A Plain Leaving

by Leslie Gould

A few minutes later, someone opened and then closed the back door of the house. Then a beam shone brighter than a flashlight. I guessed it was Amos and he was using his cell phone app. The beam made its way toward the barn and then disappeared. A couple of minutes later, Amos called my name.

  “Up here,” I answered.

  When he reached me, he said, “Marie thought you’d be here. She said this is where you used to come when you were young.”

  “Jah,” I answered. “She knows me well.”

  He sat down beside me.

  “So you had Leisel driving?”

  He chuckled. “She begged me, honest.”

  I didn’t doubt that. “How did it go?”

  “Well.” He paused a moment and then added, “She wouldn’t fess up to it, but I’m guessing she’s driven before.”

  “Really?”

  “That girl’s got some secrets,” Amos said. “But she’s like Fort Knox. She’s not giving anything away.”

  A shot of anxiety tore through me. I agreed that it seemed Leisel was up to something. She’d passed her GED. She knew how to drive. Somehow she’d managed to do what I couldn’t until I had left the Amish.

  I changed the subject and asked how Arden was doing. “Leisel says he’s grumpy.” Then he sighed. “Probably because of the pain and probably because Vi didn’t go up today.”

  “I saw you talking with her. Did Vi tell you why she didn’t go?”

  “No.” He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. “We talked a little, but she didn’t say anything about Arden. Mostly she asked about my life in Colorado.”

  “What did you tell her?” I asked, genuinely curious. In all of our talking, Amos hadn’t said much about himself.

  “That I married two years after I left Lancaster.”

  “You didn’t tell me you’re married.”

  “Was.”

  “Oh no,” I said, assuming he was now a widower.

  “We divorced ten years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He shrugged. “It was mostly my fault. For as good a role model as Dat was when it came to being a husband, I couldn’t seem to get it right.”

  “What happened?”

  “Honestly?”

  I nodded.

  “It was like I was Arden or something. I was too harsh. Too critical. Much too legalistic.” He leaned back and took his cowboy hat off. “Cindy—that’s her name—grew up in a mainstream church. I didn’t think she took her faith seriously enough. I didn’t think she feared God the way she should. She was okay with having a glass of wine, with going to a movie, with women preaching.”

  “Didn’t you figure your differences out before you got married?”

  He laughed. “We’d only known each other a short time. I think both of us made a lot of assumptions about the other.”

  “What did you have in common?”

  “Horses. Ranching. I worked for her father—still do. We both love riding and hunting and fishing. She’s a strong woman, inside and out.”

  He stopped for a moment and then said, “She was too strong to put up with my legalism. I was focused on all the wrong things, and it only got worse once she had our baby.”

  “Baby?” I nearly choked on the word. “You didn’t say anything about a baby.”

  “She’s not a baby anymore. She’s thirteen.”

  “Did Dat know?”

  “Jah, but I asked him not to tell anyone else. I was afraid it would make it harder for all of you not to have contact with me.”

  He was right. My heart ached in sorrow. I had another niece. I’d been nine when she was born. She was almost Milton’s age.

  I took a ragged breath and asked, “What is your daughter like?”

  “She’s tall and has dark hair, like you and Marie. And she’s smart. Straight As in school so far. She wants to go to college and become a veterinarian. I’m grateful she still likes spending time on the ranch so I get to see her at least on weekends. Her mom moved to town after we divorced.”

  “But you still work for your ex-in-laws?”

  “Jah,” he answered. “They’re good people. Good grandparents too. I’m grateful for that, especially since I was so far from Dat. From all of you.” He paused for a moment and then said, “I don’t regret leaving—if I didn’t I wouldn’t have my daughter. But, and I know this doesn’t really make sense, if I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t have left. I never recovered a part of myself. Surely Arden and I would have worked things out, somehow. And I would have gained a lot knowing Dat as an adult, working with him, living close to him. And I missed out being a brother to you three girls. I left over grief for one sister—and in doing so threw away my relationship with my other three.” He smiled sadly. “But I do have my daughter, and I’m very grateful for that.”

