The Atonement

by Beverly Lewis

  “Ain’t like Lucy to forget,” Faye remarked as she finished up the breakfast dishes.

  “I daresay she has too much on her mind.” Sarah rose from the table to freshen Christian’s coffee cup.

  “Sure, I’ll help out, Mamm. First, I’ll let Lettie know I’m comin’ with more dirty clothes.” Faye opened the cellar door and called down to her sister.

  When Faye was gone, Christian said, “It’s been years since I’ve been up there in the eaves.” He chuckled. “How’s Lucy keepin’ things?”

  “Well, her African violets thrive up there, and it’s a nice spacious place to sit and read or sew.”

  Christian nodded. “Do ya think she might ever want to move back to her old room?”

  “I think she’s real settled.” Sarah returned and placed his coffee in front of him, then sat back down. “Why do ya ask, dear?”

  “Oh, I would just hate for her to feel alienated all this time from the rest of us,” he said softly.

  “I doubt you have to worry ’bout that anymore.”

  Christian sighed. “She’s come a long way. . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Sarah was nodding her head. “Travis disappeared the moment we nixed the wedding.” Looking toward the window, she whispered, “Well, the moment you had that talk with him.”

  His wife wasn’t accusing him, Christian knew. They’d come to that agreement jointly, believing that asking Travis to join their church before any marriage was best for their daughter and the coming baby. Lest Lucy be shunned . . .

  “Lucy did say at the time that she’d never love again,” Sarah sadly reminded him.

  “Surely she’s changed her mind,” Christian said.

  “A mother can always pray, jah?”

  He reached over and patted her hand. “Prayin’s always best, my love.”

  The morning had wings as Lucy and Martie worked together, and soon they were hanging out the second washing on the clothesline. A breeze had picked up, and there was less humidity, too—ideal for drying.

  One buggy after another rode past the house, and the closest neighbors waved, some calling “Wie bischt?” And Jesse, who played near his mother, waved back.

  “I just can’t imagine livin’ in the city, can you?” Lucy asked Martie, pulling a clothespin from the corner of her mouth.

  “Not in a hundred years of Sundays.”

  Lucy nodded. A small silence spooled out, and she thought of the crib quilt and what it meant to her now, after these years of keeping her heartache to herself, burying it in relentless activity.

  Shaking out a large towel, Martie smiled over at her. “What are ya thinking ’bout, Lucy?”

  “Oh . . . city life, I guess.”

  Martie looked at her. “Why’s that?”

  “Just realizing again how close I came to givin’ up the Old Ways for a city boy.” Lucy rubbed her neck. “I would’ve missed the country . . . and my family, too.”

  Still holding the damp towel, Martie nodded. “The way it turned out, you avoided die Meinding—the shunning.”

  Jah, Lucy thought. I avoided it, but some things are equally painful.

  “Mind you, what’s done is done,” said Martie, who seemed to sense Lucy’s reticence. “Ach, sister, you’re lost in thought.”

  “I saw Tobe last night,” Lucy confided.

  “What do you mean . . . saw?”

  She told Martie about accepting a ride with Tobe Glick, how he’d wanted to talk. “He shared some things with me. And I opened up some, too. . . .”

  Martie stopped what she was doing, her expression shocked.

  “You told him?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Ach, nee! Never!”

  Martie seemed relieved. “He wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’re right,” Lucy admitted. “Who would?”

  “So . . . may I ask what Tobe had on his mind?”

  Lucy stopped short of telling Martie the whole of it, but she related some of Tobe’s struggle with his parents’ decision to move west—whether he should go or not, too. “And while he was tossing the notion round, something broke free in me . . . and I’ve been reliving everything that happened between Travis and me.”

  Martie listened and continued to hang up the mound of clothes, arranging them in order from little Josh’s britches, then Jesse’s, to Ray’s. She and other womenfolk in the area made a clothesline look like “an art form,” or so Lucy had once seen it described in the Intelligencer Journal. A reporter had written about the “home arts,” including a mention of the perfectly hung washing on thousands of lines each week in Amish country.

