My Amish Boyfriend

by Melody Carlson

  “Mom?” I lean down to check on her. “You awake?”

  Lying very still, she doesn’t even flinch, but I can see she’s breathing evenly and seems somewhat comfortable. Satisfied she’s okay, I drop my bag on a chair, then head to the kitchen to make her a smoothie. Even if the blender noise disturbs her sleep, it will be worth it to get some fluid into her. Mrs. Wimple is right to be concerned about dehydration. That could result in a visit to the ER, and I know from experience that’s expensive.

  As the blender loudly whirls the frozen strawberries, milk, honey, and protein powder, I break Mom’s frugal rule by turning on the AC. Really, how expensive could a few hours be? Besides, according to Mrs. Wimple’s plans, we’ll be long gone by the time the bill arrives in July. Of course, our helpful neighbor will probably forward that bill along with the other mail. Our much-needed monthly Social Security check is a direct deposit, though, so we don’t have to worry about that. Still, this is so sudden, so unexpected. I try to imagine what tomorrow will be like as I pour the frothy pink liquid into a glass. Will we really go through with this crazy plan?

  “Shannon?” Mom’s voice sounds raspy. “Is that you in there?”

  “Sorry, Mom.” I emerge from the kitchen with the smoothie. “Did the blender wake you?”

  “Uh-huh.” Mom rests the back of her wrist on her forehead.

  “Well, that’s probably good because you need to drink this.” I hand her the glass. “Made with love.”

  Mom takes a tentative sip. “It’s good,” she murmurs. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  “Mrs. Wimple told me about, uh, her plans for us.” I sit down on the couch across from Mom. I know I need to say this carefully in order not to upset her. “She said we’re going to . . . uh, to see your family?”

  Mom sets the half full glass on the TV tray next to her chair. “Yes. I meant to tell you first, Shannon. I know it’s a bit sudden.”

  “That’s okay.” I try to make my voice sound light and unconcerned. “Mrs. Wimple gave me the bus tickets and explained the whole thing. It sounds like an interesting idea.”

  Mom’s brow creases. I’m not sure if it’s from pain or anxiety. “She told you about my parents? My family?”

  “She said they live in Ohio, and that your brother will meet us at the bus stop in Hochstetler.”

  “Oh my.” Mom presses both hands to the sides of her forehead and groans quietly.

  “Do you need a pill, Mom?”

  Mom looks up at the wall clock. “Yes. I think that would help. If it’s not too soon.”

  “Can you finish your smoothie first?” I urge. “Please?”

  Mom reaches for the glass and takes another slow sip and then another. Satisfied that she is cooperating with the rehydration program, I return to the kitchen to get her a pill. Having the diazepam this early will probably knock her out for the duration of the evening, but perhaps that will be for the best. Especially if the idea of making this trip is as stressful to her as it is to me. I am well aware that stress only makes Mom worse.

  “Here you go.” I hand her the pill and wait for her to wash it down with the last of the smoothie.

  “Thank you, my angel.” Mom picks up the TV remote. “Want to watch the housewives show with me?”

  “I’ll take a pass this time.” I give her a tolerant smile. Those silly reality shows are my mom’s one remaining “guilty pleasure,” and sometimes I pretend to enjoy them with her, but mostly I can barely tolerate the shallowness of the spoiled housewives. I wonder what it is about them that Mom finds so entertaining. “You can fill me in on it later,” I say as I pick up my school bag.

  “Yes, I will. If I don’t doze off again.”

  With so much to get done before the big trip tomorrow, it might be just as well if Mom snoozes in front of the TV this evening. With her asleep, I won’t have to keep pretending that I’m down with this plan. I might even be able to throw a quiet little temper tantrum if I want. Not that I would, but it’s nice to know that I can. As I pick up the basket of dirty laundry from the bathroom, gathering a few things from the floor to toss in as well, I recall the three-point summer plan I told Merenda about. Well, maybe next year.