  The ache in my heart grew deeper. I whispered. “What’s her name?”

  “She goes by Becca,” he answered quietly. “But Rebecca is her name. Rebecca Bachmann.”

  I woke up over and over that night, thinking about the second Rebecca Bachmann. Becca. Oh, how I longed to meet her! And to get to know this girl named after my sister. Finally I turned away from Leisel and let the tears roll down my cheeks. I mourned the sister I never knew, my father who was taken too soon, and the niece I’d never met. The losses felt like holes inside of me, as if my heart had morphed into a porous rock. I drew my knees up to my chest and cried myself back to sleep.

  The next morning, as we were doing the milking, Amos asked me to promise not to tell any of the others about Becca. Or that he was divorced. “I’d rather they not know how complicated my life is.”

  “They? Or Vi?”

  He gave me a withering look. “I didn’t think you’d use what I told you against me.”

  “Mamm saw the two of you talking yesterday too.”

  His weathered face grew red.

  “What were you talking about?”

  “You were blunt when you were little too,” he said.

  “Well?”

  “We were just catching up. Like I already told you, I mostly talked about my work in Colorado.” He shrugged. “We told each other what we’ve been up to over the past seventeen years.”

  As far as Vi, it seemed pretty obvious. She’d been having kids with Arden. “But you didn’t tell her about your divorce or Becca?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I didn’t see any reason to.”

  I shook my head in wonder. I wouldn’t tell anyone about his life in Colorado because he’d asked me not to, but I didn’t understand his reasoning. Just like I didn’t understand Dat’s willingness to accommodate Amos’s request. If Arden had known he was an uncle, would he have been more likely to repair his relationship with Amos?

  I exhaled. Probably not. Nevertheless, I said a prayer for reconciliation between brothers. And then I felt a pang in my heart. How about reconciliation between Marie and me? Was I willing to pray for that?

  Amos said he wanted to change the subject.

  “Oh?”

  “Jah,” he said. “Do you plan to marry Tom?”

  My face grew warm. “The subject has come up,” I said, “vaguely.”

  “What about Silas?”

  “What about him?” I focused on the udder of the cow before me.

  “You don’t realize it now,” Amos said, “but there’s more to your first love than you realize. There’s something pure and true about it. It’s so much simpler than later loves.”

  “But I have no plan to return.” I finished with the cow and stood.

  “What about Silas?” Amos asked. “Would he leave?”

  “No.” My voice caught in my throat. “We already went through all of that. He’ll never leave. I’ll never return. That’s all there is to it.” I thought of Edith as I marched around the cow to the next one, of how obtuse I’d been before. Silas was a good son, loyal and true.

  Amos didn’t ask me any more questions. Leaving had been such a simple decision for me thr
ee years ago, or so I’d thought. Now it felt much more complicated.

  After we’d finished, as I hung my apron up on the hook, I asked Amos what time he planned to leave.

  “After breakfast,” he answered. “I’ve decided to do a little sight-seeing in Philadelphia before I turn in my car.”

  Amos and I ended up eating in the Dawdi Haus with Aenti Suz. Leisel came in and joined us, asking Amos if he would give her a ride up to the hospital before he left. It was in the opposite direction of Philadelphia, but he didn’t point that out. He simply said he would.

  An hour later, Aenti Suz and I hugged Amos good-bye on her front porch and then walked him to his car. Leisel came out onto the porch of the big house and then turned and walked back inside, leaving the door open.

  She called out, “Mamm! Marie!”

  I winced. My sweet sister was going to force a group good-bye.

  Mamm and Marie appeared and then, surprisingly, so did Vi. She wore her coat and carried her purse.

  When Mamm reached Amos, she patted his arm and said, “I’m not sorry you came.”

  I cringed, but it was as close to a positive reaction toward Amos that I’d ever heard from Mamm.

  Marie nodded. “It was good to see you again after all of these years.”

