“I’ll take care of it.”
He was being dismissed. The sun was setting on a beautiful Saturday, and moments ago he’d been itching to get home. Not now, though. Now he would have preferred rocking on Abigail’s porch.
“Have a gut Sunday.” He was down the steps before he turned back to her. “My bruder-in-law needs some help Monday, so I won’t be back until Tuesday. If that’s okay.”
“Tuesday will be fine.”
Normally, he enjoyed rotating his job sites, but for some reason the thought of not seeing Abigail Yutzy for two days didn’t sit right with him. What if she needed him? What if something went wrong on the farm? What if she couldn’t get to a phone?
All of those worries were ridiculous.
He’d written the number to the mercantile on the pad she kept on the kitchen counter.
If something went wrong on the farm, she would call.
And if she couldn’t get to a phone, she had the emergency bell hanging on the front porch. Her nearest neighbor would be there much faster than he could be.
Abigail Yutzy might be lurching from side to side as if she’d just stepped off an Englisch carnival ride, but emotionally speaking he suspected that she was a strong woman. At least he hoped she was.
The real problem was she didn’t seem to realize that yet.
He thought again of his own mother. She was kind, but also emotionally weak and unable to cope with the trials of a drunken husband. Thomas had to take over the running of their farm at a young age, and his schweschdern had taken over the running of the house.
But Abigail wasn’t his mother.
He thought of her brown eyes, of the way she’d covered her face when she’d been consumed by laughter, of her hands clasped around the teacup. Then, he remembered her insistence that she would decide how to spend the crop money. She was stubborn, but stubbornness could be a sign of strength.
She would recover her balance.
She’d learn to stand on her own two feet.
At least he hoped she would, for the sake of her and her unborn child.
Chapter Five
Abigail woke Monday morning with an unsettled feeling in her stomach. At first, she worried something was wrong with her boppli. Putting her hand to her stomach, she whispered, “Are you okay in there?”
The baby’s only answer was a slight pushing against Abigail’s left side, but it was answer enough.
It wasn’t until she had donned her robe and padded to the bathroom that she remembered. Today was the day. She glanced at the clock. In two hours, she would be visited by the women from her church.
The day before had passed like most Sundays. The neighbor boy who was cleaning Belle’s stall had harnessed the horse for her. Nate was part of their east-side Plain community, and no doubt his parents had reminded him to harness the horse. Abigail was grateful that he had.
She had purposely arrived at the church meeting at the last possible moment. She dreaded the thought of standing around and making conversation. She wasn’t good at that. She didn’t know if she ever had been, but now—with her stomach as large as a beach ball and the fact that she was a widow—she had no idea what to say. And she didn’t think she could abide the looks of pity.
Instead of dealing with that, she waited until the clock on the wall told her she might be late, clambered out to the buggy and drove through a day that threatened rain. Clouds pressed down—dark and gloomy. A wind from the north made it feel more like October than September. She didn’t mind—not really. Cold weather meant she was even closer to the birth of her child.
A teenage boy was there to take her horse and buggy. She hurried inside, depositing her plate of oatmeal cookies on the dessert table, then slipping into a back bench on the women’s side. Once the service was over, she made her way to help at the serving line, but all of the women shooed her away.
“You get a pass once you hit the last trimester,” Naomi explained. “Go and rest your feet.”
So, she did, and people were polite to her. The problem was that she didn’t really know them. When they smiled at her, then quickly looked off, she couldn’t say if it was from embarrassment for her and her situation or simply because they had a wayward child they needed to keep an eye on. That was the problem with being around other people. How could you ever really know what they were thinking?
A few of the women stopped by and said they were looking forward to seeing her the next day. Abigail thanked them, ate as quickly as possible and then excused herself and hurried home. No one questioned her leaving early.
She sat at the kitchen table Monday morning, grateful that the rain was holding off. She didn’t want Naomi to have to get out in the rain because of her.
Then her thoughts drifted back to the day before and how awkward it had been. It was her first time back at the church meeting since Asher had died. Perhaps in the last month she’d forgotten how to act around others. She’d been shy before, but never socially awkward. That had developed after her marriage. The question confronting Abigail as she rinsed out her breakfast dishes and hurried to dress was whether she wanted to stay that way.
If she didn’t, what was she willing to do about it?
Instead of trying to figure out her own personality, she dressed and set about making the house look hospitable. She put coffee mugs out on the counter and opened the tea tin, making sure it was full. She filled the teakettle with water and set it on the stove.
How many women should she expect? Three? Four?
She fluffed the pillows on the couch, then proceeded to remove the piles of junk mail and old newspapers and tossed clothing. Both chairs in the living room needed straightening. How did furniture move when she was the only one in the house?
Then there was the dust. It was settled so thick upon the shelves that she could have written “Welcome” there. Instead, she fetched a rag and a can of furniture polish. At least it gave the room a fresh smell, though if anyone bothered to check under the furniture for dust bunnies, they were apt to find several.
