The Postcard (11 page)

The peculiar symptoms of lingering blindness bothered her almost as much as her daughter’s indifference to life. She viewed Rachel’s condition as something other than a true affliction. A Philadelphia doctor—an eye specialist—had conducted a battery of tests, even attached sensors to Rachel’s head. Measured her brain-wave activity no less, and had found nothing physically wrong. Not mincing words, he’d said there was no medical basis for Rachel’s inability to see. According to the tests, her brain was actually registering sight!

He’d termed Rachel’s problem a conversion disorder—a hysteria of some sort—like hysterical blindness, which the specialist said sometimes comes on a person who has witnessed something so appalling that the mind chooses to block out visual awareness. He had also mentioned studies of refugees from Cambodia, mainly women, who, after being forced to watch the slaughter of their families, experienced one form of this hysteria or another, including temporary blindness, deafness, or paralysis. “I’ve heard of cases lasting as long as ten years or more,” the English doctor had told them, “but that’s very rare.”

Susanna sighed, thinking back to that trip to Philadelphia and the specialist’s peculiar comments. Honestly, she
had
suspected something mental, and to compound her suspicion, Rachel continued to shy away from talk of powwow doctors, which wasn’t the only thing her poor, dear daughter was disturbed about these days. She also avoided talk of the accident that had taken her husband’s and son’s life, even to the point of excusing herself and fleeing the room if the slightest comment was made. And she’d shielded Annie from the truth, too. Rachel sidestepped, no matter what, the possibility of stirring up perplexing memories in both herself and her little girl. Emotionally wounded, Rachel was a bit
ab im Kopp
—off in the head. And though time seemed to have run out for Rachel’s sight ever returning, Susanna hadn’t given up hope of a full recovery. One way or the other.

Overall, her daughter was a joy to have around. In fact, inviting her and Annie to move in with them two years ago was the best thing Susanna and Ben could’ve done for their daughter, granddaughter, and themselves. Rachel cheerfully pulled her weight with the housework, especially helping with the numerous loads of laundry. She was a good cook, too, and helpful in the vegetable and flower gardens close in toward the house. She was always more than happy to lend a hand; a diligent worker, no getting around it. But the spring in her step was long gone.

Rachel reminded them frequently to avoid the Crossroad, and Susanna understood, for she was loath to go near it as well. This meant they had to spend precious time driving horse and buggy out of the way, going west on Route 340—away from the accident site—then south on Lynwood Road to attend church and to visit several of Susanna’s sisters and cousins, and Lavina Troyer, too, for quilting frolics and such.

Avoiding the Crossroad was one of the few things Rachel requested. It made no sense, really, especially since she couldn’t see much of anything. But they humored her—at least on that matter. Something else bothered Susanna to no end. It was Rachel’s desire to attend her
own
church—the Amish Mennonite church she and Jacob had chosen— though there were times when it simply didn’t suit. So more often than not, Rachel had to be content with Old Order preaching services at one aunt’s house or another.

Despite the random inconveniences, Susanna had reconciled herself more and more to doing certain things Rachel’s way. When all was said and done, wasn’t it the least she and Benjamin could do for their disabled daughter?

“Mam?” Rachel’s voice interrupted Susanna’s brooding. “You’re ever so quiet.”

“Jah, I ’spect I am,” she replied, wiping her hands on her apron. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Honest, I didn’t.”

Rachel fidgeted, gathering up the dinner plates. “S’pose I had it comin’, really.”

Annie glanced up; her blue eyes blinked several times thoughtfully. Then she got up quickly, calling for Copper, who came bounding into the kitchen through the doggie opening in the screen door. The girl and the dog scampered outside.

“Don’t go off too far now,” Susanna warned. “Supper’s almost ready.”

“Ach, she needs to run a bit,” Rachel said. “Annie’s been cooped up all day.”

“And what about
you
, Daughter?” Susanna stood at the back door, watching the early autumn haze as it settled over the apple orchard. “Why don’tcha go out and sit in the sun for a bit? Fresh air will do you gut.”

Rachel sighed. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Susanna turned, watching her daughter place freshly laundered cloth napkins, dinner plates, and the supper silverware on the wooden tray. Then, slowly, Rachel moved toward the dining room, shuffling her bare feet across the floor, feeling her way as she’d come to do.

Maybe tomorrow . . .

Susanna had tired of Rachel’s
alt Leier—
same old story. Would tomorrow ever come? she wondered. And if so, what would it take to move Rachel past her complacency?

Somewhat annoyed, she opened the screen door and went out to sit on the flagstone patio in the waning sun, watching Annie and their lively pet run back and forth through the wide yard. They chased each other around and through the oval gazebo.

There was a hint of woodsmoke in the air, and Susanna relished the scent, breathing it in. A flock of birds flapped their wings high overhead, and she suspected they were making preliminary plans to head south.

She delighted in the hydrangeas just beginning to turn bright pink, spilling long and bushy into the yard beyond the house. Soon they’d bronze with age as September faded. The lawn was still green, but she could see it beginning to lose its lush color, leaning toward autumn dormancy. When had
that
happened? she wondered. The circle of seasons was evident all about her, an inkling of the fall brilliance—reds, oranges, and golds—to come.

Annie was smack-dab in her springtime, while Susanna and Benjamin were fully enjoying the early winter of their lives.

But Rachel . . . where was
she
? To look at her, you’d think she was older than all of them put together! Yet Susanna forced herself to dwell on the bright side and silently rejoiced that her widowed daughter possessed a resolute spirit. The girl was ingenious when it came to needlework, especially crocheting. Why, she’d designed the prettiest pattern for several of the bow-top canopy beds upstairs and seemed right joyful in making them. When the womenfolk gathered for apple picking or canning, Rachel put herself in the middle of things, always a smile on her face. It was at such times Susanna suspected the key to bringing Rachel out of her shell was keeping her hands busy. ’Least then her mind couldn’t torment her so.

