Snowbirds

by Crissa Chappell

  Faron gets out and helps me push. When he’s back inside the truck, it rolls to a stop like it knows what’s coming next.

  “This ain’t working,” he says, climbing out. “Got a better idea?”

  “You push. I’ll drive.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Yeah, I know you can. But I won’t let you.”

  “It’s my decision.”

  “No, Lucy,” he says.

  I look away. “Why don’t you trust me?”

  “It’s my fault we’re in trouble,” he says. “No going around it. And now I’ve got to make things right.”

  “Maybe it’s your fault. But you don’t have to live with it forever. You deserve a second chance.”

  Doesn’t everyone?

  Faron is quiet as I get in the driver’s seat.

  “Let me do this,” I tell him.

  He kisses my forehead. “I trust you,” he says, but I already know.

  I lean back against the seat. “Now show me what to do.”

  “Leave the key here,” he says, jamming it in the ignition. His hands are shaking. “Turn everything off. Now put the clutch in. You can coast while it’s not in gear.”

  “Got it.”

  I jerk forward as he begins to push. Then I grip the steering wheel and put the clutch in, like he told me.

  As the truck rolls toward the lake, I’m not scared anymore. I’m still thinking about water—how it changes from one thing to another, yet stays the same.

  “Let the clutch off,” Faron shouts.

  And I do.

  A spray fans over the hood like wings. I sit pressed against the driver’s seat, hypnotized by the waves plunging toward the windshield. Below the mirror, the lucky rabbit’s foot swings and bounces.

  I push myself out of the truck and hit the ground hard. Pain zings through my chest as I roll onto my side, gasping for breath. The truck dips below the surface of Lake Cochrane, sinking lower and lower, surrounded by ropes of foam. Then Faron is stroking my face, saying things from far away.

  “It’s all right, Lucy,” he says. “You did good. Real good.”

  I stare out at the lake. Where the truck floated, there’s only water, as flat and still as a quilt.

  • • •

  The sun is cold. We make our way through the woods, shivering in the pale morning light. The smashed-up cars are hidden behind the pines, twisted and forgotten. When we reach the highway, Faron grabs my hand and squeezes.

  “Think it’s safe out here?” he asks.

  The truck’s gone. But I don’t think we’re safe. Not if Mrs. Yoder is telling everybody in Smyrna about us. There’s a diner just off the interstate—a slate-gray building with a faded Coca-Cola banner in the driveway.

  I squeeze back. “Let’s take a chance.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Can’t hide in the woods forever.”

  Cars speed past us, blaring their horns as we wait to cross. Some of the drivers slow down to take a look. I’m just a girl in a dirty coat, walking beside the road.

  We head inside the diner and find a booth near the window. This place smells like coffee and bacon grease. I’m way too nervous to eat. I rip open a pack of sugar and dump it on the table, dragging my finger through the sparkly grains, tracing a heart.

  “I’m running on fumes,” says Faron. “How much money we got left?”

  “You can eat for me,” I say, plunking a handful of quarters on the table.

  “That much, huh?”

  My shoulder aches from where I fell. All the muscle and bone. The parts you can’t see. That’s what hurts the most.

  Our waitress comes over with the menus. She’s a little older than me, but she’s already got creases in her forehead.

  “I hate the hillbilly music they play in here,” she says, dumping ice in my water glass. “It’s not real country.”

  Her tongue is pierced with a tiny metal pearl. It looks so painful. How does she take it out? Maybe she never takes it out.

  “What can I get started for you guys?” she asks. “My name’s Sadie, by the way.”

  “I want the eggs any style,” says Faron, pointing at the menu.

  “Okay.” She waits.

  When he doesn’t say anything, it hits me. He’s probably never ordered food in a restaurant before.

  “How do you like your eggs, hon?” she finally asks.

  He looks confused. “The fancy kind with the yellow sauce. And toast.”

  “Sure thing. What kind of bread?”

  “Toasted.” He gets up and leaves the table.

