by Gayle Roper
Todd dropping in for a visit? I made a face. That would complicate tonight. But his car was silver.
I stood, slid my chair back to the table, and went to the window. My blood congealed and I made a little gagging sound as my breath caught in my throat.
“What’s wrong?” Ruth asked, all concern.
“It’s my parents.” I watched them climb from their car, identical looks of disbelief on their faces.
You should have told them, you idiot! You should have told them.
“That’s so nice,” Ruth said, heading back to the sewing machine. “You haven’t seen them in a while, right?”
“Right.” I went to the door and then outside to greet them. My stomach was churning acid like a washing machine agitated soapsuds.
“Hey, Mom, Dad.” I hoped I sounded cheery and welcoming. “I must have missed the memo. I didn’t realize you were coming.”
“We wanted to surprise you,” Dad said, staring into the black maw of the barn’s door. A working dairy barn was quite a revelation to a fastidious man like him. Given the smell alone, he might never again drink milk.
“You surprised me all right.” I gave him a hug and he absently hugged me back. He was too busy scowling at the buggy sitting beside the barn.
“Kristina,” Mom hissed, all the while watching a pair of hens pecking in the yard as if afraid they were about to peck her eyes out. “Is this an Amish farm?”
I pumped up my smile. “Isn’t it great?”
She blinked and turned horrified eyes to my father.
Even on Saturday, wearing chinos and a knit shirt, Dad looked what he was: Mr. Professional.
“You didn’t tell us.” His tone was accusatory.
I acknowledged that truth with a bob of my head.
“Why not?”
I cleared my throat. “Because I knew how you’d react.”
“You knew we’d be appalled?” Mom asked.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“And yet you did it?”
“Mom, I’m twenty-seven.”
“And twenty-seven-year-olds shut out their parents?” Mixed with her shock and disapproval about my new home was a touch of hurt that they had found out about it in this manner.
Guilt sank its talons. In trying to protect myself from their disapproval, I’d caused them pain. I hadn’t meant to. I thought they’d call before they came, and I’d tell them then. That way they’d only have to stew about it during the drive here, and I could hope they would be somewhat accepting of my crazy behavior by the time they arrived. Best laid plans.
I put my arms around my mother and kissed her cheek. “Come inside and see where I live. Meet the Zooks. Or at least Ruth. She’s the only one home right now.” And maybe Jake, but I wasn’t going to bother him.
As we went inside, Ruth rose from the sewing machine. She looked adorable and otherworldly in her caped dress, darned apron, and kapp, her feet bare.
“Mom, Dad, this is Ruth.”
Everyone greeted everyone, and then I said, a touch too brightly, “Ruth’s making her mother a dress.” I seemed to be in the if-they-see-how-much-I-like-it-here-they-won’t-lecture-me mode.
“Do you make all your clothes?” Mom asked, interested in spite of herself. I knew for a fact that sewing a button on one of Dad’s shirts stretched her needlework abilities to the hilt. Like mother, like daughter.
“Our dresses. Everyone’s jackets and coats. Sometimes Mom makes shirts, but it’s easier to buy them ready-made.”
Mom looked suitably impressed, but whether by the making of coats or the buying of shirts I wasn’t sure.
“I’m going to show Mom and Dad my rooms,” I said as I led the way upstairs. I was very conscious of my red Chucks as I climbed, Mom right behind me, Dad bringing up the rear. I wasn’t certain which they would consider worse, my living on an Amish farm or my being gauche enough to wear such foolish footwear.
We stepped into my living room with its desk and overstuffed chairs, and I watched my parents as they took it all in. Big Bird gave a little chirp of greeting, as if on cue.
I thought the place looked homey and comfortable with the plants at the windows and the papers and laptop cluttering my desk, but I knew that after their luxurious and spacious home, this looked small and Spartan to them.
“Don’t they believe in curtains?” Mom whispered, looking back over her shoulder as if she expected to see Ruth coming through the door.
