Sadie’s Montana Trilogy

by Linda Byler

  His voice was low and very serious, so she slid carefully into the heavy oak kitchen chair and watched his face as she wiped her hands on the paper towels.

  The air was heavy with unspoken words and feelings too deep to be brought to the surface easily. The only sound was water dripping from the newly polished faucet at the kitchen sink.

  “Do you…?”

  His voice was drowned out by a piercing scream from the living room, propelling Mark out of his chair so swiftly, it fell over backward. He hurried through the arched doorway and into the living room to find Meely with her head pressed into the pillow, her body arched as she strained to escape the pain assaulting her back.

  Her lips drew back and released another cry of agony.

  Instantly, Sadie slipped an arm beneath her and held her thin shoulders.

  “Meely! Don’t. It’ll be all right. Don’t cry. It’s okay.”

  No amount of coaxing or massaging would soothe the poor woman. Finally, Mark suggested calling an ambulance, anything to still her cries and ease her pitiful suffering.

  “No! No! No!” she cried.

  The dogs rose, whimpering, until Mark let them outside.

  After the initial wave of pain wore out, Meely calmed down and obediently swallowed the Tylenol they offered. Then she asked for hot tea.

  “You should eat,” Mark said.

  “No.”

  “If Sadie makes chicken soup, would you eat that?”

  “No.”

  She drank the tea, then asked for more pillows.

  Sadie went to the kitchen and put some chicken breasts in water to make homemade chicken corn noodle soup. Then she asked Meely if she would like a warm bath and a shampoo.

  “No.”

  “Meely, I think it would help you feel better.”

  “Nobody’s going to bathe me. No.”

  “Would you do it yourself?”

  “No.”

  Sadie sighed and looked at Mark. The sour odor from her unwashed hair and body was loathsome, but she was afraid to mention it, not wanting to offend Meely, or Mark for that matter.

  The tea seemed to give her a measure of strength, and she patted the pillows with nerveless fingers, a sort of repercussion from the caffeine in the tea.

  “I have to talk.” She spoke loudly, the words coming in quick succession, as if she might never be able to say the necessary words if she didn’t say them now.

  Sadie quickly walked to the kitchen to turn down the burner on the stove. When she returned, Mark was sitting on the red-wing chair. Sadie stood beside it, a hand on the arm.

  “Sit down,” Meely barked, angrily.

  Obediently Sadie brought a chair from the dining room and sat beside Mark.

  “I have cancer. It’s in my bones. It started in my breasts. Had that taken care of, or so they thought. You know…”

  Her hands fluttered like white birds swept by a gale, seemingly propelled by forces beyond their control.

  “The doctors don’t know what happened. Told me to quit smoking. Couldn’t do that. I always smoked. Well, not always, but…” A terrified glance at Mark.

  “After I left, I smoked a lot. Helped my nerves. Evan smoked. The … you know, the man I left with.”

  Mark nodded.

  Her black gaze adhered to Mark’s eyes with a certain wildness.

  “Say you don’t remember,” she ground out hoarsely.

  Mark sat motionless, made of stone. Then he nodded again.

  As if her soul were in Mark’s hands, Meely searched his face, earnestly hoping he did not remember the past.

  “No. You don’t. You can’t. You were too young.”

  Why didn’t he speak? Was it pride that kept Mark so still?

  The dripping faucet in the kitchen violated the dead silence as effectively as a hissing scream, until Sadie thought the very atmosphere would fly apart.

  “I remember everything, Mother.”

  Sadie’s heart slowed, then dropped, when she heard Mark’s words, spoken in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “Ich mind allus.”

  “Oh, God!” The sick woman understood. The words, spoken in the language of her past, sealed her fate, and it was a thousand times worse than she feared.

  Out of the depths of her ravaged soul came the words, “Nay! Nay!”

  Her response in Dutch made Sadie shudder. If ever there was a time when she felt helpless in the face of these horribly buried pasts, this was surely it. She breathed a prayer to God to stay here, in this room, with his power and strength.

  Meely became defensive then.

