The Amish Widower

by Virginia Smith

  “What is it?” Elias took a step toward her, his alarm apparent. “Leah, tell me what is wrong.”

  Color returned to her then, a deep purple stain that raced upward from her neck until even her forehead seemed to radiate heat. Instead of answering the question, she grasped the envelope with the other hand and, with vicious, jerky gestures, ripped it in two. She continued to shred it until the remaining pieces were nothing more than a pile of confetti. These she grabbed in a fist and, whirling, tossed them into the trash can.

  “I-I have to leave.”

  Elias and I watched, his expression as helpless as I felt, as she snatched her handbag from beneath the counter and nearly ran for the door.

  “We will see you at dinner, then,” Elias called after her.

  “I’m not hungry tonight.”

  The door slammed on her last word. Seconds later we heard an engine roar and watched as her car peeled out of the parking lot.

  NINETEEN

  On Tuesday Elias and I arrived at the store to find Leah already stationed behind the sales counter. My friend had disappeared in the night and was replaced by the stern-faced Englisch woman I’d met on my first visit to Plain Man’s Pottery. She wore her hair unbound, and it fell forward, shielding her face as she bent over her accounting ledger. We received barely a glance when we entered. Elias and I exchanged a look, his expression sad, mine no doubt displaying my confusion.

  Dinner the night before had been a quiet meal. Leah’s absence, and the news of her reaction to the mysterious letter, doused even Lily’s normally talkative manner. That husband and wife knew the cause of their granddaughter’s distress was obvious by the troubled glances they exchanged, but no one ventured an explanation, and I didn’t feel free to ask.

  “Good morning,” I said as I slipped around her on my way to the workroom.

  She mumbled a reply without raising her head.

  Elias stopped beside her and covered her hand with his. A silent message passed between them, ending when the tiniest of smiles made a brief appearance on her tight lips. As though satisfied, he nodded and followed me.

  Though my teacher’s typical exuberance was somewhat dampened, he managed something resembling his usual cheerful countenance. “No bowls or vases today,” he announced. “It is time for my apprentice to learn a new technique. We will make a double-walled vessel. A teapot, perhaps.”

  The opportunity to learn something new brightened my spirits, and I began setting out our tools.

  Over the next week, a gradual change occurred in Leah. She lost the grim, hard expression and smiled more often, though I sensed that whatever had disturbed her regarding the letter still hovered beneath the surface. She returned to dinner at her grandparents’ table, and the atmosphere at the Beachy house once again reflected Lily’s cheerful demeanor.

  After church on Sunday—where I received a warm welcome by my new district—I declined to join the community meal. Instead, I climbed into my buggy and pointed Orion toward Upper Leacock to fulfill my promise to return home for a family dinner.

  The greeting I received would have warmed even the coldest heart.

  The twins charged out of the house, shouting, “Onkel Seth is here!”

  Sadie raced to keep up with them, and the three halted and bounced like human balls until my buggy came to a full stop.

  Dismounting, I swept all three of them up in turn, tossing Sadie high in the air, a thrill of delight racing through me at the sound of her childish squeals of delight.

  “Have you missed me?” I asked after I’d deposited her beside her cousins.

  “Ya,” the boys chimed in unison while Sadie nodded.

  “But we are grown up now.” Luke’s chest swelled. “We help with the milking every day. I pet Caroline’s nose so she will be happy while Onkel Noah milks her.” He sobered. “Delilah does not like her nose petted.”

  I laughed. “No, I suppose she does not.”

  “And I fetch for him the empty pails,” Mark told me importantly.

  “Das gut,” I said. “I am sure you are big helpers.”

  Sadie shoved her way in front of the boys. “I got eggs.”

  Another thrill shot through me, this one with a twinge of sorrow. She spoke in a full sentence with no baby babble. I’d been gone only a week, and already she had grown.

  Mark awarded her a look of disgust. “Ya, but you broke three.”

