The Longing (19 page)
Then, thinking better of it, he decided he best leave well enough alone.
Nellie Mae couldn’t wait to close up the shop today. She’d sent Mamma down to the house to relax while Nan made supper— fried chicken, noodles and gravy, and green beans with ham and onions. Pulling the shop door closed, she walked toward the house, drinking in the raw, damp smell of overturned soil. Farmers would be out plowing and planting soon, and that made her think of Caleb.
Inside the summer porch, she wiped her bare feet on the rag rug at the door and put a smile on her face. Then she rushed past Nan in the kitchen and made her way upstairs to her room. All day she’d had it in her mind to get Caleb’s old letters out of hiding and reread them.
To help me move forward without him,
she thought.
Nothing more.
Yet now that she had a few moments to herself, she feared she might open up an even deeper hurt, seeing his loving words . . . the strong slant of his handwriting.
Sitting on her bed, she reached for her Bible instead and began to read Psalm 89.
I will sing of the mercies of the Lord for ever: with my mouth will I make known thy faithfulness to all generations.
“O Lord,” she prayed, “I broke up with Caleb . . . for you. And once again, I give him—and our love—back to you.”
Again and again,
she thought, realizing it was still nearly a daily occurrence.
Heartened, she read half of the chapter, the phrases soothing her. Then, resisting the urge to ponder the past, she went to look for her mother. Seeing her parents’ door ajar, she called softly, “You busy, Mamma?”
“Come in.” Her mother held a piece of paper, the Bible in her lap.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“I’m preparing for communion council tomorrow.”
“Same way as the old church?”
Her mother nodded. “Some things are similar, jah. There’s a time of soul-searching beforehand.” She held up the page. “Come, look at what you’ll be asked to think ’bout as a member next fall . . . before the foot washing and communion service.”
She sat next to Mamma on the love seat, near the window. “I know the bishop always asked if the People were of one mind before communion Sundays.”
“Unity’s necessary for this most holy ordinance.” Mamma showed her the five written questions, and the verse printed in Preacher Manny’s own hand at the top:
For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do show the Lord’s death till he come.
They discussed the bread and the “wine,” which for them was grape juice, and read aloud the first question to be given prayerful consideration. “ ‘Are you willing to be at peace with God, wholly trusting in Jesus Christ and living a life without spot or blemish, by the power of the Holy Spirit?’ ”
Mamma smiled sweetly. “ ’Tis my heart’s cry.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, Nellie Mae . . . it’s the second question that hurts me so. And I’ve been considering it all month, seems.”
Nellie soon understood as she read aloud, “ ‘Are you aware of any unresolved relationship, where someone is carrying something against you?’ ”
“Rhoda is hurt, surely she is,” said Mamma, sighing. “What can I do to make it right?”
Nellie patted her hand. “It was never your fault Rhoda left.”
“Still, I must try to talk to her . . . I simply must.”
They shared further—Mamma was convinced she could not partake of holy communion if she did not speak with Rhoda today. “To offer forgiveness, if nothing else.”
“Well, I’ll take you to see her, if that’s what you want.”
“Oh, would you, Nellie Mae?”
She gave her mother a hug. “I’ll tell Nan we’ll be havin’ supper away from home this evening.”
“Let Dat know, too.”
Nellie hurried out to the horse barn, praying Rhoda might have an open heart toward their mamma. Swiftly she hitched the horse and buggy, thinking about someday partaking in communion—the emblems of the Savior’s body and blood. She was touched deeply, tears falling down her cheeks.
“O dear Lord, if only Caleb could understand. If he could just realize what you did for each of us,” she whispered as she stroked the mare’s long neck.
As she waited for the cook to complete her order for table number four, Rhoda spotted her mother and sister coming in the restaurant door. Stricken by the solemn expression on Mamma’s face, Rhoda wanted to hide in the kitchen.
Instead, she determined to be brave and simply “face the music,” as Mrs. Kraybill sometimes said.
Nellie caught her eye, waving shyly as the hostess showed them to an inviting booth.
Now what’ll I do?
She had no choice but to be polite, and she wanted to be kind. But really,
another
visit from her family—and this time Mamma, too? Was eating out just so appealing now that she was a waitress?