  After running down to the basement to put a load of laundry in a washer, I start getting Mom’s suitcase packed. Since getting sick, Mom’s go-to wardrobe has consisted primarily of warm-ups. She has four different sets of sweats that she wears 24-7. My biggest challenge has been to make sure there’s always a fresh set available, especially since Mom’s dizziness and nausea sometimes create laundry issues. It’s around 8:00 when I finally bring the clean laundry upstairs and finish packing Mom’s underclothes, socks, and personal items. Satisfied that I’ve thought of everything, I place the filled suitcase by the front door.

  I know it’s time to pack my own bags, but I don’t want to. I even question whether it’s necessary for me to go on this unexpected trip at all. If there was any way out of this, I would gladly take it. I start to wonder if I could just put Mom on the bus tomorrow. Make sure she’s comfortable and wish her well, and then I could stay here and continue with my original summer plan. I even consider approaching Mom with this idea, explaining how I could get my license as well as a job to bring in some money. I wouldn’t tell her this, but if she would agree to my plan, I would even postpone the tattoo. Really, the more I think about it, the more it makes perfect sense.

  But when I go back out to check on Mom, I begin to doubt that my plan will work. Mom’s asleep in her chair with the TV still droning on. Tiptoeing over, I pick up the remote and quietly push the Power button. With the AC working, the apartment is much cooler, so I grab a throw blanket, tucking it around her. She doesn’t even move. I go to the kitchen and gather some rations she might need during the night—a carton of apple juice, a packet of peanut butter crackers, and a water bottle. I quietly carry them back and arrange them on the TV tray next to her.

  Satisfied that she has what she needs, I stand there looking at her for a long moment. I’ve heard the expression “she’s just a shadow of her former self,” but it never made sense before. Now I realize that it pretty much describes my mom. She used to be so young looking and energetic and vibrant that sometimes people actually thought we were sisters. Now she looks so old and haggard and pale. She’s so weak that she could never make the trip alone. It was selfish for me to even entertain that idea.

  That means it is time for me to pack. In my bedroom, I close the door and look around my room with uncertainty. How long until we’ll return to this apartment? Will we ever be able to come back? I wonder what would happen to all our stuff if we were unable to pay our rent while we were gone. What if I never see this room again? I reassure myself that Mom and I will not let that happen. I feel certain that Mrs. Wimple would not let that happen either.

  In the meantime, I need to make some decisions. What to pack? Will we be gone for a few weeks or the entire summer? I don’t want to pack too much, especially since I know I’ll need to carry both Mom’s bags and mine. But I don’t want to forget anything important either. I decide on two bags, one midsize and one that’s smaller.

  I start by gathering up my art supplies. If I have any time on my hands, it might be fun to create something. I pile a couple of sketch pads and some colored pencils, watercolors, and charcoal sticks into the smaller bag. On top of that I place my iPad and cell phone—luxuries we were able to afford back when Mom was gainfully employed. Items I don’t take for granted anymore. I neatly coil up the charge cords and earbuds for the gadgets and pack them as well.

  Next I go to my dressing table, running my hand over the top of it. It’s an old piece of furniture I found at Goodwill a couple years back, and I totally love it. I painstakingly reinvented this dresser by painting it robin’s egg blue, then layering on a white crackly overcoat that made it look even older. To give it some bling, I added some pink glass knobs I found at a thrift shop. I did the same treatment to several other unique pieces in an effort to create my own sh
abby chic bedroom decor. The end result was so charming that I actually took several photos of my room and posted them on Pinterest.

  To my delight, others on Pinterest commented on my decorating skills, marveling that a teenager possessed such talent. Naturally my head grew bigger. And when Merenda saw it, she begged me to redecorate her bedroom in shabby chic as well. Maybe someday, if a career in fine art doesn’t pan out like I hope it might, I’ll take up interior design instead.

  Daydreaming about my future in art and design, I look into the slightly blurry old mirror that sits atop my dresser and notice that the natural curl has returned to my red hair. Thanks to the day’s excessive heat and humidity, I could now play the starring role in Annie. Knowing I’ll be too busy to straighten it out in the morning, and truthfully just wanting to sidetrack myself from packing, I plug in my ceramic flatiron and take my time restraightening my hair. As I work on it, I think about the unknown relatives I’ll be meeting tomorrow and wonder what they will think of me.

