Forever Amish (19 page)

I closed in on Armin as he mounted the few stairs to his small front porch. He acknowledged me but seemed disturbed, judging from his furrowed brow.

“What's going on?” I asked. “Is the bishop planning to come into the house?”

“He's in Reuben's workshop. I couldn't hear them. It's best I stay out of the conversation.”

Armin opened the cabin door and Ginger sprinted out, wanting to play in the snow. I let her frolic for a few minutes, then dusted the white chunks off her coat and commanded her to follow me inside.

I bent to run my hands along her loins. Sure enough, her ribs were extended. How could I have been so blind? In every arena of my life, I'd been wandering in a fog of denial.

The cabin was toasty and inviting, as only a wood fire could be. The chairs stood by the table, and I noticed Armin's bed was haphazardly made.

“Do you mind if I come in for a few minutes?” I asked.

“Make yourself at home.” He helped me remove my coat, took off his long black jacket, then shook both outside the door before hanging them up.

As I relaxed on the couch with Ginger at my feet, I realized he probably wanted to change into casual clothes. And go to the Singing? I was still unclear what that occasion was all about.

Knuckles rapping on the door made both Armin and me start. Ginger growled; her hackles raised.

“Coming.” Armin seemed reluctant to answer it.

But someone turned the knob from the outside and pushed the door open.

 

CHAPTER 24

I was perched on the couch when Bishop Troyer stepped inside. His eyes zeroed in on me—I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I shot to my feet the same way I had when I was fourteen and Pops had caught me watching TV with a boy. My father had forbidden boys in the house without his chaperoning. I'd been grounded for a month.

“Hello, again,” I said. “I came to check on my corgi.” Her ears pricked, Ginger cocked her head and stood looking up at the bishop as if he were judging Best of Group at the Westminster Dog Show in Madison Square Garden.

“Yah,” Armin said. “Reuben doesn't want dogs in the house.”

“Reuben doesn't want a lot of things,” the bishop said.

Armin's gaze lowered in a subservient manner. At least that was what my pups had always done to show submission: the dominant alpha male stared the other one down. But then Armin raised his chin and looked the bishop in the face.

Was Armin about to get lectured for entertaining me? As far as I could tell, the bishop's proclamations were the law of the land for the Amish in this district. And knowing Armin, even for a short amount of time, I had the impression he would demand the last word. I guessed he could be lippy and strong-willed, character traits I found attractive for some odd reason.

I heard a weighty clump of snow slide off the roof and land with a thud at the side of the cabin. It occurred to me that I hadn't thought about Donald most of the day—one small victory. I didn't miss him and I was glad, because I'd be heartbroken if I did. Well, maybe I was more hurt than I'd realized, since he'd found my replacement so quickly. Perhaps the reality of his betrayal would swirl around and sting me the way an angry hornet circles its target before attacking from behind.

On the other hand, maybe I'd found Donald's replacement. No. What was I thinking? Armin and me an item? Only if we were beached on a deserted island. Or in a snug little cabin during a snowstorm.

The bishop cleared his throat. This could be a crucial day in Armin's life, and I had no right to interfere.

“Would you like privacy?” I asked the men.

“Nee,” both answered.

“It's gut seeing you again, Sally.” Bishop Troyer seemed sincere, but I worried that he'd think I was mocking the Amish by my dress and apron. I hoped not, because in the last twenty-four hours my esteem for them had bloomed. Yet if life in the tight-knit, structured community were idyllic, why would Lizzie wish to elope and why had Armin taken off for such a long time?

“It's good to see you, too,” I said. Our chance meeting was my opportunity to find out more about my parents. “Did you know that my father's still here?”

“Yah, Reuben told me.”

“Did he also tell you how my father kept my Amish heritage a secret and that he refuses to reveal my mother's last name?” I wouldn't delve further into the cesspool.

“Reuben didn't mention your mother,” he said. “I can see you're greatly distressed, Sally.”

