Abiding Mercy

by Ruth Reid

  “Sorry if I woke you up.”

  Faith pushed up on her elbow. “I heard Mamm might be discharged tomorrow.”

  “Nett anymore. One of her kidneys is failing.”

  “Failing!”

  “I wanted to stay with her but she insisted I kumm home. She didn’t want you having to do everything by yourself.” Olivia crossed to her side of the room, retrieved a nightdress from the bottom dresser drawer, then began removing the straight pins that held the front of her dress together.

  “She didn’t mention it when I spoke with her earlier.”

  “I overheard her and the doktah talking about possible surgery to remove it, but like I said, she didn’t want me to stay.”

  Faith squinted at the lamp’s flickering flame. The wick had burned down to almost nothing. “What time did visiting hours end?”

  “I don’t know.” Her sister slipped off her kapp and combed her fingers through her hair. “We left after the nurse brought the supper tray.”

  That was hours ago. Faith rested her back against the wooden headboard. “Did Beverly have car problems?”

  “Nope. I was in town for a while.” She walked between the two beds and plopped down on the bed, collapsing against the mattress in a moan.

  “How long?”

  “A few hours. Why does it matter? You weren’t home when Beverly dropped me off, so I went into town.”

  “Catherine and I could have used your help.” Faith paused, but Olivia offered no apology. “I know about your plans to jump the fence.”

  “Is this about Gideon? Because I told you at the hospital, I’m confused.” She flipped over, the mattress springs jangling under her weight.

  “It’s about Mamm and Daed. They need our help at the restaurant and around the haus. I’m sure Daed won’t be able to do the barn chores for a while. And if Mamm loses a kidney . . .”

  Her sister was silent, but feigning sleep wouldn’t prevent this long-overdue conversation from happening. Hard to believe she’d actually missed Olivia last night.

  “I know about the money you’ve been hiding in the barn,” Faith said.

  Olivia flipped over. She glared at Faith with piercing eyes and furrowed brows, her face turning a deep red. “Keep your hands off it.”

  “Oh, relax. I’m nett going to take it.” Faith leaned toward the nightstand in between the two beds and turned the lamp wick down. The escape into darkness held surprising relief. At least she’d broached the subject. Now it was up to God to work in Olivia’s heart.

  As promised, Gideon was milking the cow the following morning when Faith went into the barn for chicken feed. She poked her head around the wall divider where he was seated on the stool next to the cow. “Guder mariye.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “I’m almost done.”

  Her gaze fixed on the rhythmic movements of his shoulders. He had the thickest, strongest shoulders she’d ever seen. She rested her head against the wall and sighed.

  After a few seconds, Gideon turned back and faced her. He cleared his throat and smiled.

  Faith straightened. A flash of heat spread up her neck and settled in her cheeks. She was too old for such silliness. “I have to go collect the eggs,” she stammered, then scurried over to the grain bin and scooped some corn into a can.

  The chickens didn’t need much. The lawn held plenty of bugs to feast on. With the flock distracted by the corn she’d scattered, she ducked into the coop. The strong stench of ammonia burned her eyes. Holding her breath, she gathered the eggs quickly. Changing the straw in the nesting boxes was another task to add to the list of chores. Other duties crowded her mind, and she mentally categorized their importance as she carefully stacked the eggs into the apron around her waist. Then, satisfied she’d collected them all, she escaped the coop. The door slammed and she leaned back against the shed wall, sucking in fresh air.

  “Fumes bad?” Gideon chuckled a few feet away.

  Faith nodded and wrinkled her nose as she pushed off the wall.

  “When was the coop cleaned last?”

  She shrugged. “Probably a month ago.” Daed kept the hen house clean. He changed out the straw every other week and tried to wash down the concrete floors at least monthly. She didn’t pay much attention until it got bad like today. Her eyes were watery and she might not ever clear the stench in her nostrils.

