Ruthie had never once come to see Luke while he was in rehab. Not a single time. Not a letter, not a phone call. Not even a word passed to him through her own father, David. Once or twice he posed a question to David about her. Casually, because he didn’t like to betray his chaotic feelings.
David’s answer was always the same. “Ruthie’s doing just fine, Luke. She’s moving on.”
Everyone was moving on. Everyone except for Luke. He wasn’t good at being left behind.
Later that afternoon, back at Windmill Farm, as he helped lead two milk cows to their stanchions, he felt particularly tetchy. The barn seemed large and empty, full of long shadows. He emptied a fresh scoop of feed in front of each cow, sprayed the udders with iodine solution, and wiped them dry. He moved the pail beneath one cow to start the slow process of milking. Painfully slow. The milk made a pinging sound as it hit the empty bottom of the container. The barn door opened, casting sunlight on Luke, and he looked up to see Amos carrying in a stainless steel milk can.
“Here’s a clean one,” he said, placing it near Luke.
“Amos, I know you only have two cows, but I can’t believe you still hand milk them. Even for the Amish, it seems old-fashioned.” Yesterday afternoon, Amos showed him how he kept the milk cans in a tank of cold, cold water until the milk truck came to pick them up. The windmill pumped cold water to the tank. It wasn’t just old-fashioned; it was archaic.
“That’s how my father did it, and his father before him.”
That kind of thinking frustrated Luke. Windmill Farm was just standing still, not growing, not improving, not adapting. “I can guarantee that you’re the only one in that church who still milks by hand.” He heard his voice take on a harsh sound. He couldn’t help it.
“What’s eating you?” Amos said, gently stroking the side of the cow’s belly, then scratching her behind her ears.
Surely, Amos must be kidding. If not, he was blind. “Did you not see how cold people were to me? I sat alone for lunch like I had the bubonic plague. No one greeted me, unless it was to give me some kind of warning.”
“Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad.”
“It was worse than bad. Hank Lapp told me that I inspired him to start a new business. Highly lucrative, he expects, since I’m back in town. Mailboxes that double as bomb bunkers.”
The laughter in Amos’s eyes was both teasing and knowing. “That’s just Hank’s way. He likes to tweak.”
“And of course he likes to shout out his lame jokes to the entire world.” He glanced crossly at Amos. “He’s your uncle. Did he ever talk in a normal tone or did he always shout?”
“Always shouts.”
Luke turned back to the cow. “What happened to the Amish being known as kind people? Where’d that go?”
“Did you expect a red carpet to be rolled out? You can’t have expected it to be easy, coming back. You’re going to have to put on a little thicker shell to avoid getting so easily offended by Hank Lapp’s bad jokes.”
“I didn’t expect a red carpet. But I didn’t think I’d be cold-shouldered, not like I was. What happened to forgiveness?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s the problem, Luke. I think people can forgive. They probably all do forgive you.” Amos went to the far end of the barn, where the water tank sat, and brought back another container for the second cow. She was shifting uncomfortably from hoof to hoof and making lowing noises. Luke knew that meant she’d be bellowing if he didn’t hurry up with the first cow.
When he looked up, Luke noticed how red Amos’s face was from the exertion, though the empty container wasn’t all that heavy. A weariness came into his eyes. “Let me do it, Amos.” He reached out for the container, but Amos jerked it away.
“I’m not a feeble old man.”
“Of course not. I didn’t mean that.” Wow. That reaction seemed prickly. Luke was only trying to help him.
“Make it snappy with Sage. Lemon Thyme’s getting impatient.”
Oh yeah, Sage and Lemon Thyme. Luke kept forgetting their names. Amos had told him that his youngest daughter, M.K., had dubbed each farm animal with an herb name.
Amos set the container down. “I’m not sure David’s ever told you this, but I think you ought to know. Those people in that church—the very ones who gave you a cold shoulder—they’re also the ones who’ve been paying for your stints in rehab. Each time. Three, if I’m not mistaken.”