“Frantic is more like it.” My words faltered in my throat, stumbling over each other. The enormity of my emotions caught me by surprise. I felt like the runt in the litter, overlooked and cast aside by its own mother. Because there was something wrong with the puppy. With me.

“I feel like I'm losing my marbles,” I said, trying to sound light-hearted but hearing a tremor in my voice.

Bishop Troyer sent me a kind smile. “I can imagine you must be disoriented.”

“You don't know the half of it.” I was tempted to tell him about Donald's escapade, but I would have been too humiliated to mention it in front of Armin. “Let's just say, my life has taken a radical U-turn.”

“It seems you and Armin both have decisions to make,” Bishop Troyer said, glancing over at Armin.

“If you have something to say to me, go ahead.” Armin's voice filled the small space. “I don't mind if Sally hears.”

I was touched that Armin trusted me. I guessed he alone would know how topsy-turvy my life was.

“Nathaniel told me you're going to his house for dinner tomorrow and that you might bring Sally,” the bishop said to Armin. “I hope this is a step toward reconciliation with your brother. To become baptized, you must hold no bitterness or resentment.”

“If I become baptized.” Armin tossed wood in the hearth.

The bishop's shaved upper lip barely moved when he spoke. “Do you want to remain a rambler for the rest of your life, living in the periphery of the community and missing out on all the Lord's blessings?”

“You can see I'm dressing and living an Amish life.” Armin stoked the fire until it roared. “And attending church.”

“And surely you wish to get married and start a family before it's too late.” Bishop Troyer's gaze fastened onto Armin. “You should attend the Sunday Singings,” the bishop said. “Or have you already met a
Maedel
who's caught your eye?”

“The only woman who's captured my attention recently is Sally here.”

“Me?” In my shock, I squawked like a parrot. My hand flapped up to cover my mouth.

“Armin, you know what happened the last time you took a shine to an Englisch girl,” Bishop Troyer said.

“She's happily married now, and it all turned out for the best.” Armin tilted his head; his thick bangs shifted across his eyebrows. “She wasn't meant for me from the get-go. She was in love with another man.” Armin's eyes locked onto mine. “How about you, Sally? Are you in love with someone else?” he asked me.

“No, I'm not.” I did owe Armin an explanation when we were alone; I would eventually fill him in on my fizzled engagement. Unless I left when Pops did. But my chest felt as parched as the Sahara Desert when I considered never seeing Armin again.

“That's fine gut news.” Armin rubbed his palms together. “When I first met you, I saw an engagement ring on your hand. And you were awaiting a man's telephone call.”

“That's part of my old life, in the past.” Yet I still needed to officially break off my engagement to Donald. I should have done it when I'd had him on the phone. I could text him. No, that would be the coward's way out. And I owed his mother an explanation, out of common courtesy.

“In that case, what do you have planned?” the bishop asked me.

“I don't know. Depending on what my father does, I might work at the Sunflower Secondhand Store this next week if Reuben and Rhoda will let me stay.” The job would keep my mind occupied since I had no control over Pops. And I didn't know if he would be up to the long drive home. Staying would give me time to consider Armin's declaration too.

“Would you go dressed thusly?” the bishop asked, scanning my apron and dress. “You mustn't pretend to be Amish to make money.”

“I've never heard that,” Armin said. “What about all those actors in movies pretending to be Amish?”

“Because Englischers do
greislich
things doesn't make it right.” The corners of his mouth angled down. “Those actors are not baptized Amish.”

“Neither is Sally.”

“Well, that's true. Unless she desires to join the church.”

“You mean I could?” I ached to be a member of a genuine community.

“It's possible but not likely.” The bishop furrowed his brow. “Some Englischers think they might like to live our life only to become disappointed and give it up.”

“But I could?” I asked. “I could actually join the church?” My life in Connecticut was a charade, like a puppet show I'd seen as a child.

