by Linda Byler
“You know,” her mother said quietly, “Perhaps it simply is not meant to be. God’s ways are not our ways. His wisdom is beyond understanding.”
“Exactly,” Ruth said, her eye going to her mother’s face with admiration.
“But still.”
Esther’s face held so much empathy, so much understanding.
“It has to be tough for you, Emma.”
Almost, Emma succumbed to tears, only her pride keeping them in check.
“You know, I’ve always said, unlucky in love. That’s me,” she quipped, making a courageous attempt at lightheartedness.
“There is no such thing,” Ruth said emphatically. “If this guy really, really wants you, he’ll find you. There’s no such thing as being unable to contact a person in this modern age.”
“But I can see Emma’s point. What is Kathy going to tell him?”
“Oh, it is just one big mess,” Esther wailed, taking a piece of candy from her two-year-old, heading for the sink and a clean washcloth.
Dena sat at the table in her normal ill-mannered posture, one foot propped on the seat of her chair, her knee bent with her dress stretched across it, listening, eyeing them with the disdain of a fifteen-year-old who exists under her own self-made umbrella of teenage angst.
She snorted, lowered her eyelids to produce the full effect of the expulsion of disapproval.
“Whatever. I never saw a family as overboard as this one. Seriously. Everybody get a life.”
Feathers were seriously ruffled after that, with Esther and Ruth gasping in disbelief, then giving the upstart little sister a piece of their mind. She had no idea what she was talking about, and she should learn to hold her tongue once in a while. Couldn’t she think about someone else’s feelings for once?
“What do you mean? The only reason Emma isn’t married is because she is too picky. If one hapless individual asks her out and his pants are half an inch too short, he doesn’t stand a chance.”
Emma smiled at the “hapless individual.” Dena was brilliant. Leave it to the younger set to speak the blistering truth, she thought wryly.
“Come now,” Ruth defended Emma.
“Puh. You know Levi Esh? He’s what? Twenty-six, seven? You couldn’t find a nicer person. He shoes horses, and when he arrives at our farm, I make a point of being with him while he does Cheyenne. He’s everything I would ever want, that’s for sure. He’s so talkative, so easy to get to know. Good-looking, strong. Think about it. He asked Emma, I know he did. What did she say? No. She didn’t want to be called Emma Esh.”
“Dena! I thought you said you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“I just want everyone to know that I have no sympathy.”
Esther winked at Ruth, and Ruth raised an eyebrow. Mam hid her smile behind her coffee cup. Leave it to Dena.
“Furthermore, there’s Daniel Lapp. I would marry him in a heartbeat.”
“Well then, you go right ahead. Marry away,” Emma barked, a bit irritated now.
“I might just do that if I ever get a chance. I hope you have considered the fact that I might be found high and dry, just like you. What if none of the guys want to waste their time on another young woman who thinks she’s too good for them? Think about it. I’ll be sixteen in November and I won’t stand a chance.”
“Oh pooh,” both older sisters said.
Mam sighed. “Well, at any rate, the summer’s work is in full swing, and we’re glad to have Emma at home. I wasn’t too thrilled about that job to begin with. It was just too worldly, with all her time spent away from us.”
“It was worth it. I don’t regret my job at all. I loved the children, and I especially loved the place,” Emma said.
“And you do seriously love him,” said Dena in a mocking, theatrical whisper. “Oh, where are you, fair love?”
Everyone broke into genuine laughter, even Mam. Ruth and Esther wiped their eyes, said, “Hooo . . . Dena, you’re a mess.”
Dena was in her element now, having evoked the merriment she had hoped, so she continued.
“The elusive man remains on the long stretches of white sands . . .”
“It’s not white,” Emma told her.
“Whatever it is. He strolls alone in the moonlight, his heart aching, yet again at this desultory romance. Oh my love, where art thou?”
Everyone was in stitches now, even Emma.
Mam wiped her eyes, said, “Alright, enough now.”
Emma wiped her cheeks with two fingers, blinked her eyes.
