A Secret Identity (29 page)

Well,” Dr. Reasoner began.

The conversation lasted thirty minutes, and I was very proud of Todd. His eyes didn’t glaze over once.

Chapter 13

I
woke up Monday morning tense and irritable. As I lurched into the bathroom and turned on the shower, I tried to analyze my bad mood. It didn’t take long until I had the answer. In a word:
change
. And worse, change beyond my control.

Three months ago I was safe and secure in Pop’s house, writing away as I’d done for the past eight years. Then poof! Pop was gone.

Three weeks ago I was safe and secure in what was now my house, then poof! I finished my novel and had to face the reality of being alone.

Three weeks ago I might have been alone, but I felt secure in who I was—a Bentley with a proud and wonderful heritage. Then poof! I wasn’t a Bentley. None of us were, from Pop on down.

Three weeks ago I slept in my own bed in the bedroom that had been mine for essentially my whole life. Then poof! I was living on an Amish farm in a little village that was schizophrenic, half of its citizens living in a parallel universe, the other half enjoying the prosperity the fantasy half generated in tourist dollars.

Three weeks ago I had a small family I’d known and loved all my life. Then poof! I had relatives coming out my ears, and a significant number of them seemed to not like me.

Three weeks ago I was Cara Bentley, spinster, not exactly happy over my single state but not losing any sleep over it either. Then poof! I got a new lawyer, and suddenly I was enamored with brown curls and strong jaw lines.

I adjusted the shower temperature and told God a few of the things that were simmering in the back of my mind.

How come I have to deal with so many changes of such magnitude all at once? You know I hate change! Couldn’t we have dealt with one, maybe two at a time?

But I recognized quickly that I couldn’t have any one of them without the others. They were a package, and they were giving me a headache.

Except for Todd. He made me smile.

I let the water beat on my head and slide down my face and shoulders and race down the drain. I felt a significant amount of my stress slip away with the water. I turned my back to the spray and lowered my head, pulling my hair aside. The sharp needles of spray massaged my neck, easing the tension in my taut muscles.

As I shampooed my hair, I had a most electrifying thought, an epiphany of sorts. The notion appeared out of the blue between squeezing a blob of Pert in my palm and massaging it into my hair. I raised my hands to my head in a daze. As I worked the shampoo to the tips of my hair, I pondered and wondered.

What if my obsession with Pop’s adoption papers wasn’t just for the purpose of discovering where we came from? What if it was for the purpose of teaching me lessons I’d never learn any other way? Lessons like letting go of the past, moving on, adapting to change? Lessons like reaching out even when it was uncomfortable and stretched me way beyond my usual boundaries?

I’d glibly told Todd that Pop had never searched because he wasn’t interested in his heritage. He was secure in himself with things as they were. While I still thought that was right, maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe God knew that three generations later I would need something drastic to get my life out of the comfortable rut it had fallen into, something so dramatic that I’d make changes in spite of my predilections.

Maybe God knew these things? No maybe about it. This was God I was thinking about. If I were right, God had planned that I find those papers in the bottom of that box of pictures—papers that would turn my life upside down, papers that should have been in Mr. Havens’ office with the rest of Pop’s things.

Another snippet of a psalm floated through my mind: “
I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go.”

I pondered this radical idea as I dressed in a tan denim skirt and white, scoop-neck knit shirt with a brown leather belt and sandals. I wondered about it as I sat at my desk and stared at the crisp, clear view out my window. A cool front had blown in overnight, and the humidity was temporarily gone. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the far fields were as crisp and green as the leaves on the great maple in the front yard.

Maybe my narrow view of what I will accept in my life is clearing some, Lord, just like the atmosphere outside. Please help me with these changes, the wonderful ones like Todd and Aunt Lizzie, and the difficult ones like Pop and Mom being gone and Amos not liking me
.

By the time I went down for breakfast, I was feeling excited about life’s possibilities once again. So much for my prescience.

The first things I saw were a pair of hens lying on the kitchen counter. Their throats had been slit, and they were lying there waiting to be plucked and cleaned. I knew full well that the family killed the poultry they ate, but I hadn’t been on the farm long enough to witness this particular farm reality. I turned my back on the gruesome sight as Esther came down the stairs from Mary’s room.

“Dinner?” I said, gesturing to the hens.

“I guess so,” Esther said. “There’s not much choice.”

Something in her voice made me look at her closely. “What do you mean? Is something wrong?”

“Elam found them lying on the front porch with their throats slit when he went out to milk the cows this morning.”

It felt like ice slid down my back. “Another act of vandalism?”

Esther shrugged, her great eyes wide, her normally rosy cheeks pale. “I guess. I don’t know about vandalism. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Except for my slashed tires,” I said grimly. “And the blown-up mailbox.”

If possible, Esther’s eyes got bigger.

The front screen door slammed and Elam walked in. He took one look at Esther and frowned. “Has something else happened?”

She sighed and shook her head. “Your mother keeps asking me what’s wrong. I try to act natural, but she can tell I’m upset. And I can’t lie and say everything’s fine.”

“Is she okay?” He looked toward the stairs.

Esther nodded. “She’s sleeping. Yesterday all the company wore her out. She’ll sleep until Rose comes. And then Kristie is coming.”

Elam nodded.

“Elam, what do she and Kristie do? I’ve seen pictures, drawings, and paintings, and I don’t think Kristie did them,” Esther asked.

The implication hung in the air, and I looked at Elam to see what he’d say. How much did he know?

“Don’t worry about Mom’s sketches,” he said. “She’s been doing them as long as I can remember.”

“But Elam—”

“It’s Mom’s little secret, Esther. And we want it to remain a secret.” He looked at her with steel in his gray eyes.

“Does the bishop know?” she whispered.

