The Days of Redemption

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  As the tension in the room thickened, their mother grabbed their father’s arm. “Peter, stop. Stop saying such hateful things.”

  He shrugged off her grip. “They’re only hateful if they’re not true, Marie. And you know as well as I that I speak the truth.”

  Tears filled their mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Lovina. Peter is not himself—”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And we all know why, don’t we?”

  “No, I am very much myself, Marie,” Peter countered. “And after more than forty years of keeping my mouth shut, I think I have every right to speak my mind.” Still staring at his mother, he continued, his voice almost completely void of emotion.

  “And so that is how we all came to be living here together. That is why you got stuck with me, Mamm,” he said with a trace of irony. “No one else could stand you any longer.”

  Right before their eyes, their steely grandmother seemed to shrink. She turned on her heel and walked out. Seconds later, they heard the back door close quietly.

  “Peter, whatever is wrong with you? You shouldn’t talk that way to your mother. You should never have said such things.”

  “Why not? It’s what we’ve all been thinking.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s right.” As if she had forgotten that Viola and Elsie were standing right there, their mother pointed to the bottle of vodka, sitting on the kitchen counter like a symbol of all that had gone wrong in their family. “Drinking isn’t right, either, Peter. And you hid it, too.”

  “Other people drink.”

  “But we don’t. We don’t drink and we don’t smoke. We don’t even drink wine for special occasions. It’s not our way. But even more, you’ve been lying to me for quite some time.” Her voice now curiously empty, she said, “Quite some time.”

  “You knew?”

  She closed her eyes. “Jah. I knew. I’m as guilty as you, husband. I’ve been hoping if I pretended I didn’t know what was happening, I wouldn’t have to deal with it. Or worse, I could pretend it wasn’t happening.”

  “You are making too much of one liquor bottle.”

  “We both know this isn’t the only one, Peter.”

  Furious, he turned and glared at his daughters. “What have you done? Viola, I put the blame for all of this firmly on your shoulders. Elsie would have never caused such a scene.”

  “Me?” Viola felt her eyes burn.

  “That’s not fair, Daed,” Elsie said quietly. “One of us was bound to discover it. Either me or Viola or Roman. All we wanted was some answers.”

  “You came here to cause pain, daughter.”

  “Nee!” their mother fairly shouted. “It isn’t Viola who brought this into our lives; she’s only been the one strong enough to bring it out into the open.”

  “And you don’t think there would have been a better way to act? She marched in here in order to cause trouble.”

  Her mother shook her head sadly. “Oh, Peter. Don’t you understand? The problem isn’t that you were found out. The problem is that you shouldn’t have been drinking in the first place. And you shouldn’t have been lying to us for months. When you brought that into our house, and hid it away, and drank in private and lied about it . . . you have gone against all of us. You need some help.”

  His expression slack, their father looked from Elsie to Viola to their mother, then he turned and walked out the front door. Into the snow and cold without a coat on.

  “Daed? Daed, don’t go. We should talk about this,” Elsie called out.

  Their mamm shook her head. “Nee, Elsie. Leave him be.”

  Beside her, Elsie tensed. Viola reached for Elsie’s hand, who clung to it like it was a lifeline. And truly, it did feel as if their whole world had gone crazy. No one had ever spoken to another that way. The anger and disappointment was so strong it felt almost tangible.

  Watching their mother, standing so still and rigid, there seemed to be nothing else to say.

  “Come on,” she whispered. Still holding her sister’s hand, she led Elsie up the narrow stairs to their bedroom.

  Usually, Elsie would have pulled her hand away, always shying away from any overt help. But this time she held Viola’s hand as tightly in her own.

  Perhaps she realized that this time it was Viola who needed support? Somehow, she’d managed to make everything worse.

  chapter eighteen

  Muscles in his arms and shoulders pumping, Ed shoveled his driveway in a daze. Though he appreciated the exercise, he knew nothing could tear his mind away from the meeting he’d had at CAMA.

  All last night, he’d read through the binders and contemplated what he wanted in his life. And prayed and prayed for guidance.

  But this morning, he still felt as confused as ever. Around him, snowflakes increased in size, floating in the wind, determined to cover his coat in a thick white blanket. It was beautiful.

  And so different, he was sure, from Belize.

  Yes, the weather was bitterly cold, but his whole body felt numb, both from the news and his reaction to it.

  Looking down the street, he spied John Miller’s old house. If John was still there, Ed knew he would’ve been tempted to knock on his door and ask for advice, but sharing his dilemma with John wasn’t the right thing to do. He needed to talk to his father about the job offer before he spoke to anyone else.

  But since the roads were too dangerous to go up to Daybreak, he was homebound. He needed to light a fire, brew a fresh pot of coffee, and reread every page in the binders, and then figure out just what exactly he was contemplating saying no to.

  And what he might be saying yes to instead.

  Aggravated by his thoughts, he put a little extra muscle into his chore and increased his pace. Sweat began to trickle down the middle of his back and the muscles in his arms began to burn.

  The slight pain felt good.

  When his driveway was as cleared as it was going to get with the snow still falling, he decided to clear off the sidewalk, too.