“I certainly wouldn't wish to persuade you,” he said. “The fact that you were just engaged to another man tells me you're unstable. And you know little of our ways.”

“I could learn. And I'm usually not wishy-washy.”

“Well, at loose ends, then,” he said, and he was right. He turned to Armin. “You're not thinking of running off with Sally, are ya?”

“Nee, nothing like that. I'm hoping she'll stay here.”

Was he kidding? I'd have to wait for Bishop Troyer to leave to talk to him—

“Perhaps the Almighty is tapping Sally on the shoulder,” the bishop said. “Maybe he wants to bring her home where she belongs.”

Armin fell silent; he was no doubt pondering what I'd told him earlier, that I wondered if Pops were my father, making me no blood relative to the Zooks. I wanted Rhoda to be my aunt, Leah and Leonard to be my grandparents, and even Reuben to be my uncle. This farm, their house, and Armin's cabin, felt like home—although it was preposterous to become so attached in such a short time. I prayed God would lead me on the right path.

The bishop moved closer to Armin. “It wonders me that you'd refuse the Lord's blessings. Just how long are you planning to dangle one leg in the Englisch world? I hope you're fixing to stop your adolescent behavior. It won't be tolerated much longer.”

“Okay, you're right.” Armin inhaled deeply, then exhaled through puffed-out cheeks. “I'll attend baptism classes and get baptized in the fall.”

The bishop shook his head; his beard swayed back and forth. “You don't look very happy, Armin. When you're baptized, it should be the happiest day of your life.”

“Even better than the day you marry your wife?” Armin's confident boldness was a quality I found appealing, but I figured he was wading into quicksand.

“Are you ridiculing me and the sanctity of marriage?” By Bishop Troyer's stiff countenance, I could tell Armin had overstepped his boundaries. “If you're not truly ready to submit to the Ordnung, then you'll have to wait another year. I won't baptize a man with such an arrogant attitude.”

“Sorry, I meant no offense.” Armin ran his thumb up and down his suspender. “I'm looking to get married, really I am. I've been a bachelor long enough.”

“How does a person become baptized?” I asked, in part to take Armin out of the spotlight and also because I wanted to know.

“You mean a person such as you?” Bishop Troyer's eyes seemed to gaze right into my wounded soul. “She must demonstrate she's willing to follow the teachings of the Bible emphatically, and also our Ordnung as taught by me, the ministers, and the deacon.”

I wasn't a member of the church I attended back in Connecticut, and I wondered why I'd never felt prompted to join it. If I were to become Amish, really Amish, I'd have to stop using electricity and driving a car. Right now, those options seemed reasonable, but how long would my carefree attitude last? And could I submit to the bishop, ministers, and deacon?

“I might look into it,” I told the bishop. My whole world seemed to be condensed to this farm. And I liked it. “Or is that crazy thinking?”

“All things are possible with God if a person is truly determined to follow him.”

“How will I know what God wants for me?” I asked in all sincerity.

“Should you like, we can talk further, say in a few days.” He moved toward the door.

“Are you going to see my father?” I asked.

“Yes. Do you think he'll appreciate my visit?”

“No. But I would.” The bishop might be the perfect person to knock some sense into Pops.

 

CHAPTER 25

I watched the bishop's large gloved hand turn the doorknob.

“I'd better stay out here,” I said. I'd be content in the cabin with Armin and Ginger while Bishop Troyer made his house call. But then I considered how vexed I'd be if I woke up in the morning and found my father had stolen away during the night. I got to thinking about what I'd miss if I didn't accompany the bishop—possibly clues about my mother.

A block of chilly air barged in as he headed outside. The door shut behind him.

“Wait, I changed my mind,” I said. “I'll walk over to the house too.” I grabbed my coat, stuffed my arms into the sleeves. “Rhoda might need help preparing dinner.”

“On Sunday, we have leftovers,” Armin said. “Rhoda did her cooking yesterday.”

