When Mercy Rains

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Clete drained his cup and set it on the table. “We’re ready for it. We’ve waited long enough. Even if it’s messy and noisy, it’s got to be done. So feel free to get started wherever you think is best. We trust you, Paul.”

  Somehow it stung to be trusted. If Clete knew what Paul had done twenty years ago, would he still be his friend? He headed for the door. “All right then. Cabinetry in the kitchen first and then the bathroom cabinet and roll-in shower. I’ll take a break from interior work to build the ramps as soon as the ground is dry enough to pour concrete. All-in-all, plan on me being around for eight weeks—maybe closer to seven if I work on Saturdays.”

  “Do you want to work on Saturdays?”

  Paul shrugged. “I’m open to it, but I’d have to bring my son with me.” Without meaning to, he flicked a glance toward the room where Mrs. Zimmerman now held her daughter, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter captive. “Would Danny be … an intrusion?”

  Clete laughed lightly. “Do you mean will Mother run him off?”

  Paul’s face heated at Clete’s candor.

  “Danny’s a good kid. He’ll be here with you, and Mother will stay far away from the mess. It’s fine if you want to bring him along.”

  “I’m glad to hear that since summer vacation will likely start before I’m done out here. As big as he is, he isn’t keen on being stuck with a babysitter. You might be seeing quite a bit of Danny.”

  “No problem.”

  Paul started for the door to collect his toolbox, but then he paused, curiosity overcoming good sense. “Hey, Clete, I found out this morning that Suzy’s here.”

  A crooked smile—a nervous smile?—quirked Clete’s lips. “Yeah. Shelley, Sandra, and me asked her to come help take care of Mother. She’s got that nursing training, you know.”

  He knew. He’d seen it in action. He took hold of the doorknob, needing something to keep him steady. “Is she home for good, or …”

  Clete rubbed his chin with his knuckles. “I’m not sure. I want her to stay. It’s too much for Tanya, Shelley, and Sandra since they’ve got kids to raise. But it’ll be up to her, I guess. She took a two-month leave of absence from work. So she’ll be here at least that long.”

  Two months. For as long as he’d be out here working. Given their history, being together every day might prove awkward. He clamped his jaw tight and headed for his truck with the too-familiar ball of shame and regret rolling through him. He’d wronged Suzy. Badly. In the worst way. She’d trusted him, and he led her down a pathway of ruin. It didn’t matter that he’d only been eighteen and so deeply in love he lost all will to resist temptation. It didn’t matter that she’d carved a good life for herself elsewhere—the entire town lauded the Zimmermans for having a missionary nurse in their family. It didn’t matter that he’d gone on to fall in love with Karina Kornelson and followed the sect’s and God’s courting mandates to the letter. All that mattered was he’d wronged Suzy. And out of fear or shame or desperation she’d left her home and family. For good. How did a man forget perpetrating such pain on another soul?

  As Paul reached into the bed of his truck for his tools, awareness struck. For years he’d prayed for the chance to seek Suzy’s forgiveness. Now she was back. God had given him his opportunity to absolve himself of this weight of guilt. He felt lighter already.

  Thanks, Lord. It’ll be good to set things right.

  Abigail

  Abigail lay reclined against a pile of pillows and pretended to doze, but she watched her daughter through barely slitted eyelids. Suzy was the epitome of efficiency. Tucking sheets just so, even while Abigail weighted the mattress, fluffing pillows, arranging pill bottles in a neat row on the dresser top, pausing every fifteen minutes like clockwork to gently pinch Abigail’s wrist, count, and record whatever she deemed worthy of recording on a little pad of paper. Suzy might not have been honest about everything in her yearly letters—most notably her failure to mention Alexa—but she’d been honest when it came to her vocation. She wore her title as nurse as blatantly as if someone had painted the title on her forehead.

  How many times had Abigail imagined her daughter performing duties as a nurse? More times than she’d bragged about Suzy’s ministry, and she’d bragged plenty. She’d comforted herself with the knowledge Suzy was faring well despite being tossed out by her mother. Such pleasure—the only pleasure she’d allowed herself—she’d found in envisioning scenes just like the one being played out in her bedroom.

