by Anna Schmidt
He frowned. What kind of a marriage could they build on that? He would agree that his leaving Celery Fields had not turned out at all the way he’d intended. In fact, he had made matters far worse. If he had stayed and worked for his uncle through the good years they might be married by now with a house filled with children of their own. On the other hand he had stayed away far longer than he had intended mostly because she had rejected him. He had written her time and again, trying with each letter to make her understand his intention to return as soon as he had earned his financial stake. But her refusal to even acknowledge his letters had been his answer.
So why are you here? Why do you care so much whether she maintains her job or not? Why should it matter to you when it doesn’t seem to matter to her?
Because, having failed her once, he was intent on making certain that she was happy and content in her life, even if he were not to be a part of it beyond living in the same community. If John was sure of anything it was that Liddy loved teaching and that taking that away from her would be devastating, whether she wanted to admit it or not. And whether she wanted his help or not he was determined to find some way that the school could hold on for at least a couple of years. By that time Luke and Greta’s children would be ready to attend, as would other youngsters from the outlying farms that he had seen at Sunday services.
Instead of going directly to his rooms above the stables he walked over to the schoolhouse and stood outside the closed double doors considering the possibilities. The building was in good shape—no peeling paint, no loose shingles on the steep-pitched roof. The windows were not cracked or broken and the yard surrounding it was well tended and neat. It was close enough to the businesses in town that John could understand why the elders might be thinking it would bring in some much-needed income if turned into a shop of some sort.
He stepped onto the well-worn footpath that connected the school to Liddy’s house. No doubt she had walked this path thousands of times over the years. In those first days after he’d left, he imagined her walking slowly from her father’s house to the school, her head bent low, her heart missing him as he had missed her. But then as the weeks and months and years passed, being Liddy, she would have raised her eyes from the ground to the school itself and walked with new purpose. She would have set her mind on becoming the very best teacher she possibly could.
And these days? He thought about the woman he’d watched making her daily trips to and from the school and realized that there had been little difference in her posture or stride even as she must have already been facing the likelihood that this would be her last year of teaching. She would simply accept that whatever happened was God’s will and that there would be some new purpose for her life.
So why bother trying to change things?
Because I love her—always have and always will.
“Whether she wants me to or not,” he muttered aloud as he crossed the yard. He stomped his way up the outside stairs and into the rooms that Liddy and the other women had made into a home for him. But the home he truly wanted was the house across the way, shared with Liddy and their children. In spite of everything that had happened, he still wanted to marry her. Nothing about that had changed. All he had to do was persuade her that being with him was surely God’s will.
Chapter Nine
If the week in late January that John returned to Celery Fields had been unseasonably cold, six weeks later saw the humidity and unsettled skies of storms that usually did not arrive until the hurricane season began in early summer. There was no need for a fire at the school on these days. Instead, Lydia made sure the windows were open to allow whatever breeze there might be to flow freely through the single room.
As Greta’s time to deliver grew nearer, Lydia spent most of her days either at school or caring for Luke, Greta and their children. To Greta’s dismay Hilda Yoder—in her role as the town’s midwife—had injured her back in a fall and was laid up in bed on doctor’s orders until it had a chance to heal. On Hilda’s orders Greta was also confined to complete bed rest for the duration of her pregnancy. So Lydia closed up her own house and moved in with her sister and Luke. The irony of her circumstances did not escape her. She believed that God was offering them the opportunity to become accustomed to an arrangement that would almost certainly be their future—the school shut down and Lydia living with Greta and Luke.
It also did not escape her notice that there was a blessing in all of this. By living with Luke and Greta she could avoid seeing John. Her feelings for John were incredibly confusing and rushed at her like a wave on the beach whenever she was in his presence. Her only defense seemed to be avoiding him whenever possible. No longer would he be able to watch from the vantage point of his uncle’s hardware or his own living quarters above Luke’s business as she came from and went to school or did chores around her house. Luke now handled milking Lydia’s cow and gathering the eggs her chickens laid.
She also had not attended any of the community gatherings in town since moving to Greta’s, offering the excuse that someone needed to be with her sister at all times. This included missing services for the first time in her life. And although John had stopped by on several occasions, she had always made sure to be sequestered upstairs with Greta, an area of the house off-limits to him.
“Is it your intention to avoid him forever?” Greta asked one afternoon as Lydia sat by her bedside mending some of the children’s clothing. Greta had been feeling much better the past few days, enough so that she and Lydia had both urged Luke to go to Sarasota on business for the day. He was not expected back until late that evening. Pleasant had insisted on taking the children and Lydia had turned her duties at school over to Bettina in order to stay with Greta.
“I am not avoiding anyone.”
Greta snorted and shifted her large bulk so that she lay on her side. “Yes, you are. What I want to know is why? In the weeks that have passed since his return has John Amman not proven his sincerity in wanting to be part of the community again? When will you let go of the past, Liddy?”
