As he walked to the barn, Micah realized that it wasn’t Daddi’s amputated arm that Mammi was talking about. Daddi had been dealing with that longer than Micah had been alive. No, if he wasn’t feeling well, it was something else, and it was something that he wasn’t even talking to Mammi about. The question was whether it was anything serious, and if it was, how they’d convince him to see a doctor about it.
* * *
The next day, Susannah stood and stared at the calendar on the wall. She’d had the day circled since her last visit, six months before.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Her mamm was sewing new dresses for Shiloh and Sharon on the old treadle machine they kept in Susannah’s shop. Susannah had offered to do it, but in truth, she was better with quilts than she was with garments.
“Nein. I can go by myself.”
“We’ll go with you, Susannah.” Sharon was sitting on the floor playing with a ball and jacks.
“We can hold your hand,” Shiloh said from her chair beside the sewing machine, where she was watching her mother sew each stitch.
“By the time you get home, these two girls will have nice new frocks.”
“Because we’re growing,” Shiloh said.
“Like weeds. That’s what Dat said. ‘You girls are growing like weeds.’” Sharon’s imitation of their dat caused everyone to laugh and eased the worry that Susannah was feeling.
As she directed their buggy horse, Percy, toward town, she realized she wasn’t terribly worried about what the doctor would say. There was always a chance that her cancer would return, but wouldn’t she know it? Wouldn’t she feel different?
The fear of what might happen was something she’d learned to live with—at least some days. Other days were a bit harder. All she knew for certain was that she felt better, healthier than she had in a very long time. Her cancer no longer was something that she thought about constantly. It no longer defined her, or at least she didn’t think it did. She was enjoying being a normal young woman, and she wasn’t ready for that to change. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
She’d stopped by for blood work the week before.
Today she would have an examination and then meet with the doctor to discuss her test results.
Dr. Kelly’s office always made Susannah smile—it was decorated with pictures from her patients, some who were obviously quite young. The drawings sported stick figures holding a stethoscope, large hearts decorating each person and flowers taller than the people.
As the doctor walked in and picked up a folder, Susannah was overwhelmed by a fluttery feeling in her stomach—it wasn’t fear exactly, but some emotion just as powerful.
“Your test results look good.”
“They do?” The butterflies in her stomach scattered, replaced by sudden and total euphoria.
“Were you expecting something else?” Dr. Kelly had black skin, shoulder-length hair and kind eyes. She seemed ageless, but the picture of two teenage boys on her desk—boys Susannah could tell by one glance were her sons—indicated she had to be close to forty. “Talk to me, Susannah. Having you been feeling poorly?”
“Nein. I feel fine, and I wasn’t expecting anything else. I always hope and pray the tests will come back fine, but I also try to prepare myself. You know...”
“Go on.”
“Well, I try to weigh myself a couple of times a week to make sure I’m not losing weight, because last time...”
“I remember how thin you’d become when you first came to me.”
“And I keep the journal you had me start...saying how I feel each day.”
“That’s good, Susannah. It’s good that you’re being vigilant about your health and keeping your appointments. Everything here looks fine. In fact, you seem healthier—and happier—than I’ve seen you in a long time.”
Dr. Kelly waited. She didn’t check her watch or tap her fingers against the desktop. If anything, she relaxed into her chair, indicating Susannah could take her time sorting through her emotions.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“How many of your patients, patients my age, go on to live happy lives—happily married lives?”
“That’s an interesting question. I’d say roughly about the same percentage as those without cancer.”
“Oh.”
“I just read a study that Americans are waiting longer to marry, and more people than ever before are choosing not to marry at all. But that’s probably not true among the Amish.”
“It’s not true among the Amish I know. Most Amish pair up by the time they’re twenty, and they stay married for life.”
Dr. Kelly sat there, her fingertips steepled together, for another moment. Then she crossed her arms on the desk and leaned forward. “I can tell you my opinion, but it’s based on purely anecdotal evidence.”
Susannah nodded, though she wasn’t completely sure what anecdotal evidence was.
“It seems that my patients put their lives on hold when they first receive their cancer diagnoses. If they’re young and just beginning to consider marrying, they put that out of their mind for a while. If they’re older and were thinking of retiring and traveling the US, they put that on hold. They press the pause button on their lives and deal with their cancer.”
“And then?”
“And then the vast majority of them move on. They press the go button. They take up where they left off. Not all of them, of course. For some people, a cancer diagnosis becomes a new identity and changes the way they view every facet of their lives. They don’t know how to move past it.” She stood, smiled and walked around the desk, before sitting in a chair across from Susannah.
“I have a feeling that what you’re experiencing, the thing that’s worrying you, is that you are ready to press that go button. And if you’re looking for my permission or approval to do so, then you have it. You’ve always had it. Now all you need is to find the courage to do so.”
