The Redemption of Sarah Cain

by Beverly Lewis

  Fannie reached for her cup of hot cocoa. Then she tilted her head, like she was ponderin’ real hard. ‘‘You know, there’s always Preacher Esh’s unmarried cousin down the way. Miriam Esh just might be someone who could come and live here with you.’’

  Lydia had never even thought of en alt Maed like Miriam. ‘‘That’s a wonderful-gut idea, uh . . . except that Miriam, well, you know, she . . .’’ She paused, hesitating to say.

  ‘‘I know just what you’re gonna say. Sometimes I can hardly say ‘hullo’ to her at the meetinghouse, she smells so awful bad.’’ Fannie started to giggle. ‘‘Maybe you could educate her on takin’ a bath once in a while.’’

  ‘‘Well, now, aren’t you kalwerich —silly.’’ Lydia was glad for a gut laugh. It had been too long since she’d wrapped up her troubles in a smile. ‘‘I’m glad you brought up Miriam, though. Truly, I am.’’

  ‘‘I have no doubt she’ll clean up right nice . . .’ least for a day or so.’’

  ‘‘Long enough for me to take Aunt Sarah over for a visit, ’cause I know—for sure and for certain—your Mammi or anyone else ’round here couldn’t begin to think of takin’ in all five of us.’’

  Fannie was frowning again. ‘‘What’s this about my grandmother?’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ Lydia said, waving her hand nonchalantly, ‘‘Aunt Sarah’s got it in her mind that Susie might be a gut choice to be our second mother.’’

  ‘‘Well, how on earth does she even know her?’’

  ‘‘It’s ’cause Mamma and Aunt Sarah wrote letters for many years, that’s how.’’

  ‘‘Does your aunt have any idea how old Mammi Susie is?’’ Fannie said, leaning forward.

  ‘‘S’pose not, though it’s possible she does.’’

  ‘‘Well, my mammi has her hands full with her own grown children and grandchildren, and her little craft shop, besides. So I think you’re right about Miriam Esh bein’ the best bet.’’

  Lydia didn’t know how to tell her best friend what she was thinking. Wasn’t sure if she should say anything at all. Slowly, she breathed in before speaking in a near whisper. ‘‘Nobody knows this, Fannie, but I made a promise to Mamma before she died.’’

  ‘‘Aw, Lyddie.’’ Fannie reached over and touched her hand. ‘‘You don’t hafta say, honest ya don’t.’’

  ‘‘No . . . no, I want to tell you.’’ She paused, covering Fannie’s hand with her own. ‘‘I gave Mamma my word. I promised her, while she lay dyin’, that I’d keep the family together. And I will!’’

  Fannie’s eyes glistened. ‘‘I would do the same for my own mamma if . . .’’ Her voice trailed away, and the girls fell into each other’s arms. ‘‘Oh, Lyddie, I’m awful sorry ’bout your terrible loss. I do love you so!’’

  Lydia’s throat went dry, too dry to voice the same words of affection back to her friend, but she clung to Fannie all the same.

  When they’d dried their tears, Fannie said, ‘‘You know, I heard my brother talkin’ in the barn this morning. Seems there’s goin’ to be a need for a schoolteacher real soon here at the schoolhouse over on Peach Lane.’’

  ‘‘You don’t say!’’ Lydia’s heart did a little flip-flop.

  ‘‘And . . . there’s talk that you’d be a gut choice, since you got nearly straight A’s in school, and you’re still single and all.’’

  Lydia felt her face blushing to beat the band.

  ‘‘Wouldja be interested?’’

  ‘‘I’d be more than happy to teach if the People want me. But I s’pose I oughtn’t to say I will, not till we know what’s goin’ to happen to us.’’ Lydia got up and went to stir the thick beef stew, noticing that the baby onions and carrots were cookin’ up gut and tender. ‘‘You know, I’ve often wondered if the Good Lord might not open the door for me to teach school someday. But why just now, when things are so unsettled ’bout my own future?’’

  Fannie’s eyes grew serious. ‘‘You’re thinking ’bout Levi, ain’t so?’’

  No need to share fanciful secrets just yet. ‘‘I’m more worried ’bout Aunt Sarah and where we’ll end up.’’

  ‘‘You must hurry ’n take her to meet Miriam.’’

  Lydia could only hope and pray that things worked out with Preacher’s cousin. It was their best chance.

