She smiled shakily. “I’ll remember.”
He was right. As Hannah trudged up to the house, she thought of a passage from Isaiah.
Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, Yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.
Her heart still ached, but her step felt lighter.
* * *
* * *
The day was hard, but seeing the relief on her grandmother’s face when Hannah walked into the apartment made every wrenching moment worthwhile.
Since Helen couldn’t quit crying, it was Hannah who talked to the doctor when he came.
“At least we know the cause of death,” he said. “It’s a miracle Robert lived this long.”
Hannah said only, “Yes,” not knowing whether he was aware she’d known her grandfather such a short time. She’d have liked longer, except she knew that was selfish. He’d been suffering.
And was now at peace, she reminded herself.
She held Helen, turning her so that she didn’t see when the mortuary workers wheeled Robert’s body out. She changed the bed, so her grandmother didn’t have to do it, and washed and dried the bedding. When a hospice supervisor called, she confirmed that he’d died and was assured that they would pick up the oxygen tank and wheelchair.
Hannah finally asked whether Helen had called Jodi.
“I’m ashamed of myself, but no. I will later. I think . . . I just wanted you today.”
Hannah hugged her. “And here I am.”
Midafternoon, she persuaded Helen to eat a few bites, and suggested a nap, which Helen refused. Hannah doubted she was ready to lie down on the bed she’d shared with her husband.
Mostly, they talked quietly, with long lapses in between. Knowing her grandmother had some favorite daytime television shows, Hannah suggested she watch as a diversion, but Helen refused that, too. The screen on the wall remained dark. Helen was inspired to ask about photos, and Helen brought out albums. It was immediately clear this was just what she’d needed.
Some of these, Hannah was seeing for a second time. Robert Hinsch was so tall and handsome in wedding photos, the expression on his face when he looked down at his new wife luminous with love. As the pages turned, Hannah watched the years pass. Helen smiled now and again. She’d shown Hannah some photos of Jodi as a child, but now she saw more.
“I have a few of you,” Helen said suddenly. “Not as many as I would have liked. You know how the Amish feel about having their pictures taken, but I did sneak a few when Jodi brought you here.”
She disappeared into the bedroom, returning with a small wooden box, the inlaid top beautiful. “I keep some precious things in here.”
She took out what couldn’t be more than a dozen photos and handed them to Hannah, who was instantly riveted by the picture on top.
The baby, bundled in white, gazed vaguely over her mommy’s shoulder. Jodi looked so young, and her smile was as luminous as Robert’s at his wedding. Hannah’s heart squeezed, and then she thought, That’s me. And: Mom did love me.
How astonishing. When she was seven or eight, she’d wanted to see pictures of herself when she was younger. Jodi explained that a pipe had burst in a house where they’d lived—“Don’t you remember?” she asked—and the photo albums were ruined.
Once Jodi got a smartphone, she’d started taking digital pictures, but those weren’t great quality. Still, she’d forwarded what she had to Hannah so she was able to see herself as a teenager, anyway.
Now she set aside the first photo, and there she was at maybe a year old, beaming at the camera. Even then, she hadn’t had the chubby cheeks so many babies had. Instead, she looked more like an elf someone had just plucked from a flower-strewn meadow. Her hair had been the white-blond rarely seen in its natural state on adults.
In another picture, she grinned triumphantly as she toddled unsteadily across the room. Oh, and there she was, staring in fascination at a birthday cake that held just two candles.
Only in the last photo was she dressed Amish. Jodi must have bought Englischer clothes for her young daughter so she could change her for visits to friends and her parents.
Hannah touched the picture with a fingertip. Her hair was still so pale then, tucked into a white kapp. Somebody had made the apron and light green dress just for her. Her feet were bare, curled into the mowed grass. Hannah hardly recognized the radiant smile on that little girl’s face.
Words whispered in her ears. This was the life I might have had.
Helen couldn’t seem to look away from this photo any more than Hannah could. “That couldn’t have been more than a week or two before she took you away. You were so cute, and so happy.”
“I can’t believe I forgot everything and everyone,” Hannah whispered.
“But you didn’t really, did you?” The grief on her grandmother’s face had softened. “By that age, your aunts and grandmother had you helping them cook and serve meals. When you visited us, you were so eager to help.” She was quiet for a moment. “And then there’s the language.”
And the faith in God she had somehow held on to, despite the gap of years before she found another way to worship. Eyes stinging, Hannah nodded. No more tears, she told herself.
“You were such a happy, confident child,” Helen said softly. “And you grew into a lovely woman. One who never behaved as if we were strangers to her.”
The shock was faint, but real. “You never felt like strangers.”
Her grandmother smiled at her. “Because we weren’t.”
A few tears did escape.
* * *
* * *
She did work Saturday, sorry to be the reason the kinder were so subdued. Her mother was to spend the day with Helen. Gideon looked at her with kindness, not remote at all. He encouraged her to sit down when she served lunch. Rebekah gaped at him. “But, Daadi, Hannah always sits with us.”
