Nausea rolled. Her skin ached. And her head pounded. But was that odd feeling in her chest the stirring of hope?
Classical piano music filled the car as Ariana glanced up from her book to look out the side window. Just beyond the highway safety rail was a marsh that stretched to the horizon. A white egret flew from somewhere and landed in the muddy muck, its long, knobby legs keeping its body well above the murky water.
Seeing nature and historical buildings and highways that went on forever, and cafés and hotels and libraries and bookstores and museums of all kinds, and dozens of other things over the last ten days had fascinated her. Nothing looked as simplistic and as matter-of-fact in real life or in an exhibit as it did in a book, online, or in a documentary.
The smell of decomposing plants and thick, stagnant mud filled the car. She crinkled her nose. “Yuck.”
Nicholas looked concerned as he turned down the volume. “What’s going on, Ari?” His kind tone was a thousand miles from where it’d been during her first week with him. He’d somehow tapped into his fatherly side, and currently he was at the ready, wanting to help her navigate anything that attacked her “gentle senses,” as he called them.
She freed one hand from the book and pinched her nose. “I thought the description of marshland at the Georgia Aquarium was thorough. Once again pictures and words do not match the real thing.”
Nicholas’s shoulders relaxed, and he laughed long and hearty. “True.”
She understood his relief that the only thing wrong was a smell. Not too many miles back she’d reacted strongly to a billboard image of half-nude women inviting men to take the next exit and visit a gentleman’s club. And different women in various provocative positions had been plastered on billboard after billboard during this leg of the journey. She had heard of such advertising, but the in-your-face obscenity of it all had mortified her, making her heart race, and she couldn’t keep the tears at bay.
Nicholas had tried to help her accept the reality without taking it to heart. How did a person do that? How could someone not take that to heart? Before she’d come to terms with the billboards, they passed a nude bar, boldly advertising women as if they were today’s special at a grocery store. The buildings were just off the road, up close and personal, and that had sliced even deeper than the billboards, dismantling all she had thought she understood of life and worldliness and meanness.
In order to get a grip, she’d buried her head in her book, distancing herself from reality. The Englisch world was a mixture of fascinating beauty and deviant horror.
“Where are we?”
Nicholas turned the radio down. “A few minutes outside of Savannah.”
Ariana stretched. “What time is your friend expecting us?”
Nicholas had an old friend from college who had visited him at Christmastime the last few years, and Nicholas had promised to come here to see the Victorian home he’d been restoring. Nicholas said this meandering trip, crisscrossing parts of the East Coast by plane and car, was a perfect time to do that.
“He’ll meet us for dinner, and then we’ll stay with him tonight. We have about four hours to explore Savannah before then.”
“Okay.”
Another billboard loomed ahead, and she returned to her book. She’d found a strange new interest—psychology. She felt like a sponge, and the study of behavior and the mind was like water. Psychology seemed to be all about understanding and embracing the human experience, regardless of race, socioeconomic status, or religion. Just the term socioeconomic status fascinated her. But this particular self-help book was about the dilemma of obedience. It was a dilemma all right, but she wasn’t sure she’d find answers in the author’s opinion in black ink on glaring white pages. That would be too easy, and life wasn’t easy.
“Quiz?” Nicholas asked.
She looked from her book to him, hoping not to see another naked backside on a billboard. “Sure. Go.”
“Music?” He turned up the radio.
“ ‘I,’ by Yiruma. Real name: Lee Ru-ma. He’s a thirty-eight-year-old composer and pianist from South Korea. His style is somewhere between New Age and contemporary classic. Did you change playlists? Because last I heard, Ashkenazy was playing Chopin.”
“I did, and you covered the history of both Ashkenazy and Chopin yesterday. Excellent.” He pointed out the window. “Type of bridge?”
“Suspension. It’s where the load-bearing portion is hung below the suspension cables. The first ones were built in the early nineteenth century.”
“Body of water?”
“Savannah River. A major waterway in the Southeast and most of the border between South Carolina and Georgia.”
“Man alive, girl, you learn fast.”
“Not really, since you warn me at least a few hours or even a couple of days before you do a pop quiz. We scour museums, and you ask about things I’ll never forget. And there’s always Wikipedia for a quick resource on towns, bridges, and waterways.”
“Do you mind the pop quizzes?”
“It’s a game to me. At least so far.”
He smiled. “Good. I know I’ve said this before, but you’re very easy to travel with.”
“Except for the occasional panic over billboards and dive bars.”
“There is no end to learning of harsh new realities, no end to hurting anew when we learn of difficult things. It’s not a bad thing to be disappointed and hurt, Ari. It still happens to me at times when I hear something on the news. I think it means we long for a kinder, more loving world.”
“I guess that’s a pretty good way of looking at it.” She gazed out the window, watching sunlight sparkle off the water as barges and boats navigated the river. He, too, was surprisingly easy to travel with, but it would feel weird to say that.
“Favorite place in Atlanta?”
She had to mull over that one. It was only seven hundred miles from Nicholas’s home to Savannah. But they’d zigzagged from here to there, hitting a few places he thought she should see. Thus far they’d gone to Washington DC, Chattanooga, Asheville, Charlotte, and Atlanta.
