Concerned that Dawdi spotted me heading this way and that he might not approve of me being out here in the pond like this, I scramble back up the bank, dropping my skirt down over my dripping legs and digging through the pile of clothes in search of my kapp. I’m not even sure why I’m so obsessed with this kind of propriety, considering that a couple weeks ago I would’ve thought nothing of putting on a stringy bikini and jumping right into this pond and floundering about. Suddenly I’m all anxious and nervous about being discovered with a bare head and bare legs? Is that really possible?
17
I’m still fumbling to find my hair band and pins when the brushy shrubs are pushed open and a figure appears. “Caught you!”
To my relief, it is not my grandfather but Ezra. “What are you doing here?” I ask as I drop the white kapp on top of the pile of black garments.
“I saw something dark cutting across the field,” he tells me as he removes his own straw hat, followed by his shoes and socks. “I realized it was you, still dressed in your church clothes. I was worried something was wrong, but it looks more like you’re only taking a swim.”
I sigh. “Just wading . . . but something is wrong.”
“What is it?” He looks up from where he’s rolling up his pants, exposing a sturdy looking pair of legs, which are strangely pale.
“Oh, nothing.” I try to force a pleasant expression to my face.
He looks unconvinced as he rolls up his shirtsleeves and steps into the pond, splashing some water onto his face. “Tell me what’s troubling you,” he urges me. “Maybe I can help.”
As I watch him wading deeper into the pond, I quickly explain my concerns for my mom’s health. “In fact, I’m wondering if it might be best to go home.”
“You’re going to leave?” His eyes darken with concern. “I thought you were staying all summer . . . or even longer.”
“I never really knew how long we were staying. We didn’t actually have a plan.” I gaze longingly at the cool water.
“Come back into the pond,” he tells me. “I promise not to splash.”
I gingerly lift my skirt as I step into the water again, and I wade out until it reaches my knees. Standing there with the heat of the sun on my head, the chilly coolness of the water seeps into my skin.
“So what are you going to do?” Ezra is standing a few feet away from me, and the water is soaking into his rolled-up pants.
I frown. “I don’t know. My grandparents aren’t sounding very helpful about getting my mom to a doctor.”
“Does she need a doctor?”
“I think so. But I don’t know how to get her to one without going home.”
“I can take her to a doctor,” he offers. “I’m going to town on Tuesday to do some errands.”
“Really?” I say hopefully. “You could take us with you?”
“Ja. I know a doctor too. I had to take my daed in last fall.”
“So Amish do go to the doctor then?” This makes me curious because the impression I got from my grandparents was that medical attention was unnecessary.
“Ja. If something is real bad. During harvest time my daed cut his arm on the mower. He had to get thirty-four stitches.”
“Wow, that sounds bad.”
“Ja. It was bad. He bled a lot.”
“So if someone’s life is in danger, you can go to the doctor?”
“Ja. But most of the time we don’t need to. We are pretty good at taking care of ourselves.”
“What about when women have babies?”
“The women help each other.” His blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “Are you thinking about having a baby, Shannon?”
“No, of course not.” I scowl at him. “I was thinking about my cousin Emma. Her baby is due next month.”
He reaches for my hand, pulling me over to him in the deeper water and causing most of my skirt to get soaked. “I like seeing your hair like that . . . all down.” He touches my curls and smiles.
“Careful,” I tell him. “I don’t want to get all—”
But it’s too late. He has pulled me completely into the pond with him. Although I’m irritated that he’s gotten me soaking wet, I can’t deny that the cool water feels delicious. We play in there together for a while, but then I get worried that this time my grandfather really will show up and surprise us. The idea of being found like this by Dawdi is more than a little unsettling.
“I need to get out,” I finally say, pulling myself away from him.
“Ja. Me too.”
We both climb out, dripping wet, and he suggests we lie down in the tall grass, allowing the sun to dry our clothes. “Okay,” I agree, “but only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.”
He laughs and flops down.
“I mean it,” I tell him. “The last thing I need right now is for my dawdi to show up and find us . . . well, you know.”
“Ja.” He folds his arms behind his head, looking up at the sky. “You are right about that.”
I lie down next to him, spreading out my wet skirt so that it can dry. “In fact, I had to defend my honor on the way home from church today,” I tell him.
“What?” He turns to peer at me.
“Rachel got it into her head that you and I were doing something . . . well, something disrespectful, if you get my meaning.”
He chuckles. “She did, did she?”
“Ja.” I sneak a peek at him and am surprised to see that he looks a little smug. “Do you want her to think that?”
“I don’t care what she thinks.”
Something about the hardness of his tone makes me question his sincerity. “You don’t care what Rachel thinks? Not at all? What if she was thinking about you?” I say in a teasing way. “Would you care then?”
“What do you mean?” He sits up now, staring curiously at me. “What has Rachel been saying to you?”
I sit up too, realizing that I’ve probably really stuck my foot into this. “Oh . . . nothing.” I start fluff drying my hair in the sun.
“Tell me, Shannon,” he insists. “If Rachel has been talking about me, I need to know.”
“Why?” I lock eyes with him. “Why is it so important for you to know what Rachel said?”
