A Second Chance

by Linda Byler

Ridiculous, this moping around.

  Edna threw herself into the work, then tumbled bone-weary, already dripping with sleep before her head hit the soft, feather pillow at night. She put Orva Schlabach and his three children out of her mind and continued her life.

  She had coffee with Susie every morning after the children left for school. She would have it no other way. Three was a whole day for her to finish cleaning or baking or whatever.

  This morning Susie produced a package of Oreos, ripped open the top and took out five or six, dipping them rapidly into her heavily creamed and sugared coffee.

  “You know, Edna, I feel as if I’ve known you my whole life. I will miss you so much when you leave. The girls just love you. You’ll have to stay in touch. Write or call sometimes. Or, even better, come for a visit.”

  She stretched, yawned and rubbed her eyes.

  “Not much sleep last night. Whew! But James is so good with a crying baby. He always takes a turn, especially if he knows I’m exhausted. I mean it, Edna, I have the best husband in the world. I didn’t do one thing to deserve it. And look at the size of me. It’s awful.”

  “I don’t think size has anything to do with it.”

  “For some men it does. Look at David Erma. She diets all the time to stay trim for that man.”

  “Oh, well.”

  They sat in a comfortable silence.

  “You think you’ll ever get married?”

  Surprised, Edna looked up, straight into the discerning dark eyes.

  “Why would I? I can’t believe anyone would want me anymore.”

  “What do you mean by anymore? As if you’ve reached the golden age of seventy.”

  She clucked at her own joke.

  “No, I mean you know as well as I do that an Amish girl’s best prospects are gone once she reaches the age of twenty-four or five.”

  “You think?”

  “I think so.”

  “Not for everyone. Look at JoAnna Mast. She was in her thirties when she married Elvin Weaver.”

  “A widower, right?”

  “No. A single guy. And not unattractive, either.”

  “Well, you know. Whatever.”

  Susie pushed away the package of Oreos.

  “I have to stop eating them. They give me heartburn.”

  Edna laughed with the natural humor that wavered between sisters, or a mother. She had never met anyone quite like Susie. She was like an artesian well, with kindness and goodwill flowing from her oversized heart, coupled with a deep interest in others’ opinions, always finding the best in those around her, yet she had no idea how downright good she was. She carried her husband and children’s love like a banner that floated above her, gave them all the credit, neverendingly thankful. She was what God intended women to be.

  A deep shudder ran through her, a sickening jolt of the knowledge of her own pettiness, the selfishness that ran through her veins like an unhealthy disease. She couldn’t even be accepting of a tiny little dog with an overactive bladder.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Susie asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something crossed your mind. Your face.”

  “I thought . . . well, it’s true that we deserve what we get, right?”

  Puzzled, Susie wrinkled her brow.

  “You mean . . .?”

  “Well, I’m just saying. You know, outwardly, I’m a good person, the way everyone is, mostly. But I am not nearly as unselfish as you.”

  “Why would you be like me? I had nine children. Let me tell you something, Edna. After nine babies, if you still have selfishness, you’re just bound to be the most miserable person on earth. You know that verse in the Bible where God told Adam he had to work by the sweat of his brow and Eve would bear children with pain? Women are finicky creatures, prone to think of themselves, picky as all get-out. So the whole of God’s design is, indeed, a wondrous thing. We are saved from ourselves through bearing children, which may sound harsh, but it really isn’t. Babies teach us what God wants us to be.”

  “What about single girls? I’m just on the slippery slope into a cauldron of misery?”

  Edna could not quite keep the bitterness from her voice.

  “What’s a cauldron?” Susie asked, followed by her infectious laugh.

  Edna glared at her.

  “Oh, come on. I’m not wording this well at all. Of course, we all have the very same opportunity to accept the gift of salvation through Jesus Christ, Edna. It’s just that I understand what God has in mind, and am eternally grateful. Motherhood is a wondrous thing, and I hope you’ll get to experience it.”

