My mother’s question shocked me. I’d determined my own suspicions to be ridiculous only minutes earlier. But now my mother was expressing her own misgivings, and no one knew my father better than she did. Was it possible? Could he be involved?
“Did you ask him about it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
She nodded, her eyes still wide with panic. “He told me he found a dead deer in the middle of the road when he drove back from Washington. And that when he moved it, his clothing was stained.”
“Well, that certainly sounds reasonable. Deer get hit by cars a lot around here. Is there any reason for you to doubt him?”
She sighed, her body shaking. “I don’t know. When I told him about the man from Kansas City, he was so upset. He said something about putting a stop to the situation.”
I smiled at her, my chest feeling tight. “That doesn’t sound too ominous. Father didn’t say he was going to put a stop to the man—just to the situation.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed as she turned this thought over in her mind. “But if you could have seen his face. It was so . . . dark. I have seen his anger many times, but this was something beyond that. It was . . .” She shook her head. “I do not know how to describe it.”
I patted her hand. “I can’t believe Father is capable of murder.” Even as I said the words, the constriction inside me tightened. Although I didn’t think my father cared enough about me to take a life, rejecting the core belief of his Mennonite faith, I felt uncertain. I’d seen his anger. Was it possible? Feeling protective of my mother, I tried to push the fear away. If I suspected him of something so heinous, it would certainly frighten her.
“You do not understand the depth of his feelings for you, Daughter. You have always mistaken his harshness for a lack of affection for you, but the opposite is true. I think he is afraid of how much he loves you.”
“So what are you saying?” My tone was sharper than I intended, but her insistence that my father had some kind of deep devotion toward me made me angry. It just wasn’t true. My mother flinched at the harshness in my voice, and I immediately felt bad.
“I see I have upset you,” she said gently. “That was not my intention.”
I waved her comment away. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I know I’m sensitive when it comes to Father. In many ways I’ve allowed my bitterness to twist my past experiences.
“On the way to Kingdom, I began to remember some of the good things that happened here. And the wonderful people who were in my life. For some reason, I’d shoved all those memories into a closet in my mind, refusing to acknowledge them.”
I frowned at her. “But when it comes to Father, my memory is sharp and precise. The spankings for no reason, the cruel punishments, the unkind comments. They’re not embellished by my imagination. They’re very real.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she nodded. “You are right, Daughter. There is no excuse for his treatment of you—or for my acquiescence to his behavior. All I can pray is that you will one day forgive us.”
“I’ve already forgiven you, Mother. Maybe you were wrong in allowing Father’s behavior, but you were afraid. And your intention was to be a submissive wife. I may not agree with your choices, but at least I understand them.” I sighed. “I know I must forgive Father, and I’ll work on it. Understanding his actions will be hard, though. As a parent, I just can’t excuse his behavior.”
“Forgiveness is a decision, Daughter, and is not based on our ability to excuse it. However, I will pray that one day you will see your father through eyes of compassion. Perhaps then you will be able to understand him too, but I see it will take the grace and help of the Almighty to accomplish it.” She held up her hand when I began to protest. “What is the popular phrase people in the world use? I guess we will have to ‘agree to disagree’?”
“Yes, that’s it,” I said, my displeasure at her statement dissipating at her use of such a “modern” phrase. “But wherever did you hear that?”
She chuckled. “I have a friend who goes to Washington and buys the newspaper once a month. She hides it from her husband and children, but the ladies and I look at it when we quilt. You will understand if I do not reveal her identity. We are . . . flying under the radar.”
Even though I was frustrated with my mother’s attempt to downplay my father’s abusive behavior, her revelation made me laugh. The idea of a group of old-fashioned Mennonite women giggling over a newspaper while they quilted was just too funny. The tension between us broke, and we spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening enjoying each other’s company and playing games with Charity. My mother had never seen a manufactured child’s game before, so explaining Candy Land to her was not only challenging but extremely comical. Charity and I giggled at her obvious confusion, but no one was more amused than Mother. Even funnier was Charity taking Mother by the hand and leading her to see the bathroom in the restaurant, accompanied by my daughter’s patient instruction as to what a proper potty should be.
By the time my mother left, she seemed much more relaxed, but I suspected she was still bothered about the blood on Father’s clothes. As was I. The coincidence was troubling, but I had no real reason to suspect anything else. I tried to put it out of my mind, but for some reason the thought seemed to sit in my psyche, refusing to be banished.
Charity went to bed early, worn out after our fun but busy afternoon. As I said good-bye to Mother, I checked the time. If I was going to call Clay, I’d have to do it soon. I went upstairs, plopped down on the couch, and thought about my choice. Clay and I hadn’t been together in years. Was it too late for us? Even if we could never be a couple, was it fair for me to keep him out of Charity’s life? Didn’t I owe my daughter the chance to get to know her father? I found the piece of paper with his number on it and hurried downstairs to the wall phone in the kitchen. As I dialed the number on the old rotary phone, I prayed I wasn’t making a mistake. When the phone rang, for some reason the sound made me jump. The front desk put me through to Clay’s room.
“Lizzie?” he said after I said his name. “It’s late. I was beginning to worry.”
“Listen, Clay,” I said. “I can only do this one day at a time. And I don’t want to tell Charity who you are until I’m sure this will work out. But if you could stay awhile . . .”
His warm, gentle laughter drifted through the phone. “I can stay. Until you tell me to go.”
“Okay, if you’re certain you really want to.”
“I am. I definitely am.” He cleared his throat. “When can I see you?”
I explained the situation with Cora and told him I would be really busy all day tomorrow. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be wiped out by tomorrow night. Would you mind waiting until Tuesday? You could come in around six. I’ll close early, make you dinner, and you can spend the evening with Charity and me.”
“That sounds perfect. I have some business to take care of, so I’ll spend tomorrow getting that done. See you Tuesday. And Lizzie?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome.” I hung up the phone, feeling cautiously positive about having Clay back in my life. For Charity’s sake. But I couldn’t help thinking about Noah. As I stood there, I chided myself for even allowing him into my thoughts. We had no future together. For now I just needed to concentrate on building my relationship with Clay. Perhaps I could finally give my daughter the one thing she needed most. A family. If that was ever going to happen, it would probably only happen with Clay.
I tried to feel happy about the possibility, but for some reason, there was an odd sadness stirring deep inside my heart.