The Amish Seamstress

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “A spiritual issue.”

  “Yes, that more than anything else. But whose faith doesn’t waver when something terrible that like just happens out of the blue?”

  Ella took a deep breath, thought for a moment, and then met my eyes. “Honestly? I think you may have forgotten that our Father is in charge, and that nothing is ‘out of the blue’ in His eyes. To God, nothing is random.” She went on to recite a verse from the Psalms, though in a different translation than the one I knew. “‘Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.’”

  I took it in, knowing that verse would become my comfort from now on.

  “God may not have caused Zed’s accident,” Ella continued. “But He definitely knew it was going to happen long before it did.”

  I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, letting that truth soak into my very core. Of course. God knew. God was in control. God was never taken by surprise. Already I felt better, just having come to that understanding. Opening my eyes, I gave her a smile.

  “So will you take the job?” she asked. “With Mammi?”

  I nodded, still apprehensive but not nearly as much as before. “I will.”

  Ella’s face lit up. “I’m going to go call Mom right now.”

  I sat at the table, thinking through my discovery—thanks to Ella—and feeling as if a million pounds had been lifted from my shoulders. I prayed to God for forgiveness, and for restoration to my hurting, sinful soul.

  SEVENTEEN

  When Ella returned, we started preparing dinner, a new baked chicken dish using fancy ingredients, such as rice wine vinegar, soy sauce, crushed tomatoes, shallots, and basil. Ella came up with the most amazing recipes.

  As she positioned the chicken to cut it into pieces, she said, “I was thinking that maybe I should fill you in with some…uh…lesser known details about our family. Just so you know what the dynamics are. You will be there in the thick of things, after all.”

  I was pretty sure Zed had already told me every one of his family’s secrets, but I wanted to hear what she had to say, so I didn’t tell her that.

  “I’m sure you already know most of this from Zed, but just in case he left anything out…” Her voice trailed off for a moment, and then she said, “Would you chop the shallots?”

  “Of course.” She had brought in two big ones from the root cellar. I scooped them up and carried them to the cutting board.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “with Mammi doing so poorly, my mom has sent word to various family members to come home—while they still can, if you know what I mean.”

  I nodded. In other words, before Frannie dies. I swallowed hard.

  “We don’t know yet who is and who isn’t going to show up, but if everyone does, things might get a little…weird around there, at least at first.”

  Weird? “Who might be coming?” I asked as I retrieved a knife from the drawer.

  “I’m sure Lexie will fly in, both to see Mammi and also to help out my mother with her practice to free up her time a little.”

  “She did that when your father was dying too. I remember.”

  “Oh, that’s right. So you already know her.”

  “Kind of. We didn’t spend much time together, but she seemed nice, and really smart and competent. I know your mom depended on her.” I began to peel the shallots and then asked, “Who else?”

  Ella gave me a glance, her expression unreadable. “My aunt Giselle from Switzerland. I’ll believe it when I see it, but Mom seems to think she might actually come.”

  I pulled the last of the brown skin off the first shallot.

  “If Giselle does come, it’ll be the first time in, like, almost thirty years.” She paused as she did the math. “Yeah, twenty-eight years. Giselle left home twenty-eight years ago and hasn’t been back since.”

  “Wow,” I whispered. The thought saddened me. “Poor Frannie. I’m sure she has missed her. Is Giselle the oldest of her children?”

  Ella shook her head. “She’s the middle child. Aunt Klara is the oldest, and my mom’s the youngest.”

  Knife in hand, I sliced the shallot in half lengthwise, revealing the translucent whitish pink onion inside.

  “Lexie says the story of our family sounds worse than a country music song.” Ella told me with a laugh. “And she’s right. It does.”

  I smiled, careful to keep my eyes on the small vegetable in front of me as I held it steady with one hand and began to chop it into narrow slices with the other.

  Ella launched into her story, beginning more than forty years ago when Frannie lived here in Indiana with her husband, Malachi, and their three daughters, Klara, Giselle, and Marta. Ella said theirs was not a happy home, that Malachi was a terrible husband and father who abused his family both verbally and physically.

  “Things were different back then,” she added. “People kept stuff like that secret. The church tended to look the other way. The victims were made to feel as though it was somehow their fault.”

  I nodded, thinking of a situation of abuse a few years ago in my district back home, one that had been dealt with swiftly and thoroughly.

  “Anyway, even as a child Giselle displayed incredible artistic ability, which she’d inherited from her mother and grandmother.”

  I paused and looked over at her. “Really? Is Frannie artistic?”

  Ella nodded, and I smiled, realizing that must be one of the things that drew me to the old woman in the first place, our kindred creative spirits.

  “The problem was that Malachi refused to allow art of any kind to be created in his home. That was a rule Giselle frequently disobeyed, so she was often the target of his abuse.”

  I paused, stunned at the very thought. I knew that making art could lead to various sins, such as pride or lust or the creation of graven images, but there were so many other ways that art could lead to good and godly joy, especially when reflecting the magnificence of God’s creation. As long as one understood that and used their gifts appropriately, how could they be denied that right? For me, being forbidden to create would be like being forbidden to breathe.