Susannah didn’t remember driving home.
Once there, Shiloh and Shannon pounced on her, insisting she sit in the living room until they ran upstairs and tried on their new dresses. Her mamm knew she had good news before she said a word, and when her dat came in for dinner, he immediately enfolded her in a hug.
“Gotte is gut,” he murmured, and Susannah nodded her head in agreement.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. It was when she was kneeling by her bed to say her prayers, which sometimes felt childish but mostly felt necessary, that she realized she was ready to push that go button Dr. Kelly had talked about. She understood in that moment that she was tired of worrying about what might or might not happen.
Would her feelings for Micah grow even stronger?
Did he feel the same?
What would they do when he moved back to Maine?
What if her cancer returned?
And beyond all those questions, there were several that had been in her mind since she’d first learned she had cancer. Would someone really want to marry her knowing that she couldn’t have children? Would it be selfish of her to do such a thing? How would she know if any marriage proposal was motivated by true love or something done out of pity?
As she knelt there on the hardwood floor, she didn’t receive any answers straight from heaven, but she did resolve to stop worrying and trust that God had a plan.
* * *
Micah’s afternoons driving Amish and Englischers grew even busier than that first day. The following week, Old Eli actually flagged him down from the side of the road. “Heard you’re giving rides, and my wife says I can’t drive anymore on account of my cataracts.”
“I’m headed back to town now. Want a lift?”
“That’s why I’m standing out here flagging you down.”
Micah generally didn’t quote a price for his rides.
People paid what they could—most offered something between five and ten dollars. It added up quickly. When he didn’t have any Amish folks who needed a lift, he drove to downtown Goshen, parked near the Old Bag Factory and put his cardboard sign out.
Amish Taxi.
$10/person for twenty minutes.
Inevitably, there was a queue of people by the time he returned with the first passenger.
The day flew by. He lost track of how much he’d made, but he thought he’d exceeded the previous day’s total. It seemed word was spreading quickly, and he already had rides lined up for each day the next week. After he’d dropped off the last Englischer for the day—a lady who simply wanted to drive through the countryside and look at the farms—he stopped by the general store.
“Can I help you?” One of the Amish girls from their church district was working the register. She looked to be about sixteen years old and had freckles across her cheeks and nose. Micah might have been introduced to her at church, but he couldn’t remember her name.
“I guess I need a calendar.”
“Like a wall calendar?”
“Nein. Something I can put in my pocket.”
“I know just what you’re talking about.”
Unfortunately, they all looked pretty girlie to him—the outsides decorated with flowers and hearts and motivational slogans. He settled for the one with kittens, since it reminded him of the white cat he’d held at Susannah’s. He bought a pen as well, and at the last minute he spied a display of rose-scented goat lotion. “This stuff work?”
“I guess. My mammi uses it.”
So he added a tube to his purchases. When was the last time someone had bought his mammi a gift? Probably not in the last ten years, since it seemed his daddi had been in a bad mood at least that long. He carried his purchases to the register.
“The calendar must be for your Amish taxi business.”
“It is.”
“I think what you’re doing is so smart. Some people say it’s a travesty—that’s the word Ruth Lapp used when she was in here earlier—but I’m not sure what that means.”
“It’s bad.”
“I gathered as much. Still and all, if you’re going to be Amish in this day and age, you have to learn to adapt.”
“Not something we’re well-known for.”
“I’m aware.”
“I’m Micah, by the way.”
“I’m Lydia.” She smiled at him, her cheeks a rosy red.
Did she think he was flirting with her? The old Micah would have been. Maybe out of habit he’d done or said something that she’d taken the wrong way.
“Can you ring me up one more of those tubes of lotion?”
“Sure.”
“It’s for my girlfriend, Susannah Beiler. Maybe you know her?”
“Ya, I know Susannah. I didn’t know you two were stepping out.” She fetched another tube of the lotion, and then placed all of his items in a bag and counted out his change. “If it doesn’t work out with Susannah, you know where to find me.”
It was a rather bold statement coming from an Amish girl, but somehow the way she said it, the words seemed more friendly than flirty.
Instead of responding, he waved goodbye and moseyed out to the buggy. The week had turned into a fine one even if it had suffered a rocky start. Maybe by the time he got home, his daddi would have found something to smile about, or maybe he needed to stop worrying about whether that would happen. He hadn’t caused the old guy’s unhappiness; at least he hadn’t caused all of it, so there was little chance he could help him get over it.
He returned the buggy and horse to Widow Miller, counted out her portion of the money and turned down oatmeal cookies and milk.
“Mammi serves dinner pretty early. Wouldn’t want to ruin my appetite.”
But as he drew close to his grandfather’s place, he saw a van parked in the lane, and he knew that he wouldn’t be eating anytime soon.
