The Letters

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  But Mim saw change coming, and that was always a worry.

  16

  Delia wondered if life was returning to normal for Charles, if he was proceeding with the legal separation. She told Will to go ahead and let his father know that her cancer was gone after he was back at school. She wondered what that news would mean to Charles. Relief from guilt, she supposed.

  Trying to be more like Rose had not been going quite as well as Delia had hoped. She still wanted to wound Charles. She wanted him to hurt as badly as she hurt. She needed to work on this. Even though Delia didn’t know her well, Rose didn’t seem to harbor such evil thoughts toward her late husband. Or toward that sharp-tongued mother-in-law, either. Delia could hardly tolerate more than a brief encounter with Vera. She reminded her of a librarian who spent her days shushing people. Whenever Delia happened to see her in the yard or at the farmhouse, Vera would fling darts, such as, “Mercy, are you still here?” or “Isn’t it time you scooted on home?”

  Delia didn’t want to scoot on home.

  Before Will left, he had asked her how long she intended to stay in Stoney Ridge and she hadn’t had an answer for him. She had the strangest feeling about this subject—as if she shouldn’t leave. Not yet. She wasn’t sure what it meant or where that gut feeling came from, but it felt as if a journey had begun for her and she still needed her travel documents. That sounded crazy, but that’s how she felt. There was something she needed to get—to receive—before she left.

  Delia had come to admire the genuineness of these Amish people. Their faith in God, especially. She had always perceived God as belonging in a compartment, like a piece of a pie that made up a life. Rose spoke about God as if all of life belonged to him. God was the piecrust, holding the pieces of life together. In fact, the strength of Rose’s faith was part of why Delia had gone back to church last week. Rose seemed so happy and at peace even though she had been cast some serious blows. She hoped a little of what Rose believed would rub off on her.

  When Delia was first getting acquainted with Rose, she seemed so calm and content that Delia honestly thought she might not be all that bright. She was embarrassed to admit it, but it was true. Most smart people she knew, including Charles, were forever complaining about the state of the world. They had all kinds of opinions on all kinds of subjects, but she’d rarely seen any of them do anything besides complain. As far as they were concerned, the world was bad and getting worse.

  Rose didn’t seem to trouble herself about the condition of the world. She was the kind of person who didn’t discuss problems—she quietly set to work to solve them. And she had plenty of problems: her animals, her children, her cranky mother-in-law.

  Rose was clearly a very intelligent woman. Delia’s friends, no doubt, would have scoffed at the simplicity of the Amish life. After all, an eighth grade education? She could just hear the disdain drip from their voices. They valued higher education—the higher, the better. They would start to question the veracity of Rose’s contentment—believing she was an oppressed woman who had no choices.

  Rose was anything but oppressed. She spoke her mind and then some. It surprised Delia to see how she refused to answer those reporters’ questions. She went about her business and acted as if they weren’t even there—which, in a way, was worse than showing anger or upset. Being ignored was the very worst thing of all.

  Of that, she had no doubt.

  On the way home from school, Mim would stop and get the mail from the mailbox. It was her job, hers alone, always had been, and she gave Luke and Sammy the what for if they beat her to the mailbox. Soon, Luke would be taller than her. Getting the mail first was one of the few ways she had to remind him she was older than him.

  The mailman handed Mim a large bundle of mail, bound with rubber bands. She was astonished. Ordinarily, the mail contained a bill or two, a letter, a Budget newspaper, and some advertisements. As she walked up the driveway, she pulled off the rubber band and sifted through at least ten letters, addressed to Mrs. Eagle Hill Inn or Mrs. Miracle.

  When Mim got to the house, she found her mother in the kitchen, washing the floor. She stopped at the threshold and waited until her mother noticed her.

  “Where are the boys?” her mother said, a worried look on her face.

  “They went straightaway to Galen’s. Jimmy’s setting off firecrackers today.”

