Wild Horses (27 page)

“This ain’t for the cowhands. It’s Barbara’s. Richard Caldwell’s taken to eatin’ with her upstairs in her bedroom in the morning. He says she’s feeling sickly. Well, it don’t hurt that woman to lose a few pounds, let me tell you. You done with them oranges?”

Sadie nodded.

“You didn’t tell me which recipe to make for Saturday night, yet.”

“Give me time, give me time.”

After breakfast was over, Sadie and Dorothy sat down together at the great oak table with a stack of dog-eared, greasy cookbooks. Dorothy wet her thumb and began flipping pages.

“Okay, now. You gonna make these at home, or can I help you here?”

Sadie looked at Dorothy.

“Well, we’re getting paid by the hour, so it wouldn’t be very honest to bake something here and take it home. We’d be using their ingredients, and…

Dorothy snorted.

“So what? Richard Caldwell don’t care.”

“I know, but…”

“You Amish is strange ducks. Now whoever heard of being so painfully honest, you can’t even bake a brownie or two with a wealthy guy’s ingredients? Huh? Never heard such a thing in my life.”

“But I’d feel guilty. Should I ask him first?”

“Naw. He don’t care.”

Sadie decided it would be condescending, perhaps even a bit self-righteous, to insist that such a minor thing be done her way. After all, Dorothy was the boss in the kitchen.

“Okay, Dottie, if you say so.”

A profound whack on her backside with the large rubber spatula was her answer.

“Now, don’t you go Dottie’n me again! It’s just plain disrespectful.”

“Okay, Dottie, if you say so.”

They had a hearty laugh together, the kind of laugh that binds your heart to another person with pure good humor and friendship, the kind that keeps a smile on your face for a long time afterwards.

They flipped through the cookie and brownie sections, finally settling on a chocolate bar swirled with cream cheese. Dorothy assured Sadie they were so moist and delicious that you couldn’t eat just one.

“What else are you servin’ this guy?”

“Oh, coffee likely. And something salty. I thought of making those ham and cheese thingys that you roll up in a tortilla.”

Dorothy wrinkled her nose.

“You Easterners don’t know how to make a tortilla.”

They flipped pages, searching for more recipes, and the subject of the wild horses came up. Dorothy shook her head wisely.

“They ain’t no mystery. If any of these highfalutin men had a lick o’ common sense, they’d know this band o’ horses ain’t wild. It’s them stolen ones. Poor babies. They’s runnin’ so scared, it ain’t even funny. Imagine now, Sadie. They lived in a warm barn, blanketed, fed, exercised, brushed, among trainers and people that treated ’em like kings and queens, and suddenly they’re exposed to the wild world, and they can hardly survive. I told Jim they ain’t gettin’ them horses until they build a corral and round ’em up with them new-fangled helicopters. You know what he said? ‘Pshaw!’ But I don’t care what my Jim says, they won’t get ’em.”

Sadie nodded.

“If Nevaeh had lived, he’d be a grand horse by now. He was no ordinary horse.”

Dorothy nodded in agreement. “That he wasn’t, that he wasn’t.”

There was a knock on the kitchen door, and Sadie hurried to open it, wiping her hands on her clean, white apron.

Dat!

Sadie blinked in surprise.

“Why, Dat! What brings you here?”

Dat’s face was pale, his eyes somber.

“You need to come home, Sadie. Your mother is missing.”

“Missing? You mean, you don’t know where she is?”

Dat shook his head, searching Sadie’s face.

What was it in Dat’s eyes? Humiliation, pride, fear, self-loathing, shame? It was all there. She knew this would be very hard for him if the Amish community found out.

“But … she … she can’t have gone far. She walks a lot. She’s likely close by.”

Turning, she told Dorothy she had to leave, getting her coat and scarf off the hook as she did so. Dorothy waved her hand, and Sadie followed Dat out to the car. He had hired a driver, so he must have been very concerned.

