by Linda Byler
Edna smiled, nodded, but said no, he hadn’t proposed.
“What? You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“What’s he waiting on? A blue moon?”
Should she tell him? Quickly, she decided against it, not wanting to deal with any drama that might crop up. At the age of thirty, there was a certain stigma attached to single Amish men and women. A label that reminded those around you that you were overripe, like a brown banana, or a tin can that had set on a grocery shelf too long. Marriage between two thirty-year-olds was cause for celebration.
She just smiled and shook her head.
“You’re looking good, with that tan.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll have to call him. Remind him that it’s time.”
He winked and moved on.
Edna shuddered. She imagined a hand clamped on her knee, the ease and flamboyance of all Emery’s overtures. How close she had come to subjecting herself to a lifetime of submission.
She bought mini tea bags, a container of Folger’s coffee. She knew her father was told to drink decaf, but he’d have none of it, filling his oversized stoneware mug to the brim repeatedly. Only, of course, if he wasn’t sitting down at the corner Quik Mart quaffing coffee and eating doughnuts.
She smiled to herself, imagined she may be doing just that at his age, so she better be careful. She did love a good doughnut.
So filled with benevolence toward her aging parents, she bought a dozen shoofly whoopie pies, a bag of Hershey’s Kisses, and one of miniature Reese’s cups. She smiled at the fumbling girl at the cash register, said that was alright that she’d rung up the wrong amount.
She knew a few months ago she would have frowned, thought grocery stores should not hire incompetent girls like her, snorted to herself.
Where did all this goodwill come from?
She decided firmly and without a doubt that she was in love.
CHAPTER 18
GOING BACK ON MONDAY MORNING WAS A JOY. SHE PACKED HER bags, twirling in her bedroom from dresser to bed, her skirts flying in a cloud as she turned. Humming softly, her face alight, she barely recognized herself in the mirror, this vibrant person who was tanned, healthy, eager for life.
Love was a wonderful feeling, one she did not deserve, but she grabbed every bit greedily, wrapping herself in the softness and comfort, like a sheer veil of silk.
The wheels of the vehicle did not turn fast enough, so she found herself bracing her feet against the floor as if pressing down on them would speed things up. The driver, a wrinkled man with bristly white sideburns and a greasy cap pulled low on his forehead, kept up a continuous monologue of boring subjects which did not interest her at all, so she made occasional noises of acknowledgment which seemed to be sufficient.
Finally, they turned in the drive, and she was transported on feet with wings attached, running lightly up to the porch and into the living room. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes.
She was here, in this house. Her house. This house would be her home, to live with the man she loved, to help him raise his children, to have and to hold, all of them. She felt a sense of belonging, a homecoming, as if she had been wandering without a compass and had finally found a clear direction.
Upstairs, she unloaded her luggage, then gathered all the laundry in the bathroom and the girls’ room. She checked Neil’s room but found nothing, so Minerva had done all his. She stood, thinking of Neil’s battered body, Orva’s pain of having failed him, and said a prayer, asking God to heal them both.
She sang as she hung laundry in the frigid air, hummed as she cleaned the laundry room and swept the kitchen. She washed leftover dishes, emptied trash cans, then got down one of her cookbooks and began a batch of chocolate chip cookies, Orva’s favorite.
Her dreams knew no boundaries that day, her exuberance a gift from God.
When the girls got home they threw their lunchboxes on the table, then ran to receive the hug they craved, the human touch that was not that of their mother but a haven of safety nevertheless.
“How was school?”
“Good. Every day is basically the same,” Marie said airily.
Edna raised an eyebrow.
“Really? Nothing new ever?”
“Not really.”
“Uh-huh!” from Emmylou. “Jeremy spilled his chocolate milk all over his desk and had to wipe it up, and he was crying. You know why he had to wipe it up? Because. Every day he slides around on his seat, leans way back, puts his feet in the aisle, just acts like a monkey when he eats his lunch. Every day he does that. So Teacher Janie made him clean it up and not just paper towels, either. He had to get a bucket of water, with soap in it, that yellow stuff in a bottle that we use to mop the floor, and a rag. He was crying, but it made no difference to the teacher. She didn’t pity him a bit.”
She shook her head and lowered her eyebrows.
“She can be mean. All us little girls think so. She makes us do over our arithmetic.”
She paused, then eyed Edna like a parakeet, tilting her head to one side before she began again.
“Did you know the English kids in public schools? You know, the ones who ride the big yellow bus? Did you know they say math for arithmetic? It comes from the word mathematics. It’s the same thing as arithmetic.”
“And, I’ll tell you another thing. Megan Yoder likes Nathan Yoder, but they can never get married because both of their last names are Yoder.”
Marie rolled her eyes.
Emmylou disappeared into the pantry and returned with a box of Ritz crackers, then pulled a chair to the counter and scrambled up on it, opening doors.
“Here, Emmylou. I’ll get your peanut butter,” Edna offered.
“I got it. Where’s the marshmallow cream?”
“Dat ate it all,” Marie offered, pulling on the paper of a Ritz cracker stack.
