The Missing

by Beverly Lewis

  the Missing

  the Missing

  BEVERLY

  LEWIS

  The Missing

  Copyright © 2009

  Beverly M. Lewis

  Art direction by Paul Higdon

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Service

  Cover doorframe image courtesy of Scott County Historical, Historic Stans House

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  E-book edition created 2009

  ISBN 978-1-4412-1042-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  To

  Virginia Campbell,

  whose generosity and dedication

  to the Pikes Peak branch

  of

  The National League of American Pen Women

  are a joyful inspiration to me.

  By Beverly Lewis

  ABRAM’S DAUGHTERS

  The Covenant • The Betrayal • The Sacrifice The Prodigal • The Revelation

  THE HERITAGE OF LANCASTER COUNTY

  The Shunning • The Confession • The Reckoning

  ANNIE’S PEOPLE

  The Preacher’s Daughter • The Englisher • The Brethren

  THE COURTSHIP OF NELLIE FISHER

  The Parting • The Forbidden • The Longing

  SEASONS OF GRACE

  The Secret • The Missing

  The Postcard • The Crossroad

  The Redemption of Sarah Cain

  October Song • Sanctuary* • The Sunroom

  The Beverly Lewis Amish Heritage Cookbook

  www.beverlylewis.com

  *with David Lewis

  BEVERLY LEWIS, born in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, is The New York Times bestselling author of more than eighty books. Her stories have been published in nine languages worldwide. A keen interest in her mother’s Plain heritage has inspired Beverly to write many Amish-related novels, beginning with The Shunning, which has sold more than one million copies. The Brethren was honored with a 2007 Christy Award.

  Beverly lives with her husband, David, in Colorado.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty - one

  chapter twenty - two

  chapter twenty - three

  chapter twenty - four

  chapter twenty - five

  chapter twenty - six

  chapter twenty - seven

  chapter twenty - eight

  chapter twenty - nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  I stumbled upon my mother’s handkerchief in the cornfield early this morning. Halfway down the row I spotted it—white but soiled, cast in the mire of recent rains. Only one side of the stitched hem was visible, the letter L poking out from the furrow as if to get my attention. I stared at it . . . all the emotions of the past three weeks threatening to rise up and choke me right then and there.

  Leaning over, I clutched the mud-caked hankie in my hand. Then, tilting my head up, I looked toward the eastern sky, to the freshness of this new day.

  Twice now, I’ve walked the field where Mamma sometimes wandered late at night—weeks before she ever left home. Like our sheep, she’d followed the same trails till ruts developed. I couldn’t help wondering where the well-trod path had led her by the light of the lonely moon. Honestly, though, ’tis only in the daylight that I’ve been compelled to go there, drawn by thoughts of her and the hope of some further word, whenever that might come.

  I shook the dirt off the hankie and traced the outline of the embroidered initial—white on white. So simple yet ever so pretty.

  My hand lingered there as tears slipped down my cheeks.

  “Mamma . . . where are you?” I whispered to the breeze. “What things don’t we know?”

  Later, when breakfast preparations were well under way, my younger sister, Mandy, headed upstairs to redd up what had always been our parents’ room. The solitary space where Dat still slept.

  Still shaken at finding Mamma’s hankie, I wandered across the kitchen and pushed open the screen door. I leaned on it and stared toward the shining green field, with its rows as straight as the telephone poles up the road, near Route 340. Near where the fancy folk live.

  I reached beneath my long work apron and touched the soiled handkerchief in my dress pocket. Mamma’s very own. Had I unknowingly yearned for such a token? Something tangible to cling to?

  With a sigh, I hurried through the center hallway and up the stairs. Various things pointed to Mamma’s long-ago first beau as a possible reason for her leaving. But I had decided that no matter how suspicious things looked, I would continue to believe Mamma was true to Dat.

  I stepped into our parents’ large bedroom, with its gleaming floorboards and hand-built dresser and blanket chest at the foot of the bed. “I want you to see something, Mandy,” I said.

  My sister gripped the footboard. “Jah?”

  I pushed my hand into my pocket, past Mamma’s hankie, and found the slip of paper. “Just so ya know, I’ve already shown this to Dat.” I drew a slow breath. “I don’t want to upset you, but I have an address in Ohio . . . where Mamma might be stayin’.”

  I showed her what our grandmother had given me.

  “What on earth?”

  I told her as gently as I could that I’d happened upon a letter Dawdi Jakob had written when Mamma was young—when she and our grandmother had gone west to help a sickly relative.

  “Why do you and Mammi think she might’ve gone there?”

  Mandy’s brown eyes were as wide as blanket buttons.

  “Just a hunch.” Really, though, I hadn’t the slightest inkling what Mamma was thinking, going anywhere at all. Let alone with some of Samuel Graber’s poetry books in tow. “I hope to know for a fact soon enough,” I added.

  She stared in disbelief. “How?”

