The next morning my body aches from sleeping on the rock-hard floor. I’d be better off sleeping outside in the grass. In fact, as I’m sitting outside on the front porch, getting some fresh air while Mom is using the bathroom, I decide that tonight I will do precisely that. After everyone has gone to sleep, I’ll sneak my blankets out here and camp outside. I scratch a mosquito bite on my elbow, one of about a dozen I got last night, and decide that sleeping outside can’t be any worse than being in that bedroom with no screen on the window.
Curious to investigate the prospects, I walk barefoot through the long grass, rounding the corner to the side where our bedroom window faces. I figure that if I make my bed right here, I’ll be able to hear Mom if she calls out for help during the night.
“What’re you lookin’ for?” a gruff voice demands.
I turn around to see my grandfather watching me. Although his face is shaded by his broad-brimmed straw hat, I can tell he’s scowling. Or maybe his expression is permanently sour.
“Nothing,” I tell him. “Just looking around.”
“If you got nothing to do, your mammi has plenty a’ work in the kitchen.”
“Okay.” I shrug and walk past him into the house. Before I go to offer my assistance in the kitchen, though, I make sure that Mom is safely back in the bedroom and relatively comfortable.
“Do you want to try to come out for breakfast?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think I can manage that.” She sighs. “Besides, I’m not hungry, and I’m sure I won’t be able to keep anything down anyway.”
“You need to eat something,” I insist. “That is, if you want a pill.”
She narrows her eyes. “I know what you’re doing, Shannon.”
“What?”
“Blackmailing me with food in order to get my diazepam.” She frowns as she eases herself back into the pillows.
I give her an innocent look. “I’m following Mrs. Wimple’s directions. She said you need to have food in your stomach before you take a pill.”
“Mrs. Wimple is not here.” Mom folds her arms across her front, clearly annoyed. Not that I particularly care.
“Yes, and that’s why I’m in charge,” I remind her.
“Just because I’m sick doesn’t mean I have no rights.”
I want to point out that I’m the one who seems to have no rights, but I know starting an argument with her would be worse than pointless. “At least you’re lucky to be stuck in this room.” I slide my feet into my flip-flops.
“Yeah. You don’t have to be around your parents.”
“Oh.” She looks slightly concerned as she rubs her temples with her fingertips. “Are they really bad?”
“Well . . . your mom’s okay, I guess. I mean, except for being a total workaholic. But your dad . . .” I lower my voice. “Well, I think I understand why you left.”
“Really?” Her hands slide down to her lap. “Daed used to be easier to get along with than Mamm.”
“Maybe things have changed.”
“I’m sorry, Shannon.”
I go over and put my hand on her shoulder now. “I’m sorry too, Mom. I shouldn’t complain. It’s just that everything feels so weird and backwards and upside down.” I rub my backside. “And I’m sore from sleeping on the floor.”
“Oh, Shannon.” She looks as if she’s about to cry, and I realize I’ve said too much.
“Other than that, it’s kind of fun being here,” I say quickly. “Mammi is a really good cook. In fact, I should go help her with breakfast. And I think she made sugar cookies last night.”
“Sugar cookies?”
“Yeah. Want one with your breakfast?”
She seems to consider this.
“I’ll bring you one,” I say as I leave. “If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it myself.”
I find Mammi at the stove. She’s stirring a pan of oatmeal in the back, tending to bacon in front, and scrambling eggs—all at the same time. She greets me, then immediately puts me to work setting the table and fetching items for her. I explain that Mom still doesn’t feel able to sit at the table, and she helps me fix her a bowl of oatmeal with applesauce and cream. “I think she might like a cookie too,” I say as I pour a glass of apple juice.
“Ja, ja. That’s a good idea, Shannon. We need to fatten her up.”
To my relief, Mom doesn’t seem terribly opposed to the breakfast I present her with. “You know what to do,” I say as I start to leave. “I mean, if you want a pill.”
“Yeah, yeah.” For some reason when she says this, I’m reminded of Mammi, and it’s like I can almost see how they have some similarities.