He rushed up the front porch steps, where his mammi stood on one side of the screen door and a reporter for the Goshen News stood on the other.
“Micah, I’ve told this woman that we’re not interested in being interviewed. Now, please see her off our property.”
“Micah, I’m so glad to meet you. I’m Phoebe Jackson with the Goshen News.”
The Englisch woman turned her attention toward him, and he tried not to squirm under her gaze. Her eyes were heavily made-up, and she had several earrings running up one ear. Her hair was cut in a short spiky style. Her lipstick reminded him of the pink taffy candy he’d loved as a child. She didn’t look that much older than him.
“My editor sent me out here to ask a few questions about your Amish taxi business. Can you tell us how you got started?” She pushed the microphone in his direction and then glanced at a skinny guy, who looked to be about twenty and had terrible acne. “Charlie, you’re rolling, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, Micah...”
Micah put out a hand and gently pushed her microphone down. Then he turned to the cameraman. “Charlie, stop rolling.”
“But...”
“Stop, please.”
Charlie looked at Phoebe, who nodded once—curtly.
“Danki. Now, if you’d be so kind as to leave my grandparents’ property.” He stepped off the porch toward their van, and Phoebe followed as if they were tied together by some invisible string.
“But this is a big story, a human interest story. People want to know how you got started.”
“They can take a ride in my buggy and ask me then.”
“You’re from Maine, right?”
“How did you know—”
“Do they have Amish taxi drivers there?” Phoebe had once again pushed the microphone in his direction. “I couldn’t find anything on the internet.”
Micah stared pointedly at the microphone until she took the hint and dropped it. “In general it’s difficult to find Amish businesses online since we don’t own computers.”
“But...”
“Look, Phoebe, I appreciate that you need stories to fill your paper.”
“It’s called the news for a reason.” She trudged back toward her van as she stuffed her microphone, notepad and pen into a large shoulder bag—eyebrows drawn together, pink lips in a pouty frown.
Micah sighed and followed her. “I know that you’re only doing your job, but my grandparents are very private and very old-fashioned.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you private and old-fashioned, too?”
Micah shrugged. “A little of both, I suppose.”
Charlie had loaded his camera in the van. Phoebe opened the door, tossed her shoulder bag inside and then turned to give Micah a once-over. “Not too private to submit a selfie to our paper and win fifty dollars.”
Micah shook his head. “I can explain that.”
“What’s to explain?” She hopped in the van and slammed the door shut, then rolled down the window. “Seems to me that if you’re being paid for it, then you have no trouble being in the paper.”
“I didn’t submit that photo, and I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in some way.”
“Oh, I’m not offended.” She checked her lipstick in the mirror, dabbed at the corner of her mouth and looked again at Micah as she slipped dark sunglasses on. “I’m a reporter, Micah. I will get my story. In this instance, I’ll just have to interview your customers since you’re not willing to go on the record.”
“On the record? What do you think this is...a television show?”
“So you know about those, too.” She tapped a finger adorned with bright pink polish against her lips. “Are you sure that you’re really Amish?”
Micah felt his temper spike, but for perhaps the first time in his life, h
e brought it under control.
Phoebe reached into her bag, pulled out a business card and held it out the window until he took it from her hand.
“If you change your mind, give me a call.”
And then they were gone.
Micah stood there, watching the red taillights disappear down the lane and trying to figure out how he was going to explain this to his daddi.
Chapter Ten
As May gave way to June, Susannah and Micah settled into a pattern of sorts. He would come in the morning to help her dat with the horses. Before he left, he’d stop by her quilting room, and they would make plans for the evening or the weekend or whenever they could find time to be together. It was becoming increasingly more difficult because his taxi business was doing so well, or at least that was the only reason she could think of that would cause him to be out every evening. He was no doubt running Englischers around until sundown.
He didn’t share the particulars of his business with her, but she could well imagine that by the time he returned the buggy, walked home and ate the cold dinner waiting on the stove, it was too late for them to see each other.
Susannah assured him that she understood, though he was looking increasingly exhausted. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, and it looked to her like he’d lost weight. When she asked him about it, he only said, “I have a plan, Susannah.”
“Care to share it with me?”
“I do.” He glanced at the watch he’d begun wearing. “But not yet. Not now, when I’m rushed. We need to talk soon, but when we’re not in a hurry or distracted.”
He was certainly both of those things. She shrugged as if soon was fine with her. “But how do your grandparents feel about your long hours?”
“I don’t know. Daddi barely speaks to me. He probably hasn’t said a dozen words since he smashed my phone with his work boot.”
“And your mammi?”
“She seems preoccupied. He doesn’t seem well, and I think she’s worried about him. For reasons I can’t fathom, he refuses to talk about it.”
“Should he go to a doctor?”
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