The Judgment (25 page)

Hadn’t he himself suggested she get a lawyer? Anymore, though, she had no idea what he truly thought. Or felt. His coming to take Mattie Sue away last Saturday was completely out of character—he must be fraught with stress. In spite of her annoyance, her heart went out to him. After all, wouldn’t she do the same in his place?

Hen felt terribly conflicted as she parked in front of the law offices of Clark and Whitney and Associates. With a prayerful plea for wisdom, she got out of the car and trudged up the steps.

I must not lose heart!

Sol was troubled as his daughter revealed having seen Nick Franco in Philly, even talked to him. “You don’t mean it. Why’d he go there?” he asked.

Rose frowned, her eyes serious as she stood near the sawhorse in his shop. “I didn’t mean to upset ya. I thought you might tell the bishop so he’ll know where to search for Nick.”

“Search?”

She nodded earnestly. “So Bishop Aaron can defend his ordination.”

Sol shouldn’t have been surprised at what he saw clearly on Rose’s innocent face.
She still cares for Nick more than she ought. . . .

“It was Providence that led me to Nick yesterday—to save the bishop’s ministry here.” She went on to add that just maybe Nick’s heart was softening toward God. “He’s helping others, Dat . . . he really is.”

She looked so sincere, he believed she meant precisely that. But beneath it all was a tenderness he sensed as Rose spoke of the man deemed responsible for Christian’s death. Perhaps she thought Nick could be talked into returning and making his lifelong vow to the church. Was that what Rose mistakenly hoped for?

“Well, this is something to think about,” he said, running his fingers through his beard.

“Will ya tell the bishop where Nick is, then?”

“I’ll do ya one better: I’ll offer to go with him to Philly.”

Rose’s face beamed. “You’d do that?” She reached for him, her face wet with tears.

“Rosie . . . dear girl, are ya weeping for the bishop . . . or for Nick?”

She stepped back and wiped her eyes with a hankie. “Ach, I don’t know what got into me, Dat. I really don’t.” With that, Rose turned and slipped through the woodshop door, leaving Sol to wonder many things.

The lobby of the attorney’s office was spectacular, more posh than any entrance Hen had ever seen. An area rug in a taupe and maroon design lay beneath an enormous coffee table—a shellacked piece of wood sliced right down the middle, its knots and lines plainly visible. The ecru-colored leather couch was so comfortable, she felt nearly embraced while waiting for her appointment, still wearing her woolen shawl and outer bonnet.

I can’t believe I’m here. . . .

A young woman about her age sat across the lovely space with a man who looked old enough to be her father. Hen could hear them discussing the woman’s pending divorce and the worries she had about dividing custody of her two young children between two households. “Little Kimmie’s going to be so confused by this,” the woman was saying, her lower lip trembling, “if that’s what it comes to.”

Hen tried not to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help hearing the woman go on now about a beloved dog, Hamlet, worrying aloud that her husband might try to take the pet away, as well as her children. Hen felt so sorry for the woman. And for herself, too, the more she sat there and thought about what she was about to do.

“Marriage isn’t to be entered into lightly . . . or in haste,”
her sister-in-law Suzy had warned before Hen ran off with Brandon years ago.

How true that is,
she thought, removing her bonnet and shawl.

After paging through a magazine for the longest time, Hen was called to meet the attorney. “I’m Ms. Whitney,” the lawyer introduced herself with a professional smile as Hen entered her office. Hen was struck by the many silver-framed certificates nearly covering one whole wall.
She’s well educated.

Hen wondered where
she
would be today if she’d taken more than a handful of classes at the local community college.
Who
would she be? Only a mother? But the thought triggered something in her, and she knew she loved the role of full-time motherhood. For her, it was the highest calling, and the very motive behind her coming here today.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Orringer?” the attorney asked while shaking her hand warmly.

“Please, call me Hen.” She glanced down self-consciously at her Plain dress and black apron. “As you can see, I’m Amish.” She quickly explained how she’d abruptly left home to marry a man who was “anything but Plain.” She paused a moment to collect herself, terribly uncomfortable. “Brandon and I have a child together—a beautiful little girl. Mattie Sue is only four . . . and has no idea which end’s up.”

For a moment, Hen could not speak, she so feared losing control of her emotions.

“And you and your husband are separated, is that correct?”

Hen had mentioned this when she’d called for the appointment from the phone shanty on Monday. “That’s right. And he wants to move ahead with a divorce, as well as seek full custody of our daughter.” She sighed. “He wants to take Mattie Sue from me . . . as far away as he can get her from the Amish.”

“Has he filed divorce papers, do you know?”

“I don’t think so. But he’s threatened to if I don’t return home immediately.” Hen looked away, toward the window. Never in her life did she think she’d be divulging such personal things to an outsider. “He urged me to get a lawyer.”

“Well, Hen, first let me tell you that, in this state, sole physical custody—or primary custody—is hardly ever awarded. What is more common here in Pennsylvania is something called partial or shared physical custody, or in some cases court-ordered visitation.”