“You all take this day-of-rest business seriously, and yet the bishop's working.”

“As did Jesus when he healed the man with the shriveled hand in the book of Mark.” Armin gave Ginger a back rub and the dog stretched out her short rear legs. “I'll come into the house later.” I guessed he meant after the bishop left. Armin probably didn't want to be further enmeshed in the family's tumult. But I had no choice.

I stepped into the boots and hurried outdoors. Dusk had begun to spread her tinny-gray wings; tissue-paper–thin clouds drifted overhead. The air felt a smidgeon warmer. The snow beneath my feet was softening.

“Wait up,” I said, trailing Bishop Troyer across the slushy barnyard.

I figured he was about fifteen years older than Pops, but in spite of his slim frame and somewhat stilted gait, the bishop possessed ten times the vitality; his strides were taken with purpose. From what I'd seen, he was a righteous man. I recalled the other night; he'd had every reason to glower at me when I'd nearly pulled my car out onto the road in front of his carriage. I'd been negligent, yet he hadn't brought the incident up to shame me.

I caught up with him. “Just a minute,” I said, my heel skidding on the snow.

He kept heading toward the back steps. Someone had shoveled and swept them off—I assumed Peter or Jeremy. “You don't have to come in with me,” he said, “if it's too painful for you.”

“I can't hide out at Armin's all night. And I'd like to see Rhoda.” Bitterness continued to eat me, like termites chiseling into decaying wood. I eagerly awaited Pops's bewildered expression when he saw the bishop. Then I recalled the Ten Commandments. Honor thy father. I prayed in silence: Please, God, remove this hostility. Let me start with a clean slate.

The bishop climbed the stairs, scuffed and stamped the snow off his boots, and made his way through the utility room in a confident manner that told me he'd been here many times before. Entering the kitchen, he shed his black hat and coat.

Rhoda stood at the counter. “What a fine gut surprise.” But her facial expression seemed filled with dread: her lips pulled tight. And yet for all I knew, Rhoda herself had asked Bishop Troyer to come see Pops. Maybe she hoped the bishop would convince Pops to stay a few days. I liked Rhoda so much; I hated to see her disappointed. She took the bishop's coat and hat.

“I'd like to speak to Ezekiel, if I may.”

“Yah, that would be gut.”

“Where might I find him?”

“He was up for a short while, but he's back in bed in our small room on the first floor. I'll show you the way.”

I followed the two of them through the living room. They were speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch so I wouldn't understand them. Or maybe it was just out of habit. I realized when they spoke English, they were doing it as a courtesy to me. I could make out several words; they were talking about Reuben and how furious he was having my father in the house. Reuben had threatened to bodily remove Pops. The bishop said it would be unfitting for an Amishman to physically evict a person, no matter the weather or circumstance.

I didn't know what I expected as we neared the bedroom. I got this crazy notion Pops might be gratified to see the bishop, to confess his wrongdoings. But why would my father spontaneously reverse his thinking the moment he saw Bishop Troyer?

Pops was wearing reading glasses and sitting in bed drinking tea—his cup sat on a tray on the bedside table. A propane lamp stood nearby. A magazine—
The Connection
—lay open in his lap. He looked better, his face less gaunt and his eyes clearer.

“Hello, Ezekiel.” Bishop Troyer pulled the door completely open and stepped into the room with Rhoda and me shadowing him. “Do you remember me from when we were younger?”

“I guess.” Pops flipped the magazine's page. “Rhoda tells me you're a bishop now.” Pops didn't seem to be showing much respect. I wanted to jump in and say something, but I remained silent. The bishop would get nowhere if I interfered.

“Once again, God has worked all things together for good,” Bishop Troyer said.

“How's that?” It seemed Pops was trying to antagonize the bishop, but Bishop Troyer remained calm.

