As Jenna watched the little girls fade from view, she realized that at least this once . . . she’d been exactly right.
Downtown Indianapolis looked exactly the same, John realized with a burst of amusement as he drove through the crowded one-way streets in his truck.
He’d been back only twenty-four hours. First, he went to his old condo and talked with the property manager. After being assured that everything with the sale was going smoothly, he spent a good three hours at his storage unit, packing up the rest of his belongings.
After he packed, he visited his old place of employment and shared a burger with a couple of the guys. But beyond hearing about their families and meeting a few of the new guys, there wasn’t much to say.
He left the building feeling curiously empty.
Now he was going to have lunch at Rocco’s, the Italian restaurant where he’d found employment when he’d first come to the city. Giorgio and Maria Rocco still owned the place, and they still served plenty of food, too.
“John!” Giorgio said, ignoring his outstretched hand and engulfing him in a warm hug. “I was wondering if you were ever going to come our way again.” He patted him with as much force as ever. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”
The reminder shamed John. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rocco. I should’ve kept in better touch.”
“No way am I ‘Mr. Rocco’ now.” The big man peeked up at him over his half-moon glasses. “No matter how many years go by, I’m still Giorgio to you, yes?”
“Yes,” John found himself answering automatically. Looking at the man’s stretched-too-tight white button-down and his black apron and slacks, he found himself smiling. Giorgio Rocco was all Italian, and his grandiose bearing and easy smile was as great to see as ever.
Giorgio beamed. “I’m so glad to see you. We’ll have to make plans for the holidays.”
Growing more uncomfortable, John said, “Actually, I only stopped by to tell you and Mrs. Rocco that I’m leaving Indy for good.” He took a deep breath. “I decided to go back home.”
“Ah. So you finally decided to be with your family.” The restaurant owner smiled. “I wondered when you were going to do that.”
The comment took him by surprise. “You really thought I’d return one day?”
“Of course. You love your family too much to leave them forever.” He tapped a table. “Sit down and let me bring you some baked ziti. Or, are you too busy to eat?”
His mouth watered. “I’m never that busy.”
Giorgio laughed. “Oh, John. You never could pass up a good meal.”
John chuckled to himself as he soaked in the familiar sights and smells of the restaurant. As he looked around, he noticed the same wallpaper, now patched in places. And the same clock over the doorway. And the same mouth-watering aroma that wafted through the kitchen doors.
Twenty years ago, when he’d first come in looking for a job, he’d been so hungry it had taken all he’d had not to eat everything in sight. But Mr. Rocco had read his mind—or had just known what boys his age were like. For his first break, he’d sat John down at the butcher block table in the corner of the enormous kitchen and had placed an overflowing plate of baked ziti and garlic bread in front of him. “Eat,” he’d said simply, then left before John could even think about asking a question or refusing the free meal.
“Here you go, son,” Giorgio said as he now placed another heaping plate of pasta in front of him. “Eat.”
John’s fork was in his hand before he thought to wait to see if Giorgio was going to join him.
“I’m not eating just yet,” the elderly man said. “I prefer to sit here and watch you for a bit.”
The first bite was delicious, filled with the fresh flavors of stewed tomatoes, liberal amounts of garlic, and lots of mozzarella. “I don’t know how you do it,” he said when his plate was half empty. “I’ve watched you make this dish a hundred times, but I’ve never been able to duplicate it.”
“Of course you can’t. You’re not Italian. It needs to be in your blood. You’re Amish.”
“No, I grew up Amish.”
“Your past is still there.” He tapped his heart. “Inside you. Yes?”
Giorgio was right. It was becoming apparent that his religion and his roots were as much a part of him as those same things were to the man in front of him. “Yes.”
Shaking his head sadly, Mr. Rocco said, “That Angela never understood that. She always hoped to make you different.”
“I tried to change. And I did change. Some,” John said, remembering their first few months of married life. He’d been so enthralled by her, he had attempted to change himself completely, just to keep her happy.
Of course, he’d learned soon enough that he was never going to change enough for her.
And then, when he found her with another man he realized the simple truth. Angela had wanted a different man, not a different John.
“How is she?” he asked.
“She is good. From what she tells me. She lives in Chicago now, you know.”
“I heard she married.” John wasn’t ready to admit he’d come across Angela’s picture on Facebook a few months before.
“She did. She married a man with two children. They’re good. They’re a good family. What about you, John? Are you now ready to move on?”
Was that what he’d been doing? “I think so.” He said the words quickly, hoping his blunt answer would be all Giorgio needed to hear.
But of course it wasn’t. Like the ziti, things here didn’t seem to change much over the years. “So, have you found someone?”
For a moment, he considered shaking his head. It wasn’t that he wanted to keep his personal life close to his chest, but he just wasn’t sure how to reply.
