“I’m sure they do. She’s a wonderful girl. Why wouldn’t they want to marry her? Why wouldn’t you?” I fold my arms in front of myself, staring at him, waiting for him to respond.
“Why are you saying all this to me?” he asks.
I hold my hands in the air. “Probably because I feel sorry for my cousin, and because I’ve had enough of this whole Amish scene. I’m so fed up with so much . . . I just needed to vent a little.” I sigh. “I guess I don’t care what I say or how I sound. At least with you, anyway.” I almost apologize for this harsh statement but then stop myself. Why should I be sorry for saying what’s true? “I need to go,” I say more gently. “I need to go help my mom get to bed. Tomorrow will be a long day for her.”
“Ja.” He steps ahead of me, opening the brush so I can pass through. “I will be praying for your mamm, Shannon.”
“Thanks,” I tell him.
“Thank you,” he says as we stand out in the open, “for talking to me like that. I needed to hear those things. I think that only an English girl like you could say them, Shannon.”
“Oh.” I shrug.
“I’m sorry I hurt you. I really am. I hope you will forgive me.” He looks down at his feet.
“Yeah, I’m working on it. I think I’ll forgive you in time.” He looks up, and I give him a small smile as I start walking. “Truth is, I was probably asking to be hurt.”
He looks slightly confused by this but just nods as he shoves his hat back onto his head, then turns toward his own farm.
“Don’t wait too long,” I call out as he’s going. “Rachel might not wait forever, you know!”
As if I lit a fire beneath him, he starts to jog. Of course, he’s headed for his own house, but maybe he’ll start putting together a plan. I can only hope. As I walk back to the dawdi house, I feel better. I’m not even sure why exactly. Maybe it’s because I let off some steam—and who better to let it off on than Ezra? In some ways I think he almost understood. At least he’s promised to pray for Mom. Every prayer will help. I really believe that.
On Wednesday afternoon, Leah delivers Mom and me to the hospital. I fill out more forms, and eventually my mom gets settled into a room. With the bed adjusted to a forty-five degree angle, she leans back and for the first time in weeks seems almost comfortable. “It’s kind of like your La-Z-Boy,” I point out.
She sighs and closes her eyes. “I’m so tired, Shannon.”
“I know, Mom. You’ve been through a lot.”
“I’m ready for it to end.”
Before I can respond, Dr. Hoffman and another doctor come into the room. “This is Dr. Mitch Hoffman,” she tells us. “My better half.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” he says. Everyone visits for a while. Well, everyone except for Mom. She is just lying there with her eyes closed.
“She’s really tired,” I quietly tell them.
“All you need to do now is rest,” Dr. Diane Hoffman tells her.
“That’s right,” her husband agrees. He shares a little more information, my mom signs a couple of release papers, and then they leave.
Mom tells me that I should go too, but I’m unwilling. “I’ll stay for a while,” I tell her. “Until you fall asleep.”
She closes her eyes again, letting out a slow sigh.
I sit there, knowing there’s nothing I can do. The nurses will give her medicine and tend to her. She doesn’t need me now. But I need her. I reach for her hand, holding it between my two hands. “I love you, Mom,” I whisper. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to pray for you.”
“Yes,” she says quietly.
I take in a deep breath, wishing for the perfect words for the perfect prayer, but they don’t come. I think of how the Amish pray in silence and how I’ve gotten comfortable with that too. Still, this time I believe Mom needs to hear a prayer with audible words attached.
“Dear Father God,” I begin. “I’m placing my mom into your hands right now. She’s going to have a very serious operation in the morning. But you know all about that already since I’ve been praying for her for days now. I just want to ask you to give her a good night’s rest tonight. And please give her peace about what is going to happen tomorrow. I ask that you would guide Dr. Hoffman’s hands during the surgery, as well as all the other hands involved in this operation. Guide all of them to do their very best and make the surgery go perfectly well. I pray that whatever they find won’t be too serious. I pray that Mom will get well as soon as she can. I place her in your hands now, Father God. I know that you are our Father. I know that you love us. And I know you want to take care of her. Amen.” I squeeze Mom’s hand.