  I dabbed at my eyes with my sleeve, though I wasn’t sure if I was crying from the onions or from Ella’s story. Cupping my hand, I slid the chopped pieces of the first shallot out of the way and started in with the next as she continued. Ella explained that in the early ’70s, when Giselle was about ten years old, Malachi was killed in a farming accident, dragged by his team when he failed to hitch it up properly. I felt bad to hear that but also relieved. At least the suffering he had caused for others had come to an end.

  Ella stood straight for a moment, stretching her back. “After that, Mammi had to figure out some way to support herself and her girls, so a few months after he died, she moved them all to Lancaster County to live on her brother’s farm and work for him as a housekeeper.”

  I was aware of this part of the tale, how Frannie’s brother was a widower by then, living on a farm that belonged to his late wife’s family. Once he died, Frannie and the girls stayed on, renting the place for a few years before eventually buying it. That was the farm where she lived still, only nowadays she stayed in the daadi haus and her daughter Klara and her husband lived in the main house.

  “Once the girls were older,” Ella continued, “Klara joined the church and married Alexander Rupp, but Giselle followed a different path. During her time of rumpsringa, she got caught up in an affair with her boss, an Englischer named Burke Bauer, who had a wife and a kid of his own. Eventually, Giselle ended up getting pregnant by him.”

  I knew this part of the story too, but I listened as Ella went on to explain, saying that Giselle had managed to keep the affair a secret until she was obviously showing, and even after that she refused to reveal the identity of the father. The one person who knew the truth about that was Alexander, and only because he had once spotted Giselle and Burke together, after hours, in Burke’s office. Alexander had kept that k
nowledge to himself, thinking Giselle’s affair was between her and God, but eventually, as she neared the end of her pregnancy and still refused to divulge the father’s identity, he felt compelled to share it with Frannie.

  Unfortunately, Giselle was so angry and defensive that when they confronted her about it, she went on the attack, denying that Burke was the father and making terrible insinuations about Alexander himself instead, even implying that he was the father. He denied it, of course, but though Frannie believed him, his own wife did not. Poor Klara, who had been raised by a cruel and evil man, had assumed the worst about her husband as well. It was all a big mess, and life on the farm was like living in a pressure cooker.

  By the time the baby was born, Giselle hated both Alexander and Klara so much that in a final, horrific moment of spite, she named the child Alexandra. Of course, that act caused no end of grief for poor Alexander, who now not only had to defend himself and his conduct to his wife but also the church. Fortunately, he had involved the bishop from the beginning, so he was never formally accused or forced to confess a sin he did not commit.

  “The story goes on from there,” Ella continued, waving her spoon in the air, “and the details aren’t important, but basically Giselle and Burke ran away together, and they stayed gone for nearly a whole year. By the time they broke up and she came back home again, she was pregnant once more. Can you imagine? She was still so young then, in her early twenties, I think, and now she was faced with being a single mother of a toddler and an infant.”

  I shook my head, unable to fathom such a thing.

  “To make matters worse, once the baby was born, Giselle ended up with severe postpartum depression. One day, just a few months later, when she was supposed to be watching little Alexandra—or Lexie, for short—Giselle fell asleep, and the child wandered outside and down to the creek. She fell in and would have drowned if not for my mother, who thought she saw something and went to check and ended up rescuing the child.”

  I shuddered at the thought.

  “The incident shocked everyone, but Giselle most of all. That night, she packed a bag and ran away, leaving both kids behind along with a note, asking Klara and Alexander to raise them as their own.”

  I pulled the baking pan from the oven and scooped all of the chopped shallots into it, coating them in melted butter. Ella showed me how to add in the chicken pieces as well, so as I dipped them into the butter then flipped them over in the pan for baking, she took out a bowl and began mixing up the other ingredients that would be poured over all of it.

  “Klara was happy to take the infant but not the toddler,” Ella continued. “She still had suspicions about Alexander being Lexie’s father, so she refused to keep her—or let Mammi keep her, either. Through a friend, they arranged for a private adoption instead, by an older, childless Mennonite couple who lived out in Oregon. That couple, the Jaegers, adopted and raised Lexie, starting when she was about two years old.”

  I washed my hands at the sink. “And the infant that Klara and Alexander adopted, that was Ada, right? But she didn’t even know she was adopted until a few years ago?”

  Ella nodded as she measured out the soy sauce. “It wasn’t until Lexie came to Lancaster County, trying to find her own birth parents, that Ada’s story came out too. It was a big mess at first, but in the end, Lexie’s husband, James, pulled us all together and somehow convinced Mammi and Klara and Mom to admit what happened. It wasn’t easy at the time, but it ended up being a huge blessing for the whole family. Since then there’s been a lot of healing.”

  She grew quiet after that, stirring together the ingredients and then pouring them in with the buttered chicken and shallots.

  “Tell me again how Zed’s story fits in with Giselle’s. I know they’re connected somehow too, more than just being aunt and nephew, I mean.”