  I bite my lip and try not to laugh. Sometimes I want to strangle Faron, and sometimes he’s the funniest person I ever met.

  “Your boyfriend’s kind of different,” says Sadie.

  “He’s just tired.”

  “When he said ‘fancy eggs,’ did he mean hollandaise?”

  “Sounds fancy.” I glance across the diner, where a silver-haired couple is sharing a muffin, sliced in half.

  One slice.

  That’s all they need.

  “And you?” Sadie asks.

  “I’ll skip the fancy eggs.”

  “Plain works for me too.” She winks.

  Sadie goes away and I’m alone again. I’m still thinking about the frozen lake, the way it keeps its secrets hidden. What happened there long ago?

  When Faron comes back, he looks a little better. He must’ve shaved while he was in the bathroom. His face is smooth, and when he kisses me, I go back to our first night on the beach. How much has changed in a short time.

  “Back to normal,” he says, brushing his face against mine. “Maybe we should test it out?”

  “Test what out?”

  “The difference.”

  He smiles and I can’t help smiling back.

  Across the room, the silver-haired man and his wife are getting up from their table. The man looks back at us like he’s remembering something. Then he takes his wife’s hand and walks away.

  I stare at their empty table. Nothing left but crumbs and a newspaper. It’s a local paper, like The Budget back home.

  Maybe there’s a chance.

  Once you’ve been with the Amish, they will always be part of you. That’s what I’m thinking when I grab the newspaper and bring it to our table. I spread the pages like a map. All those ads for “gently used” hockey skates and sewing machines. The scattered bits and pieces of someone else’s life.

  “Maybe someone wants to buy a truck,” says Faron.

  “Too late now.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “That old Ford is swimming with the fishes.”

  “I didn’t see any fish in that nasty water.”

  He smirks. “You’re something else, you know that?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Come on,” he says. “I’m just trying to make you laugh.”

  “Well, try harder.”

  I’m still looking through the newspaper, scanning every page. On the back, there’s a row of ads. We treat your car like family says the banner floating above a man’s head.

  He’s got a gray-stained beard that curves around his smile. Blue jeans hitched up with suspenders. A straw hat pulled down low over his forehead.

  “All right, honey. Here you go.”

  The waitress slides a plate in front of me. The greasy smell of bacon and eggs yanks me back to the present.

  “How far away is this place?” I jab my thumb at the man’s picture in the newspaper.

  “Oh, just down the road a piece. Sam Yoder does good work. His prices are always fair. As honest as they come.”

  Sam Yoder.

  “Do you know Mr. Yoder?” I ask.

  “He’s a good guy. Fixed my brother’s pickup last summer. Got it back in action, same day.”

  I squint at the address in the paper. “Can we walk there?”

  “Well, I guess you could, if you’re up for walking. But I’m telling you, hon. It’s
nippy outside. You got car trouble?”

  “Something like that.”

  “My shift’s about to end. I could give you a ride, if we move fast. Want me to box that up?” she says, grabbing my plate.

  “I can move pretty fast,” I tell her.

  Sadie laughs. “Well, let’s get going.”

  chapter twenty-nine

  hearts like flint

  We’re speeding down Smokey Hollow Road, passing every car. Sadie’s got the windows open, though it’s “colder than a dog’s nose.”

  “This would be a mighty long walk,” she says, taking a bottle of nail polish out of her purse. “Where’s your car at? Did it break down on the highway?”

  I twist around in my seat. Faron’s in the back, trying to balance a Styrofoam container on his knees. He mops up the fancy eggs with a wedge of toast and shoves the whole thing in his mouth.

  “Our truck’s near Cochrane Lake,” I say.

  Not exactly the truth, but close enough.

  “Well, it picked the right spot to die.” Sadie plops her hand on the steering wheel and dabs a glob of sparkly black polish on her thumb. “I’ve been hiking up that way, and I’m telling you, there’s a patch of woods that’s a graveyard for cars. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s cars at the bottom of that lake,” she says, fanning her hand back and forth. “Gives me the willies, just thinking about it.”

