The Parting (23 page)
Reuben was out training his new colts, giving them commands on the track behind the barn, and the girls were working in the bakery shop or, as was the case with Rhoda, for their English neighbors. So Betsy headed to the attic to redd up, hoping to locate several older quilts that might prove useful with Reuben’s parents coming to live there. Of course, her mother-in-law, Hannah, would bring a good many quilts of her own, but with the cold of winter on its way, one could never have too many.
Mammi Fisher’s multicolored antique quilts were of exceptional quality, especially the sixteen-patch quilt, with its bold reds, purples, and deep blues, handed down from the 1880s on the Fisher side—Reuben’s grandmother’s handiwork. Suzy had once spent several days with Mammi Hannah taking in the stories behind the quilts, the quilting frolics, and the womenfolk who had gathered to make them.
Betsy had not forgotten the bright-eyed wonder on Suzy’s face upon returning home. “I saw me some wonderful-gut stitchin’, Mamma!”
Suzy . . . my little quilter
.
She gave in to her tears, there on the narrow attic steps. She leaned her head on the wooden railing, sobbing. More recently she had not allowed herself to be overtaken with grief, although her husband likely thought otherwise. Why else would he continue to be so worried as to steer her clear of the bakery shop, where she might break down at hearing condolences offered by loyal customers? More than likely that was why Reuben had put the nix on her helping Nellie.
Drying her eyes with her apron, Betsy made her way to the landing and into the large attic room. She laid down her feather duster and surveyed the place. Over in the far corner, she spotted the old family trunk and lifted the lid wide. She peered into the depths of her collection of heirloom quilts, astonished to see an envelope with
To Mamma
printed on it in Suzy’s hand.
“My, my, what’s this?” She reached for the envelope, and for a moment she merely held it. “For goodness’ sakes,” she whispered, choking down more tears.
Looking on the back, she saw that her youngest had written,
Just another little note from me to you. Love, Suzy
.
“Was she planning to give this to me and forgot where she hid it?” Betsy said into the dim light.
It made no sense . . . unless Suzy had placed yet another note somewhere—something she’d enjoyed doing. Still, why would Suzy leave it in the quilt collection, as though hoping Betsy might find it?
She couldn’t bring herself to open it, and she set the envelope aside while selecting two large quilts for winter, deciding she would ask Reuben to take them downstairs later. She then began straightening stacked boxes, making sure the lids were fastened tight. Several old chests needed dusting and she took care of that right quick, also tackling the cobwebs near the dormer windows.
When she was satisfied things were more orderly, she returned to the quilt trunk. Eyeing Suzy’s note, she stood there, overwhelmed at this unexpected gesture of love. She felt a strange chill, as if she might be coming down with something. One of Suzy’s favorite places to play as a child, besides outdoors, had been this very spot high in the house. Betsy sighed, remembering the way her youngest had liked to hide here with a book or some needlework. Or her diary.
Even as young as five, Suzy could be found up here chattering to her faceless dolls, all of them lined up on a trunk or chest, making each speak by changing the sound of her own voice.
Betsy stared at the envelope, lip quivering now, thinking of all the evenings sixteen-year-old Suzy had left the supper table ever so quick.
Why’d you go and run off like that? I scarcely ever knew where you were
.
She thought of Rhoda, who went off now quite as often herself. Same thing seemed to be happening with her, only Betsy knew where she was most of the time—at least she thought so.
“Ach, go on, open it,” Betsy told herself. She needed a dose of courage this minute, despite yearning to hear Suzy’s voice in the words she’d written.
When did she pen this?
Betsy reached for the envelope and opened it.
Dear Mamma,
Look under the bottom quilt in this trunk to find a surprise . . . an early birthday present.
Lots of love,
Suzy
Betsy smiled. “What’s she got under there?” she muttered, leaning down to lift one quilt out after another. She smelled it even before she’d spotted the small purple pillow, its seams handsewn with tiny, even stitches. Betsy realized it was one of Suzy’s special sachet pillows filled with lavender, marjoram, and crushed cloves. Suzy had named her clever creation a “headache pillow,” something she had kindly made for several sisters-in-law during their pregnancies.