  When I finally set the hair appliance down to cool, I’m pleased with the results, and even though it’s nearly 11:00, I don’t regret taking the time. When my shoulder-length hair is straight and silky, it’s really not so bad. In fact, Merenda always insists my copper-colored tresses are one of my best physical features. I’m aware that redheads are common in my dad’s Irish family, but as I stare at my slightly pointy face, I wonder what traits have come from Mom’s side. She’s always told me that I have her eyes, and I must admit they’re similar in the way they slant up at the sides. They’re the same shade of greenish blue too. I also have a similar build as my mom; both of us are petites and can share clothes and shoes, although she’s been so sick that I’m sure I outweigh her now.

  As I wash my face and brush my teeth in the bathroom, I can’t help but notice the freckles splattered across my nose and cheeks. These came from my dad. Although he admitted to having been teased for his freckles as a boy, he assured me they looked charming on me and even called them “fairy kisses.” But the older I got, the less I liked these spots, and this year I started using a light foundation to cover them up. I remind myself to pack that too.

  As I return to packing, I continue to wonder about these relatives I’ve never met. What will they be like? What will they think of me? Aside from that, I wonder why my mom left her family so long ago. Why is she suddenly willing to go back to them now? Well, besides needing help with her illness, and Mrs. Wimple’s helpful “encouragement.”

  Back in my room, I pack my flatiron, and then, remembering the importance of proper hair drying temperatures for my sort of hair, I decide to pack my dryer as well. I tuck in my usual hair care products, then zip the first bag closed. Progress.

  As I start on the larger bag, I keep wondering what Mom and I are getting ourselves into. Just because Mrs. Wimple declared my uncle to be a good man doesn’t mean the rest of the family will be delightful. What if we get there only to discover that Mom’s relatives are truly horrible people? Will Mrs. Wimple pay our fare to come back home? I doubt that as I set a couple pairs of my favorite jeans in the bottom of the bag. Our neighbor will probably be off cruising the continents by the time we understand we’ve made a mistake.

  I don’t even blame Mrs. Wimple. I get why she wants to send us packing. She’s been carrying the load of Mom’s sickness for nearly five months now. It’s no wonder she’s sending us to Hochstetler and sending herself off on a cruise. Who wouldn’t want to escape all this?

  Trying not to feel discouraged and hopeless, I continue layering clothing into the bag: a pair of capri pants, numerous T-shirts, some tank tops, a couple pairs of shorts, and a blue and white sundress. To make myself feel better, I decide to pretend I’m going on vacation, like Merenda and Mrs. Wimple. I pack my swimsuit and a number of other items that promise to make my summer enjoyable. I even put in some paperbacks that I’ve been wanting to read and imagine myself enjoying them next to a big swimming pool. Who knows? Perhaps visiting my grandparents will turn out to be fun. As I fetch my cosmetics bag from the bathroom, I realize there’s a personality struggle going on inside of me. Part of me is a foolish optimist and the other part is an unrelenting realist. I suspect the realist will win out in the end.

  As I zip up my second packed bag, the optimist raises her hopeful head, and I begin to wonder if there might be a way to get a job in my grandparents’ town. Of course, that just rouses the realist, and she sharply reminds me that despite trying to make my résumé sound interesting, my only real paying job experience so far has been babysitting. Still, it is possible that my grandparents might know a family in need of child care.

  My inner optimist reminds me that my dream job, for the summer anyway, has been to work in an antique shop or an art supply store, or even a gallery, if I want to dream really big, although I would gladly settle for a secondhand store too. I remember how Mrs. Wimple described Hochstetler as a small, quaint town. Suddenly my optimist is feeling very hopeful. Hochstetler could be filled with all kinds of interesting shops that are looking for part-time employees. As I get ready for bed, I begin to think that this abrupt change in plans might not be such a disappointment after all.

  3

  After a fragmented night of sleep interrupted by freaky nightmares about evil alien-like relatives, I manage to wake up in time to help Mom get ready for our big day. With the help of Mrs. Wimple, we get the bags loaded into the trunk of her car, but we can’t get my mom out of the apartment until after 10:20. By the time we’re on the road, it’s nearly a half hour later than what Mrs. Wimple originally planned.

