Sarah's Garden (19 page)

Everything looked the same to her, though, and she tried to push Grant’s face from her mind for the thousandth time. She started when she realized Luke had spoken to her.

“What?”

“I’ve only been speaking to you for the past mile, Sarah King. What part haven’t you heard?”

“I’m sorry; I was watching the scenery.”

“
Nee
, you’re heartsick, that’s what, and over an
Englischer
. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

She was too weary to deny anything. “I’m just confused.”

“Jah
, you’re confused all right.”

“Well, he ’s your friend too.”

“Friend,
jah
. Friend is okay. But for you, it’s more. You need to get things straight, Sarah.”

She nodded and blinked back tears as Chelsea’s house came into sight. Luke was right. Perhaps a change of atmosphere would be good for her, though she felt she could go to the moon and find no solace for her restlessness.

Still, when John Kemp opened the front door to them and took Sarah’s satchel, she felt a keen sense of welcome that did much to lift her spirits.

Chelsea looked fit and carried John Jr. around in the crook of her arm, having become adept at doing everything one-handed. When Aunt Sarah was asked if she’d like to hold the baby, she took the warm bundle with amazement and tenderness. She sat in a rocking chair near the woodstove and pulled back the quilt she’d made to reveal the baby’s long blue dress, traditional garb for boy and girl infants, examined the tiny toes, and then felt her heart melt at the gentle coo the tiny one gave her when she smiled down at him.

Luke stayed to lunch, a happy, laughing affair of sweet creamed tomatoes, roast beef sandwiches, blueberry pie, and fresh cheese. John Kemp was known for making cheese, and his cheddar was considered some of the best in the community. Chelsea’s mother-in-law joined them for lunch, coming over from the
doddy
house. She was old, but still her eyes sparkled with life. Sarah knew that she had lived through the loss of seven children and her husband, and her brown eyes were both wise and tempered by the grief she ’d born and conquered with the Lord’s help. Sarah thought she might find a kindred spirit in the woman and promised herself to visit the
doddy
house often during her stay.

After lunch, Luke drove off with the promise to return in a week’s time. Chelsea took Sarah upstairs to a small, beautiful room that looked out onto the sloping snow of the back acres and the far-off rounded mountains, dotted here and there with pine and evergreen, and dusted with light snow on their tops.

The room had a small bed covered in a patchwork quilt made with a delicate mixture of purples, pinks, and white, which Sarah recognized as the Harrison Rose pattern. A small writing desk stood beneath the window, which was dressed in white lawn, and Sarah’s satchel lay on the bed.

“Chelsea, the room is so pretty! I don’t recall it from my first visit.”

“I’ve done some rearranging in the house, but I especially wanted to have a pretty guest room. John’s cheese buyers often come from miles away and end up talking on and then having to stay the night. I hope that you will be happy here, little sister, and that the shadows will disappear from beneath your eyes.”

Sarah fingered the delicate quilt and shook her head. “I’ve just not been sleeping well. You know that I always miss the garden this time of year.”

“And you’re usually studying your seed catalogs for hours on end and have your garden sketched out.”

Sarah thought of the last garden she ’d sketched, the one for the doctor, and shook her head. “I’ve not had the time lately.”

Chelsea put her free hand on her hip and snuggled John Jr. closer with the other. “Sarah King, don’t be telling me that you haven’t had time. Why, I’ve known you to—” She broke off when Sarah gave a sniff.

“Chelsea, I came here to get away,
ach
, and to visit with you, of course, but I just can’t talk about . . . things.”

Chelsea came close and wrapped her in a hug, including the baby, until Sarah laughed through her tears. “I won’t say another word about it,” Chelsea promised, and she was as good as her word. Instead, she kept Sarah busy reading the circle letter, a letter that circulated among women of both near and far Amish communities to keep each other abreast of happenings and visitings, births and deaths. Each woman who read the letter added on her own piece of a few sentences or so, and the letter kept going until it reached its original sender.

