Brightest and Best (44 page)

This time when he jiggled Miriam’s arm, she did not moan.

Outside, the sun broke the horizon.

Gideon’s tears burned the backs of his eyes. They had burned this way five years ago, when it was Betsy’s eyes that fluttered but did not open, Betsy’s chest that fell but did not rise.

Grief blurred memory then as it did now.

Had it been fair to send a boy not quite fourteen years old to tell the nearest neighbor? Ella had offered to go, but Gideon wanted her near. Tobias had done the job well, and the news spread across the Amish farms rapidly enough that church members streamed to the Wittmer farm in a steady flow throughout the day. They came first to the main house. Ella somehow enticed them to remain there, with only a few at a time walking to the
dawdihaus
to see James.

Some were relieved by the separation, lest they unwittingly take the influenza home from the
dawdihaus
to their own households. They preferred instead to express their condolences to Gideon. James made brief polite appearances at the main house between his long stretches of vigil beside Miriam. Ella and Rachel had bathed and dressed Miriam in her blue wedding dress and prepared her for the viewing. Gideon had seen for himself how most of the people who ventured to the
dawdihaus
to pay their respects chose to do so from a distance.

How many tens of millions had the influenza taken as it circled the globe? Why, in God’s will, should Miriam, on a remote farm near a small town in eastern Ohio, be one of them?

Four men organized a crew to dig Miriam’s grave not too far from where Betsy was laid to her final rest, and Chester Mast and his sons were building the pine casket.

The details had to be looked after. Later, James would be grateful that church members executed the traditions swiftly and capably, just as Gideon had been five years ago.

Unabashedly, after Ella pulled the sheet over Miriam’s face, the two men embraced. Grief had brought them together when Betsy died and Miriam insisted she and James must help Gideon with his young family. Now grief bound them once again in the vacuum where Miriam’s voice belonged.

The touch at Gideon’s elbow made him jump, but it was Ella. Was it only eight hours ago that they had together witnessed a soul leave this world while they gripped the flesh-and-blood future they dreamed of together? Ella’s face was drawn with exhaustion, emotion, efficiency. Gideon conjured a wan smile.

“Look.” Ella tilted her head across the room.

Rachel, Lindy, and David were huddled in a triune embrace.

“Have they …?” Gideon asked.

“Life is precious,” Ella said. “Why should we waste any of it separated from people we love?”

“I’m happy for them,” Gideon said. Even James would give thanks if reconciliation came out of this day that had wrenched his life inside out. Gideon had a vague awareness that he had not seen any of his own children in some time. He said, “Where are my girls?”

“Savilla has the Hershberger girls upstairs,” Ella said. “I’ll look for Gertie.”

She started to move away but paused as the front door opened for the umpteenth time that day. Margaret Simpson stepped tentatively into the front room.

Margaret felt out of her element. She knew nothing about Amish traditions upon the death of a loved one, and the extent of her relationship with Miriam Lehman was the conversation they had at the Wittmer door last summer when Margaret had called and Gideon was not home. But in recent weeks Lindy had progressed from being a neighbor Margaret waved at to a friend she cared for, and Miriam was Lindy’s aunt and Gertie’s great-aunt. And Margaret felt some affinity for Gideon and the battle he led for the education of the Amish children.

Lindy crossed the room toward her and said, “I didn’t know you’d come.”

“It seemed only right,” Margaret said.

After Lindy stopped long enough that morning to give Margaret the news before heading out to the Wittmer farm, Margaret reasoned that grief was grief. She did not have to be closely connected to Miriam to know that many others would feel the weight of a boulder on their chests today—and probably for weeks or months to come. In a black skirt and shirtwaist, at least Margaret did not introduce thoughtless color into a somber occasion. The men were in black suits and white shirts, and the women in black dresses and black aprons.

“You know a few people,” Lindy said. “The mothers you drove out to the children’s home will never forget your generosity.”

Margaret spied Mrs. Borntrager standing next to the fireplace and Mrs. Byler firmly holding the hand of her young son. Hans shyly waved at Margaret, and she gave him a smile.

“I’ll bring you something to eat,” Lindy said.

“I don’t need anything,” Margaret said.

“There’s plenty. Everybody shows up with food. In this way the
English
and the Amish are not so different.”

And in which category did Lindy put herself? Her faith had been formed in the Amish church, yet she had not joined. And would not. If Lindy had decided that her offer to teach was a good enough reason to join the church after all these years, Margaret would have heard by now.

Margaret didn’t see James, but Gideon appeared purely stricken. Perhaps by the time she reached him, the words she ought to speak would come to her.

“Margaret,” Lindy said, her eyes filling, “it really was kind of you to come.”

Margaret ran her tongue across her teeth behind her lips. “Is there something special I should say?”

“Speak your heart,” Lindy said. “I’ll be back with something to refresh you.”

Margaret reminded herself that she was the same woman who stood up to Superintendent Brownley, the same woman who drove mothers desperate to see their children across the county, the same woman who said good-bye to a man she might have loved for a long time to come—because she had done what she thought was right for the people in this room.

