After dinner I stood beside my mother at the kitchen sink, but our movements were jerky and poorly timed. When I finished drying a plate I reached for the next one, only to find that my mother was still scrubbing it, leaving my hands frozen in the air. When I finally received the plate to dry, the next one was soon waiting for me, and my mother waved it impatiently.
“You have to be faster with the drying,” she said, breaking the silence.
“I know,” I said. Then I paused and turned to her. “And I hope you’re not angry about our conversation. It’s just that I so want to have my rumspringa at an English home. Like you did.”
My mother sighed and dried her hands on her apron before turning to me. “Ever since you were little, you’ve always been so curious,” she said. “Margaret could play for hours arranging quilt swatches, but you always followed me around with questions.” She put her warm damp hand under my chin, raising my face until our eyes met. “As your mother, I want you to be safe. To me that means keeping you in our world.”
Sadness spread through my throat and trickled down to my chest. When my mother took her hand away, I could still feel the dampness on my skin. “I know you’re disappointed,” she said. “And I’m sorry to be the one to disappoint you.”
My eyes burned, and I blinked hard to hold back the tears. I hung on to the hope that maybe later, after she talked to my father, she’d change her mind. She rinsed a plate and handed it to me to dry. I set it on the rack and waited as she washed the next one. Our rhythm was still off.
That night, while Ruthie slept, I sat in bed with my ear pressed to the wall, listening to the low murmur of my parents’ voices. I could hear some gentle arguments back and forth, mostly what I expected. Would I be safe? What if something happened to me when I was far from home? My mother’s voice was more insistent than my father’s. She spoke of her sister, and I wondered what my Aunt Miriam had to do with this. My father’s voice was steady. A couple of times he mentioned that I was hardworking and they could trust me. My mother said, “Other parents have felt the same way about their children and they were wrong.”
Then their voices got lower, and I strained to hear them. My mother sounded fierce. What if I liked it there and didn’t want to come home? Then came my father’s voice. What if they forced me to stay home and I was unhappy? My mother answered firmly, “I’d rather have her unhappy at home than happy there.” Those words rattled inside of me, and my hopes seeped away. I went to sleep bathed in disappointment.
In the morning, we all joined hands and lowered our heads to say grace before passing the bowl of scrambled eggs and biscuits around the table. After breakfast, when I helped my mother with the dishes, her words came back to me. She didn’t care if I was unhappy, as long as I was home. I reached for the dishes with my head turned to the side. I couldn’t look at her.
Later, as I got ready to leave for the inn, my father stopped me at the door. “After dinner tonight we’ll have a talk.” His voice sounded a bit gruff, but he reached around and tugged on my ponytail in his playful way, and I let myself feel a tiny bit of hope.
At the inn I cut the fruit and rang the breakfast bell and readied the plates, feeling the monotony settle inside me. It was only my second week at the job and I was already bored and restless. After the breakfast dishes were cleaned, I stood outside of Mrs. Aster’s room, carrying the cleaning supplies in a bucket, and knocked quietly at the door. “Come in,” she called. When I opened the door, Mrs. Aster turned from the desk at the window. She smiled in a cautious way when she saw me, and I felt a wash of nervousness. “Have you had a chance to talk to your parents about my job offer?”
I hesitated. “Things have been busy at home, so we haven’t been able to discuss the specifics. I had hoped to give you an answer today, but my parents and I have a few more things to work out.” This was almost truthful, I told myself.
“I’m leaving on Tuesday, but if your parents decide that this is an arrangement they want for you, I’ll be happy to come back to get you.”
I smiled at the idea of stepping into this woman’s car and speeding away from here. But it didn’t seem like it could happen.
That night after dinner, my mother and father settled on the couch, and I sat facing them in the big armchair. “So, Eliza,” my father began, “I understand that you want to see what’s out there in that fancy world.” His wide-brimmed hat hung on the wall hook, and his dark hair was disheveled. Bits of sawdust had collected in his beard, and I knew that later he would lean over the washstand and comb them out.
“I do,” I said, searching their faces, trying to see a hint that they would have good news for me.
My parents were glancing at each other and having one of those conversations without words, speaking with the movements of their eyes, a tip of the head. My father spoke. “As I’m sure you know, we aren’t comfortable with the idea of your living away from us.” He paused before adding, “I know that James spent some time away, but I think you understand that his situation was different than yours. He was in an apprenticeship to prepare for his trade. Your mother also spent some time away when she was young, but that was a financial necessity for her family.”
My chest felt like a balloon with its air rushing out. He had anticipated my arguments and left me with nothing.
“And we can’t send you away to help another family when your family at home needs you,” he added. “I think we’ll have to find a way for you to have your ‘running wild’ time without running too far.” He smiled as though his play on words had pleased him. He looked at me, and I thought I saw an apology in his smile.
My mother spoke without a hint of the regret my father had shown. “I know you’re disappointed, but you’re going to have to trust us. We know more of the world than you do.”
I forced myself to look directly at her. “So you’ve decided to keep me from it?”
