The Choice (Lancaster County Secrets 1)

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Startled, Carrie glanced up to see a half-dozen Amish men and women from the barn raising, patiently waiting for news about Abel, Abraham and the bishop among them.

  “Oh no! He’s not dead,” she reassured them, still wiggling her fingers. “He’s got a broken arm, but he’s not dead.”

  “Atlee, perhaps you should take Carrie home. You should all go home,” Abraham said, looking around the room. “I will stay.”

  “Would you? He wants someone to stay, but I . . .” I want to go home, Carrie thought. It had been a long day.

  “I’ll stay with him,” Veronica McCall said, rounding a corner, a cup of coffee from the vending machine in her hand. She gave Carrie a measured look.

  “Thank you,” Carrie said gratefully, meaning it.

  Abraham called a Mennonite taxi driver who owned a van to take them all home. It was dark now, and Carrie briefly wondered about the new barn at the Stolztfuses’, but then her thoughts bounced to Sol. When the van pulled up to Cider Mill Farm, she thanked everyone for their help.

  Even the bishop, not known for his sensitivity, could tell Carrie was troubled. “That boy will be fine, Carrie. He’s a young fellow. They heal right quick.”

  Carrie nodded.

  “That English gal. She’s the one who ought to be feeling upset. She brought this on,” Abraham said.

  Carrie shrugged. At this moment, she didn’t care about Veronica McCall. She didn’t even much care about Abel’s broken arm.

  A light snow was falling when Veronica McCall returned to Cider Mill Farm. Abel was next to her in the passenger seat, his arm wrapped in a stiff, freshly plastered cast, hanging in a blue sling. Emma and Carrie went outside to help him, but he looked like he wasn’t feeling any pain at all. His eyes were dilated and unfocused.

  Carrie put one arm around Abel’s waist and Emma took the other side. “Emma, he shouldn’t be out in the cold workshop. I think he should sleep in your room for now. You can stay in my room.”

  Abel started singing at the top of his lungs, something silly about leaving his heart at a Greyhound bus station.

  “He’s totally doped up,” Veronica McCall said. “Here are the meds that the doctor prescribed.” She handed Carrie a white paper bag. “He was only supposed to have one of those pink pills, but I gave him two so he could sleep.” She looked at her wristwatch. “Gotta run. I have a video conference call in the morning. Tell Abel toodles!”

  “Toodles?” Emma asked, astounded. “You want us to tell him ‘toodles’? How about ‘I’m sorry for honking the horn and causing you to fall off the roof of the barn’?”

  Veronica’s eyes narrowed like a cat. “It was an accident. Accidents happen.”

  Emma helped Carrie get Abel into bed for the night. He kept singing, one song after another, until Emma scolded him. “I’m just about ready to stick a sock in your mouth, Abel Miller, if you don’t hush up! You’ll wake up Yonnie and Andy!”

  At that fierce reprimand, tears started trickling down Abel’s cheeks. Emma threw up her hands and left the room.

  Carrie slipped off his shoes and pulled the blanket over him, being careful not to put weight on his cast. “Good thing you don’t touch the devil’s brew, Abel Miller. You’re a mess.”

  “Why did you leave me, Carrie?” he asked in a gruff whisper. “Aw, Abel, you nearly broke off my hand. I stayed as long as I could. You had a whole crowd of people there. Filled up the waiting room.” She straightened. “Besides, you had her. You didn’t need me.”

  “But I wanted you,” he said, before closing his eyes.

  Carrie touched him then, on the cheek with the tips of her fingers. “Hush this crazy talk now and go to sleep.” She watched as his breathing settled into an even rhythm of sleep. She took the pill container out of her apron pocket and set it on his nightstand. Two pain pills, Veronica McCall said she had given him, when there was a warning right on the label not to exceed one pill every six hours. What had she been thinking?! The logic of that woman defied her.

  She leaned over to turn off the gas lamp by his bedside, pitching the room into total darkness.

  When Carrie went into her bedroom, Emma was combing out her long hair and braiding it. “Is he asleep?” Emma asked.

  “I think so,” Carrie answered. She hung her apron on the peg and reached for her nightgown.