  Ella glanced at me and smiled. “Country song, verse two,” she quipped. “Okay, let’s see if I can make this simple. Burke Bauer, the man who had the affair with Giselle and ended up fathering Lexie and Ada, already had a son named Freddy with his wife. Freddy was about the same age as my mother, and the two of them ended up sort of bonding amid all the Giselle drama back then. Eventually, they married and had me, which makes Burke Bauer my grandfather.”

  “But your last name was Bayer, not Bauer.”

  Ella nodded, sliding the pan into the oven and then tackling the messy countertop. “Freddy chose to anglicize it, mostly as a dig at his own father. He changed Bauer to Bayer before I was even born.”

  My eyes widened as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. We were talking about Freddy Bayer, the patient I cared for in his dying days. “Okay, now I get it,” I said, and I knew where she was going next.

  As she continued to clean, she told me how Freddy eventually ended up doing the same thing his father had done years before, not just having an affair with a young Amish woman, but also getting her pregnant.

  “While he was still married to Marta?”

  “Ya. My mom found out about what had happened, and though it was hard to forgive my father for what he’d done, she was willing to try. Mom of course held no ill will against the baby—or really even all that much against the mother. In fact, she offered to adopt the child once he was born so she and Freddy could raise him together. Lydia was young and unmarried, so she agreed to let that happen.”

  I finished the story for her, relieved at last to have all of these facts sorted out in my mind more clearly. “And when that baby was born, they took him home to live with his birth father and his adoptive mother. And that baby was Zed.”

  She nodded. “Except that our father took off soon after, leaving Mom to raise me and Zed all by herself.”

  I took a deep breath, thinking about the women in this family and all that they had endured…

  Frannie, who had suffered abuse by her husband, but after he died she went on to make a life for herself and her three daughters.

  Marta, who had lovingly taken in and raised the very child who was the product of her husband’s infidelity.

  Giselle, who had given up both her babies for adoption and then fled to Switzerland, where she made a life for herself—a successful one by the world’s standards. I couldn’t judge by God’s. Zed had told me she was a fabric artist, that she combined weaving and appliqué and made a living from her work.

  Even Klara, who had adopted her sister’s baby and raised her with love and care into a fine young woman.

  In a way, I felt intimidated by these women and their strength, but I respected them too. They stayed on my mind all evening, even later, after Luke and Rosalee returned and we all consumed Ella’s amazing dinner. Afterward, we sat by the fire, enjoying our final night together. Sadness overcame me at my imminent departure, but that sadness was tinged with anticipation.

  I would just need to trust God that my time with Frannie would be a blessing to her—and to all the women of the Lantz family.

  The next morning Ella had the coffee started and oatmeal bubbling on the stove by the time I made it out to the kitchen. I quickly set the table.

  “Zed left a message for you on the machine. I heard it when I went down to the bakery to put the sticky buns in the oven.”

  I didn’t think I knew anyone who worked as hard as Ella Kline, except maybe my mamm.

  She turned down the burner. “He said have a good Thanksgiving and he’ll see you at Christmas.”

  My face grew warm, even though the fire in the woodstove had barely heated the kitchen yet.

  “He sounded conflicted,” Ella said and then turned around, facing me, the expression on her face one of disapproval. “I guess I’m a little slow to catch on, but I think I have the picture now.

  I blushed, looking away.

  “This thing between you two…it’s more than a friendship, isn’t it?”

  “Ella…” We’d gotten along so well. I didn’t want it all to unravel right before I left. Still, I couldn’t lie to her.

  “It’s…one
-sided. My side. He’s oblivious, as always.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” She was pursing her lips, her forehead wrinkled into a scowl.

  “What do you disapprove of? That he’s Mennonite and I’m not?”

  She stirred the oatmeal on the stove. “Mostly, it’s the timing. Izzy, he’s still a boy. You both have a lot of growing to do. Marriage isn’t for children.”

  I couldn’t help being hurt. I didn’t respond.

  “No offense,” she said. “I had a lot of growing up to do—by myself—before I was ready to get serious with Luke. Now it’s Zed’s turn to grow. Think of a newborn pony and how clumsy and trembly and out of proportion it is. Zed’s still a young pony, personality-wise. He just has to get through these early stages, and then he’ll mature into a fine racehorse.” She stirred the oatmeal one more time and flashed me a smile as she turned the burner off. “Correction. He’s too off in his own world to be a racehorse. More like a fine, dependable buggy horse, one that is always there for you and takes you where you want to go.”

  I couldn’t help but smile, feeling a little better as I did. Maybe she was right. Perhaps I should focus more on growing up myself.

  After breakfast I returned to my room to pack up the last of my things. Luke and I would need to leave for the bus station soon, and though I’d wanted to tell Eddie, Annie, and Cora goodbye, I didn’t have the time to go over there. I’d also needed to speak with Tom and finally set him straight. I didn’t want to, but I could hear my daed’s voice inside my head, telling me to do the right thing. It wasn’t fair to lead Tom on or make him think there was any possibility for a future relationship. Glancing at my watch, I decided I would just have to write to them—and to him—instead.

  Once I was packed, I attended to Rosalee one last time, but she really didn’t need my help. She was well on her way to recovery, and I was very glad for that.