by Marta Perry
Sharing a laugh with Lydia dissipated the last of her tension, but it still left a question in Leah’s mind.
“Tell me, if you will. Is Stacie like that with everyone or just with me?”
“Especially with you.” Lydia smiled. “Although, like many researchers, she is impatient of anything that gets in the way of her work, including good manners.”
“But why? She doesn’t even know me.”
Lydia’s pale eyebrows quirked. “I think you know the answer to that, don’t you? She’s interested in John.”
“Well, but—” Leah paused, trying to assimilate that. She would want for John to find someone to love, wouldn’t she? “I’m not a threat to a relationship she might have with Johnny.”
“Aren’t you?”
“You mean she knows that we once planned to marry, and she’s jealous? But I can’t compare to her.”
“You’re his first love,” Lydia said. “She’s afraid that knowing you again will make him realize that you are what he wants.”
She wanted to deny it, to say it couldn’t be. In a way, this was the opposite of her experience. Those who loved her were pushing her toward Daniel because they feared she would be lured to the English world by her first love. Meanwhile, the person who loved John feared that Leah would draw him back to the Amish world.
She shook her head finally. “He would never return. She doesn’t have to worry about that. But if she cares about him, why is she so derisive of the life that he came from? She has so many misconceptions about the Amish that it’s hard to understand why she’s here.”
Lydia shrugged. “As for that, I think the research is all that matters to her. The Amish are only of interest because their custom of marrying within the church provides such a classic genetic workshop.”
“You could clear up some of her false ideas,” Leah suggested.
“I could.” Lydia looked down at her cup. “Not doing so is one of the accommodations I make to get along in the English world.”
Leah didn’t know how to respond to that. It seemed that jumping the fence was not so simple as shedding one life and picking up another.
They were quiet again for a few minutes. Leah let her gaze drift over the wall of books behind Lydia’s desk. How much pleasure must it be to have a room like this, with more books than you could have time to read?
“May I . . .” She hesitated. Daniel would not allow her to bring Elizabeth to see Lydia. But there was no reason why she couldn’t use the woman as a resource if Lydia were willing. “May I ask you—consult you—about something?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been asked to help a family.” She chose her words carefully. “The three children were taken away from their Amish home by their mother. They lived in the English world for two years before she died in an accident, and then they came back to their father.”
There, that was a neat, anonymous recounting of the facts. Lydia wasn’t from the community, so she was unlikely to know about Daniel and his family.
“They’re having problems adjusting?” Lydia looked interested. Probably something like this didn’t come her way very often.
“The middle child, the only girl, is eight, one of my scholars. She is so determined to be perfect at everything she does that she becomes overly upset when she can’t.” She censored herself, not feeling she should trust Lydia with the story of Elizabeth’s injury. “She wants to take on duties that a woman would do, instead of a child’s chores.”
“Does the father push her to do that?”
“No. Just the opposite, in fact. He’s very concerned about her.” She hesitated. Her opinions weren’t facts, but perhaps it would help Lydia to know them. “I wondered if she’s trying to emulate her mother, but her father doesn’t agree. He has difficulty talking with them about their time in the outside world.”
Lydia nodded slowly, as if she sifted the facts through her mind. “Would he allow me to see his daughter?”
“I suggested that already. He refused. He feels that I am the one to help her.” She opened her hand, as if exposing her inadequacy. “I know how ill equipped I am to do any such thing. But if I don’t help, there will be no one.”
“I don’t think I can counsel at secondhand,” Lydia said.
Leah’s heart sank. She hadn’t realized until that moment how much she’d hoped for from Lydia.
“But what do your own instincts tell you the child needs?”
“To talk to an adult who cares about her,” Leah said promptly. “Probably not her father, since he finds it so hard. Someone who will listen and reassure her.”
Lydia smiled. “You’re a good teacher, I’m sure. Your instincts are sound.” She stood, going to the bookshelves. “I may not be able to counsel her, but I can lend you some materials that might give you guidance.”
“That would be so appreciated.” Leah stood, accepting the books as Lydia pulled them from the shelves and handed them to her.
Lydia’s hand rested for a moment on the stack of books. “Just—be careful. What you are doing is risky, both for the child and for you.”
“For me?”
Lydia studied her face intently. “It is difficult enough in a counseling situation to stay detached from the client’s problems. In your case, I think that will be nearly impossible. You’ll risk caring too much.”
Lydia’s words gripped her heart. She’d failed Johnny when it came to caring enough. She couldn’t fail a child who depended on her.
“I can only do my best and trust God with it,” she said.
“Da Herr sei mit du,” Lydia said softly, like a benediction. “The Lord be with you.”
Leah pressed her hand. She’d reached the door when Lydia spoke again.
“One thing you should be aware of. In the situation you describe, chances are good the little girl isn’t the only one affected. The whole family may need help in working through their feelings about the mother.” She paused. “Especially the father.”
Daniel. Daniel might need help. But he wouldn’t allow her anywhere near his feelings about his dead wife, would he?
