A Stranger's Wish (5 page)

They’d stepped back then, telling me that from now on my bills were my bills, and if I couldn’t afford something, then I’d better learn to do without. Unspoken was the thought that if I’d been going to law school, they’d still be paying for everything.

Since they’d been involved in getting me the apartment, my giving it up without a very good reason would irk them. I wondered vaguely if they’d want their two months’ rent back.

“I decided I wanted a change of scenery,” I said brightly. “I can look out my windows at the new place and see rolling farmland. And there’s an Amishman working in his field.” I didn’t say it was John and the field was “mine.”

Mom was quiet for a few minutes, and I could almost hear her thoughts as she reminded herself that I was twenty-seven, and if I wanted to move, it was my choice.

“I hope you were careful not to take a place that will strap you financially.”

“Not at all,” I hastened to tell her. “It’s less expensive.”

“Huh. Cheap usually means second rate,” she said, her voice crisp.

“But not in this case. Here, let me give you my new address.” I reeled off the Zooks’ house number and street before she could ask any more questions.

When I said Bird-in-Hand, Mom said, “But that’s farther from your school than your previous apartment. Why would you want to be farther?”

“It’s not that much farther.” And it was worth every extra mile to me, no matter how costly gas became. “Now I’ve got to go settle in. I just wanted to give you that information. Bye, Mom. I love you. Give my love to Dad.” And I hung up.

I stared out the window and thought what a coward I was, but I knew how my parents would react to the news that my new place was an Amish farm. They wouldn’t understand. Not that I didn’t expect them to find out eventually, but later was better than sooner. I didn’t want anything to taint my special year or derail my Great Adventure when it had barely begun. I’d met with enough resistance to my plan as it was.

“You’re going to do what?” Todd bellowed in disbelief when I told him about the Zooks.

“I’m going to board at an Amish farm for a year. I’ve already met the family and worked out the details.”

Todd stare openmouthed, and I knew he was hurt that I hadn’t discussed it with him first.

“Why do you want to do a foolish thing like that?” he asked, genuinely baffled. “You already have a nice apartment.”

“So I can paint.”

“So you can paint?” Todd was almost at a loss for words, a rare event for a lawyer. “But you can paint here—” he indicated my apartment, “—where it’s warm and clean and smells nice. If you must paint.”

“Of course I must paint.” I was aghast at his misapprehension of what was so important to me. What was it with lawyers? And how had I fallen into an association with one who so resembled my family in his thought patterns? “I’m a watercolorist, Todd. Watercolorists paint. The Country Shop has taken two of my pictures and will take some more when those sell.” I shrugged. “It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

I paused, hoping he’d say something reassuring, like, “And I’m sure they’ll sell very quickly.” But he didn’t. He seemed to feel any encouragement would only make me more independent, more determined, and I was bad enough already.

“Paint is more than brushstrokes and color and technique, you know. It’s perception and passion. It’s feelings and emotion and ambiance.”

“Ambiance?” For an intelligent man, he was good at looking blank.

I nodded. “I’m boarding on this farm because I want to get a better feel for Lancaster County so I can paint it more accurately. There’s so much to learn.”

“You’ve been learning for four years, ever since you moved here from New Jersey.”

“But it’s not academic knowledge I’m talking about.”

Todd just stared at me, baffled. “Why isn’t teaching enough for you?” he asked. “You know you’re good at it. You like the kids, and they like you.”

At least he wasn’t urging me to be a lawyer.

“I like teaching well enough, but I love painting. It’s a compulsion.” I looked at the kind, somber, slightly stodgy man before me. “Every time I take a clean sheet of paper and begin to block out a scene, I thank God for the indescribable joy it gives me. Don’t you feel the same way about practicing law, maybe when you deliver an especially good argument or win a case against the odds?”

He frowned. “No.”

“No? You don’t like being a lawyer?”

“Oh, I like it okay. I just don’t understand all this feeling stuff, this ‘indescribable joy’ stuff.”

Poor man. I took his hand. “Todd, I teach because I have to eat and pay rent, but if I could live off my painting, I’d do it in an instant.”

He shook his head. “There’s no stability there.”

Now there was news. “But some things are worth the risk, aren’t they?”

He just looked at me. Risk was something he didn’t comprehend. Teaching was an honorable, safe profession, especially for a woman. I should be satisfied with it, and the fact that I wasn’t bothered him not a little.

“But painting is so solitary!” he said. “It puts you in your own private world.” Which he obviously thought was a bad place to be.

Todd tried every argument he could think of to talk me out of going to the farm. I could feel his frustration that he could argue a case in court and persuade judge and jury with his fluency, but he couldn’t budge me.

To him it was another yellow car.

“You can’t buy that, for goodness’ sake!” he’d said when he saw my just-purchased vehicle. “It looks like a taxicab!”

“Never! I know sunshine and lemon drops when I see them.”

“Sunshine and lemon drops?”

And now my foolishness was taking me ten miles from Lancaster to Bird-in-Hand and some backwards farm.

“Why is an Amish family letting someone English board with them?” he asked testily.

I knew he meant “English” in the broad Lancaster County sense of my not being German or Dutch as in Pennsylvania German or Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Why are these people letting you live with them?” he repeated grouchily. “It’s uncharacteristic.”

“Because they need the money?”

He shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. The Amish are very self-sufficient. If any of them ever need money, their community will give it to them.”

“They have a son, Jake, who was paralyzed from the waist down in a motorcycle accident, and his care is costly.”

