy, fast-paced affair. With so many people competing for the heaping platters of food set along the long trestle table, it was easiest to pass plates, pile on food, and toss hot rolls through the air. Sandwiched between Susannah on her right and Deborah, the girl from the chicken coop, on her left, Taryn was too busy listening to the various conversations and watching the antics of Lillian’s brood to fully enjoy her meal.
Not that it wasn’t delicious. She had no idea how Lillian had done it, particularly when they spent most of the day in town, but the woman had managed to lay out a veritable feast. There were platters of cold roast beef, bowls of stewed tomatoes, cream peas fresh from the garden, mashed potatoes, and hot yeast rolls, alongside smaller dishes of pickles, peppered cabbage, jams and jellies, freshly churned butter, and soft cheese. Dessert was an assortment of homemade pies and a large package of Oreo cookies that disappeared like magic.
All through the meal, the sounds of laughter and conversation circling the table captivated Taryn. At one point, a heated discussion escalated into a screaming match between two of the teenage boys, until their father said just one word. A firm ‘hush!’ was all it took to settle the argument. But Taryn had loved even that, because it was the sound of family.
Just as quickly as the food had been passed and devoured, the table was cleared, and the dishes done. Taryn offered to help, but her hostess would hear none of it. She assigned her mother-in-law and little Emiline to give her a tour of the house while she and her daughters tidied the kitchen.
The house was a study in simplicity and function. Nothing was out of place. There was a place for everything, with little excess and no accumulated junk. The floors were so clean, Taryn was certain she could eat off them. She was surprised to find that despite the stark absence of stuff, the rambling farmhouse was warm and inviting. She attributed this to the generous use of color and creativity in the many quilts, runners, and hand-looped rugs displayed in every room. There were no photographs on the walls, but there were a few watercolor paintings, most depicting pastoral scenes, flowers, and animals. Framed samplers quoted Bible passages and inspirational quotes, and decorative calendars graced several walls.
By the time they returned to the sitting room, Friday game night was underway. Several tables were scattered throughout the room, the action visible by overhead gas-powered lights. A rousing game of Sorry! occupied one table, while another hosted a round of Yahtzee. The men gathered to play a game of dominoes, and in one corner, the youngest children played Candyland.
“What shall we play?” Susannah asked Taryn with a smile. “I favor Pictionary, even though I struggle with some of the words.”
“Don’t worry,” Taryn assured her. “So do I.”
“Then we’ll be one team, and Mamm, Melanie, and Caroline will play against us. Deborah, we need you on our team. You are a good artist.”
To their credit, no one mentioned the obvious relationship they had with their English guest. If five people in the room shared the unique violet eye color, no one commented on the fact. Granted, there was little time for visiting. Each table was engrossed in their game of choice.
And when Lillian announced it was bedtime, no one complained. The younger children immediately put away their games, said their good nights, and disappeared into their bedrooms. Accustomed to the wailing and fits of protest displayed by Molly’s children and others Taryn had been around, the calm order of acceptance was dumbfounding. She made a note to ask Lillian her secret, so she could share it with her best friend.
“You do not have to leave,” Lillian offered, even though the room had cleared out like magic.
“After that wonderful meal and all the excitement of the game, I’m more than ready for bed,” she assured her hostess.
“Very well. It is rather late.”
In truth, it was not late at all, but Taryn was polite enough not to mention the fact. She knew the Amish held to an early to bed, early to rise schedule. When she moved toward the door, Lillian followed.
“I want to thank you, Lillian, for inviting me into your home. You have no idea what tonight has meant to me.”
“It was our pleasure.”
Emotion moved into Taryn’s eyes and clogged her vocal chords. “Everything was amazing. Thank you so much for including me.”
“We’re family, ain’t so?”
By the time Taryn stumbled up the stairs to her room, happy tears streamed down her face and blinded her path.
Back in her room, it was too early to go to sleep, and too late to read. She knew if she started another journal tonight, she wouldn’t have the good sense to stop. Restless in the too-quiet room—doubly so now, without the chatter and hustle of the house next door—Taryn decided to call Molly and give her an update.
When the call went to voicemail, she did the next best thing. She sent a text to Bryce.
It was odd, she reflected, how the anonymity of a simple electronic device masqueraded as a layer of protection. There was a time when letter writing was an art form and considered quite intimate. The most sensitive subjects, the most important of questions—the most magnanimous of announcements—held to the time-honored tradition of the revered letter. Receiving a letter had been special.
Then along came the electronic age, and all of that changed. Emails invaded the landscape, cheapening the effect of a well-executed letter. Who needed hand-written papers, sent at the mailer’s expense and at the postal service’s mercy, when one could send an email instantly?