  Emma put down her brush and leaned her chin on her elbows. “Mother said that John Graber is now Alva’s John.”

  “Alva Brenner?”

  Emma nodded sadly.

  Carrie went over to sit on the bed near her, her nightgown in her lap. “Oh, Emma. What does your mother know about such things?”

  Head bowed low, Emma added, “He doesn’t come around anymore.”

  Now that Carrie thought about it, Emma was right. John Graber hadn’t been at Cider Mill Farm for the last few weeks. How could she have missed noticing that? Just the other day, Abel asked her if something was bothering Emma. When she asked why he thought so, he said, “She seems more worried than usual.”

  Was she getting so absorbed in her own problems that she was blind to Emma’s? she wondered, pulling pins out from her hair bun, dropping them in her lap. “Are you awful disappointed?”

  Emma gave a quick nod. “Yonnie promised me . . .” She clamped her lips shut.

  “Promised you what?”

  “Yonnie made up a special tea and gave it to John so that he would love me forever.” She looked at Carrie out of the corner of her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, Carrie.” Emma’s eyes swam. “I only want . . .”

  Carrie handed Emma a handkerchief to wipe her tears. “Want what?”

  Emma blew her nose loudly. “I want someone to look at me the way, well, the way Abel looks at you.”

  “What?” Carrie asked, stunned. “Stop talking nonsense.”

  Emma finished braiding her hair. “It’s not nonsense, Carrie. He’s sweet on you.”

  “Emma, Abel has an interest in Veronica McCall.”

  She shook her head. “I asked him, flat out. I said to him, ‘What do you think you’re doing, courting that fancy English gal?’ I told him it was wrong, wrong, wrong—being unequally yoked and all—and that gal has trouble written all over her. He said to me, ‘Emma, I’m not courting her!’ He said he was only working for her because she needed help and he needed work and that he was trying to teach her the Bible.” She pointed her finger at Carrie in warning. “But she wants him like a mudhen on a tin roof wants rain.”

  “Well, she may be doing the wanting, but he’s not doing any running, as far as I can tell.” Emma didn’t know about all the times Carrie caught Veronica and Abel in the convertible car, windows steamed up. Late one night when Carrie couldn’t sleep, she even saw Veronica leave from Abel’s workshop. Carrie stood and started to unpin her dress, then stopped. “You don’t need Yonnie’s silly remedies to make a man love you, Emma.”

  “Then what do I do?” Emma asked, a forlorn look on her face. “I don’t want to be a Maedel. I’m getting old. My wrinkles are multiplying like cow flies. I want a husband and a family of my own.”

  Carrie went over to her and finished braiding the long rope of her hair. “Then tell the Lord God about it, not Yonnie.”

  Emma gave her a weak smile. “Now you’re starting to sound like our Abel when he’s in a preaching mood.”

  Actually, Carrie thought that comment sounded more like Mattie. Abel quoted Scripture and spouted theology, Mattie talked about trusting God for everything. Both of them, though, loved God with their whole hearts. She yawned, trying to get comfortable, scrunching far against the edge because Emma had taken up the entire bed.

  It took a long while to fall asleep. She wished she could have started the day all over again. It had not been a good day, this day, and she felt miserable. When was she ever going to be able to be around Sol and not leave feeling all churned up inside?

  As Emma’s breathing settled into loud snores, Carrie covered her ears with a pillow.

 
Whatever pills Veronica McCall gave to Abel knocked him out. Finally, by lunchtime, Carrie worried that he might have passed in the night. She tiptoed to his bedside and laid her hand on his forehead. He stirred at her touch, then opened his eyes and blinked a few times.

  “Hi,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Don’t know.” He closed his eyes again. “Just woke up.”

  “Think you could eat something?”

  He inhaled deeply. “That coffee smells awfully good.”

  “I’ll get you some.”

  “Carrie, wait . . .”

  She put a hand on the doorjamb and turned back to him. “I’d better get you that coffee. No doubt your throat is sore from singing last night like a lovesick coyote.” When she saw the look of alarm cross his face, she added, “Silly English songs. Out of key too. They were terrible.”

  Downstairs, Yonnie and Emma were washing dishes.

