Jeremiah whistled one of his favorite hymns as he put the finishing touches on the chicken coop. He laughed at the sign tacked over the door.
Welkoom Hoom.
Sunni had brought it out to him right after breakfast. She’d proudly announced she’d painted it for his Amish chickens so they’d feel right at home in the coop.
It had taken every bit of restraint to keep from grinning. Not only were the words different from any he knew in Englisch or Deitsch, the everyday language of the Amish, but most of the letters had drips of green paint beneath them. He wondered if Mercy knew what her daughter had been doing.
He knew the little girl was fascinated with the idea of chickens and gathering eggs, because she’d talked of nothing else while he put the sign in place. As much as he wanted the farm to become a part of the new Amish community, he hated the idea of Sunni not having her chance to help with the new chicks.
With each passing day, the situation was becoming more of a potential disaster, no matter which one of them ended up with the farm. Did Mercy’s onkels and aentis and daed realize that? He doubted it. Would it do any gut to ask Mercy to discuss it with them?
But did he want them to announce their decision if it cost him the farm?
He no longer knew.
You know, God, he prayed, what is to come and why. Help us to walk the path You have prepared for us, even if our hearts are broken.
He flinched. No matter what choice the Bambergers made, his heart was going to be hurt because if he took possession of the farm, Mercy’s heart—and Sunni’s—would be shattered. For the first time he began to wonder if he should walk away. He could have Kitty find him another place. It might take too much time and risk the success of the settlement, but how could he stand by and watch Mercy hurt?
Help me, God, to trust You have a way to resolve the unresolvable.
* * *
When Mercy heard a knock at the door that afternoon, she made sure her kerchief was in place before she answered it. She didn’t want to meet one of her neighbors for the first time with her head not properly covered, because she knew Amish women always wore what they called prayer kapps or a kerchief like hers. Dust and spiderwebs didn’t count as a proper covering, though she guessed there were plenty on the off-white kerchief.
A pulse of excitement caught her off guard as she wondered if Jeremiah stood on the other side of the door. What was she thinking? He’d been very kind to teach her to drive the sleigh so she could get to the village after a snowfall.
But he wanted her grandfather’s farm, and if the family’s decision went against her, he would do everything he could to buy it. Nothing had changed.
No, that wasn’t true.
A few things had changed. She couldn’t see Jeremiah as a rival trying to ruin her plans. Instead, her heart seemed to glow whenever he was around.
Throwing open the door, she was unprepared for the surge of disappointment when she realized it wasn’t Jeremiah. She’d been silly to think he’d come to the front door and knock. He always walked in.
A woman, whose face was half-hidden by a garish purple and yellow crocheted scarf covering her mouth and nose, stood on the porch. From the top of her striped stocking cap to the tip of her boots topped by a ring of fake fur, she looked ready to go sledding on the hills beyond the barn.
The woman pulled aside her scarf to reveal the lower half of her face. “Are you Mercy Bamberger?”
“I am.” Mercy motioned for the woman to come in.
Even if the woman was there to try to sell her something she didn’t want, Mercy wasn’t going to leave her out on the porch in the biting wind.
When the blonde woman set a briefcase on the floor and began to unzip her thick parka, Mercy asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Whitney Albright with Washington County Children’s Services.” She opened a pocket on the side of the briefcase and pulled out a simple business card.
Mercy took it and glanced at it. The card confirmed what Whitney had said.
“I’d like to talk with you if you’ve got time,” Whitney said.
“Certainly. Let’s go into the living room.”
Curiosity accompanied Mercy into the room, which was comfortably warm in the afternoon sunshine. She couldn’t help being curious about whether Whitney thought of how the glass in the windows rattled whenever a strong gust struck the house. Motioning for the woman to take a seat on the couch, where the cold air seeping around the sills wouldn’t reach her, Mercy took a chair facing the sofa.
“I’m sorry to come unannounced,” Whitney said as she sat and set her briefcase on her knees. “I did try to call. Several times yesterday. But while I got your answering machine, I didn’t want to leave a message before I had a chance to talk to you. When I tried again this morning and got the machine again, I thought maybe I’d drive over and take a chance on catching you at home.”
Mercy explained how she’d turned off the phone’s ringer so she wasn’t interrupted while she was painting. Without giving the other woman a chance to reply, she hurried on. “If this is about my daughter not being signed up to go to public school, I made arrangements to homeschool her for the rest of this year. I plan to have her go to the Son-Rise Charter School next fall.”
Whitney held up her hands and shook her head. “This isn’t about your daughter, Mercy, though I’ll tell you I did stop at the school in Salem to find someone who knew you. They explained to me the arrangements you’d made for Sunni. You know you can get special needs services through the public school system, though she’s going to the charter school, I assume.”
