In the morning, Rachel acts as if nothing whatsoever is wrong. She greets me with a pretty smile and even offers to help me pack my things. We chat congenially as I organize my bags, and she asks me questions about my cell phone and iPad. “You English have so many funny things,” she says as I zip a bag closed. “I would not know what to do with them.”
“Would you even want to know what to do with them?” I wonder if she is thinking of leaving. “Would you ever consider becoming English?”
“No, no. I would not want that.”
“Not even if it meant you could be with Ezra?”
She seems to consider this, then firmly shakes her head. “That is not who I am. I belong here. I would never want to leave.”
“You’re fortunate to know that, Rachel. So many people our age don’t have a clue what they want.”
“I want to live a life that pleases God,” she says with what seems true conviction.
“I do too,” I say with a little less certainty. “I’m just not always sure how to do that.”
“God will show you.” She reaches for the teal dress she loaned me, starting to fold it.
“Should I take these things to Mammi’s house?” I ask as I hold up a kapp.
“Ja, why not?”
“You’re right.” I nod, remembering how Dawdi didn’t approve of my English attire. “I guess I should keep wearing them until I leave. That will make Dawdi happy.”
After I express my gratitude and say my good-byes to everyone at the breakfast table, I gather up my belongings as well as the paper sack containing my borrowed Amish clothes and tromp on over to the dawdi house. I don’t know what I’ll be sleeping on or even how long we’ll be there, but my primary mission will be to take good care of my mom. I feel as if her very life is hanging by a thread right now. Until she gets that MRI and Dr. Hoffman can tell us exactly what’s going on, I will be uneasy. But I will keep on praying.
I am relieved to discover Mom is sitting in the wheelchair. The chair is situated in the living room, near the front window, but she is slumped over to one side and doesn’t look very comfortable.
“Good morning,” I tell her, bending down to kiss her cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“I, uh, don’t know.” She reaches up to touch her head. “Pain . . . dizzy.”
“Have you had a pill?” I ask. “Did you eat breakfast?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I’ll go ask Mammi. Do you know where she is?”
Still rubbing her head, Mom gives me a blank, confused look. I’m sorry I even asked her. It’s as if the smallest question is too much to handle. “No problem,” I say lightly. “I’ll find Mammi.” As I go to the kitchen, which appears to be cleaned up after breakfast, I try not to feel overly concerned at Mom’s disoriented state. Soon she will get that MRI. Soon we will know what’s going on and how best to treat her.
But as I go outside, I pray with intensity, begging God to keep Mom safe until she can get the help she needs. “Or if you want to heal her,” I mumble out loud, “that would be fine too.”
“Shannon.” Mammi stands up from where she’s been bending down in the garden. “Who are you talking to?”
“To God,” I tell her.
She smiles, rubbing her back. “Ja, that is good. I talk to God in the garden too.” Her gray eyes twinkle as she holds up a small red tomato. “Look at this. They are coming on early this year. God has blessed us with good weather.”
I inquire about Mom and find out that she was unable to eat breakfast. “Did you give her a pill?” I ask.
“No.” Mammi puts the tomato in her basket. “You said she must have food with the pill.”
Hiding my frustration, I simply nod. “Yeah. I’ll go take care of her now.” As I hurry back to the house, I feel guilty again. Maybe I should’ve spent the night here last night. Then I remind myself that at least Mom was sitting upright in a chair. That was something. At least Mammi is trying. And she was simply following orders regarding the food.
In the kitchen I pour a glass of milk and then get a pill. I take this to Mom. “Here, you can drink this with your pill, okay?”
She looks confused but then sees the pill and holds out her hand. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
“Are you comfortable sitting in the chair?” I ask.
“I . . . uh . . . think so.”
I go to her bedroom and see that the bedding from Ezra’s buggy has been returned. I get a pillow and take it out to use to pad her chair, helping her to sit in a more reclined position. “Is that better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Can you finish your milk?” I ask. “Or perhaps eat something? A piece of toast maybe?”
She holds up a hand to signal no.
“How about a cookie?”
Her eyes barely light up.
“Yes,” I tell her. “I’ll get you a cookie, and you can have that with your milk.”
As Mom slowly nibbles on a cookie, taking reluctant sips of milk, I talk pleasantly to her. I tell her about the tomatoes in the garden and how I’ve moved back to stay with her and how she’ll soon have her MRI. “Dr. Hoffman is going to make sure you get well,” I promise her. “And lots of people are praying for you.”
Finally, as she’s finishing her cookie and milk, I can tell she’s getting drowsy. I try to make her even more comfortable, and she slowly slips off to sleep. I can tell that every day until the MRI is going to pass slowly. Very slowly. But I remind myself that it is much worse for Mom than it is for me.