I recognized the reference to Romans that our pastor had quoted, something about God working for the good of those who love him, to those who were called according to his purpose. Which left Pops out, I assumed. And me, too, if I were honest with myself. Did I really love God? More than caramel ice cream and lattes? More than anything on earth? Even the dream of finding my mother?

As my thoughts did loop-the-loops, I compressed my lips together so I wouldn't interrupt the conversation.

Bishop Troyer moved to the foot of the bed. “Do you think your being here is a coincidence, Ezekiel?”

Pops folded his glasses. “I go by Ed.”

“You can call yourself whatever name you please, but don't forget that God is in control.”

“I'm in no mood for a theological debate.” His hand wobbly, Pops set the magazine off to the side. “In fact, I'm ready to hit the road. I have a thriving business that can't run itself.”

“Nee, please don't go.” Rhoda pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat by him, laid her hand on his arm. “If you want to be called Ed, we can do that. But I can't let you leave the house to drive on icy roads all the way to Connecticut. It isn't safe.” She paused and looked him in the eyes. “Dear Bruder, it will never be your true home. In some way or another you will be forever Amish.”

“Bah.” Pops sounded like Scrooge. I was disappointed and embarrassed by his boorish behavior. “Rhoda, you were always such a sweet girl,” Pops said. “I don't deserve your sympathy. You should listen to your husband and toss me out on my ear.”

“Even if you leave,” the bishop said, “God will pursue you.”

Pops endeavored to get out of bed, but it was obvious by his trembling arms he didn't have the strength. He wilted back again.

“What on earth are you thinking?” Rhoda plumped the quilt around Pops's legs.

“That I won't stay in a house where I'm obviously not welcome.”

At the thought of Pops leaving, I could no longer contain my concerns about his health. “Bishop Troyer, if Pops doesn't receive medical help soon, he'll need a kidney transplant. I was planning to have the blood work done to see if I'm a donor candidate.” I didn't want to explain why Pops and I might not be compatible.

“You're so young, Sally,” Rhoda said. “I'd be a better donor. We have a cousin with kidney problems, but mine are in fine shape. And your father and I are siblings.”

“I don't know,” the bishop said, scratching his chin. “A transplant? I don't believe that's permitted in our Ordnung.”

“Don't say that, please.” Rhoda stood. “I can't let my brother die.”

“Where he'll spend eternity is more important than his time on earth,” the bishop said.

“All his medical records are in Connecticut,” I said, and all heads rotated toward me. “Tomorrow I'll call his doctor's office and find out what to do.” In the back of my mind, I got an itchy feeling. Was Pops still manipulating me? But no matter what he'd done or might do, I loved him more than anyone.

“I can't imagine any doctor wanting to perform a transplant if there are other medical remedies available.” Bishop Troyer turned to Pops. “Have you tried everything possible?”

“I can answer that.” My hands clamped my hips. “No. He's ignored most of his doctor's suggestions.”

“And how would you know that?” Pops demanded.

“I called your doctor's office.”

“Without my permission?” Grim lines bracketed his mouth.

Thinking about his many falsehoods, my thoughts reverted to Mom. “You've got your nerve, scolding me for keeping information to myself when all this time you've lied.” Unable to restrain myself any longer, I turned to Rhoda and said, “There's got to be a way for me to find out who my mother is. I wouldn't be surprised if Pops knows exactly where she lives.”

“But isn't your father's health more important right now?” Rhoda said.

Of course, she was right, but my tongue seemed to have a will of its own. “What if he dies and never tells me?” I said.

“You care more about her than me, the man who raised you?”

It felt like a noose was cutting off my air supply. He'd lied to me for so long, I didn't know what to believe. “Do you remember a girl named Mavis?” I asked Rhoda. “At least that's what he says my mother's name is.” Pops could've been fibbing about that, too.

