Plain Jayne (42 page)

Sara shuffled her feet. “Yeah.”

I wondered if she was really ready, but it wasn't my place to question.

“I'm looking forward to it. Getting baptized.”

She said it with the enthusiasm most people show toward dental work.

“I'm glad,” I said. “I don't suppose anyone's taking pictures.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “We don't believe in posing for pictures.”

“You wouldn't be posing. You're already there, getting baptized. Speaking of photos—would anyone mind if I took a couple shots before I left?”

“I don't know. Ask my mom.”

“Good idea.”

I tucked a few more items away and left to find Martha. I found her in
the kitchen, scrubbing her hands free of soil. “I think I'll be leaving this evening,” I said, not knowing how else to start.

Martha dried her hands on the checkered dishtowel by the sink. “We'll be sorry to lose you, but I'm sure you have work to get back to.”

“I do. I was wondering…would you mind if I took a few pictures? Nothing intrusive, but it would be nice for the piece I'll be writing.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “No faces, no posing, please.” She gave a slight smile. “I trust you.”

I returned her smile. “Thank you.”

With Martha's blessing, I pulled my digital Canon SLR from its protective case, checked my battery and memory card, and set out on the farm.

I didn't profess to be a photographer of any skill, but it's one of those things that proves to be a useful skill when working for a paper in the day and age of media-downsizing.

And photographing the Amish. Seriously. As long as the photo was in focus, it looked amazing. Amish laundry was like that. To them it was just wet clothes drying—to us, mystical art.

The weather, while warmer, was still damp enough to mean there were dresses, pants, shirts, and aprons of various sizes drying inside on the rack. Not as picturesque as items flapping in the breeze on a sunny day, but they would do.

I took some shots of the buggy, some shots of the tidy white farmhouse from the road. Back inside, I watched as Martha puttered in the kitchen preparing lunch.

I kept my word. Every time I snapped the shutter, her features faced away from the lens.

Using a telephoto lens, I zoomed in on her hands as she worked, hoping I caught the lines and signs of labor on her skin. I snapped away as she immersed her hands in a bowl of bread dough.

“This ain't much interesting,” Martha commented. I could hear the chuckle in her voice.

“Everyone's hands are interesting.”

“You can see my hands?”

“With this lens, yes.”

She brushed the flour residue away. “May I try?”

“Of course.” I gave her the camera, telling her where to place her eye, where the digital sample showed up, and how to move the lens in and out.

“May I take a picture?”

I grinned. “Be my guest. The button is on the top.”

She pushed it and then jumped when the shutter snapped. “I think I took a picture of the floor.”

“Try again.”

She pointed the camera out the window, snapped, and then peered at the tiny image at the back of the camera. “That's pretty.” She tilted it toward me. “See? Oh. It disappeared. Is it gone?”

I shook my head. “It only shows for a moment after you've taken the picture.” I pressed the right combination of buttons to bring the image back. “That is nice. You have a good eye.”

Martha looked at the camera, looked outside, looked back at the camera, and then looked at me. “Are you done taking pictures?”

“Almost. Would you like to take some?”

“Such a fancy camera—I'd be afraid of a-breakin' it.”

“Company camera. Have at it.”

I made a point of returning to my packing, giving Martha the freedom to experiment how she wished. From the living room window, I could see her examining the mailbox, the barn, and the cows in the pasture. I watched as Sara walked out to meet her and said something—I couldn't hear what.

Not that I was spying or anything. Just watching out for the camera.

Martha nodded, Sara departed, Martha shot for a little while longer before returning to the house.

I busied myself folding the pile of dishcloths on the counter.

I didn't see Sara for the rest of the afternoon, and for that matter, I didn't see much of Martha either. I was making sure I had enough shots of the farm and checking under the bed for stray socks.

The kids came home from school, rowdy and energized. Martha sent them outside for chores; when they finished, they began a game of pickup volleyball in the field, using the summer clothesline as the net.

Martha reappeared for the dinner preparations. But everything became
clear after the meal—as I stood in the entryway with my bags packed, I realized what I'd forgotten. “My quilt,” I said, looking around. What had happened to it? It hadn't been in my room. “Sara, you haven't seen my quilt around, have you?”

Her expression turned guilty. “I…um…let me look.”

We waited. When she returned, she was carrying my quilt in her hands, but not the way I'd remembered it. “Sara…”

“I finished it.”

She had. The strips were all sewn together, and it even had a back. And batting in the middle. “You didn't have to—”

“Yes. You wouldn't have been able to finish it before summer.”

Okay. Likely true. I gave her a hug. “Thank you, sweetie.”

“I worked all afternoon on it.”