“No, they don’t. I could probably get some if I wanted—they don’t ask me to conform to their austerity—but I won’t.”
“But you have a TV,” Dad said.
Long story, Dad, I thought, but I decided not to tell it. “I have electricity.”
“I thought they didn’t believe in electricity.” He stooped to look at an outlet as if he expected it to be merely an illusion.
“We’re in the grossdawdy haus,” I said, and then I explained about Jake. “So he’s my landlord.”
“Why didn’t they shun him?” Dad asked. “Don’t they shun people who break their rules?”
“He was never baptized and he never joined the church. They don’t have to shun him.”
“But he was raised Amish.”
“He was, but until you join the church as an adult with knowledge of the choice and commitment you’re making, you aren’t held accountable.”
“Sort of like informed consent?”
I nodded. “They know they’re counterculture, and they know agreeing to be bound by the Ordnung is possible only when you know what you’re willingly turning your back on.”
Mom picked up the green-and-blue chenille afghan tossed over one of the chairs. “This is lovely, Kristina.”
“Mary made it,” I said. “She’s the mom. She’s selling homemade canned goods at the farmers’ market.”
“She’s very talented.”
“She is. Come see the rest of the place.” I led them into my bedroom and thought again how welcoming it looked. I noted that a fresh dahlia was in my little vase.
“Beautiful quilt.”
“I think I’ll need it as the weather gets cooler.”
“Just crank up the heat.” Dad frowned. “Or don’t they have central heating?”
I shook my head.
“Bathroom?” Mom said. “Kitchen?”
“Downstairs.”
“Communal?” There was that appalled expression again.
I nodded.
They merely looked at me.
“Donald,” Mom finally managed. “They gave us the wrong baby at the hospital. I’ve long suspected this, but now I’m sure. Not that this cuckoo in our nest isn’t lovely and sweet, but she can’t be ours. And as if this weren’t bad enough,” she indicated my rooms with her hand, “just look at her footwear!”
We all stared at my high-tops.
“They match my shorts,” I offered lamely.
Mom, in her sleek navy slacks and her soft rose blouse, discreet gold studs in her ears and a diamond on her third finger faceted to blind people when the sun caught it, merely looked at me and sighed.
We wandered back into my living room, where they each took a chair and I sat on my desk, Chuck-clad feet dangling.
“I love it here,” I ventured. “The Zooks are wonderful, and they have been very gracious to me.”
They nodded and seemed to be waiting for more. The only trouble was, I didn’t know what more was. Where did I go after I love it?
Finally Mom said, “But why? You had such a nice apartment.”
“Because I wanted to?”
Dad raised his eyebrow. “That’s it? You wanted to?”
I thought that was a very fine reason. “Yeah.”
“Not because it’s cheaper or because you expected to learn interesting sociological information?”
Mom suddenly looked horrified. She actually gasped. “You aren’t becoming Amish?”
I smiled. “I don’t think my high-tops would go with a caped dress, Mom.”
<
br /> She sighed with relief.
“Then why?” Dad asked. “Explain it so we can understand, Kristina, because right now it seems like one of your more foolish actions.”
Like giving up the law for putting colored water on paper.
I hesitated. After Todd’s reaction when I tried to explain my reasons, ones that seemed eminently sound and sensible to me, I was wary. “I wanted to soak up the atmosphere. I wanted to experience the ambiance. I wanted to paint.”
Dad looked at Mom. “Atmosphere. Ambiance.”
She nodded. “Paint.”
All at once I was angry. I thought the Amish community was wrong to deny someone like Mary the opportunity to use the talent God had given her, but she chose to put herself under their oversight and accept their ruling. However, I wasn’t Amish. I was an independent woman free to make my own choices, and I wasn’t going to let my parents make me feel the way the church made Mary feel.
I jumped off the desk and stood facing them, feet planted and hands on hips.