  Amos smiled at both of them and then reached out and hugged Mamm first. She stiffened. Marie didn’t do much better when it was her turn. “I’ll come out again in a few years,” he said.

  “Oh . . . all right,” Mamm answered. It seemed she thought she was done with him.

  He turned to Vi. “It was good to see you too. And meet your children.”

  Vi nodded. “I talked with Arden last night.” I imagined Vi in the barn office, on the phone. “He and I are both hoping I can get a ride to the hospital, since you’re taking Leisel.” It must have been quite the talk.

  “Sure, I can take you,” Amos said.

  “And perhaps you would come in and see Arden.”

  Amos shook his head. “I’ve had specific instructions, from the boss himself, not to.”

  “He’ll be all right about it with me there,” Vi answered and then climbed into the backseat of the rental before Amos could respond. She looked up at me and said, “I’ve already arranged for a driver this afternoon to get back home.”

  I nodded. I didn’t expect her to ride with me, but for a minute, I considered going along. If I hadn’t told Milton I’d help him, I might have.

  Amos hugged me last and said, “Come out to Colorado and visit me.”

  I hugged him back and said, “I’d love to.” And, of course, meet Becca, but I didn’t say that out loud.

  I told Leisel I’d pick her up that evening.

  “Good,” she said. “I think Arden will come home on Monday, but I doubt he’ll ride with you, so we’ll have to arrange for a driver.”

  I nodded. I wouldn’t have expected Arden to ride with me. But I was shocked that Vi—and Arden—were okay with her riding with Amos. I was even more shocked Marie hadn’t said anything.

  Mamm and Marie headed toward the house before Amos started the car, but I stayed and waved as he headed down the driveway. Before he turned the corner, Amos honked a final farewell.

  My throat constricted and gratitude filled my heart. I had a brother who loved and cared for me. I mourned the years we’d lost, but I was thankful to have a relationship with him again.

  As I started toward the tractor shed, Milton drove the team of mules into the field. My nephew was growing into a responsible man. He seemed to value the land. Hopefully it would stay intact long enough for him to own it.

  I finished working on the tractor in the afternoon. After he’d finished plowing for the day, Milton had used the gas tiller to do both the gardens and was cleaning up when Vi arrived home. She went directly to her house. Milton and I did the milking together, and then I left for the hospital to get Leisel instead of going into the house for supper.

  Arden had been transferred out of ICU onto a different floor, but he was asleep and I didn’t speak with him. Leisel put her finger to her lips when she saw me, grabbed her cape and bag, and then slipped out of the door.

  “He’s tired,” she said. “He stayed awake the whole time Vi was here.”

  Thankfully Leisel didn’t ask to drive and I didn’t give away her secret by asking if she wanted to. I was sure I didn’t have the nerves of steel that Amos did.

  She didn’t say much on the way home. It wasn’t that I didn’t give her an opportunity since I asked question after question. About Vi. About Arden. About if Amos said anything to Vi on the way to the hospital.

  “Jessica,” she finally said. “What are you implying?”

  “I’m just curious is all,” I said.

  “It seems a little gossipy, all of these questions.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Leisel put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, her dainty hands resting in her lap. My mouth remained silent the rest of the way home—although my mind certainly did not.

  When we reached the farm, I expected to see Amos’s car and had to remind myself that he’d left. Another sense of loss and grief swept through me.

  Sunday morning Milton and I finished the chores and then I had breakfast with Aenti Suz again.

  After we’d finished, she said, “We’d better clean up and be on our way to church.”

  Jah, it was Sunday morning. I’d considered going back to Harrisburg for the day instead of spending an uncomfortable morning being stared at by people from my past. Dat’s service had been bad enough, but at least then I could be the grieving girl. Now I was simply the prodigal daughter.

  It wouldn’t do for me to drive my car. “May I ride with you?” I asked Aenti Suz.

  “Of course,” she replied.