My father and mother exchanged another glance, and my father looked away. “Every sixteen-year-old gets to have some freedom,” said my mother. “But the parents are the ones who measure out that freedom. We’ll find ways to give you independence, but it has to be under our roof.”
I turned to my father. Our eyes met briefly, and then he looked down, unable to hold my gaze.
It was final now. No last shred of hope to hang on to. I was wild with disappointment, and it was because of my mother. This was her doing.
My father got up and reached for his hat. “I’m going to get a little more work done,” he said.
My mother nodded and picked up her quilting. I looked at her, wondering how she could be so satisfied with her little routines. She pulled the needle through the fabric in quick, even motions, occasionally glancing at a piece of paper with the customer’s specifications scribbled over it. She looked up and saw me watching her.
“I don’t want to be your enemy, Eliza,” she said. “Will you try to understand this from my perspective?” I struggled not to show my anger. Instead I tried another approach. “What was it like there?”
My mother set her quilt square aside. “You’ve heard it so many times,” she said. “My father found me a job at a tailor shop, and I lived with the tailor’s family.” I drifted into the rhythm of her words, hearing again about her teenage life, how she’d shared a bedroom with Debbie, the tailor’s daughter, who went off to school each day with an armload of books while she went off to the shop each day with her sewing basket. My mother spent her days handling clothing the likes of which she had never seen before. Sparkling gowns, trousers for women, and skirts that her customers wanted so short she would blush while pinning them.
In the evenings she listened to music from a CD player with the tailor’s daughter, who was almost like a friend. She watched television and saw movies. She had especially liked a movie called The Sound of Music, about some children who learned how to sing and whose father lost his sad strictness when music came into his home.
It was the story I’d heard my whole life, but now it was
different. Now it was the story of the experience my mother had had that she wasn’t allowing me to have myself.
“And I was homesick,” she continued. “I couldn’t wait to earn enough money so I could come back to this world that I knew. And when I did, your father was waiting for me.” Her words sounded rehearsed.
I didn’t know how it was possible to miss something when it had never been mine in the first place. But as I listened to what my mother described, I suddenly understood the hollow feeling in my chest. I was homesick for a world I had never seen.
Sitting in the back of the buggy between Ruthie and James, I listened to the comforting clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and tried to push away my disappointment from last night. We were on our way to Margaret and Jacob’s barn raising. My sister had married Jacob six months ago, at the end of the wedding season, and now all of the Plain people from the district would be there to raise the walls and build the roof of their barn in one day. Barn raisings are joyous occasions, but after my conversation with my parents it was hard to feel happy. I tried to focus on seeing my friends. Annie and Kate would be there, Mary and Sally, too. They always looked forward to my stories about the English who came to our dinners, and today I’d have so much to tell them.
I hopped off the buggy and went in search of Kate and Annie, finding them at Margaret’s kitchen table, tossing lettuce and vegetables into a big wooden salad bowl. They looked up with matching smiles when they saw me. Kate’s blond braids hung down her back like pieces of rope. She looked at me with eyes the color of a summer night. Annie gave me an easy nod before turning her attention to the window, where she had a clear view of the men working on the barn. I knew she had an eye out for one boy in particular, as she always did these days. I picked up a head of lettuce and began tearing pieces and tossing the shreds into the bowl.
“There were English teenagers at my house last week,” I said.
“What were they wearing?” asked Kate. She set down her knife and listened intently.
I told my friends about the darkness of Caroline’s clothing and the chaotic colors Jess was wearing. “And they had these little phones that they didn’t talk into,” I added. “They just pressed some buttons and stared down at them.”
“They were texting,” said Kate. I looked at her in surprise. Kate was always surprising me. She had a quiet way about her, but in that quiet she was as alert as a guard dog. “They type messages,” she continued. “And the person they send the message to reads the words on a little screen on their phone.” I tried to imagine being able to send messages to Kate or Annie during Sunday services or at home on a quiet afternoon. I tried to picture this world where I could communicate with my friends any time I had the notion, instead of waiting for these moments when we were together, face-to-face. I glanced over my shoulder at the women working at the stove. I was anxious to talk to my friends about Mrs. Aster’s job offer and my parents’ refusal to let me leave home, but I’d have to wait until my mother was out of earshot.
My thoughts were interrupted by Annie, who burst out, “Do you think Marc will be here today?”
“I don’t know,” said Kate, and she and I exchanged a smile. Annie had been sweet on Marc for a while now, but they hadn’t quite made it to the courting stage, and she was losing her tiny store of patience waiting for it to happen.
She turned to me. “Has Daniel said anything to you? Does Marc ever ask about me?” She flicked at a stray clump of hair that didn’t fit into her chestnut-colored ponytail.
“He hasn’t said anything lately,” I said, disappointed that the subject had changed. I wanted to know where Kate had learned about texting. “Do you want me to ask him?” Daniel was beginning to come around in his carriage at night, shining his lantern in my window to call me out and keep company. Sometimes my friends asked if Daniel was my beau, but I couldn’t think about him that way. My head was so filled with leaving, I didn’t want to focus on anything that would make me stay.
Annie shook her head, another clump of hair falling loose. “No, I don’t want him to think I’m pining for him. Let him come to me on his own.”