The ride home seemed like 30 miles instead of the usual eight. Dat said very little, and Sadie’s heart pounded with fear as she thought of all the things that could have happened to Mam. She was so fragile, that was the thing. Her mind, her nerves—whatever they were—were like a banner in a stiff breeze attached to a solid anchor, but with a frayed rope. As long as Dat would not admit she needed help, who could keep the rope from snapping?

“Oh, dear God, please stay with her,” Sadie prayed. “Wherever she is, just stay with her.”

When they arrived home, Dat gathered his three daughters around him at the kitchen table. Anna and Reuben were still in school, but Leah and Rebekah had been summoned from their cleaning jobs.

Sadie looked at her sisters, their eyes welling with tears.

“Sadie, you know Mam better than any of us. Where could she have gone? And why?” Rebekah asked shakily.

Sadie took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and looked directly into Dat’s eyes. His fell beneath her gaze.

“Well, first, we need to have a long-overdue, honest, all-out talk about our mother. She is not well. She is having issues related to her mind. In plain words, she is mentally ill. And, Dat, you will not admit that. And as long as you don’t, Mam cannot get better.”

Dat shook his head back and forth, vehemently.

“No, she’s not.”

“Then what’s wrong with her?” Sadie spoke quickly, forcefully.

“Don’t speak to your father that way.”

Sadie was on her feet, then, her hands palm down on the table. She leaned forward, her eyes boring into his.

“Dat! If it means putting some sense into your head, I’m going to disobey you. Mam is more sick than any of us realize. She’s living in an agony of depression and fear. She hears voices at night and sees things that aren’t really there. She’s hoarding stupid little things like handkerchiefs and barrettes. She’s not working. She’s much worse than any of us are even allowed to think she is. And it’s all your fault, Dat! Your dumb pride!”

Leah and Rebekah looked on, horrified. No one talked to their father that way. Not ever.

“Sadie!” Dat spoke in a terrible voice, rising from his chair.

Sadie remained standing.

“I’m sorry, Dat,” she said, her heart pounding. “I don’t want to speak to you in this manner, but you are not God. You cannot make Mam better. We have to let our pride go, Dat!”

At this, she broke down, sobs engulfing her, racking her body.

“Mam is so sick, Dat! Please allow her to go to the hospital for help. I think she’d go!”

Rebekah and Leah were crying. Dat stood over them, his face grim, his eyes blazing. His daughters bent their heads.

“She’s not as bad as you say, Sadie.”

“Yes, she is! I will not back down. You need to let go of what people will say. Mental illness is no shame. She can’t help it.”

Dat sagged into his chair, his eyes weary.

“Well, what will they do at the hospital?” he asked.

“Evaluate her. Talk to her. Get her on the right medication. They’ll explain it to her. To you. Please, Dat.”

“If you don’t give up, I’m afraid Mam will do harm to herself—if she hasn’t already,” Rebekah said firmly.

Dat’s head came up. His eyes opened wide with fear. “No!”

“You’re seeing in Mam what you want to see, Dat, and not what’s actually there. She’s a courageous woman, and she’s doing her best to appear normal for your sake—she is—but she’s so pitiful,” Leah wailed.

Sadie could see fear grasp her father. His breath came in gasps, and he stood up.

“We need a plan to look for her now!” he ground out.

“We’ll search our farm, first, the house, pasture, barn, the woods. Everywhere,” Sadie said.

“But what if she’s not here?” Dat asked.

A great wave of pity rose in Sadie. He knew. He knew it was true, the things they told him.

“Then we’ll call the police.”

“But … everyone will know.”

“Exactly. And they’ll help us look for her,” Sadie said firmly.

They got into their coats, boots, and scarves, their faces pale, their hands shaking as they pulled on their gloves. They opened the door and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine. Somehow the sunlight was reassuring, as if God was providing plenty of light for them to find Mam. She couldn’t have gone far, surely.

Dat searched the pasture, Leah went down the driveway calling Mam’s name, Rebekah went to the buggy shed, and Sadie walked off to begin searching the barn.

Charlie, the driving horse, nickered softly when she opened the door. The barn cats came running to her, wanting to be fed. She looked behind every bale of hay and in Nevaeh’s empty stall, calling Mam’s name over and over. She climbed the stairs to the hayloft, searching it thoroughly.

