The Longing (6 page)

“Wasn’t Rhoda happy goin’ to the Beachy meetinghouse?” Betsy asked. She glanced around, noticing the small radio on the kitchen counter. “If it’s the worldly life she’s after . . .”

Martha rinsed out her washrag in the sink. “There’s more to it, I’m thinkin’.”

Nodding, Betsy assumed Rhoda was under the influence of an Englischer, but she wouldn’t go as far as to mention that.

Busying herself in the kitchen, Martha said no more and Betsy remembered the many food items out in the buggy.

“Would ya like to have the day off from cooking? I’ve got a whole hamper of food out in the carriage. I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

Martha gladly accepted, undoubtedly putting two and two together, since Betsy had already said she’d stopped off at the Yoders’. “Who’d be crazy ’nough to turn up their nose at Nellie Mae’s cooking? She’ll make a mighty gut wife someday.”

Keeping mum on that, Betsy did not so much as move her head.

“You need help bringing it in?” Martha offered.

Betsy waved her hand. “I can manage.” She was glad to leave the extra food with Martha, what with four little ones to feed and Rhoda’s living here, not paying room and board, most likely. Besides, bringing the food back home for Nellie to see would only be a reminder of the Yoders’ turning up their noses at her heartfelt gift.

When she returned with the last of it, she asked, “Where’s Emma keepin’ herself?”

Martha called to her daughter, “Mammi Betsy’s here to see ya.”

Putting the pie on the counter, Betsy heard the patter of feet. She knew that sound anywhere, and here came little Emma, bright as day, running into her arms. “I want to see your latest sewing project,” she said after they hugged. And Emma scampered off to show her.

“She’ll start school next fall.” Martha wiped the table clean. “It’ll be mighty quiet round here . . . ’least during the day.”

Betsy noticed a sad glint in her eye. “Little girls are hardest to let go.”

“I’m finding that out.”

No matter how old they are,
thought Betsy.

She recalled the long strip of saplings Reuben had planted as a windbreak on the northeast side of the house when their first sons, Jeremiah and Thomas, were born. She had held her newborn babes, one in each arm, as she watched Reuben and his brother, then Preacher Joseph, from the upstairs window. How fragile, if not temporary, those wispy trees had looked without their leaves.

And she wondered,
How deep into the world will my Rhoda put down her roots?

What struck Reuben most was the starkness of the hospital. The long, sterile hallways. The lack of decoration was almost a comfort, really—like home somehow.
Yet still mighty foreign.

The nurses looked awfully young where they sat at a long desklike table with papers around them and stacks of patients’ files. There were several telephones and a vase of flowers, too. One of the nurses did a double take as he and Elias walked past.

Then, seeing the words
Intensive Care
, he and Elias located the room where Elizabeth Yoder and her two older sisters kept watch over David, hovering near the bed.

Reuben paused at the door, catching Elizabeth’s eye. She seemed to crumple at the sight of him.

“Elias King is here with me,” he said, sensing Elias behind him.

David’s head was all wound up in white cloths, and his puffy eyes were closed. He lay flat in bed on the near side of a pale blue curtain room divider. Elizabeth straightened, nodding for Reuben to come closer.

“He’s under heavy medication for pain . . . and other things. Now that he’s survived the night, they say blood flow to the spine is the biggest worry,” she explained, looking smaller than he remembered. “David prob’ly won’t even know you’re here.”

Reuben stood motionless at the foot of the bed, aware of the length of David’s body taking up the whole of it. Various tubes ran in and out of him, and the effect made the shrewd farmer look even more helpless. All the men in David’s family were strong dairy farmers—his grandfather, father, brothers, and every one of his uncles. In the years Reuben had known them, he’d never once heard a Yoder complain about being tied down to the twice-daily milking or any of the other demanding work required.

“He’s had lots of tests—X rays and whatnot—to find out more about his brain injury,” Elizabeth said. “He isn’t able to move his legs at all. The doctor says the longer his legs are paralyzed, the less likely he’ll be able to walk
again.”

Reuben absorbed the news—such a tremendous blow to this proud man. “It’s still early yet,” he said, wanting to offer hope.

She bowed her head silently.

