by Susan Rohrer
Aaron looked completely stumped.
Isaac’s head drooped. “Not everything that is permitted is best.”
“Sehr gut, Isaac. So, you were listening.”
“Ja, Dat. And Opa. I heard.”
Dat put his hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “There are many things that other people do that we choose not to do. Even other Amish. Hear me that I do not fault you for asking.” Dat glanced between the two of them. “Your Rumspringa years will come to an end, now-once. You will both have to decide these things for yourselves yet. Even Gott will not take that choice from you. But until that time, as long as you live under this roof, this is my decision. We have made fine furniture without English electricity for many generations in this family. We will continue to do that. Do you understand?”
Isaac nodded. Dat turned to Aaron. Aaron accepted it, too. The two of them headed up the stairs to their room. It was over.
Charity picked up her father’s jacket. She fished through its pockets, emptying them in preparation for washing.
Dat cast a glance her way. “Daughter, tell me. Do you dislike Daniel?”
The question was startling, so out of the blue. “Dislike him? Not at all. I just have work to do.” She pulled a sealed envelope from the pocket of Dat’s jacket, her mind awhirl. It was just like Dat to pick up mail and on his way back from town, and then forget it was in his pocket. Just not on washday.
As her grandfather steadied the chair legs, her father edged the new rung into place with a mallet. “You might take some time for yourself, like the others do. I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy, Dat. I hardly need to run around to know where I belong.” Charity glanced at the envelope she held in her hand. It was forest green in color, like the holly along the edge of their woods. The envelope felt stiff, as if it contained a card. Above the New York City return address was a woman’s name:
Hope Bright.
Charity looked up, as stunned as she was curious. Never had she known of another woman in their family, not since her grandmother died. “Who is Hope?”
Opa clouded with concern, but Dat maintained his usual composure. He busied himself righting the chair. “No one to us, Child.”
Charity examined the envelope, puzzled. As reluctant as she was to challenge Dat, something about it prickled her inside. “But her last name is Bright, like ours.”
Dat wordlessly crossed to her and held out his hand. “Trust me, Charity. You were not meant to see this. And you would best forget that you did.”
Everything inside Charity begged. Pursue it. “But Dat...”
His voice was gentle, yet firm. “Guten nacht, Charity.”
Dat asked very little of her. So, when he did, she felt more than obliged to obey. She relinquished the envelope to him. Wistfully, she watched as he left the room. “Guten nacht, Dat.”
Charity’s gaze turned to Opa as he put his woodworking tools away for the night. There had been no mistaking the recognition she’d seen in his eyes. “Is she anything to you, Opa?”
Her grandfather contemplated the question for a while, a long-buried pain resurfacing on his face. “Some things are best unsaid.”
“Then she is,” Charity supposed.
Regret etched across Opa’s expression. “She was.”
As tired as she’d been from the long day’s work, Charity slept very little that night. Hour after hour passed. She did everything she knew to coax her eyes to stay shut. Maybe rolling over would help. It didn’t.
She really should take advantage of the time she had left. Dat always said he needed to “sleep two rows at a time” to make up for restless nights like this. How in the world could she actually do that, any more than a farmer could plow two rows at once? Try as she might to nod off, nothing stopped her curious mind from stirring.
It was unsettling to realize that the Bright family tree extended beyond what she had supposed. All of her life, she’d hung the sole black bonnet on the rack by the door, beside the four black hats of her father, grandfather, and brothers. Who was this Hope—a woman with their last name—living outside in the English world?
Finally, the night ended. Most of it, anyway. And just like that, Charity was twenty. She rested a hand against her throat. She would make nothing of this milestone. Yet, she knew. A great and ominous divide had been crossed, and there would be no return.
Before the sun, Charity rose. She put on a clean dress and apron, then twisted her waist-length tresses into a neat bun at the back of her head. Careful, she reminded herself as she situated her mother’s starched white kapp into place. She would make this memento last.
Charity had loaded her goods into the family buggy many times while Dat bridled the horse. It was their regular routine. But something about this morning felt different, in ways she could not describe. It wasn’t her place to question her father, but rather to trust his wisdom about whatever had happened within their family.
It wasn’t a blind faith she had in him. It had been tried and tested over the years growing up in his devoutly run household. Still, she couldn’t help hoping that he would answer the many questions that tugged at her mind.
Stroking their horse’s mane, Dat finally spoke. “I could take this load in myself, you know. It is, after all, your birthday. You could stay. You could be here to receive Daniel.”
Whatever did he mean by that? Had Daniel said something? Shyness swept over her. She dropped her gaze. “You like him for me.”
“Daniel is a fine young man. You would be wise to notice.”
She couldn’t prevent a slight smile from curling. “I have noticed.”
Her father moved toward the buggy. “You keep your secrets well.”
“Like you, Dat.”
For a moment, her father stopped, clearly conflicted. “She was my sister.”
Charity took the truth in, quietly stunned. “You have a sister? I have an aunt?” It was so strange to even say those words.