Chelsea was also involved in a quilting square circle letter in which the women writers would also include their hand-drawn pattern of their favorite quilt square and the story behind it. Sarah volunteered to copy each of the twenty-four patterns that had been sketched on the pages of the letter thus far. She enjoyed the odd titles given to the squares, like
Browning Bread
and
Hen House Solace
. It was like she could touch these women, from as far away as Ohio, and feel their emotions on the day they sketched the pattern. Some were sad, like
Lost Love
or
Buggy Accident
, and Sarah found herself weeping as she matched each piece of news in the letter with its corresponding quilt square of choice. Chelsea caught her with the tears and snatched the letter away.

“
Ach
, you’re not going to just sit here being sad; go and see
Mamm
Kemp. And don’t be crying with her over there either.”

So Sarah pulled on her shawl and hurried to the small
doddy
house, which was only a few steps away from the main house. Mrs. Kemp came to her knock and invited her in.

“Come in, child, and have some hot cocoa. I’ve just got it fresh.”

Sarah followed the aged woman, admiring the little house so crammed with quilts and crocheted items, as well as books and copies of the
Budget
and framed paintings of different birds filling up the walls. The miniature kitchen was just right for someone to feel independent if they did not wish to go to the main house, and the tiny icebox looked more like that of a doll’s house. Sarah could smell the chocolate brewing and perched on a tiny chair near the woodstove while Mrs. Kemp rattled about in a crowded china cabinet, producing two cups and saucers with bright fuchsia flowers on them.

“Some spring flowers for an autumn day, eh, child?”

“They’re lovely, and this cocoa is wonderful. Do I taste cinnamon?”

“
Jah
, and a hint of cloves. My eldest son, Seth, won those cups and saucers for me for a penny at a ball throw at the fair.
Ach
, but his father wanted to wail him good for it too, called it gambling. But I said they were beautiful, and that was that.”

Sarah took another sip, thinking about the incredible amount of life the woman had lived and how she’d survived. “What happened to Seth?”

“A tractor accident. It was a rainy day; we ’d had so much rain that year. The flowers were blooming when we laid him to rest. I picked them fresh myself for the grave.”

Sarah stared into her cup. “And your other children?”

“My Sarah died with the influenza, so did David. Paul was in a buggy accident, and Anna caught the pneumonia deep one winter. Abel had childhood cancer, and Titus died as an infant—the midwife said his heart wasn’t right.”

“I am so sorry. I don’t know why I asked you to remember all of that.”

“
Ach
, now Sarah King, I know young people. It’s only when they’re sad themselves that they want to hear about others’ sadness. So, you tell me, what is it that troubles your heart?”

Sarah answered; she felt safe to be truthful with her hostess. “An
Englischer
—the new vet, Dr. Williams.”

“Ah, then it’s true trouble, because no doubt your good father and
mamm
have warned you against feelings for those on the outside?”

“
Jah
, and I’ve tried . . . so hard, but not really. I’m dishonoring them.”

The old woman rocked for a few moments. “And what does your heart tell you?”

Sarah looked at her blankly, then gave a broken laugh. “My heart? My heart is to be trusted least of all.”

“The heart is not just emotion; sometimes it’s a very keen source of wisdom.”

Sarah drew a shaky breath and stared into her teacup.

“You’ll see, dear . . . it will all work out. Love finds its way with the help of
Der Herr
.”

Sarah slipped into the gentle routine of the cheerful household and felt her soul begin to feel at peace.

G
rant shifted gears and slid on the long, dirt drive for the second time and sighed. He had no desire to make a call like the one he had to today. He’d gotten word that the beloved cat of
Grossmudder
Stolis was dying, and would he come to help put it out of its misery?

He had a particular affection for cats and found them to be more companionable than even a good dog. He liked their savoir faire, their independence, and their predilection to survive in even the most remote possibilities. But a twenty-year-old cat had none of its nine lives left to call upon, and he took his bag with the usual euthanasia meds with reluctance and made his way around the back of the dry goods store to the
doddy
house.

He knocked on the door and had to bend his head to enter the lovely cottage. The woman who greeted him surely must have been ninety if she was a day, but her wizened elfin frame was spry and her bright blue eyes shone up at him with clarity.

“Mrs. Stolis? I’m Dr. Williams . . . I got word about your cat. I’ve come to put it down as you asked.”

