One Sunday, after returning from Beth and John’s house, I wrote, Oh, Uncle John, you didn’t cause the Cubs’ losing streak. No, you’re not a jinx.
I closed the journal and hugged it to my chest. I hadn’t kept a meticulous record, as I’d promised my mother, but I enjoyed these little glimpses into my English life. I thought about what it might be like to read it later, when I was grown and remembering this place and this time. I tried to imagine what this future Eliza would look like as she read the journal. Would she be sitting in a kitchen lit by kerosene lamps, her kapp snug on her head, her apron cinched around her waist? Or would she be in a kitchen surrounded by beeping machines, wearing trousers and a blouse with buttons?
I turned to the end of the journal to see how many blank pages remained, and a puffiness inside the back cover caught my attention. It crinkled against my fingertips. My fingers roamed the inside the back cover until I felt the opening of a pocket that I hadn’t known was there. I reached in and pulled out a sheaf of folded pages, yellowed and creased. Opening the pages, I saw my mother’s familiar looped lettering in blue ballpoint ink. My heartbeat quickened and I began to read.
I am only one week here and it feels like I’ve always lived in this world. Now I flip on the light switch without a thought and turn the knob on the radio to listen to music. How will I be able to leave the ease of this life? How will I ever go back to hanging wash on a line and drying the dishes one by one with a damp towel?
I swallowed back a gasp. This was my mother’s rumspringa journal. She must not have remembered that these pages were there.
I read her writing like I was thirsty, gulping it, inhaling it. The early pages detailed the wonders of television, movies, the dishwasher, the dryer, the garbage disposal. Others were musings. In one entry she wrote, I thought I would miss the Sunday services and the quilt circles. But they have been replaced with other activities. Discussions around the dinner table about things that happened in the news. Trips into town to museums and movies. Shopping excursions to find a shirt in just the right shade of blue to match a new pair of pants. I want to miss the gentle affairs of home, but they seem far away and unimportant. Here I am, and there’s a chance I will stay put.
I turned to another entry, with the lyrics of every song on James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James album. It was hardly possible to think that my mother had listened to pop music. How could those songs not have stayed a part of her when she returned home? How could she have left them so completely behind?
Another entry read: The chores here take up so much less time. Laundry at home occupies an entire backbreaking day. Here, the clothes don’t have the same smell of the wind and sun, but they are clean in an hour or two. Is it sinful to cherish these bonus hours that are tacked on to each day? If so, then I am a sinner and I don’t plan to repent.
Some entries were about Debbie, the tailor’s daughter, who taught her how to use the CD player and what stores in the mall had the cool clothes.
About halfway through the pages, a name caught my eye. I know that Beth is lonesome for me, and I admit that I don’t think about her as much as I should. This is such a selfish time, this rumspringa. I am consumed only with my own wishes. I am not Good Amish while I’m here. Actually, while I’m here, I’m not Amish at all.
Drenched in my mother’s words, I read on. There were only a few pages left, and the entries were shorter and farther apart. I realized that I was searching for something. And then I found it.
Matthew came over tonight. We went down to the basement to talk and et cetera. His hair is such a golden color I can’t stop looking at it.
Matthew. My mother had had an English beau and his name was Matthew. My heart was throbbing now. I turned the page eagerly and scanned ahead.
Matthew’s name was mentioned a few times, but with scant details. I stopped reading for a moment, unsure if I should go on. Should I be reading about a romance my mother once had with a boy whose name, over all these years she has never mentioned? I wondered if I should set the pages aside, but then I thought about this gift from my mother. She could have given me any book of pages for journal writing, but she had purposely handed me this one. I inched toward a new realization. My mother wanted me to know about this. These tucked-away pages were a message from my mother to me. I went back to her words, to the story my mother had never told me.
Now some entries were only one or two sentences long. We fit together perfectly. We are supposed to be together. Others alluded to the complexities of their relationship. We talked for hours and still said nothing new. We argue even though we are both in agreement. On the second to last page the writing was faint, as though she wasn’t sure about committing the words to paper. I shouldn’t have let things get so far. I don’t know if there is a way out of this.
My chest tightened and I closed my eyes. My mother had been in trouble. I turned to the last page. I leave tomorrow on the 8 a.m. train. Debbie cried when I told her I was going. She said, “I thought we were friends.” I told her lies. I said that my family needed me. That I’d write to her. That I’d see her again. All lies. Matthew said he was sorry. He offered me money. I waited to see if that was all he would offer. It was.
Then, at the bottom of the last page was one sentence:
I hope that Amos is a forgiving man.
I caught my breath. I felt dizzy, the air around me too thin to take in a full breath. I didn’t want to think about what this meant.
But I knew. It all made sense now, my mother’s rush home, her transformation into a dutiful Amish woman, her hasty marriage to a man she might not have loved at the time.
My hands shook as I folded the pages and pushed them back into the hidden pocket. I closed the notebook and felt the wild need to hide it. The camp bus was rumbling up the street, and I went downstairs. Taking in breaths of the too-thin air, I pasted a smile on my face as the children tumbled off the bus, backpacks slipping from their narrow shoulders.