Later in the day, as I’m helping Mammi with supper, Dawdi and Uncle Ben come from the barn. As they get closer I can see they’re carrying something that looks like a wooden bed. “Is that for me?” I ask Mammi as I peer out the window.
“Ja. Your dawdi was making you a bed today. That must be it.”
Because Mom is asleep in the bedroom, I run out to meet them, asking them to be quiet if they plan to put it in there. “She’s had a rough day,” I explain as I run my hand over the wood. “This looks like a nice bed,” I say, hoping I don’t sound ungrateful. “Thanks!”
I go ahead of them, opening the door and clearing a space by the wall across from Mom’s bed. Standing back, I watch as they almost silently set the bed in place. It’s very rustic looking with ropes crisscrossed back and forth, I assume to hold up the mattress.
“Come to the barn with me,” Dawdi tells me after I quietly close the door to the bedroom. I follow him out and am soon put to work stuffing a big canvas sack with straw. This, I am told, will be my mattress.
“You make it how you like it,” Dawdi tells me.
“I’ve never slept on a straw mattress before,” I tell him as I reach for another handful of straw.
“When I was a boy it was all we had.” He looks up from where he is sharpening a metal hand tool. “It was all we needed.”
“Did you enjoy your childhood?” I ask.
“Ja. My parents were good, hardworking people. They had ten children, but we never went without food or love.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It was good.” He smiles as he turns the tool over. “A happy memory never wears out.”
“My childhood wasn’t that great,” I say as I shake the canvas sack to make the straw go down.
“Ja, I know your daed died when you were young. And no brothers or sisters. No family.” He sets the tool aside. “But your mamm made her choices. She has had to live with them. Now you are of an age when you can make your own choices, Shannon.”
Although I haven’t told Dawdi that I’ve already decided not to become Amish, I can tell he knows. Uncle Ben must’ve said something. I pause from mattress stuffing and look up. “I’ve already made an important decision,” I say as I stand up. “I’ve decided that I won’t become Amish.”
“It is your choice, Shannon. If you cannot learn from your mamm’s experiences, perhaps you cannot learn at all.”
I walk over to the workbench where he is rubbing his bearded chin and studying me. “There is a lot I like about being here,” I tell him. “I love having family around. I think the farmland is beautiful. But there is a lot that I cannot live with. I know I will never really fit in.”
He nods, but there is sadness in his eyes. “You are like your mamm.”
“Maybe . . . but I didn’t grow up here like she did. If I’d grown up here my whole life, maybe I would want to be Amish.” I pick a piece of straw from my bodice and drop it to the ground. “Why did my mom leave, Dawdi? I would ask her, but she is so sick. Mammi doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. Why did my mom leave here when she was only fifteen?”
His brow creases as he shakes his head. “She was a willful child.”
“What do you mean? Was she naughty?”
“No, no, not willful like that. Anna was the baby of the family. Your mammi would tell you that it’s her fault, that she spoiled Anna too much as a little girl. Scriptures say that a child left to itself brings shame to the mother. That is what Anna did.”
“She brought shame to Mammi?” I feel sickened to hear this. “What did she do?”
He purses his lips as he picks up another tool. “Anna questioned everything. She questioned the way we lived and the way we worked and the way we worshiped. None of it was to her liking. It was little surprise when Anna left. That is how she brought shame to her mother.”
“Oh.”
“Elizabeth tried to rein in Anna as she got older, but I think it was too late. The twig was bent and the tree grew.”
The way he’s speaking makes it sound as if Mom is a horrible, worthless person, but I know she’s not. “You don’t really know my mom,” I tell him. “You don’t know her as an adult, Dawdi. First of all, she finished her schooling and then she met my dad going to church. They had a very good marriage. And she’s been a great mom to me. She believes in God, and she’s done everything she could to keep me involved in church. She is honest and upright and kind and generous. She’s worked really hard to provide for us. Right up until she got sick.” I feel tears in my eyes. “And she doesn’t deserve to be sick.”
“God is the judge,” he says simply. “A knife cannot be sharpened without friction, nor the man perfected without trials.” Then he turns back to the workbench. “Finish that mattress, Shannon. Your mammi will need your help making supper.”
I can hear voices in the yard and know others will be coming into the barn for various evening chores. Not wanting to be seen crying like this, I focus my attention on stuffing this mattress as quickly as I can. Finally, satisfied it’s full enough, I sling it over my shoulder like a giant Santa’s pack and hurry back to the house. I sort of understand Dawdi’s perspective, but it still makes me sad—and slightly angry—that he thinks of his own daughter like this. As if she’s good for nothing. I don’t get that.