  ‘‘Well, I’ll be prayin’ for you, that’s for sure.’’ Fannie’s smile spread wide across her delicate face. She seemed to have warmed up at last, ’bout the time she wanted to be headin’ on home.

  ‘‘God be with you,’’ they said, kissing each other’s cheeks, before Fannie hurried out the back door.

  Standing in the doorway, Lydia watched her dearest friend pick her way over the ice and snow to the waiting carriage. She was ever so glad Aunt Sarah must’ve decided to dawdle comin’ back from the outlet stores. Overjoyed, as well, that Fannie had come to visit by herself, with neither her mamma or Grandmammi along.

  Jah, Fannie’s visit was surely providential. In more than one way, it was just what Lydia needed to fill the afternoon with hope. She could hardly wait to hear what Preacher Esh had to say ’bout her future as a teacher!

  Secretly, she wished she might run into Levi King soon. Levi would be mighty pleased to hear the news. That is, if he didn’t know ’bout it already.

  Chapter Sixteen

  There is no dispute over either this house or the land—everything will remain in your immediate family,’’ Sarah explained, eager to put away her many purchases, including a pair of brandnew leather boots. ‘‘You and your brothers and sisters will inherit all assets, including farm animals, indoor furnishings, and personal effects.’’

  Lydia caught up with her at the top of the stairs, and Sarah hurried to the row of wooden wall pegs, impatient to hang up the smart new teal suit, two woolen skirts and vests to match, a chic sienna pantsuit, and several silk blouses, noting that Lydia had not followed her into the room. Like a shadow, the girl stood humbly in the doorway.

  ‘‘Mr. Eberley and I are working together now. You have nothing to worry about.’’ Sarah proceeded to put away her new purchases, then turned to the highboy, opening the bottom drawer. Noticing it was completely empty, she said, ‘‘Well, it appears there’s some extra room here.’’

  ‘‘Jah, Mamma stored her journals there,’’ Lydia said softly, on the verge of tears.

  ‘‘My sister kept a diary?’’ She found it amazing, though true, recalling how Ivy as a teenager often had her nose in a spiralbound notebook, writing feverishly.

  ‘‘I don’t know just how many,’’ Lydia mumbled.

  ‘‘But . . . you saw her writing?’’

  ‘‘Now and again.’’ The girl’s answers seemed painfully vague. No longer did Lydia stand erect but leaned against the wide doorjamb as if her legs might not hold her up.

  ‘‘Your mother always tried to encourage me to keep a diary,’’ Sarah said, hoping to brighten things. ‘‘She was never successful.’’ ‘‘Oh?’’ Lydia seemed interested.

  ‘‘I wasn’t one for scribbling down my feelings.’’

  ‘‘Twice a day, I keep a journal, or at least try to.’’

  Lydia had been influenced by her mother, no doubt. ‘‘Journal-keeping is a good discipline, for those who are so inclined.’’

  ‘‘Jah,’’ Lydia agreed. ‘‘Sometimes I wonder what people will think when I pass on . . . like Mamma, you know. What will my loved ones say ’bout me if they read my most secret thoughts and dreams?’’

  ‘‘Risky, to be sure’’ was all Sarah could think to say.

  ‘‘But the writing does help some folk get through life, I guess.’’

  ‘‘Certain temperaments find solace in journal-keeping, but I’m certainly not that type of person.’’

  Smiling faintly, Lydia replied, ‘‘But you did write letters to Mamma.’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’—Sarah dismissed the observation with an airy wave of her hand—‘‘mine were always at least one-third shorter than hers.’’
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br />   ‘‘Was that because Mamma turned Amish on you?’’ Lydia spoke too quietly.

  Sarah wasn’t sure if she had heard correctly. ‘‘I beg your pardon?’’

  ‘‘Oh . . . nothin’.’’ Lydia’s half-whispered comments ceased abruptly. She left without Sarah knowing the precise moment when she had.

  Glad for the solitude, Sarah unzipped one of several garment bags, removing her designer pant ensemble. She fingered its wide V-neck collar, imagining Heidi Norton’s reaction—Bill Alexander’s, as well.

  Any number of her dazzling shoes, at home in Portland, would accessorize splendidly. She would waltz into the real estate office next Monday morning, wearing one of her terrific Lancaster outlet purchases.

  Monday afternoon, January 24

  My sister. . . .