She tried to convince herself it didn’t matter.
But she was a bit aghast at how much she’d let things go. No wonder Thomas had told her to stop crying. He’d walked through her living room. No doubt his bachelor pad was cleaner than her place.
What had she been doing since Asher’s death other than wringing her hands and worrying? Before she could settle on a good answer to that question, the buggies started arriving. Abigail stepped out onto the porch. Her mouth fell open. She snapped it shut and pressed her fingers to her lips. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. For a moment, all of her worries fled. All of these women were coming to see her?
The scene in front of her reminded Abigail of the day of Asher’s funeral. Only today, instead of solemn families reminding kinder to be quiet and respectful, there were mamms and bopplin and laughter and smiles.
Soon her living room was filled with women, some holding infants, others shooing young children off to the front porch or the backyard. School was in session, so there was a plethora of small children and the occasional teenage girl who had already graduated from eighth grade. The boys were probably home helping their dat, but the girls were here and proceeded to herd their siblings.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Naomi told her youngest.
“There’s a storm coming.”
“Not in the next hour. Now go and play outside, but stay close to the house.”
The names fell around her like red and yellow and orange leaves falling to the ground—Mary and Deborah and Clare and Elizabeth. For the first time since moving to Shipshe, Abigail felt herself to be a part of the group.
It felt like being held by her grossmammi.
Before she could analyze that comparison, her eyes drifted to the things they had brought. Onesies in all colors, tiny T-shirts, small dresses if her baby was a girl and pants wit
h matching shirts if it was a boy. Sweaters that had been crocheted and knitted in yellow and green and pink and blue. The gifts were piled on the coffee table, unwrapped, of course. Plain folk didn’t bother with wrapping paper and bows, but oh, how the gifts lifted Abigail’s spirit. And some were tied with bits of ribbon that she’d save to put in her doschder’s hair or use to amuse her son.
“Whichever clothes you don’t use, you can take to the next baby shower,” Clare explained. She wore a dark green dress and looked to be Abigail’s age. She had blond hair to Abigail’s brown, was a good three inches taller and thin as a whip. She also seemed quite nice. “Better to have it on hand and need it, than need it and not have it.”
Several times Abigail blinked away tears.
Her fingers brushed against the knitted blankets and crocheted caps. Then two teenage girls carried in a bassinet and two other girls stood in the doorway holding what looked like the mattress for a cradle.
“Do you want the bassinet in your room?”
“Ya. Please. I’ll show you where.” She peeked into the bassinet, made of a beautiful oak and shined to perfection. Inside were sheets, more blankets, and several stacks of cloth diapers along with a large jar of diaper pins.
The girls set the bassinet within arm’s reach of Abigail’s bed. She stood there, staring down at it, when she realized that someone was waiting for her at the door. Clare motioned the girls back into the hall and joined Abigail near the bassinet.
“It’s all a bit overwhelming,” Abigail admitted.
“I’m sure it is. Just remember that you still have some time. The boppli won’t be born for a while yet. Right?”
“My due date is near Thanksgiving.”
“Gut. The girls have a crib to bring in too. It’s been taken apart, of course, since we brought it in the buggy. I can send my husband over to put it together for you.”
“Thomas can do it.” The words popped out of her mouth before she even considered them.
“The Amish property manager, right?” Clare’s eyes practically danced. “Strange occupation for a Plain person, but I heard he’s gut at it.”
“I guess.” He was excellent at it—other than the fact that he was pushy and stubborn and opinionated. Three reasons she didn’t want to go into that particular topic of conversation.
“If you decide you want the bassinet or the crib in a different place, you have time to move it—or you have time to ask Thomas to move it. I do not suggest you try to do so yourself.” She cocked her head to the side. “I’m Clare, by the way. It can be hard to remember everyone’s name.”
Tears stung Abigail’s eyes. Why was it that she always felt so inadequate? “I’ve lived here nearly a year. I should...I should have tried to reach out more.”
“It’s been a difficult time, ya?”
Abigail nodded and swiped at her eyes.
Clare picked up one of the cloth diapers and handed it to her. “Gut for diapers, burp rags or drying tears.”
Abigail thanked her and blotted her eyes, hoping everyone in the living room wouldn’t be able to tell that she’d been weeping.
“Now...where do you want the baby crib? With my son I put it in the corner of the room, but with my daughter I wanted it across from the window.”
“You have two children?”
“Justin is three, and Melody turned one last month. Their cousin has them both outside at the moment. My next is due in the spring.”
“You’re...” Abigail glanced down at Clare’s stomach, which had the smallest swell to it.
“I am. You know how Amish are—lots of babies.”
Abigail laughed. It sounded foreign to her own ears, but it felt just right.
“Back to the crib—I usually have my husband move it to several different places. I can’t really tell until I see it. Do you know what I mean?” Clare smiled with a twinkle in her eyes. Someone with a sense of humor was exactly what Abigail needed.
“I haven’t given it much thought. I mean, I have, but I didn’t have any furniture so it was rather a moot point.”