  An hour later, when he finally leaned the shovel against the side of the house, he went inside and discovered little Gretta sprawled out on a carpet by the door. Spying him, she sleepily got to her feet, shook herself awake, and then trotted over, her tail wagging affectionately.

  A lump grew in his throat as he knelt down to brush his hand down her soft red fur, then he let her go outside. As he expected, she did her business and was back inside lightning fast. Then he did exactly what he set out to do, and carefully arranged a fire, brewed a pot of coffee, and sat down with the binders in his lap.

  With Gretta curled up in her bed beside him, he opened up the top binder, flipped past the cover page, and began reading.

  Two hours later, he set them on the floor and closed his eyes. And then he began to pray.

  Peter was sweeping out the tack room and berating himself for blaming his girls for his troubles when Marie came into the barn. He stilled, bracing himself for another round of pain. He knew Marie was upset with him, and he didn’t blame her one bit. He was fairly sure that any charges she fired at him were deserved. He’d lied to her, and broken any number of the covenants of their marriage vows. He’d raised his voice to Elsie and Viola, and to his mother, too.

  He’d sinned in many, many ways.

  But instead of launching into accusations, she walked to the tack room, leaned against the door frame, crossed her arms over her chest, and stood silent. Watching him.

  His mouth went so dry, he could have sworn it had been stuffed with cotton.

  For a good two minutes, neither of them said a word. After glancing her way, he turned and continued brushing the broom across already clean cement. It was impossible to stand still.

  All the while, Marie continued to stand quietly, her face expressionless. He could only imagine what she was thinking. If their places had been reversed, he knew he would be feeling hurt and anger toward her.

  Finally, she spoke. “Shouldn’t Roman be doing this?”

  “Ah, Roman
was up early, so I let him have a few hours off. He wanted to walk over to see Miriam.” Roman had also been particularly quiet—more so than usual. Peter knew his son was disappointed in his behavior. Though he hadn’t entered the fray, Roman had overheard the whole commotion, but had kept on doing his chores.

  That dimple in her cheek that he knew so well appeared. “Miriam? She is a sweet girl. Are they getting serious?”

  “He doesn’t say much to me about his romances. But if I had to guess? I’d say no, I don’t think they are yet. He doesn’t talk about her in that way.” Well, not like he’d once talked about Marie. When they’d been courting, every sentence he uttered always returned back to her.

  He shrugged. “I could be wrong, though.”

  Leaning against the woodwork again, she said, “I haven’t gotten that feeling about the two of them, either.”

  He stilled. Holding the broom, he felt a bit like a scarecrow in a field—stuck in the hard ground, unable to move away. Frozen in one place when there was no wind.

  “Isn’t it something?” Marie said, her voice breaking the silence. “Our kinner are twenty-three and twenty-two. Not a one of them seems close to getting married anytime soon. Why, we were married and I was pregnant with Roman at twenty-two.”

  “Kinner do things on their own time now, I suppose.”

  She bit her lip, just as if he’d said something noteworthy. “Jah, I suppose you’re right.”

  As she continued to stand there, so calmly, so patiently, he placed the broom against the wall. Slowly he approached, watching every expression on her face. If she flinched, he knew he’d back up immediately.

  But he couldn’t bear for the two of them to be so distant. “Marie, you can’t know how sorry I am. That said, I know that telling you that I’m sorry will never be enough.”

  “You are wrong about that.”

  “What?”

  “Apologizing will always be enough.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so, because I love you. But you must talk to me, Peter. When did you start drinking? And why?”

  He looked at his feet, then forced himself to raise his chin and look her in the eye. The time for hiding was long past. Yet he struggled with the words.

  “Just talk to me, Peter,” she coaxed. “That’s all I want. Just talk.”

  He swallowed hard. “About seven or eight months ago, everything got to me. We had some trouble with one of the cows—” Now, as he said the words, he wished he could take them back. In the grand scheme of things, who really cared about cows?

  “Cows?” A line formed on her brow. “I don’t remember any problem . . .”

  “It was nothing. I didn’t tell you. Anyway, the cow was bawling something awful, she was feeling sickly. I’d been up with her all night, walking with her. When morning came, I was dirty and exhausted. All I wanted to do was go lie down.” He struggled to continue, praying to find the right words so that she might understand how he had been feeling.

  “However, when I was going upstairs I saw my parents in the kitchen. Daed asked what I was doing, and, like a fool, I told him.”

  “Oh dear,” Marie murmured.

  Peter couldn’t believe it was possible, but he found himself smiling. “Indeed. My father looked at me with contempt. And that forced me to think about how my daed had always gone through each day without complaint.”

  “That’s probably not true . . .”

  “Though I don’t have to answer to them, I felt like I should defend myself. But suddenly, that felt like too much. So, even though I was exhausted, I showered and left for town. All I wanted to do was sit somewhere and just close my eyes. I ran to the store to pick up some food, and I saw a small bottle of vodka. And, remembering years ago, when me and my buddies used to sneak liquor and beer during rumspringa . . . I bought it.” He winced; even to his ears, the explanation sounded weak.

  “And you drank it?”