  Anger puckered her little face, and she might have answered, but I swung her up again into my arms. “That is okay. You boys have broken your share of eggs. Sadie will learn to be more gentle, ya?”

  She put her arms around my neck and squeezed, and an empty place in my heart filled.

  The door to the main house opened, and my family filed out to greet me. Even Saloma was there. The welcome I received almost made me glad I had moved away, and Mammi’s eyes were not the only ones that flooded with happy tears.

  “Where is baby Rachel?” I asked, glancing toward the house.

  Saloma bit her lip. “In the incubator still.” When I would have voiced concern, she shook her head quickly. “She is healthy but still too small to come home. Doris drives me to the hospital every day, and I can even hold her for a while.”

  “Why are we standing out here while dinner is growing cold inside?” Mamm spread her arms to shoo the family toward the house as if they were chickens. “Aaron, help Seth unhitch his horse, and make quick work of it.”

  While we did, my bruder brought me up to date on the progress of the crops, the farm, and the family.

  “Daed heard of a farm near New Holland that may be up for sale in the fall. Noah and Becky are praying they will be ready by then to buy.”

  I eyed him as we slid the collar off of Orion’s neck. “You will have your hands full here when they leave.”

  He shrugged. “It is the way of things. If this year’s crop pays as it should, I can hire help when I need. Between Daed and Saloma, they can manage most things with the livestock. In a few years the boys will be old enough to be of real help.” He peered at me over Orion’s back. “I hope I can still count on my bruder to lend a hand every now and again.”

  Grinning, I said, “The good thing about throwing pots is the work is not dependent on the season. I can take time off every now and again to help my family.”

  When Orion was comfortably settled in the horse pasture and becoming reacquainted with Rosie, we headed for the house. Walking side by side with my bruder, I was glad I’d skipped the community meal at my new district.

  When Robbie arrived on Tuesday to drive me to my second counseling appointment, he didn’t come inside. He pulled his red car up to the shop’s front door and waited with the engine running.

  I’d considered asking Kevin to take me, but only for a moment. Even though I no longer saw Robbie often, the boy was my friend. I wanted no awkwardness between us.

  Leah looked up from her task of dusting the display shelves. Today she wore her hair braided in a long rope, and it swayed almost to the floor as she bent over to apply her dust cloth. I’d come to view her hair as an indicator of her mood. When she felt especially introspective and unhappy, her long hair swung free. I’d seen her let it fall forward, covering much of the scar on the right side of her face. She acted open and most friendly when her hair was pulled back into a bun, like an Amish woman’s. Today’s long braid spoke of a quiet and even serene mood, but with a touch of defiance against Plain ways.

  Straightening, she stared out the window. “I wonder why he isn’t coming inside. He used to come in to talk with me while you cleaned up.”

  The change in routine told me he still felt uneasy from our chance encounter in the Philhaven waiting room. I hadn’t mentioned the incident to Leah. In fact, I hadn’t confided any details about my appointment at all. Though I detected curiosity in her expression when I announced that I had a second one scheduled for today, neither she nor Elias had asked the nature of my trip to Lancaster. For that I was grateful. I still found the idea
of seeing a counselor embarrassing. A man should be able to resolve his own issues without involving others. If I admitted that I could not, would they think me weak?

  In answer to Leah’s comment, I said, “It’s a good thing I’m already washed up and ready to go then. I’ll be back in time to help close up the shop.”

  Again, curiosity colored her features, but all she said was, “See you then.”

  Outside, I slid onto the passenger seat and snapped my seat belt.

  With a quick glance in my direction, Robbie mumbled, “Hey.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he put the car in gear and left the parking lot. His grip on the steering wheel, along with the convulsive movement of his gulping throat, told me much. Regret flooded me, and I longed for the return of our easy friendship.

  “How have you been?” I asked.

  His answer was a shrug.