  Relief covered her face. “Oh good . . . this floor will have a chance to dry.” Half the floor was slick with soapy water.

  “Is Mammi Vera awake?”

  Her mother sloshed some soapy water on the floor and spread it around. “Not now. She’s napping.” Just then, a rat-a-tat sound came from next door. “Well, she was napping until Jimmy Fisher started his fireworks.”

  Mim helped herself to a chocolate chip cookie. Then she remembered the mail. She pointed to the bundle of letters she set on the counter. “Here’s the mail. A bunch of letters are addressed to Mrs. Miracle.”

  Puzzled, her mother tossed the scrub brush on the floor and stood. She opened one letter, then another, then another. Then she shook her head and dropped the letters on the counter. She didn’t even open the rest. “It’s all because of those reporters.” She pushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “I guess we can be expecting another visit from the bishop.”

  “What do the letters want? Reservations to stay here?”

  Her mother bent down, picked up the scrub brush and dipped it in the bucket of soapy water. “No. They’re asking for advice. They think the inn spits out miracles like a soda pop vending machine. They think we’ve got the solutions to all their problems.”

  Now that, Mim thought, was intriguing. “Are you going to answer the letters?”

  “I should. I need to put a stop to them. I don’t want folks to think of this inn as anything more than a nice place to stay. But with your grandmother needing extra help, I don’t know when I’ll have the time to write them back.”

  Mim watched her mother slosh some soapy water on another section of the linoleum and scrub in circles. “Maybe I could help.”

  Her mother stopped scrubbing and looked up. “Really? Would you, Mim?” A big smile covered her face.

  Mim loved her mother’s smile. It was like the sun coming out and filling the room with light.

  “All you need to tell people is that only God makes a miracle. That’s all. You don’t need to try and solve their problems.”

  Oh, but Mim loved to solve problems. “If I can use your typewriter, I’ll answer the letters.” She didn’t think her own handwriting looked grown-up enough, though she did have the best handwriting in seventh grade.

  Her mother beamed. “It’s yours to use! That would be an answer to my problem, Mim.”

  Her mother was gazing at Mim, her head tilted in a question. “Mim . . . is there—” Mammi Vera’s bell started to ring.

  “I’m thirsty!” Mammi Vera called out in a creaky voice from her room behind the kitchen.

  Mim’s mother turned her head toward the back room. “Would you mind seeing to your grandmother so I can get this floor finished?”

  Mim took off her shoes to tiptoe across the wet kitchen floor. The letters would have to wait. But as soon as Mim had finished tending to Mammi Vera, she slipped up to her mother’s room, found the typewriter, and carried it straight to her room. She sat on her bed, cross-legged, to read through the letters. Fascinating! She felt as if she was peeking into people’s lives, but not in a nosy way. With permission.

  Dear Mrs. Innkeeper,

  I read about your Inn in the newspaper. My boyfriend forgot my birthday. Should I forget his?

  Please write back.

  Signed,

  Forgotten in Delaware

  Dear Mrs. Miracle,

  I could sure use a miracle. Two years ago, I joined the Army so that I could see the world. I’ve seen it. Now how do I get out?

  Sincerely,

  Trapped in Tennessee

  Dear Mrs. Innkeeper of Miracle Inn,


  I have a new job, starting next week. But I will need to be late to work on the first day. Maybe the second day, too. When should I tell my new boss?

  Very truly yours,

  Rhonda from New Hampshire

  Dear Mrs. Miracle,

  I signed up for a class on “The Brain and Aging Well” at my community center. Then I forgot to go. They won’t give me my money back! Any suggestions?

  Sincerely,

  Outraged in Harrisburg

  Problems, problems, problems. Her mother had told her not to try to solve these people’s problems. But their problems were so easy to solve! And Mim hadn’t actually agreed to what her mother had recommended, so technically, she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She stared at the typewriter. Very carefully, she put in a fresh sheet of paper. She thought a moment, her fingers frozen above the keys.