Luke hadn’t known. That information sent a jolt through him. He hadn’t known, he hadn’t known. He should’ve, though. He knew the real heart of these people. They had each other’s back, even if it didn’t always feel that way.
“Like I said, forgiveness, that comes naturally for us. It’s trust that’s hard to restore. Trust is a fragile thing. There’s no such thing as a little violation of trust, especially if you’re the one who was betrayed. These people, they don’t trust you.”
Luke sat down on the milking stool and leaned his forehead against Sage’s big, soft stomach. He should have considered that the church had taken up a collection to pay for his costs at rehab. Why hadn’t it occurred to him to ask David who was paying for it? Not once did it cross his mind. Sighing, he lifted his head and looked up at Amos. “So what do I do about that? I mean . . . how can I stick around when no one is willing to trust me?”
“Well, Luke, the way I see it, if you don’t stick around, you’ll never find out the answer to that question.” Amos walked over to the barn door and turned back. “And it seems like a pretty important thing to figure out.” With that final comment, he shut the barn door behind him.
Izzy learned quickly. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that Plain people put more stock in what a person did than in what they said. That system worked well for her, since she didn’t like to talk much and she did like to keep busy. She helped Fern without being asked and didn’t pester her with conversation. She just watched how Fern went about her day and copied everything she did.
When Izzy first arrived at Windmill Farm, she thought Fern made enough food each meal to feed the whole Amish community. Dinner, which was actually lunch, consisted of dishes like chicken potpie and a beef roast swimming in gravy. Not either/or . . . both! There were relishes and breads and stewed peaches and applesauce. Bowl after bowl kept coming. In the center of the table Fern would place a full pitcher of fresh cold milk. Then she would clang the dinner bell and in came Amos from the barn or the orchards. Not much later, only empty dishes remained, waiting to be washed. It would start all over again at suppertime, which was actually dinner. Maybe only one meat dish instead of two, but afterward it seemed there were just as many dishes to wash.
Nearly a year had passed and Izzy still hadn’t grown accustomed to seeing such bounty, day after day. It had never been part of her life to have all she wanted. It often worried her that she was too happy, that one day—poof—it would all disappear and she’d find herself back on the streets, scrounging leftovers from garbage bins.
Tonight, Luke Schrock sank down into the chair across from her at the kitchen table. As usual, she didn’t look directly at him, she stole a glance. Over the years Izzy had developed the habit of avoiding eye contact. She actually loved to observe people’s faces, especially their eyes. But though she liked looking, she did not like being looked at.
Izzy knew her looks received attention, whether she wanted it or not. Boys in school gawked at her. Girls were instantly envious of her, without even bothering to get to know her. Grown men stared at her for a few seconds too long. The strange thing was that how she felt on the inside was nothing like how she must look to others.
It was easier here, among the Plain people, without any makeup, wearing modest clothes that made Izzy blend in. She appeared like any other woman in the church. She liked being invisible. And that big black bonnet. Oh my soul, she loved it. It shielded her face, made her entirely indistinguishable, all while giving her the opportunity to study the world around her.
It was one of the thi
ngs Izzy loved most about being in church on Sunday. She got to look and look while nobody looked at her. Everybody’s eyes were fixed on the preacher. She liked to sit in the back row, so she could take it all in.
It had taken some getting used to, the long long long church service. It wasn’t easy to sit on a backless wooden bench for three hours, but she had grown accustomed to it. She’d lived in bustling towns or cities most of her eighteen years, so the deliberate quiet of this church community was something she had come to savor.
Whenever Izzy was in church, which was only twice a month, she was able to measure how much progress she’d made in learning Plain ways: the dialect, then the high German, the tunes of the woeful hymns. So filled with woe. Teddy Zook would stand and sing in a slow, measured baritone—such a big man, belting out such big deep notes!—and others would pick up on his lead. One hymn, the Loblied, lasted thirty minutes. Izzy had timed it.