Putting on a smile, she breezed over to their table. “How are you, Mamma . . . Nellie Mae?”
Her mother looked up, her beautiful face alight. “Oh, Rhoda, dear . . . are you our waitress?”
“What would you like to order?” She flipped her order pad over to a blank page.
Nellie said nothing, and Mamma kept looking at her, as if she hadn’t heard Rhoda at all.
“We have several specials tonight,” Rhoda said, rattling them off. The sight of Mamma brought her final evening at home right back in one sweeping rush: The horrid way she’d talked to her father, her haughty attitude, and her impatience to leave the house. Doubtless Mamma recalled all of it.
“Would you mind terribly if I talked to you before we order our supper?” Mamma asked.
The weight of the world landed on her. Her mother was going to confront her about coming home, she just knew it. “I can’t . . . well, I’m at work.”
“For pity’s sake, Rhoda, we came all this way,” Nellie piped up. “Won’t ya hear Mamma out?”
“Only a few minutes?” Her mother’s eyes were bright with tears.
Reluctantly Rhoda slid in next to Nellie Mae. “What is it, Mamma? Is someone ill . . . or worse?”
Her mother lowered her eyes, and her shoulders rose slowly as she inhaled. “No one’s ill physically, no. But I am heartsick, daughter. I’ve come to ask your forgiveness . . . to make things right ’tween you and me.”
Surprised, Rhoda said, “You don’t understand.” She sighed and continued. “This isn’t easy to say, Mamma, but my leaving has little to do with you . . . or the family. It’s nothing you’ve done at all.”
“But why, then?” asked Mamma. “It’s not natural for a single woman to live away from her father’s house. Just ain’t.”
She’d expected her mother to feel that way. It was all she knew. “I’m fine. No need to worry.”
Mamma reached across the table. “Will you forgive me . . . all of us?”
“For bein’ Plain? That’s something we—you—were born to. None of us had any say in the matter.” She moved quickly out of the booth, perplexed. “It’s not something I can forgive you for, Mamma.”
Her mother bowed her head.
“It’s all right, Mamma.” Nellie cast a disappointed glance at Rhoda. “You did what you came for . . . now we best be orderin’ our supper.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Mamma chose a meatloaf dinner from the menu, and Nellie Mae asked for the fried chicken.
Later, after they’d finished and she’d switched on her professional demeanor once again, Rhoda offered them a look at the desserts, but both her mother and sister said they were “plenty full.”
Rhoda felt nearly sick as they paid their bill, unsure if she should accompany them out to the horse and buggy or remain inside at her post. But with the intense uncertainty came a familiar wave of frustration, and all she could do was watch them move toward the door.
What sort of woman refuses her own mother?
Rhoda hurried into the hallway and to the washroom to check on her makeup, fearful her sudden tears had smudged her fancy face.
April sunsets were colorful, replete with reds and gold. And Nellie was particularly glad for the long light in the evening as she and her mother left the restaurant and headed toward home, the horse’s
clip-clopp
ing helping to rid her of tension. “You’re not sorry we went, are you, Mamma?” she asked.
“It was good to see Rhoda, even if she’s not herself.”
“You did all you could,” Nellie said, holding the reins nice and steady.
“I hardly recognized her, really.”
Nellie sighed. “Well, she has lost a little weight. And her hair’s cut short . . . and styled right fancy.”
“It’s more the way she holds herself . . . her way of talkin’.”
Nellie agreed. “More fancy than Plain.” Rhoda had seemed resistant to their request, too, not wanting to sit down and talk. Was their company so unwelcome?
“The world’s rubbed off on her.” Mamma sniffled a little.
Nellie dared not glance at her mother or she, too, would cry. “Let’s try ’n’ think happy thoughts. Tomorrow we’ll have us a deacon and another preacher.”
Mamma perked up. “The church is thriving, that’s for sure.”
They rode along serenely for several miles, taking in the beauty of the fields and the ever-changing sky. But out near Route 10, a ways from town, where the road opened up with less traffic, two cars—joyriding, more than likely—passed by a mite too close, one after another, like they were racing.
Nellie steadied the reins and held her breath as the horse veered, causing the carriage to careen dangerously over the center line. “Oh, Lord, help us,” she cried out as Mamma gripped her arm.