Gideon never seemed to be left alone for more than a moment at a time. Margaret made her way through the crowd in his front room, listening to snippets of conversation. Most of it was in Pennsylvania Dutch. Occasionally an English phrase fell on her ears as someone slipped back and forth between the two languages. But Margaret did not need to understand the language the mourners spoke to understand the language of their hearts.

Words of hope.

Words of love.

Words of loss.

Words of tenderness and compassion and care and encouragement.

Why would anyone want to interfere with creating this sense of belonging for another generation? If she never did any other good thing with her life, if she never found another teaching position, if she never loved another man, Margaret would always know she had done the right thing for the families in this room.

Ella first looked upstairs, supposing Gertie would want to be with Savilla and the other girls. But Gertie was not among the growing assembly in the girls’ bedroom. Savilla’s eyes bore a stunned stare. Ella had seen Savilla go upstairs with two Hershberger sisters, but now there were eight girls. Several of them, too young to discern what Savilla might be feeling on this day, giggled about something or other.

Rescue me,
Savilla’s eyes pleaded from the center of her bed.

Ella stepped into the room. “Savilla, would you help me find your sister?”

The nine-year-old swiftly unfolded her feet and took Ella’s hand.

“It’s a hard day,” Ella whispered in the hall. “They don’t know.”

Savilla nodded, sedate. “I didn’t get to say good-bye.”

“I know. It was too dangerous.”

“I don’t care if I might get influenza,” Savilla said. “You and
Daed
might get sick, and you were there.”

Ella squeezed Savilla’s hand. How could she explain that parents sometimes took risks themselves that they would not allow for their children? How could she explain that she and Gideon couldn’t leave James alone? How could she explain that it might have frightened Savilla if she had seen Miriam at the height of her illness?

They started down the back stairs.

“I think I know where Gertie is,” Savilla said.

“Let’s go there together, then.”

Savilla led the way through the kitchen and out the back door. On the final day of November, as the sun arranged its setting glory, the air was cold. As they passed the hooks on the back porch, Ella snatched a couple of shawls.

“She goes to the loft,” Savilla said. “
Aunti
Miriam always told her not to go up there by herself.”

Ella swallowed. Gideon would not approve of his rambunctious six-year-old climbing the ladder on her own. Even Ella didn’t like to make the ascent.

Savilla was right, though. As soon as they entered the barn, Ella caught sight of Gertie’s prayer
kapp
, a bright spot against the yellow and brown hues of the hay loft.

“I don’t want to go up,” Savilla said.

“You don’t have to.”

“Do I have to go back in the house?”

Ella shook her head. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“Can I go in the
dawdihaus
?”

Ella glanced out the open barn door. “Maybe we should talk to your
daed
about that first.”

“I’ll wait here, then.” Savilla sat on the bench under the tack rack at the entrance to the barn. Ella wrapped a shawl around Savilla before taking in a slow breath, slinging the second shawl over one shoulder, and gripping both rails on the ladder. One step at a time she proceeded upward, resisting the temptation to look down.

Gertie sat up straight, surprised to see Ella come over the top of the ladder. Damp streaks striped her cheeks. Ella crawled around a bale and opened her arms. Gertie trembled in them as Ella wrapped her in the shawl. Ella pulled off the girl’s loose
kapp
and stroked her head. They sat silently. Ella would wait as long as it took for Gertie to stop sniffling.

“Is it my fault?” Gertie finally said.

“No, sweet girl. It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe it happened because I didn’t obey. That’s what made
Aunti
Miriam so tired.”

“No, Gertie, no. That’s not why people get sick.”

Gertie leaned into her, silent again.

“Why do people die?”

Ella knew she should say that everything that happened was God’s will, but she could not make herself speak the words to a grieving child.

“I know my
mamm
died,” Gertie said, “but I don’t remember her.”

The truth of the statement stabbed Ella.

“I don’t remember her, so I don’t feel sad. Sometimes that makes me feel naughty.”

Ella kissed the top of Gertie’s head. “That’s because Miriam came and took such good care of you.”

“Am I going to forget
Aunti
Miriam, too?”

“You’re much older now,” Ella said. “You’ll remember more. And your
daed
and I will help you remember—and Savilla and Tobias and
Onkel
James.”

Ella had feared she would not know what to say when she found Gertie, that it should be Gideon’s role to comfort his child.

“Is your
mamm
dead?” Gertie asked.

“Yes, she is.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Yes, I do. But I was a big girl when it happened—older even than Tobias.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Every day,” Ella said, her throat swelling. “I miss her because she doesn’t know how much your
daed
loves me. I miss her because she doesn’t know how much I love you.”

Gertie snuggled in. “I’ll help you remember your
mamm
if you help me remember
Aunti
Miriam.”

“We’ll take care of each other.”

“You’ll be my
mamm
now, and I’ll be old enough to remember you.”

“That’s right. We’ll be together a long time.”

“Twenty days?”

“Much longer than that.”

“No, silly,” Gertie said. “
Aunti
Miriam told me you and
Daed
would get married on December 19. I’ve been counting, and it’s twenty days.”

“That’s right,” Ella said. “December 19.”

D
aed
!” Savilla jumped up from the table. “The eggs are burning.”