  I tried for a casual tone. “Your mother has sent many of her friends to the shop. She certainly has helped Elias’s business. We are grateful.”

  A quick nod, but the silence continued.

  We covered a few miles. What could I say to put the boy at ease? I was no good at small talk and in fact disliked pointless chatter. If a man had nothing to say, then say nothing. But if there were words to be spoken, then speak them.

  “If meeting me in the waiting room last week upset you, I am sorry.” I didn’t look at him, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him stiffen. “I was as surprised as you.”

  For a moment I thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he drew in a breath.

  “It was kind of a shock,” he admitted.

  “For me too.” I hesitated. Should I tell him of my embarrassment at seeking help for my uncontrollable temper? “I have never seen a counselor before and only made the appointment at the request of my bishop.”

  “Sam’s great.” His grip on the wheel relaxed a fraction. “He’s been my therapist for about a year.”

  So I’d been correct last week. Sam was the counselor who had advised Robbie not to go to college. Was it also Sam who instructed him to become a driver for Amish people? An odd suggestion for a counselor to make of a teenager.

  “If you are uncomfortable with me talking to your…therapist—” The unusual word felt awkward on my tongue. “—I will ask for someone else.”

  “No, I think Sam’s the right guy for you.” Robbie shot a quick glance my way. “Besides, he won’t tell us anything about each other. He promised.”

  “He made the promise to me as well.”

  “So we’re good.”

  I didn’t disagree, but the mood in the car didn’t feel good. If he did not mind my seeing his therapist, then why was he still gulping with nerves? And why had he not met my gaze once?

  At least the awkward silence had been broken, and Robbie seemed determined not to see it return.

  “So how’s your family? Your grandmother doing okay?”

  “Ya, she is good. And I have a new niece.”

  “Really? That’s cool.”

  I relaxed against the seatback and set about updating him on the happenings of the Hostetlers.

  Robbie left me at the front entrance of Philhaven, promising to return in an hour. I entered the building without the nervous flutter that had accompanied me the week before. Though I still found the idea of counseling uncomfortable, at least I knew what to expect this time.

  Angela greeted me by name, and I wrote out a check. Therapy sessions were not inexpensive, even with the discount for having no insurance. How many bowls would I have to sell to pay for one appointment?

  I didn’t even have time to sit down before Sam appeared in the doorway.

  “Come on back, Seth.”

  We shook hands when I approached, and then we walked side by side down the short hallway to his office. I seated myself in the same chair as before. He took the corner of the couch, my questionnaire from last week lying open on the cushion beside him.

  “Robbie drove me today,” I told him.

  “Oh? And how did that feel?”

  I considered before answering. “Awkward. But better toward the end of the drive.”

  He gave a smiling nod and then changed the subject. “Did you have a chance to read the information I sent home with you?”

  I did, though my brain had struggled with the idea of identifying myself with the situations described in the material. Did I truly have an anxiety disorder? I couldn’t deny the symptoms of pounding pulse and racing heart, and the idea of a similar event triggering a re-experience fit my situation exactly. I knew now the source of my hesitancy to drive a buggy, and I felt some pride that I’d conquered that reluctance. I could now drive without my heart threatening to pound through my rib cage. And the sight of Saloma in early labor naturally triggered the traumatic emotions associated with losing Rachel.

  “Ya, I did. But I read nothing about outbursts of temper and how to control them.”

  “Symptoms present differently in individuals. As to how to control them…” He crossed one leg over the other and wrapped his hands around his knee. “It takes time. The first step is to understand what causes the outbursts. Then we will work on coming up with a coping strategy.”

  Unfamiliar words, but they made sense. “Ya, that sounds like a good plan.”

  He peered at me through his glasses for a long moment. “You realize that we need to talk about the traumatic experiences themselves, and especially your feelings concerning them. That won’t be comfortable.”

  My stomach tightened, immediate proof of his words. I managed a nod.