Emmylou scrambled down, returned the chair, and yanked a drawer for a knife, then sat down and concentrated on spreading peanut butter perfectly, without breaking the cracker.
“Hey! And you know what? Lisa Miller had a hundred percent in spelling all year. I had only one wrong so far. You know how to spell ‘little,’ Edna?”
Amid all this happy one-sided chatter, Edna noticed how very different the two girls really were. Marie was quiet, bordering on introverted, never showing much emotion, skimming across the top of life’s complexities, unruffled.
Her school days were all described as “Fine” or “Good.” Many occurrences passed over with a shoulder shrug and a “whatever,” whereas Emmylou was a veritable walking newspaper. She’d make a great journalist, if she wasn’t Amish, Edna thought.
She formed meatballs with the ground beef she’d thawed, mixed a tomato sauce to pour over them before popping them into the oven, and set the chocolate chip cookie dough into the refrigerator to chill before she baked them. She then peeled potatoes while the girls went to feed the bunnies and barn cats.
She checked her appearance in the bathroom mirror, tucked in a few stray hairs, adjusted her covering and smoothed her skirts.
He’d be here soon.
Would she still find his face welcoming? Would he want to draw her close to him but wouldn’t with the girls in the kitchen?
Oh please don’t let him come home with that closed expression, she thought. She set the potatoes to boil, opened a package of frozen broccoli, her breathing faster now, as she watched for the truck that would appear after five.
She took so many deep breaths she thought she might hyperventilate before the truck appeared, and Orva stepped down, carrying his lunchbox and water jug, his coat streaked with dirt, his hat pulled low over his eyes.
How could she describe his face, even to herself? There was no gladness, no light in his eyes, only a closed coldness, as if he held her away from him with a push of his hand, sending her reeling into the opposite wall.
Deeply hurt, she turned away, lifted the lid of the potatoes and poked a fork into them be
fore turning off their burner and draining the water.
He disappeared into the bedroom, emerged with clean clothes over his arm, and closed the bathroom door firmly behind him, the click of the lock a firm reminder that he was not her husband and she was not his wife, and he had every right to assert his independence and troubled mood whenever he wanted.
She mashed the potatoes with a hand masher, bit her lip to keep her emotions in check, steamed the broccoli, and made a cheese sauce.
She set the table, poured water, and waited for the sound of the shower to stop before dishing up the food.
“Go ahead and eat. I’m not hungry. I’m going to the hospital.” Edna was desperate for eye contact, anything to reassure her that he was fine, that he was alright with her being there in his kitchen.
“Is he worse?” she asked, her voice rattling.
“No. I don’t know.”
He left and did not return that night. He had not asked her to accompany him, hadn’t touched his supper, which left Edna facing the long cold evening alone, the ghosts of all her inadequacies seeping through doorways, taunting her.
He doesn’t want you, they crooned. He never did.
Forced into the presence of the Heavenly Father by the spectre of her fear and self-loathing, she found a measure of peace before drifting into a troubled sleep. But Edna woke abruptly to find all her fears increased.
She had told herself she would be happy without Orva. Happiness should not be based on another person, but on the acceptance of God’s will.
But the battle to lose the self, to shed the longings of human flesh, and human will, was monumental as the night wore on.
Where was he?
Would he spend all night in the hospital, alone?
She imagined another car wreck, the police at the door, Orva’s mangled body. Neil’s death, too much for Orva. One macabre incident led to another in her fatigued imagination, her spirit broken by the rebuttal.
And yes she prayed, and fought bravely with the sword of her faith.
She got the girls off to school without giving away any of the night’s struggles, swept the kitchen, and then turned the oven knob to 350 degrees.
She’d bake the chocolate chip cookies, then go through the girls’ dresses to repair ripped seams, torn pockets, lengthen skirts, and throw out the ones that were too small, stained, and worn out.
To keep busy was an elixir, the best medicine for a weary soul. And she prepared herself for the words that were sure to come.
She did not realize he was home till he came through the laundry room and into the kitchen. She was using a turner, lifting hot cookies from the cookie sheet, a hotpad folded over it.
She looked up, a question in her eyes.
He had aged during the night, his face lined with fatigue, but there was a light in his eyes that smoldered, and turned them darker as he approached.
She put down the cookie sheet, unfolded the potholder, laid down the turner as he came closer.
“Edna,” he choked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
She was swept into an embrace that was anything but gentle. He crushed her against him, and his lips searched until they found hers. Too shocked to fully comprehend, Edna rose from despair into a dizzying wave of hope and gladness that took her breath away.
He released her, stepped back, his arms at his sides.
“I’m sorry, Edna. Again. But . . .”
She would never forget the shift in his beautiful eyes. A man’s eyes should not be described as beautiful, but his were just that.
“I want you. I want to marry you. Now. I can’t spend my nights and days at the hospital without you. I love you. I love you so much I can’t function anymore. I want to wait, to go slow, to win your heart, but . . .”
He let his shoulders fall, his big hands hanging loosely as if there was nothing else to do with them.