  “Simple. I’m goin’ to call this inn.”

  Mandy reached for the paper, holding it in her now trembling hand. “Oh, Grace . . . you really think she might be there?”

  Suddenly it felt easier to breathe. “Would save me tryin’ to get someone to make a trip with me to find out.” I bit my lip.

  “And Dat says I have to . . . or I can’t go at all.”

  “You can’t blame him for that.” Mandy sighed loudly. Then she began to shake her head repeatedly, frowning to beat the band.

  I touched her shoulder. “What is it, sister?”

  She shrugged, remaining silent.

  “What, Mandy?”
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  “It’s just so awful dangerous . . . out in the modern, fancy world.”

  “Aw, sister . . .” I reached for her. “Mamma can take care of herself. We must trust that.”

  She nodded slowly, brown eyes gleaming with tears. Then, just as quickly, she wiped her eyes and face with her apron.

  She shook her head again. “Nee—no, we must trust the Lord to watch over her.”

  With a smile, I agreed.

  Mandy leaned her head against my cheek. “I hope you won’t up and leave us, too. I couldn’t bear it, Gracie.” She stepped back and looked at me with pleading eyes. “And if ya do get Mamma on the phone, please say how much I miss her. How much we all do.” Mandy looked happier at the prospect. “That we want her to come home.”

  I squeezed her plump elbow, recalling the way Dat’s eyes had lit up when I showed him the address early this morning. The way he’d turned toward the kitchen window, a faraway glint in his eyes as he looked at the two-story martin birdhouse—just a-staring. I’d wondered if he was afraid to get his hopes up too high. Or was there more to this than any of us knew?

  But this wasn’t the time to dwell on such things. I needed to think through what I might say to whoever answered the phone.

  How to make it clear who I was . . . and why I was calling.

  Mandy went around the bed and reached for the upper sheet, pulling it taut. Next, the blanket. She gave me a sad little smile, and after we finished Dat’s room, she said no more as she headed downstairs to scramble the breakfast eggs.

  I made my way to my own bedroom, down the hall. There, I took Mamma’s mud-stained hankie from my pocket. Will you even come to the phone . . . when you find out who’s calling?

  Then, as carefully as if it were a wee babe, I placed the handkerchief in my dresser drawer with a prayer in my heart. Grant me the courage, Lord.

  For everything you have missed,

  you have gained something else. . . .

  —Emerson

  chapter

  one

  Adah Esh slipped from her warm bed, having slept longer than usual. In the quiet, she tiptoed to the end of the hall to the spare room designated as a sewing room. The cozy spot on the second floor had two northeast-facing windows. Adah raised the dark green shade and stood there, looking out at the unobstructed expanse of space and sky. Tendrils of yellow had already sprung forth like a great fan below the horizon.

  Since Lettie’s leaving nearly a month ago, Adah felt compelled to come here and offer up the day and its blessings to God. She’d first observed this act of surrender in Lettie herself, who as a teenager had begun the day at her bedroom window, her shoulders sometimes heaving with the secret she bore. Other times Adah would find her scooted up close to the glass as she looked out, as if yearning for comfort in the glory of the dawn.

  On days when her daughter found the wherewithal to speak, Lettie might point out the sun’s light glinting on the neighbors’ windmill across the field. “It’s like a gift,” she’d say, seemingly grasping for even the slightest hint of beauty. Anything to momentarily take her attention away from her grief. Her shame.

  Adah’s heart ached anew at the old pain of discovering her young Lettie with child, and by the young man she and Jakob had so disliked. Poor Lettie, distraught beyond Adah’s or anyone’s ability to cheer her. . . . Her heartsick girl had wept at her window like a trapped little sparrow in a cage.

  But until recently, those dark and sad days had seemed long past. No more did Adah despise Samuel Graber for wounding her daughter so, nor did she hold resentment against Lettie for her infatuation with him . . . or their dire sin. And never had she forgotten the infant she’d made Lettie give up—her own tiny grandbaby—nor the adoption arrangements made afterward.

  Now Adah rested her hand on the sill of the window on this side of son-in-law Judah’s big three-story house. She committed the day to almighty God, who’d made it. The One who knew and saw Lettie, too, wherever she might be.

  The view from this particular window suited Adah just fine, different though it was from that outside of Jakob’s and her first home. In recent years ownership of that house had been transferred to their youngest married son and his wife—Ethan and Hannah. As for herself, Adah was content to live out her sunset years here, under Lettie’s husband’s watch-care. If only Lettie might be here, too. O Lord, may it be so!

  She moved closer to the window as she watched the earth come to life. The day sparkled in the sun. Bird-in-Hand was already abuzz with farmers and their mule teams working the green expanse of fields in all directions. Her Jakob would soon stir and she’d leave behind her reverie to go and kiss his wrinkled cheek as he awakened. Then they would dress and head downstairs to breakfast when their granddaughters called them to the table where Lettie had always laid out a big spread. This responsibility now fell to dutiful Grace, just twenty-one and resembling her mother more, here lately, in her diligence to cook and keep house.