  We left before Mamm and the girls. When we arrived, I stood by Aenti Suz and a couple of the widows in the congregation. When Mamm and the others arrived, Leisel took me under her wing.

  All of the congregants filed in with their age groups. Leisel ended up following Marie and Gail into a row of young women. I perched on the end of the bench, hoping to remain inconspicuous. But of course I couldn’t.

  Mamm filed in with Aenti Suz behind her. A lump formed in my throat. It was my mother’s first service as a widow. True, all these years she’d never sat with Dat, but she’d always come and left with him.

  After Aenti Suz was Edith. She smiled at me as she passed by. I anticipated Silas sitting on the men’s side with the other men who were in their early twenties, but he never appeared.

  I sang the hymns along with the rest of congregation, surprised that none of the words to the songs in German were lost to me. It felt as if I’d only missed a few services, not three years’ worth.

  A deacon I didn’t recognize read the scripture from 2 Thessalonians. “Therefore, brethren, stand fast, and hold the traditions which ye have been taught, whether by word, or our epistle.” Then Bishop Jacobs walked to the front to preach. I’d hoped someone else would be doing the honors. I straightened my aching back. I wasn’t used to sitting on a hard bench for three hours, even after sitting through Dat’s service. The padded chairs from the church I attended with Tom seemed opulent compared to what I sat on now.

  Bishop Jacobs’s voice boomed, startling me. “For the law was given by Moses, but grace and truth came by Jesus Christ.” He stared at all of us for a long moment and then said, “That’s what John wrote in his Gospel after he’d seen the glorified Christ. He knew Christ had fulfilled the law.”

  Puzzled, I sat up even straighter. The Amish certainly had their own laws—well, rules anyway. The unwritten Ordnung, a word for order, covered everything from the length of dresses to the width of hat brims to the tires on our tractors. I wondered exactly what his point was.

  Bishop Jacobs’s voice grew louder as he said, “John had experienced the grace and truth of Christ over and over.” He continued to talk about John’s life
with Jesus and what he saw and learned. I listened as intently as I could, considering that a sharp pain had settled between my shoulder blades. I wondered if all of my time in front of my computer at work, compared to my all-day workouts on the farm in my former life, had made me grow weak. Perhaps sitting on benches for three hours at a time created a super strong core that I’d lost in the last few years.

  My mind began to wander until Bishop Jacobs’s voice boomed again. “We can’t have grace without truth, and we can’t have truth without grace. Some might say we have our own laws, but those aren’t to gain favor with God.” I hoped Marie was listening.

  “Those are to allow us to live in community with each other. To keep us modest—all of us. To keep us from coveting what our neighbor has. To keep us caring for each other.”

  I bristled. Had he thought me wanting to farm immodest? Or that someone might covet my role? Or that it would keep me from caring for others?

  “But our main focus has to be on grace and truth, not rules.”

  I wanted to shake my head. That certainly hadn’t been my experience three years ago.

  “We can best point others to truth when we have a relationship with them,” he said. “We can best extend grace to others when we’ve admitted our own need for grace—and accepted it.”

  He smiled wryly. “There was one man in particular in our community who extended grace to me over and over, especially when I first started as bishop, when I needed it most.” He paused for a moment as if to collect his thoughts or perhaps his emotions. “That man was Gus Bachmann. I won’t go into details, but even when he was hurt by my actions, he extended me grace.”

  The bishop continued. “Right now, his family is going through a hard time. They are grieving him while caring for Arden, who’s in the hospital. Gus’s son Amos came for the service, but has returned to Colorado. Jessica . . .”

  I bristled, alarmed that he’d mentioned me by name.

  “. . . is here, too, helping out.”

  I kept my eyes on the floor.

  “And as you can imagine, Bethel, Marie, and Leisel . . .” Someone sniffled down the bench. Marie, I assumed.

  The bishop continued, “. . . along with Vi and the children are grieving for Gus as they care for Arden. My prayer is that just as Gus extended grace and truth to me, I can do the same for his family.”