“Amen,” she murmurs, squeezing back.
“I’ll sit here until you go to sleep,” I say quietly. “Just because I want to.”
“Thanks, honey.”
As I sit there, I look around the room, realizing how different this world is from the one I’ve been living in. It’s like being jerked out of a previous century and slammed into today’s noisy, busy world. Very surreal and weird. I can almost understand how such an experience, particularly a hospital that’s full of machines and electronics, would be overwhelming to my Amish relatives. Yet I don’t understand how they could turn their backs on us now. Because that’s what it feels like to me. Like when we left, that was it, and they wrote us off. Like they have already forgotten us. Like if Mom dies, they won’t even cry. It just feels wrong.
23
It’s not much,” Betty tells me as she shows me the guest room in her condo.
“Are you kidding?” I set my bags on the bench at the foot of the queen-sized bed. “It feels like a luxury hotel room compared to where I’ve been staying these last few weeks.” As she shows me the closet and a dresser to put my things in, I describe my various sleeping experiences, including the mattress that I stuffed myself. “It’s prickly and pokey and makes me sneeze,” I tell her. “Guess that’s what the old saying means—you make your bed and you have to lie in it.”
Betty chuckles as she hands me a key. “Well, make yourself at home. I’m a little tired from a long day of work. I thought I might order a pizza to be delivered for us.”
“Pizza?”
“Is that okay with you?”
I nod eagerly. “Oh, yeah! I’m already salivating.”
She laughs. “What kind do you like?”
I list my favorite toppings, and she tells me to get settled while she places the order. As I unpack my bags, I cannot help but feel I have died and gone to heaven. Well, except for my mom. Thinking of her puts a slight damper on things. Still, I feel like doing a Snoopy dance when I see the hall bathroom. Betty already told me that it’s all mine since she has another bathroom in her master suite. I cannot wait to have a nice long shower!
As we eat our delicious pizza, I confide to Betty how freaked I am for my mom. “I keep telling myself it’ll be okay, and I try to pray for her instead of worrying. But it’s hard.” Then I tell her about how nonchalant my Amish relatives were. “It seems like they really don’t care. Just because she left and has been shunned, it’s like she doesn’t exist.”
“The shunning thing is hard,” she says as she reaches for another slice. “Leah has really struggled with that. She and Bruce—that’s my son—have three adorable kids, but they never see their other set of grandparents. I try to make up for that, and I enjoy all the time I get with them. But to be honest, I wouldn’t mind sharing them. I do think it’s a shame that they’re cut off like that.”
“I don’t understand how the Amish can be so hardhearted.”
“I don’t think it’s hardheartedness as much as it is their religious beliefs. Their rules are strict. Well, you must know that after living there. But it’s those unbending rules that have preserved their way of life. Without that kind of order, their Ordnung, the Amish wouldn’t even exist today.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Almost everything they do—the way they dress and talk and wor
k and live—is meant to set them apart. It’s like their boundaries, keeping them separate from the rest of us. If they let down those walls, what would they have?”
I nod as I reach for another piece of pizza. “I guess you’re right. It’s funny, I was right there living among them, but I never quite saw it like that.”
“Well, because of Leah and Bruce, I’ve given it some thought and a fair amount of study. As a result I’ve developed a deep compassion for the Amish. I know their lives are not easy. Some people overly romanticize them. In this town, tourists come to gape at them. But most people don’t realize that there’s a fair amount of heartbreak in a lot of Amish homes. Even so, those people keep on keeping on. Their lives are filled with hard work and rigid rules, and for the most part you would never hear them complain. I actually have a lot of admiration for them.”
“Do you remember when Mom and I came into Dr. Hoffman’s office?” I ask.
“Sure. It wasn’t that long ago.”
