MEN OF LANCASTER COUNTY 01: The Amish Groom

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Ya. Exactly.”

  “This could be fun,” I teased, “especially because I’ve got all the privacy in the world out here. Right now, it’s just me and you and this phone. I can say whatever I want.”

  “I’m listening,” she replied, and I could hear the smile in her voice as well.

  “I miss you so much. Do you miss me?”

  “Ya.”

  “I love you so much,” I told her. “Do you love me?”

  “Ya.”

  “I’d give anything to kiss you right now. Would you like to kiss me?”

  “Ya.”

  “How much?”

  She was quiet for a long moment. “Think of a horse in the morning, once the stable door is unlocked and opened, and how eager it is to run out into the field. About like that.”

  I laughed aloud. “I hear you. Okay, I’ll stop teasing.”

  “Danke.”

  I leaned forward, my voice growing somber. “Listen, I’m really sorry I missed your call on Saturday. You’ve no idea how sorry.”

  “I understand, Tyler,” she replied. “These things happen.”

  “I know, but I wanted to talk so badly. I really did. I needed to know how you are, if you’re okay, what you’ve been doing. And I wanted to hear the sound of your voice. A recording wasn’t enough. I wanted to hear you.”

  “Ya. That’s how it was here, too.”

  “And there are so many things I want to tell you, Rachel, so many things I’ve been discovering.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not yet,” I replied, watching as a squirrel darted out from behind the shed, ran to an empty birdfeeder, and began picking around on the ground underneath for seeds. “First things first. Tell me about you. How are you? What’s been going on there since I left?”

  “Do you even have to ask?” she said, and I could just picture her on the other end of the line, lips curled into a pretty smile, blue eyes sparkling. “It’s that time of year, remember.”

  “Ach. Right. Weddings. Have you been to many?”

  “Been to them, cooked for them, served at them. I think we may set a record this year for marriages in Lancaster County. I’m so tired of roasted chicken! I told my mother we should do a ham for Thanksgiving this year. Two weddings later, she has finally agreed with me.”

  Rachel went on, her voice growing more relaxed as she talked about various friends and relatives, catching me up on all the news I’d missed since leaving home. As she chattered on, I watched the squirrel exhaust the supply of seeds on the ground and make his way up the pole, seeking more. Unfortunately for him, the birds had beaten him to it.

  “But you don’t want to hear all of this,” Rachel said finally, just as the squirrel gave up, skittered back down the pole, and ran off into the trees. “I’m sure things are much more exciting out there in California. Have you seen any movie stars? Gone in the ocean? Started drinking fancy coffees with long, complicated names?”

  She was being silly, but I was eager to move on to more serious topics. “Nah. It hasn’t been all fun and games out here, you know.”

  When she replied, her voice was soft, her tone gentle and kind. “Of course not. Talk to me, Tyler. Tell me what’s been happening with you.”

  Relieved to have her listening ear at last, I launched right in, describing the unexplained hostility Brady had toward me, my dad’s parting comment, and how God had shown me that as I sought to honor both my brother and my father, I would find what I was looking for.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You have always shown them honor.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I’m saying I came here with my own agenda. I hadn’t stopped to think that how I live the rest of my life affects my dad and Brady too. I’ve only been thinking about myself. And…and you, of course.”

  “Me,” she said, suddenly sounding wary.

  I hastened to explain further. “Yes. Look, I know what it means to my Amish family—and to you—if I become a church member or if I don’t. I’ve always known that. But what I haven’t ever thought about before is what it will mean to my family here. My Englisch family.”

  She did not respond, so I added, “And we both have to consider that I do have an Englisch family, Rachel.”

  Still silence on the other end, and more than anything I wished we weren’t having this conversation under everyone’s nose, with her right there in the middle of the buggy shop.

  “We can talk about this later,” I suggested. “Considering the situation on your end, I know this isn’t exactly the time or the place.”

  “That would be an understatement,” she replied, her voice now completely devoid of warmth.

  I stood and began to pace there beside the pool, simply refusing to let our long-awaited call end this way, with the two of us so disconnected.

  “I know you’re not about to speak freely,” I said, “so just listen, okay?”

  “Okay.” Her answer was small. Afraid.

  “It’s just that I realized I have to honor this family too. I have to. God expects me to. And I know that in your heart you would want me to.”

  I heard her sigh deeply on the other end of the line. “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”

  “I’m saying I have never felt closer to finding out who I really am. I think my figuring it out is tied up with a couple of tasks.” I began to list those tasks out loud. “I need make things right with Brady. I need to assure my father and myself that I don’t feel abandoned by him. And I need to find out why my mother left the Amish faith.” I didn’t add the final element of that list, which was that I needed to help my grandparents find healing from what my mother had done to them by leaving.

  “Your mother left because she moved to Philadelphia and fell in love with an Englisch man.”

  “She left because she wasn’t happy in Lancaster County. She wanted something she felt the Amish life couldn’t offer her. I want to know what that was.”

  Another sigh. “What do you think it was?” she asked, but she sounded as if she didn’t really want to hear.