  “Well, don’t forget I’m right here for you, Lucy.”

  “I appreciate that every day I live.” Reconsidering her earlier reluctance, she forged ahead. “Tobe wants to court me.”

  “He does?” It was apparent from Martie’s grin that she was all for it. “And what did ya say?”

  Lucy told her everything she’d told Tobe. “You and I both know he’s the perfect man for a girl who hasn’t messed up her life.”

  Martie’s eyes turned cheerless. “Oh, sister . . .”

  Lucy forced a smile. “We’d better talk of somethin’ else, jah?”

  Sadly, her sister agreed, and they dropped the subject.

  The minute Martie’s basket was empty, she came over to help Lucy. “I have something to share with you, too, but I hope it won’t hurt you further, sister,” Martie said. “Never would I want to compound your sadness, past or present.”

  “Ach, no need to fret over me, Martie,” Lucy said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve been ponderin’ how to tell ya. . . .” Martie stopped, looked away, and wiped her eyes. “You seemed really glad to receive the crib quilt earlier, so I hope it’s not the wrong time to tell you this.”

  “Go on.”

  Martie reached for her hand. “My doctor said recently that he thinks I might be carryin’ twins,” she said softly. “He thinks he heard a second heartbeat, so he’s scheduled an ultrasound for this week.”

  Lucy smiled, wanting to be happy for her precious sister. With all of her heart, she yearned to be, but she could not find the right words. Martie has two little boys already. Why should the Lord God see fit to give her two more . . . and both at once?

  “Sister?” Martie pleaded.

  “You deserve this gut news.”

  Martie was sighing. “Oh, Lucy, I prob’ly shouldn’t have brought this up, at least not today. Even so, if the ultrasound shows twins, you’d wonder why I hadn’t told ya, close as we are.”

  Lucy nodded. “You did the right thing. Honest, ya did.” Tears rolled down her cheeks and she brushed them away.

  “Aw, Lucy.” Martie opened her arms. “Kumme here!”

  Lucy stumbled forward and sobbed on her shoulder.

  Martie soothed her, stroking her back. “It’s best to cry it out.”

  And at long last she did, finally allowing herself the comfort of crying in Martie’s loving arms.

  ———

  After she’d calmed some, Lucy finished hanging the clothes while Martie ran to the porch to check on the sleeping Josh. And soon, here she came with a tumbler of cold water for Lucy and a small cup for Jesse, who was chattering to himself in Deitsch all the while.

  “Denki. What would I do without you?”

  “Well, you’ve been a listening ear for me, too, remember?”

  Lucy smiled. “Your uncertainty about marryin’ Ray?”

  “Seems like another world ago now.”

  Lucy offered a sip of the water to Martie, who drank from the opposite side of the tumbler.

  “I have an idea.” Martie patted Lucy’s cheek. “What would you say ’bout goin’ with Dat to those grief meetings Mamm told me about?” Martie asked gently. “Have ya given it any thought?”

  “Not since he invited me last week.”

  Martie tilted her head. “I’m thinkin’ it might just help ya.”

  Lucy took another dri
nk, pondering Martie’s suggestion. This grief she’d locked away was beginning to feel like a sickness, even a terminal disease.

  “I’ll think on it,” she said, realizing she’d never let herself fully grieve the loss of her baby.

  Chapter 17

  LUCY PARKED HER SCOOTER in the barn as soon as she arrived home that afternoon, then hurried toward the hen house to collect the eggs. She was surprised to see her mother come strolling out of the house. “Wie geht’s, Mamm?”

  “Need some help, dear?”

  “Nee, I’m fine.”

  Her mother nodded. “Just thought maybe—”

  “You’re still thinking ’bout last night, I s’pose.”

  “Well, you did seem upset . . . even a bit sad when you came in from your ride with Tobe.”

  Lucy felt a twinge of regret for having told Martie all about it yet hesitating now with Mamm. There was a time when she used to include her mother in so much more.

  Just then, Lettie called from the house. “How many green peppers should I stuff for supper tonight, Mamm?”