  But of course, she’d never imagined Suzy nursing her.

  Abigail gritted her teeth and stifled a moan. What had possessed her children to bring Suzy here? Clete should know better. He must have taken leave of his senses. Suzy belonged in Indiana. In the hospital where she cared for people who deserved her tender ministrations. Having her daughter under her roof again brought back all the pain, the regrets, the self-recrimination and stirred them to a boiling point.

  If she had two sturdy legs, she’d take Suzy by the arm and march her out the door. Then she’d tell Clete she didn’t need him farming her land—she’d do it herself. She’d chase everyone away and live out her last days alone, as was fitting given the harm she’d inflicted.

  Lying there, silent and tense, she railed against the accident that had left her an invalid. She couldn’t get her legs and her independence back, but she could do one thing. She could send Suzy back to Indiana. Of course, the girl wouldn’t just go. She was too dedicated to serving those in need and, if she was anything like the Zimmermans who’d come before her, too stubborn to give up.

  But there were ways to get people out from underfoot. Abigail had scared off more than a few with deliberate ungraciousness. She’d have to do the same to Suzy. A deep ache settled itself in her heart as she considered more long years without her oldest child in her life. But she’d been selfish twenty years ago, thinking of what was best for herself instead of Suzy. Keeping Suzy here now would be even more selfish.

  Abigail would make her go. It might shatter what remained of her withered heart, but she’d do it. As quickly as she could. It was the only way to appease her conscience.

  Alexa

  Her patience was slipping away. When would Mom leave Grandmother’s room? Aunt Tanya had gone out half an hour ago, declaring her plans to wash sheets and towels and then run some errands in town. From the sound of things, she was banging the sheets with rocks to get them clean—there’d been a steady succession of thuds and bumps coming from the kitchen ever since she stepped out of the room. But even though Grandmother claimed she was fine and wanted everyone to stop mollycoddling her, Mom refused to budge from the edge of the mattress. Was she using Grandmother’s fainting episode as an excuse to avoid conversation with her daughter?

  Alexa had deliberately waited until Uncle Clete and the children drove away before coming downstairs. She’d intended to take Mom aside, tell her what she’d overheard, and then ask why she’d never told her family she had a daughter. It had taken her all night to gather up enough courage to approach Mom, but then Grandmother had fainted, and the chance slipped away. But as soon as she got Mom alone again, she’d ask. And she wouldn’t accept anything less than the truth.

  She sat on a chair in the corner of the bedroom and watched her mother tend to her grandmother. Mom was so patient. Kind. Gentle. All of the things the Bible said people should be, that was Mom. Alexa had grown up admiring her mother, wanting to emulate her. And she’d always accepted Mom’s various excuses about not visiting Arborville. It was too expensive to travel so far, it would take too much time away from work, her family was so busy on the farm they wouldn’t have time for a visit … Always an excuse. A plausible excuse. Not even when the excuses frustrated her did she suspect her mother of being dishonest. But now?

  “I just wish she’d come alone.” Her uncle’s words taunted her. As did remembering how Mom initially intended to leave Alexa behind. Because Mom hadn’t wanted her family to know she had a daughter. Because she was ashamed to have
borne an out-of-wedlock child. What other reason could there be for keeping her a secret from them? Oh, please, let there be some other reason, God. I don’t want to be Mom’s shame …

  Pressure built in her chest, a painful weight of sorrow and confusion. Unable to sit still a moment longer, she bolted from the chair and crossed to the bed. “Mom?”

  “Not now, sweetheart.”

  Alexa considered defying her mother. She’d only done it once before—when she was twelve and boldly applied makeup one of the other girls from school brought in her purse. Mom hadn’t gotten angry. First she’d warned Alexa about being sneaky. Sneaky people couldn’t be trusted, she’d said. Then, using verses from the second chapter of First Timothy about a woman’s proper adornment, she’d explained why she chose to leave her face clean of makeup. And finally she had suggested Alexa would be wise to concern herself with making her insides beautiful and reflective of God rather than painting her outsides with worldly ideas of beauty. Mom’s kind response had extinguished the flame of Alexa’s rebellion.