  “I’m not sure yet, but I’m trying hard to figure it out.”

  I went on to tell her about my mother’s interest in photography, how a box of her photos was waiting for me in a storage unit, how I was learning about photography from someone who was studying it in college. I wanted Rachel to know about Lark. To not tell her would seem as though I were trying to hide something from her.

  “I don’t understand. What has learning about photography got to do with any of this? Who is this person?”

  “She’s the sister of one of Brady’s friends.”

  “And why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want to know why my mother was interested in photography. Don’t you find it odd that she was? She didn’t grow up around cameras or photographs. Don’t you think that says something about her, that this was the hobby she picked up once she was no longer living an Amish life?”

  Again, Rachel hesitated before answering. “I don’t know. I suppose…” Her voice trailed off, and at that moment my phone beeped in my ear.

  I pulled it away to check the screen and saw a message.

  Low battery.

  Unbelievable. In the week I had been in California, I still had not gotten used to the idea of thinking of my phone as something that required constant surveillance from me. Brady always had his phone with him. He probably stayed aware of what his phone needed at all times.

  “My phone battery is dying, Rachel. I don’t know how much longer we have.” There was so much more I wanted to tell her. I hadn’t even shared with her about the container gardens, visiting Lark’s church, and eating sushi. “When can we talk again?”

  “Do you even want to talk again?”

  Her question startled me. “Of course I do. I want to keep talking right now. I just can’t.”

  “I see.”

  “Can we try for Saturday?” I suggested. “Same time?”

  “I guess. But we’re
supposed to get our first snowfall on Friday, so if the roads are bad, I’ll need to call from the shanty instead of from here.”

  I barely remembered as I sat there in a short-sleeved shirt that it was the second week of November—still early for snow in our part of Pennsylvania, but not unheard of.

  “That would be better anyway,” I said. “We need to talk more privately.”

  “Ya. You can say that again.”

  “Next Saturday, whatever time works for you, why don’t you phone me once you’re in the shanty, then we can hang up and I’ll dial you back so the charges are on my end. Use the cell so I can take the call anywhere. Okay?”

  “All right.”

  The phone beeped again.

  “I need to go, Rachel.”

  I started to say goodbye and to tell her just how very much I loved her, but the line went dead and she was gone.

  I sat for a moment with the phone in my hands, pain surging in my chest. I could tell she was disturbed about the distance that lay between us and perhaps even how I was approaching my quest for direction. I didn’t blame her. She didn’t have all the facts.

  I decided I would write to her and post the letter today. I would fill her in on the details I hadn’t had time to share over the phone. God willing, she would get it on Friday, before the weekend and the coming snowstorm. Once she read it, surely she would understand.

  As I went back inside the house, I was struck by the thought that I could have simply come inside while Rachel and I were talking, plugged in the phone, and finished our call that way.

  Oh, well. It hadn’t been the best situation for talking anyway.

  Liz was still on the phone with my dad, though it sounded as if they were wrapping up their conversation. She motioned for me to come toward her.

  “I love you too,” I heard her say. “I will. Okay. Here’s Tyler.”

  She handed me the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “So she’s really okay? Is she telling me the truth?”

  Liz could hear his questions even though I had the phone to my ear. She rolled her eyes.

  “Tell him I’ve come home with a third eyeball,” she said loudly so that he could hear it.

  “I think she’s going to be fine, Dad.”

  “She needs a new cast tomorrow, did she tell you that?”

  “She did. I can take her.”

  “He needs to go to bed,” Liz said, uncapping her water bottle and taking a drink. “It’s almost midnight there.”

  “Liz says—”

  “I heard her. Look, I am going to try to cut out of here early. No way am I staying the full month.”

  “He doesn’t have to do that,” Liz huffed.

  “I’m going to shoot for getting home by the end of next week,” he continued. “With a fractured ankle and a hurt shoulder, she will need more help than you can give her.”

  I glanced at Liz, sorry he was coming back sooner than planned but glad at least that I still had another week here before he did.

  “And hey,” he added. “If I get home early, we can actually spend a little time together before you have to go back.”

  “I’d like that,” I said, and once again I realized I’d been thinking about myself rather than others. God had already told me that part of my time here was about restoring my relationship with my father. Of course he was coming back early. This had to be a part of God’s greater plan, one I had to stop trying to orchestrate myself.

  “All right. I probably should hit the sack. We’re on the road at six a.m. tomorrow. You sure she’s okay?”

  Liz smiled wearily at me.

  “She’s fine,” I said.

  “Okay. I’ll stay in touch. Take it easy, Ty.”

  “You too, Dad.”

  I clicked off the phone and returned it to its base.

  “He already worries too much when I travel on these trips.” Liz winced as she sat up and swung her legs around to the floor. “Now he’ll never want me to go on another one again. Drives me crazy.”

  I hadn’t ever thought of my dad as much of a worrier, and I said so as I walked back to the family room and perched on the far end of the couch. She turned to me, a half grin on her face. She thought I had been joking. “Seriously?”