“I hope you find yourself in exactly this situation someday, and you will not laugh about it.”
“Not me. I fully intend to have a drama-free rumschpringa.”
CHAPTER 12
WHAT WAS THERE TO SAY? EMMA THOUGHT. WE CAN PLAN AND DREAM, but who is to know what God’s plans are? Dena was so young and so brilliant, the world at her fingertips. Why burst her self-imposed bubble of overconfidence?
Only once was a person fifteen, perched on the high diving board before springing off and plunging into the frigid water called “rumschpringa.” How to explain that word to Dena? Running around. It was, literally, that. You ran around in buggies to different homes, met single boys, you were introduced to dozens of girls you had never met before. Girls that were dressed in ways your mother would never allow, gorgeous girls who were so much prettier than yourself. You ran to the bathroom with a friend and tugged at your cape, replaced a few straight pins to make it all look a bit more like theirs. You turned your head this way and that, hating the way your hair was rolled all wrong, the way your covering looked limp and outdated. You longed for shoes with four-inch heels and a big white purse like that other girl’s, the small black purse you owned suddenly seeming hopelessly old-fashioned. The purse had been chosen under your mother’s conservative influence, and for the first time ever, you felt a sharp dislike of your mother. She was too bossy, too opinionated, and it was time she realized a few things about you.
You saw the ones who were popular, the ones who received the glances from the handsome boys. After that, you were crosshatched with discontent. It sprouted from your face in the form of red pustules that inflamed your low sense of worth, and you existed in this miserable bog until you chose to quit wallowing in the self-inflicted sorrow and get on with your life.
Rumschpringa wasn’t that way for everyone, of course, but it had been for Emma. After doing it for ten years, all that angst seemed laughable, really, but those early years had been achingly traumatic.
Here she was, long past the time when most young men would consider her as a wife. She had seen the fruits of comparing one love to another, had been duly chastened by God during her stay in North Carolina.
Things had simply not worked out, she told herself, half-listening to the ongoing chatter surrounding her as she gazed unseeingly out of the kitchen window.
The heat was becoming unbearable, the kitchen like a steam bath, the humidity thick and uncomfortable, waves of heat sucking the small valance against the screen and blowing it inward. She thought of the central air unit whirring against the side of the house in North Carolina, the cold air blown through vents along the wall, the epitome of comfort on a day such as this.
“So, what are you going to do this fall?” Esther was asking as she brought empty lemonade glasses to the sink.
“You know, I have no idea. I am . . . was sick of my teaching job, but now that I failed at being a nanny, I might reconsider.”
She imagined herself heading into midlife, her waist thickening, still holding court in the dusty classroom, cloaked in the memory of what might have been.
“You’re a superb teacher. Why would you quit?” Esther asked, all kind eyes and growing concern.
“I don’t know, to be honest.”
“Did you pray about it?”
“Yes.”
The word slipped out before she could retrieve the untruth of it. No, she did not pray about school teaching. She didn’t say “Thy will be done,” not wanti
ng to spend the summer thinking of going back in the fall. This was the summer that was her last attempt, the last time she would be open to meeting someone.
She had met Ben, but to what end?
Surely God would not be so cruel to deny her the chance to reconnect with Ben. Her faith in a loving Father was sustainable, like a garden that produces well year after year. Grace and mercy rode on the wings of her prayers. Her prayers had always been unfettered by doubt. From the time she was a small child when her mother helped her say the “Müde binn ich” prayer at bedtime, she had never wavered in the childlike belief in God.
Or the fact that He loved mankind so much that He sent His Son, the only one He had, to be mocked and scorned and finally, die a gruesome death on the cross. And then He rose again to give light and life to everyone who believed. And there were many who did.
She thought of her life in His hands, cupped around her as she stayed nestled in His love. After her stay in North Carolina, she had felt as if God had taken those hands away, given her a small push, and allowed her to flounder around like a landed trout.
But please, please God. Give me Ben. Ben is all I want. Surely you have mercy. I don’t want to lose him.