  She bit down on her lower lip. Being forceful now, being impatient and selfish, wouldn’t reflect God. But how much longer did she have to wait? Grandmother’s eyes—blue like Mom’s but a paler shade—bored into Alexa’s face as if she could see the storm brewing within Alexa’s heart. Uncomfortable beneath the woman’s scrutiny, Alexa started to turn away.

  “I want some coffee.”

  Grandmother’s brusque statement seemed to be sent to Alexa. She paused, looking uncertainly at Mom. Then Grandmother spoke again.

  “I’ve sipped enough water. I want coffee.”

  Mom pinched her lips together for a moment, then nodded. “All right. I suppose you’ve had enough water that a cup of coffee won’t hurt you. Alexa, would you go pour your grandmother a cup?”

  “I want fresh coffee. By now the morning’s pot will be stale.”

  Back in their apartment they had an automatic brewer as well as a French press, and Alexa knew how to use both. But she’d gotten a look at the old-fashioned percolator on the stove. “Um, I’ll go ask Aunt Tanya to make another pot.”

  “Tanya’s busy. Suzanne can do it. Surely she remembers how to operate a percolator.” Was Grandmother challenging Mom? She added, “And while you’re out there, find out what all that banging is. It sounds like someone’s tearing the house apart.”

  Mom rose. “All right, Mother. I’ll see to it. But you lie still.” She rounded the bed and touched Alexa’s hand. She lowered her voice. “Don’t let her get excited. I’ll be back soon.”

  “No need to rush, Suzanne.” A sly smile climbed Grandmother’s cheek. “I’ll be in good hands with my granddaughter.”

  Mom froze for a moment, her lips forming a grim line, but then she nodded. “You’re right. Alexa is very capable.” She gave Alexa a look that seemed to communicate caution, then she hurried out of the room.

  The moment she departed, Grandmother patted the mattress beside her hip. “Sit down here, Alexa. Let’s get acquainted.”

  If she’d been given the invitation two days ago, she would have leaped at the opportunity to become acquainted. But after hearing Uncle Clete’s comment and witnessing her grandmother’s surly treatment of Mom, she hesitated.

  “Come on. I won’t bite.”

  Alexa wasn’t so sure. Resting against a jumble of pillows, her hair hidden beneath a white cap with trailing black ribbons and a patchwork quilt pulled to her chin, Grandmother resembled the dressed-up wolf from the children’s picture book about Little Red Riding Hood. Alexa perched on the edge of the bed near Grandmother’s feet, careful not to bounce the mattress.

  Grandmother linked her wrinkled hands over her belly. “Your mother calls you Alexa, but I’d like to know your full name.”

  Her congenial tone—the kindest she’d used since Alexa had come downstairs—raised a flag of apprehension in the back of her brain. She answered warily. “Alexa Joy Zimmerman.”

  “Hmm. Alexa … Joy … Zimmerman.” Grandmother seemed to sample its sound. “We have the same initials, then. I am Abigail Jantz Zimmerman. How old are you, Alexa Joy Zimmerman?”

  “I turned nineteen last December third.” She’d shared a cake she baked herself with Mom, Linda and Tom, and some of the young people from church. She’d also given her mother a bouquet of flowers in appreciation for nineteen years of being such a great mother. Mom had cried, and Alexa had thought it her happiest birthday ever, but now she couldn’t help but remember all the birthday cards and greetings she’d never received from this woman lying on the bed.

  Grandmother chuckled—a rusty sound. “Well, I will be sixty in June. Sixty. Can you believe that?”

  No, she couldn’t. She would have guessed her grandmother to be much older. But she wisely only smiled.

  “If you’re nineteen, you’re finished with school, yes?”

  Alexa shrugged. “Well, yes and no. I graduated from high school a year ago, and I’ve been saving to attend college, but I’m not completely sure what degree to seek. So I’m waiting.”

  Grandmother’s thick brows descended. “I only attended up through ninth grade. Our school here only goes that far—one year past what the government requires. Then our young people find jobs. They get married and build families. You obviously aren’t married, so do you have a job?”