  That’s how Aunt Sarah spoke of Mamma today, far different than before. Even the tone of her voice, when talking of Mamma has softened some—more the way I would expect her to be.

  I don’t know for sure, can’t tell really, if Aunt Sarah’s grieving much at all. English folk must have their own way of sorrow. It just seems awful strange that she would go out and shop, of all things, when she’s here to look after her family’s needs. I tend to think Mamma’s sister is altogether ferhoodled. Prob’ly needs some tending to herself .

  ‘‘There’s someone I’m hopin’ I can take you to meet soon,’’ Lydia said with uncertainty after supper. ‘‘An Amishwoman you might want to consider for a foster mother . . . for us.’’

  Her aunt looked somewhat wary, all of a sudden. She draped her damp tea towel over the dish rack.

  Lydia forged ahead. ‘‘Miriam Esh is well respected in our Plain community. She’s a kind, Christian lady—never married— but she has a tender place in her heart for children.’’

  ‘‘What about Susie Lapp?’’

  ‘‘She’s out of the question, I’m sure.’’

  Aunt Sarah stiffened. ‘‘How old is this other woman—uh, Miriam?’’

  ‘‘Midthirties or so.’’

  ‘‘Single, you say?’’

  Lydia nodded her head. ‘‘Not that she didn’t have the chance to wed. She just never did.’’

  Aunt Sarah folded her arms and moved to the bench near the table and sat. ‘‘Are you fond of her?’’

  It wasn’t fair for Lydia to speak up and say that she prob’ly wasn’t the one to be askin’, ’specially if she ended up marrying Levi King and makin’ a home with him in the near future. ‘‘Miriam’s wonderful-gut, really she is.’’

  ‘‘But do you like her?’’

  Sometimes you just do what you have to, whether you like it or not , Lydia thought. She nearly smiled to herself, for Aunt Sarah reminded her of her own persistent streak. ‘‘I s’pose I’d have to say I don’t know Miriam all too well. We attend the same quiltin’ bees and work frolics sometimes, but that’s mostly all . . . and Preachin’ at the meetinghouse, too.’’

  ‘‘What about the other children? How would they feel about Miriam as a mother figure?’’

  Lydia had to think on that. ‘‘Caleb prob’ly wouldn’t have much of an opinion, but Anna Mae might. Josiah and Hannah perty much go along with what the older ones say or do.’’

  Aunt Sarah’s eyebrows lifted, then lowered slowly. ‘‘So you don’t know the woman well enough to live with her?’’

  ‘‘She could come here . . . live with us ,’’ Lydia responded quickly. ‘‘Miriam doesn’t have much of anything, seein’ as how her parents live in northern New York now—moved up there with some of Miriam’s married brothers, hopin’ for more land than is available ’round here. Her cousin, our preacher, and several other distant relatives look after her and keep her farm goin’.’’

  ‘‘I believe you’ve thought about this a great deal.’’

  ‘‘Well, it would expedite things.’’ Her use of Sarah’s word must’ve triggered the momentary furrow on her aunt’s brow.

  ‘‘Please don’t misunderstand, Lydia.’’

  ‘‘But . . . well, isn’t that why you wanted to talk to Susie Lapp?’’

  Aunt Sarah leaned forward slightly, her painted lips parting momentarily, as if she were truly surprised at Lydia’s blunt remark. ‘‘Please give Miss Esh a call whenever you can. I’ll meet with her at her convenience.’’ No longer smiling, Aunt Sarah went and poured herself another cup of coffee.

  For all the world, Lydia wanted to tell her aunt that no one in the Amish community referred to the women as ‘‘Mrs.’’ or ‘‘Miss.’’ Truth be known, it was prob’ly a very good thing Aunt Sarah would be headin’ home in a few days.

  Normally, Lydia wouldn’t have thought of using the telephone to chat with Fannie at such a late hour. Bishop Joseph wanted the People to limit phone conversation and visiting— save it for the face-to-face meetings. Yet she felt she must talk things over, at least briefly, with someone. Fannie’s was the best ear to bend.

  ‘‘When you get around women like Miriam, you hear things—learn things. Know what I mean?’’ she said, relaying her conversation with Aunt Sarah on to Fannie.

  Fannie seemed to understand. ‘‘Miriam sees and hears aplenty, and lots of folk think she’s makin’ up half of what she tells. In spite of all that, she’s ever so kindhearted.’’