And when that became too slow and bulky, along came the text. It was even faster, even more efficient. Poor grammar and non-existent punctuation were suddenly acceptable. Brief, catchy acronyms were standard. Despite the message—from hirings and firings, to marriage proposals and break-ups, to formerly taboo subjects and this new art form called sexting—texts had become so common, they were now considered mundane. Safe.
Lured now by that false safety net, Taryn sent her message. It didn’t matter that in person, the man had been little more than professionally polite to her. Despite the way his gaze lingered just a second too long, despite the tiny smile that finally appeared just before she left, his attitude toward her had been almost aloof.
That was in person. Through the magical realm of the cell phone, his texts had been witty. Borderline playful. Approachable.
And he had invited her to update him.
She was merely doing as he asked, she assured herse
lf.
It’s been an enlightening day. I’m learning so much about my family. I still can’t get over that word. Family.
His text came back within the minute.
I’m glad one of us had a productive day.
It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to reply with,
Tough day at the office?
The familiar ‘dear’ was silent, just as his chuckled reply was.
You could say that. Your day sounds more interesting. Tell me about it.
Taryn curled up on the couch and took him at his offer.
I have an aunt. Cousins. A houseful of noisy, rambunctious cousins. And I love it!
Bryce:
How did you find them?
Taryn:
The eyes.
Bryce:
Ah, yes. Those eyes.
It was crazy, how an unspoken text could sound so sexy. She could hear his voice in her head, as surely as if sound resonated from the screen. The sudden flight of a dozen butterflies sent a shiver scattering across her skin.
She didn’t realize a full two minutes had elapsed, until she saw his text.
You still there?
Taryn:
My father was French. Ahndray Lamont. He was deported before I was born. How do I find him?
Bryce:
Let me do some digging. I’ll see what I can find.
Taryn:
My aunt believes that my mother is dead. Gone, before I even found her!
She immediately followed the statement with a raw admission.
This isn’t how I thought it would go.
Bryce:
It seldom is. That’s why I avoid these kinds of cases.
Taryn fingered the journals awaiting her. The first journal had been endearing. Enlightening even, offering her a glimpse of her mother’s personality. Would these offer something more substantial? Would these offer answers as to why her mother disappeared?
She turned back to her phone.
But you’ll help me, won’t you? I’ve found names, and some of my family. But I haven’t found the answers I came for.
His answer was long in coming. Taryn knew he had read the message, but it took a while before he wrote back. She could hear the reluctance in the words.
Yes, Taryn. I will help you.
Chapter 14
When Susannah brought the breakfast basket the next morning, she made a rookie mistake. She squandered prime question-asking time by reliving the highlights of last night’s game. Taryn laughed along with the young woman, finding the memory every bit as delightful as she did.
The girl didn’t know it, but the truth was that Taryn spent much of the overnight hours, replaying every aspect of the previous evening. The memory of laughter and loud, healthy belches even saturated her dreams.
The family dinners in her past were nothing like the one in the Zook home. The only thing to come close was the meals shared with Molly and her brood, and even those were different. Try as she might, Taryn couldn’t recall ever enjoying a meal—at least, not its atmosphere—as much as she had last night.
Over the years, she tried to forget the time spent in foster care. Last night, however, she had deliberately dredged up some of those memories, purely for comparison sake.
The first family she lived with was a blur in her mind. In retrospect, she realized they had been nice enough, but she was too overwhelmed with pain and sorrow to give them a chance. The older couple had given up on her before she could break through the crippling haze of grief and respond to their kindness.
Dinnertime with the second family, the McNaughtons, had been a formal affair. Children were to be seen, and not heard.
The Shannons had executed mealtime with military-like precision. All nine children in their care were lined up, trotted along the bar cafeteria-style, and issued a tasteless meal with strict caloric guidelines. The children had mess detail while the Mr. and Mrs. enjoyed their gourmet meal. Once the kitchen was clean, it was bath time and lights out. There was never such a thing as family game night.
The Goodman family had a game night, of sorts, but it never included the children. If it wasn’t poker with a bunch of smelly men who reeked of cigar smoke and alcohol, or private ‘couple games’ when the scantily clad Mrs. Goodman seduced her husband without regard to privacy, the couple went out on the town, leaving the younger children under the care of eleven-year-old Taryn and their thirteen-year-old son Donnie.
Donnie, on the other hand, had plenty of suggestions for games. He tried to teach her a game he called ‘Hide the Weenie.’ One night, the boy, stronger than her, caught her off guard and insisted she play. Her savior turned out to be one of the smelly poker men. He dropped by unexpected, found the children unattended, and one of them about to be raped. Taryn was removed from the Goodman household that night.