The incongruity of an Amishman in a motorcycle accident bothered neither Todd nor me. We were aware that in their late teens, Amish children, especially sons, often rebelled against the strict ordered life of their parents in a time known as
rumspringa
. Most times the rebellion ran its course, and the children returned to the teachings of the church. Sometimes the children remained “English” or “fancy” or “gay,” terms used by the local Amish community to denote people who wore clothes with zippers and printed fabric, people who drove automobiles and SUVs, people who used electricity taken from poles along the road, people who watched TV and listened to iPods. People like Todd and me.

Unfortunately, sometimes events intervened in a Plain son’s wild oat sowing, and rebellion became tragedy.

“But if you live with those folks, you won’t have electricity and all the modern conveniences. No TV or telephone. No hot showers!”

“It won’t be that bad,” I said. “There’s a propane hot water heater in the shed off the kitchen, so there’s plenty of hot water. And I have my cell phone.”

“But what about electricity?”

“When Jake came home from the rehab center, Mr. and Mrs. Zook ran electricity into one wing of the house for him. He has a little apartment on the first floor, and since my rooms are directly over his, I have electricity too. And surely I can survive without a TV if I need to.”

Todd snorted, unimpressed. “But it’s an election year.”

“I do know how to read the newspapers, Todd,” I said tartly. Did the man never know when enough was enough? I certainly hoped he harangued juries with more finesse than he used on me. “And I’m every bit as interested in Adam Hurlbert’s candidacy for the U.S. Senate as you are.”

“So you keep telling me. I know, I know, you even met him at parents’ night because his stepson goes to your school. Big deal. And stop trying to change the subject on me.”

“Change the subject?” My voice squeaked with aggravation. “You’re the one who brought up politics.”

“I don’t want to talk about Adam Hurlbert! I want to talk about your dumb farm. How old is this Jake person?”

“What?” For a man who valued orderly thinking, he was being uncharacteristically scattered.

“This Jake guy. How old is he?”

“In his midtwenties, I guess,” I said. “About my age. I think the family has made all these liberal concessions like the phone and the electricity because they realize he’ll never be Plain again.”

“Well, I don’t like it.” His jaw had a belligerent set to it. “Next thing I know you’ll be running around in black stockings, a pinned-together dress, and a
kapp
.”

“You’re being ridiculous! The last thing I plan to do is become Amish.”

“Famous last words.” He stared morosely at me.

I shook my head, exasperated. “Listen, Todd. I’m moving to an Amish farm whether you like it or not.” I said the last few words slowly and emphatically so he was sure to get the point. We might go out together, but he hadn’t the right to call the shots in my life. “And I’d like your support instead of all this flack.”

He ran his hand through his hair, something he did only when agitated. His brown curls, now ruffled, escaped the tight control he tried to exert over them and sproinged exuberantly and unprofessionally, at least by his definition, about his head. He hated his hair; I was jealous of it. My straight brown hair fell to my chin with nary a wave in sight.

“I’m not going to the farm to become Amish,” I repeated, softened by his obvious distress. “I admire them for their courage to be different, but I don’t agree with them. I see nothing sinful about electric stoves or gasoline powered cars or a short curly permanent.”

Todd looked at me sadly, and I knew I had failed to be what he wanted me to be, whatever that was.

The story of my life.

4

W
hen I awoke from my post-hospital nap, I felt refreshed and energetic, ready to attack the chore of settling in. The Tylenol had worked, and all I felt was a slight twinge in my cheek. I began unpacking boxes and suitcases, dumping the contents on the bed. Soon the cases were tucked away, and the boxes were piled by the door for disposal. All I needed to do now was to put everything into drawers.

Instead I began to get ready for my date with Todd.

As I rooted through the various piles looking for my makeup, my fancy gladiator sandals with the “jewels” up the central strap, and my flowing dress with the bright splashes of color, my eyes kept going to the key lying on my dresser. I was glad I hadn’t discussed it with Jon Clarke, but surely Todd was different. After all, he was a lawyer. He’d know what my obligation to the old man was. He’d know what I should do if the man died or was hospitalized for a long time or was comatose or had a stroke or…

I brushed on some rouge, trying not to get my bandage rosy.

But the old man hadn’t died or had a stroke or gone into a coma yet. At least, I didn’t think so.

“
Tell no one. Promise.”

Just Todd.

“
No one.”

I sighed. I probably should just wait and see what happened. Maybe I would never say anything to anyone no matter what happened. Maybe my promise was like the privileged communication between client and lawyer, patient and doctor, or penitent and priest. Maybe I was trapped for the rest of my life with a little silver-colored albatross hanging around my neck.

Maybe I was being melodramatic.

I grabbed my cell phone and hit 411 for the number of the hospital. I could at least find out who the man was so I wouldn’t need to drive myself crazy with speculation.

“I’m looking for information about the man who came into emergency with a heart attack earlier today,” I told the woman who answered.

“Name?” she asked in a clipped voice.

Feeling rather foolish, I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know his name.”

There was a small silence. “Then how can I tell you how he is?” Her logic was as razor edged as her tone of voice.

“Maybe you can find out his name for me?” I suggested hesitantly. The phone lady was as good as Todd at making me feel small.

“I can find out his name?” Her incredulity bubbled down the line. “Ma’am, you made the call.”

I cleared my throat and forged on. “I don’t think there could have been too many elderly men with heart attacks this afternoon. I was there when he came in, and I talked with him before they took him away. I just want to know if he survived and how he’s doing.”

A sigh floated to my ear. Obviously I wasn’t making her job easy.

“Please,” I said with all the plaintive desperation I could muster. I stopped myself before I sniffled pathetically. “It’s very important to me.”