Elam shook his head.

Esther was clearly torn.

“It’s like a hobby for her,” he said. “She draws something and sticks it in her book. They’re not hanging anywhere.” He gestured to the barren walls as if the fact that his mother wasn’t doing anything beyond the drawing itself meant everything was fine. “It’s like Father’s wood carving or your quilting.”

“But the wood carvings are toys for children,” Esther said. “And quilts have a useful purpose.” Unspoken was the assumption that artwork was worthless because of lack of practical purpose or spiritual use.

“It’s just Mom,” Elam said. “Don’t let it bother you. As for Kristie, she’s become Mom’s friend. That’s all.”

I looked at him to see if he was being disingenuous, but I didn’t think so. He really didn’t know Mary was selling her work and that Kristie was acting as her agent.

But how could he not know?

Easily, I realized. Where would he be to see Mary’s pictures for sale? Or see them hung on a wall? The separate universe in which he and his people moved automatically kept Mary’s secret without her having to do anything more heinous than keep silent.

Shoulders hunched as if she still wrestled with her conscience, Esther turned back to the hens. I stared at the lifeless bodies. A far more pressing issue than Mary’s paintings gnawed at me.

“Do you think the hens have any connection to my slashed tires?” I asked Elam.

He shrugged, but it was obvious the idea had crossed his mind.

“Should we report it to the police?” I asked.

“No.” He was emphatic. “Father and I don’t want to do that. We’d rather just accept the loss.” He placed some mail on the table.

“Turn the other cheek?” I asked. “Give him your cloak?”

“Exactly.” He eyed me carefully as if he were looking for sarcasm or ridicule. He seemed satisfied that I was merely stating nonviolence principles. He nodded. “If you’re okay, Esther, I have to get back to work.”

Suddenly her pale cheeks flooded with color. He had come to see how she was doing. “I’m fine,” she said, eyes aglow. But he was looking at the mail.

You’re an idiot, Elam, I thought. I don’t care how nice Mary Clare is. Esther’s just the girl for you.

“Couple of letters for you, Cara,” he said, holding them out to me. “And one for you, Esther. From Ammon?”

Esther grabbed her letter, blushing furiously. “It’s from my mother!”

“How do you know? You haven’t opened it yet. Maybe it’s from Ammon.”

“I recognize the handwriting.” Her voice was breathless.

“Then Ammon is even dumber than I thought.” Elam let the screen door slam behind him.

Since Esther was a brilliant red, I decided the kindest thing I could do would be to read my mail and make believe I didn’t notice the effect Elam had on her.

I slid my finger under the flap and opened a card from Marnie.
Sometimes life throws curve balls
, it read on the cover. An absolute harridan stood at the plate as the ball whizzed by.
But you managed a home run anyway
, read the inside. The harridan wore a giant grin as she ran the bases.

“We like him,” Marnie wrote. “Definitely a home run.”

I was still grinning when I opened my second letter.

You were told not to visit her. You were warned. Now you will suffer. Like the chickens
.

I stared at the block printing on lined paper torn from a spiral notebook and felt like spiders were crawling all over me. I threw the letter down and started rubbing my arms like I was brushing insects away.

Don’t look! I ordered myself, but my eyes went of their own volition to the hens. They had been thoroughly bled, but in my imagination I saw red welling up and spilling from the wounds at their throats.

God, am I that undesirable a relative
?

I picked up my threatening letter and went to my rooms. I got my cell phone and called Todd’s office. If I ever needed advice from my lawyer, it was now. Some comfort too.

“Mrs. Smiley, this is Cara Bentley. May I speak to Todd, please.”

A slight clearing of her throat was her only sign of disapproval. I wondered in passing what color her fingernails were this week. “I’m sorry, Miss Bentley. Mr. Reasoner is not available.”

“It’s really important, Mrs. Smiley. How can I reach him? Does he have a beeper? Or is he in conference?”

“He’s in court and cannot be interrupted.”

I glanced at the clock: 11:15. “They do break for lunch, don’t they?”

“Well, yes.”

“I’ll find him then.” I clicked off and gathered my things. I wanted to go to the courthouse anyway to visit the Prothonotary’s office. Time for the old two birds with one stone bit.”

Not that I needed more proof of Pop’s origins than Morgan’s and my amazing resemblance and Aunt Lizzie’s picture, but Amos needed hard evidence.

Well, I’d show him. I’d give him legal confirmation he couldn’t refute. I’d present proof in a manner that meant something to him—if Todd’s idea worked.

I’d been to Lancaster County Court House before when I went to Orphan’s Court with such high hopes. I took my ticket from the machine in the nearby parking garage and found a slot for my car on the third level. The courthouse was in the middle of downtown Lancaster City at the intersection of Duke and Orange Streets. Approaching the main entrance, I glanced across the street at the graceful colonnade at St. James Episcopal Church. It was a lovely sight in the midst of the concrete and brick of the business district, a delight to the eye.

I reached for the door of the courthouse only to have someone grab it out of my hand and move to barge through. I turned to glare at the rude person and found myself face-to-face with Amos Yost.

I inclined my head slightly, the barest politeness I could imagine.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed with no attempt at civility.

I felt like saying, “None of your beeswax,” but I remembered about speech being seasoned with grace and kept my mouth shut. I even kept silent about the letter currently burning a hole in my purse instead of shouting, “Your son is psychotic!”

“I told you not to visit her.” Amos’s voice was like tiny pellets of hail beating on me, cold and stinging, but ultimately ineffective and not damaging.

I squared my shoulders. “She invited me.” I regretted my compulsion to answer as soon as I spoke. I should have ignored him completely. I should have been smart enough not to defend myself to him and so begin a he-said, she-said exchange.