• • •
The makeshift curtains, probably sheets from someone’s bed, pulled together for the final time, and the audience, gathered on benches under the trees in the schoolyard, burst into applause. Daniel clapped as heartily as the rest.
Every parent was nervous when his or her child performed, of course, but he might have been more jittery than most. This was his children’s first end-of-school program in Pleasant Valley, and it was more than a marking of the end of classes for him. It was another sign of their belonging here.
The scholars marched out, beaming broadly now that the difficult part was over, and the audience clapped again, the clapping growing deafening when Teacher Leah appeared. The community must realize how fortunate they were to have such a dedicated, skillful teacher.
Lest he be caught staring at Teacher Leah, he sought out his own young ones. He’d held his breath while Elizabeth said her part, fearful of what might happen if she faltered. She’d held her friend Becky’s hand and been letter-perfect.
The curtains, operated with care by Matthew and another boy, had opened and closed on cue, something that clearly mattered to Matthew far more than the piece he’d gotten through.
As for Jonah—well, Jonah forgot his poem before he reached the end and turned to the assistant teacher to be prompted with such an engaging grin that everyone had chuckled.
Women started uncovering the dishes that marched down the centers of the rows of tables, while the men moved benches and tried to stay out of their way. A buzz of conversation and laughter filled the air.
On an afternoon like this, with the sun shining, the church family around him, and all going well, he wondered why he’d told Leah all that he had. More, why he’d asked for her help.
They were going to be all right. Surely that incident with Elizabeth had been a onetime thing. He’d talked to her, getting her to promise that she’d never again try anything so foolish.
Still, he had to admit that it might be gut for Elizabeth to spend time with a woman she admired as she did Teacher Leah. He disliked Leah’s continued association with her former sweetheart, but he couldn’t doubt that she had the interest of the children at heart.
Elias Beiler, Leah’s father, came over to him, a broad smile on his face. “They’ve done well, those young ones of our Leah’s, haven’t they?”
“They have indeed. I was just thinking that the community is fortunate in our teacher.”
Since Leah’s father was looking at her, it seemed natural that Daniel look as well. The excitement of the day had brought a flush to Leah’s cheeks, and her green eyes sparkled with pleasure.
“I understand we’re to have your little Elizabeth around a bit this summer,” Elias said.
Daniel nodded. “I hope she won’t be in the way of things your wife is doing.”
Leah and her mother had hatched a plan whereby they would teach Elizabeth quilting over the summer. He didn’t doubt that the teaching would branch into some cooking and baking and other things that girls her age were normally learning from their own mothers.
“Not a bit of it,” Elias said quickly. “My Mattie loves showing young ones how to do things, and your Elizabeth is a sweet, quiet child, not like those schnickelfritzes of our Levi.”
Since the two young boys in question were wrestling in the grass at the moment, the comment seemed apt, but Elias looked at them with an indulgent eye.
“Elizabeth will enjoy it, I know. My mamm and daad hope to come for a long visit, but with my sister about to give birth, they won’t get away for another month or two, at least.”
“Well, they’ll be most welcome any time.”
Another man wandered over with a comment about the corn crop, and the conversation turned more general. Daniel listened attentively, figuring that Elias, like his own father, had no doubt forgotten more about farming than he’d learn in a lifetime.
His gaze wandered over the crowd while they talked. Elizabeth and Becky were helping Rachel, Becky’s mamm, spread things on the table for lunch. It looked as if they’d all be called to the food shortly. Bishop Mose Yoder, white-bearded and saintly, stood at the head of one of the tables, surveying the food he’d be called upon to bless.
Fortunate, Daniel thought again. The Lord had blessed the families that settled in Pleasant Valley. He had been right to bring the children here. With no reminders of Ruth, it was easier to forget.
Jonah raced by, and Daniel reached out to collar his youngest. “We’ll be eating soon. You’d best wash your hands. Where is your brother?”
“I dunno, Daadi.” Released, Jonah ran off in the general direction of the outside pump.
Scanning the hosts of children, Daniel failed to come up with Matthew. But Leah moved toward him, her smile a little tentative. Perhaps she worried that her knowing so much about his past would make the situation uncomfortable between them.
“A grand program, Teacher Leah.”
Her smile eased. “The scholars did well, I thought.”
“Speaking of scholars, do you know where Matthew is? We’re about ready to eat.”
She glanced around. “He and Thomas were taking the curtains down. They’re probably packing up in the schoolroom.”
With a nod, he retreated toward the schoolhouse. The trouble with talking to Leah was that he always wanted to prolong the conversation. But when he did, it seemed they got into things he’d rather not discuss. Or into a disagreement.
The door stood open. He stepped inside. Sure enough, the two boys were there, but they didn’t seem to be putting things away. Ropes, pulleys, and curtains lay on the floor between them, and they faced each other like two roosters squaring off over who was to rule the henhouse.
“I tell you I did.” Matthew’s voice was shrill. “I flew on an airplane and I rode on a motorcycle, and lots of other stuff, too.”