She knew she should give it all up to God’s will, but somehow, she could not bring herself to think of giving Ben to God. To sacrifice a love as awesome and all-consuming as she had felt for Ben was unthinkable.
He had made her giddy with his presence. Her heart raced and her knees were fluid when he put a well-placed arm around her waist.
Oh, elusive love, so hard to have and to hold.
She pictured his pleasant face, the eyes filled with love, the blond good looks, the height and breadth of him. She longed to be in his arms, to hear him tell her she was beautiful.
He’d call. He’d write. He would obtain a phone number and address, scour the Pennsylvania directory until he found her. It was reasonable to be patient, reasonable to wait out her summer days at home.
Dena sat at the foot of Emma’s bed, brushing her short, thick hair, wincing as she drew the brush through. Her tanned legs were like a pretzel beneath her, her strong young arms as shapely as a model’s.
Emma glanced at the whacked-off hair.
“Why did you cut off all your long, gorgeous hair?”
“My covering fits better. Everyone does it.”
“I can’t see how you can get it rolled into a decent bob.”
“I don’t. I stuff it under my hairnet and draw it tight with the hairpins. See, you’re so old you don’t even know what style is anymore.”
Emma sniffed, indignant.
“I’m not exactly ancient, Dena. My covering fits as nice as yours. You don’t have to whack off all your hair to have your covering fit nicely.”
“I do.”
She flipped her shoulder-length hair over one shoulder, and continued brushing. Emma watched with narrowed eyes, calmly appraising the way her long graceful neck was as exquisite as a young swan’s. She was on the cusp of young womanhood, without a serious thought in her pretty head, as honest as a judge, as trustworthy as a thief.
“Dena, I worry about you.”
Dena stopped brushing, opened her eyes wide to stare at her sister.
“Why would you do that?”
“I guess I’ve been through the mill, so now it’s your turn and I know what it’s like?” Emma said, drawing up the end of her sentence into a question.
“Oh really? English girl. Where did you learn to talk like that?”
Emma laughed, shook her head.
“You’re hopeless.”
“I can tell you right now that you can quit worrying. I like Nelson and he likes me, so no worries in that department. We won’t date immediately, but my love life will be puzzle free. Uncomplicated. Slick as a whistle.”
“Nelson who?”
“You don’t know him.”
“Well, who is he? I was probably his teacher.”
“No, you weren’t. He’s in the other district. Raymond Look’s Nelson.”
Emma thought, but could not recall having met anyone from that family, hadn’t known they had children old enough to be with the youth.
Emma put her book on the night table, got out of bed and went to the window, flapping her arms.
“It’s so warm up here in my room. After living in AC, I can hardly take this heat at night.”
“Welcome back to earth, sister.”
“So what’s Nelson like?”
“He’s cute. He has black hair, cut short. Brown eyes, you know, handsome. He’s not tall, though. Medium height. A little taller than me. He met me at a skating party, and says I’m funny. Likes to hang out with me.”
“So the romance is effectively kindled,” Emma said. “What was that whole row about me making it tough for you if you have this Nelson all sewn up?”
“What do you mean, all sewn up? That’s a phrase out of the 1900s. Like I stuffed him in a pillowcase and sewed it shut.”
“You might want to do that. Guys are elusive. They fade away.”
“Nelson won’t.”
Emma looked serious. “I hope he won’t.”
“It’s your name. You should be called Esther or Ruth. They were great loves in the Bible. Emma isn’t even in that category. It’s probably your name.”
Emma reached over and threw a round decorative pillow at Dena.
“Get off my bed. Go to your room, okay? I need to get some sleep.”
“Grouch.”
“Sorry. Goodnight.”
“Grouch.”
“Maybe I am an old maid. A singleton. A leftover blessing. Whatever, I have every right to be grouchy.”
“Because Benjamin, fair Benjamin, has not yet ridden his mighty steed in search of the beautiful Emma. The fairest in the land, the eyes like sapphires, the teeth as porcelain . . .”