“Yes, because we had that arrangement with our school district where we lived.”
“If anyone tells you differently, call me and I’ll talk to them.” She smiled, but it was cool and without humor. “Some superintendents look for ways to cut costs. Not that we’ve had such a problem with the Salem school district, but we like to make sure none crop up.”
“I appreciate that.” Curious why the woman was visiting, Mercy asked if Whitney would like something hot to drink.
“That would be nice. Coffee or tea or whatever you have.”
“I have green tea.”
“Perfect.”
Rising, Mercy went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She glanced into the dining room and saw Sunni curled up in a chair, sound asleep. The little girl had had nightmares last night. It was good she could catch up on her sleep today, especially until Mercy discovered why a social worker had come to the house.
Whitney took an appreciative sip of the tea, but waited until Mercy was sitting again before she opened her briefcase and pulled out a laptop. “As I said, I’m not here to speak to you about Sunni. However, I’m here because of your daughter.” The social worker looked abashed as she added, “I guess I should have told you right from the get-go I was forwarded a copy of your files and I’ve read them.”
“I know files are shared among social workers.”
“Good.” Whitney relaxed a bit as she pushed the button to activate her computer. Raising her head, she wore what Mercy called a social worker’s I hope you can get me out of a jam face.
The first time she’d seen it was when she was in the system herself. She’d forgotten about it until another social worker spoke to her about taking in Sunni on an emergency placement. Seeing it again whetted her curiosity and her trepidation.
“You are,” Whitney said, “in a somewhat unique position of having exactly the experience we need.”
Mercy felt her jaw drop. Another child? Here? She thought of all she’d had to do in order to be approved as a foster parent before Sunni was placed with her. There had been more paperwork and home visits and counseling when she applied to adopt her daughter. Enough to kill off a whole forest was what Dad had said with a laugh.
Glancing around the half-painted room that opened onto another where wallpaper was peeling off a wall and the floor sloping enough to send Mercy chasing after a nail when it fell and rolled away, she looked at the social worker. Was this a joke?
“I know this is unexpected,” Whitney said, “and it may not be perfect timing, but I rarely find the time is perfect when a child’s placement has been disrupted and we need to find a temporary placement.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear about a placement falling apart.”
“I know you are.”
Mercy wondered exactly how much the social worker knew about her story and Sunni’s. How many files had Whitney perused before she came to Harmony Creek? No doubt, there were thick files outlining how she and Sunni had come to be part of the Bamberger family.
At the thought of her family, Mercy stiffened. What was she thinking? She needed to tell Whitney, while she understood the gravity of the situation, now was the worst time for her to consider having another child placed with her family. Even a temporary one. No, most especially a temporary one, because Sunni didn’t need to deal with more change.
“I know you’re not ready,” Whitney said in her calm voice.
Mercy bit back a laugh. “Look around you. Come Along Farm is weeks away from being ready for me to apply for approval.”
“But you are a licensed foster parent?”
“I am.”
“Parker, a nine-year-old boy, needs a placement.” The blonde leaned forward, lowering her computer’s top and putting her elbows on it. “He’s a unique case because we don’t get many failed international adoptions in this county. In fact, he might be the second one in sixty years. Mercy, you know how it is to be an outsider in a closed community, and your daughter was born in Korea as Parker was.”
“Why does he need a placement?”
“His prospective adoptive parents can’t deal with his many severe food allergies. You’re raising a special needs child, so I can’t imagine a better place for this boy while we look for another adoptive family than with you and Sunni.”
Wanting to groan that Whitney was expecting too much of her and her daughter, Mercy said nothing. Instead, she prayed. Lord, You don’t have to tell me this is crazy. I know that, and I also know Your hand brought Whitney here. Come Along Farm is supposed to be a haven for children. How can I turn away the first one You present to me?
A sensation of calm draped over her as she held out her hand. “Can I see his placement report?”
“It’s on the computer.” Whitney pressed several keys and then turned it so Mercy could read the report that wasn’t so different from the one she’d been given with Sunni’s other paperwork. It was from the Korean adoption agency and translated into sometimes confusing English. The information was sparse and included his age, gender, a couple of paragraphs outlining what his Korean caretakers had observed about him, and weight and height.
“His name in Korea was Park Jae-Eun, I see,” Mercy said.
“The Kentons changed it to Parker Kenton, wanting to keep part of his Korean name as part of his new name.” The social worker smiled sadly. “It’ll be easier for him in the States, I suppose, but his Korean name means talent and mercy.”
“Mercy?”