The cloud that crossed Dat’s face was nothing short of grief. Charity watched him, transfixed. He expelled a heavy sigh. “You are twenty today. I suppose you are old enough to know, now. I had a younger sister,” he allowed. “Once. But no longer. It was her choice.”
Charity felt her eyes mist. Quickly, she blinked. What if Dat noticed? He might think her less mature than she wanted to appear. “She was shunned?”
Faintly, Dat acknowledged the hard truth. “It was after your Mamm died. Hope was about your age then. You were only three. Next to me, your mother was her dearest friend, and she... Well, she never got over Grace dying that way.” Dat stared into the distance. “So, she left. She had already been baptized, but she said she had rushed into it too young. She wanted to go back and start her Rumspringa again, as if she had never ended it.”
Inwardly, Charity grappled for understanding. “Go back out?” Many enjoyed Rumspringa into their early twenties. But the idea of going back to resume Rumspringa after being baptized Amish—that was entirely new. “Is that ever done?”
Dat shook his head. “Not with the blessing of the church, not after baptism. That is for sure and certain.” Dat’s eyes dropped. “She was devastated over Grace. So ferhuddled, doncha know. She wanted to turn back time. Make her choices all over again. It always wondered me if she called it what she did because, deep inside, she knew she would want to come home, when she was a bit older.”
Quietly, something burned in Charity’s heart. “Do you still think there’s a chance? Maybe she still misses us.”
“Ja, I never doubt that she does. When she left, she said she could hardly stand to part with you and your baby brothers, even for a day. But there was this faraway look in her eye and...” Dat slouched. “Seventeen years, now. And she never came back.”
Charity studied her father intently. “But she writes to you.”
“Every Christmas.”
“What does she say?”
Dat moved toward the barn door. “I return the cards unopened, but not before man
y prayers.”
It was Charity’s turn to exercise restraint. She knew her father to be a man of deep communion with Gott.
“Perhaps it seems harsh,” he went on, “but she does know where and how we live. If shunning draws her home yet, then it is not rejection. Not at all, Charity. It is the deepest kind of love.”
Dat guided the horse and buggy toward the market where they sold their wares. A small boy pointed them out to his mother as they crossed the busy street. The mother urged her son onward, but he still continued to stare. Even in small town traffic, they stood out so. Charity was accustomed to the attention they always drew among the English. As humbly as they went about their business, there were always plenty of gawks and whispers, not only from the town folk, but also from visiting tourists.
Being the center of attention wasn’t something Charity relished. Plus, with so many cell phones out there, almost all the English had some kind of a camera now. Politely dodging their photographs was more challenging than ever.
Why was it that people found their simple ways to be such a curiosity? If the English world was so fascinating, why did tourists take such an interest in them? Going to town was like living in a fishbowl, complete with wide-eyed faces, tapping insistently at the glass.
Charity glanced sidelong at her father, silently contemplating, as he guided their horse into town.
An affectionate arc bordered her father’s lips. “Your mother used to do that very thing, so she did.”
Charity broke her gaze. “What?”
“Think so loudly that I could not help but hear.”
How did he always catch her? She masked her amusement. “Forgive me.”
Her father adjusted the reins. “For putting to mind your dear Mamm? No need for forgiveness. No, I thank you.”
As much as Dat still loved her mother, he wasn’t one to raise the subject of her so very often. He was giving her an opportunity. “You still miss her?”
“Every day Gott blesses me to wake yet.”
In the privacy of her heart, Charity said a prayer of thanks. As she’d ridden along to town that very morning, she’d made one humble request for her birthday: that another opening would be provided to talk more about what Dat had briefly shared with her that morning. Cautiously, Charity tested the waters. “That must have been so hard. Losing your wife and your sister, all at once.”
He guided the carriage toward a storefront with a place to tie up the horse. There were fewer and fewer of those these days. “I try to mind what I still have. You and the boys. Your Opa after all these years.”
As he parked the buggy, Charity gathered her courage. During the night, an idea had come to her. It was the reason she’d scarcely been able to fall back to sleep. She squeezed the seat to her side, trying to maintain at least the appearance of being calm. “Dat, what if I returned her card this year?”
A few seconds passed as Dat considered it. “Now that you know, I suppose you could take it to the post office to send back to her.”
“No, I mean...” Charity reminded herself to think before she spoke. Dat would appreciate that. Assurance was what he’d need to hear. She would lead off with it. “You know that I want to be baptized, to commit to remain Amish for life. You also know I’m still of age for Rumspringa before I do.” She took a breath. “What if—instead of just staying at home like most do—what if I went into the world on Rumspringa? What if I used that time to return the card to her in New York City myself?”
Dat drew back. “In person? No. The church would never permit it.”
Charity paused. Be respectful. “Do you mean the church would never permit it or you?”
Dat ran his hand through his beard. He always did that when he was deep in thought.
“Opa is a minister,” she continued. “I doubt that Bethany’s Uncle Caleb would resist the idea. Perhaps they could persuade the bishop.”
He rested his hand on his chin. “Even if the bishop would allow it, what good would it do?”
“Maybe I could bring her home.”
“Maybe she would convince you to stay.”