“Come along now, Annie,” she called, chuckling at the girl’s antics. So like her mother she was, playing and enjoying the out-of-doors. Or how her mother
used
to be, was more like it.

Rachel had always been the last one to come dragging into the house when the dinner bell was rung, back at the old homestead. As a girl, she’d rather have stayed outside, even all night long, than come inside to a hot house in the summer, or, as she liked to say, to the
dunkel Haus—
dark house in winter. Young Rachel had decided that houses were dismal places of retreat compared to the shining meadows and ample pastureland surrounding the large farmhouse. Even now, Susanna surmised that Rachel missed the farm where she’d romped through the fields of her childhood, helping her older brothers and sisters work the soil and bring in the harvest.

Getting up, Susanna called to Annie again. “Bring Copper with you, please. Time to wash up for supper.”

“Already ’tis?” Annie asked, eyes wide. “Seems like we just come out here.”

“Jah, I ’spect it does.” And she headed into the house.

Susanna found Benjamin washing up as she hurried into the kitchen. “Smells gut, jah?” she said, greeting him.

“It’s bound to be
appeditlich
—delicious—if
you’re
doin’ the cooking.” His smile stretched across his tawny, wrinkled face. He wore his best white shirt and tan suspenders, all dressed up for supper. It was his gray hair that looked a bit oily, and she suspected he’d been out working all afternoon in his straw hat, tidying up the front lawn. The man never tired of odd jobs, whether it was around the B&B or over at the old homestead, helping his sons work the land.

“We’re full-up in the guest quarters tonight,” she told him, turning her attention to the meal at hand.

“Yes, and I do believe we’ve got ourselves a big-city reporter in residence.” Benjamin reached for the towel and dried his hands.

“A reporter?
Here?
Are you sure?”

He smiled, slipping his arm around her waist. “Sure as the sugar maple turns crimson. I sniffed him a mile away. Philip Bradley’s the name, and you best be watchin’ what you say at supper, hear?”

Ben oughta know, she thought. He’d smelled a rat before, not from visitors up north or anywhere else for that matter. But she’d seen his God-given gift in action many a time. It was the gift of discernment, all right. He could pretty much tell who was who and what was what before anyone fessed up to much of anything. And Susanna, well, she liked it just fine that way. Jah, she’d be mighty careful what she said from now on.

’Twould never do to have some dark-headed English reporter snooping around here, living under their roof and writing stories that weren’t one bit true—or slanted at best. Wouldn’t do, a’tall.

They’d had more than their share of false reporting. Amish were forever being featured in one newspaper or another, especially after that drug business broke last summer. But for the most part, far as she was concerned, the reporting was heavy on exaggeration and sensationalism. She’d never known a single Amish teenager doing drugs of any kind.
Net
—never! ’Least not in their church district. English newspapers were cooked up by many a misguided writer, hoping to turn a few heads and make a dollar. When it came right down to it, a body had to stick to what he believed—wrong or right. And that was that.

Eight

P
hilip stared at his laptop computer screen, scanning the description he’d written before supper.
Before
the cordial hostess—Mrs. Susanna Zook—had decided to give him a rather cold shoulder. At first he had just assumed that her detached manner during the meal was due to the fact that both she and her husband were busily engaged in conversation with a number of other guests, three couples from the Midwest who seemed rather ignorant of the Plain lifestyle and who fairly dominated the evening’s chatter. This turn of events had suited him fine because he merely had to listen to the responses given by Susanna and Benjamin, though occasionally guarded, to learn tidbits of Amish tradition.

Interestingly, the most fascinating aspect of the evening had been the grand entrance made by Annie Yoder, introduced by Benjamin as their “littlest helper.” She was as candid and bright as his own niece had been at the same age. However, he did not hold out false hope of making friends with the Zooks’ granddaughter. The B&B owners had become somewhat cautious around him, and the obvious shift in their demeanor had him utterly intrigued.

First thing tomorrow, he would wander down the road to the village shops—see if he could eavesdrop on some of the locals prior to his formal afternoon interviews. In leafing through the tourist handbook, he’d noticed that several Bird-in-Hand stores—among them Fisher’s Handmade Quilts and the Country Barn Quilts and Crafts—offered genuine Amish quilts, wall hangings, and other handcrafted items. Folks at country stores often stood around conversing while they drank coffee or sipped apple cider. Most likely, there would be some Amish person he could connect with in the immediate area
before
his interview with Stephen Flory’s contact, unless, of course, he was able to get things back on an even keel with Susanna Zook.

What
had
he said or done to make the Zooks so suspicious?

“Ach, you’re not sittin’ very still,” Rachel chided her daughter. She let her fingers run down the long, silky tresses, weaving Annie’s hair back and forth, doing her best to make a smooth braid.

“It’s awful hard to sit still, Mamma.”

Rachel understood. “ ’Twas hard for me, too, at your age.”

“It was?”

“Oh my, yes.” She remembered the many times her mamma had asked her to stop
rutschich
—squirming. “That was long before you were born,” Rachel added.

“How old were you when it started . . . the rutsching, I mean?”

She had to laugh. “Well, ya know, I was born with the wiggles most prob’ly. Was forever running through your
dawdi
Benjamin’s farmland—makin’ mazes in the cornfields an’ all. Just ask him.”

Annie must’ve moved again because Rachel lost hold of the braid. “Ach, where’d you go to?”

“I’m right here, Mamma. Right in front of you.” There was a long pause, though Rachel heard Annie’s short, breathy sighs. “How much of me can ya see just now?”

A pain stabbed her heart. “Why do ya ask?”