“I don’t believe it.” The other boy’s jaw came out. “You’re making it all up, Matthew Glick. When did you do all those things, tell me that?”
“When I was English.” Matthew practically shouted the words. “When I was English.”
It was like an axe handle to the belly. Daniel grabbed the door, just to keep standing upright as the wave of fury hit him.
Ruth. This was Ruth’s fault. His children would never really be his again because of her betrayal.
He knew, in that moment, that he’d been lying to himself. Lying to Leah, too, for that matter. Because he hadn’t forgiven Ruth. She was six months dead, and he hadn’t forgiven her at all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Leah closed the kitchen door behind her, shutting out the sound of her two nephews squabbling over a toy train, and crossed the covered walkway that led to the daadi haus. Mamm had seemed unusually quiet at supper, and since Daadi had gone out, she’d best check on her.
She tapped gently as she opened the door. “Mamm?”
How many times over the years had she come this way to see Grossmutter? She’d invariably found her grandmother in the rocking chair by the window, fingers busy with a quilt for someone’s new baby or a hooked rug to cover a bedroom floor on cold mornings.
Now it was Mamm who looked up with a smile from that same rocker. Instead of a quilt patch, her lap was covered with the massive family Bible.
“Leah. Am I needed for something?” She started to close the Bible.
“Nothing at all.” Leah went quickly to pull a chair over next to her. “I thought you might like a little visit is all. But if you’re busy reading—”
“Not reading,” Mamm said, patting the Bible, which Leah saw was opened to the family tree that covered several pages in the front of the book. “Just remembering. Come sit with me if you have time.”
Leah sat, guilt crowding in on her. She was busy, but she could have found the time to sit quietly with Mamm more often.
She leaned on the arm of her mother’s chair to scan the fine, faded printing on the genealogy chart. Since her work with the clinic, she’d never look at a family tree in the same way again.
“What are you remembering, Mamm?” She looked more closely, realizing it was the Lapp family Bible—her mother’s family. “I didn’t realize you had this one. I thought Uncle Jacob and Aunt Emma kept it.” The Bible, like the farm, usually went to the oldest son of the family.
“Ja, they do, but Em wanted me to fill in names and dates for Levi and Barbara’s children.” Mamm’s finger traced a line. “Look, there is me and all my brothers and sisters. Twelve of us, there were. Such a noise when we sat down to supper that you couldn’t hear yourself think.”
“I can imagine.” She squinted to read the faded ink in the failing light. “Was that Uncle Mose who came after Jacob?”
“Elizabeth,” Mamm corrected, her fingers seeming to caress the page. “Elizabeth came next, you remember. Only eight when she died.”
Again her newly acquired information surfaced. “Was she ill, Mamm? What did she die of?”
“She fell.” Tears glistened in her mother’s eyes. “Such a daring girl she was. Like our Anna. Always had to try and climb the highest or run the fastest.”
“I’m sorry. You were close.”
“Only thirteen months apart.” Mamm wiped away a tear that had spilled onto her cheek. “Ach, it’s foolish to cry. She has been safe in God’s hands these many years, but still, sometimes in my mind I see her scrambling up that tree.”
Leah clasped the hand that had always been so strong, so comforting. Frailer now, but still, the comfort was there. “I wish I could have known her.”
Her mother seemed to look into the past. “I wonder, sometimes. What would
she have been like as a woman? How many babies would she have had?” She smiled a little. “Brothers are fine, in their way, but sisters are closer, I think. Ain’t so?”
“I guess so.” Were she and Anna close? Once she’d thought so, but that had changed in recent years. It was as if the gap between their ages had suddenly started to matter more, instead of less.
“Uncle Jofie, now, he and his twin sister were close as could be, but maybe that came of bein’ twins. You remember him, don’t you?”
Since Uncle Jofie, for whom her brother Joseph was named, had died before she was born, she didn’t. “I remember you talking about him.”
“You remember him,” Mamm repeated. “Hair the color of ripe horse-chestnuts he had. You remember.”
“Uncle Jofie died before I was born.” She forced her voice to gentleness, trying to deny the panic that rose in her. Did Mamm really not realize—
“Ach, how foolish.” Her mother shook her head. “Of course you don’t remember Jofie. How silly I am. Seems like my memory gets mixed up sometimes, ever since I had that chemo.”
“That must be it,” Leah said soothingly. “Mammi, you’re— If something is wrong, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
Her mother’s gaze focused on her face. “Now I’ve scared you, making you think I’m getting sick again, when I’m fine. Just a touch forgetful now and again, is all.”
Reassured, Leah smiled at her. “You seemed—well, a little tired and a bit confused.”
“I’m fine.” Her mother’s voice seemed to gain strength on the words. “But you know, having the cancer showed me how true it is that our time is in His hands. God could call us at any moment.”
“You beat the cancer.” Leah infused confidence into the words. “You’re going to be with us for many more years.”
“If God wills.” Her mother stroked the page. “There’s comfort here, Leah, in looking at those I loved who are gone ahead of me. Here or in Heaven, I know I am surrounded by the family’s love.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Leah admitted.