Just then a fat, happy black cat strolled across the room and landed its considerable weight onto one of his wet boots.

Mrs. Stolis looked perplexed. “You say you want to put Tom down?”

The black cat rolled over, three paws in the air, one anchored for balance, expecting a belly rub, and Grant bent to comply.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. At his age, there ’s probably not much more that I can do.”

The old woman dropped into a delicately carved chair covered with a crocheted throw; her lips began to tremble. Grant suppressed another sigh. He hated this part too and wished he could produce a kitten on the spot to cheer her, though he knew that each animal’s life must be grieved for its own time and worth.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” He looked down at the black cat that had fixed its clear, green eyes on his boot string and was having a fun go at getting it untied. He loosened the string a bit and waved it between the large batting paws.

Jah
. . . but I want to be here. It’s the least that I can do for “him.” Mrs. Stolis straightened her already erect spine.

“Of course, I’ll just get things ready.” He stopped playing with the cat and reached into his bag for rubber gloves and the syringe. The black cat poked an inquisitive head into the opened space of the bag.

“
Ach
, he knows—he knows.” The old woman suppressed a sob.

“He’ll not know a thing, I promise,” Grant soothed, rooting for a particular vial. “Now, if you’ll just show me where Tom is, I’ll do my best to make this easy for him.”

Mrs. Stolis stared at him as if he ’d taken leave of his senses, and he stared back, waiting. Maybe she wasn’t going to be able to bring herself to do it, he thought—which only made things worse.

“Ma’am?”

The black cat was back to belly rub position, and Grant used the toe of one boot.

“Where Tom is?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why, you’re rubbing his belly, that’s where!”

Grant stared down in amazement at the happy cat beneath his boot. There was no way that this was a twenty-year-old animal.

“I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”

“Why, that’s Tom. He’s been with me for going on twenty-one years now. I thought that you said you came to put him down.”

“I got word—” Grant pet the cat, then pulled off his rubber gloves and dispatched the syringe into an empty vial. “I apologize, ma’am. Twenty-one years or not, he still is a healthy animal. There must have been some mistake in the message. I’ll just go around front and check with them at the store.”

Grant closed his bag, gave Tom a last rueful pat, and rose, nearly knocking his head on an overhead straw ornament. Mrs. Stolis saw him out onto the tiny porch, clearly thinking he was addled, and he had to agree at the moment.

He walked into the dry goods store. Mrs. Stolis left her few customers and greeted him. “Oh, Doctor, is it done?”

“Is what done? That cat’s healthier than a horse.”

Mrs. Stolis stared at him in surprise. “You do mean Tom,
jah
?”

“Tom . . . the big black cat who plays like a kitten.”

“
Ach
, but he ’s near death.”

Grant shook his head and tried to ignore the stares of interested customers. It would be fine grist for the gossip mill if the local
Englisch
vet couldn’t tell a near death cat from a healthy one.

“I’m closing the store for a bit,” Mrs. Stolis announced to his amazement, and the customers groaned. “Just for a few minutes; I’ll be back. I must take the doctor to see the cat.” She snatched up her shawl, and she and Grant followed the disgruntled customers out onto the porch.

Grant trailed after her determined form to the
doddy
house, wondering if the woman had a cruel streak and wanted the cat put down as a nuisance. When he reentered the house,
Grossmudder
Stolis sat in her chair, Tom on her lap, with the cat looking about as close to death as Grant had ever seen an animal. He stared perplexed at the cat, its tongue hanging out as it gasped for breath, its eyes rolled far back in its head. He dropped to his knees and reached for his bag. Grabbing his stethoscope, he listened for a heartbeat and found it so faint as to be negligible. He sank back on his knees and stared up at the women. “I don’t get it—this cat was fine a few minutes ago. I tell you, he was playing with my boot string.”

The younger Mrs. Stolis arched a disbelieving brow as the cat gave a pathetic wheeze that sent Grant scrambling for his syringe again. He couldn’t understand it, but he also couldn’t let an animal suffer in such a manner. He gathered a fold of skin around the great neck and prepared to administer the injection.