by Amy Lillard
He shoved his hands a bit deeper into his pockets and tried to make himself as small as possible. He was tired and angry and not ready to meet all these people. Couldn’t they put this off until tomorrow?
“Brandon, this is your aunt Tillie.”
Apparently not.
“Hi.” He gave a quick shrug. The woman looked a little like his mom, with the same color eyes. But her hair was darker, more of a coffee sort of brown, instead of the streaky reddish blond his mother faithfully kept up.
“Are you hungry?” his grandmother asked. He didn’t even know what to call her. Had he ever heard his mother actually say her name? He couldn’t remember.
Like he cared. All he wanted was to be out of here as quickly as possible. Yesterday.
Mom shook her head. “I’m fine. Brandon?”
He shrugged again without taking his hands from his pockets. “Whatever.”
His mother and grandmother stared at him as if he had just walked off an alien spaceship, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to be here, and he wasn’t about to pretend otherwise.
“Eunice? Who’s there?”
His grandmother looked back to Mom. “That’s Mammi.”
“I’ll go.” His mother glanced to him as if he should volunteer to go with her, but no way. He’d had enough of meeting people he never wanted to know for one day.
“Whatever,” he said again and flung himself down at the kitchen table.
“I have pie.”
He turned to look at his grandmother. His aunt hovered behind, along with the woman named Gracie. He heard the door open as someone else entered the small house. So weird to meet these people and find out that he was related to them though he had just now seen them for the first time. He was practically an adult!
“And cold milk.”
He shrugged one shoulder. Pie sounded awesome. But he didn’t want to appear excited. So lame. “Sure. Whatever.”
She gave him a questioning glance, then moved around the kitchen that looked as if it belonged in a museum exhibit. Tillie and Gracie slid into chairs across from him. They propped their chins on their hands and watched him like spectators at a baseball game while he pretended not to notice. Or to care. His grandmother puttered around, and before he knew it, she slid a piece of pie and a large glass of milk in front of him.
“Thanks.” He sat up straight and picked up the fork resting on the edge of the plate.
“Danki.” His grandmother smiled.
“What?” he asked around his bite of pie. Blackberry. Yum. But he wasn’t about to say too much. No sense letting everyone know they could get to him. Now, if it had been an apple pie . . . “Is that like Amish for you’re welcome?”
“It’s Dutch for thank you,” Tillie said.
He took a gulp of the milk. It tasted a little weird—not bad like it had turned or anything, just different. “Dutch?”
“Pennsylvania Dutch.” His grandmother gave a quick nod, then moved away as his mother came back into the room.
Weird. He thought they were German.
Mom sat in the chair next to him, releasing a sigh as she eased down. She looked beat, but he wasn’t about to show concern. She was the reason they were in this mess.
Brandon took another large bite of the pie. It was so good. Maybe even the best he had ever eaten, but he wasn’t saying that out loud. He didn’t want his mother getting any ideas about staying. Three weeks and he was out of here. That had been the agreement. Well, sort of. She had said they needed to move, that the house where they lived would have to be sold. Something about unknown debts and bills and an estate in probate, whatever that meant. He’d looked it up on the Internet, but it was boring adult stuff. He should have cared more about it since it somehow affected his life, but he couldn’t muster even the smallest interest in understanding it. He’d made up his mind. He was giving this whole thing three weeks—that was fair as far as he was concerned—but once that time was up, he was out.
Unless this was all some kind of joke and his mother would start laughing at any minute claiming that she had “got him.”
Yeah, that had to be it. Just a joke. A late April Fool’s prank. Never mind that it was August. His mother was never really good with that sort of thing.
“Once you finish your pie, we’ll get our bags from the car.”
Just his luck. She wasn’t kidding. This was no joke. His dad was gone, his home was up for sale, and he was stuck in Amish Land.
Perfect, he thought as he scooped up the last bite of pie. Just perfect.
Chapter Two
Hannah stared up into the darkness where the ceiling should be. She had forgotten how dark it got out here once the sun was completely down, once everyone had gone to bed. There were no lights in the house to show the way, no streetlamps or security lights outside. Only the moon gave any reprieve from the darkness, but even its light couldn’t make its way into her room.
Above her, the roof creaked and moaned as the soft wind made its way under the corrugated tin to rattle around in the rafters. Not so long ago such a noise would have sent Brandon scurrying into her room wanting to know what all the strange noises were. But these days he was too big and tough to scurry anywhere, scared or not. Just when had her baby turned into such a . . . well, she didn’t have a word. Teenager was all she could say.
Once she had come out of the adjacent dawdihaus, her family had descended, her brothers, Jim and David, and Jim’s wife, Anna. David was a couple of years younger than Hannah and Leah, while Jim was a couple of years older. Both had joined their father’s business of building storage sheds for Amish and Englisch alike. Both had built houses on the adjacent land, though David had yet to find himself a bride. They seemed genuinely happy to see her, though her father stayed in the barn until after she and Brandon had retired to their room.