I examined the quilt in closer detail. “It looks fantastic.” I thought of her one-time hope to leave and become a fashion designer. Sara had such talent. I wished her all the best—and hoped that she'd be able to use her talent within the culture she'd chosen.

An expression passed over her face, but I didn't have long to decipher its meaning. Martha brought me a light cloth bag to carry my quilt in, and Elam offered to carry my luggage.

I thanked him and walked toward the door while Leah and Elizabeth clutched my good hand and begged me to write them too.

“Do you want your things in the car or the trunk?” Elam asked.

“Car is fine,” I said, trying to twirl two little girls with one hand and nearly falling over in the process. Dusk had fallen. I had trouble seeing the keyhole for the car door. The Amish weren't much for outdoor lighting.

I said my goodbyes to everyone. Or was it everyone? “Where's Sara?”

Martha patted my arm. “Don't know where she got off to. I think she's a mite sad you're goin'. She misses having Rebecca in the house. You've become like an older sister to her.”

All the more reason to say goodbye. I thought about looking for her, but the farm was just too big, and I wanted to make it back to Portland early enough to unpack and sit for a while before bed.

I sighed, waved goodbye, and climbed into my car.

Time to go.

My heart still broke a little when I returned home. I would be alone, again. Maybe I should think about a roommate. I supposed I could rearrange things. I could move my office into my room, even if sleep specialists advised against working in the room you slept in. But after being with the Burkholders, living alone held little appeal.

I parked my car in at the base of the stairs, got out, and started removing bags.

That's when I heard it. Or did I?

I held very still and waited.

There it was. A thump. A thump from the back of my car. The trunk.

Why would there be a thump?

My mind raced over all the reasons for a thump in a not-running car.

There could be a serial killer in the trunk, waiting to kill me when I was stupid enough to lift the lid.

There could be a spare bowling ball in my trunk, and it was still rolling around after I parked. I dismissed that idea quickly, considering I didn't own a bowling ball.

A small animal could have jumped inside, but I couldn't remember when it was last open.

Another thump.

I sent up a short prayer for my safety and opened the trunk with my key.

“Hi, Jayne.”

“Sara!” I exploded. “What are you doing there?”

She sat up. “I'm out!”

“No you're not, you're still in my trunk. What were you thinking? Is this why you disappeared earlier?”

She stretched her arms. “I'm
out
, you see?” She held out her hand—I thought she wanted help out, but I realized what she had in her fist. It was her kapp.

“You're…leaving?”

“Yes. Can I get out of your trunk?”

“Please.” I stood back and watched her climb out. Naturally, once both of her feet touched asphalt, the heavens opened and a torrent of rain fell from the sky. To make things better, a nice, strong Columbia Gorge wind blew the water sideways.

I closed the trunk as quickly as I could, grabbed my things from the backseat, and raced up the stairs with Sara right behind me.

Once inside, I slammed the door behind us and plopped my things on the floor. “You're soaked through.” Sara hadn't thought to bring a coat or cape of any kind; her cotton dress clung to her shoulders and dripped on the entryway tile. “You can't wear wet clothes. You didn't bring anything?”

“Why would I bring any of my Amish clothes? I want to stay here.”

“Oh, I don't know. So you'd have something to wear?”

“We're about the same size.”

If I wasn't careful, she might alter my things to fit her. “We'll find you something dry, and then we're going to talk.”

“I'm not going back.”

“I want you to tell me that when you're dry, not before.”

In my bedroom, Sara took charge of the clothing situation, parsing through my little closet and choosing items for herself.

Incidentally, they were mostly items I'd picked up in Lincoln City.

When she was dried and dressed, and I had changed into thick, woolly socks, I steered her out to my dining room and sat her down at the table.

“First,” I said, although so many thoughts clamored for the title of “first” that I hardly knew what to say, “it was very dangerous for you to ride in my trunk like that. What if I had gotten rear-ended? You wouldn't have had any protection.”

“But we didn't.”

“What if we had?”

She squinted at me. “But we didn't.”

All right. Excellent progress. “Did you tell anyone you were planning on doing this?”

“No.”

“Not even Ida or Levi?”

“No.”

“You realize your mother thinks you're getting baptized on Sunday?”

Sara looked at her lap. “I know. I couldn't do it. I didn't want to live a lie no more.”

“Sara—” I searched for words. “I left home at eighteen. I went to college, and I rarely went back. Things with my dad were never good, but I also never tried to meet with my mom or my sister. I never tried to make things better. It wasn't a priority, and I was hiding. I missed out on a lot. Lately, I've been able to go back and have a relationship with my family. They've forgiven me—things have been good. I'm still me, still a journalist, still living in the
city, but I can visit them whenever I want. It won't be like that for you, not with your father. He may never be able to forgive you. I want to help you in whatever ways I can, but you need to know what you're giving up.”