  “Did anybody ever drown there?” I ask.

  Sadie blinks. “Yeah, we’ve had a few drownings. Lots of people go out walking on that ice, thinking it’s safe. Next thing you know, boom.” She thumps the dashboard. “They’re gone.” She looks at me. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m just wondering. I mean, it seems pretty dangerous.”

  “No kidding,” Sadie tells me. “Five minutes in that water and you’ve got no strength left. That’s how cold it is. Ever go swimming in the Atlantic?”

  The Gulf’s not the same thing. But I nod anyway.

  “Well, it’s a heck of a lot colder,” she says. “Actually, there was a little girl who drowned in that lake. Maybe ten years ago.”

  I sit up straight. “Was the little girl from an Amish family?”

  “As a matter of fact, she was. Her father couldn’t save them both. That’s the saddest part.”

  “What do you mean, ‘both’?”

  “There were two little girls who sank through the ice.”

  “Two?”

  “Only one made it.”

  I’m thinking hard.

  All this time, I thought Alice was alone, like me. We were sisters. That’s what she always said.

  In my mind, I see the frozen lake. Two little girls in dark dresses and bonnets walking on the ice. A man in a straw hat and suspenders. He’s calling out, but there’s nothing he can do as they drop through the ice, disappearing into cold water.

  We slow down and make a left turn. The auto repair shop is on a hill sloping near the road. It reminds me of a farmhouse with an extra big garage. A stack of tires is heaped on the curb, where a jack-o’-lantern sits on a bale of hay. The sign in the driveway says:

  MUFFLERS, JOINTS, BRAKS.

  Sadie giggles. “Looks like they ran out of e’s. Well, this is the car place. You guys all set?”

  If it’s true that we’re mostly made of water, I’d say the tides inside me are churning, hurricane-style. Is Mr. Yoder going to talk to us? Does he know that Alice is in trouble? What if he really isn’t her dad?

  “Good luck, hon.” Sadie wiggles her sparkly fingers as I climb out.

  All my molecules are spinning as I head across the road. Sadie honks like we’re old friends. Now she’s making a U-turn. She must’ve gone out of her way, driving us here. I’d never expect her to do that. Not even if she was from Pinecraft.

  Faron marches right up to the garage. He peers inside the window. “Check out the old cars.”

  I press my face against the glass. “That one looks like a boat,” I say, pointing at a convertible with fins sprouting out of the fenders.

  “It’s a fifty-seven Thunderbird,” he says. “Man, I wish I could get under that hood.”

  “Why does it have fins?”

  “Those are called skegs. It’s just for show,” he tells me. “They won’t make it go fast.”

  I look up at him. “This is your world, isn’t it?”

  “Not even close,” he says.

  Just then, someone calls out, “Can I help you folks?”

  We both turn around.

  There’s a man in a straw hat walking toward us. He’s tall and clean-shaven, with a belly straining against his belt. I search for Alice in his face. They’ve got the same wide-set eyes, as if those blue eyes started off closer together, then drifted apart.

  “Mighty pleased to meet you,” he says, offering his hand. His fingernails are a little dirty, the ridges caked with grease, but I don’t mind. “So what brings you folks here?”

  I can’t lie to Mr. Yoder. If I say that I’m looking for Alice, what’s he going to do? Will he get angry at me?

  “I’m a friend of your daughter,” I say, looking right at him.

  Mr. Yoder crosses his arms. “How did you find me?”

  “I knew where to look.”

  Faron gives me a smile that says keep going. Don’t give up. Not after we’ve come all this way.

  “Where is she now?” I ask.

  “Home.”

  There’s something in that word, home. I get a shivery feeling, like I’m walking on the ice with Alice and her sister, praying the lake won’t let go.

  “I’ve been waiting for Alice to come home,” says Mr. Yoder. “But you know what they say. The road home’s never too far.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  He frowns. “I’m not sure if Alice is up for company.”