I threw the last shreds of lettuce into the bowl and started chopping carrots. I listened to Kate’s announcement that she had sold her first quilt, and Annie’s story about how she’d spotted Sally in Peter’s courting carriage.
“There you are,” said Margaret, standing beside my friends in her tentative way. I gave my sister a kiss and listened as Kate and Annie asked her about married life. She looked down as though she was undeserving of all this attention, her thin fingers patting at her tidy bun.
“I should go help Mother,” she said. “I just wanted to say hi to you and your friends.”
Margaret started to walk away, and I reached for her hand. She turned to me. After checking to see that my mother’s back was to us, I lowered my voice. “Did Mom tell you that we’re arguing?”
“Are you and Mom mad at each other?” Margaret asked gently. “Or are you mad at Mom?”
I looked at my sister’s quiet features, her pale hair and sand-colored eyes. She was waiting for my answer, and I knew that if it took me an hour to respond, she’d still be standing there, calm and attentive. “Mostly I’m mad at her,” I said. “And with good reason.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. Her touch was so subtle, I could hardly feel its weight. “You think Mother’s against you, but really she’s not.”
I sighed and shook my head. I started to turn back toward the table, where my friends were talking about next Friday’s party. Margaret’s hand was still on my shoulder, but now there was more pressure to her touch. I turned back to her.
“Trust me,” she said. Then she left as quietly as she had come, my Good Amish sister who had been so certain of her life plans. I watched as she took her position beside the other women bustling about with the lunch preparations. Even though I didn’t understand her willingness to pass up the freedom of rumspringa, I was glad she had found Jacob. Whenever they were together he always put his arm across her shoulders in a careful way, and she leaned in to him as though his closeness filled her up.
Kate pointed out the window. “Daniel’s here.” I nodded at the familiar sight of him, his rust-colored hair bristling from beneath his straw hat. Like all the boys, Daniel wore a white shirt and black trousers held up with black suspenders. He was holding a plank of wood steady while another boy hammered. I swallowed back a warm feeling. Daniel always understood me. He listened to my stories about the English and didn’t change the subject or wonder at my curiosity. Suddenly I wanted to talk to him. I wanted him to know about my wish to leave home, and my job offer from Mrs. Aster, and the feeling of restlessness that I couldn’t shake off.
When we finished making the salad, Annie went over to the table where dishes and serving pieces were stacked for lunch. She came back, her eyes glinting, balancing three pitchers and a stack of plastic glasses. “Let’s bring water to the boys,” she said. Kate and I smiled as Annie led us out to the pump in the front yard.
I held my pitcher under the flow while Kate pumped. When all the pitchers were filled we divided up the stack of glasses and each went off to bring water to the various clusters of men hammering and sawing, turning wood planks into walls. I found Daniel and handed him a glass, which he took gratefully, his green eyes squinting in the June sun. “Would you like to take a walk later?” he asked.
I nodded happily and moved on with the water pitcher. The day was turning out just fine.
At noon we carried our lunch plates to the long tables laid out in Margaret’s yard, and all bowed our heads together to say grace. Sally and Mary joined us at the girls’ table. We glanced furtively at the boys as we ate, and talked about the upcoming parties and the rumors about who was courting whom. Sally blushed when Annie told her that she’d been spotted in Peter’s carriage, and laughter flowed around the table.
Lunch was a short break in the day. The men couldn’t waste precious daylight if they were go
ing to get the barn finished by sundown. The women gathered in Margaret’s living room and kitchen. Some busied themselves washing and drying the lunch dishes, leaving them in stacks for the dinner that would be served after the barn was raised. My mother oversaw Margaret and a group of older women who were preparing the evening meal.
In the living room, the rest of us gathered around different quilt projects. Ruthie and the young girls sat with a pile of colorful cut shapes, piecing them together to form squares. In another part of the room, a group of Margaret’s friends sat in a loose circle, stitching together the squares Margaret had completed for her wedding quilt. I sat with Kate, Annie, Sally, and Mary, a nearly finished baby quilt that Kate had brought stretched over our crossed legs. Working together, our knees bumping, we sewed the quilt top to the batting and the back, adding decorative stitches to the colorful quilt squares.
Kate was the most advanced quilter of my friends. Her stitches were fine and even, her patterns intricate. She’d tried to teach me some of the more complicated squares, but I was always too impatient to learn the complex placement of the shapes, the delicate distinctions of color values. Kate loved her job in the quilt shop and was anxious to sell more of her own work.
The tip of my finger felt sticky inside the thimble, and boredom stirred in me as I pulled the thread up through the three layers of fabric, only to pull it down again. It was monotonous work, up and down, in and out, all of our hands rising and falling in unison. We sat stiffly because too much movement could throw off someone else’s stitches.
These girls, my closest friends, bowed their capped heads over their work. My gaze slipped down to the five pairs of hands working over the same quilt. I knew my friends so well that I could identify each of them by their hands alone. Annie’s nails were bitten, and Mary’s were long and curved. Kate’s slim hands worked quickly, placing the stitches with certainty. Sally’s short fingers tugged cautiously at the thread.
A World Away Page 3