And also this one, for me. . . .
Kneeling before the wooden trunk, Betsy pressed her nose into the face-sized pillow and wept.
Suzy was always doing such thoughtful things. Our little darling
.
After a time, Betsy rose and began to replace each handmade quilt, mindful to keep them wrapped in heavy tissue paper for protection. Then, closing the lid, she sat down, staring first at the lovely pillow, and then at the note.
A verse she’d secretly memorized came to mind.
For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved
.
The meaning was ever so clear—the Lord would not have condemned Suzy to hell if she had belonged to Him.
If . . .
Sitting there, she recalled other verses Reuben had requested that she read, verses he himself was committing to memory. She had carefully done so, often many times over. She was deeply sad—sorry even—about the way she’d lived so long in the dark, thinking the hard work she did for her family and community might give her a better chance of heaven someday.
I could only hope before . . . now I can know
.
“But, oh, dear Suzy. . . .” She sighed, wishing the Lord God had brought this spiritual light to her Reuben before that dreadful June day. She was torn, not knowing what to think about all of it—or much of anything she’d been taught.
Bowing her head, Betsy prayed, “O Lord, I want to be counted as your child.” She pressed Suzy’s note against her heart. “Take my sins far from me. I want to follow your Son, Jesus, no matter what it means for Reuben and me. Or for our family.”
Just please let me see Suzy again . . . someday.
From the moment Rosanna arrived at Maryann Fisher’s house, she felt on edge. Both the Fisher toddlers were crying—wailing, really—and dishes were piled high in the sink. She didn’t know why she was so
naerfich
today. She assumed it had started with Cousin Kate’s visit Thursday—all the talk of the twins and Kate’s seeming reticence. It had permeated Rosanna’s dreams since. Didn’t every mother long for twins? Elias was excited about the possibility of sons. Of course, there was the unspoken concern, for him, that Kate’s babies might turn out to be daughters. Every Amishman wanted boys, and as many as possible, but Rosanna secretly longed for a little girl.
Now that she was here, she reached for sniffling Katie, attempting to soothe her cries, swabbing the runny nose with her own embroidered hankie, making sure she did not wipe the child’s tender nose on the side with stitching. “There, there, honey-girl,” she whispered, rubbing the curve of her lower back and feeling the small spine.
One day I’ll do the same to quiet my own children. . . .
“You’re so good to help,” Maryann said from across the table, balancing even smaller Becky on her right knee, jiggling her up and down as she rolled out dough for three pie crusts. “As soon as I get these pies in the oven, I’ll sit and chat.”
“Oh, I don’t mean to take up your time,” Rosanna said quickly. “I’m simply here for a bootie pattern, if you have one.”
“You must be knittin’ some for your cousin Kate’s wee ones, jah?”
Rosanna nodded, feeling peculiar not telling Maryann the full reason for why she wanted the patterns.
Nellie’s sister-in-law’s face was a rosy pink now, and perspiration was evident on her forehead. Her disheveled light brown hair looked as if it needed a good washing. Even a solid brushing would help.
Will I look this
schtruwwlich
as a mamma
? Rosanna wondered, recalling how admiring her husband was of her. She would not want to dampen Elias’s enthusiasm, so to speak. It would take some doing, but she hoped to remain attractive for her darling even with twin babies to care for.
Maryann placed the dough in three pie plates and pinched the sides all around. She glanced up at Rosanna, her countenance serious. “I’m worried ’bout our bishop,” she said softly. “Imagine the good man being so sick so far away and all.”
“He’s still under the weather?”
“Jah, word is he’s too ill to travel.”
Rosanna noticed the angst in Maryann’s eyes. “I hadn’t realized ’twas that serious.”
“So I’m told . . . but I don’t know much. Only what Ephram says.”
Rosanna was not very fond of Nellie Mae’s staid big brother. “How’d he hear?”
Maryann frowned. “Well, I really shouldn’t say.”