  She looked puzzled for a moment.

  “But surely, in your work, you feel attached to the little ones, feel a sense of ownership, of love.”

  “Why would I? They’re not mine.”

  “Of course not. And here I go rambling on about the virtues of having babies, feeling superior. I don’t mean it that way, Edna.”

  Edna nodded, a small smile hiding the lump in her throat.

  “You didn’t say anything wrong. It’s just that . . . ever having someone, you know, getting married, the whole bit, seems like an ever-growing impossibility, the older I become. I just have to accept it. My sister Sadie says I’m already turning into a sour old maid. Lemony.”

  Susie’s voice rose.

  “No, you are not. You are the most delightful maud. I hear you in the kitchen with the girls, and they love you. Absolutely adore you, Edna. You are blessed to have this gift of being an outstanding maud.”

  And like a long-dry sponge, Edna soaked up the water of Susie’s encouragement, and sang as she sorted laundry in the laundry room.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE TWO WEEKS WITH JAMES AND SUSIE DETWEILER WAS SHORTENED by the alarming message that her father had been taken to the hospital in Topeka.

  By ambulance, which meant her mother had called the emergency number, no doubt making her way to the telephone in too much of a hurry, which could have been disastrous as well.

  Guilt left her feeling robbed of good humor as she arrived, the towering brown building looming over her sense of duty, taunting her with its air of English professionalism.

  She disliked hospitals, doctors, efficient caregivers that never failed to instill a sense of stupidity, of incompetence. She should have been at home, catching on to her father’s deep cough, the escalating fever. No doubt her mother had used an entire jar of Vicks, resorted to Unker’s and Vitamin C in diarrhea-inducing dosages, along with enough Tylenol to tranquilize an ox.

  Upon arrival, she turned to the driver, a smiling gentleman who reminded her of Susie, his face lined with horizontal wrinkles that all turned upward, like the corners of his mouth.

  “There you are, young lady,” he said, his old, watery eyes assessing her worried face.

  “Yes. How much do I owe you?” Edna asked, pulling her purse on to her lap, reaching for her wallet.

  “Not a thing, honey.”

  He placed a gnarled, swollen hand on her arm, and rubbed gently.

  “This is free. Your poor old father is sick, so why would I take your money?”

  “Well, thank you. But please let me know if there is anything I can do for you sometime.”

  “I most certainly will. Now you take care of your old man, O.K.?” Edna nodded, opened the door, and stepped out. She took a deep breath as if to cleanse her arm from that old hand. She could almost guarantee she wasn’t normal, the way irritation flared the minute he touched her arm, called her honey. She was not his honey, not even remotely.

  She stalked across the parking lot, bristling, with the sense of being thrust into a situation that was entirely against her will.

  She didn’t even know her father’s room number.

  The giant lobby was filled with people whose faces registered varying degrees of concern. She turned away from any friendly overtures, marched up to a long, low desk without returning the man’s greeting, brusquely inquiring about David Miller.
/>   “Room 504,” he answered, after a lengthy tapping on computer keys.

  “Thanks.”

  Fifth floor. Great. How was she supposed to find the elevators?

  She stopped, found signs with arrows pointing to them, and kept going, finding a small group waiting in front of the heavy, automatic doors. Edna entered with them and stood in the farthest corner, her arms crossed defensively across her waist.

  The elevator rose, then stopped, with most of them exiting the enclosure, so she did, too, without checking the numbered panel with buttons to push for the floor she needed. She stepped out, stood hesitantly, turned left, to find directions for rooms to 301.

  Right. 304. This was not so hard.

  She walked with a purposeful step to Room 304, finding the door ajar, so without knocking, slowly pushed it open, expecting to find her father and siblings. Instead, a thin, graying woman looked up from the reclining bed, a question in her half open eyes.

  “Oh, excuse me. I have the wrong room number.”

  She backed out before the woman in the bed could answer, retraced her steps, boarded the elevator, punched the button below the five, and hoped for the best.