“Is there anything we can do for you, Elizabeth?” he asked.

The two older women looked at him suddenly, as if he’d misspoken.

“What I mean is . . .” He paused as David’s eyes fluttered and then blinked open.

All heads turned, and Elizabeth bent low to speak softly, “You have visitors, dear.”

David frowned, his gaze falling first on Reuben and then on Elias before returning quickly to Reuben. “Did ya say . . . you want to . . . help out?” David’s voice was raspy, and he struggled to breathe.

“That I did.”

David lifted his hand to his forehead and held it there, eyes squinting shut momentarily. Then he said painstakingly, “Have someone get word . . . to Caleb.”

Reuben nodded, not sure what David meant.

“Tell him to return home,” David added.

Elizabeth looked pained suddenly but never took her eyes off her husband.

With that, David lowered his hand, placing it on his chest, and his eyes closed once again.

Reuben wished he might lead out in prayer right here in the quiet of the dim room. He was fairly certain Elias was already praying silently yet fervently, even as Elizabeth reached for David’s hand.

Chris Yoder leaned both elbows on his father’s desk in the landscaping office late that afternoon. He twirled his pencil over the ledger—the week’s garden sales. But he couldn’t focus. How could he dismiss his attraction to Nellie Mae Fisher? There was no denying it; he liked her more than he should. She was, after all, Amish.
Like Suzy.

True, Nellie Mae was different from Zach’s girl in that she appeared more conservative than her younger sister, who’d seemed eager to push beyond the boundaries of her Old Order traditions.

Nellie must be dating someone . . . or even engaged, sweet as she is.
She was also pretty, though not in the obvious, dolled-up way of most of the girls in his high school.

Thumbing through his father’s receipts, he considered the upcoming graduation events at both school and church. The banquet sponsored by their church youth group to honor the high school grads was the most interesting.

He leaned back in the chair to stretch his legs and thought of several girls he could ask—even the pastor’s daughter might agree to go with him. Or a seemingly nice girl like Joy Landis from school. Letting his imagination soar, Chris wondered what it would be like to take Nellie Mae as his banquet date.

Of course he would never know, since she would never give an “Englisher” a second look. That was the word Suzy, as well as his Amish cousins, had used to refer to him and his family, but only at first. In time, Suzy in particular seemed to forget that he and Zach weren’t actually as Plain as
she
was.

Knowing better than to mention his crush to Zach or anyone else, Chris shrugged the ridiculous idea aside and returned to his work.

Puzzled yet obedient, Caleb packed his things. He loaded his buggy, organizing things on the floor before hurrying over to the main house to let his grandparents know he was returning home at his father’s request. This, according to Reuben Fisher, who had stopped by for the few minutes it took to relay the message. Seeing Nellie’s father made him wish he might talk to her, too. But a clean break was far better after courting. And since it appeared Nellie hadn’t changed her mind, he wouldn’t try to win her back. Time might bring some relief to the pain of rejection.

For now he stood in his grandmother’s kitchen, where Dawdi was reading
The Budget
, a Plain publication, at the table.

“Well, I’m all packed up,” Caleb announced.

Mammi wiped her eyes, nodding her gray head, and Dawdi rose from his chair to clap a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doin’ the right thing by your father, son.”

He agreed but was still conflicted about his father’s decision after being cast out so harshly some weeks back.

“Don’t worry ’bout us. The neighbor boys’ll come help with milkin’ and shoveling out manure from the barn, just as before.” Dawdi paused, his bearded chin quivering. “Your Mamm needs ya now, and when your Daed returns home, he’ll be needin’ you, too.”

Caleb put on a smile for his grandparents’ sake. There was much to forgive and be forgiven for, and he would give it his all. Meanwhile, he must work hard, caring for his father’s livestock, overseeing the milking, and plowing the land that had once been intended for his inheritance.

Having refused his birthright to prove his love to Nellie Mae and to be free of Daed’s say-so, the land would now bypass him and go to another brother. Or possibly to one of his courting-age sisters’ beaus, provided they married and remained in the old church. And what baptized soul would be foolish enough to leave the church now, with the shunning reinstated?