“Yah, I do, vaguely,” Rhoda said. “Around here, Mavis is an unusual name. I think she was Mennonite, but her parents were modern and liberal. Not politically, mind you, but the way they dressed, and they owned the latest appliances, cars, and gizmos. Of course, that was a long time ago.”

“What was she like? Do I look like her?” I glanced past Rhoda and saw Pops shifting away from us.

“Well, now, it's been so many years, I don't recall.” Rhoda patted her prayer cap. “What was her last name?” she asked Pops.

His head shook. “I don't rightly know.”

“I'm not buying that,” the bishop said. “Surely, you'd recall the name of the woman who birthed your daughter.”

I could have run over and hugged the bishop, but I didn't want to do anything to break the spell. We three stood staring at Pops, who gazed out the window into the darkening sky. Finally, he said, “I guess it could've been Miller.”

My heart leaped inside my chest. “Rhoda, do you know anyone with that last name?”

“Yah, Sally, there are many Millers in this county.” She turned to Pops, who seemed bent on ignoring our conversation. “Can you not tell your daughter more than that?”

Bishop Troyer folded his arms. “We're asking you for the truth, Ezekiel.”

But my father kept silent.

I felt my compassion for Pops shrinking. To think, I'd idolized this man my whole life.

Plodding footsteps came from the hall. A moment later, Reuben bobbed his bearded face through the doorway. “Are ya having a tea party?” When he strode into the room, the floorboards creaked.

Rhoda moved to his side. “You can see we have the bishop here—”

“I'm aware of his presence. And I'll not let your brother deceive him.”

My father glanced up at Reuben, and I couldn't help but notice the difference in their builds. Pops, weak and sickly. Reuben, strong and bursting with vitality. Fortunately, the Amish were nonresistant and were taught to never strike an enemy. Yet Reuben had not shown a meek disposition—quite the opposite.

“Please, Reuben, let the bishop reason with Ezekiel.” Rhoda massaged her fingers. “I mean Ed.”

“There's no use.” Pops crossed his arms, tucking his hands out of sight.

“If you confess and repent from your sins, you will be forgiven and welcomed back home,” the bishop said. “You could have returned at any time.”

“Not everyone chooses to come back and you know it.” Pops's voice turned surly. “How about me? How about my daughter? Sally's mother has never asked us for forgiveness.”

“She may never apologize,” the bishop said, “but that doesn't mean you can't forgive her.”

I stepped forward. “How could she ask for forgiveness if you didn't want to be found?” I turned to Rhoda. “Has no woman ever come around asking about me?”

“Nee.” She let out a sigh. “I'm sorry.”

The lamp hissed. I chided myself for my gargantuan disappointment. Ridiculous to think my mother would have been searching for me. Yet Lizzie had located me. Did the Lord not want me to have a mother?

“I tell you, I want this man out of my house.” Reuben aimed a finger at Pops.

“This is what I want,” Bishop Troyer said, “to see you on your knees confessing before the congregation in two weeks.” He shot Reuben a stern look, more like a warning. “Can I count on you being there?”

Reuben shifted his weight, seemed to be teetering. “Yah, okay, I'll do it.” He glared at my father. “But I still want this man out of my home.”

“To refuse to forgive is a sin,” Bishop Troyer said. “I expect you will resolve this dispute and confess your unforgiving attitude.”

Reuben scratched his belly. “Yah, okay.”

Rhoda and my grandparents had chosen to pardon my father for running out on them. If Lizzie hadn't found him, his life would be chugging along as usual. No, not really, because his health was deteriorating. I figured his driving here at night had compromised his immune system further, weakening him. If only I hadn't left for the weekend. But then I wouldn't have met Armin—a realization that caught me off guard.

The air in the small room grew moist and heavy. I recalled Pops saying, “Don't worry about what you'd do if you lived your life all over. Get busy with what's left.” It occurred to me that it might be an Amish proverb, as could many of his snippets of advice.

I left the room, and moments later Rhoda followed me into the kitchen. “Are you all right?” she asked.