She remembered how shocked she’d felt that very first Sunday. She’d attended only one church, when she was living with a foster family that attended church regularly. What was their name? She couldn’t remember. But she had liked them, had felt safe with them, and she remembered that she had liked that church. But that service hadn’t lasted three hours. In fact, now that she thought about it, the family was always late to church, and whooshed away right after because the father liked to watch football games on Sundays. They’d probably only gone to church for forty-five minutes.
And now, barely a year later, this long Amish church service felt familiar, if not normal. In fact, the entire Plain life felt pretty normal to her.
These last twelve months at Windmill Farm—they were the longest Izzy’d ever lived in one place. She remembered how strange the house had seemed when David Stoltzfus first delivered her to Windmill Farm. She had looked around the small downstairs, shell-shocked. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, mostly filled with religious titles that she definitely had no interest in. None whatsoever. There was no television, no phone, no radio, no computers, no music. The house smelled of Clorox bleach and lemon wax and was warm to the point of suffocation.
She remembered that Fern had led her upstairs to her bedroom, a large room with two windows. That part, she liked. An easy getaway, if necessary. There was a strip of wood with pegs on the wall. A dress the color of eggplant hung on one peg. One tall dresser but no closet. Two twin beds were covered with cheerful quilts, providing the only bit of color in the room. She put her duffel bag next to the bed by the window. “Not that one,” Fern had said. “That’s Jenny’s. The other bed is yours.”
Izzy’s heart began to pound. She was sharing a room with someone? Who? What had she gotten herself into?
Into the room walked Jenny, a small young woman. Not particularly pretty or remarkable, not in the way Izzy’s world took notice of a female. Easy to overlook, easy to underestimate. She changed Izzy’s life.
three
The moment Izzy had first met Jenny Yoder, she felt an instant connection, something she couldn’t explain even if she tried, which she wouldn’t.
On her second day at Windmill Farm, Fern had taken Izzy and Jenny to a comfort quilt gathering. On the way to the gathering, Fern explained to her that each woman was given the task of piecing together a block that would be sewn together and sent to a group home in Lancaster for foster children who were waiting for homes. And didn’t Izzy know all about those. She sat in the back seat, listening to Fern and Jenny chatter away in Penn Dutch, feeling her stomach twist and turn with every bump and jolt of the buggy.
But when they arrived at the farmhouse where the quilting was to be held, Izzy learned that the pattern to be sewn was the basic nine-patch, and her whole self uncoiled with relief. One of her foster mothers had liked to quilt and had taught her how to make this simple pattern. One thing Izzy knew about herself: if someone took the time to teach her how to do something, she could take off and run with it. But she’d always needed to be shown how first. This nine-patch quilt block, this she could do. She wouldn’t need to ask anyone for help.
Fern’s friends had welcomed Izzy warmly, even speaking mostly in English for her benefit. They couldn’t have been any nicer, but she still felt like a fish out of water. They had a certain way between them that was beyond her. She was included, but she was alone.
And then something happened, a small thing, but momentous. When everyone had finished their nine-patch, they placed their blocks on the table to arrange and sew into a larger quilt. Izzy and Jenny laid their squares next to each other, then looked up in surprise. Their blocks were identical, down to the specific choices of fabric for each square. Every single square, it all lined up, color for color. Izzy felt a moment of panic—would Jenny be angry? Would she think she had copied her? She hadn’t! They had sat in different circles, on opposite sides of the room.
A slow grin spread across Jenny’s delicate face, not stopping until her eyes were dancing with amusement. “Well, no wonder I like you so much. You have wonderful taste.”
Jenny laughed, and then Izzy smiled, relieved. Their friendship had grown quickly. Jenny shared her story with Izzy, that she and her brother Chris had converted to the Amish in their teens, helped along by the Stoney Ridge Amish. Fern, mostly.
It wasn’t much later that Jenny asked her if she’d considered going Amish. Izzy was intrigued by the Plain lifestyle. She always had been. But join them? She hadn’t known it was even possible, not until Jenny brought it up to consider. In a way, Jenny had forged a path for Izzy.
