by Linda Byler
They wheeled him into an ambulance on a stretcher. He was taken to Lancaster General Hospital where he stabilized but never recovered. He died later that week during the night, when a cold rain began to fall and a whistling wind chased raindrops around corners, dislodging the tired leaves of fall, bending the dry, brown grasses.
It was so good to see her family when they arrived. Becky could not believe how much she had missed Nancy and her brothers. Her parents both blinked back tears as they greeted her, so glad to see their youngest daughter.
The community gathered ’round, cleaning, preparing the shop, washing walls and windows, floors and porches, raking and mowing the yard, cleaning the flower beds and garden. Food was brought in. People were assigned to manage the funeral—who would seat the congregation, who would do the cooking, and on and on. The whole place became a whirlwind of activity.
Poor Salome was so ashamed of the state of her house, but most of the women were understanding. They clucked their tongues in sympathy, saying she had had too much, far too much, with her growing family and the old parents to fasark. Henry was a good man, but too much was too much, they agreed.
Except for Leroy Miller sei Barbara. She grimaced when she cleaned the bathroom sink, gagged when she scrubbed the floor, pinched her mouth into a straight, hard line of disapproval, and went home and told Leroy she didn’t care how depressed that Salome was, she could at least clean the commode. She’d be depressed, too, living like that. And not just that, cleanliness was next to godliness and that was no faschtant how those people lived. She didn’t know how that fat young girl named Becky survived there, as the daudyhaus didn’t look that way at all. She wondered if it ever had. Hesslich dreckich.
Leroy scratched his chin through his beard and wondered how much Jim Bates would pay him for the lame Belgian. He’d try and get him for as little as he possibly could. His wife’s words fluttered around his head like annoying blackbirds, which soon went away after her voice stopped and she stuffed a bite of whoopie pie into her mouth.
It was when Becky was seated with the family, receiving visitors on the last evening of the viewing, that she saw him. His back was turned. He was so tall. But no, it couldn’t be him. He would not have traveled all this way to her grandfather’s viewing.
When he turned and she saw it was Daniel, knowing he had come and had remembered her, it was as if bells began to chime somewhere in her heart. He had come!
As he approached, she meant to keep her eyes downcast, but when he shook her hand for a fraction longer than was absolutely necessary, she lifted her eyes, found the narrow blue slashes of his glad eyes, and let her own welcome him warmly.
When he moved on down the line, greeting members of the family, Becky had to restrain the urge to leave her chair and accompany him to view her grandfather, gone forever from his hospital bed in the living room. She wanted Daniel to know Daudy. She wanted one chance to introduce him, to tell him who this was. “A friend,” she would say. “This is my friend from Wisconsin.”
Daudy’s eyes would twinkle, and he would know by the flush of Becky’s face that she hoped to be his maedle someday. Daudy knew many things he did not speak of, Becky was sure. She mourned the loss of this kindly old man more than she had thought possible.
Excusing herself, she went to the bathroom and checked the mirror above the sink. She straightened her covering, swiped a few stray hairs in place, set her mouth resolutely, and went to find Daniel.
The trees were moving restlessly in the night air; a stiff breeze was coming from the north after the cold rain. A sliver of moon was reflected in a puddle, wet leaves floating on its surface. Becky shivered. Without a sweater, the night was chilling.
She found him leaning against the milk house wall, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. When he saw her approach, he stood straight, lifted his hands from his pockets, and extended them both. There were no words.
Surrounded by people all clad in black, milling about in the half-light, there was no place to talk with privacy. Daniel looked left, then right, grasped Becky’s hand in his own, and started walking away from the barn.
They found a secluded spot behind the implement shed away from curious eyes. When Becky shivered, Daniel pulled her close to ward off the chill of the windy night.
“Becky, Becky.”
That was all he said. They stood in silence, gladness surrounding them.
“I think of you every day, every hour.”
“You do?” Becky was incredulous.
