5

Anna is not coming to the table to eat with us?” Mammi asks me for the second time.

“She can’t,” I explain. “Sitting up in a chair and eating will probably make her sick to her stomach.”

“She needs to eat,” Mammi insists. “To get strong again.”

“She’ll have to eat in bed,” I tell her.

“Eating in bed?” Mammi frowns as she removes something she calls shepherd’s pie from the oven.

“She’s not really used to eating too much solid food either.”

“You think she cannot eat this?” Mammi asks.

“I’m not sure.” I sniff it. “It smells delicious. The potatoes on top are soft, so it might be okay. But most of the time, I just fix her things like soup and smoothies.”

“Smoothies?”

“That’s when you put fruit and yogurt and things in a blender.”

“Blender?”

“It’s an electrical appliance that blends food.”

She nods. “Ja, ja, I think I’ve seen that before.”

Having convinced Mammi that Mom needs to have her meal in the bedroom, I proceed to fix a plate of food that I hope might tempt her to eat. But when I take it in to her, she holds up her hands. “I can’t eat that.”

“The shepherd’s pie smells yummy, Mom.”

“I’m sure it is.” She leans back with her hands pressed to the sides of her head and closes her eyes. “But I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” I tell her. “At least you can taste it. I know you can eat the applesauce and the bread and butter. You can get those down if you’ll try. I know you can.”

“No, I cannot.” With her eyes still closed, she juts out her jaw.

I don’t like to do this, but I know it’s time to resort to bribery again. “Well, Mom,” I say in a firm tone. “If you can’t eat your dinner, I can’t give you your pill. You know you shouldn’t have diazepam on an empty stomach.”

Her eyes pop open. “But I need my pill, Shannon.”

“I know.” I hold out the plate to her. “You need to eat too. Besides, it will hurt your mom’s feelings if you don’t at least try to eat what she’s worked so hard to fix for you.”

She frowns, and I can tell I have her now. Although I feel sorry for her, I will not relent. After a long moment, she reaches out for the plate. Not trusting her, I remain by her bedside, watching as she takes a tentative bite of the applesauce. I stay there until I see her sample everything and I hear Mammi calling me to come to the supper table.

“You’re doing great,” I tell Mom as I go to the door. “Keep it up, and I’ll give you your pill when I come back.”

When I return to the kitchen, Mammi is already sitting at one end of the table and a weathered old man with a gray fringe of beard circling his chin is sitting at the other end. He is wearing a disgruntled expression, and I suspect it’s because I’ve kept them waiting.

“Sit down,” Mammi commands in a stern tone. “It is time to pray now.”

I sit down on the closest bench and bow my head, waiting for the man I assume is my grandfather, although no introduction has been made, to say a prayer. When no one utters a single word, I glance up. They both still have their heads bowed down and eyes closed. I feel confused. Do they expect me to say a blessing for them? If so, why didn’t they just ask me? But suddenly my presumed grandfather lifts his head and, seeing me looking at him, scowls as he says, “Amen,” and picks up his fork.

“Amen,” Mammi echoes, giving me what feels like a warning expression.

“Amen,” I say quietly.

“Jacob,” Mammi says sweetly, “this is Shannon. Anna’s girl. Your granddaughter.”

“I know who she is,” he grumbles as he sticks a large bite of food into his mouth.

Pleased to meet you too, I think as I slowly butter a piece of bread.

What little conversation that transpires at this table seems related to farm chores and church services. None of it includes me. I could be invisible and it would make no difference. From what I can see, my grumpy grandfather either is an old curmudgeon or else resents having guests in his tiny home, or maybe both. To make matters worse, he starts talking to Mammi in a different language. At first I think he’s pulling my leg, but I can tell by her face that she understands what he’s saying. I’m pretty sure they’re talking about Mom and me. Gramps does not seem happy about us being here. At least that’s what I’m thinking.