She struggled to control the horse, using the reins and calling to the mare, “Get over, girl!”
But the horse reared up and then began to gallop. “Come on, girl,” Nellie said more softly, her heart in her throat. She’d heard of too many carriages being tipped over in the midst of a dangerous situation.
I can’t let that happen!
Attempting to slow the horse by repeated pulls on the reins, she finally managed to get the mare over to the side of the road. Her arms were limp with fright, and all she could say was “Thank the dear Lord. . . .”
She looked at her mother’s face, white with near dread. “Ach, Nellie, you managed so well.” Mamma folded her hands in her lap. “I doubt I could have done the same.”
Nellie Mae felt some relief following the close call, yet she was still shaken all the same. She wondered when her heartbeat might ever return to normal.
She clicked the horse forward again and asked Mamma, “Do you ever pray for protection when you start out on the road?”
“Well, I do now . . . since I started reading the Bible ev’ry day.”
“Not before?”
“We weren’t taught to pray for the covering of protection when I was growin’ up. There’s plenty of scripture about calling on the name of the Lord for salvation, for guidance, for His loving care—changin’ the tide of evil or preventing harm,” Mamma explained. “So many passages, really. We just didn’t know what was there before.”
“Passages like some Suzy wrote in her diary?”
Mamma fell silent.
“Ach, I should’ve kept quiet.”
Eyes serious, Mamma shook her head. “Actually, I’m glad you brought that up, Nellie, because I’ve been meanin’ to ask if I could read Suzy’s diary. To ease the grief that lingers in me.”
“Well, it’s only the last part of the diary that’s of any comfort, truth be told. Even so, Rhoda has it now.”
Brightening, Mamma said, “Better yet. Jah, such good news.”
“I’m sure Rhoda’s
read it through by now, although she hasn’t said so.”
“No matter. I can wait.”
Nellie recalled Rhoda’s rather distant remarks earlier and wondered why Suzy’s words had not seemed to soften her heart. Was her sister so steeped in the world of the English that she was deaf to the still, small voice of God?
Her time with Elias following supper was one of Rosanna’s favorite hours of the day. Tonight they sat at the table discussing the communion-council questions, pausing when they came to the third one:
Are you willing to live in love, forgiveness, and peace with your brothers and sisters in Christ and with all people, as far as it is in your ability to do so?
Rosanna felt a tug in her spirit. “I have absolutely no peace ’bout something.”
“What is it, love?” Elias’s eyes searched hers.
She sighed, trying not to cry. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what to do ’bout taking a baby from yet another woman. I just feel so numb.” She found Lena’s letter in her pocket and handed it to Elias. “This came today, complicating matters even more.”
She waited as he read, watching his expression change from surprise to brief consideration, and back to astonishment. “I say we commit this to the Lord.”
Trembling, she reached for his hand. “There’s something else, Elias. Something I should’ve told you sooner.”
“You’re shaking, love. What is it?”
“I’m with child again,” she whispered, scarcely able to form the words.
His eyes grew wide. “Ach, Rosanna . . .”
“I’ve known for a while, but I couldn’t think of takin’ communion without telling you.”
He leaned toward her, kissing her cheek and then taking her hand in both of his. “Now, why would you keep such a wonderful thing to yourself?”
She pressed her lips together as she struggled not to cry. “I wanted to bear the pain alone, to spare you when . . . if . . .”
He rose quickly and crouched beside her chair. “You must promise me never again to suffer so, my darling. You’re carrying our baby, created by God . . . by our love for each other.”
Nodding, she yielded to his arms, resting her face against his.
Trust . . . trust,
she told herself.
Do not fear.
“We’ll pray every day for the baby’s safety,” he whispered.
She felt his chest heave as Elias drew her near—as though he, too, was terribly frightened.
Caleb’s bantam rooster began to crow, awakened not by the brightness of the moon moving out from behind a cloud, but by the noisy arrival of a carriage. Caleb had been up for nearly a half hour reading a few verses from the old family Bible, merely to start out the Lord’s Day.
No other reason,
he told himself, although here lately he was intrigued by his cousin Chris’s exuberant talk of the Good Book.