  “It wasn’t my fault. Atlee should have done something. He was so set in his ways. The farm was going downhill all the time. He … was so unconcerned. All he wanted to do was … lay around the house.

  “He loved me too much. It drove me insane. I couldn’t deal with it. When you were born, it was okay, but they just kept coming. The babies. Crying, wanting food, there weren’t enough diapers. The washer was broken. Atlee… None of it was my fault. A person can only take so much. Not my fault.”

  She turned her face away, the subject closed. The past was smoothed over by adjusting the blame to someone else.

  Mark’s eyes blared with black fire, disgust, and fury leaping out of them. His mouth opened and then closed. He gulped like a dying fish receiving no oxygen but still floundering.

  When he finally spoke, the words were cased in searing heat from anger pushed deep inside for much too long.

  “No, Meely. Huh-uh. You’re not going to get out of this so easily. I don’t care if you are sick, you’re going to hear what I have to say. I was only eight years old, but I knew. I knew what you and that … that Evan were doing. I can still see him, that cringing lizard at the front door, coming to mislead my Mam. I can still see you leaving in his red car, the babies crying. No, Meely, it was not my Dat’s fault.

  “He’s dead, you know. Dat. Atlee.”

  She turned her head to face Mark, checking his face for any untruth.

  “No!”

  “Yes. Atlee killed himself after you left. He drowned. I found him.”

  There was a snort of derision from the sofa.

  “Guess you had a shock, huh?”

  Mark stood up, towered over her. She shrank into the cushions of the couch, afraid he might strike her.

  With a hoarse, nameless cry, he turned on his heel and stalked out through the front door, slamming it so hard the windows rattled.

  Sadie looked at Meely, who looked back with a blank, cold stare. The dark glare withered any sense of goodwill Sadie may have had.

  The smell of chicken soup floated through the house, creating a homey warmth. Mark had disappeared, and Sadie hoped she could get his mother fed and bathed by the time he returned. They might resume talking then, opening old Pandora’s boxes, battling the spirits that spewed forth.

  Sadie wheedled, coaxed, even joked, to get Meely to eat the soup. No amount of coaxing could persuade her. Finally, Sadie told her she needed some sort of sustenance to withstand another attack of pain. Nothing could persuade her to try a single spoonful.

  “I hate that Amish stuff.”

  The words were shoved violently at Sadie and made her flinch. She stood her ground.

  “English people make chicken noodle soup. Not just Amish.”

  “Don’t want it. You’re Amish.”

  “Okay. Then starve. We’re going home.”

  “No. No. Don’t.” she cried pathetically. “I’ll taste it.”

  “It’s made with ingredients from your grocery store, so it’s English soup,” Sadie teased.

  That brought a weak semblance of a smile, and she reached for the soup bowl. She tried some, then raised the black eyebrows.

  “It’s good.”

  She ate every drop, then asked for water with ice in it, which Sadie brought quickly. Meely drank half of it.

  “You don’t mean it,” Meely said, her shoulders drooping. Then, “Why do you want me to live?”

>   “I want you to live long enough to reconcile your feelings with Mark. I care for Mark. I love him very much, and you’re his mother, so I care about you, of course. You’re his mother.”

  “You don’t love me.”

  “I would if you’d let me bathe you,” Sadie said smiling.

  A small twinkle flickered in her deep brown eyes.

  “I’m a disgusting person, aren’t I? Sick and dirty and weak. I wasn’t always like this, you know.”

  Sadie nodded.

  “I’ll bathe myself. You can help me shampoo.”

  Sadie could hardly believe her good fortune. While Meely bathed, Sadie vacuumed the sofa and tucked clean sheets along the cushions. When that was finished, she glided noiselessly across the carpet and pressed her ear to the bathroom door. Meely was not yet ready for her shampoo, so Sadie hurried away to put the soiled sheets and quilt in the washer.

  She was thankful for her experience of working at the ranch. She was accustomed to toasters, microwaves, washers, and dryers even though the appliances were not a part of her life at home.

  Meely called from the bathroom, and Sadie braced herself, knowing it would take courage to enter.