He looks away from me, squinting in the sunshine. “It’s just that I don’t want her talking about me . . . and you. I don’t want her talking about us. You know?” He picks up a rock, tossing it into the center of the pond, watching as it makes a small circle and a larger one and then another.
“Well, that’s what I told her too,” I say. “I reminded both her and my aunt that the Bible says it’s wrong to gossip and lie about people. I think she was sorry too.”
“Oh.” He stands, reaching for his socks. “I better get home.”
“Yeah . . . me too.”
Neither of us speaks as we put on our socks and shoes. Naturally, he is finished with his redressing before me. “I plan to leave for town right after breakfast on Tuesday. Will you and your mamm be ready then?”
“Ja,” I say as I attempt to smooth my unruly hair.
“I will stop by your dawdi’s house then.” He adjusts his hat and tells me good-bye, then leaves.
I decide to forgo my kapp and other pieces of clothing. I doubt anyone will notice or care since I’m only walking from the dawdi house to my aunt and uncle’s. But when I come into the yard, Rachel immediately sees me. “What have you been doing?” she asks curiously, plucking at my still damp and slightly soiled skirt. “To look like this? And in church clothes too?”
“I was very hot,” I tell her. “So I jumped in the pond.”
“With your clothes on?” She frowns skeptically.
“Ja,” I say sharply. “With my clothes on.” I go into the house and up to the room we share, and after putting away the black apron and cape and bonnet, I change into a clean, dry dress. I smooth out my hair and pin it into a bun, but since I don’t plan to leave the house again, I don’t put on the kapp. Since it is Sunday, the Sabb
ath, I know that work is kept to a minimum, so although I know my aunt will not approve, I remain in the room and read one of my paperbacks. I feel that after working so hard all week—harder than I’ve ever worked in my life—I must be entitled to a little downtime.
But after about an hour or so, Rachel appears and tells me it’s time to help with supper.
On Monday I make it known to my relatives that I will be taking my mother to see the doctor in town tomorrow. Although I can tell they don’t approve, no one makes any attempt to keep me from going. Nor does anyone offer to help me. It’s both baffling and aggravating. Is it because Mom isn’t Amish, or because they don’t believe in intervening with medical help?
On Tuesday, instead of helping Aunt Katrina with breakfast like usual, I go directly to the dawdi house to make sure that Mom is ready to go. I already asked Mammi to be sure that Mom is dressed in clean clothes and takes a pill around seven. My hope is that it will keep her comfortable and sedated while we travel, but by the time we get there, she’ll be awake enough to be examined thoroughly.
Thankfully, Mammi has followed my instructions. She even seems a little relieved that I’m doing this. “I hope the doctor can help her,” Mammi quietly tells me. “I am afraid that she is not getting better. She is out of her pills. Yesterday she fell down two times. And she is very forgetful. Much more so than when she came here.”
“Pray for her,” I tell Mammi as I see a buggy pulling into the driveway. “Pray that we get her to town without too much trouble.”
“Ja.” Mammi holds out to me what appears to be a handmade cloth shopping bag. “Food for the trip,” she tells me. I drop my dead cell phone and Mom’s wallet into it and thank her. Then I hurry to grab up the bundle of blankets and pillows I set by the door. My plan is to make Mom a bed on the floor of the buggy. That way she won’t fall off the bench and hurt herself. As I arrange the bedding, I wonder if I’ve just created an Amish ambulance.
Ezra helps Mammi and me get Mom into the buggy, and once I’m satisfied that she is safe and her head is bolstered by pillows, I climb into the front seat to sit next to Ezra. “Thank you for doing this,” I tell him.
“Ja.” He nods somberly as he releases the brake and then shakes the reins. “I did not know your mamm was so sick. It’s good she is going to the doctor.”
“Ja,” I repeat quietly.
“I called the doctor for you yesterday,” Ezra informs me as the buggy turns onto the road. “I hope you don’t mind. But I wanted to be sure Dr. Hoffman could see your mom today. Otherwise it would be a long trip for nothing.”
“Oh!” I say suddenly. “Thank you for thinking of that, Ezra. Is he a good doctor—this Dr. Hoffman? Do you think he knows what he’s doing?”
“It is not a he doctor. Dr. Diane Hoffman is a woman.”
“Well, that’s okay.” I actually feel slightly relieved.
“Ja. I did not think you would mind so much. Although my daed was not pleased when he saw Dr. Hoffman was not a man. But I told him that women are better at sewing than men anyway.” Ezra chuckles. “And that doctor, she stitched him up good.”
“I think my mom will like that the doctor’s a woman.” I glance back to be sure that she’s still okay, but she seems to be in exactly the same position as before. “I just hope Dr. Hoffman can help her.”
We ride along for quite a while without speaking, but I don’t mind at all. The sky is blue, the countryside is so pretty, and I am sitting here next to my man. Because that is how I see Ezra now. My man. And I am his woman. Okay, I know it sounds a little silly. But in his culture we are considered man and woman. We are old enough to marry, if we so choose.