Across the darkness, Brandon snored softly as he slept. He had rolled his eyes at the thought of having to share a room with his mother, but Hannah explained as best she could. There was only one spare room. He either slept in one of the twin beds in the sewing room or on the hard couch in the living room.
Hannah rolled over and punched at her pillow. She had gotten accustomed to her memory foam pillow, but when it was time to go, some things had to be left behind. Her neck would be stiff in the morning, but it was just another of the adjustments they would have to make.
So many adjustments. And just like always, her thoughts circled around to Brandon once again. Mitch’s death had come as a shock to them both. Shocking to learn that he had died in an explosion aboard a yacht she hadn’t even known he had bought. Even more shocking was the fact that his twenty-two-year-old assistant was found dead alongside him. Then all of that was topped off with the debt he had racked up, the unpaid bills, loans, and mortgages. Now everything was wrapped up in the legal system. She couldn’t even pretend to understand it all. Her attorney assured her that things would settle down eventually. Everything she and Mitch owned together would be sold or auctioned off to pay the outstanding debts—the house, the cars, the apartment in the city. He all but promised that once everything had been liquidated, she would have enough to modestly start over. She could only hope. And pray. Though she wasn’t sure God was listening to her these days.
She sighed into the darkness. She hated the nights. That was when the thoughts crowded in and refused to let her sleep. During the day she could pretend that everything was just as she planned. That everything was going to be just fine. But at night it was a different matter. And here, in the home where she grew up . . . all the lies she told herself seemed even bigger, the obstacles that stood in her way greater than before.
She had no idea how long they would be here, or even how long they would be allowed to stay. Conservative Amish sects didn’t take to their members leaving, then casually coming back. And with an Englisch son in tow? She’d be lucky if they even had a week before they were forced out. Hopefully that would be enough time to come up with another plan, someplac
e to stay as she waited it out. The attorney had said this ordeal could take months. But she didn’t have that much time. She only had days to figure out what she could do. Days filled with family and reconnecting and more memories than she cared to think about.
* * *
“Time to get up.” Hannah gently shook her son’s shoulder, ignoring how young and innocent he still looked as he slept. Despite his long hair and that awful lip ring, he still was her baby.
She hated the lip ring, but it had been his rebellion against Mitch’s stern treatment of him. She had used reverse psychology, hoping that if she didn’t make a big deal out of it, he would grow bored with it and it would disappear. So far no luck, but she still held tight to her hope.
“Brandon.” She gently shook him again.
“Wut?” he muttered, not bothering to open his eyes.
Poor guy, he’d had a tough couple of days. If they had been home, she would have let him sleep in, but they weren’t at home. Now was the time to win her family’s favor, no matter how long they were staying.
“Time to get up.”
He rolled over and flung one arm over his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Time to get up,” she returned.
He pushed himself up in the bed and glanced out the window, rubbing his eyes as if he couldn’t trust them. “It’s still dark out.”
Welcome to Amish country. “Everyone around here gets up before the sun. Now come on and let’s get something to eat.”
He scratched at his chest through his shirt and mulled over her words. “Kay.” He pushed himself out of bed, still tousled, as he padded barefoot toward the door.
“Wait. You can’t go out there like that.” She pointed toward his plaid pajama pants and black shirt emblazoned with the name of his favorite rock band.
He looked down at himself, then back up to her. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“It’s different here. Just get dressed first, okay?”
For a moment she thought he might start an argument, but he grabbed his clothes and motioned for her to leave the room. “I would go to the bathroom to get ready, but wait . . . there isn’t a bathroom.”
She would give him that dispute. Living without Internet, cable, and electricity would be bad enough. But without indoor plumbing . . . ? She knew she was asking a lot. Yet what choice did they have? “Come to the table when you’re dressed and ready.”
“Fine,” he blustered, turning away as if she were already gone.
“And Brandon?” she started. “Come ready to pray.”
* * *
Pray? He scoffed as he pulled a clean T-shirt over his head. He had almost grabbed one with a skull on it, just to see what his conservative family members would think of it, but decided against it. He was angry with his mother for bringing him here, but he understood that they had no place else to go. No sense pushing it beyond the limits.
Instead he found a plain one, black, and a pair of jeans. It was the best she would get from him today.
He shook back his hair and pulled it into a plain band. He read once that dukes and pirates called the style a queue. He liked the idea; it sounded a lot better than ponytail. He smoothed his hands over his hair, hoping it looked okay. But there wasn’t a mirror in the sewing room where they had slept. After all the surprises that kept coming about this little vacation in Amish Land, he shouldn’t be surprised.
With a quick shake of his head, he started from the room.
He followed the smell of sausage all the way to the kitchen. The first thing that struck him was the noise. Not crazy noise, but comforting noise. It made him think of his friend Carlos and his family. So many people lived in Carlos’s house that there was never a quiet moment, not even in the middle of the night. But the sounds were happy, warm, family.
In a separate room off from the kitchen, a large table was loaded down with biscuits, sausage, a large bowl of scrambled eggs, a pan of fried potatoes, fruit, applesauce, some type of peanut butter spread, and more jars of jam than he could take in with one look.