  When she quietly opened the door, Meely was submerged in water up to her shoulders. Her face was turned away, and she refused to meet Sadie’s eye.

  “Don’t hurt me now.” The voice was soft, like a child’s, and it enveloped Sadie’s heart.

  Poor, frightened woman. Was she any different than Nevaeh, that sick beautiful horse, so pitiful in her weakness?

  As Sadie gently massaged Meely’s grimy scalp, working the shampoo into it, Meely closed her eyes. Sadie could see the beauty that had been ravaged by disease and malnutrition. Her eyebrows were like dark wings, once plucked to perfection, now beautiful in their fullness. Her eyes were wide half-moons fringed with black lashes. Her cheeks were sallow and mottled, but the bone structure was perfect, just like Mark’s.

  As Sadie washed the matted mass of hair loosening under her hands, the water turned gray and then brown. She rinsed, shampooed again, then worked the conditioner in before the final rinse.

  “There, Meely. Do you need help to finish?”

  The “no” was quick and emphatic. But she had to call Sadie to help her dress in clean pajamas, warm socks, and another robe, a white one this time, which improved the stark outline of her figure.

  Sadie led her to the red wing-chair and gently brushed her hair until all the tangles were smoothed. Sadie was amazed at the amount of black hair Meely still had, despite her illness. She was only graying a bit at the temples.

  “I lost all of it before, you know. Chemo kills you,” Meely said wryly.

  “I’ve heard people talk of chemotherapy.”

  “It’s as horrible as they say.”

  That was all she said. Her body was limp with exhaustion, so Sadie helped her to the sofa, pulling the quilt around her thin shoulders. Meely tried to speak, but her eyes, those beautiful half moons of light, fell. Her breathing deepened, and she was asleep.

  Sadie stood, then reached out and tentatively smoothed the hair away from her pearly brow.

  Dear God. Unser Himmlischer Vater.

  As she prayed in Dutch, a wave of homesickness rushed over her. She missed her family. Reuben especially. She missed Paris and hoped Anna was riding her with Reuben and Moon. She missed Dorothy, too. She would call tomorrow.

  She washed dishes, fed the dogs, ate some of the chicken soup. She was still hungry and decided to make toast brot, milch und an oy. It was an old satisfying dish when the stomach was not quite right or the body needed a bit of comfort within the next 15 minutes.

  She put a small amount of milk in a little saucepan and broke an egg into it. Then she put a slice of bread in the toaster. When the egg and toast were ready, she dumped the egg and milk on the toast, salting and peppering it liberally.

  She took a bite and closed her eyes, savoring this dish straight from Mam’s kitchen.

  Where was Mark?

  She couldn’t blame him for leaving. She couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to face those memories again, especially from his own Mam. It was almost beyond her comprehension.

  When Mark returned a short time later, they sat in the neglected garden and talked. At first Mark was curt, defiant even, but as the late afternoon turned to evening, the dusty sunlight filtering through the trees, he spoke of his pain. He desperately longed to forgive his mother, but he didn’t have the strength to do it.

  Sadie could only slip her hand in his, lay her head on his shoulder, and listen. His pain was as raw as the day his mother had left so many years ago. Sadie knew then that he would always be bound by the fetters of his past, even if he reached a measure of forgiveness.

  Perhaps forgiveness was like love. It came in small portions, but it was the exact amount you needed, poured out by a loving Father above.

  Life is imperfect. To believe that painful things could be completely washed away, never to return, was wishful thinking.

  The painful things of the past remained, but with forgiveness and love, you could lock them away if the key to that lock could be maintained by love. It was God who supplied the key of love yet again. He was always there.

  So was love.

  Chapter 21

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING THERE WAS A RESOUNDING knock from the rusted knocker on the front door, followed closely by two insistent peals from the doorbell. Instinctively Meely clutched her robe with one hand and grasped at her quilts with the other, her eyes wide with terror as the dogs began their ear-splitting cacophony.

  “They’re coming to get me, aren’t they?” she hissed, her dark hair flying about her head as she searched for a way of escape.