When I get back to the kitchen, my grandpa is hanging his hat on the peg by the back door, and before long we are sitting at the table once again. Just like last night, my grandparents bow their heads, and once again not a word is spoken until he says, “Amen,” and she echoes it. They must be praying silently. I have no problem with that since it’s the only way I know how to pray anyway. Not that I’m in the habit of doing it as often as I should.
After the nearly silent breakfast ends, my grandfather opens a cabinet and removes what appears to be a big black Bible. Instead of abruptly leaving the table, he opens the Bible and begins to read. However, he is reading in a different language. I do not understand a single word. As badly as I want to excuse myself and escape this madness, I get the feeling that would be perceived as very bad manners. So I sit there like the proverbial bump on a log. Or maybe I’m a bump on a bench.
Finally, he bows his head and Mammi does the same. Assuming they are praying, I imitate them, and eventually they do the amen thing again. It does occur to me that I might actually attempt to pray while they are praying, but something about this whole thing feels so strange, I’m not even sure I could pray a sincere prayer under these conditions.
Gramps slowly stands, then puts the Bible back into the cabinet, reverently patting it before he closes the door. Then, just like last night, he rubs his arm, grimacing as if he’s in severe pain. But without saying a word, he gets his hat and leaves.
“I need to go check on Mom,” I tell Mammi. “It’s time for her medicine.”
“Ja, ja.” She nods. “Tell Anna I will come in and visit with her soon.”
“Okay.” I hurry back to the bedroom, hoping that Mom’s not too irritated at having to wait for her pill.
“What took so long?” she demands as soon as I’m in there.
“Sorry.” As I go to dig out the bottle of pills from my purse, I explain about her father’s Bible reading. “It was all in a foreign language,” I say as I shake out a pill.
“Pennsylvania Dutch.”
“They speak Dutch?”
“It’s not Dutch. It’s actually a form of German. High German.”
“But they call it Dutch?” I frown as I hand her the pill. “Is everything that backwards here?”
She gives me a half smile as she puts the pill in her mouth and uses the last of her apple juice to wash it down.
I gather up her breakfast dishes, relieved to see that she’s made a good dent in the oatmeal. “Did you like the cookie?” I ask as I open the door.
“Yeah. It was pretty good. Thanks, Shannon. Tell Mamm thanks too, okay?”
“Sure.” I study her for a moment. “Are you feeling any better?”
She shrugs. “Hard to say. I think I’m worn out from the trip.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
“And I miss my TV.”
I frown. “Yeah, I wondered about that.”
“Coming here is kind of like electronic cold turkey, huh?” she says.
I force a smile. “Maybe it’s good for us.”
“Yeah, they say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”
“Right.” I consider offering her one of my paperbacks, but I know reading makes her dizzy. Seeing she’s already closing her eyes, I quietly let myself out.
Mammi has already cleared the table, but as I join her in the kitchen, I get an idea. “How about if I clean up by myself this time?” I suggest.
“On your own? Do you know how?”
“Yeah. You showed me how to do everything last night. I think I can handle it.” I make what I hope is a confident smile. “Maybe that will give you time to visit with my mom. I mean, before she falls asleep again. She just took a pill, and she’ll probably doze off before long.”
Her face brightens. “Ja, ja. That is a good idea. Danke, Shannon.”
After she leaves, I scrub down the top of the wooden table. Then I make sure that the kettle on the stove is full of hot water. I rinse the dishes in cold water, then I stack them next to the sink. Next I clean out the sink, then pump cold water into it. I add some soap and finally the hot water. I am finishing washing the juice glasses and oatmeal bowls when Mammi returns.
“Your mamm is asleep now,” she says a bit sadly.
“Did you have a chance to talk to her much?” I ask as I set a mixing bowl into the warm soapy water.
“Ja, ja. Enough for now. I will talk to her again later.”
I notice she has something white in her hands. “This is for you,” she tells me as she sets the bundle on the kitchen table. At first I think it’s a pillow and I’m so grateful I could hug her, but on closer inspection, I see it’s some kind of clothing. Hopefully she doesn’t plan to dress me up like an Amish girl.
“What is it?” I ask as I dry my soapy hands on the back of my shorts.
“A nightgown,” she tells me. “Your dawdi said you have need of one.”