Janie greeted me with a hug, as she always did, and I squeezed her tightly. Walking the children into the house, I listened to their jumbled chatter about the day’s adventures. I made them a snack and put their damp towels and swimsuits into the washing machine, setting their backpacks aside until I would repack them in the morning. My movements felt outside of myself. My body was here, carrying out my commands, but my mind was somewhere else. It was in a place over twenty years ago, when a girl named Becky tiptoed too close to the edge.
I waited on the platform at Union Station for my mother’s train, my body feeling odd and jumpy. That morning, Rachel had driven me to Beth’s house to drop off my suitcase, and then took me to the train station with a reminder of how to get downtown. Since then I’d been pacing, thinking about my mother’s visit and what it would mean.
Finally I saw the light of the approaching train, and waited as the doors opened and people poured onto the platform. My mother stepped slowly off the train, a small brown suitcase in one hand, her basket over her other arm. I waved and watched her expression change from caution to happy recognition when she saw me. Despite the August heat, she wore her black traveling bonnet with the wide brim, and a black cape over her dress and apron. I noticed the quick glances she got from the other passengers rushing from the platform to the station. Dodging around the swarms of people going in the other direction, I walked toward my mother. She set down her suitcase and basket and opened her arms, letting me slip into her embrace.
“Oh, Eliza, look at you,” she said when I stepped back. “You look just like them!”
I was wearing a sundress that Valerie had helped me pick out, in vivid shades of violet and yellow. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Then I added, “If it’s all right with you, I thought we’d get some lunch before we…” My voice trailed off. I was about to say, Before we go to Aunt Beth’s house.
Minutes later we were facing each other in a booth in a restaurant I had spotted earlier. My mother took off her cape to reveal a lime-colored
dress. I thought I noticed some new lines around her eyes, but her face looked peaceful, if a bit shy. After seeing the waitress’s stare, I realized that I hadn’t considered what my mother would wear during her visit, or how much she would stand out in her traditional attire.
We ordered chicken salad and iced tea, and handed the menus back to the waitress. I sprinkled a packet of sugar into my glass. When I looked up, my mother was watching me. I took a sip and returned her gaze. The last time we were together, she was reluctantly sending me off. Since then I had acquired a new aunt and a journal filled with my mother’s secrets. I waited for her to start the conversation.
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I guess it’s time for one of us to mention her.”
I nodded, eyes fixed on her face. “I have an aunt named Beth.”
She looked down. “Thank you for finding her.”
I felt an unexpected rush of irritation. “She wasn’t so hard to find. You had the address. All I had to do was show up at her door.”
I waited for my mother to say something. She stirred her tea while silence crept in and settled between us, like a third person at the table. Then I understood. Her eyes were filling with tears. “It’s all right,” I said, trying to keep the anger from my voice. “I know how things were.” But even as I said the words, I knew that I would never understand how a woman could shut her sister out of her life.
My mother shook her head, and the tears stood in her eyes. When she spoke, there was a shakiness in her voice I had never heard before. “It didn’t have to be that way. I know that now. I’ve seen other people under the bann. We have our restrictions, but they’re still among us. Why did we let Beth leave us?”
In that moment, I saw her differently. Suddenly she wasn’t the mother who had tried to keep me at home, or the sister who had turned away from Beth. She was a woman who had gulped down sadness over the years and who had fought those feelings with strictness and rules. “Aunt Beth isn’t angry,” I said softly. “She just misses everyone, especially you. She’s so grateful that you sent me to find her.”
My mother shook her head, and the tears finally flowed. “Then she’s a merciful woman,” she said in a choked voice. “I wasn’t a good sister to her.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
The waitress set down our plates. My mother pushed hers aside and set her elbows on the table, covering her face with her hands. They were the competent hands I always thought of when my mother came to mind, slender fingers reddened from work, the nails cut square and blunt. I waited a moment before I spoke.
“Does anyone from home know that you’ll be seeing Aunt Beth?”
“Your father does,” she said, fumbling in her basket for a handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. “I’m tired of keeping secrets.”
I let out a great breath. It felt good to know that my father was a part of this. “What did he say?” I asked.
She smiled. “He said, ‘Give my sister-in-law my good wishes.’”
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I wiped it with the back of my hand.
My mother lowered her head. Too late, I realized that she was saying grace. I swallowed the bite of tomato I had just taken and bent my head. The old prayer raced through my mind. When I looked up, my mother was smiling at me. She dipped her fork into the chicken salad. “Tell me about Beth.”
“When she laughs, it fills the whole room,” I said. “And she looks you right in the eyes when she talks to you. Like you’re the only person she’s thinking about at that moment.”
“She was always like that,” my mother said. “Even in her wild teenager days, when no one knew what to do with her.”
“She feels bad about those times,” I said. “She knew she gave Grandma and Grandpa fits.” I paused before adding, “Do they know?”
My mother shook her head. “Not yet. But I think I’m going to tell them when I get back home. They never speak of Beth, but she wears on them. I know they think about her.”
I set my hands on the edge of the table, steadying myself for what I was about to say.
“Mom,” I started.