  “Will we make it?” I quietly ask Mrs. Wimple as she drives a little too fast through a yellow light.

  “Unless we get stuck in downtown traffic,” she says with a concerned tone. “Pray that we don’t, Shannon.”

  I nod as if I will do this, but the truth is, I don’t pray. In fact, I rarely pray about anything anymore. I used to pray a lot, and I know Merenda still does. But besides being out of the habit, I’m actually hoping that we’ll be too late to get on the bus. We’ll be forced to return home, and I will tell Mrs. Wimple bon voyage and insist on sticking around to pursue my three-point summer plan.

  As it turns out, we reach the bus station right as the bus is getting ready to leave, but thanks to the bus station woman who recognizes Mrs. Wimple and rushes to our aid with a wheelchair, we are able to get my mom loaded onto the bus. Feeling conspicuous and uneasy as curious travelers stare at us, I try to act nonchalant as I help Mom get settled into the vacant seat in the very back. The driver announces our departure as I tuck pillows into the corner by the window and help Mom lean back into them.

  Her hands are shaking and her eyes are filled with fear and anxiety as the bus slowly pulls out of the station. Speaking calmly to her, I lay the polar fleece throw over her legs and then hurry to extract a small white bundle from my shirt pocket. I remove a water bottle from the bag of “provisions” Mrs. Wimple gave to me this morning.

  “What is that?” Mom’s eyes are fixed on my tissue bundle as I fumble to unwrap it, finally producing a diazepam pill. Her eyes flicker with relief as she eagerly reaches for her pill.

  “Mrs. Wimple said you should have an extra dose for the trip,” I explain as I hand her the water bottle.

  She eagerly pops the pill into her mouth, then swigs it down with water. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

  “That should help you to relax and sleep.” I put the cap on the water bottle and slip it back into the bag.

  “How long is the trip?” she asks as she leans back into the pillows again.

  “Probably about six hours,” I remind her. She’s already heard this same answer several times this morning. “The trip would be more like five hours in a car, but every stop adds to the time.”

  “Oh . . . yes . . . I remember now.” She takes in a deep breath and, letting out a weary sigh, closes her eyes.

  “Just rest,” I say quietly. “Hopefully we’ll be there sooner than you exp
ect.”

  For the first few hours, Mom sleeps fairly soundly while I read a paperback. But when she wakes she seems dizzy and woozy and disoriented.

  Worried that she might throw up, I grab one of the barf bags that the train station woman handed to me before we boarded the bus. I also reach for Mrs. Wimple’s provisions bag, extracting a pack of saltines along with a can of Sierra Mist. “Here, Mom.” I pop open the can, handing it to her. “Take some slow sips.”

  “Where are we?” she asks with a fearful expression.

  “On the bus,” I whisper as I hand her a saltine. “Eat this.”

  “What bus?” Mom’s eyes dart nervously around. “Where are we?”

  “We’re on the bus that’s taking us to Hochstetler,” I explain in a hushed tone. I try not to feel like a freak as some of the passengers crook their heads to curiously stare. Really, are we that interesting? Or are they simply that bored?

  “Hochstetler?” Mom’s brow creases as she nibbles on a saltine.

  “To visit your family,” I explain as I hand her a second saltine.

  I notice an elderly woman watching us with what seems a sympathetic expression. I give her a stiff smile, then turn my attention back to Mom, encouraging her to have some more soda and crackers. “You’ll feel better if you do,” I urge. “You need to stay hydrated and keep something in your stomach. I’m hoping you can eat some yogurt.”

  She makes a face.

  I pull out the small carton of yogurt and hold it out to her. “It will feel good on your stomach,” I say enticingly.

  “Can I have another pill with it?” Her blue eyes grow hopeful.

  Mrs. Wimple warned me to try to hold Mom off on another pill until after we arrive in Hochstetler. That way she’ll be coherent enough to meet her family. “Can you wait until we get there?” I ask.

  “How long?”

  I glance at my watch. “Two hours, maybe a little less.”