  “Please. Just tell her I’m here.”

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Lucy Zimmer.”

  “My girl’s been through a lot,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “But she’s a tough little knot. You know that?”

  I know.

  “Hearts like flint.”

  Mr. Yoder stares at me. Then he murmurs the words in Deitsch.

  “De mad mit dika boka.

  Hen Hartsa we do woka.”

  “Well, Miss Lucy,” he says. “Cold day, ain’t it? The weather guy says it’s going to be a balmy thirty-eight degrees. Let’s get the heck inside.”

  He unlocks the door and we follow him into the office. Hubcaps glint across the wall like hunting trophies. There’s a portable radio on his desk with a coat hanger for an antenna. Over the faint hiss of the radiator, a gospel tune plays a song about a love so deep, it could drain the oceans.

  “You wait here,” he says, putting on his coat. “I’ll go have a little chat with my daughter.”

  Waiting is one thing I’m good at.

  Mr. Yoder marches out of the office. I stand near the window and watch him cross the road. He probably lives nearby. I think of Dad’s workshop behind our house in Pinecraft.

  Faron puts his arm around me. “Is he telling the truth? I mean, is he really Alice’s dad?”

  Only one way to find out.

  After what seems like forever, the door swings open.

  “She’s on her way,” says Mr. Yoder.

  I don’t know what to say, except, “Thank you.” It’s the best I can do. Then nobody says anything for a while.

  “You got a lot of nice cars,” says Faron, breaking the silence. “Is it okay if I check out that fifty-seven convertible?”

  Mr. Yoder smiles. “You like old cars, son?”

  “Are you kidding? That Thunderbird is a classic.”

  The two of them disappear into the garage. They’re giving me time alone. And that’s exactly what I need.

  When Alice said she was running away, I never thought I’d find myself in Smyrna, Maine, talking to her dead father. I didn’t count on meeting Faron either. Not a Rumspringa boy. Or an Old Order gh
ost. They’re something in-between. Both on the outside, looking in.

  That’s something I understand.

  Now I’m alone in Mr. Yoder’s office, staring at that door. There’s a chain of bells looped around the handle. It jingles whenever somebody breezes in or out, and that’s exactly what it does when Alice walks through.

  • • •

  All this time, I’ve been looking for my best friend, thinking she’s dead. And now she’s standing in front of me. I’m still angry at her, which feels so wrong. How can you be angry at a ghost?

  She’s all bundled up in a denim jacket. The cuffs are studded with tiny metal hearts. Definitely not an Old Order–style coat. When Alice looks at me, her face doesn’t change. It’s like she doesn’t know me anymore.

  “Lucy?” she says, turning her head in my direction.

  Now she’s seeing me, really seeing. All the noise inside that room fades away. The hiss of the radiator, the dull hum of traffic on the highway, my heart slamming against the bones in my chest.

  Alice throws her arms around me. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she says, breaking into a sob.

  We hug each other for a long time.

  Then I let go.

  As much as I’m glad to see Alice, I’m still angry.

  “You look different,” she says, wiping her face. “I mean, in a good way. Dresses are kind of boring, right?”

  “Sometimes,” I say.

  “Well, you always had the prettiest colors. I was so jealous.”

  Alice was jealous of me?

  “But I’m still in plain clothes.”

  “There’s nothing plain about your hat, Lucy. It’s kind of amazing,” she says.

  I lift my hand and touch the furry ears. My snow leopard.

  “Thanks,” I say. “It’s a present from a friend.”

  “I don’t have a lot of close friends,” she says, looking at me. “Just one.”

  “Do I know her?”

  “You might,” Alice says, smiling. “She’s a really cool girl. There aren’t many friends who would drive across the country, just to find someone who left without saying goodbye.”

  “Well, maybe her friend had a good reason for leaving.”

  “You probably thought I hated you or something,” she says.

  “No, I didn’t.”