  She took a breath. And then, with two fingers, very slowly, she began to type.

  Dear Forgotten in Delaware,

  I am sorry your boyfriend forgot your birthday. Here is my advice: wrap an empty box in gift paper and give it to him for his birthday. And then I think you should suggest that you will both do better next year.

  Sincerely,

  Mrs. Miracle

  This was fun.

  Dear Outraged in Harrisburg,

  There is a lesson to learn in every circumstance. I think you are missing your lesson. Do not worry about getting your money back. The next time “The Brain and Aging Well” class is offered, sign up for it again and be sure to mark it on your calendar. Take the class again, Outraged. And again.

  Yours truly,

  Mrs. Miracle

  A door slammed. It was the exuberant sound of her brothers as they returned from Galen’s. How much time had gone by? Mim rolled the last letter out of the typewriter. Carefully, she folded each one and tucked them into envelopes, addressed them, put a stamp on them, and put them safely in her pocket to mail.

  It was already dark by the time Bethany had a chance to get out to the phone shanty to pick up messages. She’d told Rose she would check messages each day for her, seeing as how she was out of work, but she had a hope there might be a message from Jake. She called him as often as she dared—every other day, sometimes every day. She knew it wasn’t considered proper to call too often and she never left a message—that would be far too bold. The call went straight to voice mail and she liked listening to his voice, but then she hung up so he wouldn’t know she had called. She still hadn’t found those books he wanted.

  Today, to Bethany’s shock, the message machine was full—people who wanted reservations at the place of miracles. She rolled her eyes. For days now, there had been all kinds of ridiculous newspaper articles about the Inn at Eagle Hill, starting with Delia Stoltz’s disappearance and discovery, then the bald eagles’ aerie. But details were always mixed up: one woman said she heard a lady’s cancer disappeared while she was staying at the inn. Another one said she read that a marriage on the brink of divorce had been healed. The strangest one was a fellow who said he wanted to study the energy flows of the farm and see if that’s why it produced miracles.

  Energy flows? Miracles? Sheer craziness.

  Bethany wrote down all the names and numbers for Rose, grateful these people weren’t her problem. Delia Stoltz had certainly been a nice enough lady to host for the first guest, but Bethany still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of strangers at the farm. Especially weird ones, like the energy flow man. Creepy.

  Mim looked forward to getting to the mail each day, sifting through letters to Mrs. Miracle and tucking them up in her room before her mother saw them. Her mother had only asked her one time about the letters she was responding to—a few days ago when she couldn’t find any stamps. “Have you used up an entire roll of stamps, Mim?” her mother had asked.

  Mim froze. “Well, you said I could answer the letters.”

  “That’s true.”

  “You said you felt concerned that people were looking to Eagle Hill to solve their problems.”

  “That’s true. I did and I do. But I thought the letters had finally dwindled down. Seems like we haven’t gotten any in a few days, have we?”

  Just as her mother was about to ask her another question, Mammi Vera’s bell started to ring and her mother’s attention turned to see what she needed.

  Crisis averted.

  She did not want to be put in the position of lying to her mother. Lying was wrong. But she also did not want to stop receiving or answering the Mrs. Miracle letters. People counted on her to help solve their problems. She couldn’t let them down. She felt important and that was a new feeling for her.

  Today, she opened the mailbox and saw that the mail had already been picked up. Oh no! She hadn’t anticipated that wrinkle. She ran down the driveway and into the house. Her mother stood by the kitchen table, sorting clean socks from a laundry basket. “Hello, Mim.”

  “Hello.” Mim’s eyes darted around the kitchen and landed on the stack of mail piled on the counter. She casually crossed the room to sift through the letters. She picked up three letters addressed to Mrs. Miracle.

  Her mother was watching her. “You’d think they’d stop writing after a while, wouldn’t you?”

  Mim shrugged.