  Their mother sighed good-naturedly. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”

  “Go an’ help Lettie. It’s all right,” Lucy assured her. “I’ll be in with the eggs soon enough.”

  Her mother moved toward the hen house but turned back. “I’m here, Lucy, if you wanna talk.”

  “I know, and ’tis a comfort. Denki, Mamm.”

  When Lucy left the house on Wednesday after breakfast, Mamm handed her both her lunch and a thermos of orange juice for a pick-me-up that afternoon at the hospice center.

  Wendell Keene slept through much of Lucy’s reading the first hour, and when he did awaken, he was groggy and out of sorts, even failing to recognize her.

  “His memory is fading as his body begins to shut down,” one of the nurses told Lucy out in the hall. “But please keep reading to him. Hearing is one of the last senses to go.”

  That means I can still talk to him, Lucy thought, wishing the Lord God might put something significant into her mind to share with poor Wendell. But she had little hope of that.

  At noon, Lucy ate her sandwich and apple in the large atrium downstairs, where the popular aviary was located. Glancing around, she realized yet again that she was the only Amishperson in the spacious area, although she’d met several Mennonite girls who dressed like they were more fancy than Plain.

  On her way back upstairs, Lucy noticed an older gentleman in a red sweater coming out of the elevator pushing a wheelchair containing a very slender woman. The new patient was dressed in a white bathrobe with matching white socks and satin slippers. Upon second glance, Lucy realized that it was the friendly man from the bridge whom she’d met at the Bird-in-Hand Farmers Market.

  Seeing the couple together made Lucy want to rush over to greet them, but she willed herself to walk slowly.

  “Hullo again,” she said to the man as they headed this way with Sandi Turner, one of Lucy’s favorite nurses. “We met before, at—”

  “Yes, hello.” The man smiled readily. “I take it you must work here.”

  “I volunteer.” She smiled down at the woman. “My name is Lucy Flaud.”

  “And we’re Clinton and Dorothea Holtz.” He gently touched his wife’s shoulder. “We were known as Clint and Dottie when we were young,” he added.

  “I’m glad to meet ya both.” Lucy accepted his handshake and nodded at Dorothea, whose pretty brown eyes twinkled up at her.

  “My wife can hear quite well, but she sometimes struggles to speak,” Clint told Lucy quietly, off to the side. “Dottie has a wonderful sense of humor, however, as you’ll soon discover if you get better acquainted.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.”

  Nurse Sandi motioned for Lucy to come along to Dorothea’s assigned room, which had the sweet smell of a florist shop, thanks to a sizeable bouquet.

  “Oh, darling, look at this!” Clinton said, picking up the accompanying card. “The church sent over flowers.”

  “Makes for a real cheery room,” Sandi said as she set the brake on the wheelchair.

  “B-beautiful,” Dorothea whispered, putting both thumbs up.

  Lucy scanned the pretty room, similar to the others but with a few personal touches like photographs, a leather Bible, and a colorful throw blanket. Despite the abundant sunlight and openness of the space, a momentary darkness fell over her.

  Dorothea will most likely die here, she thought sadly. The large spray of autumn colors caught her attention yet again.

  Sandi, who was always exceptionally caring, assisted Dorothea into bed at the woman’s request, and Clinton and Lucy stepped into the hallway.

  Lucy would have returned to Wendell’s room, but Clinton asked, “Do you enjoy working here, Lucy?”

  “’Tis really a special place, jah.” She began to talk about the things she liked best—the soft background music, the little birds in the aviary, and the neat and tidy rooms, too. “It seems to be a gut choice for comfort care. Most of all, the compassionate staff makes it that way.”

  “My Dottie deserves the best of care.” Clinton nodded slowly, a tear on his cheek. “She has looked after me all these years, and our four children when they were young—two boys and two girls, all grown and busy with their own families now.” He stopped for a moment to gather his composure. “Next to the Lord Jesus, Dottie’s my life . . . my reason to keep going.”