“Well, for some reason I thought you didn’t like Amish people.” I won’t admit to her what a grump I took her for. “And I was absolutely certain you didn’t like me—just because I was Amish, even though I wasn’t. I was actually offended at first. But then I decided to try to win you over.”
Betty chuckles. “I’d been to the dentist first thing in the morning that day. Had a filling that had fallen out and the dentist really worked me over. I was still in a little pain by the time you came in. I’m sorry if I seemed overly harsh and abrupt.”
“Well, I’m sorry I misjudged you.”
She shrugs. “I suppose we all misjudge sometimes. That’s why I’ve learned to give people second chances. And to be honest, I do remember thinking, ‘Oh no, here come some more Amish patients.’” She shakes her head. “The problem is, we don’t usually see them in the office until they’ve let an ailment go too long, and that’s hard on everyone. Truth be told, because of their beliefs, they can be a little difficult sometimes too. But I’m not usually that crabby.”
“Well, what you said about the Amish letting it go too long, that’s how it was with my mom too.”
“The important thing is that you got her in when you did, and now she’s going to get help.”
“Do you think she’ll be okay?” I ask.
“She’s in good hands.” Betty gets up to get a glass of water. “Do you plan to go over in the morning before her surgery?”
“Yeah. I know she’s scheduled for 8:00, but I figured I’d go earlier.”
“They’ll probably take her from her room an hour or so before her surgery,” she tells me. “So you’ll have to get up pretty early to see her.”
“That’s okay. I’m used to getting up early.”
She chuckles. “Yeah, I’ll bet you are.”
I offer to clean up after dinner, but as Betty points out, besides putting our dishes in the dishwasher, there’s not much to do.
“I cannot wait to take a real shower in your lovely bathroom,” I tell her as I wipe down the countertops.
“What are you waiting for?”
Thrilled at the prospect of a long shower and a good shampoo, which my hair has been begging for, I decide to go for it. For a while I’m so immersed in scrubbing, shampooing, and conditioning that I completely forget about my mom. Later, as I’m drying my hair, I consider straightening it, but then I remember how much my mom loves my curls. For her sake—and maybe because I’m starting to appreciate them a little more too—I leave my hair as is. I must admit it’s a time-saver.
“I’m so used to going to bed early,” I tell Betty, who is sitting in front of the TV. “I think I’ll turn in. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I’m sure you need the rest. And if you’re going to see your mom in the morning, you’ll need to get up early too.”
I tell her good night and then thank her for having me here. “Being in your home like this, well, it really is like a slice of heaven. You have no idea.”
“No, but I can imagine.” Betty smiles. “I’m glad you’re here, Shannon. Be sure to call the office tomorrow and let me know how the surgery goes.”
“I will.”
Betty tells me good night and that she’ll be praying for Mom tomorrow. Before I go to bed, I call Merenda because I really, really want to hear her voice, but she doesn’t answer. So I text her, filling her in on the latest details and promising to call her tomorrow.
To my dismay, Mom’s bed is already empty when I get to the hospital. How can I be late when it’s only 6:30? Then, looking at the unmade bed, I start to freak—did she die in the night? I’m standing there with tears filling my eyes when a nurse’s aide comes in.
“They’re prepping her for surgery,” she informs me in a nonchalant way.
“But it’s only—”
“The surgical staff likes to get an early start in the morning because it always backs up later in the day.” She pulls back the linens from Mom’s bed, wadding them into a ball.
“Can you tell my mom I’m here?” I ask.
“No, I can’t go in there. But she’s probably sedated by now anyway.”
Trying not to feel too dejected, I head for the lobby by the nurse’s station. I pause to let them know I’m here, waiting to hear the news. Then I go and sit down. If it wasn’t so early I’d call Merenda, but knowing my best friend, she is still soundly sleeping. I consider pulling out my iPad but don’t want to get caught up in reading about brain surgery and get discouraged. Instead, I get out my sketch pad and decide to make a drawing for my mom. However, I can’t find anything in the sterile waiting area to inspire me. Strangely enough, I feel like drawing barns and cows and horses and buggies. Somehow I don’t think Mom would really appreciate that.