Or how he was destined to fit in with Mary Zehr. But just like the old man’s forthrightness and the Italian cooking, much of his honesty had remained intact. “I think so. Her name’s Mary. She has a twelve-year-old boy.”
“Is she Amish?”
“She is.”
“What does that mean for you?”
“It means that I’m going to have to join the church and change again.”
A self-satisfied look entered Giorgio’s dark eyes. “I was just telling Maria that I thought you might go back one day. When is this event happening?”
“I don’t have a date yet.” John was too flustered to hedge. “I came here to tell you that I probably wouldn’t be back any time soon.” Maybe never.
He couldn’t actually say that he’d come to say goodbye.
“I’m glad you did,” Giorgio said simply. “And I’m glad you came to eat.”
John glanced at the dish in surprise. Somehow over the last few minutes, he’d eaten the entire helping. “It was good.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Now, don’t go anywhere. I’m bringing you out some spumoni.”
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“Refuse? I know you won’t refuse, John,” he said with a wink. “Now, you stay here. I’m going to have Maria bring out the spumoni.” He paused. “Yes?”
“Yes. I’ll stay here. I wouldn’t think of leaving yet.”
Giorgio nodded. “Good.”
As John watched him leave, he contemplated their conversation. And thought again about what they’d discussed. That for better or worse, most things still stayed the same.
Chapter Eleven
Two months before, the city council members of Jacob’s Crossing implemented a new program, asking for volunteers to help with a new community project. There was a need in their town for some helping hands, as more and more people were visiting the food banks.
Churches and other community groups were getting involved, but the city leaders suspected even more people would help with food drives if it was made as easy as possible for them. As the weather
got colder, everyone knew it would be a tragedy to send even one person home with less than a full bag of food. With this in mind, and in order to make sure they had something to send home with the needy, volunteers had been asked to go door to door once a month to collect canned goods.
Since John vividly remembered just how hungry he’d been the first few weeks when he’d been living in Indianapolis and subsisting on his one free lunch a day, he’d eagerly jumped on board. The first outing had gone so well, he’d brought in over a hundred cans and boxes to the pantry.
So much so that his back had ached that evening.
So this time, he brought a helper. Abel wasn’t all that thrilled to be giving up his Friday afternoon to walk the streets of Jacob’s Crossing and collect cans, but so far, for the last hour, he’d done a good job with it. In no time at all, they’d implemented a perfect system for collecting. John and Abel took turns pulling the red wagon down the sidewalk; they’d approach the houses together, then would take turns carrying the food from doorsteps.
After five or six houses, they’d empty the wagon into one of the boxes in the back of John’s truck.
With the two of them, they were making good time, going up and down the streets. John’s back was thrilled that the boy was carrying half the load, too.
And his mind, well, his mind was getting a pretty good workout along the way. It turned out Abel had a lot to say.
“So how did you know?” Abel asked again as they walked up yet another path to a front door, the cement sticking out like a trail leading them to the goods that the person had left out on the front stoop.
Neatly, John picked up two boxes of cereal and one can of soup, and led the way back to the sidewalk . . . as Abel asked the same question he’d asked at least four times that day.
“How did you know you were ready to leave Jacob’s Crossing?”
And yet again, John tried to deflect it. “I don’t know,” he said flippantly. “I just did.”
A flash of pain seared through Abel’s eyes before he turned away, leaving John to feel guilt ridden. How could he have forgotten how fragile a young boy’s ego was? “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “You asked a serious question, and you deserve a serious answer.”
“Do you have one?”
Well, he probably deserved that. “I think so,” John said as he briefly glanced in Abel’s direction before leading the way to yet another front door.
“There’s nothing here.”
“I’ll knock.” Two minutes later, John explained what they were doing, then was handed four boxes of tuna casserole mix.
Abel read the directions carefully as they headed back to their wagon. “Do you think this is any good?”
“I’ve had it. It’s tasty.”
“I’m going to tell my mamm about it.”
“You think she’s going to make it for you?”
“Maybe.”
When they started toward the next house, John pulling the increasingly heavy red wagon behind him, Abel spoke up again. “So, do you really have an answer for me?”
“The problem with you, Abel, is that you want easy answers for hard questions. I can’t give you those.”
“Do you think they’re hard?”
“Of course. I left my parents and my brother and my community. That wasn’t easy. I loved them.”
“What did you find in Indianapolis?”
“I found differences,” he blurted, then realized how much of that answer was the truth. Hmm. Maybe answering quickly was the way to go. “Here, as you know, everything is the same. At least it’s that way on the surface. Our clothes lend us conformity. Our habits and our faith lead us to community. For me, it was exciting to think about being a part of a group of people who weren’t like me.”
Abel’s eyes widened. “Did you like them better?”
“Not all of them. Some I liked fine. Others I liked more than just a little bit.” On the tip of his tongue, he was tempted to tell Abel about his failed marriage and the subsequent divorce, but he knew that was a bad idea. He had a feeling Mary wouldn’t appreciate him sharing such stories about his past.