“But I don’t—” I stop myself as I remember my run-in with my grumpy grandfather last night. I’m sure he thought I looked indecent. He probably thought that same thing this morning when he saw me in these shorts. Not that I care particularly. I mean, it’s one thing to be stuck in a place like this for a couple of weeks—if we even make it that long—but for them to attempt to enforce their weird dress code upon me too? Well, that is just too much.
“I made this myself.” Mammi holds up the plain white nightgown, shaking it open to show me and smiling as if it’s the most beautiful garment in the world.
To be polite, I finger the fabric. “It’s soft,” I admit.
“Ja, ja. It is good for sleeping.”
“Thank you.” I make a stiff smile. “I—uh—I’ll wear it tonight.”
She holds it up to my shoulders. “Not too long. I think—just right.” She pats my cheek. “I am so happy to give it to you, Shannon.”
I thank her again, and then she informs me she’s going out to work in the garden while the air is still cool. After she leaves, I return to the dishes. It seemed like a good idea to volunteer like this, but I’m quickly discovering that it’s more work than expected. It turns into even more work when I slop water onto the floor, which now needs mopping.
Without Mammi here to help, everything takes longer than I think it should, but eventually I’ve got everything cleaned and put away. I even remember to refill the kettle and replace it back on the stove to soak up the remainder of the stove’s heat, since I get how that’s the only source of warm water in this house. I give the counter one last swipe, glancing around this space in satisfaction, hoping that I didn’t miss anything. For some reason it feels important to me to win Mammi’s approval.
I check on Mom, but she’s sleeping soundly. I drop my new nightgown onto my messy pile of belongings in the corner near my makeshift bed. This tiny room has no closet, but there are pegs on the wall. I assume these are for hanging clothes, so I pick up some of our stuff, and before long I’ve utilized all the pegs. Problem is, Mom and I both have more clothes than there are pegs.
Still feeling stinky and sweaty from KP duty, I consider taking a shower but then remember the hot water situation. I know the kettle water is probably lukewarm at best—and besides that, I’m not sure I’m ready to tackle that bucket shower device yet.
Instead I decide to go outside for some fresh air. I slip out the front door and sit in the shade on the small wooden porch. Staring blankly at the green landscape that surrounds this house, I try to wrap my head around the weird situation I find myself in. Mom and I are living with the Amish. I wish I’d thought to grab my phone, because I’d like to text Merenda about this strange turn of events. However, I know that my phone battery was low from being on all day yesterday. Plus there’s no place to recharge it today. I also have no idea what kind of cell phone coverage there is out here. For the time being I think I’ll let it go. I used to brag to Merenda how I’m not addicted to electronics the way that some people are, but to be honest, I feel like I’m experiencing a little withdrawal right now. Or maybe I’m just having withdrawal from normal.
But what is normal? I ponder this question as I sit here on the porch. To my Amish grandparents, living out in the sticks with no electricity is perfectly normal. To me it’s like visiting another planet. I honestly wonder how long I can last here. In fact, as I watch a horse-drawn buggy slowly moving down the road in the distance, I make a decision. Before I give Mom another pill today, I’m going to insist we talk this whole thing through. I can think of numerous reasons why we would be much better off in our apartment back home.
Having reached this conclusion, it’s easier for me to relax here on this little porch. It’s really not such a bad place to be. My grandparents seem to prefer the back porch door for coming and going. Besides, it’s cool and shady here right now. Even better than that, it has a lovely view. While the back door looks directly toward the barn and silos, this porch looks out over a peaceful meadow fringed with trees. About a dozen cows are grazing out there, and I can hear birds happily chirping and singing. Very bucolic. I can imagine painting a watercolor of this scene. If we stay another day or two, maybe I will. But I plan to convince Mom that we should pack up and get home as soon as possible.
Just as I’m deciding that a three-day visit should be more than enough to satisfy everyone, a quiet growling sound starts to disturb the quiet peacefulness of this spot. I look over and see my grandfather huffing and puffing as he pushes some kind of motorless grass-cutting device through the tall lawn that surrounds their house. He obviously doesn’t see me perched here in the shadows, and I watch with interest as he struggles to maneuver the mower through the tall grass. I can tell by the way he’s favoring one arm that his bad arm is hurting. The twisted grimace on his face shows that he’s in pain—and I feel unexpectedly sorry for him. In that same instant, I leap to my feet and run over to offer my help.
