Secret, The (18 page)
She pressed her lips firmly together to keep them from trembling. To keep the tears in check.
Gently she placed her hand on the precious words:
To my
dearest Lettie . . . with all my love, Samuel.
H
eather detested the evening rush hour, but she made good use of her time while sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic, typing out a text message and sending it to Devon’s email address. He’d get it later, once he was released from the hospital.
Not hearing anything more from his buddy Don was both nerve-racking and reassuring. Heather hoped her fiancé would defy the viral infection and soon return to health once again.
As terrific as I feel . . .
She was still baffled by her energy level and good appetite. Mom had always said you were healthy if you were hungry.
The traffic inched forward and she flicked on the radio to drown out her worry for Devon . . . and her own insidious apprehension.
She’d hung around longer than she’d planned after her exam and now it was close to five-thirty. No wonder she was parked here on I-64. She’d run into several classmates and had mentioned her plans to go north next week, instead of sticking around for the summer to finish her thesis, like most students in her program. Despite their pleas—“
Aw, stay with us . . . we’ll
do the beach and boardwalk scene”
—she dug in her heels, not wavering.
She didn’t have the heart to dampen their enthusiasm by dumping the terminally ill news on them. Who would believe it anyway? Heather was having a hard time buying the doctor’s diagnosis herself.
When she finally arrived home, tired of fighting traffic, she called for her dad, on the off chance he’d come home early. She wandered through the house, looking for signs of life. But his bed was still unmade and the same socks were strewn on the floor near his bureau. “Weird,” she said, going into the master bathroom and finding his shaving kit missing.
Must be
on a business trip and forgot to tell me.
If true, she was disturbed at the thought. Her father came and went quite a lot, but since she’d moved back home, he’d never before neglected to tell her about an overnight trip. After Mom had passed away, he’d poured himself into his work more than ever, keeping constantly preoccupied—his way of dealing with grief. Most of the time, the approach seemed to work for him.
Going into the den now, she noticed his executive-style desk looked the same as it had the other day, when she’d come searching for the Lancaster County brochures and stopped to admire her mother’s picture.
She felt uneasy not knowing her dad’s whereabouts and then realized she’d intended to do the same thing, taking off for Pennsylvania without letting him know.
At least I planned to leave a note!
“Am I that disconnected from my own dad?” she whispered.
Moe and Igor came padding into the room, both meowing. She reached down and picked Moe up, holding him in front of her face and looking into his copper-colored eyes. “Have you seen Dad lately?”
Moe stared back.
“Okay . . . don’t tell me.” She laughed softly, yet inwardly, she sensed something amiss. But she had little time to finish studying for her last exam tomorrow, although she felt confident she was ready.
If Dad didn’t show up in the next couple of days, she would call him, find out where he was holed up. Or send a text message, even though he disliked the whole idea of “reverting” to what he said was an archaic shorthand—
“too slow
,
”
he often joked with her, insisting she stick with a phone call.
“So nineties,”
she’d reply. At this, he’d roll his eyes and she’d pretend to be appalled until he let loose his infectious laughter.
Slipping into her dad’s desk chair, Heather leaned back as she swiveled around in a full circle. She touched his lamp and the light came on—simple . . . easy—just the way he liked things. Mom’s death had been much too complicated. It had really messed up everything about their lives.
But the final trip she and Mom had taken to Lancaster County had been effortless. Things had fallen into place so quickly, Mom had even remarked about it—how often did anyone acquire such perfect accommodations at the last minute? The day before they’d headed out by car, Mom had urged her to take along a nice dress and heels.
“We’re going dancing?”
Heather had joked, knowing better.
“We’re going to celebrate us, and that’s all I’ll say.”
Her mother had been comically mysterious. Heather had played along, enjoying the fun.
Moe jumped up into her lap, interrupting her reminiscing. “Hey, you!” She stroked his neck and he stretched forward, leaning hard against her fingers. “I’ll miss you . . . and Igor. You’ll be good for the cat-sitter, right?”
Not responding with his usual meowsy reply, he snuggled close as she hugged him. She was glad she’d already made the call to the Lancaster naturopath. Getting in for an appointment would take nearly a full month, but she’d asked to be put on a waiting list. You never knew when someone might cancel.
After evening prayers, Grace caught Adam’s sleeve before he headed to the stairs. “Let’s go walkin’ sometime tomorrow,” she said.
“I’ll have to see.” He gave her a thoughtful smile. “You goin’ to be all right?” he whispered.
She shrugged. “Honestly, I think someone should go and look for Mamma.”
His eyes searched hers. “Remember what Dat said, though?”
“Jah.” While she would indeed pray for Mamma’s safety, she could hardly stand the thought of doing nothing else.
“Can we talk ’bout it tomorrow?” he asked.