Gideon’s eyes met Hannah’s briefly. “Ja, but I think she isn’t eating enough because she’s sad.”
How did he know? Then she realized he didn’t; he’d just thought up an excuse for his kinder, who didn’t know he and she no longer sat down to meals alone together.
She did nibble, taking a few more bites after he nagged, but was eager to leap up and wash dishes. It was more difficult to mourn or to brood when her hands were busy. Perhaps fortunately, she had only brief snatches of time alone since the kinder were home, and Rebekah was at her side helping most of the time.
The grief was real, but as the afternoon went on, Hannah was brought to confront one cause of her uneasiness.
She had committed herself to staying in Tompkin’s Mill until her grandfather died—and now he had. That theoretically freed her to start serious job hunting. Her certainty about the decision she needed to make had steadily become more solid. How could she possibly pack up and go? Next thing she knew, she’d be in a restaurant kitchen again . . . and living alone in another apartment that would be home no more than her previous ones had been.
But she couldn’t stay because this house felt like home, or because she had fallen in love with a man and his children.
She knew what she wanted, but she had to come to terms with what she’d be giving up, and what her commitment to the faith and this life meant. She would have to accept baptism with her whole heart. Hannah had her mother’s example to chide her. Becoming Amish would turn her life on end. She had to resolve any doubts at all before she considering stepping onto that road.
The one that might lead her ultimately to the narrow gate.
The hardest part of all? She couldn’t convert to being Amish in the certainty that she could have a life with Gideon, become a mother in truth to his kinder. He’d kissed her, and sometimes she’d thought . . .
Hannah shook her head impatiently. That could have been no more t
han a moment of temptation. He’d certainly regretted the kiss. He might have no interest in asking her to become his wife. If she couldn’t have him, Zeb, and Rebekah, would she learn to be content living so close to them? Worshipping with them? Potentially having to join the celebration when he married another woman?
That was no excuse, she told herself sternly. After baptism, she could join one of the other church districts surrounding Tompkin’s Mill.
Her mind reverted to the wealth of issues she had to consider.
What if she began to chafe at restrictions, as her mother had? Geographically, her world would shrink. She would never drive a car again, never fly in an airplane. Make any decision that was counter to the Ordnung, the rules that defined the Amish. The whole concept of Gelassenheit was alien to her, too. The giving up of self-will to God’s will, as interpreted by the bishop and ministers—and potentially her own husband.
A society that was patriarchal, in many ways.
I need to talk to Julia, she realized. Not tomorrow; it was the off Sunday, when the Amish did go visiting, but chances were that Julia, Luke, and their kinder would go to his mamm and daad’s, or his sister’s, or . . .
But Monday, they were more likely to be home. It was worth a try, Hannah decided.
At that point in her ruminations, Rebekah poked her.
“You said the blankets aren’t dry.”
Hannah blinked and realized she was removing the clothespins securing a wool blanket to the line.
She smiled down at the little girl. “Denke for reminding me. My mind was wandering.”
“Where did it go?” Rebekah asked very seriously.
“Oh . . . thoughts of the funeral, worry for my grossmammi.” She didn’t add, Thoughts about my future.
“Oh.”
Hannah had a very bad feeling that she wasn’t the only one brooding about the near future. Rebekah knew that Hannah hadn’t intended to stay long term. She’d already been here two months . . . and Rebekah hadn’t hidden her hope that Hannah would never go away.
And that gave her another painful thought: What if Gideon decided to marry her for the sake of his kinder, not because he loved her? Would that be better than the alternatives? Or unbearable?
She shook her head as if she could rid herself of the stack of worries, and said, “I think we should start on supper.”
“Me, too.” As they started for the house, Rebekah gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m already hungry.”
“Which means Zeb will show up any minute, begging for a snack,” Hannah said with a laugh. “What do you say, carrot sticks?”
Rebekah made an awful face.
Dinner was pleasant enough. As Hannah and Rebekah cleaned the kitchen, Gideon and Zeb went out to hitch up her horse. When she came out, Rebekah trailing behind, Zeb called to his sister, “Let’s do something.” She brightened, and they ran to the wooden bin that held balls and bats and even some nets that Hannah had yet to see untangled and hung.
Gideon watched them for a moment with an unreadable expression before his dark gaze turned to her.
“You’ll be going to church tomorrow with your grossmammi?”
“Ja, I promised.”
He nodded.
“She left me a message,” she continued. “The funeral service is already set for one o’clock on Thursday afternoon. I know that’s inconvenient—”
His expression prevented her from finishing. “Of course that must come first. Will your daad attend?”
“He said he would, but he didn’t yet know when it would be.”
“We’ll survive another day without you.” Lines formed on his forehead. He opened his mouth again, but closed it.
Had he intended to ask when she would be leaving, but decided this wasn’t the moment? Probably, Hannah decided, her mood plunging anew.
“I’ll see you Tuesday morning, then,” she said with what she hoped was an adequate pretense of serenity.
He only nodded and stepped back, although when she turned onto the road at the foot of the driveway, Gideon still stood where he’d been, watching her go.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Right after lunch on Monday, Hannah arranged with Lilian to take Clover and the buggy, her stepmother giving her directions to Luke and Julia Bowman’s home.