“Want me to do that for you?” I ask, thinking he’ll probably turn me down.
He frowns at me, looking me up and down as if sizing me up. “You think you are strong enough to cut this grass?”
“Sure,” I say, trying to appear confident and at the same time wondering why on earth I’m doing this. “Why not?”
He looks on the verge of amusement as he takes his hands off of the handle, pausing to rub his sore arm again. “Ja,” he says slowly. “You go ahead. Work is good for you.”
Slightly surprised but not willing to back down now that he’s agreed, I nod. “I don’t mind a little work,” I tell him.
“Remember, child, half done is far from done.”
I want to ask him what that’s supposed to mean, but he turns and walks away. Now it’s just me and the mower. I give it a tentative push and discover it does not roll easily. I lean into it, pushing with all my upper body strength. As a result, I make it all the way to the edge of the grass. I look back to see a long strip, about a foot wide, of neatly cut grass. However, I still have about a thousand more strips to go. At this rate I’ll still be out here pushing this thing well into the night. Maybe that’s what my grandfather meant about a half done job. He’s certain that I’ll never finish it.
I’ll admit it looks impossible. Still, I refuse to give up. I want to prove to Gramps that I can do this, that I don’t give up that easily. I tell myself that I’m climbing a mountain and that I’ll be a bigger, stronger, better person when I make it to the peak. I can do this!
After more than an hour, I am dismayed to see that I’ve barely made a dent on the lawn. Not only that, but this pathetic mower seems like it’s getting more stubborn. It’s almost like it’s gone on strike, refusing to move at all. I’m really, really tempted to give up, but then I imagine Gramps’s face scowling down at me with smug disapproval.
I take in a deep breath and really lean into it now. With my arms extended, I’m leaning so far forward that I’m nearly at a forty-five degree angle. My toes dig into the rubber soles of my flip-flops as I put all my weight into it.
“Easy there,” someone calls out from behind me.
In the same instant the mower jerks, and I fall flat on my face into the freshly cut grass. I want to cry. Instead, I sit back on my knees and glare at the straw hat–wearing figure rushing toward me. At first I assume it’s Gramps, but as the person gets closer, I realize it’s actually a young man.
A concerned pair of brown eyes gazes down at me. “Are you all right?” he asks as he extends a hand, firmly helping me to my feet.
I nod, brushing grass clippings from my sweaty tank top as I try to slip my foot back into one of my flip-flops. “Thanks,” I mumble as I shove my other foot into the other one.
“That looked unsafe,” he tells me sternly.
“Falling on my face?” Placing my hands on my hips, I study his squared chin and nice straight nose. Despite his funny shirt and strange pants complete with suspenders, plus a hat that looks identical to Gramps’s, it is obvious that this guy is extremely good looking.
He grins, exposing a nice set of white teeth. “No, I mean the way you were handling that push mower. It looked dangerous.” Now he seems to be checking me out from head to toe as he reaches over to pluck some grass from my hair. “You must be one of the Englishers visiting at Jacob’s.”
“Huh?” I continue to brush grass clippings from my shirt and shorts, suddenly concerned with my appearance.
“I heard the Hershbergers’ daughter and granddaughter are visiting.” He points to my clothes. “I figure you’re the granddaughter.”
I stand up straighter, push my hair away from my face, and smile. “Yeah. I’m Shannon McNamara.” I stick out my hand in a silly formal way.
“I’m Ezra Troyer,” he tells me as he takes my hand, shaking it as if this is totally normal. “My friends call me Ezra.”
“Ezra?” I try to decide if he’s being funny.
He nods. “Ja. You can call me Ezra too.”
In this very instant, what previously felt like a strange and alien world—Amishland—is transformed into an enchanted and lovely and wonderful place. It’s as if the sunshine is cleaner and brighter and the birds are singing in perfect harmony. My life has gone from drab to fab.