“Sure . . . whenever you’re free.” She watched him hurry up the stairs, feeling renewed sadness at the thought of losing him to marriage. Not as depressing as losing Mamma’s presence from home but a great loss all the same.
Yet tomorrow was a new day, as Mamma often said in an attempt to soften the blow of things gone awry.
Grace saw that Dat had gone outside instead of retiring for the night like the rest of the family. She could only imagine the pain of rejection
he
must be feeling.
After today, everyone will know Mamma’s gone.
In time, no doubt, the bishop would come to speak privately with Dat. Deacon Amos, too—all the ministerial brethren would converge here, as was their way.
Missing Mamma, she went to her parents’ bedroom yet again and slid open the drawer where her mother’s hankies were kept. The slight scent of her sachets wafted upward. She’d looked for Mamma’s things earlier today, but just now she wanted to breathe in the faint scent left over from the plump pillows of potpourri her mother was so fond of. All of them gone, just like Mamma’s personal items.
Turning to look around the room, Grace cried for the loneliness her mother must have experienced. What was in Mamma’s mind and heart that made her believe she had to go away? The question plagued her as she turned toward the bookcase—Mamma’s pride and joy, she’d always said of it—handmade by Dat not long after they’d become betrothed.
Bending down, she noticed a space where several books had stood. Mamma had often talked of her beloved poetry, though not recently. Grace could see that a few, perhaps two or three volumes, were missing.
She must’ve taken them along. Why? Were they more precious
than her own children?
Grace dried her eyes and left for her room.
Unable to sleep, Adah sat up in bed, careful not to disturb Jakob. Dear man, he had not felt well all day. Truth be told, neither had she. The whole house seemed to resound with Let-tie’s absence.
She couldn’t help but wonder where her willful daughter was sleeping this night. Any number of places, she assumed. Lettie had as many Plain relatives as the rest of them. Enough to form an entire church district if all of the aunts, uncles, and first cousins were to assemble in one place. And dozens of second cousins were scattered out all over the country—some in Holmes and Wayne counties in Ohio, and a good many in Indiana, too. She wished she’d kept in touch with some of her own first cousins who might have a clue as to Lettie’s whereabouts—
if
Lettie had indeed gone to visit one of them. Adah was not at all eager to get the rumor mill churning. But heavens, would it be stirred up, beginning tomorrow, when Let-tie’s sisters Mary Beth and Lavina arrived to help wash down walls and whatnot to get Judah’s side of the house ready for worship this coming Sunday.
Didn’t Lettie consider this?
Adah knew she mustn’t permit herself to fall into the snare of aggravation, which led too quickly to anger.
Let not the sun go down upon your wrath
, from Ephesians, was one of the first verses her own mother, Esther Mae, had taught her so many years ago.
Adah refused to let her daughter’s foolishness dictate her emotions, no matter that she wished to goodness she hadn’t been so awful harsh with Lettie down through the years. Or so insistent, back when.
Nighttime had always been the pits during her mom’s excruciating disease, especially the final weeks. Even now, as Heather brushed her teeth and prepared for bed, she had difficulty dismissing the memories of her own insomnia during that wretched time. Alarmed by her mom’s steady decline, there were nights when Heather had wandered into the family room, only to find Mom reclining on the sectional, her legs stretched the full length of it, her head propped up. Always, she wore her pale pink fleece robe, even though the temperature in the house felt comfortable to everyone else. But Mom’s circulation was poor, and she was continually chilly, particularly at night.
One evening, Heather had tucked her feet under her and sat up late, keeping her mother company long into the dark hours, trying not to think about the inevitable. In spite of her attempts to divert her mom’s thoughts, somehow they managed to revisit the diagnosis—the ugly way it had slashed into their lives.
“My good life,”
Mom said, not in defiance but doing her best to embrace the reality of her cancer.
Heather had wanted to carry some of the suffering, thinking that if her mother’s debilitating pain was so intense that it could seep over into her daughter’s emotions, Heather just might be able to impart something positive in return. So she’d offered her optimism. They were like vessels spilling over onto each other—one draining herself of suffering, one filling the other’s heart with hope. And so they’d passed those final fragile months.
Heather had memorized the words her mother had written in a “just because” card some weeks before her passing:
I’ve
always felt so well loved by you, Heather. What a beautiful mother-daughter
bond we’ve had. In so many ways, you’ve taught me how to
love more fully . . . as a parent and as a friend. With love, Mom.
Presently Heather pulled up the blanket, encouraging both Moe and Igor to hop onto it. She smiled at them as their glowing eyes stared her down. “You guys are the best little pals ever,” she said, turning out the light.
Tomorrow she hoped to hear again from Devon’s buddy Don, anxious for an update.
Surely if he was worse, I would have
heard.