I put my sketch pad away and just sit there feeling frightened and sad and lonely. Very, very lonely. I know it’s time to pray. I bow my head and try to form a prayer, but it feels like I’m saying the same things I’ve said before. I wish I could think of something more clever, something to really grab God’s attention. Okay, I know that’s silly, but it’s how I feel. What can I say to ensure he will help Mom through this—maybe even do a miracle?
“Shannon?”
I open my eyes to see several people standing before me—all dressed in Amish clothes, but not regular work clothes. They are dressed in their dark Sunday clothes, which look totally out of place in this modern hospital. I stare in astonishment at Mammi, Dawdi, Uncle Ben, and Rachel. All of them look curiously down at me.
“What?” I stammer as I begin to stand. “What happened? Why are you—”
“We came to be with you.” Mammi sits down next to me, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.
“To pray for your mamm,” Dawdi adds as he sits across from me.
“And to pray for you too,” Uncle Ben says.
“We are your family,” Rachel tells me as she sits on the other side of me.
I’m too stunned to even speak. I cannot believe they came. What about the housework and the farm work? What about the shunning of my mom? Of course, I don’t want to vocalize these questions. Instead I nod, muttering a quiet, “Thank you for coming.”
“Let us pray,” Dawdi says in a firm voice. Everyone bows their heads and, grateful for their company, I do too. Even though I still can’t think of any special words to say—some fancy way to get God’s attention—I’m thinking that this should get his attention. Four Amish people and one English, all praying together. You don’t see that every day.
We pray silently like this for quite some time, maybe even an hour, but eventually I look up. Almost as if he was watching for this, Uncle Ben says, “Amen.” We all echo him.
Mammi opens her cloth shopping bag, removing sugar and molasses cookies. “I thought you might be hungry.”
I nod eagerly. “I didn’t have breakfast. Thank you.” I smile at my relatives, hoping that they will stick around a while longer. “Would anyone like coffee to go with the cookies?”
“Ja,” Dawdi
says, and the others agree.
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll go get some.” I stand.
“I will help you,” Rachel says.
Rachel and I head for the elevator. Making small talk as we go down, we get some curious looks from the others. I’m sure no one would ever guess we are cousins. Once we’re out of the elevator, Rachel puts her hand on my arm.
“Shannon, I must tell you something,” she says urgently.
“What is it?” I pause near a potted palm, waiting.
“Ezra,” she says quietly. “You spoke to him about me.”
“Oh, yeah.” I nod nervously. “I hope you don’t mind. I kind of dumped a lot on him the other day. I was so stressed out about my mom. I just let him have it. Are you mad?”
“No. It is all right.” She smiles shyly. “Ezra came to speak to me last night.”
“He did?”
“Ja. He told me he was sorry. He told me he still loves me.”
“Of course he loves you,” I assure her.
Her blue eyes shine happily. “He still wants to marry me!”
“That’s wonderful.”
“He said he is done with partying and drinking and all that.”
“What about baptism?”
“He must get baptized before we marry.”
“And he’s willing?”
“Ja. And it is because of you, Shannon. You talked to him.” She throws her arms around me, hugging me tightly. “I am so grateful to you.”
I hug her back. “But God had a lot to do with it too,” I say as we step apart.
“Ja, I know.” She nods with a knowing expression. “But God uses people too.”
It’s nearly 11:00 and we’ve finished up the coffee and cookies when I see both the Hoffmans coming our way. I stand to greet the couple, quickly introducing them to my relatives, who stand back a ways while the doctors speak to me.
“We have good news,” Dr. Diane Hoffman tells me. “Your mother’s surgery went as well as possible.” She grins proudly at her husband. “Our surgeon performed the craniotomy with perfection, and the tumor is completely removed.”
My Amish Boyfriend Page 20