  “How’s our Abel doing?” Yonnie asked.

  “He’s going to survive, I think,” Carrie said. “He’d like some coffee if there’s any left.”

  “That’s a good sign,” Emma said. “Think he’s hungry? There’s leftover hotcake batter.”

  For reasons Carrie couldn’t explain, she suddenly felt shy around Abel. She handed the mug of steaming coffee to Emma. “Why don’t you take this to him and ask him yourself?”

  As soon as her chores were done, Carrie threw on her shawl and headed out to the orchards, walking up and down the rows of trees through the slushy snow and mud. Still unsettled from seeing Sol, she knew she needed to fix her mind on something else. She examined the spindly arms of the apple trees and decided the time for pruning had come. Winter was halfway over. Ready or not, spring was right around the corner.

  She went into the barn and started collecting the saw blades she would need to start pruning the trees. She tried to remember which saws Daniel and Eli had used. She was grateful they had pruned the trees so well a year ago so she would only need to follow the footprint they’d left behind.

  She had never sharpened a blade before, but she had watched her father do plenty of them. She lit a gas lamp and sat at the grindstone, starting to tread the pedals to make the wheel spin.

  Suddenly, the barn door slid open. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Abel asked Carrie as he approached the grindstone. She stopped pedaling. “You should be in bed.”

  “I’m not sick. I just hurt my arm.”

  “I’ll say.” She turned her attention back to the blade.

  “Carrie, what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m sharpening the blades so that I can prune the apple trees.”

  His jaw dropped. “By yourself?”

  “If I don’t, it won’t get done.”

  “I’ll do it for you. Just give me a little time to get back on my feet.”

  “Not with that broken arm, Abel. Can’t wait that long.”

  Abel’s frown deepened to genuine displeasure. “Carrie, a few more days won’t make any difference.”

  She stopped again and looked straight at him. “Abel, these orchards are my responsibility. I need to do this. I need to take care of my farm.”

  He got that funny look on his face again, like there was something he was hiding. “I can cut the lower branches.”

  She thought he was crazy to even offer, with an arm in a big cast. “Suit yourself. But I’m starting tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, you’re sharpening those blades on the wrong side, so you’re going to have an awful hard time with it if you don’t let me help you, now.”

  She jumped off the seat and swept her hand in a be-my-guest gesture.

  At breakfast the next morning, Carrie explained to Emma that she and Abel were going to be starting the pruning. Emma’s lips pursed tightly together, then she listed off all of the reasons why this was a foolish idea. Abel sat in his chair, eating his scrambled eggs, a smug look on his face.

  Emma pointed a finger at Abel. “And what makes you think he’ll be any good to you? He’s a one-winged bird.”

  Abel’s dark eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t say a word.

  Carrie sighed. “Emma, I need your help with chores while I prune those trees.” She stood up and took her dishes to the sink.

  “If Mother knew—”

  Carrie whirled around. “She doesn’t know and she doesn’t need to know. This is my home, Emma, not Esther’s.”

  Emma clamped her lips shut.

  Carrie threw on a cape. After hitching the wagon to Old-Timer, she hurried into the barn and lugged the hayloft ramp out to the wagon. Abel lifted the back end of the ramp, helping her scoot it onto the wagon bed. He remembered the tool box and shoved it next to the ramp. She climbed up as he hoisted himself into the seat. She stopped the horse at the farthest grove of trees and didn’t even bother to tie his reins to a tree. Old-Timer was too old to think about running off.

  From the wagon bench, Abel was studying the endless rows of trees. “These trees are shaped well. Room for lots of light to get in. We just have to trim back the new growth.”

  She climbed off of the wagon and yanked the ramp down, then started dragging it to the nearest tree.

  Abel climbed down carefully, moving as slow and cautious as an old man. “Listen, Carrie . . .”

  She knew by his tone of voice that he was about to tell her how she didn’t know what she was getting herself into. She crossed her arms and flung her head back to stare at him. “What, Abel?”

  He looked at Carrie for a long moment, then gave a little nudge to the brim of his hat. “I found some clippers too. You use the clippers and I’ll use the saws.”