She extended both arms, her hands fluttering dramatically. She flung her head to the side, her face raised to the ceiling, and said in a stage whisper, “Emma, my love. Whither hast thou vanished? I am but a lifeless vapor without thee . . .”
Another pillow was flung in her direction.
“Git. Go to bed. Go directly to bed. Do not pass go.”
They were both laughing as Dena passed through the door of Emma’s room. Emma reached out to turn off the battery lamp, pulled the thin cotton sheet to her waist, turned on her side, and was wide awake far into the night, reliving her walk on the beach, the thunderstorm, and the resulting dismissal.
A sultry night breeze riffled through the leaves on the old walnut tree outside her window, ruffled the sheer white curtains at her bedside. An owl hooted close by, likely in the white pine beside the front porch, the hated predator that frightened all the chickadees and cardinals away from the birdfeeders. A horse snorted in the barnyard, then moved away across a few protruding stones, his hooves hitting the heard surface. A car whined along the twisting road that led across the ridge. She heard the grinding of gears, the tone becoming an octave higher as it began its ascent.
It was far too warm to sleep. She kicked off the covers, flung herself on her back, and sighed.
She thought of a cold glass of ice water, a cold shower, the sensation of an icy wind off a cold lake, to no avail.
So what if Ben never contacted her? She’d buy a small house somewhere, continue teaching school, dig a bit deeper to come up with the willpower to exercise the proper amount of interest. She’d thought all that was over, but what else could she do?
She could work as a maud, but that was too close to being a nanny, which clearly hadn’t been the right fit. She could work at the farmer’s market, or in a restaurant. No and no. Possibly get her GED and be a caregiver in a facility for the elderly. No to that, too.
She spent the time between eleven thirty and twelve imagining her house. It would have to be a mobile home or a double-wide trailer given the small amount she had saved. Her income would not be enough to sustain a large monthly payment. But it would be cut
e and cozy and welcoming. She’d have her group of friends over quite often to make homemade doughnuts and fry pies. They’d sit around her breakfast nook to enjoy them with coffee.
Suddenly, she felt a heave of raw emotion, followed by the knowing that that was not what she truly hoped would happen. She wanted to be loved and admired, cherished by an attractive, worthy man, someone to share her life with, the intimacy of having a husband.
Was it too much to ask?
Her pillow was saturated with her tears before she fell into a troubled sleep.
She took to checking voicemails, found herself making excuses to get to the end of the drive first, her heart beating hard, waiting for the homely flat car that carried the rural mail. Neither one proved fruitful.
At the end of July, she told the school board she would not teach that fall, and regretted her choice the following week.
She felt adrift, loosened. She hoped to find a sense of belonging to someone or something, prayed for that voicemail or letter in the box, but there was none.
The days picking and sorting vegetables with Dena blurred into long weeks of heat, backbreaking labor, baskets of ripe tomatoes and cucumbers, bush beans, and corn. She literally saw rows of green peppers in her sleep, waxed and gleaming as they rolled on the conveyor belt. Her mind no longer hummed with anxiety, but her heart carried the dull pain of a half-healed wound. She could still visualize the slant of his nose, the quick humor of his widening grin, the easy way he had kissed her, as if he had done it many times before.
Why wouldn’t he have kissed girls? He was older, matured, attractive, so of course he’d had practice. An unexpected jolt of irritation rippled through her veins. She saw herself as gullible, falling for his suave assertions, handing out compliments as easily as brushing a crumb from a sleeve.
But who was to know?
He had been sincere, at times. She could almost be certain of it, but never fully. As time went on, and there was no sign of Ben, or the fact that he had ever been in her life, her prayers turned doubtful, the uttered words containing more and more traces of disbelief, a soft, spongy faith that no longer held fervor.
Her best friend of at least ten years was Eva Kauffman, a tall, well-built girl of twenty-six, just like Emma. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, her face rounded after the birth of a robust baby boy named Elijah, she was Emma’s sounding board, the recipient of aired grievances, self-pity, and total disbelief that it had happened again, “it” being cast aside after falling in love so hard it threatened a life sentence of incarceration of the heart.