When Gramps is finished, he shoves back his chair loudly. But as he stands, he lets out a growling sound, rubbing his elbow as if in pain. Without saying a word—not even a thank-you to Mammi for the nice meal—he leaves the kitchen through the back door, slamming it noisily behind him.

“Is he in a bad mood?” I quietly ask Mammi.

“A bad what?” Her brow creases as if she doesn’t understand.

“I mean, he seems to be angry about something,” I explain.

“Oh no, Jacob is not angry. It is sinful to be angry. Jacob hurt his arm doing farm chores yesterday. It is paining him some. That is all.”

“Oh.”

After supper, I check on Mom and am relieved to see that she’s eaten most of her food. I give her a pill and then help her to the bathroom.

“Indoor plumbing?” she says in surprise. “That’s something new.”

“You still have to pump the water into the sink,” I explain. Mammi already showed me how this room works.

“Yes, but even so, it’s a big improvement from what I grew up with.”

“The shower comes out of that bucket.” I point to the bucket hanging from the ceiling. At the bottom of the bucket is a funny-looking showerhead. “Mammi says you fill it with hot water from the kitchen, with some cold water too, of course. She says if you do it just right, you can make one bucket work for a shower.” I frown. “But I seriously doubt one bucket can really get you clean. I plan to bring an extra gallon of backup water with me.”

“At least you are figuring things out here, Shannon. Good for you.”

“I guess.” I shake my head as I close the door, giving her some privacy. I have a feeling I have barely scratched the surface on figuring things out here.

As I wait for Mom to finish, I can’t help but think about how strange everything here feels. In a way this Amish lifestyle reminds me of the time I went camping with Merenda and her dad. Except that was outside. And only for a few days.

After I get Mom settled back into her bed, I return to the kitchen to help Mammi clean up. Neither of us talks much as we work to wash the dishes. It’s bad enough to have no dishwasher, but besides that, I have to hand pump cold water into the sink and then warm it up by adding hot water from a kettle on the stove. Then I have to refill the kettle to make more hot water. My initial impression of the charming Amish lifestyle is swiftly fading. This is hard work, and I can imagine how it could get old in time.

After the kitchen is cleaned, Mammi invites me to come outside to see her garden. “I enjoy being out here this time of day,” she says as she pauses to pull a small weed.

“It’s a nice garden,” I tell her as I examine the tidy, even rows of green, tender plants.

“It will be nicer next month.” She stoops down to pull another weed. Slowly standing, she holds the weed out to me. “It is easier to pluck the weeds when they are small.”

I nod.

She points to a weed by my foot. “Go ahead, Shannon.”

I bend down to pull out a weed, and before I know it, I am pulling out more weeds with my industrious grandmother. We work together like this for about an hour. When we finish our chore, my back is starting to ache. As we walk back to the house, I rub my lower back to get the stiffness out.

“You are not used to hard work?” Mammi asks as we go into the kitchen.

“I guess not.”

“Bend the tree while it is young,” she says mysteriously. “When it is old, it is too late.”

“Huh?”

She shakes her head as she opens the pantry. She begins pulling out canisters and jars and things.

“What are you doing?” I ask curiously.

“Getting things out for baking,” she says simply. “In the summer, I like to do my baking in the cool of the evening.”

“Oh?”

“Ja . . . and then we have what we need for tomorrow.”

I know I should offer to help her, but the truth is, I am exhausted. Completely and utterly exhausted. It feels like this has been the longest day of my life. So I tell Mammi that I think I should get my bed ready.

“Ja, ja,” she says without looking up from where she is measuring flour into a bowl.

“I might just stay there with Mom and read awhile,” I tell her, “before I go to bed.”

She gives me a tired-looking smile. “Gute nacht, Shannon. Schlaf gut.”

“Huh?” I peer curiously at her.

“Good night. Sleep good.”

“Oh, yeah. You too. Good night, Mammi.”

As I walk through the living room, I nearly collide with my grandpa, who has just come in the front door. As before, his expression is grim, and he simply grumbles as he passes by me on his way to the kitchen.