Fear dried her mouth, made her breath come in gasps.

Oh, Mam. We neglected you too long.

Remorse washed over her. They hadn’t done enough soon enough. Where was she?

Sadie fought down the panic that threatened to engulf her, making her want to run and scream Mam’s name. She had to remain calm, stay within reason. They would find her. Dat had probably found her already. He had to.

As the forenoon wore on and there was no sign of Mam, their fear and worry deepened. There was simply nowhere else to look, unless they walked the roads or called a driver to go looking for her. That was a bit uncommon and likely would not help at all.

“Before we call the police, we need to bring Anna and Reuben home from school. If they see policemen up here, they’ll be beside themselves. Besides, they’ll find out anyway,” Sadie said.

The little parochial school was situated just below the Millers’ driveway, nestled in a grove of pine and cedar trees, but in plain view of their house. The school was picturesque, covered in cedar shingles, stone laid carefully on the porch, two swinging doors and neat windows on either side, a split-rail fence surrounding it.

Rebekah offered to walk down and bring Anna and Reuben home. Dat took to wringing his hands, pacing, muttering to himself. Leah cried quietly.

Sadie stood on the porch not knowing what to do next. What did a person do when their mother was missing? She had prayed, was still praying.

Yet the sun shone on as brightly as ever, the snow sparkled, the branches waved in the midday breeze. The day went on as if all was as normal as ever. But a sense of unreality pervaded Sadie’s senses. Suddenly it seemed as if this was not happening at all. Surely Mam would come walking out of the bedroom or up from the basement, bustling about like usual, her hair combed neatly, her white covering pinned to her graying hair, the pleats in her dress hanging just right the way they always did.

Mam, please, where are you? she cried, silently.

Rebekah came panting up the driveway, Anna and Reuben beside her, lunch buckets in tow. Anna was crying. Reuben was wide-eyed and grim, bravely battling his tears.

So she had told them.

They all went into the kitchen, trying to reason among themselves.

Now what?

Call the police?

Certainly.

Suddenly, Anna sat upright and, without a word, walked swiftly to her parent’s bedroom. They heard the closet doors open, close quietly, then open again.

“Sadie, come here,” she called.

Sadie looked questioningly at her sisters, then went to her parent’s room. She found Anna standing, looking up at the top closet shelf.

“It’s gone, Sadie!”

“What? What’s gone?”

“Her suitcase. Their suitcase. The big one.”

Sadie’s heart sank as she joined Anna at the closet door.

“Oh, Anna. It is.”

“Sadie, I heard her. I was working on my English at the kitchen table about a week ago, and she was puttering around the way she does and talking to herself. She kept saying over and over, “
Ya vell. Tzell home gay. Tzell
.”

“Why didn’t you tell us, Anna?”

“She often talks to herself and no one pays attention.”

“Oh, I know. I know.”

They hurried to the kitchen, telling the rest what Anna had said.

The news was Dat’s undoing. He bent his head, shook it back and forth. No one spoke as Dat fought with his own thoughts. It seemed as if they could see his spirit breaking before them, a thin, glass vase shattering beneath the weight of a heavy object, ground to a thousand pieces, shattered with the knowledge of what he had always known. He had put his will before his wife’s. He had loved his own life instead of giving it for her. He had not loved his wife as Christ loved the church.

He had wanted to move to Montana so badly. He had. And they had all honored his wishes as happily and contentedly as possible.

But was it right?

When he broke down in great, awful sobs, five pairs of arms encircled him, held him up. They were the arms of angels for Jacob Miller.

I
T WAS AN UNUSUAL
thing, an Amish girl hugging her father. In an Amish home, love was an unspoken attitude, as common and as comfortable as the air you breathed or the clothes you wore. No one said “I love you” or hugged you, but there was no need. Home, church, school, it was all an atmosphere of safety. Because of this love and safety, everyone had a place and belonged. There was no need to find oneself. Your parents had already found you on the day you were born into the well-structured Amish heritage.