“Yeah. All the time. Why did your Dat and Mam make you do this? I can’t see why they expected you to care for such an elderly couple.”
His voice became genuinely distressed. “It’s too much for such a young girl.”
Becky laughed. “Oh, it was my own fault, for sure. You know I wanted to work at Round Oaks. I like old people. They’re so wise and funny. They have lived so long and are sort of childish. They delight me, in a way.”
“I don’t care, it was too much.”
“Seriously, yes, it was more than I bargained for. In my biggest dreams, I wasn’t prepared for the homesickness, the intense longing to go back to Wisconsin.”
“Why?”
“Well, my family. My home is there.”
“Is that all?”
Quietly, Becky whispered, “There was you, too.”
Long into the evening, they spoke of the months they had been separated, the events that had shaped their summers.
When Daniel left to spend the night at his cousin’s house a few miles away, Becky was left to grapple with her own insecurity. Did he want her for his special friend, still? Or did he only care for her as a younger sister?
Would she be expected to stay on as Mommy’s caregiver, or would she be expected to return with her family?
The day of the funeral was filled with October sunshine, colorful foliage, and brilliant skies the color of periwinkle flowers. A fitting day for Daudy, Becky thought, as she wept by his graveside, standing with Mommy and her parents, wearing her new black dress and black bonnet over her white covering.
She was glad to return to the homestead, her stomach growling, she was so hungry. The mashed potatoes were hot and creamy, the beef gravy thick and rich, just the way she liked it. With sliced roast beef and cheese, cold pepper slaw, and rolls with plenty of jelly and butter, Becky felt much better after she had eaten.
After the farm was cleaned up and the last of the helpers had gone home, the family gathered in Mommy’s living room to make the decision. How should they care for Mommy?
First, they addressed Becky, who sat nervously pleating the hem of her apron with fast moving fingers, biting her lower lip.
Henry spoke. “What are your plans, Becky? Do you want to stay on?”
The anxiety in his voice tore at Becky’s heart, knowing the life of this young farmer and his depressed wife. To leave Mommy alone in her little house was unsafe, as hazardous as pushing her across the street at midday. She would injure herself, or worse, jeopardize others’ lives as well with the dementia, her inability to remember.
Becky felt torn in two. She wanted to go home, resume her carefree life, and be with Daniel, but she knew she was needed here. Then there was the big question about whether Daniel even expected her to be his girlfriend. She was barely seventeen and too young for a serious relationship, he probably thought.
She shrugged her shoulders and looked to Mam for help. Nancy spoke up, confident, commanding attention.
“She can come home with us. She’s done enough. Everyone expects too much of Becky at such a young age.”
Dat nodded, solemnly.
Salome raked in a hissing breath. “Well, I can’t do it. My nerves won’t take it.”
Henry quickly patted her shoulder and said, “No, Salome, you won’t have to.”
Mary stuck her elbow into Anna’s ribs and glowered at Salome, which was not lost on Mam.
“I’ll stay,” Becky said.
Salome lifted he
r head, hope in her dull, gray eyes.
Suddenly, little Mommy sat forward on her rocking chair, planted her feet firmly on the rug, and raised a hand. “I want to go to Wisconsin,” she announced, in a clear voice.
“You can’t,” Reuben said forcefully.
“Why can’t I?”
“Well, I don’t know. You’re not fit.”
“What do you mean, I’m not fit? I’m fit as a fiddle. Becky is here, and she knows everything about me. All I need is a room to myself, a bed, windows to look out of, a table to read my Bible, a few chairs, and my crocheting. I want to go. I can’t live here without Daudy.” She began to cry in earnest, childlike little coughs and hiccups following her tears.
Becky felt her own tears rising and blinked them back quickly.
Dat looked at Mam whose face had turned pale. She sat like a stone on her chair, unable to move with the shock of Mommy’s announcement.
Becky watched her mother’s face and felt the battle within her. But she couldn’t help thinking, “There, Mam, what you expected of your relatives is suddenly required of you. Now step up to the plate and do your share.” But she said nothing.