Lydia put down her sewing as she faced her sister with a sigh. She knew Greta would not give up on this conversation so they might as well have it. “I am not clinging to the past, Greta,” she explained patiently. “John Amman left Celery Fields—and me—eight years ago. We are both very different people now. Why, it is almost as if he is a stranger to me, he’s so unlike the boy he was.”
“The boy you loved, have always loved, will always love,” Greta insisted. “And he seems quite the same to me.” Her eyes went all dreamy, the way they sometimes did when she thought or spoke of her husband. “That smile of his has not changed one bit and, if anything, age has made him more handsome. And the way he looks at you.”
Outside the open window, thunder roiled in the distance like a giant’s unsettled stomach. They would have the welcome relief of rain before the day was out. Lydia could smell it in the heavy air that hung over the room. It reminded her of the day that John had left. It had rained then, a harsh, cold, pelting rain that had slapped at her face as she watched him go. She pressed back a wisp of her hair that had clung to her cheek as she took up her sewing again. “That boy is no more,” she reminded her sister.
“No he is now a man, a very eligible man. You’d best wake up, sister, before some other single woman sets her eye on him.”
Lydia felt the color rise to her cheeks. John was indeed handsome, in the way that drew attention especially from women, despite the Amish leaning toward sameness. He stood out. He was taller and broader than many of the men in Celery Fields. “And that is exactly the point. Since he is so fine looking, why would he be interested in a spinster like me?” She felt she was making an excellent argument.
“Because he does not see the years, Liddy. He sees you. Everyone can see it except you. I don’t understand why you think you must ignore the reality before you.” She t
wisted around to reach for the cardboard fan they sometimes used during summer services and let out a cry of distress.
Lydia kicked over her sewing basket as she stood up. “What is it?” she asked as she eased Greta back onto the pillows. She noticed that her sister was biting hard on her lower lip to keep further cries at bay. “Where does it hurt, Greta?”
“Everywhere,” Greta managed through gritted teeth.
“I’ll go make you some peppermint tea. That always eases the cramping.”
Greta nodded as she closed her eyes against the pain.
Downstairs, Lydia hurried to prepare the tea. From the day she had moved into the house, she had made sure a kettle was always filled and kept simmering on the wood stove in the kitchen. And as Greta’s time grew closer she had made other preparations, as well—a stack of clean rags placed on the bureau in the bedroom, along with newspaper and two pads they would use to line the bed during the delivery. Greta had finally finished stitching the dark blue gown and blankets that she had made to wrap the newborn in after the delivery.
They had planned that when the time came, Luke would go fetch Hilda, who would attend Greta through the delivery with Lydia’s help. Luke would be there, too, while the children would go to stay with Pleasant again. Everything was prepared. And Greta had been through the entire process three times already. There was no need to worry, Lydia assured herself as she prepared the tea and carried a steaming mug back up the stairs as large drops of rain splattered against the windows. Except, if the baby came today, Luke was not there and Hilda was still confined to bed.
By the time Lydia reached the room Greta was collapsed against the pile of pillows, her eyes closed, her breathing coming in shallow gasps. Rain was dripping onto the wood-planked floor through the open window. Lydia set the mug of tea on the bedside table and closed the window then sat on the side of the bed.
“Greta? I have some tea,” she said softly.
Greta’s eyes fluttered opened. “Did you send for Hilda?”
“Hilda cannot come, remember? She took a fall and injured her back.”
Greta closed her eyes again and nodded as a single tear leaked down her cheek. “Something is not right, Liddy,” she said, and her voice shook with fear. “This isn’t like any of the others. I know that something is terribly wrong.”
“Lie still,” Lydia instructed as Greta began to writhe in pain. “I’m going for help.” She set the tea aside and ran back down the stairs and out onto the porch. The sky was pitch-black and the rain now fell in sheets that made seeing more than a couple of feet impossible.
Normally someone was always out on the street in Celery Fields at this time of day, but with the storm everyone had sought shelter. She needed to send someone to fetch the Englisch doctor that the citizens of Celery Fields hesitated to call except in emergencies. Well, this was definitely an emergency, and the only telephone in town was the one at Hadwell’s Hardware.
From upstairs she heard Greta cry out and she did not wait another second before dashing into the street and running as fast as she could to the hardware. She was soaked through by the time she pushed open the door and clutched at a counter displaying a variety of pocketknives to catch her breath.
“It’s Greta,” she gasped when Gert glanced up and then hurried forward. “I think the baby is coming but there is a problem—a serious problem. I think we should call for the doctor.”
Gert ran to the wall phone and lifted the receiver. She yelled into the phone. “Hello! Hello?” Her shouts into the phone brought John and Roger from the storeroom.
“It’s dead,” Gert announced. “The wires must be down with this wind.”
“What’s going on?” Roger demanded.