“Well, you won’t want the baby in your room much past the first couple of months. Do you plan to set up a nursery?”
Abigail bit her bottom lip. Yes, she’d planned to, but she hadn’t known how to begin. Then there was the problem of Asher’s study. What was she to do with all of the stuff piled in the room? Their home only had the two bedrooms, though of course Asher had big plans for adding more rooms when they had more children. One thing Asher had never been short of was plans.
“Could we just leave it in the living room for now?”
“Of course we can. It’s your home. You set things up where you want them.” Clare’s tone was soothing, kind even.
She waited until Abigail nodded, then instructed the girls to set the mattress and side boards in the living room next to the couch. It would make for a tight fit, but Abigail would deal with furniture arranging later.
She’d thought the women would come, offer their gifts, have a cup of tea and then leave. Instead, they reached into their large shoulder bags or bulky diaper bags and pulled out knitting or crocheting or even darning work.
After they’d been stitching and talking and laughing for nearly an hour, several women set their sleeping babes on a blanket on the floor. It was that sight that touched Abigail more than anything else. Those girls and boys would be her baby’s classmates and best friends.
It brought a lump to her throat to think of that. They would make up the community that her child would grow up in, and Abigail was determined that her child would feel at home and safe and happy. If there was anything she could do to make that true, then she would do it.
If the lawyer could deal with probating Asher’s estate.
If she was allowed to keep the farm.
If there was enough income from the crops to allow her to survive there.
Too many ifs.
Too many questions she couldn’t begin to answer.
As her energy flagged, she felt overwhelmed by them.
It was Naomi who noticed the shift in Abigail’s mood. She cleared her throat and stuffed her knitting back into her bag. Then she sat up straighter and raised a hand to catch everyone’s attention. Soon the other women followed suit until the room was silent except for the soft snoring of babies inside and the cheerful sounds of children playing outside.
“Abigail, we are happy to share from our abundance, to supply you with the things you need for the child that will soon arrive.”
There were murmurs of “Amen” and “Yes” and “Gotte bless Abigail’s child.”
“But what we have to give is more than things. We also offer you our friendship. We are here for you whenever you need us—when you’re frightened and don’t know if a fever is due to teething or something more serious. When you’ve walked the floor but can’t find a way to settle your child’s tummy. When you spill the milk and misplace the pacifier and burn the dinner.”
Laughter rolled around the circle, but Naomi’s voice grew suddenly serious.
“Or when you are crying and need a shoulder. When you wish for someone to watch your boppli so you can nap. When you are lonely and need someone to simply sit with you and share a cup of tea.” Naomi smiled and waited for Abigail to meet her eyes. Then she said, “We are here for you, Abigail. We are your family.”
“Danki.” That one word was so woefully inadequate, but Abigail didn’t trust herself to say more.
Apparently, it was all they needed to hear, for Naomi smiled broadly and said, “Ladies, let’s pray.”
The prayer felt like the gentlest of rains, soaking into Abigail’s parched soul. Then there was a blur of activity as everyone gathered their items and children. Each woman paused to speak with her before leaving. It wasn’t until the last buggy had trundled down the lane and Abigail had returned inside
that she found the stack of cards on her kitchen table. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for hours, but she didn’t do that. Her curiosity wouldn’t allow her to. So instead of napping, she made herself another cup of herbal tea, sat down at the table and began to read.
Each card had a handwritten message containing a recipe, or advice for a newborn, or a handwritten pattern for knitting or crocheting. All had a signature and phone number of the nearest phone shack or a business phone at the bottom.
Could it possibly be this easy?
Had Abigail’s isolation and loneliness this past year been her own fault? Had these ladies simply been waiting for her to be approachable?
And now, in her time of need, they had come.
Abigail carefully restacked the cards, then tied them with a bit of ribbon. She would keep them. She’d read them when she was blue, and if she needed to, she would call on first one and then another. Because the one thing she knew for certain was that she couldn’t do this alone.
And there was no reason for her to even try.
She should have slept well that night, but she woke after only an hour, the loneliness causing an ache in her heart that stole her breath.
She’d dreamed of Asher, turning away.
She’d dreamed of Thomas, waiting patiently for her to calm.
She’d dreamed of her parents.
Abigail’s heart was flooded with the fear that she had no one. Her bruders and schweschdern were scattered about in different Amish communities. Everyone who was old enough to move away had done so. Her two youngest schweschdern had yet to marry and still lived at home. But Abigail wasn’t welcome in her parents’ home. She’d actually brought it up in a phone call with her mamm. Abigail had hinted she might move back. Her mamm had scoffed at the idea. “Your home is there, Abigail. It’s best you learn to accept that.”
But her home wasn’t really here. She didn’t even own this place—not yet. And Asher had no family. Didn’t her mamm realize how alone she was? How lonely she was? Since she was a teenager, she had worried that her mamm didn’t care, though it was possible that she did care but didn’t know how to express it.
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