Mam cleared her throat, knotting the Kleenex on her lap. “Well, I suppose we could give it a try.”
She lifted martyred eyes to Dat, the desperation in them as plain as the nose on her face.
Dat blinked and looked to Becky for help.
Becky sat up straight, squared her shoulders, and said she could see no problem, as long as her parents were willing to make the necessary sacrifices, thinking all the while of Daniel and hoping she would soon be with him every single weekend.
“Don’t they say you should never move a person away from the environment they are used to?” Mary asked.
“You mean if they have dementia?” Salome asked loudly.
Mommy perked up, small and birdlike, her eyes darting from one face to the next. “Where did you get that word? I never heard of it. Whatever you mean by it, I don’t have it. Sometimes I just forget things. Everybody does.”
Here she paused, her little face like a wrinkled, dried prune, and held up one thin arm, the flesh loose and soft and dotted with age spots like dark freckles, with one bony finger held aloft. “If Becky lives in Wisconsin with Enos and Sadie, then that is where I want to go.”
Suddenly exhausted, she scooted herself back, laid her head on the headrest of the recliner, closed her eyes, and said nothing more.
The family discussed the good and the not so good, but in the end, Becky knew she would go home with Mommy in tow.
They made plans to haul a trailer with the things she would need. The following day they would load the trailer, clean the house, and prepare Mommy for the long trip to Wisconsin.
Becky did not sleep much that night. The joy of going home kept waking her when she dozed. The unknown about Daniel made her giddy with anticipation. Was she just too big? Too large and unattractive to him after being away for so long?
But he said he thought about her every day and he held her in his arms. But perhaps that was only because of the chill. Or perhaps he did that to lots of girls.
Ah, no. Probably not every girl would want him. He was older, twenty-two or twenty-three, she wasn’t sure which, and certainly not tall, dark, and handsome. Well, that was fine with her. She wasn’t either. Daniel was plenty good-looking, with his longish brown hair and narrow eyes that were blue as the sky. He was kind and slow, a bit unconcerned, and his nose was big. But not too big.
In the late morning she hugged Salome, shook Henry’s hand, and thanked them for everything they had done to help. They latched the door on the trailer, settled Mommy into the second seat of the fifteen-passenger van with two pillows at her side and a blanket across her lap. They had a bottle of water and a thermos of hot tea, a package of crackers and a small banana for her. She was as excited as a child, but as the miles fell away, she dozed, her head lolling on the plump, white pillow.
Mam seemed agitated, talking in short sentences. She was gruff to the boys and short with Dat, calming down only when the steady hum of the engine and the gentle rocking of the van lulled her into an uneasy sleep. Her chin sank into her chest, her hunched shoulders swaying with the vehicle’s movement.
Becky sat in the backseat with Abner and Junior, a stab of pity for her mother and grandmother erasing the shared humor of her brothers. There she sat, hurtling along the interstate, as dependent on the driver’s skill as she would surely be dependent on God to provide the skills she would need. She would be dealing with a feisty little grandmother who, far too often, did not recognize what went on around her and had become completely dependent on the orders of her caregivers—if she chose to obey.
Well, Becky thought, the wheel of life turns and takes us along, Mam. Perhaps now I will be more than just Becky, the second daughter, too large, too unpopular with the youth, and a sort of nobody, especially when Nancy’s around. You’ll be asking me questions about how to cope with this difficult situation.
Still, in spite of recognizing all this, Becky loved her mother with a love that was a physical ache. She knew she didn’t really want to bring Mommy home to Wisconsin, but she would have felt too guilty to refuse, afraid of doing wrong by not doing her duty. Maybe this is the fear of the Lord, the principle by which we become wise. Becky shook her head with the irony of it.
To shake herself from her reverie, she punched Junior’s arm, causing him to grab his forearm with the palm of his hand, squeeze his eyes shut, and howl. “Ow! Ouch! Becky, you forget how powerful you are.”