“There you are.” His grandmother bustled over. “I was just about to send your mother after you.”
She was?
“Come sit down so we can get started.”
Almost every chair was full. His grandmother, his grandfather, his aunt Tillie, the woman named Gracie he’d met last night, his mother, and his uncle David were all waiting for him to sit down.
He cleared his throat and took his seat, the one between David and his mother.
Mom elbowed him gently in the ribs, then nodded pointedly toward her father at the head of the table. He had his hands in his lap and his head bowed. Brandon looked around at the others. Everyone was sitting in the same pose. Was this what she had meant when she had said “come ready to pray”?
She dipped her chin, and he bowed his head, sure that was what she wanted from him. He lowered his eyes, and no one spoke.
Geez. What was taking so long?
Brandon blew out a quiet sigh, then everyone shifted in their chairs. His mom nudged him again, and Brandon lifted his gaze. Movement had started around the table once more. Family members were passing biscuits, butter, and jams. But what about the prayer?
It seemed it was over, if it had ever begun.
Someone passed him the plate of sausage. He took a couple of links and passed it to his mother, only then realizing that everyone had been waiting on him, and no one had eaten until everyone was seated at the table. Weird. Beyond weird. But also kind of nice.
He accepted the pan of biscuits from his uncle and stacked a couple on his plate. He looked down at his meal, complete with fried potatoes and eggs. He might have had to get up before the sun and get dressed for no reason, but he could get used to a breakfast like this.
* * *
“Dat!”
Aaron Zook closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then turned away from the skillet full of ham to look at his oldest daughter.
Laura Kate came across so much more grown up than her almost nine years as she pursed her lips at him. “I don’t want to go up North.”
“Who said anything about going up North?” He didn’t need to ask. There was only one person.
“Andy.”
“Please go outside and send your brother back in.”
“Is he in trouble?” Laura Kate’s eyes were alight with something akin to satisfaction.
As much as Aaron hated the look, he understood. Ever since Lizzie had died, Andy had grown increasingly cantankerous, almost surly in his attitude, especially where his sisters were concerned.
“Go get him, please.” Aaron was not getting into this discussion with his daughter at such an early hour. The sun was barely up. “Then help your sister get in the eggs.”
“Dat.”
Aaron shook his head at her tone. Where had her attitude come from? He certainly hadn’t encouraged it, but he had to get a handle on it. If only Lizzie were still alive. She’d know what to do. “After that we need to get the trash to the barrel. It’s burning day.”
“Did you hear what I said?” Her blue eyes were serious behind her wire-rimmed glasses.
“And did you hear me, daughter?”
Her lips tightened in an all-too-familiar way. And he couldn’t help but think back to a beautiful summer day, much like today, with a chestnut-haired girl with sweet hazel eyes and a similar stubborn expression. He pushed those thoughts away.
He hadn’t thought of her in years, but that didn’t mean his memories of her were any less potent. They were always there, just waiting for some little thing to push them to the front of his mind.
“But, Dat, I—”
“You have exactly three seconds to get out of this house and do your chores before you have to muck the stalls in the horse barn this afternoon.” He turned back to their breakfast, but could hear her aggravated sigh and angry footsteps as she stomped from the house.
He should have been more careful in talking to Abner Gingerich
in front of his children. They were growing up so fast, understanding more and more of the world around them. Or was it simply that they had, at some point, started paying attention?
All his life, Aaron had been good with animals, especially with horses. Somehow, they just seemed to trust him, to do what he wanted of them. There wasn’t a horse in Mississippi he couldn’t train with kind words and gentle touches. He had a gift, the elders always said. A gift for training horses, but no heart for farming.
But this was Lizzie’s father’s land, handed to him through her. Since she’d passed, he hadn’t seemed to be able to grow much of anything. But for the last year, he’d held on, tried to make the best of it. Through an unpredictable winter, a brutal summer, and the trials of raising three children by himself. He felt like he was losing on all accounts. And that left him only one option: remarry and find his family the mother they needed so very badly. Maybe if he picked careful enough he’d find a widow with at least one teenage son to help him farm the land. But the idea held no appeal.
He had prayed, and now he had a different opportunity. Seemed there was a fellow up in Ohio who’d pay a man a fair day’s wage to train his horses. This fellow had heard about Aaron’s gift and wanted him to consider the job.
And he was. Despite Laura Kate’s reservations about moving away from Mississippi, to Aaron, moving to Ohio held many opportunities—and not just those of a job he would love. Just the thought of working with horses all day every day made his heart feel light and his stomach quivery with anticipation. But there was more to think about than just himself. There were his children. And he’d never much been out of Pontotoc.
“Dat! Dat!”
Essie, his youngest, came flying through the door, leaving Laura Kate to keep the screen from slamming back into place.
“Laura Kate got the eggs.” Essie pointed to the basket her sister carried. “And I got the milk,” she added, her dimpled smile warming him from the inside out. His youngest daughter was as whimsical as his eldest girl was serious.
