I studied myself in the mirror.
My face was scrubbed clean of makeup. I wore my old dress, my heavy black shoes, and black stockings.
I pinned my short hair up as best I could under my kapp. The face that looked back at me was almost familiar, like an old friend who had been gone a long time but had changed during the journey.
There wasn’t much time. I tucked away some extra paper and envelopes, though the most important letters were the ones I’d posted earlier in the day. I couldn’t think too much about the hours ahead. I could only move forward.
At 12:30 that night—or morning, I suppose—I climbed into my car to begin my drive to Rebecca’s home.
It would be a long drive. Springdale was about 390 miles away. If I drove all night, I would arrive a couple hours into their morning. I didn’t worry about staying awake. At the rate I was going, I probably wouldn’t sleep for a week. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Will. Or Levi. Or Jayne.
There was no room for second thoughts. With a heart full of resolve, I turned the key in the ignition and began the journey back. I wasn’t going home. Not really. But maybe it would be close.
The sky began to lighten around six that morning, turning a lovely shade of gray that made me rethink Jayne’s bridesmaid dresses. Maybe pewter was too dark. The dove gray shade was so pretty, and would look nice contrasting with the flower embellishments I’d made…
I shook my head. Jayne and Levi would have a perfectly lovely wedding without my design assistance. If I wanted to be creative with fabric, it would have to be in quilts.
I hadn’t visited Rebecca’s home since my nephew, Henry, was born. I felt out of place behind the wheel of a car, but there was no help for it. Early blooming daffodils lined large sections of the gravel road in front of the house. I could see a head in the window.
I waved, hoping it was Rebecca, hoping she would be a little glad to see me. I parked the car by the family buggy before climbing out and approaching the door.
There wasn’t time to knock—the door swung open while I was still feet away.
“Sara? Oh, goodness—how did you—come in!” Rebecca’s hands fluttered, one landing over her heart, the other over her abdomen.
If I wasn’t mistaken, she looked to be five or so months pregnant.
I stepped through the portal only to be squeezed into a hug. “You’ve been missed!” She said, out of breath from surprise. “Where have you been? Have you been back home? Do our parents know you’re here?”
“No, they don’t know. I’ve only just left.”
“I’m so relieved you’ve left! You don’t know how I’ve worried about you in the city. You’re so skinny! Come see Henry and Verna—they’re so grown, I don’t recognize them myself some days. And we’ve another coming in the late summer.” She patted her belly again. “Did you bring anything with you? Are you staying a while?”
“If that’s possible,” I said carefully. “I would love to stay with you for a while. If that’s okay with you.”
Rebecca laughed. “I can do with another hand around the house these days, and I’m just glad to see your face. Of course you can stay. Karl’s so busy with the farm these days. Henry is into everything, and since Verna’s been walking, I feel I never know where she is. Babies are a blessing from God, but my goodness they can wear me out!”
“They’re absolutely beautiful, though,” I said.
“All children are lovely in God’s eye.”
“What can I do to help?” I asked, taking off my coat.
“Are you still handy with a needle? I’m very behind on the children’s mending. Henry wears a new hole in his pants every day, it seems.”
“I can do that.” I gave her a hug. “It’s good to see you, Bex.”
She wrapped her arms around me. “I’m so glad you’re back and safe! Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry, but thanks. Why don’t I get started on the mending?”
I set myself up in the rocking chair, a pile of mending at my feet and a simple needle and thread between my fingers.
Karl seemed glad to see me, if only so that I might help his wife around the house. I was contented with that. Rebecca set me up in the guest bedroom, telling me I could stay as long as I wanted.
I closed my eyes that night to the sound of buggy wheels rolling by, creaking through the quiet—the sound of a young man in search of a young woman. I thought of Will. But then I tried not to think of Will or of everything I had left behind. Contentedness was a choice. This was my home now. There was no going back.
My first week at Rebecca’s was a blur. If I tried to recall portions of it, all I found in my mind was a series of long, hardworking days followed by sleepless nights.
By the following Sunday, I tried to come back to life. I rose early with the family and helped the children dress for church. I regretted I didn’t have a good dress to change into but reminded myself yet again that I was plain, and honoring God with my presence would have to be enough.
The worshippers gathered at the home of Rebecca’s friend Lizzie Stutzman. I sat with Rebecca and little Verna on the women’s side of the room, listening with an open heart to the sermon and eager to correct the worldliness that had taken root in my heart.
I listened, but upon leaving, felt…not the way I expected to feel. Perhaps I hadn’t listened right.
The days felt long, and the nights stretched even longer. I continued to sleep poorly, my dreams full of memories. Christmas tree shopping with Jayne and Levi. Cupcakes with Sonnet, Britta, and Meg. Looking at yarns with Britta. Maybe I should have brought the yarn—the knitting might have helped to relax me. I thought about Zach and his Godfather jokes and Joely teaching me to drive. I thought about the Godey’s Lady’s Book volume at the bookstore and the unfinished sewing projects I’d left behind.
Sometimes the dreams mixed up my recollections. I knew that Jayne hadn’t been at Meredith’s birthday party. I knew Gemma didn’t attend the Art Institute.
Other dreams were less memories than they were loose creative energy trying to find an outlet. After one dream about a pale pink gown with cream organza pleating, I woke up looking for a sketchbook to record the idea.
But my sketchbooks were in Portland and by now may very well have been discarded.
Would Levi throw my sketches away? I hated the thought of those drawings languishing in a compost heap. Would Gemma take care of them?
And then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to be worrying about my sketches. I wasn’t going to design English clothes anymore. I would sew good, simple clothes for my sister’s family and one day my own.