  504, he’d said.

  She found the room, tapped lightly, then let herself in, easing slowly in as if she might not see anyone she recognized.

  Her mother rose immediately.

  “Oh, Edna. I am so grateful you’re here. Fannie and Sadie won’t be in till this evening, or the boys. The time gets awful long, just sitting here.

  “They are taking him somewhere else in a few minutes, to do tests. Something about the infection in his bronco tubes.”

  Edna groaned. “Mam, did the doctor say bronchial?”

  “I don’t know what he said,” her mother said softly, and then began to cry, soft little hiccups with tears splashing on cheeks as papery and thin as Kleenex.

  “Ach, Mam, I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I just . . .”

  “Edna.”

  A hoarse whisper from the bed. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  He extended a hand, the fingers beckoning.

  Edna went to him, placed a hand on his shoulder. “How are you?”

  “I’m alright. I am. They’ll fix me right up in here,” he gasped, then began a fit of coughing, like sandpaper across a rough surface.

  “They will,” she assured him.

  Under the fluorescent ceiling lights, her father appeared bloated, his hair parted in greasy yellow strands. Dry flakes of old skin clung to his feverish forehead, his nose crisscrossed with blue veins, moles, and pockmarks. The teal green hospital gown was pulled to one side, exposing his thick neck crosshatched with skin tags, unsightly polyps of overgrown skin cells.

  She had never seen her father without a shirt collar that rode up on his neck. He seemed vulnerable, an aging oversized baby, dependent on other’s judgment. An odor escaped from under the thin sheet, an unwashed body, made up of lumps of flesh, old yellowed fingernails.

  Edna took a deep breath, steadied herself and looked to her mother, who was pocketing an old crocheted handkerchief, her eyes tired and rheumy.

  “I should have been at home,” she stated matter-of-factly. “You are both fast approaching the age where you will need someone close all the time. Which will have to be me, right?”

  Her father had fallen asleep in his weakened condition, but her mother repeatedly shook her head, no, no.

  “You have to provide for yourself, Edna.”

  Two white-coated men came into the room, greeted them vaguely, then proceeded to unhook wires, the bed lowering electronically, and without further words, they wheeled him out the door and turned left.

  Dear God, keep him safe, Edna whispered.

  It was viral pneumonia. Her father spent over a week in the hospital.

  The boys and their wives visited frequently, as did the sisters and husbands, with Edna traveling to and from the hospital every day. Her mother insisted on spending the night with him, obstinately refusing to budge when her children tried to persuade her otherwise.

  “They won’t hear him when he calls,” she told them.

  “Mam, listen, it’s the nurse’s duty to check on him all night long. You know how it is at a hospital at night, you get very little rest, O.K.?” Edna pleaded.

  “Edna, now you be quiet. This is my husband, not yours,” she said firmly.

  She only lasted two nights, and then became so exhausted she fainted in the bathroom, which gave Edna a horrible fright. After that, she realized the time had come to treat them like children, and make them obey.

  Of course, Edna’s mother folded like an accordion, without a whimper, accompanying Edna home and sleeping without a sound all night long.

  Much to Edna’s relief, Trixie was whisked off in her small plastic carrier, with Sadie’s children eagerly awaiting the dog’s arrival.

  Edna scrubbed every inch of the linoleum, washed every rug in very hot water and a drop of Clorox, then clapped her hands to rejoice all on her own.

  And so began her month’s stay with her parents.

  The letter arrived that second week when she thought she must surely lose her mind from sheer boredom and the endless repetition of caring for her father, whose spirits wavered between irritation and self-pity, her mother jogging back and forth, waiting on him hand and foot.

  And of course, Trixie returned, completely spoiled, having forgotten every attempt at being housebroken.

  She found the letter between a subscription renewal notice for Birds and Blooms and a propane gas bill. It came in a plain white envelope addressed to her in a cramped writing style that was definitely masculine.