  Lucy had never heard anyone talk so, and she was intrigued. “I hope some of your family can come to visit here.” She recalled how difficult it had been for Wendell to feel so alone, his family elsewhere, although the man had never actually admitted it.

  “We’re a close-knit bunch, I assure you,” Clinton said, eyes shining. “As you and your family must be.”

  “We Amish do tend to stick together.”

  Nodding, he cracked a smile. “Dottie and I have read several books about the Plain culture, especially by Donald Kraybill. Have you read any of his work?”

  “Jah—The Riddle of Amish Culture.” Lucy knew the respected author was the longtime voice for the Lancaster County Amish community.

  Clinton talked of the tough decision to bring his wife to hospice care, glancing at the closed door with concern in his eyes. “It’s not easy saying good-bye,” he told Lucy. “If I could do it all over again and live the last sixty years with my sweetheart, I would in an instant.”

  “You remind me of my father’s parents,” she told him. “They were real sweet on each other, too, up till the final hour.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” He paused, offering a gentle smile. “Was this recent?”

  “Dawdi died several years ago. And my grandmother still mourns him.”

  Clinton mentioned his church had an outreach for grieving folk. “I’m being helped by it, thankfully. Although things will get more difficult . . . especially in the coming weeks.”

  It sounded as though Dorothea didn’t have long. “They’ll keep her comfortable, I’m sure ya know,” Lucy assured him.

  He nodded. “Watching her suffer has been so hard. More than I can bear at times.”

  Lucy remembered her Mammi Flaud saying something similar about Dawdi before he passed away. She was touched that Clinton had opened up so freely to her—and so quickly, too. And she wondered, Is it my Plainness that sets him at ease?

  ———

  When Sandi opened the door and invited them back inside, Lucy offered to read to Dorothea, who pointed toward the well-worn Bible on the table.

  “My wife has cherished this Bible because I received it from my Sunday school teacher as a lad,” Clinton said, picking it up. “At the time, I could recite whole chapters. But Dottie wasn’t always impressed with my enthusiasm for the Lord.”

  Carefully, Clinton opened to Romans 8, where he indicated he’d stopped reading to his wife that morning. “She especially finds encouragement from the letter to the Romans,” he said, “since it’s all about the unearned gift of God’s
grace.”

  While Lucy read to Dorothea, Clinton went out to the car to bring in the last of his wife’s personal items. “‘For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.’” Lucy paused to contemplate the verse and looked over at Dorothea, who had folded her hands, as if in prayer. Moved by this, Lucy continued reading with even more expression.

  When it was time to leave, Lucy spotted Belinda Frey, one of the Mennonite volunteers, down the hall, also getting ready to head home. She asked Belinda if she might stop in and speak with Wendell Keene before leaving. “He’s floundering,” she said softly. “Seems to have lost hope.”

  Belinda nodded, her eyes sober but kind. “I’m afraid we’ve seen this too often, haven’t we? But it’s also true that it takes the loss of hope for some people to finally cry out to God.”

  Lucy knew such desperation for God’s attention all too well. She swallowed hard. “Well, Wendell told me himself he’d had some experience with the Lord. But he’s definitely troubled, and I’m not sure what to say.”

  Belinda’s eyes showed her understanding, and Lucy was relieved. “I’ll go in and see him right now.”

  Lucy watched her scurry off to Wendell’s room, hating to think of the dear man in such a panic.

  On the way home, Lucy felt distraught as the words the sufferings of this present time continued to echo in her mind. She thought of not only Wendell, but of Clinton and Dorothea and their impending final farewell. She’d witnessed the deep sorrow, even pain, in Clinton’s eyes as he spoke so tenderly of his wife.

  Lucy pondered the prospect of her future twilight years, decades from now, wondering what it would be like to have a man like Clinton to stay by her side, come what may.

  Chapter 18

  WHEN LUCY HAD RETURNED from the hospice, she recalled Mamm’s seeking her out in the hen house the other day and decided to ask her for a bit of help upstairs. “I’d like to move my bed and dresser around, if it won’t put ya out.”