“Good night,” I call out to him.

“Gute nacht,” he mumbles back at me.

I go to the closet and select some things that I hope will make a comfortable bed, although as I carry the meager pile to my room, I have my doubts. I see that the pills have taken effect and my mom is soundly sleeping with her head still propped up on the pillows against the wall. I try to be quiet as I attempt to make a bed across the room from her. There is only a narrow pathway between her bed and mine. I hope she doesn’t decide to get up in the middle of the night and accidentally step on me.

It’s hot and stuffy in here, so I open the window to let some fresh air in. I wonder again why there are no curtains. Worried that Mom might get chilled in the night, I pull her blankets up over her. As usual, she’s fallen asleep in her clothes, but at least she looks comfortable.

I wedge my bags against the wall beneath the window, fumbling around to find my favorite sleeping T-shirt as well as a paperback. But once I’m settled into my hard-as-a-rock bed, I notice that it’s dusky out and getting darker, and there is no light to read by in here. If only I’d known we were time-traveling to a previous century, I might’ve packed a flashlight. Lying in the semidarkness, I am wide awake and well aware that I never go to bed this early. I consider powering up my iPad but doubt there’s any internet to connect to in these parts, and knowing I can’t recharge my battery, I don’t want to waste it. However, I do recall seeing a pair of kerosene lanterns on a little side table in the living room. I don’t see why anyone would miss one.

Wearing my oversized T-shirt, I crack open the bedroom door and peek out to see that the living room is empty. I see a warm, golden light coming from the kitchen and smell something delicious baking in there—and for a moment I feel like I’m living in a fairy tale. As I tiptoe out, I can hear my grandparents’ quiet voices. I pick up the smaller of the two lanterns but then realize I’ll need matches to light it. I look around and notice a little metal box hanging on the wall, and upon closer inspection, I see that it contains matches. I’m getting a small handful of wooden matches when I hear heavy footsteps coming.

I turn just in time to see my grandfather emerging from the kitchen. He stops in his steps as if he’s shocked to see me. His eyes grow so wide it feels like he’s caught a burglar red-handed in his house. I imagine how strange I must look wearing only my sleep T-shirt. We lock eyes for an uncomfortable instant, and then without saying a word, feeling completely embarrassed by his scornful expression, I scurry back to my room with the filched lantern and matches in my trembling hand.

I wish Mom was awake so I could tell her all about my weird encounter. Is it possible that mean, old, creepy guy is truly her dad . . . my grandpa? He certainly hasn’t gone out of his way to make me feel welcome here. As I make a couple of feeble attempts to light the kerosene lantern, getting down to my last match, I think I’m starting to get why she left. Finally the wick ignites, with flames leaping so high I’m surprised my hair doesn’t go up in smoke. I fumble to figure out how to turn the wick down to reduce the flame, and when I feel it’s relatively safe, I replace the glass chimney and set the lantern where it won’t get knocked over. Even so, I seriously wonder how Amish people manage to keep their homes from burning down.

As I set the lantern on the wooden floor next to my makeshift bed, I must admit that it puts out a nice cozy light. Once again I have the feeling that I’m camping. Indoor camping. If only I’d thought to bring a few necessities like an air mattress and flashlight, I might have a better attitude. As it is, I don’t even have a pillow. I roll up my bag and put it behind me as a pillow, lean back, and read until my eyes refuse to focus.

I have no idea what time it is when I blow out the lantern and slide it safely into a corner of the room. The house is so silent that I begin to wonder if anyone else is even here. I suppose my grandparents are probably sleeping. The evening air drifts into the room, and I can hear the sounds of crickets and frogs outside, as well as an occasional hoot of an owl, all reinforcing the feeling that I’m on a campout. If I knew I only had to rough it for two or three nights, I think I could live with it. But the idea of being here all summer . . . perhaps even indefinitely . . . well, that’s just plain freaky!