Bygones (19 page)

“They’re in my purse. There’s no way I’m wearing them in public until I have the skates on my feet.” She shook her head, her ponytail swaying. “I’m going to feel like such a misfit.”

Marie recognized the insecurity beneath Beth’s adamant statement. She stepped forward, cupped her daughter’s cheeks, and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “You’ll be fine.”

Beth grasped her mother’s wrists and gave them a squeeze. “I wish Mitch were coming.”

“Why isn’t he?”

The girl scowled. “He said he needed to get all his stuff packed to head back to Cheyenne tomorrow morning. But I think he just doesn’t want to hang out with Kyra and Jacob and the rest. He feels funny around them.”

Marie nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”

Resting her weight on one leg, Beth tipped her head and sighed. “Tell me again why I’m doing this?”

Marie imitated Beth’s stance. “Number one, because it will do you good to get out with people your own age. And number two, because you’ll get to know some of your cousins. . .at least a little bit. They are family, you know.”

A lengthy, melodramatic sigh followed Marie’s comments, but Beth made no disparaging remark. “Okay. Maybe if the young people get to know me, they’ll tell their folks to sell stuff to me after all. I guess that would make this all worthwhile.”

The reference to money-making made Marie clench her jaw.

“I just hope I stay on my feet, or everyone will see what I have on underneath.” With a smirk, Beth lifted the hem of her skirt to reveal knee-length Spandex biking shorts.

Marie burst out laughing.

“I know, I know,” Beth groused, “but I didn’t have anything else. I’d stick out even worse if I wore my jeans.”

“You could borrow my denim skirt. At least it won’t flare out.”

Beth shook her head. “Huh-uh. It’s not my style. Besides”—she grinned impishly—“when I whirl around the floor, this one will be
bee-yoo-ti-ful to watch.” Rising on one toe, she spun in a circle, the batik-patterned fabric becoming a blur of color.

Tears stung behind Marie’s eyes as another picture formed in her memory—Beth on the first day of kindergarten in a pink polkadot dress, twirling to make her skirt flare, a huge smile on her sweet face.

“All right then.” Marie gave her daughter a hug, holding on tight. For some reason, letting Beth go was as bittersweet as it had been on that first school day so long ago. “Have a good time.”

“I’ll do my best.” Beth headed for the door, her arm around Marie’s waist. “What are you going to do while I’m out?”

“Empty Aunt Lisbeth’s closet and bureau so I can put my own clothes away. I’ve been putting it off, but I can’t handle living out of boxes any longer.”

“Okay. Well—” They reached the back door and Beth grabbed the doorknob. “See you around ten.”

Marie held the door open and watched Beth skip down the porch steps. When she reached the bottom, she lifted her hand in a brief wave, then rounded the corner to the car. Marie waited until the car had pulled out of the driveway before closing the door and heading to Lisbeth’s bedroom.

She sat on the bed for a long moment, an odd loneliness filling her. The need to talk to someone, to share her concerns about Beth, struck hard. It wasn’t a new feeling—she’d experienced it often during her years of raising a daughter alone. But it was one to which she’d never grown accustomed.

Over the years, the need to share her life with someone had often welled up. Sally had pushed her to date, to explore relationships, but something always held her back. Fear. Fear of choosing someone who wouldn’t be able to love Beth, or who might even mistreat her. She read reports weekly in the newspaper about men abusing
their stepchildren. Marie couldn’t bear the thought of bringing someone home who would prove detrimental to Beth’s well-being. So she’d always forced the loneliness aside, focusing instead on the relationship with her daughter.

But now Beth was grown, fumbling out into the world on shaky wings. It wouldn’t be long before those wings would grow strong enough for her to fly, and Marie would be alone. What would she do then for companionship? But sitting here thinking wasn’t getting her clothes put away.

Sighing, she pushed to her feet and crossed to the closet. She opened the single door and peered into the shadowy depths. Only about a dozen dresses hung there, all made from the same pattern. Although the dresses worn by Joanna and Deborah and many other women in the community were made from patterned fabric, all of Aunt Lisbeth’s were solid colors—mostly deeper shades of blue, brown, or green.

Marie pulled one out and held it at arm’s length, taking in the rounded neckline and attached modesty cape. Running her finger along the edge of the cape, she mentally compared the dress to the things in her clothes box. How her wardrobe had changed since she left Sommerfeld.

She laid the dress on the bed, then stacked the others on top of it, slipping the hangers free. When she had her own clothing hung up, she turned back to the stack of dresses and began folding them to put in the now-empty box. Before placing the last one in, she paused. Almost without thought, she slipped off her shirt and pulled the dress over her head.

A smile formed on her lips. She remembered Aunt Lisbeth as being very petite and slender, but she must have gained weight as she aged—the dress hung loosely on Marie’s frame. She smoothed her fingers along the cape, her eyes closed, recalling how Mom had
often scolded her for running her fingers up and down the cape edge of her dresses and leaving difficult-to-clean smudges in the fabric.

Turning to the small mirror above Aunt Lisbeth’s dresser, she examined her reflection. A laugh blasted. She was glad there was no full-length mirror available to see the complete effect. The Mennonite dress’s simple neckline combined with her untamed curls looked ridiculous.

But if her hair were smoothed down and a cap in place. . .

She hurriedly removed the dress and put her shirt back on. But as she picked up the dress to fold it and put it away, she found she couldn’t do it. For some reason, sealing that dress in the box would be like sealing away her past. For good.

She shook her head. What was wrong with her? She dropped the dress on the bed and padded out to the living room, where she curled up in Aunt Lisbeth’s rocker, one foot tucked up on the seat. Rocking gently, she looked out the window at the deep evening shadows and let her mind drift across the community. Several blocks over, Joanna probably had the ironing board out, pressing crisp creases into the pants her husband and son would wear to the meetinghouse tomorrow. She smiled, remembering the hubbub of getting things ready for Sunday when she was a little girl.