  Gideon walked with her to the house, carrying the milk canister. Faith held the door open, then followed him into the kitchen. Olivia wasn’t up, not surprising.

  Gideon nodded his head at the counter. “I see a food drive was organized.”

  “It showed up yesterday,” she said, clearing a spot for the milk canister. “Do you see anything you’d like to eat? It’s going to go bad if I don’t do something with it.”

  “Danki, but I’ve already eaten breakfast.” He set the milk canister down, then inspected the different containers of food. “The brownies look gut.”

  “Help yourself. Olivia and I won’t eat them all.”

  “Olivia’s home?”

  “She’s sleeping in.” Faith hoped the sarcasm wasn’t evident. She lowered the eggs one by one into the basin.

  Gideon sidled up beside her at the sink. “Gut.”

  “Gut?” She eyed him hard. He seemed happy, his smile almost gloating. Focus your thoughts. She scrubbed an egg.

  “Need help?” He picked up a dish towel.

  She rinsed the egg and handed it to him. Although they worked in silence, the noise going on in her head made it hard to focus. She finished washing the last egg and handed it to him to dry. “I told Olivia I knew about the money she stashed in the barn.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That I should keep mei hands off it.”

  Gideon didn’t look surprised. As if allowing her to draw her own conclusion, he set the egg in the basket with the others, then handed her the dish towel without saying anything.

  “Go ahead—say it—I told you so.” Faith wiped her hands on the towel and tossed it on the counter.

  Gideon picked up the basket. “Is this all you’re taking into town?”

  She glanced at the food. “Would you mind if we make an extra stop? I’d like to drop some of this food off at the homeless shelter.”

  “Sure.”

  Faith gathered several containers, including the raspberries. “Don’t tell anyone I’m getting rid of the food.”

  Gideon frowned. “You mean don’t tell mei mamm you’re giving away the raspberries I picked for her?”

  “Ach, I didn’t know your mother arranged all of this.”

  “That’s okay. She probably doesn’t know you’re allergic to raspberries.”

  “Would you like to take them back home?”

  “Nay. We have plenty. I think what you’re doing is kind.”

  “I’m casting mei bread into the water,” she said.

  His brows crinkled.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you on the way into town.” She handed Gideon the basket of eggs, then picked up the dishes of food and headed to the door.

  The ride into town went quickly. Gideon chatted about his plans to clear more land and increase his crop size. He also shared his ideas of turning his apple groves into a U-Pick farm in the future.

  The volunteers at the homeless shelter were thrilled with the donation, and Faith was pleased the food wouldn’t go to waste. Once they reached The Amish Table, she shifted on the bench to face Gideon. “Do you want to kumm in for kaffi?”

  He shook his head. “I have fieldwork to do before it gets too hot. After that I’m going to try to work on a new watering system.” He explained how laborious it was to haul water from the pump to his orchards and his idea of building some sort of holding tanks at various locations in the fields to catch rainwater.

  “Your day sounds full.”

  “I might be tied up for a few days,” he said, adding, “I’ll still take care of your daed’s barn chores, but do you think Catherine c
an give you a ride to and from work?”

  Her heart sank, but she forced a smile, hoping it hid her disappointment. “I’m sure she will.”

  He lowered his gaze and a smile upturned the corners of his mouth. After a second he looked up and locked eyes with her. “But who knows, things could change.”

  Chapter 19

  Bloomfield Hills, Michigan

  Present day

  Roslyn stared at the drawings, tears clouding her vision. Her sister had captured Adriana’s image so perfectly. Every detail, from the tiny dark ringlets on her forehead to her button nose and big, expressive light-blue eyes. If Roslyn concentrated she might hear her child’s sweet voice again.

  “What do you think?” Chrisla asked, her voice soft.

  A bubble formed in Roslyn’s throat that she couldn’t swallow. Her sister’s heartfelt work was evident in her drawings. She glanced furtively at Chrisla, who hovered with arched brows as if seeking approval.