Whitney nodded. “When I was looking for foster families with Korean-born children in the county, I saw your name, which was why I requested your file.”
“He has several food allergies,” Mercy said after finishing the two-page report from Korea, “but I don’t see anything here.”
“They apparently weren’t discovered until he was here. He had no problem with Korean food, but Americans eat a wider variety of products.”
Wondering why Parker’s new family hadn’t changed their own diets to accommodate the boy, Mercy looked at the list of Parker’s allergies. Peanuts and shellfish were the first of nearly a dozen items, but it wouldn’t be difficult to work around his allergies.
“Am I wrong,” Whitney asked, “to think you make a lot of your meals from scratch? Parker seems to have extra trouble with prepared foods.”
The social worker had an uncanny ability to guess what Mercy was thinking, or more likely, Whitney was very good at her job and had prepared herself for questions and concerns Mercy might have.
“I don’t make as much from scratch as I normally would, because we don’t have anything canned in the cellar.” Second thoughts filled her. Sunni needed her during this difficult time, and bringing a second child into their family would curtail the time she had to work on the house. She couldn’t reduce the time she spent teaching Sunni, and a nine-year-old would require homeschooling, too. So much paperwork needed to be filed, and...
“You’ll want to see this.” Whitney held out a small photo.
Mercy looked at it and knew her protests and logical thinking were useless. The moment she saw the proud expression on the boy’s face that announced he didn’t need anyone’s help, she recognized a kindred spirit. Especially when she noticed how his taut shoulders revealed he was trying to hide his pain of being unwanted from the camera.
Oh, how easily she remembered those feelings! And the photographs taken against an office wall while people looked on with pitying smiles. Mercy had been older than the boy the first time she’d been subjected to the humiliation of knowing she was nobody’s child. When Abuelita had died, Mercy’s sole parent had become the state government, an indifferent guardian at best. She’d been snatched from Abuelita’s apartment so quickly she hadn’t had time to pack the photo of her parents, her most precious possession, before being bundled up and put in a car with strangers. She’d been told her personal belongings would follow. One box had...but the photo hadn’t been in it. Her other box had vanished.
A chance question when she’d asked if she would be going to her Fresh Air family had saved her from what probably would have been a life in the system. A caring social worker—Mercy couldn’t remember her name—had contacted the family who’d welcomed her for the previous three summers to their farm in northern New York. But the family’s agreement to take her on a trial basis hadn’t been the salvation she’d expected. She hadn’t been able to wait to return to the family she’d thought of constantly while she was away from it. But the fun times she’d enjoyed each summer with the two daughters had become intolerable misery when the older daughter had become wildly jealous of Mercy and the attention she’d garnered in the very conservative community.
The placement had fallen apart, and she’d found herself in a car with the social worker who’d brought her north. Returned to the city, she’d been placed with a family who used the stipend from five foster kids to help pay for their own expenses. She’d remained there, virtually ignored, for the longest four months of her life.
Then adults she hadn’t known came to the house. She’d realized they were social workers, and they’d given her no warning other than she needed to pack her personal items. The other kids in the house had been told the same. Though none of them had much, they’d delayed as long as they could over the task while they’d spent time speculating about what was about to happen to them. The older children had been resigned to being put with another family in another school district, but Mercy had been terrified.
Her fear had grown when the other children were dropped off to meet other social workers so they could be introduced to their new foster families, but she’d been driven out of the city. Nobody had told her where she was going until they’d left the city behind.
She’d been taken to meet Frieda and Kevin Bamberger, a Mennonite couple whose biological children were much older than she was. When she’d reached their comfortable home, she hadn’t had high hopes. At the time it’d been another change she didn’t have any say in.
But she’d been welcomed as if she’d been a part of their family her whole life. A portion of her bedtime prayers every night still included her gratitude for the two people who had stepped up to be her parents.
She had a chance to help a young child who was caught in the same trap. The Bambergers had welcomed her into their home and their hearts, giving her a new name and a new identity, though there was a remnant of Mercedes Ramirez hidden deep within her, and a family as precious to her as the one she’d shared with Abuelita.
“All right,” Mercy whispered as she stared into the boy’s face.
“All right?” repeated Whitney, astonished by Mercy’s sudden about-face. “Does that mean you’re willing to take Parker on a temporary basis? It could be a month or two before we find him something permanent. In the meantime, the county will provide you with an epinephrine injector in case he goes into anaphylaxis. Instructions for its use are right on the box, and you need to get familiar with them right away so you don’t have to stop to read them if he has an allergy attack. Are you ready to deal with that?”
There wasn’t a single doubt in her heart, though her head was blaring warnings like a fire siren. “Yes, we’ll take him.”