by Lisa Wingate
The heavy feeling slid slowly to my stomach, like a swallow of something too warm. My throat swelled and prickled.
I’m not going to cry. This is stupid.
I reached for the iPhone, punched up the text messages. Mel, Mel, Mel, Mel . . . Gary the dentist . . . Mel, Mel . . . Richard. Only one from Richard, in all this time. Judging by the first couple of words, it looked like he was checking in about the real estate contracts. Just business.
I was hurt, but in a strange way, not disappointed. At some point during the last few days, I’d gotten over wishing that Richard was the one. And if I really let myself admit it, I knew why. That night with Blaine, dancing beneath the stars at Blue Moon Bay, had made my relationship with Richard seem inconsequential. Richard was absolutely right in wanting the kind of passion that made you remember someone’s birthday, that made thinking of that person as natural as breathing, little puffs of memory coming in the course of normal events, life-giving, like oxygen—a smile, a laugh, the color of an eye, the touch of a hand, the sound of a voice.
I couldn’t even describe the exact color of Richard’s eyes—grayish, I thought.
Blaine’s eyes were the color of warm earth. They sparkled like topaz when he laughed.
But Blaine wasn’t the one. He wasn’t the one, but I wanted someone . . . like him. Someone who fit into my life plan. Someone who wasn’t helping my brother keep secrets and lying to me about it. . . .
My mind swirled with questions as I wound along the quiet highway, shards of sunlight and thready winter shade slipping soundlessly over my car, dry amber grasses bending and waving in the wakes of other vehicles. When I passed by the gate to the family farm, I looked the other way. I didn’t want to reminisce about the place or to admit to myself that I’d let this trip come and go, and I still hadn’t faced the cellar door that had haunted my nightmares. I supposed I never would. After this meeting in Japan, I’d go back to my life. The farm would be sold—either by some miraculous resurrection of the broker offer, or through Clay’s arrangement, whatever it really was. If Clay managed to pull it off, the property would eventually end up in the hands of the Underhills, perhaps. Blaine’s father had become land wealthy over the years, taking on property and buildings when the mortgages were in arrears. . . .
I tried not to think about it the rest of the way to Ruth’s. It was too painful to consider. Maybe Clay would come to his senses. Maybe he’d call me and ask for help.
Turning into the dairy, I waited for the quiet peace of that place to slip over me, to soothe away my hesitations, but all I could think was, This might be the last time I see Ruth. It probably is the last time. . . .
It would be, of course. I wasn’t coming back. Once I got home, I’d be busy with all the normal things, consumed as usual. Maybe I’d try to do a little better job of maintaining connections, in the human sense. I could make more time to get together with Trish, go with her to take the kids to a playground or the zoo. Maybe I’d join a gym, get involved at a church—start going more than a few times a year.
My visit to Moses Lake had brought one realization at least: I wasn’t really accomplishing anything by hiding from God and from my past. All these years of being angry hadn’t brought my father back or changed what had happened. I’d only succeeded in making the past part of the future, spreading it like oil, a slick, sticky coating over everything. I’d allowed my father’s death to claim my life, as well. I was like Ruth’s sister, Lydia, bitter and old before my time. I couched it under the guise of being dedicated to my career, but deep inside, I knew the truth.
When I got back to Seattle, I was going to change things. Be more open, have a talk with Mel about his health and the ridiculous hours we were keeping. . . .
The ideas were still cycling in my head when I knocked on the door at Ruth’s, and Mary and Emily let me in. Ruth was surprised to find me there much earlier than expected. I explained to her that I had a flight out today; I had to get back to work. She only frowned, as if she were looking through me, seeing all the things I’d kept hidden, even from myself.
She didn’t question me, though. Ruth was never confrontational. It wasn’t her nature. She only watched me as we moved to the sun porch and sat down, Mary and Emily trailing behind us.
Emily whispered to Mary, and Mary moved to my chair, cupping a hand near my ear to ask where Roger was.