  Before Sadie could stop her, Meely lifted the quilt, flung her legs over the side of the sofa, raised herself up, and with a frightened cry, fell headlong onto the carpet.

  As the doorbell repeated its insistent peals, Mark and Sadie rushed to Meely’s side, hoarse sobs escaping the pitifully thin body. Choking and crying, clawing the air with her thin, white fingers, she was clearly horrified now.

  “Get the door,” Mark said curtly.

  Sadie went to the door, hushing the dogs as best she could before pulling it open tentatively, peeping out to see a large African-American man. Instinctively, she was reluctant to ask him in.

  She stepped outside and kept her hand on the door handle in case she needed a quick escape back inside.

  “How ya doin’, honey? I’m Tom!” He extended his large hand and crushed Sadie’s in an all-encompassing grip.

  Then, rushing on, giving Sadie no space to introduce herself, he filled the air around him with a steady stream of words spoken loudly but in a rich, lovely baritone that sent shivers down Sadie’s spine.

  “I’m Tom, the preacher man. I’ve been tellin’ the Lord that he needs to let me know if there’s anything I can do for this lady. She never comes out of the house, but I’m trusting him to let me know if she needs help. Last night I saw someone walking around here as I was comin’ home, an’ sure enough, I knew right then that the Lord needed me here. How’s she doin’?”

  Sadie shook her head.

  “I figgered. I figgered. Honey, she in a bad way?”

  “She doesn’t have long.”

  “Aw, honey!”

  With that, Sadie was enveloped in what she could only describe as a bear hug, from which he released her just as quickly.

  “You relation?”

  “My … boyfriend’s mother.”

  “Aw, honey!”

  There was a sweet lilt to his words, a butterfly perched on a question, a dove of peace on every endearment.

  His words always came with a smile. His eyes were a constant glow of good humor, his white teeth a flash of goodwill. All this was apparent in these first few moments.

  “She needs saved, right?”

  Sadie nodded, hesitantly. The English used the word saved, but Sadie, like most Amish, was wary o
f the term. Amish teaching instilled the fear of God as a strict master who demands that the faithful stay within the rules of the church and adhere to the keeping of good works. It was the Amish way, and it made them stumble at using the word saved to describe a believer.

  “You think I’d be eaten alive if I walked through that door?” Tom asked.

  Sadie smiled. “Oh, no,” she said. “Follow me.”

  Sadie led Tom through the foyer. She did her best to keep the dogs at bay. Meely was lying on the sofa, still crying, her head moving constantly from side to side.

  “Mark, this is Tom, a minister.”

  Mark looked up as Sadie caught her breath. How would he react?

  Mark straightened, standing as tall as Tom. Then he extended his hand, a curious welcome in his brown eyes. Sadie breathed out, grateful now.

  “Tom Dockers,” he said, grasping Mark’s hand with a firm grip. His white, white teeth and his eyes with their never-ceasing good humor won him immediately.

  “Mark Peight. How do you do?”

  “Fine. Your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom nodded. His eyes softened, then filled with warm tears of mercy. Slowly the massive form moved toward the frail woman. He stood over her, his head bent, his lips moving. He was clearly a powerhouse of prayer, faith, and love so great that Sadie felt sure she had never met anyone quite like this man.

  Slowly, Tom placed his hand on Meely’s restless shoulder. He closed his eyes. Tears squeezed between the lids.

  Meely ceased her restless movement and breathed peacefully. Slowly she opened her eyes, then drew in a sharp breath. Her eyes popped as she screamed, high and desperate now.

  “No! No! No!” she wailed. “Don’t! Oh, don’t. Don’t torment me before my time!”

  Her torment was visible and audible. The dogs whined in response, the large white shepherd beginning a howl of sorts.

  Sadie moved quickly to let the dogs out before a situation arose that would have dire consequences.

  Tom did not remove his hand. Instead he gently moved it back and forth, as if to calm the flailing woman on the sofa.

  “Now listen, honey child. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. I’m just here to talk awhile. Nobody’s gettin’ you.”