  “I, ah . . . I see Adriana’s inquisitive expression and . . .” Roslyn squeezed her eyes shut.

  “What is it?”

  “I see my baby sitting in that clickety cart, reaching for those raspberries.” Tears trickled down her face, saltiness collecting in the corners of her mouth. She hated that her last memory was of her being short with Adriana. Frustrated with the sticky mess she’d made on her face, her hands, and her dress. None of it mattered now. Roslyn turned away from the drawings and buried her face in her hands.

  “Sis.” Chrisla placed her hand on Roslyn’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard.”

  How could her sister possibly understand? She didn’t know what it was like to lose a child. Chrisla watched her boys grow up, watched them take their first steps, get their first haircuts. She drove them to school and went with them on field trips. Unlike Roslyn, Chrisla had the opportunity to record every inch as they grew. She didn’t miss out on anything with Ryan and Hunter. Her sister didn’t know how difficult it was . . . she couldn’t.

  “I have a few more sketches of Adriana I’d like to show you.” Chrisla reached into her leather portfolio and removed the pages. Unrolling the next set of drawings, she arranged them in front of Roslyn. “I used old photographs of you and Brandon as teenagers to combine your features.”

  Roslyn stared at the age-advanced images, noticing the resemblances right away.

  “In this picture, I used Brandon’s strong jawline with your high cheekbones.” Her sister went on to point out the combination of dominate features.

  The uncanny resemblance pricked Roslyn’s arms with tiny goose bumps.

  Chrisla placed the next print beside the first one. “I gave Adriana your heart-shaped face and Brandon’s eyes in this one.”

  Roslyn always knew her artsy sister was talented, but Chrisla mostly painted landscape murals. In these drawings she captured the likeness of both Brandon and her. “The pictures seem so lifelike.”

  “Because you see yourself.”

  Roslyn pointed at the teenager drawing. “Whose pouty lips did you give her?”

  Chrisla smiled. “Those are definitely yours. At least I hope she doesn’t have Brandon’s thin lips.”

  Roslyn wouldn’t care which features Adriana favored: full lips, big eyes, pointed chin, or slanted nose. None of it mattered.

  “I also didn’t give her Brandon’s broad shoulders or his receding hairline.” Chrisla chuckled, then, widening her eyes, she clasped her hand over her mouth. “His ears must’ve been burning,” she said under her breath.

  Roslyn glanced over her shoulder as Brandon entered the kitchen, his overnight bag and briefcase in hand, but his expression didn’t indicate he’d heard Chrisla’s comment. “What time is your flight?”

  “Not for a couple of hours.” He tossed his travel bags on the floor next to the wall, then went to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of water.

  It always amazed Roslyn how little he packed for a trip. A few polo shirts, trousers, exercise clothes, gym sneakers, and shaving gear were all crammed into one bag, while any time Roslyn traveled, she packed a minimum of three suitcases—one with nothing but shoes.

  Brandon uncapped the water and took a drink. “What are you two looking at?” He craned his head toward the artwork. “Nice work, Chrisla.”

  “Thank you. Does the girl in the picture look familiar?”

  Roslyn sucked in a breath as Brandon walked over to the table, then rotated the paper to get a better view and examined it.

  “Nope.” He chugged more water.

  Chrisla unrolled the other sketches for him to view.

  Color drained from Brandon’s face. He looked up at Roslyn. “What’s this all about?”

  “It was my idea,” her sister volunteered. “In two months it will have been fifteen years since Adriana went missing. I thought maybe we could—”

  Brandon glared at Chrisla with a look Roslyn hadn’t seen in a long time. “What are you trying to do? Send your sister back to the—”

  He cut himself off, but they all knew what he was about to say.

  “The loony farm,” Roslyn said. Although Mission Stone Manor wasn’t a farm at all, Brandon called it that because she had spent the majority of her lengthy stay working in the greenhouse and garden. As it turned out, repotting herbs, watering plants, and pulling weeds had been more therapeutic than the group talks. Spending time alone helped her form the idea of developing a foundation in her daughter’s name.