“Oh, Roger couldn’t come,” I admitted apologetically. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t bring him today.”
Emily’s lip pooched, her jumper bunching on her shoulders as she reached up to smooth escaped corkscrews from her face. “How come?”
“I’m not going back to Moses Lake from here, so Roger wouldn’t have a way to get home.” I felt like a heel, a fun-killer, a promise-breaker for failing to bring Roger to visit again. Beyond that, there was the tug that seemed to haunt me when I looked at these two little redheaded girls in their starched dresses, their smooth skin like china-doll porcelain. They were adorable and sweet, and they made me feel like the most interesting person in the universe, as if they were certain I had the answers to all the important questions. I loved that feeling. I loved the touch of Emily’s hand on mine, the inquisitive look in Mary’s bright hazel eyes.
I wanted to be somebody’s mom someday, to have a family of my own, to bake bread and talk about puppies and go for long walks along a riverbank somewhere. I wanted first days of school and summer vacations, first cars and graduations. But the possibility seemed so far away.
“Can Roger come next time?” Mary pulled an escaped strand of hair over her nose and twisted it into a rope, her eyes crossing as she watched it.
The questions and Ruth’s unwavering regard hemmed me into an uncomfortable position. “Maybe Clay can bring him next time.”
In the corner of my vision, Ruth laid a finger alongside her lips, then shoed the girls from the room, so we could talk. “I’m glad you’ve come by,” she said, but there was a melancholy tone in the words. I wasn’t accustomed to seeing Ruth like that. Even sick with cancer, she had an upbeat, peaceful quality that I admired . . . craved, really. I wanted to be more like Ruth, more serene, more certain that God was laying the path, watching over my shoulder, guiding each step. Planning to give me what was best for me in the future.
Ruth was good at faith in the way that I was good at my job, I realized. She worked at it. Nothing worth doing comes easily, had always been one of her favorite sayings.
“I didn’t find any more of your drawings,” I told her. “I’m sorry. I never made it down to the basement to look. I’ll send Clay a text and ask him to search the rest of the house.”
Ruth shook her head. “No matter.” She leaned across the arm of her chair—an aging leather recliner with a crocheted afghan over it. “I only wanted them for you to see. You always asked me about them, but I was never ready to tell those stories. Do you remember?”
“I remember.” How many times had I secretly watched her as strokes of charcoal became figures, and figures became people? “I used to peek from the window sometimes, when you were out on the porch. I remember watching you draw the circus performers. I guess those were the ones Lydia saw when she decided she wanted to run away.”
Ruth smiled and nodded. “I never saw the circus people, but Lydia told me about them—every detail she could remember. I was on the hillside when she sneaked down and peeked under their tent. I stayed there with Naomi and the other girls, because I was too afraid. Of all of us, Lydia was the only one who saw the circus. She was the only one who had the courage. After that, we played circus on the old farm horses, but we had to go on Lydia’s say. She was the one who knew how the circus looked, so she became the master of us all in the circus game. We did her chores for her, so that she would let us play circus. It is easy to do that sometimes—let fear make hostages of us, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I guess so.” I was uncomfortable again. Ruth was pushing harder than usual, perhaps because she knew that I was leaving. She had a poin
t she wanted to get across, but she would never come right out and say it. In general, the Mennonites I’d met in Gnadenfeld were unfailingly polite, gentle, and unassuming in a way that most people are not
“Why do you think we let fear hold us prisoner?” She turned her attention to the magazine rack on the floor, looking for something. “Our pastor spoke on this last Sunday. I’ve been pondering it since then.”
I didn’t have to consider the answer too deeply. It was on the tip of my mind already. “It’s easier that way—to do what’s safe, what you think you’re supposed to do,” I admitted.
“I believe that may be right.” She nodded solemnly, her lips forming a downward arc, as if she were acquiescing for the both of us. “But then you never see the circus.”
“True.” I let out a laugh-breath to break the tension, and Ruth smiled.
“You can regret it all your life, not seeing the circus.” She wagged a finger at me. “Your sister might make a slave out of you.”