  It occurred to Alexa that for every question she answered, Grandmother answered it, too, sharing a little piece of herself. Was she playing a game? Alexa began to feel like a mouse to Grandmother’s cat. “Yes, ma’am. I work at an elementary school near our apartment, in the cafeteria. I help cook the lunch and then serve it to the students.”

  “I never had a job.” Another dry chuckle rasped from Grandmother’s throat. “At least not one that paid me a wage. I finished school and then helped in my aunt’s home. I only had one sister who was a few years older than me, but my aunt and uncle had a dozen children. They needed help, so I stayed with them and helped them until I got married. Then I helped my husband.” She frowned and shook her finger at Alexa. “But just because I didn’t draw a wage doesn’t mean I was lazy or my work didn’t matter, young lady. I’ve always worked heartily as for the Lord.”

  Alexa nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Grandmother sighed, losing her stern expression. “So you want to go to college …” She linked her hands together and held them beneath her chin, as if praying. “Your mother is the only one of my children to get schooling beyond ninth grade. She chose to become a nurse.”

  Alexa already knew this, but she listened respectfully.

  “I was happy to know she was studying to be a nurse. A worthwhile vocation. Ministering to people in need. Something a good Mennonite girl would want to do.” Grandmother’s voice turned so reflective, Alexa wondered if she’d forgotten she was speaking to someone besides herself. “And when she said she was working in a Mennonite hospital—a hospital that offered services for free or little cost to those in need—I was proud. Yes, proud. What mother wouldn’t be proud to have a missionary nurse for her daughter?”

  If Grandmother was so proud of Mom, why hadn’t she ever let Mom know? Why did she only send a letter once a year? Why hadn’t she ever come to visit and see what Mom did? So many questions. But Grandmother had seemed to drift away to somewhere inside herself. If Alexa spoke she might startle her into another fainting episode. So she bit down on the end of her tongue and held her questions inside.

  “Everyone in town knew I was the mother of a missionary nurse. No one else could make such a claim. They admired me for raising a daughter who would serve so unselfishly. And I held up my head and let them admire me.” Abruptly she lowered her hands and fixed Alexa with a rueful smile. “I would have been wise to remember, Alexa, the admonishment from Proverbs 16:18, ‘Pride goeth before destruction.’ ” She set her lips in a firm line and turned her face away.

  A chill made its way across Alexa’s frame. Did Grandmother see her arrival as destruction? A series of bangs and thuds, the l
oudest yet, came from the other side of the door as if to underscore her thoughts. She stood, ready to flee the room and the ugly idea her grandmother had put in her head.

  Mom stepped in holding a mug. Steam rose from the plain blue mug, bringing with it the rich aroma of coffee. Although Alexa had always loved the smell of brewed coffee, queasiness attacked. She scurried to the opposite side of the room.

  Mom held the mug to Grandmother. “I’m afraid this is reheated coffee from the morning pot.”

  Grandmother scowled at the contents as if flies were doing the backstroke in the liquid. “Why not fresh?”

  “All that noise you’re hearing? That’s the contractor tearing out your cabinetry.” Mom’s cheeks bloomed a rosy hue. The steam from the coffee must have overheated her. Or maybe Grandmother’s grumpiness caused a blush of frustration. “He’d taped up a big sheet of plastic across the middle of the kitchen—I suppose to keep the dust mess to a minimum—and while the stove is accessible, the sink is on his side so I couldn’t get water. Luckily he stacked everything from the cabinets on the kitchen table so I could make use of a saucepan to reheat the coffee. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”

  Alexa’s patience wore out. She took a step forward. “Mom?”

  Mom shifted her attention. She must have sensed Alexa’s tension because she frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  Alexa folded her arms across her chest. Many things were wrong. “I need to talk to you.”

  Grandmother waved her hand. “Give me that coffee. I’ve waited all morning for it.”

  Alexa released a soft snort. For someone who claimed to be proud of her daughter, she sure didn’t treat her very well. Mom might as well have been a minion and Grandmother a reigning despot. “Mom, I need to talk to you.”