“We had church there not long before you came,” she said, smiling. “Just remember to be home in time for me to pick up the kinder after school.”
This was the farthest Hannah had driven in the buggy, but she’d become more confident. Only a handful of cars passed, and the mare ignored all of them, never appearing even the slightest bit alarmed.
The Bowmans’ farmhouse was set well back from the road that led into town. Hannah knew from what Julia had said that their house and barn weren’t on anywhere near the acreage Gideon owned, since Luke was a furniture maker with no interest in farming. Still, they had plenty of land for a large garden, an orchard, and woods screening the house from neighbors. The long driveway led alongside a pasture that held only two horses and a dairy cow. That both harness horses were here meant Julia and Luke were, too, right?
Indeed, when she reined Clover to a stop at a hitching post near the house, Luke came around the corner.
“Hannah,” he said with a smile. “Your timing is good. Nathan just went down for a nap, and we’re hoping Abby fell asleep, too.”
He was speaking in unaccented English, which momentarily disconcerted her until she remembered he’d spent over a decade out in the world.
“Oh, good.” She climbed out. “Since I couldn’t call, I decided just to drop in.”
“We never mind visitors.” He tethered Clover for her. “Go on in the back door.”
“Denke. Thank you,” she amended, and he chuckled.
It appeared Julia had been baking, but was washing her mixing bowl, measuring cups, and spoons when Hannah walked in.
“I’m hoping to match your applesauce cake,” she declared. “Luke had some at the fellowship meal and keeps mentioning how much he liked it.”
“Feeling a little pressure?” Hannah teased, before smiling. “I’m sure it’ll be delicious.” She agreed that she’d love a cup of tea, and sat at the long table in the kitchen. “Did Abby conk out?”
Julia laughed. “I’m still tiptoeing around, but I think so. She’s at that in-between age. She doesn’t want to nap, but she gets cranky if she doesn’t.” Once she’d poured the tea, she spooned sugar into her own cup. “I’m so glad you came. I meant to visit you on Friday.”
“It’s lucky you didn’t.”
“So I hear.” Expression warm with sympathy, she said, “You know how everyone talks. You must be sad.”
“Yes.” Hannah sighed. “Except that, in some ways, it was a blessing. Struggling for breath must be one of the most awful feelings in the world.”
“But you will miss him.”
“At least I had a chance to get to know him. I worry most about my grandmother. They were married for fifty-three years. She told me she’s never lived alone.”
“That would be hard.”
“What I hope is that she’ll stay busy and not just huddle in the apartment. You know? The facility has plenty of recreational opportunities. I’m not sure about the aerobics, but they also have classes, trips, movie nights, and ice cream socials. I don’t think she’s tried anything, because she felt she couldn’t leave Robert alone. Or maybe I should have said she didn’t want to leave him. She had to have been painfully aware of how little time they had left together.”
“I’m guessing, once she’s past this first week or two, she’ll find she feels some relief, too. Both their lives have been dominated by his illness for a long time.”
Hannah thought about that. “I hope so.”
The timer went off, and Julia took the cake out of the oven. It smelled amazing, and H
annah didn’t protest when Julia served them each generous squares.
After the first bite, she declared, “It’s every bit as good as mine.”
Julia laughed. “What else could you say?”
They talked about other things for a few minutes, but Hannah kept expecting one of the kids to wake up, or Luke to come in and join them.
So finally she nerved herself and said, “I promised to stay until my grandfather died. Now . . . now I’m trying to figure out what I want out of life.”
“You’re considering converting.”
“I am, but I have a lot of qualms.”
Julia reached across the table to squeeze Hannah’s hand. Only briefly, but that human contact was reassuring. “I did, too. I took weeks to work through what was most important to me, and what I’d sacrifice to have it. I told you that my parents and brother were opposed, didn’t I? I do think they’re all reconciled. Ask anything you want. I suppose giving up your career is one of those qualms. I’m not sure I can help you with that, because I’d had jobs, but never a career.”
“I dreamed for years about becoming a chef in the kind of restaurant filled with diners who’d had to reserve their seats days or even weeks in advance.” She made a face. “But cooking for Gideon and his children has given me more joy than I’ve ever had working in a restaurant. I’ve learned that what I really wanted was to make people happy with the food I made. That’s something I never had. I took over cooking from my mother when I was only ten or eleven, but she’s never been all that interested in eating. She’d have been fine with warming a frozen meal, or grabbing fast food, or having a salad out of a bag.”
“You didn’t have an appreciative audience.”
“That’s one way to put it. Now I know that having a family who loves my cooking makes me happy. I suppose . . . back then, I was trying to make her happy. Thinking everything would be different if she was.”
Her cooking had made Gideon and his kinder happier.
She expressed her feeling that, as welcome as her daad’s family had made her, she was also in the way. Lilian was a good cook, too, and her daughters were learning at her side. “I can’t stay there forever.”
Finding Hope Page 27