  Brandon tapped Roslyn’s arm. “Will you help me find my knee brace?”

  He only wore his knee brace to play basketball and it wasn’t often that he played the sport. “I’m sure it’s in one of the cabinets in the laundry room.”

  He tilted his head, giving her the I-need-to-talk-with-you-alone look.

  Roslyn stood. “I’ll be right back, sis.” She dreaded what Brandon would say about the sketches. After she returned from New York, she mentioned having the case reopened. Brandon’s response had been to remind her how many kooks had called the hotline number during the original investigation. How emotionally draining each call and the hope it represented had been.

  Inside the laundry room, she reached to open the cabinet where he stored his sports equipment, but he stopped her.

  “I don’t need my brace. I just wanted a few minutes to talk with you privately.”

  “Oh.” Roslyn leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. Stay calm.

  “Had you seen your sister’s drawings of Adriana before?”

  She shook her head. “Not until today.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would she be guessing what Adriana looks like as a teenager?”

  “Do you remember me telling you that a reporter from the Detroit News contacted me about doing a story?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “They want to focus on how the foundation was started and how we’ve assisted recovery efforts for more than a hundred abducted children.” She swallowed hard. “They also want to include an update on Adriana.”

  The creases along his forehead deepened. “And how do the drawings . . . ?” Inhaling a raspy breath, he averted his eyes. This was harder on him than she’d expected. Over the years, he’d always been strong, resilient, relying more on logistics than emotions.

  “Chrisla thinks we might be able to get the case reopened, given the anniversary of Adriana’s abduction is coming up.” Roslyn hadn’t fully wrapped her mind around what it would mean to have her daughter’s case reopened, or even if she would be able to convince the authorities to reinvestigate. Since she and her sister had returned from New York, they hadn’t had much time together to discuss more on the topic.

  “Our daughter’s case was closed more than a decade ago—for a reason,” Brandon said, a noticeable quiver in his tone. “She’s gone.”

  “Her body was never found.” Even after the long winter.

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that fact.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Roz, without having new information, I don’t see them r
eopening a cold case. Does any of this have to do with the recent kidnapping in Cheboygan?”

  “No, that turned out to be a custody squabble. The boy was taken from day care by the father without prior arrangements with the mother. He’s back home now.”

  Brandon lifted his hand to her face, gently touching her cheek. “Adriana’s been gone a long time. Her case is cold. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  Losing her child was like falling into a bottomless dark hole. The only good thing that had come out of losing Adriana was their restored marriage. Brandon had credited God for providing wisdom to become a better husband. Roslyn wished God’s wisdom included pointing them to Adrianna.

  “I can’t . . . forget about her,” she said.

  “Adriana will always be remembered.” He drew her into his arms. “That’s why you started the foundation.”

  Roslyn had learned to suppress the pain, mastered fooling others into believing everything was fine, but creating the foundation in Adriana’s name had only redirected her grief into assisting others. A chill made its way down her spine. Somehow Brandon sensed it and pressed her tighter.

  “You have to keep moving forward,” he said barely above a whisper.

  “I can’t let my baby go,” she sobbed, resting her head against his solid shoulders.

  “I know.” His voice was raspy with emotion. “It’s hard for me too.”

  It was right to keep looking. Even if doing so meant having to weed out the kooks, as Brandon called them. Adriana was alive. Roslyn just had to find her and bring her home.

  Brandon buried his face in her hair. “Should I postpone my trip?”

  “No.” Roslyn gently pushed back and dried her eyes. “You’re needed for the merger to go through.” And she needed to pursue reopening Adriana’s case while he was out of town and unable to talk her out of it.

  “I don’t have to fly halfway around the world to sign a few legal documents. The lawyers will take care of it. Wilson will Express Mail me the forms I need to sign.”