I smooth my skirt down. I’m wearing the teal dress that Rachel said matched my eyes. I talked to Aunt Katrina about learning to sew clothes, and she seemed like she’d be happy to teach me—in exchange for me doing more chores. I wonder how that’s even possible, but I agreed. I’m looking forward to making a dress that’s truly my own. Not a hand-me-down.
I had actually considered wearing my old English clothes today because I knew it would make Mom feel better. I know she doesn’t like seeing me dressed like this. But when I thought about being with Ezra—not to mention what others might think if they saw us—I decided not to. Besides, I’m starting to feel more comfortable in these clothes. They’re sensible and modest. I think I like that. It’s like I’ve turned a corner and I feel more Amish than English these days. Sometimes I hear myself saying ja and I realize that I’m even starting to talk like them.
I sigh and tilt my head back, allowing the morning sun to wash across my face. I can hear birds twittering and chirping over the rhythmic clip-clop of the horse’s hooves. So peaceful and so picturesque. I wonder if I’ll ever have time to do some paintings of these fields and barns and animals. Although my aunt has specifically told me that art is considered a “graven image.” I’m not sure what that means, but I plan to ask my uncle. Anyway, I refuse to be distracted or discouraged by that now. It is a beautiful summer day, and sharing it with Ezra like this makes it absolutely perfect. Well, except for the fact that my mom isn’t doing well. Being reminded of that seems to steal some of the sunshine. I glance back to check on her, but she still hasn’t moved.
“I was thinking, Shannon . . .” Ezra adjusts the brim of his hat to shade his eyes from the morning sun.
I gaze at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence, but soon find myself caught up in his appearance, which seems even more striking in the golden morning light. I can’t help but admire the firm jaw, the nice straight nose, those cheekbones, and those strong, broad shoulders. He is so handsome! Then I remember he was about to say something.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask pleasantly. I hope that he’s been thinking about me. Better yet, thinking about us. I know that I have.
“I am thinking that you are right.”
“I’m right? Well, that’s nice to hear. What am I right about?”
He clears his throat. “That you and your mamm should go home.”
“What?”
“If you go home, your mamm can get the medical help she needs. I think maybe it would be for the best. For everyone.”
I bite my lip, trying to decide what this really means and trying not to feel hurt. Although how can I help it? It’s like I’ve been slapped. Or maybe I just misunderstood. “But what about us?” I ask in a mousy sounding voice.
He shrugs, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
“Wouldn’t you miss me if I left?” I say in what I hope is an enticing tone.
“Ja. Sure. But I think it’s for the best, Shannon.”
“How can you even say that?” I demand.
“Because you and your mamm . . . you are English. And your mamm has chosen to not be Amish. She has been shunned.”
“Ja, I know.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“Sort of. People in the Amish community aren’t supposed to be around her.”
“Including me,” he says. “And you too, if you were really Amish, which you are not.”
“But I am trying to—”
“You can play at being Amish, Shannon. And maybe it is a fun game to you. But in the end you will see that you are not Amish. You will never be Amish. You are English, and I think everyone knows it. Everyone except for you.”
“But English people can convert to Amish,” I point out. “My uncle said so. He said he will help me.”
“Ja. I am sure he is willing. You are his niece. He is a minister. He must be willing. But I think it is a waste of time. You will not become Amish.”
“But I’ve been trying my best,” I plead. “I even want to learn Pennsylvania Dutch. My uncle gave me a book.”
“Learning a language will not make you Amish.”
“I know. There is more to it. Like hard work.” I remember what Aunt Katrina has told me. “I’ve been working very hard.”
“Hard?” He laughs, but not with any warmth. “You think that
living with your aunt and uncle—doing a few chores—you think that is hard? You do not know what hard is.”
“Look!” I hold out my red, cracked hands. “I’ve never worked so hard in my entire life. I go to bed exhausted every single night. What do you mean by saying that I don’t know?”
“I mean you do not know,” he says firmly.
“Then tell me,” I demand. “What am I missing here?”
“You think you want to be Amish,” he says sharply, “but you do not understand what that means. You are living in a home that is established. Your uncle has had many years to make life better for his family. A young couple does not have that. A young couple must work hard for every single little thing. And everything—everything—is hard work. Right now you share the work with Rachel and your aunt—that is easy. But what if you had all the household work to yourself? And what if you had no indoor plumbing? No propane refrigerator? What if you had to wash the clothes in a tub outside in the yard? In wintertime too. And then the babies come. Sometimes one a year. You might have seven children before you are twenty-five.”
I feel tears in my eyes as he goes on like this. Not because of the grim and gloomy picture he’s painting but because of the tone of his voice. It is so cold, so unfeeling, it’s as if he doesn’t love me. I feel like he is telling me that he doesn’t want to marry me—not ever. As he continues talking about hardships and deprivations, about how people sometimes die and no one ever speaks of them again, I feel trampled and buried by his words.
After he’s finally done, we both sit there in awkward silence for a long while. I can hear the horse’s hooves but not the birds. Now the sun is beating down on me, making my head throb. I am so crushed by what he’s said that all I want to do is get away from him. If my mom wasn’t lying helplessly in the back of the buggy, I would jump down and run away and leave him.
My Amish Boyfriend Page 15