  “I had a few sips. But the burning in the back of my throat seemed to numb my brain. And though I was still tired and stressed and worried, I didn’t feel like I was incapable anymore.” He shrugged. “I didn’t start out wanting to become an alcoholic, Marie. I meant to throw that bottle away. I never had any intention of drinking again. But instead of tossing it in the trash, I kept it.”

  Even as he heard his words, he ached to take them back. He sounded pitiful. So pitiful.

  He braced himself for her recriminations.

  But instead, next thing he knew, she had launched herself toward him, her arms around his shoulders, her face hidden in the crook of his neck. Gently, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Her soft tears trickled down his neck, making his shirt damp, breaking his heart.

  “I’m sorry, Marie,” he rasped. “I never intended for you to find out. And I never intended to continue. I never meant to be this man that I’ve become.”

  “You are a gut man, Peter. You just need some help.”

  “I don’t need any help. I just need to stop drinking.”

  Pure compassion entered her eyes. “If I ask you some questions, will you answer me truthfully?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “All right. Here’s the first one. What do you think would have happened if Viola and Elsie hadn’t found that bottle under our sink?”

  His answer was as painful as it was instant. “I would have continued to drink.”

  “Did you want to lie to me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then, did you intend to hurt me?”

  “Nee, Marie.” His voice cracked.

  “Then why did you never stop on your own?”

  “I didn’t think I was hurting anyone.”

  “You were hurting yourself.”

  “That’s not the same.” Bracing himself, he attempted to put his darkest thoughts into words, in a way that wouldn’t sound pathetic, but would help his wife understand the depth of his confusion and anguish. “Marie, it’s like this, you see. I thought if you never found out, it didn’t make any difference. As long as I didn’t hurt you. . . .”

  “You only cared about hurting me?”

  “You’re everything to me. I love my parents, and I love our children. But you, Marie, are the one who holds my heart. I couldn’t bear to cause you pain.”

  He watched her visibly struggle to make sense of his words. He knew her so well and realized she was struggling to differentiate her feelings from his.

  After a moment, she sighed. “I love you, Peter. As much love as you feel for me, I feel the same for you. Even if you lie or withhold things to protect me, I still feel the pain, because it’s your pain I concern myself with.” She cleared her throat. “Don’t you see? Your feelings aren’t that different from mine. Let me help you. Let me ask the bishop for help. He can guide us, I feel sure of it.”

  Bishop Coblentz was a good man. They’d known each other all their lives. But letting him know what he’d been doing would make his humiliation complete. “Let’s not.”

  “But why? He won’t betray you.”

  Even if the bishop never said a word about it, that knowledge would always be in his eyes. “I don’t want him to know.”

  “I think you need help.”

  “You’ve already helped a lot, Marie. I’ll stop on my own.”

  Hurt filled her eyes. “Peter, I know this hurts to hear, but you might not be able to stop on your own. And I might not be able to help you enough.”

  His frustration in himself finally transferred to his tone of voice. “Just give me a chance first, wouldya?” he snapped. “I know I’ve disappointed you, but I am still a man. And I am still capable of making decisions in this house.” When she looked fearful, he reached out to her, just like she’d done to him a few minutes earlier. “Trust me, Marie. I don’t want to lose you, and I don’t want to keep secrets from you. I can do this.”

  “But if you can’t . . .”

  To placate her, he nodded. “If I can’t, I’ll let you know. An
d then you can ask the bishop for help.”

  “Promise?”

  Her eyes were luminous, so filled with trust. With hope, too. He loved seeing that look in her eyes. He loved seeing her belief in him. “I promise.”

  When her lips curved upward in a small, tired smile, he felt his body relax. Unable to stop himself, he pulled her into his arms, smiling with contentment when she rested her head on his shoulder, just as she had for more than twenty years.

  Just as she had back when they were eighteen and he’d taken her for a buggy ride in the cold and she’d first cuddled up next to him.

  Holding her now, remembering how blessed they were to have each other, he promised himself yet again not to do anything to hurt her. He needed to continue to be the man she’d fallen in love with.

  The man she needed him to be.

  So yes, he was going to change his ways.

  Or at the very least . . . make sure she never found out about his drinking again.

  Wednesday evening

  For about the hundredth time, Lorene felt like pinching herself. Here she was, sitting comfortably at John Miller’s table, while he bustled in the kitchen to plate their food.

  “Almost ready!” he called out.

  He’d already said those same words several times. “Are you sure I canna help you?”

  “You’re my guest, Lorene.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t help you.”

  “It does to me.” Something clanked, he muttered something, then he spoke loudly again. “Almost ready.”

  Because he couldn’t see her, she chuckled softly. This was the most entertained she’d been in years, and they hadn’t even sat down together yet! “John?”

  “I’m here,” he said from the doorway, his hands laden with two bowls of soup. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I haven’t quite mastered the skill of getting everything done at the same time.”

  “That’s hard for me to do, too. Though I have to tell you that I haven’t cooked many meals like this,” she admitted as he set the plate in front of her with a pleased expression. As the scents of well-seasoned soup and rolls made her mouth water, she smiled. “It smells heavenly.”