“If there were a circus nearby, I’d take you to it, Ruth.”
She checked the doorway before answering, “At this point in my life, I’d go.”
We laughed again, together this time, and then Ruth resumed digging through the magazine rack, searching for something among local newspapers saved for fire starters. “Well, I can’t find it just now,” she admitted, sinking back in her chair, breathing more heavily. The shallow sound of it reminded me of how sick she was. I considered asking about her prognosis, but I didn’t want to dampen our last visit.
“I had a drawing for you. I unearthed it upstairs with some of my old things. Perhaps Mary and Emily have run off with it.” Frowning, she patted the arm of the chair and craned toward the doorway, as if she were considering calling for the girls. “Well, when I find it, I’ll send it to you. You should have it.”
“What is it?” Resting my elbows on my knees, I leaned toward her and looked at the magazine rack, hoping to spot a bit of art paper peeking out. Maybe she’d missed it in there. “What is it a drawing of?”
“Soldiers,” she answered, and I felt the slightest twinge of disappointment. I was hoping for the one of Lydia, as a reminder, perhaps. I felt a connection to Lydia, but I still wanted to be Naomi.
“Soldiers? I remember seeing you draw soldiers, more than once, actually.” I’d seen soldiers, nuns, other children, a priest. I’d always suspected that at least some of the drawings were inspired by Ruth’s past. While we worked in my uncle’s kitchen, Ruth had told me stories about her arrival in New York, along with a group of orphans permitted to immigrate from Germany after the war. They were housed in a tall, dark building that was drafty, cold, and undersupplied, but the nuns and a priest were kind to them. There was no place to play, but when the weather was nice Father and the nuns took them to the park. Some of the people there gave them harsh looks, because they spoke German, Yiddish, and Plautdietsch, the only languages they knew.
“These were special soldiers,” she said. “You would recognize them, I think, if you saw them. Did you know that your uncles and your grandfather saved Naomi and me? In order to come to America after the war, orphans required a sponsor, one who would guarantee that expenses for the child’s care would be arranged for, and that the child would not be consuming public funds. Your grandfather was in America at the end of the war. I’m sure you know that he was injured at Normandy and sent home to his parents’ farm, while your uncles continued to serve with the occupation forces in Europe. Your uncles arranged for Naomi and me to leave Germany with a group of orphans and come to the United States. Your grandfather was our sponsor here. He knew we were Mennonite girls, of course, and some of his neighbors were Mennonites. He felt that he could find a place for us among those of our own faith, and he made it his business to do so.”
“He did?” My father hadn’t talked much about his family history, nor had my grandfather, who never fully recovered from his war injuries, emotionally or physically. I always knew that my grandfather was a good man, a good farmer and a hard worker, but he was largely a stranger to me. “No one ever told me any of that.”
Ruth didn’t seem surprised. She glanced over the edge of the chair again, as if she were wishing for the drawing. “We never talked about it after we came here and were adopted into a Gnadenfeld family. Oh, your uncles looked in on us. They made certain we were faring well, but they never spoke about how they found us. I suppose they wanted to forget the things they saw in that war, and they thought it was better for us to forget. I suppose they believed it best not to remind us.”
“Remind you of what?” I probed, carefully.
Ruth seemed to consider whether she should answer, then she relaxed in her chair, her fingers steepled in front of her like knobby hackberry branches growing together. “There was a man in Berlin. He took in children, orphans like us, and gave them shelter. Lydia had married by this time, but her husband was German, just coming home from the war, and he had nothing. He could not even provide for himself and Lydia. He told us he’d heard about a man who took in orphans, and we went there, Naomi and I. The man was Russian. He seemed kind enough. There were beds and food, other young people, parentless like us. We felt that the Lord had delivered us, that our prayers had been answered. We had no way of knowing what he expected in return for our care.”