There were three more families in staccato succession after that, each worse than the one before. Taryn had no idea how much money people made for taking in foster children, but those next three were desperate for whatever cash they could rake in. There must have been a shortage in the system, because no decent social worker would give children to those people, unless there was no choice. At two of the homes, they were lucky to be fed dinner. At the other, it was usually junk food eaten in the car, on the way to conduct a ‘business deal.’ It didn’t take a genius to know they were selling drugs, but it took over a month for the cops to catch on.
Her time with the Sternenbergs stretched miserably long. Dinner with their clan was noisy, but the atmosphere was never happy. Stan Sternenberg was the most miserable human being Taryn ever had the displeasure of knowing. He made it his life mission to assure that those around him were every bit as miserable. Dinnertime was prime fodder for yelling and ridicule. God forbid someone spill a single drop, even of something as innocuous as water, on Mrs. Sternenberg’s pristine white tablecloth. It meant laundry detail for the week, corporal punishment, and solitary meals in the kitchen.
More than once, Taryn deliberately spilled her water glass. Sitting through a meal with Stan Sternenberg was by far the greater punishment.
The only mealtimes Taryn remembered even remotely comparing to last night’s happy, noisy affair were at the Michelin household. Over the years, she had been sloughed-off on so many families, she could no longer remember all their names and faces, even when she wanted to. The Michelins were the only ones she ever felt an attachment to. Her first year there was promising. She had hopes of living out her foster time there, staying until she graduated high school and left the system. She liked her school, made good grades, and had friends. When their busy schedules allowed, the family sat down for dinner together and occasionally had movie night, complete with popcorn and candy.
Then Bob moved in. Bob was Jennifer Michelin’s brother, and from the very beginning, his presence there put a strain on the family. Homer Michelin didn’t like his brother-in-law, and he made no efforts to pretend otherwise. Taryn overheard the couple arguing one day, quite by accident. Homer didn’t want the man in his house, not after ‘what he’s done,’ but Jennifer begged him to give her brother one more chance. It was all a big misunderstanding, she claimed. Poor Bob, always the underdog, was innocent of the charges.
That was only the beginning of countless arguments. The couple quarreled all the time after that, too consumed with their own bickering to notice the way Bob began leering at Taryn. Dinnertime was a tense affair, when Bob eyed the teenager as if she were dessert. Taryn stayed out of the house as much as possible, testing the limits of her curfew and skipping what few movie nights remained.
When she awoke and found Bob in her room one night, staring down at her, she never said a word. He claimed he was half-asleep and turned into the wrong room, so she chose not to make a big deal of it. The Michelins fought so much, as it was. Why add to their stress? She worried they would end up getting divorced, and where would that leave her?
But it happened a second time, and then a third. He never
laid a hand on her, but even in the dark, Taryn could see where his hands were. Whether his sister wanted to acknowledge it or not, Bob was a sick man.
It was the beginning of the end. Taryn lay awake at night, too afraid to close her eyes. At school the next day, she was too exhausted to keep her eyes open. Her grades took a direct hit. Word filtered back to the Michelins, which caused a new round of arguments. Before Taryn found the courage to speak up and tell her foster parents what was happening, eleven-year-old Kailey woke them all up screaming one night. Uncle Bob had visited her room, too, and he hadn’t been disciplined enough to keep his hands on himself.
It all came out after that. Bob had a more sordid past than his sister realized. He was a repeated sex offender, and his being there cost them not only their foster care license, but also their family’s innocence, and, so Taryn later heard, their marriage.
By then, she was shuffled off to a new family. She couldn’t remember their name.
The countless parade of so-called ‘homes’—with their dysfunctional families and their dysfunctional mealtimes—left Taryn scarred and cynical. Last night’s dinner with the Zook family was a special treat for her. It showed her what life could be like, surrounded by a true, loving family.
By the time Susannah launched into her volley of questions, Taryn was through eating. The young woman was halfway through her list (yes, she actually made one) when her father called her name.
“Susannah! You need to help die Mamm!” Peter called from below.
She made an exaggerated face. “Ach!” she wailed, but only loud enough for her companion to hear. “I’ve barely started.”
“Rookie mistake.” Taryn grinned at her.
“Susannah!”
“Coming, Daedd!” She quickly grabbed up the empty dishes and stuffed them into the basket. “Mamm is making pickles this morning, and I must help.”
Their lively talk and reminiscing of the game left Taryn in a playful mood. Violet eyes twinkling, she made the girl a deal. “I’ll grant you two questions in the morning. But only if you promise to bring me a piece of pie from last night.”