Would I marry soon? I tried to picture my Amish husband. He would grow a beard after we married and wear shirts I had sewed for him. He would share my bed. We would raise a family together. Would I love him? Could I love someone the way I had loved Will? English, proud, stubborn, ill-tempered Will?
“I’m worried about you,” Rebecca said on Thursday morning. At least I thought it was Thursday. The days seemed similar, only punctuated by different sets of chores and patterns of housework. “You’ve grown even paler, you’re even skinnier than when you arrived, and your eyes look bruised. There is an excellent chiropractor in town. Do you think a visit would help?”
I frowned. “My back feels fine. I’m just adjusting to a new schedule. I kept different working hours when I lived in the city.”
“Changing your hours is affecting your eating? You eat less than a bird these days.”
“Oh,” I searched for an excuse. “Changing my food has upset my stomach a little. I’ll be better in a few days.”
Rebecca did not look convinced. Instead of push the matter further, she suggested a stop in town for some fabric. Maybe a quilting project and fabric for new dresses of my own would lift my spirits or at least keep me busy while I adjusted.
I agreed—I could hardly disagree. Rebecca’s prematernity dresses fit me well enough, but the sleeves required constant rolling to keep them from flopping over my hands and getting messy while I helped in the kitchen.
We drove the buggy into Spokane for the day. Rebecca was overly animated in an attempt to rouse my spirits, but I felt the sense of dread collecting from the soles of my shoes up as we approached town.
Fabric.
Fabric meant clothes. And clothes—clothes I found myself drawn to, clothes made out of a sense of creativity rather than necessity—were worldly and English. And my Amish sister was taking me into the center of temptation.
I tried. I picked a dull polyester fabric in a smoky blue, a fabric that wouldn’t move well, but would hang like a dead fish.
Rebecca insisted on looking at quilting fabrics despite the fact that Henry complained of needing to use the bathroom and Verna began to cry as if she suddenly had started to cut a new tooth.
Rebecca browsed through the sunny florals, but I found myself in front of a bolt of cotton cloth the color the sky had been during my drive to Washington. Nearby, I found a shadowy gray cotton and a creamy ivory. A dark pewter rounded out the neutral palate of shades.
“Are you sure those are the ones you want?” Rebecca asked, trying to be delicate as she frowned at the piled bolts of fabric at the cutting table. “They’re so…somber.”
I shrugged. “I liked them together.” And they matched my insides.
“She doesn’t look so good,” I overheard Karl say to Rebecca Friday evening. I sat on the living room floor, cutting pieces for my new dress while Rebecca served her husband a second slice of chocolate cake. “Are you sure she’s not ill?”
“She’s not sick, she’s just adjusting. The English world was difficult for her,” came Rebecca’s hushed reply.
“Then why is she getting worse the longer she stays? Maybe you should write your mother. Or my mother,” Karl suggested. “Something is wrong with her.”
“She’s my sister. Nothing is wrong with her,” Rebecca said primly. “How is the cake?”
“Gut,” Karl answered after a pause. “If she is not better by next week, you might think of taking her to the chiropractor. Or even a doctor. She looks like she might fall over.”
“She will be fine,” Rebecca insisted.
I continued cutting, unaware for the next fifteen minutes that I had cut out four sleeves.
On Saturday, I woke with a resolve to be better. Brighter. I would try to eat. I would spend time reading Scripture. I would enjoy the fact that here, I always knew what everyone was talking about. Even if I’d had access to Google, I wouldn’t need it.
“I can make breakfast,” I told Rebecca. “Do you want me to make pancakes? I can make eggs and cook up some sausage too.”
“Oh, thank you,” Rebecca said, her hand on her midsection. “I feel so ill this morning, I think cooking would make it worse. Do you mind if I go lay down?”
“Go ahead. I’ll take care of things.”
“Thank you so much. Let me know if you need something though, won’t you?”
I promised I would and then set to work. Forty minutes later, there were steaming stacks of golden pancakes, bright yellow scrambled eggs with melted cheese on top, and browned, peppery sausage.
Karl led us in the traditional silent prayer before loading his plate with food. Rebecca and I each helped the children with their food. I broke the pancakes into manageable pieces for Verna to pick up.
I felt a rare smile spread across my face. Finally, I’d been able to do something right—make breakfast, feed children, and move on with the new version of my old life. It felt good to be plain. I could do this. I could be Amish again.
And then Karl coughed. Henry began to cry. And Verna let out a wail, using her little hands to brush pancake crumbs from her rosy little lips.
Rebecca leapt up. “What’s wrong?”
“Tastes bad,” Henry sobbed, spitting half-chewed food onto his plate. “Bad.”
I sat up straighter. “What?”
Karl stood up calmly. “The pancakes,” he said, lifting the pancake plate and removing it from the table. “They’re bitter.”
“They look fine.” Rebecca cut a small bite for herself, chewed, and made a face. “They are bad. They taste like…baking soda.”
My heart fell. “But…” I took my own bite, although I couldn’t deny the four victims before me. Rebecca was right. They tasted strongly of baking soda. “I must have used the soda rather than the baking powder,” I said. “I’m so sorry. Eat the bacon and eggs—those are hard to ruin. I’ll make another batch of pancakes.”
I headed into the kitchen before the tears fell onto my cheeks. I brushed them away as I began measuring the dry ingredients again. Stupid. There was no reason to cry over pancakes. Kitchen mistakes were a fact of life. It didn’t mean anything.
I cracked new eggs into a bowl and tried to regain control. There was no reason to have such an emotional response from ruined pancakes. But as I mixed the milk and vanilla, I knew the truth. I wasn’t crying over the pancakes.