And divorce wasn’t something their community ever considered. Abel would most likely be shocked.
“So why all the questions? Are you thinking of leaving one day?”
“Would you tell my mamm if I wanted to?”
“Not right away.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“I bet you’re discovering that I don’t have as many good answers as you were hoping for.” By now, the wagon was near to overfilling.
By mutual agreement, they rolled it to John’s truck and started piling the boxes in the back.
Boy was he going to miss that truck.
“Come now, why all the questions? Are you unhappy here? In Jacob’s Crossing?”
“Nee. I like it here. It’s home.”
“Then . . .”
“I just want to know more about you. Because you’re so interested in my mother.”
Abel’s comment hit John like a sledgehammer. He stilled. “Does that bother you?”
“Maybe.”
Feeling as if they’d just neatly switched places, John spoke. “I like your mother, but I don’t want to hurt her. And I don’t want to hurt you, either.”
His chin lifted. “You can’t hurt me.”
It took everything John had not to betray his amusement at the boy’s bluster. “Sure I can—if I hurt your mother. And I don’t intend to do that.”
“So . . .”
“So I want to court your mother. But I want her to take her time. I know she loved your father a lot.”
“Mein daed was the best.”
John swallowed a lump in his throat. He heard the wistful tone in the boy’s voice. And felt for his loss. “I know your daed was a good man. You should be proud to be called his son. More than one person has spoken of him well.”
“Really? People talk to you about my dad?”
“Of course. And I want to hear about him, too. Your mother loved him. Plus, no one can replace him. I don’t even want to try.”
Abel looked at the ground as he visibly weighed his next words. “I didn’t expect you to say something like that.”
“Maybe today’s a day for surprises, then? You can carry far more than I thought . . .”
“And today hasn’t been near as bad as I thought it would be,” Abel finished. “But I still don’t want to like you courtin’ my mamm.”
Lightly, John squeezed his shoulder. “That’s fair. Let’s go finish this street and turn all this food in.”
Mattie had locked her door. She wanted to see herself without worrying about her mother bursting into the room.
Pulling out the mirror the nurse at the hospital had given her, Mattie stared at her face and head. Little by little, her hair was growing back. Luckily, it was coming up the same shade as before, a deep brown. Some of her eyebrows had grown back, too.
When she remembered how hard it had been to deal with her hair loss, Mattie shook her head. Oh, she’d been so vain!
Or perhaps, she’d simply had enough. She’d lost so much during that time—her independence, her health, her appetite. Losing her hair had seemed terribly cruel.
Satisfied that her one-inch hair growth would soon be two, she carefully replaced her kapp.
And then she unpinned her dress and looked at herself.
Her mother had warned her against looking at her chest, saying concentrating on her scars would be wrong. But privately, Mattie figured their Lord God had created both men and women the best way He knew how. Surely she was allowed to sometimes be sad that she was now very far from His creation?
Angling the mirror, she winced at the dark red angry scars. The doctors and surgeons had said the lines would fade in time, though Mattie d
idn’t know if that mattered all that much. No matter what, she wouldn’t be the same. She’d be forever marked. And forever reminded that the future was never certain.
“Mattie?” her mother called out. “You’ve got company.”
“I’ll be right there,” she said from her side of the door, then hastily slipped the mirror in between her mattress and bedsprings and took care to pin her dress up again.
Just so.
When she walked down the hall, her pace slowed. “Lucy? What are you doing here?”
“Trying to keep you company, you goose,” she teased.
“I thought you were going to stay home and clean out the linen closet with your mother-in-law.”
“I was going to. But then Mary left with Katie and I was all alone. And then, well, I had to stop.”
“Why? Did you start to feel bad?”
“Not at all. I started to think there was nothing worse than sitting in an empty room and sorting out old sheets! But look what I did.”
Mattie grinned as Lucy displayed at least forty neat squares of fabric. “And what are these for?”
“I thought we could make some circle quilts. What do you say?”
“I say that it’s been at least four years since I’ve made one.” Mattie bit her lip. “I’m not even sure I remember how to make them,” she added. Actually, the last thing in the world she wanted to do was quilt. But how could she tell Lucy that?
“Really? We used to love to make circle quilts. And they’re so easy, too.” Her voice turned anxious. “Remember how easy it is to gather the circles and then piece them together?”
For a moment, Mattie was tempted to continue the charade for just a little longer, then she noticed that the skin around Lucy’s lips was a bit strained. Crossing the room, she took a seat on the sofa cushion next to Lucy then held out her hands. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Lucy?”
She looked away. “Oh, it’s nothing.” But unbidden, her lip started to tremble.
“Luce? Are you hurt? Is something wrong with Calvin?”
The Survivor Page 8