“What are my chances of getting primary custody of Mattie Sue?” Her breath gave out on her and she could scarcely utter the last words.

“Are you in touch with your husband at all?”

“Somewhat.” Yet she hardly thought that was the right description of their current relationship. “He’s opposed to me raising Mattie Sue Amish.”

“But that’s what you intend.”

Hen nodded.

The attorney went on to explain that it wasn’t up to Brandon to decide those things. “Remember, the two of you are Mattie Sue’s parents. Neither of you can arbitrarily choose her custodial arrangements. You must come to a joint agreement.”

Hen felt deeply anxious. “But that’s just it—we don’t agree on how she should be raised, where she should live, or who should raise her. Not at all.”

“Have you seen a counselor? Someone to run interference, perhaps?” Ms. Whitney smiled briefly. “You understand what I mean.”

“We can’t even agree on which counselor to go to. Brandon refuses to go with me to the bishop for counsel.”

“And you? Would you go to a counselor of
his
choosing?”

She felt mortified. “I believe I’d go to a Christian counselor.”

They talked further, and the attorney gave her printed information about her rights as a parent, what legally ending a marriage entailed, and the drawbacks of representing herself in a
pro se
divorce
.
Hen learned that self-representation could drag out a case for months, even up to a year, causing tremendous aggravation and difficulty to everyone involved—Mattie Sue in particular
.
Ms. Whitney also cautioned that the court would not permit Hen to skip over any procedure prior to the court hearing.

“Having independent counsel—in short, a professional legal advisor, such as myself—is the very best way to navigate a divorce. It is highly recommended, especially when there are child custody issues.”

Hen felt overwhelmed, unable to process all that she was taking in.

“Would you like me to represent you, Hen?” the attorney asked, her brown eyes seemingly intent on closing the deal.

Hen’s heart pounded as she glanced at the papers on her lap. “I’m an Amishwoman, Ms. Whitney. All of this goes against the grain . . . in every way imaginable.”

“I understand there are differences between you and your husband in many respects. Religion being paramount.”

Why isn’t it this hard to get married?
Hen recalled how simple it had been to get a marriage license and run off to a justice of the peace. The process had been so swift, the memory of it made her dizzy.

“I need time to decide what to do, Ms. Whitney.”

The attorney rose from behind her desk and came to shake hands as Hen got up from her chair. “I’m happy to give you the legal help you will need, and I’ll do my best to see to it that Mattie Sue’s best interests are taken into consideration by the court.”

“Can you win primary custody for me?”

“I’d see to it.”

Hen thanked her and said she’d call to make another appointment if she decided to retain her.

“I wish you all the best, Hen.”

She nodded her awkward thanks and made her way to the hallway, noticing the young woman who’d come with the older man wiping her eyes with a tissue as she leaned on the man’s arm.
I have no one to encourage me in this,
thought Hen as she opened the main door and made her way alone to the car.

She worried that if she lost custody of Mattie Sue to Brandon, it would be deserved . . . God allowing Hen to be punished for marrying outside the faith. She’d been taught that good things came to those who made wise choices—to those who followed God’s ways. And did His bidding.

On the drive back through Quarryville, Hen felt perplexed and torn. Why had she disregarded Dad’s wishes and gone to see the attorney? And what about the bishop—would he also be displeased when he found out? Surely he’d know soon enough . . . the grapevine had a way of uncovering everything.

Ms. Whitney’s legal instruction buzzed in her brain till Hen felt nearly ill. And once she’d pulled into the secluded parking place behind the barn and released the key from the ignition, she leaned her head on the steering wheel. She’d known what to do and rejected it.
Therefore to him that knoweth to do good, and doeth it not, to him it is sin,
Scripture warned.

Opening the car door, she breathed in the bitter cold and pulled her dark shawl close around her. She saw Mattie Sue playing with one of the barn kitties on the back stoop, all bundled up in mittens, an outer bonnet, and one of Hen’s old black coats.

She pasted on a smile and waved to her daughter as she walked toward the Dawdi Haus, more confused than ever before.

What if I just took Mattie Sue and left?

Chapter 25

W
ith the end of the year fast closing in, Sol wouldn’t dawdle about proposing to hire a driver to take him and the bishop to Philly. There was no time to waste now that he knew where to catch up with Nick Franco.

Sol still pondered Rose’s running into Nick while dropping off the quilts the women had made. He’d been all too aware of the real spark of interest in Rose’s eyes as she talked about having seen Nick at the homeless shelter.

He’d also seen Hen drive off in her car earlier this morning and suspected she was going to town to consult a lawyer. Both of his daughters so ferhoodled! Only the dear Lord knew the end from the beginning.

He feared the next few days would be difficult, but he had learned years ago not to anticipate trouble.
Live like the ordinary sparrows, dependent upon the heavenly Father’s care. How much more does He care for me?
Solomon thought.
And my dear family . . .