  “What will this day bring?” Adah whispered before turning from the window. “Can Grace locate Lettie with a single phone call?”

  She walked silently to the larger room she shared with Jakob, who she saw from the doorway was still asleep. In that moment, she wondered if they’d made the right decision, giving Grace the address of the Kidron, Ohio, inn where she and Lettie had stayed so long ago. She moved quietly to her husband’s side and sat, waiting for his puffy eyes to flutter open.

  We protected Lettie’s secret this long. Adah trembled as she considered Grace’s determination to find her mother, and what she might possibly find instead.

  Ach, have I made a mistake?

  That same Tuesday, after a breakfast of fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, and crackers in warm milk, Grace was surprised to hear Mandy mention Henry Stahl.

  Mandy was sweeping the floor when she stopped abruptly and looked up from the pile of crumbs. “I really hate to say anything, but Priscilla Stahl ain’t too happy ’bout you breakin’ up with her brother.”

  Grace’s stomach knotted up. Isn’t for Prissy to say . . .

  “She told you this?”

  “Jah.” Mandy pushed the dirt into the dustpan.

  “Prissy’s upset, is all,” Grace assured her sister. Breaking up with Henry after the Singing last Sunday night had been downright thorny but not rash. Had Henry honestly told his sister about it? So unlike him to share much of anything. She thought of her older brother, Adam—Grace had told him already, too.

  “Prissy says you jilted Henry.” Mandy emptied the dustpan into the trash beneath the sink.

  “Not sure how she’d know such a thing.”

  Mandy shrugged. “Well, she’s spoutin’ off to me—and Adam, no doubt—that you spurned his wonderful-gut gift.”

  Grace couldn’t help it; she laughed. “What happened ’tween Henry and me has nothin’ to do with that chime clock—my birthday present.”

  “Your engagement gift, don’t ya mean?”

  Grace sighed. Surely Adam’s meddlesome fiancée would try to understand that Henry had been wrong for Grace—as Henry himself had certainly realized. Goodness, but when Grace had said they should part ways, he hadn’t even objected, speaking up for their love.

  Maybe love’s too strong a word, she thought just then. It had been his silence all around that wore thin over their months as a courting couple. Then Mamma’d left home and it had dawned on Grace that Dat and his aloof manner must surely be the reason. No, it was clear Grace could not marry someone like Henry.

  To think Mamma’s been gone nearly a month already. It seemed much longer since she had slipped away into the darkness. How does a daughter get past such a thing?

  Dat never spoke about it anymore—not since he’d fallen so terribly ill there for several days. He kept so busy; perhaps that was how he managed to cope. Adam and Joe, and Mandy, too, also seemed to have pushed their sadness down deep, burying it somewhere in their shattered hearts. Just as I have . . .

  Mandy left to go to the sitt
ing room and gathered up the throw rugs, carrying them outside to shake.

  Meanwhile, Grace went to look beneath the lid of the cookie jar, where her mother kept a phone card for emergencies. But she found nothing at all. Did Mamma take it with her?

  She wondered if her grandmother might not have a spare one to loan and hurried through the sitting room and the center hall, where wooden shelves and pegs lined either side, to Mammi Adah’s own tidy kitchen. Seeing Mammi cutting Dawdi’s graying bangs at the far end of the room, she waited in the doorway, not saying a peep as the scissors snipped away.

  Leaning on the doorjamb, Grace was painfully aware that all of her hopes were bound up in the telephone call she felt she must make. The need pulled her chest as taut as a rag rug.

  Unconsciously she groaned, startling Mammi, who turned, her scissors slipping as she did so. “Ach, Mammi . . . I’m sorry,” Grace said, seeing the bungled bangs.

  Dawdi harrumphed, a spew of complaints coming in Deitsch.

  Mammi stifled a laugh when she saw the damage. “Aw, Jakob, it’ll just have to grow back,” she said, her hand over her mouth. “Ain’t so, Gracie?”

  It was a good thing her grandfather couldn’t see Mammi’s wide smile, not as particular a man as he was.

  “Did ya need something, dear?” asked Mammi Adah.

  “Our phone card’s missin’. Could I borrow one from you, maybe? I’ll pay you back when I get my next paycheck.” She didn’t care to say she was going to call out to Ohio. Mammi Adah would surely gather that.

  “I’ll have a look-see.” Mammi frowned as she once again appraised Dawdi’s botched hair. Then, quickly, she removed the towel she’d fastened around his neck with a wooden clothespin, her usual practice for the monthly haircut. “You might have to wear your hat low on your head for ’bout a month, love,” she said before making her way to the back steps. She wiggled her fingers for Grace to follow.

  Once they reached the landing, Mammi Adah’s face turned solemn. “Have ya heard ’bout Willow’s injury?”