“Enough,” I said. “Enough! So you wouldn’t choose to live on an Amish farm—”
“You’ve got that right,” my father muttered.
“—but I do. It is neither wrong nor illegal. It’s neither immoral nor unethical. It’s merely a choice. So you wouldn’t live here. Fine. Am I mocking you because you think differently than I? No, I am not. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mock me.” I felt tears gather in my eyes and blinked furiously. “Just accept I’m your friendly, loving cuckoo and let your dreams and your wishes for me go.”
Mom started to protest, but I held up my hand to stop her.
“I hate that I was afraid to tell you what I was doing. I knew you’d think me an idiot. I knew you’d roll your eyes and look at each other with that poor-child look. I knew I’d end up feeling sick to my stomach because I’d failed you again. And all because I just want to be the me God made me!”
Mom and Dad stared, aghast at my outburst. I was pretty aghast myself. This was so unlike me. I let my hands fall to my sides and took a deep breath. Silence ricocheted about the room, deafening us all.
I walked to the window and stared blindly out while I tried to gather myself. I had no idea what to say, and for once Mom and Dad seemed struck as dumb as I.
I loved my parents. I respected them. They loved me. I didn’t doubt that. I did doubt their respect, and I knew there was little understanding. So what should I do? Yell every time I saw them? Fracture our relationship further? I cleared my throat self-consciously and turned.
“Come on. Let’s go get some lunch, and then I’ll take you to the farmers’ market.”
“Right, right,” Dad said, standing.
“Wonderful,” Mom said with a strained smile.
And we all clomped down the stairs, happy to leave my strong words behind.
Our lunch was polite and genial…but when they left to go home, nothing was resolved. No surprise there. In their minds I would be forever their little cuckoo.
13
Clarke walked down to pick me up just as he’d said. He looked great in jeans and a long-sleeved deep green T-shirt. I’d traded my walking shorts for jeans, but I had on my Chucks, not just because he’d asked me to wear them, but because they matched my top. Or so I told myself.
We walked up the road, enjoying the golden glow of the October evening. The first subtle signs of autumn were evident in the wild bittersweet berries beginning to pop their golden jackets to reveal their orange undershirts and in the crimson leaves now dressing the dogwood and the fire bushes. We stopped by a patch of jewelweed, the yellow flowers cheery and the seedpods fat and ready to burst. We touched the seedpods with gentle fingers and, laughing, watched them explode, curling on themselves and shooting seeds everywhere.
Somehow, by the time we got to Aunt Betty Lou’s, we were holding hands. I found his touch to be unexpectedly intoxicating. It was all I could do not to burst into song.
Dinner was delicious, the company more than pleasant, and Clarke attentive. Not look-at-my-girl-isn’t-she-wonderful attentive, but still enough to make the evening a delight.
When we left to walk back to the Zooks’, I discovered another not-too-subtle sign of fall. It was chilly, and I had neglected to bring a sweater. When I shivered, Clarke couldn’t help but notice.
“Let’s get you a jacket,” he said and led the way to the garage.
“You’ve got a jacket in your car?”
He shook his head and pointed. “My apartment’s over the garage.”
We climbed the outside stairs and he held the door for me. I looked with interest around his living room as he went to get something for me to slip on.
Neat but beige-bland. A man’s apartment.
Until I turned and my breath was taken away.
Clarke, coming into the room with a navy fleece jacket in his hands, heard my audible gasp and came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders.
“I thought that seemed like the best place for it. Do you think it looks okay hanging over the sofa?”
It was my painting, the one bright splash of color in the monochromatic room. In it the Victorian front porch held several fat white planters with geraniums and ivy tumbling from them. A pair of black-and-white cats lay sleeping on a wicker chair and a third, a fat, fluffy gray, sat on the top step grooming himself. A red door with a large brass knocker blazed in the otherwise subtle background.
I couldn’t contain my delight. “I can’t believe it! You shouldn’t have! But I’m so glad you did!”