Caught in the middle of seven siblings, she had to listen to oldest sister Abigail’s bossing and ignore her younger brothers’ teasing. Her job had always been to make sure everyone’s shoes were shined. She wondered if Mom still used a cold biscuit on Dad’s shoes on Saturday nights or if they’d finally resorted to shoe polish and a buff cloth.

The sense of unity and belonging that came from the family piling into the buggy together on Sunday morning and rolling over the country roads, meeting other buggies and other families, was something she hadn’t experienced since she was a teenager. Loneliness had been alien to her as a child. There was always someone—whether a brother
or sister or friend—close at hand. The close-knit community had met every need for companionship. She would have never imagined feeling this alone.

Pain stabbed at her as she thought about all she’d lost when Jep died. She clutched her stomach as she remembered the horror of learning that his semi had gone off an embankment just weeks before Beth’s birth. With his death, her dreams of family also died. From that point forward, it had only been her and the baby—no husband, no brothers or sisters for Beth. And with her father’s refusal to allow her to return home, not even cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents. Just a young mother and her little girl.

Marie shot out of the rocking chair. She didn’t want to revisit those pain-filled days. She paced through the dining room to the kitchen, seeking some task to fill her hands so her mind would stop reminiscing. Everything was put neatly away, so no work waited. There was no television with which to numb her senses. A glance at the clock told her it was too early to go to bed. Besides, she wanted to be awake when Beth came home.

Restlessness drove her to the bedroom, where Aunt Lisbeth’s dress waited, mocking her with the differences between her childhood and her adulthood. She yanked up the dress, folded it into a bulky square, and shoved it into the box with the others. After sealing the box, she pulled on a jacket and stormed to the back door. A long walk should clear her mind. She’d walk until the memories faded away.

Even if it means I walk all the way back to Cheyenne
.

Henry held a napkin around his peanut butter sandwich and ambled to the front-room window. While he ate, he watched two squirrels play a game of tag, their bushy tails fluffed out behind them. If he still
had his old dog, Skippy, those squirrels would have a third playmate. Skippy had always enjoyed chasing the furry pests up into a tree. His barks would drown out the squirrels’ scolding chirps.

He missed that old dog. He’d been a good companion. Between Skippy and Lisbeth, there’d always been someone to talk to in the evenings. Now? He sighed. Only squirrels.

He started to turn from the window, but a movement caught his eye.

Leaning forward, he focused on the street. A woman charged down the road, hands deep in the pockets of a jacket, hood shielding her profile from view. But the blue jeans identified her. Marie. No other woman in Sommerfeld would wear jeans.

He ducked away from the window, concerned she might turn her head and spot him watching.

Back in his kitchen, he leaned against the counter and finished his sandwich, the image of Marie’s low-chinned pose making his heart thud. He wondered if she were heading out to the cemetery again. She was moving in that direction. She’d looked forlorn. Lonely. Henry understood that feeling.

He wadded up the napkin and threw it away before returning to the front room. Leaning into the corner of the couch, he closed his eyes and replayed evenings in Lisbeth’s front room, seated beside her, peeking at an open letter in her lap. Lisbeth had shared every one of Marie’s letters with him.

Marie hadn’t been a prolific writer—sometimes entire months passed without word. But each time a letter arrived, Lisbeth would save it until Henry drove her home from the café, then she would read it out loud.

Snippets of letters came back to him—Beth’s learning to walk, the loss of her first baby tooth and her delight at the quarter the tooth fairy left behind, starting new jobs, mourning the loss of Jep’s
mother to cancer, Beth’s graduations from junior high, high school, and college.

A lifetime of memories were contained within Marie’s letters, and Henry had lived each one of them vicariously through the words on the page.

He’d always held his breath when Lisbeth started reading, afraid she would announce that Marie had found another man to share her life. But no mention had ever been made of dating—her focus was always on providing for her daughter. The little girl who meant everything to her had grown into a young woman, who meant so much to her that Marie was willing to come back to a place she didn’t want to be.

From the slump of her shoulders as she’d paced by his house, he knew being here was a heavy burden. In the nearly three weeks she’d been here, he hadn’t witnessed many people reaching out to her, other than her sister Joanna. How hard it must be for her to go to the café every day and not be accepted.

He longed to relieve some of the sorrow she carried. As much as his heart twisted with the admission, he still loved her. It seemed odd, this long-held feeling for someone he hadn’t seen on a daily basis for more than two decades. Yet his love for her had stayed alive, thanks to Lisbeth’s willingness to share the letters. A part of him wanted to tell her that someone besides Joanna loved her. But he wouldn’t do it.

On the shelf in his closet, a small box bore mute testimony to his love for her. For a moment he considered going in and opening the box, peeking at the white Bible he’d purchased as a way of proposing to her without having to rely on speech to communicate. How he hated his penchant for growing tongue-tied! But he’d known the little white Bible, traditionally carried in place of a wedding bouquet, would let her know what his heart felt.

He had tried to speak of his love that day long ago when he realized she intended to leave with Jep Quinn. He’d touched her arm and whispered, “I’ll wait for you, Marie.” How he had hoped she would look into his eyes and realize how much he loved her—and that he would take her back the moment she chose to return. And even though he still felt the same, he was older now. Wiser. He remembered too well the searing pain of watching that semi roll away, carrying the woman he loved.

A heart could only bear that kind of pain once in a lifetime. So he’d keep his feelings to himself this time. Apparently his love hadn’t been enough to hold her in Sommerfeld twenty-two years ago. He wouldn’t risk it again. This time, when she drove away, he wouldn’t be watching.