  “Ya. I mean, yes.”

  “He’s always been this way with me.”

  “Really?”

  “He pretends he doesn’t worry until the tiniest little thing happens, and then he’s like Eeyore, always thinking the worst will happen. Or has already happened.”

  I shook my head. “How odd. He’s never done that with me at all. It’s hard to imagine that’s even in his nature.”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s not so much in his nature as it is something he picked up once your mother died.” Liz looked toward the family portraits scattered on the shelves of the entertainment unit. “I know he loves me and that I’ve been married to him twice as long as she was, but sometimes I think she’s still right there in his heart, hovering like a ghost. It’s as though he never got over losing her, so he’s that much more afraid he’ll lose me.”

  She turned abruptly back to me. “I’m so sorry, Tyler. I took a painkiller earlier. I’m really sorry I said that.”

  “It’s okay,” I told her, even though I was taken aback. I had never heard Liz talk that way. Ever. In fact, I doubted that she and I had ever had a conversation between just the two of us and no one else, not in all the years I had known her.

  We both seemed to realize this at the same time, and we looked at each other for a long moment.

  “Your dad doesn’t talk about your mother around you, does he?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Does anyone?”

  “My grandparents and aunts and uncles will tell me things when I ask. But it’s hard for them too.”

  Liz thought on this for a moment. “I knew your mother. Were you aware of that?”

  Surprise rendered me wordless. I just gaped at her.

  “In between your dad’s two tours in Germany, they lived in Texas for a while. I was stationed at the same base. Our base housing units were near each other. You were just a toddler.”

  I cleared my throat and tried to speak. “I thought you met my dad while you were both stationed in Spain.”

  She shrugged. “Spain is where we got to know each other beyond a casual hello as neighbors who hardly ever saw each other.”

  “Were…were you and my mother friends? When they were still in Texas?”

  “Not intimately. We’d talk sometimes in the front yard while you played. Your dad was gone a lot. I think your mom was lonely, even though she had you.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  Liz pondered my question for a moment, and then she seemed to shake off the answer she had been composing in her head. It was as if it suddenly occurred to her that we had strayed into off-limits territory.

  “That was twenty years ago.”

  I didn’t want the conversation to end, but I could tell she was trying to wind it down. Before she did, I had to ask her the one question she might know the answer to.

  “Was my mother happy?”

  Liz regarded me, studying my face. “What makes you ask that?”

  “My grandparents don’t know, and I’ve never known how to ask Dad a question like that. But I need to know.”

  “Need to?”

  Though Liz had opened up to me more than ever before, I wasn’t ready to lay my soul bare and tell her everything about my own current issues, about the crossroads I was facing in my life. In a way, I hardly knew her. She had always kept me at a distance.

  Instead, I just said, “If your mother had died when you were young, wouldn’t you wonder that? She gave up a lot when she left her Amish roots. I’d like to know if she was happy.”

  Liz held my gaze, contemplating my words. “She loved you and she loved your dad. Very much. I know that.”

  A moment of si
lence crept between us. It was if we each were aware the other had laid a hedge around what we were really thinking. I wasn’t saying everything—and neither was she, I was pretty certain of that.

  “So, not to change the subject or anything, but I’m going to need a little assistance getting to the bathroom,” she finally said. “This was a lot easier at the airport when I had a wheelchair. I don’t need you following me in, but I do need some help walking over there.”

  “Oh. Sure.” I stood and closed the distance between us, put my arm around her waist, and helped her to her good foot. She leaned into me as she started to hop to the half bath just off the entryway.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said as we went. “Brady has crutches from when he injured his knee last year. I think they’re in the garage. Maybe while I’m in the bathroom you can get them. Or get one, rather. With this shoulder, I can’t use both.”

  “Okay.”

  I waited until I was sure she wasn’t going to topple over inside the bathroom, and then I headed to the garage. There wasn’t that much in there now that the containers had been placed in the backyard. And I was pretty sure crutches weren’t that easy to miss. But I searched every cabinet, rafter, and corner. I didn’t see them.

  I’d been gone so long looking for them that when I came inside the house, Liz was making her way back along the wall to the family room by herself. I rushed to help her.

  “I didn’t see them,” I said as I eased her back onto the couch.

  “Well, maybe they’re in the storage unit. I might have you go over there and see, if you don’t mind.”

  The storage unit.

  “Do you guys have just the one storage unit?”

  “Yes. It’s not far.” Liz raised her leg gingerly to the pillows that were waiting on the couch. “The GPS in my car will take you right to it, and our unit is on the ground floor. You know how to use the GPS, don’t you?”

  “I do, actually.”

  I thought about asking her if she knew where I might find the photos once I got there, and if she minded my retrieving them as well.

  But then I thought of her earlier words, It’s as though he never got over losing her. What if my father had never told Liz about the pictures, had never told her that he’d saved mementoes of his first, late wife? If I brought them up now and she didn’t know anything about them, she wasn’t going to be very pleased with him, nor he with me.