“Wanna arm wrestle?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.” He grinned over at Becky with his lopsided grin. She knew she could beat him at arm wrestling, every time. Well, maybe not always, but now she could.
“It’s tough, isn’t it, having a sister who can ‘gitcha’?”
They chuckled together, Becky’s infectious laugh rolling out, making Abner lean forward and turn his head to look at her. “I didn’t realize how much I missed that sound, Becky.”
“You missed me, didn’t you? Didn’t think you would, now, did you?” Becky grinned and kept smiling for miles.
CHAPTER 9
WHEN THEY ARRIVED HOME, QUICK TEARS welled up in Becky’s eyes. She flung herself through the front door and up the steps to her bedroom where she stood, one hand on each side of the doorframe, drinking in the haven that was her room. It was her own private place to be, where her furniture and pictures and pillows and all her pretty things surrounded her like friends, warming her heart with the familiar, the safe, the loved.
Coming home was a memorable event, one she recorded with descriptive words in her diary. Her stay in Lancaster stamped her heart with a full and absolute appreciation of home.
They cleaned out the sitz-schtup, the formal living room, usually closed off by four removable doors, or double doors, as the Amish named them. Before church services were held in shops and garages and basements, they were held in the house. Every piece of furniture from the first floor was moved into the bench wagon, the large, enclosed, horse-drawn wagon that housed the long benches used for church services, moving them to the next home that would be hosting church, or a wedding or funeral.
Now Mommy had a cozy room of her own, with the family close enough that she was not alone. The sounds of family life would be muffled, but comforting. She had no kitchen and no bathroom, but since she needed assistance with both, her new place was a good fit.
She had her beige recliner, covered with the crocheted afghan in vivid colors of red and green. On a small stand beside it, she could put her glasses, battery alarm clock, a dish of hard candy, her Bible, and, on the lower shelf, her basket of yarn containing the project of the moment. She was usually working on an afghan, using up the leftover yarn someone brought her from the Goodwill store in town.
Nearby was a small drop-leaf table with a chair pushed into each end, her single bed with
a colorful nine-patch quilt, an assortment of woven rugs in brilliant colors, and a chest of drawers, with her water set on a doily. The pitcher and glasses were valuable antiques that had belonged to her grandmother. On the wall hung numerous calendars and family records, plus aerial photos, framed in oak, of the home farm in Lancaster County.
She brought her diaries along, and the family shared their copies of the weekly Amish newspaper called Die Botschaft and a few other periodicals like Guideposts and Reader’s Digest. She seldom read now though, since she was unable to concentrate long enough to finish a story.
When it became cold and windy, the wind rising to a high whine around the eaves, the doors separating her room from the warm kitchen had to be removed, but she only allowed two to be taken away to the attic, saying she was warm enough.
She would wrap a blanket around her legs, kick up the footrest of the recliner, fold her hands in her lap, and sit, a childlike smile on her weathered face. She felt like this was her vacation, and she was enjoying her rest. No cooking or washing and no garden; only days of watching the family, listening to their talk, and resting.
This all worked well until she became bored and wanted something to do. One day she wandered out of the house while Mam was bent over the sewing machine and decided to visit the neighbors. Mam was beside herself, running to the implement shed to find Dat, her anxiety and fear rising by the second.
Of course they soon found Mommy wandering out the driveway, almost to the mailbox, talking to herself, a smile on her face, enjoying the pleasure of her own company.
When the weekend arrived, Becky was much more excited than she would have thought possible, after having been away for many months. She dressed with special care, wearing a blue dress the color of a morning sky. Her hopes were elevated to new heights, now that she had carefully relived Daniel’s words over and over. She steadily pushed away specters of doubt and disbelief, twin ghosts that banished her happiness effectively. She had a chance, she told herself. That was the thing.
Ironically, they were to spend the evening singing Christmas carols at Round Oaks. A bit early, perhaps, but the administrator had asked them to come. Becky looked forward to seeing Harold Epstein, her old friend and confidant.