They’d flown to Atlanta, where they navigated the largest airport she’d been in yet. Apparently Atlanta was on his list because the High Museum of Art had exhibits of dresses, from breathtaking gowns worn by royalty in the 1860s to modern designers. Nicholas had wanted to broaden her view of clothing through the centuries. The experience had been an eyeopener, but it wasn’t her favorite. They also visited the zoo, ate late in a restaurant that overlooked the city and all its lights, and went to an a cappella performance at the Fox Theatre. If there was one thing the Amish were familiar with, it was a cappella singing. But the Amish didn’t sing like those performers.
Then Nicholas and she flew to Charlotte to attend a Renaissance festival and the Southern Christmas Show, because some of Nicholas’s former students were performing at both.
“In Atlanta? Fernbank, I think.” The focus there was on international holiday celebrations, and by holiday they meant Christmas. And the exhibits showed how Christmas was celebrated around the world. Since she’d had two informative experiences about Christmas—one in Atlanta and one in Charlotte—and it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving for another week, she assumed that Nicholas was pushing her to embrace the idea of a fancy Christmas. She stretched, ready to get out of the car. Something about hours in a car or plane made her feel simultaneously stove-up, tired, and energetic.
Her phone pinged, and she glanced at a text from Frieda. It had been two weeks since Frieda first messaged her. Frieda had suggested they not talk yet, concerned she might say too much and cause Ariana to change her mind about their reuniting as friends and afraid she’d cause a rift between Ariana and Quill. Ariana didn’t understand Frieda’s anxiety, but she didn’t have to. All she had to do was respect it and give her grace. They didn’t talk, but they kept the phone hopping with texts. They shared photos of their surroundings and messaged about good memories from their younger years.
&n
bsp; “Brandi?” Nicholas asked.
“Frieda this time.”
He nodded. “Maybe texting her will help her learn to trust you the way she trusts Quill.”
“I don’t think it works that way.” One thing about traveling with a parent for an extended period was that she’d been unable to wall him out. He probably knew way too much. “I used to think the word trustworthy meant being an obedient, hardworking person who keeps his tongue in check at all times, regardless of how he feels.”
Nicholas exited Highway 17 and banked right, following a sharp loop. “That sounds very trustworthy to me. So what’s the problem?”
“It’s one kind of trustworthiness. But that’s all about self-control. I’m decent at that, but can I carry her difficult secrets without judging her, without faltering in my love and understanding? I doubt it, and I think that’s why she’s afraid to talk to me.”
Nicholas came to a stop at a traffic light and glanced from the road to her several times. “First, self-control is huge. So appreciate that and cut yourself some slack. Second, if anyone shares tough things with you at any point, you shouldn’t have to respond exactly as that person wants.” When the light changed, he turned left. “How flawless is the person who is demanding your response be flawless?”
While mulling that over, she looked out the window. For as far as the eye could see, there was a straight line of squares of sidewalk with green spaces in each one, as if each were a miniature Central Park with statues and water fountains. Huge oaks were draped with Spanish moss, and across the street from the green squares were beautiful old homes.
She rolled down her window. “No wonder General Sherman couldn’t make himself burn down this place.”
“I agree. It’s something else.”
“Park.” She pointed. “Just park, and let’s get out.”
He chuckled and did as she said.
She jaywalked to the closest green square and put her hand on the nearest tree. “Look at this.” Standing here, the trees looked like miles and miles of a flowing canopy.
“You won’t believe the food here.”
She focused on the end of the long street. Had Nicholas said something? “The people who live here have this breathtaking view every day, and look,”—she pointed down a street—“they can take a joy walk to town or cafés.” She pressed the camera icon on her phone and started taking pictures. In all her best dreams, she’d never seen anything like this. “Can we?”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
They walked, admiring the statues and reading inscriptions as they went. They went in and out of shops, some that seemed as old as the town and others that looked new. They came to River Street and walked down unbelievably steep, narrow stairs until they were on a cobblestone road. Some of the cobblestone was flanked by wharf buildings, and it separated the old buildings from the river. The area smelled of delicious food and history, but when the wind turned, the air hinted of saltiness, marsh, and the acrid aroma of a paper mill. As they walked, she snapped pictures and sent texts.
“Who are you sending pictures to?”
“Brandi, Cameron, and Frieda.”
“Not Quill?”
“I’ll send him one, but I can’t be fair to Rudy and keep spending time with Quill or texting him like I do the others. I just wish Rudy had a phone. So many Amish have cell phones these days. But my district and his really frown on it.”
“Religion shouldn’t be used as the thread that sews everyone together like a quilt, all firmly stitched in place for life. Look around you, Ari. If God exists, He believes in diversity, and He made people to think, to invent, to make hard decisions. Now Quill, he’s shown real backbone, and—”
“Hey!” She took a picture of an old brick church. This area had gorgeous trees, some live oaks and other kinds, but no moss hung from them. “Could you take it easy and not ruin a perfectly good day by preaching?” She would never get used to his rants about individualism and the importance of freethinking.