  “It’s not too much for you to answer those letters, is it?”

  Mim waved that thought away. “No trouble at all. It helps me improve my typing skills. I’m up to 15.5 words a minute.”

  “You’d let me know, though, if it was getting to be too much. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course,” Mim said, a little too happily.

  Delia heard a knock on the door and opened it to find Rose, standing with a stack of stiff, sun-dried towels in her arms. She handed Delia the towels with a gentle smile and said, “Looks like it’s going to start raining soon.”

  Delia put the towels on the table and motioned for Rose to come in.

  “Have you told your husband that your cancer is gone?”

  “My son was planning to tell him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be relieved.”

  Would he? She didn’t know how Charles felt about her anymore.

  Rose looked at Delia. “Do you think there’s any chance for your marriage to be fixed . . . for things to be made right?”

  Delia was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I know you mean well, but you make it sound easy, and it’s not. At this point, I wouldn’t even know how to begin to make it right.”

  “Sure you do, Delia. You begin with forgiveness.”

  “Forgive Charles for having an affair? For breaking up our family?” She crossed her arms against her chest. “Forgiving Charles won’t bring him back, Rose. It won’t change anything.”

  “I’m not saying it will, but I have no doubt you’ll be surprised by what forgiveness can change.” Rose walked over to the door and put her hand on the knob, then hesitated. She turned back to Delia. “I know what it’s like to be married to a difficult man. A man who is too smart for his own good and hard to love because of it. I know what it’s like to suddenly lose him. I know about regrets and grief that few would understand. But I also know that every marriage takes two people. I made my share of mistakes.” A slight smile tugged at her lips. “Dean made more, mind you, but I made a few myself.” She opened the door. “After you sort all that out, you can ask God to forgive you. And he will, Delia.”

  Delia curled up on the sofa after Rose left, mulling over her words. She had blamed Charles entirely for this affair. Was it possible that she played a part? She couldn’t deny that they had been drifting apart the last few years, and the truth was, she hadn’t really minded. As his work demanded more, she was happy to fill that space with activities that interested her. He had asked her to travel with him to some medical conferences, but they were so boring for her. Still . . . she could have gone to a few of them, especially when he was scheduled to speak.

  Maybe . . . Delia could have tried a little harder to stay close, to understand the world
of neurosurgery he lived in. It was so far beyond her understanding that she had stopped listening. Stopped trying.

  But Robyn Dixon knew that world.

  Delia leaned her head against the back of the sofa. It was clear that, somehow or other, Rose had found a peace with her circumstances that Delia hadn’t. But still. It was a complicated issue.

  Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it wasn’t as complicated as she had assumed.

  Delia decided to fix herself a cup of tea to ward off the chill of the rainy April afternoon. She filled the teakettle with water and set it on the stove. She turned on the burner and waited for the water to heat up, then poured the hot water through the infuser, watching the water change color and taste. Maybe that’s what it was like with God—he infused a situation with love and forgiveness.

  What was it Rose kept saying? That Delia just needed to ask for help. She set the infuser in the kitchen sink and held the teacup and saucer in her hands. What did she have to lose? She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer.

  God, I know there really isn’t any reason for you to listen to me. I haven’t done a very good job of listening to you these past sixty years, so a part of me feels hypocritical to come to you now, with a crisis. I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you ignored me, but I pray you won’t. Rose says I have to forgive Charles so that you can forgive me, and I want to. I’m just not sure I can, not unless you help me. Please, dear Lord, please help me. I’ve always thought of myself as strong, but I’m not strong enough for this. I just can’t do it. Help me. Please help. Amen.

  Just as the “amen” was forming in her mind, she heard a car pull into the driveway. Her eyes flew open and she crossed the room to look out the window. Tea splashed into the saucer and the breath went out of her.

  It was Charles!

  17

  Stop twisting my arm off.” Vera flashed Rose a frustrated look.