“Be thankful for this chance to serve your ailin’ father, Caleb.” His grandmother’s voice sounded feeble.

A bitter pill to swallow.

“Don’t keep your Mamm waitin’.” Dawdi rose and walked with him to the door.

His grandfather had come to regret telling on him to Daed. Caleb had seen it in Dawdi’s eyes during the time here—the pain of having to report his grandson’s indiscretions, however slight, with Nellie Mae.

“Denki, Dawdi . . . Mammi.” He appreciated their hospitality, and especially his grandmother’s good cooking. “Thanks so much.”

“Anytime, Caleb.” Dawdi shook his hand. “If ya ever need anything . . . just give a holler.”

He nodded, grateful for the offer. Unsure what was ahead of him, he pushed the door open and headed outside to his waiting horse.

No need for a courting buggy now,
he thought as he climbed in.
I’ll have my hands full taking care of my father.

C
HAPTER 5

Rhoda whispered good-night to Ken outside James and Martha’s kitchen door, feeling giddy. He reached for her, kissing her squarely on the lips.

“I’ll see you soon.” He gave her another quick squeeze.

She waved and watched him head toward the car, her heart beating fast as she opened the back door quietly. Recalling their exciting first date following the introductory dinner at the Kraybills’, Rhoda relived how awkward, even embarrassed she’d felt. The oddity of spending time with an attentive man, let alone an outsider not a single person in her life would approve of—aside from his aunt and uncle, of course— unnerved her when she contemplated it. She was still bemused as to why her employer was so keen on getting them together. Or at least it had seemed that way at the time.

Ken had made reservations for that first date at a fine restaurant in Reading, a thirty-minute drive northwest of Honey Brook. The food was delicious and everything as perfect as she’d ever imagined, but it had just seemed so peculiar to be out in public with a beau. Far different than the Amish custom of dating under the covering of night, alone in a courting buggy with only a horse as a chaperone. But she’d quickly learned to delight in the difference, rejecting the memory of the Amish bumpkins who’d passed her by, and by the third or fourth date, she began to acclimate, accepting Ken’s fancy way of doing things.

Of course he knew Rhoda had been raised Plain, but she answered his questions about her background only in the vaguest of terms. She avoided talking about her family and the disappointment and discord that would certainly arise if she and Ken were to marry. She did wonder in which church they would raise their children, but the subject had never been broached. They could
work that out later. Keeping things simple—even streamlined—was the surest way to matrimony.

She left her muddy shoes inside the door and proceeded to tiptoe toward her room, one of two former spare rooms just off the sunroom. Holding her breath, she wanted to avoid disturbing the household. Her brother had opened his home to her nearly without question at the outset. He and Martha had been ever so kind, yet here she was defying James yet again.

Moving lightly down the hall, she darted to her room. With a great sigh, Rhoda closed the door and leaned back against it, her heart still pounding.

Good. She’d been as quiet as a field mole. She reminded herself to breathe as she removed her lightweight shawl. Such a wonderful time she’d had again with Ken, who was smart and made her laugh, besides being the most handsome fellow ever. To think he owned his own real estate company, too. She had the Kraybills to thank for meeting him in the first place, but she had herself to thank for attracting and keeping his attention all these weeks.

She hung her wrap on the back of the door, then removed her stockings. The feel of the hardwood floor beneath her bare feet brought to mind Ken’s carpeted house. He’d invited her to his lovely historic home on two separate occasions, both times cooking a delicious meal for them in the luxurious third-floor “suite,” where he lived.
Imagine Dat or my brothers fiddling about in the kitchen!

On the first visit, Rhoda had inwardly fretted about not feeling comfortable enough to relax in the tantalizing privacy of the place—like she was doing something wrong and feeling guilty about it. But the second time, this very night, it was slightly less nerve-racking, and she sensed she was beginning to let go of her earlier notions and enjoy Ken’s fancy world.

And everything about it was wonderful-good—his choice of music, exotic foods, well-made clothes, and the subtle aroma of his cologne. Even the musky scent of Ken’s occasional cigar appealed to her.

Suddenly a single knock came at her bedroom door, and she jumped, startled. “Rhoda . . . are you still up?” It was James.