Rosanna nodded without prodding further. She understood that tone and look.
Maryann put Becky down to play with her sister and some empty spools for thread. She slid the pies into the belly of the cookstove. “Now, then, you’re here for some bootie patterns?”
“Jah.” But as Maryann hurried out of the room, leaving her with Becky and Katie, Rosanna suddenly felt concerned. She had an irresistible desire to ask the Lord God to help their bishop, older man that he was. Some of Elias’s friends in another church had made such prayers, and she thought it a wonderful-good idea to beseech the Lord for protection and care. And, in this case, for the bishop’s healing.
So she bowed her head and prayed silently, trusting their heavenly Father to hear and answer. When she was done, the little girls were still sitting near her feet, babbling and laughing, draping the strung-together spools on each other’s arms.
Rosanna daydreamed, wondering what her life might be like in two short months. As a mother, she was ever so sure she would be praying daily for her children, just as she had for the bishop. Even if secretly.
Slipping the loop of the rope over the colt’s sleek neck, Reuben led it around the training track. Glancing up, he noticed that one of the martin birdhouses high on a post near the back of the house was listing to one side. He’d have to fix that before spring.
As a boy Reuben had helped his father build many a martin birdhouse; the six-sided “apartment style” was the most popular among their family and neighbors. They’d given them away as gifts, although Reuben knew some Amish who built them for profit nowadays. His father had also placed several such birdhouses strategically around this very house to keep unwanted insects at bay. The whole family had watched the male martins with their blue-black feathers—gleaming almost purple in full sunlight—arrive in the spring, followed later by the gray, pale-bellied females.
Reuben’s favorite thing as a curious child was to watch all the tiny beaks poke out of the many holes on the birdhouses he’d helped make. What fun it was to see the new hatchlings eventually fly away.
Once, he and his father had banded a new bird to calculate its lifespan. They’d observed the same bird return for seven consecutive years, which his father had thought might be something of a record. Since that time, Reuben had read of purple martins living to be even nine or ten years old.
Nine or ten years old . . . about the age Suzy was when she helped me build several birdhouses
. “Course, that was before she decided she liked boys better than birds,” he said ruefully.
Reuben clucked to the colt and watched as it picked up its gait, the memory of working beside his daughter giving him pause. It had been too long since he’d shared the tradition of making birdhouses with a child. He’d tinkered with the idea of making an extra-large birdhouse with his grandson Benny, James’s oldest. Perhaps after the harvest and the wedding season there would be time.
An ambitious project for a six-year-old, but doable with some help
.
If his parents decided to go ahead with moving back to their original home place, he might just include his aging father in the birdhouse-making task. And if James joined them to help saw or sand or paint, there would be four generations of Fishers working side by side.
Coming full circle
.
Leading the colt around the track a final time, Reuben contemplated the coming Lord’s Day, which might be the last peaceful one they’d have around here. Preacher Manny had informed him last night that Bishop Joseph was seriously ill and that Reuben should refrain from writing to ask permission to hold Bible studies until their leader was better. Reuben felt stricken at the news, because he’d already sent the request to the bishop, inviting him and others of the ministerial brethren to join with Manny and himself. Reuben had figured there was no reason to exclude anyone, even though he doubted they would participate. On the contrary, they’d be appalled to think one of the preachers was involved, as well as Reuben, a member in good standing.
“The timing is in God’s hands,”
Manny had said, taking the news of Reuben’s letter well.
Manny must think my request could worsen my brother’s health,
Reuben thought now.
How sick is Joseph?
He stared at the side of the barn a stone’s throw from the training track, noticing a few places where the sun had beaten hard on the west side. He would see to it that either Ephram or one of the twins got it painted and right quick. It wouldn’t do to go into winter with any of the siding peeling, what with the harsh weather the almanac forecasted. While they were at it, one of his sons could right the birdhouse, too. He wasn’t quite as spry as he used to be on a ladder.
It came to him that his sons might not be as ready to help as in the past once they heard of their father’s newfound belief.
This great salvation has the power to unite or divide us all. . . .