  “Why don’t you start by telling me about the accident that resulted in your second wife’s death?”

  I want to leave now. Get out of this chair, go through that door, and never come back. The idea arose in my mind, so strong that I had to fight to stay seated. If I truly had post-traumatic stress disorder, what good was dredging up the situation that caused it? Wouldn’t it be better to put it behind me, to look ahead and not backward?

  But the accident refused to stay behind me. It rose constantly to torment me in the present. If I did nothing, it would continue to haunt my future as well.

  Resolved, I described the day my Hannah died. In halting words at first, my recounting of the day eventually came faster. Details I had not realized I recalled poured out, such as the color of Hannah’s dress, and the way Lars had nuzzled her hand while we showed him off to Josiah and Ella. The way she slid close to me on the bench. I could almost feel the length of her thigh resting against mine.

  The details of the crash itself remained as vivid in my mind as if they had occurred that morning. Had I not seen them over and over for the past year? The mocking laughter of the Englisch teenager. The sickening lurch when our courting carriage’s wheels left the pavement. Lars’s high-pitched screech and the smooth wood of the brake lever in my hand. And Hannah’s scream. That, especially, echoed in my mind.

  Sam’s soft voice broke into my description of the accident. “So you tried to grab her, but you couldn’t.”

  “Our fingers touched. I-I was holding on to the brake lever.” I swallowed, my throat desert dry. “If only I’d let go…”

  “Then what?” he prodded. “What would have happened if you had let go?”

  I closed my eyes, the scene more alive in my consciousness than Sam’s office. “I would have been able to reach her.”

  “And would that have stopped the carriage from crashing?”

  Maybe! I wanted to shout the word, but honesty prevented me. I shook my head. “By then we were too far off balance.” I realized my hands were trembling, and I tightened them into fists. “But if I had not applied the brake at all, the horse might have recovered before we tilted.”

  “So you feel responsible for the accident.”

  His words lay between us like a pointing finger. An accusation. Not in his tone, but in my ears.

  I nodded, acid churning in my stomach. “Ya. I feel responsible. She was my wife. I should have pro
tected her.”

  He made no judgment but merely nodded. “Guilt is a powerful emotion.” He paused, and when I said nothing, continued. “And what of the people in the car? Surely some of the blame lies with them.”

  Hot anger flickered to life in the back of my skull. The sound of the boy’s voice, his derisive laughter, rang again in my ears.

  “Some of the blame lies with them.” The bitterness in my voice surprised me, and gave the words volume.

  Sam’s expression did not change. “You might even say most of the blame.”

  It was true. Had those Englisch boys acted respectfully, had they driven responsibly, my Hannah would still be here.

  My jaw remained clamped shut.

  “Seth, your anger toward those boys and your own feelings of guilt are perfectly normal. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t experience violent emotions after a traumatic situation like that.”

  I shot out of my chair, unable to sit still. Instead of going to the door, where my impulse to escape might be too much to resist, I approached the room’s single window and jerked back the curtain. Outside a tree covered in tiny green apples stood so close, its branches nearly brushed the glass. I noticed that only in passing, my mind busy processing Sam’s words.

  “I do not feel normal.”

  “Maybe that isn’t the right word. Explainable might be a better one.”

  I didn’t turn, and silence stretched long. The ticking of a clock on the top of a bookshelf grew loud.

  “You are a man of faith, aren’t you?”

  Surprised at the question, I did face him. “You know I am. I am Amish.”

  “Then you believe the teachings of Jesus?”

  Impatience for the question clutched at me. “Ya, of course.”

  “Then you also know the power of forgiveness.”

  I stared at him a long moment. I knew the power of my anger, and that I resented having to forgive those unruly Englisch drivers. Their irresponsibility had killed my Hannah and our unborn baby.

  “I know it here.” I touched my forehead, and then I moved my hand to my chest. “But I do not feel it here.”