  ‘‘Jah, and I think my aunt prob’ly needs a ladle full of expert storytellin’ . . . from the mouth of a prudent woman.’’

  ‘‘But what ’bout you , Lyddie? You could tell your aunt a story or two.’’

  Her back against the kitchen wall, she glanced around in the darkness as she held the phone against her ear. ‘‘Between you, me, and the fence post, I think Miriam’s the one prospect to hold this family together—in one piece.’’

  ‘‘I think you might be right.’’

  That clinched things for Lydia. She said her good-byes and hung up, returning the receiver to its phone cradle. Then she tiptoed back upstairs to her room.

  Come tomorrow—if all went well—she and Aunt Sarah would have themselves a visit to the best storyteller ’round Strasburg and Paradise both. And if Miriam consented to be their substitute Mamma, then Sarah Cain could be on her way back to modern city life, with an inspiring story churnin’ inside her fancy soul.

  Sarah relaxed more comfortably in Ivy’s bed tonight. Neither did it distress her that she might be stretched out on her sister’s side of the mattress or that Ivy’s spirit might have, indeed, left her body in this very spot.

  Something else was more pressing. She wished now that she had had the presence of mind to broach the subject of Ivy’s journal-keeping with Lydia. Having brought a number of Ivy’s letters with her, Sarah was eager to peruse them once again, refresh her memory as to the things pertaining to her sister’s Plain life. But it was the mention of Ivy’s journals that stirred up increased curiosity. Surely Lydia knew of their location in the house.

  If Lydia ever brought up the subject again—perhaps later in the week—she would plunge right in and ask. Possibly Lydia would find it in her heart to oblige Sarah and offer one.

  She felt herself drifting toward that pre-dream state of neither here nor there. How odd that she should care one way or the other about Ivy’s writings.

  It was Lydia who was too restless to sleep. So much so that she got up and opened the wooden chest at the foot of her bed. Quickly, she located the shoe box where Mamma’s seashell collection was stored. Though she had not looked inside since she was a young child, she recalled the rainy afternoon, years before, when Mamma had taken time to sit Caleb and herself down, showing off the colorful shells.

  ‘‘When I was a girl, I was a collector,’’ Mamma told them. ‘‘I cared only to gather seashells—the more I took from the sand, the happier I was. But, soon, my backpack became too heavy with dozens and dozens of shells, and at home my windowsills were too cluttered to dust. My father—your grandpa Cain— taught me to discard the ordinary ones, to be more particular. He used to say, ‘Choose only the perfect ones, and you
r collection will become more important. Remember, there is only one sun and moon in the sky. Think how trivial a harvest moon would be if there were three.’ ’’

  Enjoying her recollection, Lydia opened the lid on the box and peered inside. Mamma had chosen wisely, for certain. And now that Lydia was old enough to appreciate what had gone into the gathering—the choosing—she touched each of ten perfect shells. They were cool to the touch and smooth as could be.

  Returning the prized collection to its shoe-box home, Lydia located her mother’s journals. She had promised herself that each night she would read a good many pages, startin’ with the most recent writings and working backward in time.

  So she curled up in her bed with the first of several diaries, attempting to nudge her aunt’s words from her mind.

  ‘‘My sister kept a diary?’’ Aunt Sarah had said, lookin’ a bit stunned.

  Now that Lydia thought on it, she wondered, What if she asks to read Mamma’s journals?

  Clutching the precious books to her bosom, she felt just now that she fully understood Grandpa Cain’s shell lesson. Mamma had not left behind hundreds, not even dozens, of bound diaries. There were only seven, and they were as important to Lydia as the sun is to God’s green earth.

  She began to read.

  December 9, 1998

  It’s a cold, blustery day today. The dampness is strong in my bones, and my chest is heavy with pressure like never before. My doctor thinks I should be admitted to the hospital, but I will trust the Great Physician for my healing, if it is His will. If I am to die, it should be here at home.

  Lydia and the younger children are so good to play quietly downstairs when their morning chores are finished. They must be told soon about my failing heart. I think my oldest girl suspects how weak I am. I can see it reflected in her sad eyes. She is so attentive to my needs—tries so hard to be patient with her siblings, in spite of the tension she surely feels. Lydia really does see through me, clear to my soul. In many ways, she reminds me of my sister when Sarah was young, before the accident that claimed her spirit.