  Carrie had always loved working outdoors, much more than she did the cleaning and cooking and keeping up of the house. Emma preferred doing woman’s work. The menial work, Carrie thought, and then, out of habit, whispered an apology to the Lord for her prideful heart. All work was sacred in God’s eyes.

  But after an hour Carrie had barely pruned the upper branches of one tree. A blister had formed on the palm of her hand and her toes were numb with cold. It was harder work than she could have ever imagined. Already, the muscles in her shoulders and arms ached as she leaned on the ramp to clip the branch. She paused and looked down the long, even row of trees. Last night she had done the math: about one hundred trees per acre, and there were twenty acres. She sighed. This job was unending.

  It was slow going for Abel too. He had been trying to saw the lower branches, but with his arm in a sling he was weak and off balance. Though the morning was cold, she saw beads of sweat on his brow. He even looked pale. She was sure his broken arm was aching, but he was too stubborn to admit it.

  “Let’s take a rest,” she said, after he had stopped to wipe his face with a handkerchief.

  She climbed down from the ramp and sat on a blanket against the tree trunk, drawing her knees up to stay warm. She rested her forehead on her knees. “I can’t do it,” she said aloud. “I can’t do it alone.”

  Abel leaned against the wagon. “Well, thank you very much.” She lifted her head at him. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She sighed and bent her head down again.

  “It’s hard work to manage orchards, Carrie,” he said.

  She snapped her head up. “So you want me to just give up?” “No, that’s not what I . . .”

  When she finally risked a glance at Abel, he was staring at her with that guilty look on his face. She saw his eyes lift quickly to the trees down the row, as if he didn’t want to be caught looking at her.

  She stood up and stretched. “Could I ask you something?”

  “Ask away,” he said, grabbing a rag from the back of the wagon.

  “What happened to your folks? How is it you ended up with Eli?”

  He looked at her, startled, as if that was the last thing he expected her to ask. Then he took the rag and started to wipe down the tree saw. “Eli was my mother’s older brother. My mother left the church to run off with my father, who was Englis
h. He never did marry her, so that’s why I have my mother’s last name.” He put the saw down and picked up Carrie’s clippers. “She died in a car accident when I was five.”

  “What about your father?”

  He shrugged. “Well, the police didn’t see the potential in selling drugs that my father did. So they hauled him off to prison and I was deposited in foster care.”

  It was hard for Carrie to believe there were parents like that, people who could drop their responsibilities to their children like they were changing clothes. To the Amish, family is the very center of life. To have a child is a great blessing, given by God.

  Abel picked up the water jug and offered it to Carrie. She shook her head so he took a drink.

  “Then what happened to you?” she asked.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I got into a few scrapes while I was in the system, ended up in juvey a couple of times.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Juvey? Juvenile Hall. It’s like, well, sort of like jail for kids.”

  His eyes were laughing at her, at the shocked look on her face. Her cheeks flamed, aware of how naïve she seemed.

  “So, when I got out of juvenile hall the last time, I was told that a relative was willing to take me in. An Amish uncle.” He smiled. “At that point, all I knew about the Amish were buggies and beards.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen.” He rubbed the part of his neck that his sling rubbed against. “Daniel was two years older. He and I hit it off, right from the beginning.” He grinned. “Not such a good thing. I talked Daniel into a lot of mischief making. A lot.”

  She gazed down the long row of apple trees before looking up at him. “So even back then, you weren’t thinking you’d be baptized into the church?”

  He gave her a sharp look. “Back then, I did everything I could to try and prove I didn’t need anything or anybody.” He picked up a dried, withered apple left on the ground from last year and threw it as far as he could. “Like I said, I was a bad apple.”

  It must be terrible to never belong to anyone, Carrie thought. Being Amish meant a certainty of always belonging, always being a part of a whole. She wondered if Abel could sustain being alone forever. She wasn’t like that. She needed others, she needed that place at the table. It occurred to her that if she had left with Sol, she might never have felt again like she belonged somewhere. She was quiet for a long moment, mulling that over. Slowly she lifted her eyes to meet Abel’s. “If you were such a bad apple, why did you go to jail for Daniel?”