Jenny took it upon herself to mentor Izzy in all ways Amish—language, customs and traditions, and the everyday-ness of the Plain farm life. Clothing and hair were the first change Izzy made, and the best. When Izzy first put on a simple blue dress, and pinned her thick hair up into a bun to be covered with an organza prayer cap, it seemed as if she had walked through a door into another world. She belonged to something bigger than herself. Something better. And in a strange way, she also felt beautiful, truly beautiful, for the first time in her life. First time. Plain and beautiful.
She owed this transformation to Jenny. Izzy had never had a best friend before. She’d moved too often for friendships to have the time they needed to take root. In a perfect world, Izzy and Jenny would stay at Windmill Farm for the rest of their natural lives. But Jenny’s life seemed set toward a different path.
David Stoltzfus’s only son, Jesse, had run a buggy shop out of Windmill Farm. From the moment she had arrived, Izzy had observed something brewing between Jenny and Jesse. Izzy had seen the whole thing, could have predicted it. The way Jesse’s voice sounded shaky when he was around Jenny. The way Jenny’s cheeks went bright red at any mention of Jesse Stoltzfus.
Then the new year came and went. Jenny confided that she and Jesse were making plans for their future. Izzy went a little numb, preparing herself for the inevitable. She knew this drill oh so well. “Wonderful” wouldn’t, couldn’t last.
Soon after, Jesse moved the buggy shop to the back of his father’s Bent N’ Dent store, where there was plenty of room to expand it. And Jenny left Windmill Farm to take a well-paying job as a live-in nanny to an English family. Izzy missed her terribly, painfully, a hole-in-her-heart kind of feeling, though she never revealed that to Jenny. “Wonderful” wouldn’t, couldn’t last. But it was wonderful while it lasted.
Luke sat in the phone shanty, waiting for his counselor to call. Same time, each week. He picked up the phone after the first ring.
“So Luke, how’s the first week gone?”
“It’s been okay. Pretty much what I expected it to be.”
“How did you expect it to be?”
Luke hesitated. “Awkward.”
“How so? Anything happen that you didn’t expect?”
Plenty of things. Sleeping in a barn’s tack room, for one. Getting the silent treatment from most everyone at church, for another. But if Luke said aloud what was running through his mind, he knew it would sound ungrateful, and the rest of t
he conversation with the counselor would be focused on changing his attitude. Instead, he shifted topics. “There’s a girl staying here, at the same farm. I remember her from rehab. Izzy Miller. Do you remember her?”
Silence. A beat too long. Luke’s ears pricked.
“Have you interacted much?”
“No. I’ve tried, but she’s pretty frosty to me.” It was almost as if she didn’t like Luke, but . . . that was impossible. Everybody liked him. Girls, especially.
“Maybe her feelings have nothing to do with you, Luke. Maybe she’s trying to figure things out for herself.”
What he meant was, It’s not all about you. Luke had gotten pretty good at interpreting counselor code.
“I guess you’re right. I was just . . . hoping to have someone to talk to. You know, someone who could relate.”
“Who else could you talk to? Besides a cute girl?”
Ah, point taken. Luke sighed. He ran through a few people in his mind. David and Amos, bishop and deacon, but they were busy men. The two ministers weren’t the talking type, unless they happened to be preaching. Then, they talked plenty. Hank Lapp was the only one who seemed to have time to spare, and that was a frightening thought.
“Luke, you have to reach out to others. Be willing to be vulnerable. Remember, you have an uphill climb ahead.”
He snorted. “You got that right.” He swallowed. “They don’t want me here.” His voice sounded wobbly and he cringed. Such a giveaway, that wobble.
“Maybe so. Maybe not. It’s up to you to make them see you differently.”
After they hung up, Luke stayed in the phone shanty for a long time, head bent. He saw a string of weekly phone calls like this one, stretching out for months, leaving him depressed and discouraged. It was how he always felt after therapy sessions. Wrung out.
Mending Fences Page 3