“Sorry.” He held up his hands. “I didn’t realize I was being offensive.”
They picked up their pace. “How about I start preaching the gospel every time you start preaching disorder to the Old Order?”
“That’s fine. For every hour you listen to me, I’ll listen to you.”
“Except you totally discount the foundation of my beliefs, and yours aren’t so easily dismissed.”
“Why do you think that is? Could it be my reasoning and proof outweigh yours? Even if we both accepted that God created the universe and that the Bible is His Word, no one knows exactly how He meant all the verses to be taken—literally or figuratively. Did certain stories take place, or are they metaphorical? The King James Version, New Testament, says, and I quote, ‘All scripture is given by inspiration of God.’ I read that last night, and all I’m saying is maybe ‘inspiration’ isn’t the same as God literally giving every line of the Word to be taken literally.”
“Wait.” She paused, holding up her hand. “The Bible actually says, ‘All scripture is given by inspiration of God’?” That phrase “by inspiration” meant something very different to her today than it did before the trip.
“It does. Second Timothy 3:16.”
She started walking again.
“Ari, we’ve spent nearly two weeks seeing what inspiration does for people. You inspire me to be a better person. Inspiration causes composers to write music and artists to create beautiful paintings and writers to—”
“Ya, I get the idea.” Confusion clouded her thinking. Had he planned this trip to plant that one seed?
“How can anyone tell for sure the way God meant for mankind to process certain verses? In Genesis it says, ‘God blessed them and said, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth, and subdue it; and rule over every living thing that moves.” ’ Let’s say that’s exactly what God inspired to be written and there have been no alterations of meaning throughout centuries of translations. How does any preacher or priest or bishop know whether God was saying, ‘Go, enjoy yourselves, procreate to your heart’s content’? They don’t. But your preachers teach that as if it’s a command of God. And that’s just one example.”
He’d held his tongue for several days, and now his passion for her to find moderation in her faith poured from him. Thankfully, he’d stopped trying to totally strip her faith from her, but he still pressed her to rethink what the Amish believed. This was actually harder to discount than an overt attack on faith. Was there any truth in what he, a nonbeliever, said? It wasn’t possible, was it? But he made sense, and she wished he’d never picked up the Bible to study it.
The more frustrated she felt, the faster she walked. “No matter how much I try to do what you want, it’s never enough. You’re always pushing me.”
Nicholas matched her pace. “Don’t be upset.”
“You get to tell me your opinion whether I want to hear it or not, but you absolutely cannot dictate how I feel about it. Even the Amish don’t do that.” When her Daed gave a ruling that upset her, he left her alone to feel what she needed to and to work through it.
“You’re right.” He held up his hands. “I’m sorry. You’re completely right. I just have so much I want you to think about.”
“Could we walk in silence for a few minutes, please? Or maybe you could just stop walking with me.” Was she really talking to him like this?
“As gorgeous as Savannah is, it has some really rough areas. I can’t let you walk alone.”
Silence, precious silence, reigned for a few blocks. Despite Nicholas’s best efforts to tone down his opinions, she couldn’t imagine having to listen to his freethinking views until next October. She longed for peace, the kind that would come with returning to Summer Grove and building a faith-filled life among her people.
Nicholas paused to read a street sign. “Let’s cross here and go up the block. There’s a place not too far from here called Back in the Day Bakery. Everything in it is the best you’ve ever had.”
“Fine.” She hated the sulky tone in her voice. It seemed that mood swings were becoming a part of her, intertwining with her personality like weeds entangling with crops. Maybe the unpleasant shift in her nature was a by-product of her love-hate relationship with this new world.
There weren’t so many live oaks down this way, and none of the trees had moss. The houses and businesses surrounding them no longer looked majestic. The more modern buildings were run-down, and the feel of the Old South had disappeared. This spot could be any poor neighborhood anywhere in the country. One structure stood out, and she knew it was a dive bar.
“Wait.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, Nicholas stopped walking. “I think I’m turned around.”
While he messed with his phone, Ariana saw three scantily dressed women on the street corner. A man in his forties approached the youngest one of the group and motioned for her to turn around. Ariana’s stomach churned. He pulled money from his wallet.
“Nicholas.” Without taking her eyes off what was happening, she tapped the back of her hand against his arm. “We should do something.”
“About?” He looked up.
“He’s trying to buy her. We need to stop him.”
“No, we stay out of it.”
“Stay out of it? Where is your moral line?” Ariana started to walk toward them.
Nicholas grabbed her arm. “For hookers to be so open about what’s going on, the police have to be looking the other way. It’s her decision and her right, Ariana.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know there are better ways. We could talk to—” Ariana tried to jerk her arm free.
Nicholas tightened his grip. “If you approach that situation, you can’t cause anything but trouble. It’s dangerous.”
“Hey,” she yelled, flailing her free hand.
“Ariana, stop.” Nicholas tugged at her, and she stumbled along beside him. “Be quiet and walk away.”
“She doesn’t have to do this!” Ariana focused on the woman.
Nicholas dragged her farther away.
Fraying at the Edge Page 25