“We said we’d each help the other along by buying the other’s work. I only kept our bargain. After all, you already had my book.”
“Well, sure. And I bought another one. But I know how much this picture cost! There’s no comparison.”
He shrugged. “You can always go buy lots more of the book and even us out. I certainly won’t stop you.”
I spun around and hugged him. “Thank you so much! You don’t know what a wonderful gift you’ve given me.”
“Will you hug me like this every time I give you a present?” he asked as he hugged me back. “Or is this only for paintings?”
Anytime, I wanted to say. Anytime at all, gift or no gift.
Instead I unwrapped my arms and turned back to look at the painting. It was just too comfortable with my cheek against his chest. Too intimate. But he kept his arms around me, and I leaned back against him, liking very much the sturdy feel of him behind me.
“Do you know, I’ve never seen my work on anyone’s wall unless I’ve given the thing as a gift,” I said.
“You will. Just give it time. I’m not an art expert by any means—”
“But you know what you like?” I finished.
He laughed. “Well, I do, but I was going to say that you have a very fine sense of color and composition. People will find your work easy to live with.”
I sighed with pleasure, and he kissed the top of my head.
He gave me the navy jacket to slip on for the walk home. It fit somewhat—after we rolled the sleeves up a few times.
“You’re a skinny little thing,” he said as he pulled on his own jacket.
“Is that good or bad? Not that I can do much about it either way.”
His look from under those dark brows made my breath catch in my throat. “I think you’re wonderful just the way you are, skinny, colorful, and charming. I can’t imagine you being any more lovely.”
Wow!
“So,” I said, his shoulder bumping mine as we walked, “how did you come to be involved in counseling?”
“It was no great moment of calling, of God’s voice in my ear. It was more a matter of getting a sense of what the Word of God can do for a person and wanting others to find the same help there I did. Look.” He pointed skyward. “There’s the Big Dipper and Orion.”
Not to be outdone, I nodded and said, “And there’s the Pleiades, the seven sisters, though you can only see six stars. The seventh seems to have disap
peared. The seven daughters of Atlas, put there by Zeus.”
Clarke stopped and looked at me.
I grinned. “Don’t be impressed. I’ve just blown all my knowledge of things astronomical. I had to do a report once in high school on the constellation Taurus, which the Pleiades are part of.”
“Whew,” he said as we resumed walking. “You had me worried. I thought you might be an astronomer as well as an artist.”
I laughed at the absurdity of the idea of me and anything scientific.
“Tell me more about how you became a counselor,” I said. “I want to know what made you find such help in the Bible that it led to your life’s calling.”
He glanced at the sky again. “I already told you about the two years Mom and Dad spent in South America.”
I nodded.
“What I didn’t mention was how betrayed I felt when they decided to go. It was my junior and senior years in high school, and I took the move as a personal affront and a deliberate decision to make me miserable. I saw them as ruining my life, and I wasn’t the least bit hesitant in telling them.” He looked at me. “It’s still embarrassing to realize how selfish and petty I was.”
I shrugged. “It’s the age. So what happened?”
“I refused to go with them, threatening to run away or join the army, both of which would take me away from home if I’d thought about it, which I didn’t. I even went by the army recruiting office and collected information, which I left lying around so they could see how serious I was.”
I tried to imagine him at sixteen or seventeen, those dark brows in a perpetual frown. At the same age I was Little Miss Compliant, only half living in my desire to please Mom and Dad. Sometimes it was definitely better to meet someone when you and he were older and some of the worst wrinkles had been ironed from sin-crumpled personalities.
“Obviously, my parents wouldn’t leave me in Los Angeles alone, though I was convinced I could take care of myself—as long as they gave me a good-sized allowance, of course. Instead they gave me the option of living with Aunt Betty Lou and Uncle Bud, something I hardly saw as an improvement over Brazil. I chose here because at least I knew the language.”