“I don’t blame you if you’re disgusted. Neil lying in the hospital, nothing is certain, and here I am, asking you to . . . I know it’s risky. I am a widower with three children.”
He stopped, shook his head.
“Edna, listen. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. It’s bad. Just . . . just say something. I’ll take no for an answer. It will be better than not knowing.”
Edna could not find one word to answer him. The song in her heart rose to a crescendo that drowned out the power of her speech. Thick and full and rich, the joy of knowing that he loved her, wanted her, and had asked her to be his wife propelled her softly, gently into his arms, her own going up to his shoulders and around his neck, her lips lifted to his with all the joy of a found heart. A heart that had never known true love till this moment. Time was obsolete, the world and its sorrows vanished, replaced by the perfect design of two people in love.
Her eyes shone into his, the light in one igniting the other.
“I love you as much as you love me. I will marry you. Yes.”
“Oh my precious love,” was all she heard, before she was swept back into his arms.
They were brought back to reality by the distinct odor of burning chocolate chip cookies. Edna rushed to the stove, but laughed as she lifted a smoking tray of blackened cookies, shaking her head, embarrassed suddenly.
“It’s O.K., Orva,” she laughed.
She made a pot of coffee, finished baking cookies while they talked, planned, rejoiced in their newfound love brought to light. Secrets of the heart were shaped into reality, too much joy to comprehend except in small pieces.
No one could know. Neil came first. Orva needed her with him until his recovery. The doctors spoke well of his ability to recover, but it would be months.
In the spring, maybe. In May? It seemed a long way off.
The girls stayed with their grandparents for the night, their pink Dora the Explorer backpacks bulging with pajamas and bedroom slippers, the Uno and Skip-Bo games, homemade valentines, and fresh chocolate chip cookies.
Edna dressed in a mint green dress, sprayed cologne liberally, remembered she was engaged and applied even more.
Oh, how she loved him.
The hospital room could not contain their joy. They sat side by side, spoke in quiet tones, unfolded their lives for the other to examine.
Edna dozed with her head on his shoulder, then walked over to Neil’s bed and knocked softly on the railing.
“Good night, Neil.”
Edna stepped back when he lifted his right hand, then let it fall, before turning his head from side to side.
“Orva!” she gasped.
Everything turned into controlled chaos after that. The nurses were soon followed by a doctor, then another. Lights were turned on, screens monitored, beeps turned into hums, and voices rose above other voices.
Tears rained down their faces as his swollen eyes opened, blinked, then closed, only to open again. Orva would not leave his bedside until the doctor who was authorized to take him off the life support machine arrived.
Then he stood with Edna, her hand clutched in his.
And so began the healing.
Neil remained in the hospital for another three weeks, long days and nights for an impatient youth. His friends came to visit, greeted Orva and Edna cordially, which lifted their morale considerably. Car accident or not, they were wayward Amish youth who deserved a second chance.
On the day he was brought home, the tulips down by the rock garden bloomed for the first time, gently opened by the warm spring sunshine. Thin, pale, and exhausted, he flopped into the hospital bed by the living room windows and fell into a deep, restful sleep.
Edna cooked nutritious meals, plied him with multivitamins. His dark hair was long and unkempt, but there wasn’t much to be done about that. Orva stayed at home the first week so he could help him to and from the bathroom, which was a trial in itself, being in the same house, the same room without revealing their secret.
They managed to revert to the man of the house and maud, with neither of them suspecting the knowing in Neil’s eyes or the ensuing
confusion.
One afternoon, Edna sat by Neil’s bed, one leg tucked up beneath her, rocking gently on the recliner, reading a magazine. She was shocked when he turned his head, the hair falling over one eye.
“Hey,” he said.
He never called her Edna.
“What?” On guard, prepared for arrows of hurt that would pierce her skin.
“You know how it was when you woke me?”
“I woke you?”
“Yeah. You know, when I was on life support.”
“Oh. Yes?”
“You know how you always tapped on my door and said good night?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Well, that’s what woke me.”
Edna blinked back quick tears. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“So . . . you used to hear that?”
“Every time.”
“You probably thought I was crazy. You know, a little off.”
“No.” He laughed, which came out as an unusual rattling sound.
“I don’t hate you, you know,” he said.
“You don’t?”
“No. I hate it that my mam is dead.”
“I know. That has to be awfully hard.”
“It was. Not so much anymore. But I miss her a lot.”
There was a silence fraught with unspoken words. Edna went back to her magazine. The recliner rocked, squeaking softly.
Then, “You and Dat? You got something going on?”
Frightened, Edna swallowed, tried to speak, but stammered, unable to find the right words, the words that would not offend him.
“Well . . . it’s just . . .”
“Do you or don’t you?” he asked quietly.
“We do.”
“You gonna marry him?”
“After you’re healed and back on your feet.”
For a long time, he said nothing, and then he turned his head away. Edna went back to her magazine, but the sentences ran into each other like traffic accidents so that she couldn’t comprehend anything.
What was going through his head? He would hate her for replacing his mother, of this she was sure.
