“I don’t understand.” Rachel was shocked at her aunt’s reaction. “When did you find this out?”
“George called me, oh, I think it was about the last part of April. About the same time the warden told him.”
“And you knew Dad’s killer was living in Millersburg?”
Bertha calmly peeled another potato. “I did.”
Rachel was incredulous. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.”
“When?” Rachel was so upset she almost shouted. “When did you try?”
“I told you I needed to talk with you at least three different times. Each time you had an excuse, so I stopped trying.”
“I thought you just wanted to nag at me again about quitting my job,” Rachel said bitterly.
“I do not nag,” Bertha said, offended.
“That’s not the point.” Rachel felt herself becoming exasperated. “My father’s killer is a free man. If I had known he was up for parole, I would have gone to the hearing and voiced my protests. I would have written letters telling them why he needed to stay in prison. You could have written letters!”
“I did write letters.”
“Really?” Rachel felt relieved. “You wrote the parole people?”
“Yes,” Bertha said. “I told them that I felt that he had been rehabilitated and needed to be released.”
“Oh, Aunt Bertha,” Rachel groaned. “How could you?”
“Twenty years is a long time, Rachel.”
“You think that is long enough to be punished for killing my dad and destroying my life?”
“Oh?” Bertha cocked an eyebrow. “You had such a terrible childhood being loved and cared for by us every hour of every day? That is something I did not know.”
“You were wonderful to me,” Rachel said. “But you should not have had to raise me. That was my father’s job.”
“And if our brother had not chosen to leave our church and marry your mother, you would not have been born. And if you had not been born, he would not have been in the bank that day, getting money for your birthday. And if he had never chosen to become a policeman carrying a gun, the robber might not have shot him. There are many ‘ifs’ in life, Rachel. It is not wise to dwell on them.”
“My dad was a hero!” Rachel shot back. “He saved dozens of lives that day at the cost of his own.”
“A hero?” Bertha mused. “Because he pulled his weapon?”
“Yes,” Rachel insisted. “He was a hero.”
“I know that in the Englisch world, pointing a gun at someone can be considered heroic, but I have often wondered what might have happened if Frank had not pulled that gun. What if he had allowed the robber to take the bank’s money and walk away? What if he had not put himself and you at risk by taking that chance?”
Rachel didn’t know whether it was pregnancy hormones or the accumulation of years of dealing with her aunt’s stubborn Amish pacifism that made her want to scream in frustration. Of course her father was a hero for what he did. Of course Carl Bateman deserved to stay in jail for the rest of his life. If she could have gotten the death sentence for her father’s killer right that minute, she would have done so.
It would have been smart for Bertha to keep silent just then, but the old woman had one more word to say—and it was the wrong word.
“Gelassenheit, Rachel.”
“God’s will?” Rachel fumed. “You are trying to tell me that my father’s death was God’s will?”
“Of course not,” Bertha said. “God does not condone sin, and murder is a sin. But God has promised that all things will work together for good for those who love Him. We can’t always see how and why, but we have to have faith that God will take a bad situation and bring about something good from it.”
“You think it is God’s will that my father’s murderer has been released from jail?”
“I do not pretend to know the mind of God, but this I know, and I know it well,” Bertha said. “If you continue to harbor such bitter hatred for this man, it will destroy you. You are not as strong as you think you are, Rachel. Remember what happened to you that night you were protecting the antique cars.”
It was those words that somehow turned the key to opening up the recent period of amnesia Rachel had endured. It was as though a door had flown open and she clearly saw the man standing beside the Thunderbird at the Fabulous Fifties. There was no doubt in her mind that the man was Carl Bateman. She had not mentally recognized him at the time, but her subconscious had, and it had reacted to the shock of it by shutting her down.
Bile rose in the back of Rachel’s throat and threatened to choke her. She had two choices: leave at this moment or throw up. She turned on her heel away from her aunt, walked through the kitchen and out the door, and didn’t stop until she’d gotten into her car and driven a mile down the road. Then she pulled over and began to shake. She had never been so angry in her life.
Her hands were still trembling when she put the car back into gear and started driving. She reminded herself to drive slowly and carefully. If anger alone could impair a driver, she had no business being behind the wheel.