She set down her fork and looked at me fully, waiting. “Go ahead.”
“I read your journal.”
“So you know.”
“Yes.” I tried to think of what to say next, but no words seemed to fit. “Yes, I know.”
“Well, I did say that I was tired of keeping secrets.”
“I didn’t tell Aunt Beth. I thought it should come from you.”
She nodded. “It’s my story, and I’ll tell it when we’re all together.” Then she asked, “Will I be staying with…your friend Betty?” We both laughed, and it was a laughter that flowed right through my limbs. I could feel it in my fingernails and knees and the soles of my feet.
“Yes,” I said. “My friend Betty has a room for both of us.”
Before we left the restaurant, I had one more question to ask my mother. “Are you here to take me home?”
My mother shook her head. “We told Mrs. Aster that you would be working for her through the summer. We won’t be going back on our agreement.”
I was relieved. She hadn’t said anything about my wish to stay longer, but at least I knew I wouldn’t be going home before the end of the summer. That was all I could hope for right now.
After lunch, my mother paid the bill and I guided her back to the train station, smiling boldly at the people who stared at us. On the train we sat with the suitcase squeezed in at our feet, the basket on my mother’s lap. We talked about home, and I found myself hungry for details about the family and my friends. Ruthie was becoming a competent helper on Stranger Nights, and I was surprised to feel a little envious that she had taken my place at our mother’s side.
“And how is Daniel?” I asked, uncertain of the answer I wanted to hear.
“He’s fine,” she said, eyeing me. “He seems to be staying to himself, mostly. He asks about you whenever he comes by the shop.”
The recorded voice announced that Evanston was the next stop. Struggling to haul the suitcase into the aisle, I inched my way to the doors with my mother behind me. We stood together, holding the handrail for balance as the train came to a stop and the doors swept open.
When we reached Beth’s house, I pointed. My mother looked to be taking it all in. Then she smiled at me. “I’m ready.”
Inside, I led her upstairs to the guest room we would share, with two twin beds covered by quilts Beth had made. A smile filled my mother’s face. “My sister still quilts?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling a curious pride. “It’s her passion.”
She set her suitcase on one of the beds and opened it. On top lay a crisp white kapp. She took off her black bonnet and set the kapp on her head, adjusting it with practiced fingers. I watched, familiarity flooding me.
I sat on the other bed while my mother unpacked the small suitcase, hanging up the dresses and cape, setting her nightgowns and undergarments in a dresser drawer, and placing toiletries and robe in the bathroom. I noticed the spareness of my mother’s life. The items she’d brought for a six-day trip took up such a tiny bit of space. The night before, I had spent hours scanning my drawers and closet, deciding what to bring, thinking about what to wear each day. The suitcase I had borrowed from Rachel was bulging.
When my mother finished unpacking, I showed her around the house. “I remember thinking that I’d never be able to live without these machines,” she said, glancing around Beth’s kitchen. Then she paused and looked at me. “But I’ve managed just fine.”
I nodded, understanding. We went into the living room to wait for Beth, sitting side by side on the couch, each turned slightly to face the other. My mother’s eyes occasionally went to the front door. “Tell me about this man Beth married,” she said.
“He’s very smart, a university professor. But he doesn’t show off his smartness. You’ll meet him later. He’s teaching a night class, so it’ll be just us three girls at dinner.” My mo
ther looked relieved to hear that.
Just then, I heard a car pull into the driveway. My mother sat forward on the couch, her fingers absently straightening her kapp.
The car door slammed, and I heard hurrying footsteps on the front walk and a key jangling in the lock. The front door flung open, banging into the high table in the entryway. My mother stood up and walked slowly around the coffee table as Beth stepped through the door. Her face was wildly alert.
For a long, silent moment they both stood frozen, facing each other across the room. Then my mother lifted both arms in front of her, reaching out, her fingers stretching toward Beth. Beth’s face contorted with what looked like a smile and a cry, and she ran to my mother, her arms reaching forward, her braid swaying against her back, until they tumbled into each other’s arms.
I inched closer, wanting to be near, but wanting them to have their moment together. A howling sound, rich and low, came from the center of the embrace. Then each sister reached an arm out to me, and I stepped into the fierceness of the hug. I wasn’t sure how long we stood together, arms interlocked, wet cheeks pressed together. I took a step back and felt my lips turn up at the corners. “Mom,” I said, “I’d like you to meet my friend Betty.”
My mother and aunt fell back into each other’s arms, their shoulders shaking with laughter. There was a lightness in my chest and limbs. It was the way I had felt when Josh first played the Beatles for me. Watching my mother and aunt in each other’s arms, I knew that everything would be all right. The bann and the harsh words were part of another time.
They sat down on the couch, still holding hands, still gazing at each other. I perched on the chair, my elbows pressed against my rib cage as though to keep my emotions from dancing out of my body.
“Where do we start?” asked Beth.
My mother was quiet for a moment. “Let’s start with now.”
They started with now. Over dinner at the big kitchen table, and later in the living room sipping steaming cups of tea, Beth and my mother talked about their lives. I listened closely, even to the stories I already knew.
A World Away Page 18