Once again Lydia explained the urgency to reach the doctor, and all the while her mind raced with thoughts of what she would do if they couldn’t get him there in time. “I need to get back. Greta is alone and...”
“I’ll go for the doctor,” Roger said, grabbing his rain slicker. “John, you go with Lydia.”
“Shouldn’t I...” Gert began but she was already shaking like a leaf, her nerves evident to all.
“Someone has to manage the store,” Roger reminded her gently. And although Lydia knew the store could simply be closed for the time being, she also understood that Roger was protecting Gert. Gertrude Hadwell tended toward hysteria when faced with any crisis.
“John?” Roger nodded toward Lydia.
John took down a second black rain slicker and held it over his head and shoulders indicating that Lydia should join him under the shelter of the coat. “Let’s go,” he ordered as he held out one arm, ready to envelope her against him under the coat.
“I...”
“For once in your life stop worrying about what is proper, Liddy. Greta needs you.”
Her sister’s name galvanized Lydia into action. She huddled close to John as he opened the shop’s door, and together they headed out into the storm. All around them thunder rumbled and lightning cracked the blackness of the sky in jagged flashes. John held her close, half carrying her forward as they ran back to the house.
The front door stood open. As they stepped into the front hallway and John dropped the coat and shut the door against the noise of the storm, Lydia realized that the house had an eerie, empty sound. She glanced up the stairway, her ears peeled for any cry from Greta.
Nothing.
“Oh, please, do not let her have...” Lydia did not finish her prayer as she raced up the stairs with John right behind her.
When they reached the bedroom, Greta was on her hands and knees in the middle of the bed. Because her face was buried in a pillow they could barely hear
her moans. The linens on the bed were soaked through with perspiration as well as what Lydia realized was the rush of water that was a preamble to the baby’s coming.
“There’s water simmering on the stove. Fill this basin,” she instructed John, thrusting a washbasin at him as she rushed to her sister’s side. “Greta, we’re right here.”
“Luke?”
“Not yet. Remember, he had to go out on a job and there’s a storm? I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as he can.” As she talked, she took a clean rag from the stack by the bed and wiped Greta’s forehead.
“The mattress,” Greta said. “It’s ruined.”
“It’s wet,” Lydia corrected, “and it will dry.”
To her surprise Greta managed a laugh. “Oh, Liddy, there is ever so much more than water coming,” she said. “Get the newspapers and pads.”
Relieved to have her sister take charge Lydia did as she was told, managing to spread the pad, layers of papers and another pad while she helped Greta balance back and forth on her hands and knees. “Do you want to lie down?”
“No. This is better,” Greta said, and then gasped as another contraction took hold.
What was taking John so long?
As if in answer, she heard footsteps on the stairs and he came to the door with the basin of steaming water. “There wasn’t enough in the kettle,” he said, and Lydia remembered that she had taken water for the peppermint tea earlier.
“I refilled the kettle.” He sounded as nervous as she felt.
She took the water from him. “How long before Roger comes with the doctor?” she whispered.
John glanced at the window where the wind was so strong that palm fronds lashed at the sides of the house like fingers scratching on a chalkboard. The sky was so dark that it seemed more like midnight than midafternoon. He shook his head. “Just tell me what to do, Liddy, and we’ll get through this together.”
I don’t know what to do, she wanted to tell him, but behind her Greta let out a half moan and half cry and rolled onto her side. “Just stay close in case I need you, and watch for the doctor,” she said as she returned to Greta’s bedside. “
Right here, Greta,” she chanted as she dipped a rag in the water and pressed it to her sister’s swollen belly as she had seen Hilda do when delivering Greta’s other children. “Just tell me what to do,” she whispered, and was not at all sure if she was directing this plea to Greta or to God.
“That’s good,” Greta managed as the contraction passed and she shifted into a half sitting position. “The heat helps.” She sounded almost normal, but her face was flushed a blotched red and her breathing sounded as if she had run a great distance. “Better,” she added, and found the strength to smile at Lydia and clutch her hand.
Within seconds she was squeezing Lydia’s fingers as her face contorted into a grimace. “Coming,” she managed to gasp as she pushed herself higher onto the pillows.
Lydia had never found the term “catcher” more accurate than she did as she watched the head of the baby appear. Surrounded by the sounds of the storm, Greta’s labored breathing and John pacing back and forth just outside the bedroom door, she instinctively cradled the emerging head of the child in one hand as she gently guided this wonder into the world. She looked up once to find Greta grimacing through the strain of one final push and suddenly the rest of the baby landed in Lydia’s hands.
She was shaking and laughing at the same time and there were tears of pure joy rolling down her cheeks. “It’s a girl, Greta. A beautiful daughter,” she said. She turned the child, still connected to her mother by the umbilical cord, so Greta could see her. But then her heart raced with panic as she realized the baby was making no sound and was not breathing.
“You need to give her a slap,” Greta instructed, her voice faint.
Lydia was horrified at the very idea of striking such a precious being.