Ruth’s gaze lifted slightly, met mine, her blue eyes narrow and intense, drawing me forward in my seat. “We were Mennonite girls from a tiny village. We had never known of such a thing, but after a day or so, we began to hear of it from the other children. We would have to do what the man wanted, they said. Bad things would happen if we didn’t, and then we would be left on the street to starve, to suffer in the cold. We were so afraid, Naomi and I. It is a terrible choice between your soul and your stomach. A frightening choice for a child. We sneaked out on the fire escape after all the children were asleep, to pray, or to run away, but the ladder had been taken off. We could only go down so far, and below was concrete.”
Pausing, Ruth peered over the arm of her chair, as if she were remembering. I imagined her and Naomi, young teenagers, innocents, trapped and desperate for a way out. “We sat and we prayed, and then we heard voices, American voices. When I opened my eyes, there were men looking at us, American soldiers, four of them. One of them spoke to us in very bad German. ‘Are you a little Mennonite girl?’ he asked and pointed to our prayer caps. We nodded and told him that we were. ‘Come down here,’ he told us. ‘You don’t belong in that place.’ We told him we couldn’t get down, and he said, ‘You jump and we’ll catch you in my overcoat.’”
Wagging a finger in the air, Ruth met my gaze. “I have relived that day many times since then, that moment of decision. I think it is appropriate that we were on the fire escape, don’t you? God walks with us through the fires of life, all of them. Even this latest one, this cancer. Some good will come of it. It brought you here, for one thing.”
Moisture gathered in my eyes, and I blinked hard to keep it from showing. How could Ruth believe that good could come from the disease ravaging her body? How could she say that my visits in any way compensated for what she was going through?
A chuckle broke the silence, and her eyes sparkled with a thought she kept private at first, then revealed. “Your uncle Herbert was the strongest man I ever met, and the most handsome. I fell in love with him that day, when he took us away. A girlish sort of love. I was so young.”
I blinked, shocked. I’d never known there was so much history between Ruth and my uncles, and certainly not that sort. “Did you ever tell him?”
She adjusted the scarf covering her hair, looking flustered, as if she’d gotten caught up in the moment and blurted out something she hadn’t meant to. “Oh, of course not. I was so young, and I was afraid. I kept those feelings to myself, and he married after he came home, and eventually so did I. I did what was expected and married within the Mennonite faith. The family who adopted Naomi and me had been good to us. I wanted to please them. I want
ed to live a life that was humble and plain.” She laughed to herself, swatting a hand in the air as if to wave away an alternate past, like smoke.
“You never told him in all these years?” Suddenly I had a greater understanding of Ruth’s devotion to my uncles, of the special relationship between the three of them. I understood why Uncle Herbert saved Ruth’s drawings, why she went out of her way to bring canned goods to him or to bake the German foods that he loved, even though my aunt hated the smell of vinegar and sauerkraut in the house. Ruth loved him, and in some capacity, that affection was mutual.
Watching her now, I understood the way I’d caught her looking at him on the porch the other day. I’d always thought that his reserved nature, his lack of interest in communication frustrated Ruth, but in reality, the emotion in her eyes had been longing, the regret of an opportunity missed, a desire that would never be fulfilled.
Uncle Herbert had never seemed fully happy in his marriage to Aunt Esther, even though the marriage had provided him with a position in the community and a big house in which to operate his business. Aunt Esther had run his life with an iron fist, fussed about pomp and circumstance and their social standing. Ruth, I suspected, had never been close to her husband, who was considerably older than she. How might their lives have been different, if they’d chosen each other instead?
“Fear can cause you to miss more than just a peek under the circus tent.” Ruth pointed at me as if she knew what was in my mind.
Mary and Emily came in the back door then, and the moment was gone. We talked and watched them play for a while before sharing a small lunch with the family. Ruth was tiring when we finished, and I felt the flight time closing in on me, as well.
“I’d better go,” I told her. “Thanks for lunch and . . . well, for everything.” My throat burned as we walked to the door, Mary and Emily trailing along. Ruth wrapped her arm in mine, leaning on me, her steps unsteady.