Though she rarely did it, Charity reflexively laid her hand on his shoulder. “Dat, trust me. I could never leave my family, my faith. You and Opa, the boys—you are my life.”
How long the silence was that followed, Charity wasn’t sure. He must be considering it. Surely, he was. She watched as he scanned the modern world surrounding their buggy, a sober expression forming.
Finally, he turned to her. He stroked her bonnet affectionately and looked full into her face. “This world is surely not without its allures, Charity. You would do best not to underestimate it.”
four
Charity stooped to help Bethany gather collards from the Hooley’s vegetable garden. The dark green leaves would be far sweeter now that the first frost had passed. It would take a lot of collards to feed the many who had come to the aid of the Hooleys that day. It was hard work but, at the same time, very satisfying to think how much everyone would enjoy what they prepared.
She gazed across the yard to the building project in process. Dozens of neighboring men had joined her father, grandfather, and brothers to help add on a dawdi haus for the Hooley’s ageing parents. The structure was modestly sized—just a bedroom with a small living area—but the addition to the main house would meet their needs well.
It was just one of the things that Charity loved about her community. When one family or another had any sort of need, the others would readily gather around to help. The womenfolk were there in force, too, preparing a tasty lunch of sandwiches and German potato salad for all of the workers. The collards they were picking would be steamed to round out the meal.
Out of the corner of her eye, Charity couldn’t resist watching Daniel. He was assisting her father, framing a two-by-four into place. What a hard worker Daniel was. So strong and capable. All morning, he’d been laboring at Dat’s side. She had no idea of what conversation might have passed between them, but something sang inside her, just at the sight of them together.
Bethany sidled up to Charity. “You realize you’re staring.”
Charity turned. “I was just—”
“He must really want to please your Dat.”
Charity smiled as she flattened collard leaves into her basket. “Do you think we could change the subject?”
“All right. No problem. So, you really had an aunt who was shunned?”
Charity checked the attentions of the nearby women. “Shhh! They might hear.”
Bethany moved closer. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What happened? What is she like?”
“I wish I had thought to ask.” Charity glanced around. Indeed, Esther Burkholder appeared to be eavesdropping as she harvested parsnips nearby in the garden. Discreetly, Charity tipped her bonnet toward Esther.
Bethany nodded. She was well accustomed to Charity’s signals.
One challenge that knowing everyone in the community presented was keeping private things truly private. With Esther, it was easy to understand. She was a widow and probably just curious. Charity turned to face the woman. “Will this be enough of the collards, Esther?”
Esther checked over their baskets. “I suppose.”
Charity led Bethany back toward the others.
Bethany leaned in close. “Esther is older. She would have known her.”
“Bethany Beachey,” Charity teased. “Are you saying I should engage in gossip?”
Bethany grinned. “Do you know that, in the English world, there are people who make their entire living on gossip? They call them gossip columnists. I read their stories in the newspapers when I was away last summer.”
Bethany’s Rumspringa years certainly had taken her far beyond their borders. It was another way she differed from most of the others their age. She’d taken a bus all the way to the Florida settlement where others in the Beachey family still lived. Charity knew better than to chatter too much with Bethany about her travels. It wasn’t dis
interest, not at all. But one minute they’d be talking about Bethany’s adventures, and the next she’d be trying to explain all over again why she’d never chosen to take advantage of Rumspringa herself.
Why it was that her Aunt Hope had never returned, Charity didn’t know. But maybe something in Bethany’s experience could help. “Was it ever hard for you, when you traveled, to come back?”
Bethany’s eyes widened. She leaned closer. “What... Are you thinking of going somewhere?”
Charity checked to be sure they weren’t being overheard. Esther was at a safe distance. “Maybe, but... Was it hard?”
Bethany shrugged lightly. “Not really. I thought it might be, but in the end...this is my home. And you are here. I could never leave you.”
Charity tapped Bethany’s arm playfully. “You just wanted to rush back and catch that handsome Levi Hooley’s eye.”
Bethany’s expression drooped. She glanced over at Levi where he worked with the men. “Hannah told me he called on her last night. She was elated.”
Disappointed, Charity stopped. “Your own cousin... She never knew?”
Tears brimmed as Bethany shook her head. “I never told anyone but you. I guess you were right. It wasn’t about the changes.”
“Bethany... Oh, I am so sorry. I know you’ve had your hopes up about him for such a long time.”
“Sometimes, I wonder,” Bethany sighed. “They always talk to us about the virtues of being Plain, but...maybe I’m too plain.”
Charity took hold of Bethany’s shoulders and regarded her squarely. “Look at me, Bethany.” She waited till Bethany tipped her chin up and returned her gaze. Bethany’s reddening complexion made Charity ache, all the way to the pit of her stomach. Why had she brought Levi’s name up at all?
Bethany ran a hand over her face, brushing the wetness away.
“Look at me and know that I will always tell you the truth.” Charity felt her own eyes filling. “Bethany, you have the most beautiful heart of any woman I know. You are clever and delightful and, in every important way, truly exquisite. One day, I promise you—the right man—he will see that.”