  Her heart leaped, dropped, then began a slow, methodical thudding. What in the world, she thought, and took the letter back to her room, opening it with fingers that shook so badly she tore the envelope and a good portion of the letter written on plain, lined notebook paper.

  Dear Friend,

  (Her first thought was, I’m not your friend. What’s wrong with Edna?)

  After much prayer and consideration, I have decided to ask you if you would be willing to begin a friendship with me? I would like to pay a call on the evening of the twenty-first.

  I remain anxious to hear from you.

  Yonie Hashbya

  Her first reaction was to assure him that he’d remain in an anxious state for quite some time. Yonie. Oh, help. Wasn’t that just like him? Wasn’t this simply a continuation of her whole life? Dealt a hand of cards she would never be able to comprehend?

  She didn’t want Yonie, plain and simple.

  Her whole life, he’d gone to the same church, attended every sale, every volleyball game, every event she had ever attended. He was a good five years her senior, short, curly-haired, wearing those wire-rimmed glasses that made his eyes look as small as raisins. Or chocolate chips.

  He had a pronounced limp from a fall off a tractor when he was a boy, she remembered that. He was severely pigeon-toed, and everyone agreed he was a bit slow, although certainly kindhearted. He’d do anything for anyone, always the first at any fund-raiser.

  He was also wealthy, having inherited his father’s welding shop, producing all sorts of hayracks, feeding troughs, snow removal blades, everything anyone asked of him.

  But could she come to love him, in time?

  If she ever wanted a husband, here was the door of opportunity.

  The letter slid out of her nerveless fingers, fluttered to the floor and lay there.

  Well, prayer was most definitely necessary, but she had to deal with the thoughts that marched like an unstoppable locomotive through her head. She rubbed both of her temples with her fingers, squeezed her eyes shut to clear the chaos, then threw herself back against the cushions of her sofa and exhaled.

  There were her parents. Her job. What would people do without her? She could not leave her parents alone. What would her sisters say? Who would give her the best advice?

  Edna could not rein in her scattered, wing-
borne thoughts. For one, she could never again tell anyone she had never been asked to go on a date with an eligible young man. She had been asked now. Written to.

  How often had she imagined this letter in a handful of mail? Now it had happened, but not from the one she had always thought might write to her someday. Never from him.

  His name was Emery. Emery Hoschtetler.

  He was exactly nine months older than her, thirty years old now, and still unmarried, which made it harder for Edna to keep pushing away the “perhaps,” the hope she knew was empty, but found herself hanging on to anyway. Even to herself, she didn’t admit the power of his attraction.

  Why was life like this for some, and for others everything went according to plan? Her plan for marriage and living happily ever after always included Emery, from the first moment she had spied him, straddling a bench as he greeted his friends at the Sunday evening hymn singing.

  There was nothing outstanding about him, no golden-haired movie-star perfection, nothing that set him apart from a dozen other young men. It was simply the way he walked, the way he held his shoulders, the wide grin that flashed on and off. He had straight brown hair, nondescript eyes behind heavy glasses, but his nose was sharp, his skin darkened from the sun.

  She had fallen hard. Heart-thumpingly hard. The image of him filled her days, the fantasy of if and when he would ask her to be his girlfriend.

  Emery and Edna. Given their names started with the same letter, she told herself constantly that it was meant to be, destiny. God’s will, her own will, her parents’ will.

  Thirteen years and nothing had ever happened.

  Well, sometimes things had happened. He smiled at her, or talked to her, but always with a group, as a friend, and nothing more. She knew now she had been pathetic, single-minded, desperately drowning in the pool of her longing, kept afloat with one smile, one “Hey, Edna.”

  Her girlfriends knew. They sat together giggling, talking, talking, sharing feelings, discussing boys, planning outings to spaghetti suppers and horse sales, fairs and festivals. But one by one, her girlfriends were chosen, became wives and then mothers, growing away from her by the sunlight of their lives, leaving her in the shade of being older and single.