By the time Sunday came, Esther was drawn only to her black dress. She pulled out her navy dress instead. She was careless as she dressed and stuck herself with a pin twice. Her cut thumb had healed quickly, and she’d grown a callus over it, but there was no callus large enough or strong enough to keep the hurt from losing Daisy at bay.
Esther would be sitting alone at church today. Daisy wouldn’t nudge her to roll her church hanky into babies. She wouldn’t lean her head against Esther’s arm and fall asleep in the last twenty minutes of the service.
“You’re about as white as a new wife’s kapp,” Chester said when Esther came down to the kitchen. His Dutch was still broken sounding and his Texas twang noticeable. “Sorry, Essie, I didn’t mean . . .”
He was probably right. Her stomach twisted around, and even her legs felt weak. For over four years, the little girl had been with her, and now she’d lost her. Daisy’s going to Joe’s church and wearing English clothing made the transition into Joe’s home even more permanent.
Esther nearly spilled milk in her distracted frame of mind before Chester took the pitcher away.
“Sit,” he ordered. Esther obeyed and looked at him. His beard had grown in well, and she’d pressed his suit the night before. It looked good on him. At this point no one would know that he’d returned only two months ago. He finished pouring the milk, then handed it to her. “Here.”
“Dangeh,” she thanked him.
“Oiyah?” He held up a few eggs to her, and his own concerned eyebrows rose in question.
Esther shook her head. “I don’t think I can eat eggs—or anything. I don’t even think I can finish this.” She put the glass of milk down after only one swallow. She briefly closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. When she opened her eyes, Chester was watching her, as if he was analyzing her.
“I remember that the night before you left, you played ‘His Eye Is on the Sparrow,’ ” she said. Her voice was breathy and filled with nervousness. Her eyes landed on the harmonica that sat on the window’s ledge. She could still hear the vibration and reedy chords that he’d played nearly every night of her young years. She was on her way to forgiving him but she was still suspicious about the suited man with the green car, but in this quiet moment, all she wanted was the security that only a parent could give.
Chester looked at Esther, his forehead lined with their history. He swallowed and stuttered as he spoke. “I remember, sweetheart.”
For the first time in two months Esther found herself appreciating Chester’s Englisher ways. She overlooked her frustrations with him for the moment because she’d never been anyone’s sweetheart. In Esther’s thirty-four years, she’d rarely heard Amish men refer to their children in such affectionate terms. It wasn’t for lack of love; it just wasn’t their way. There were occasions, however, when she’d heard a child or wife given a pet name, and she secretly coveted the endearment. She’d often heard Mrs. White call her daughters honey or darling.
“Will you play for me now?” Esther asked. She didn’t want to fight with him. She was so exhausted from the fight she’d had to keep up for nearly thirty years. Her heart hadn’t calmed since the morning she questioned her detteh’s bloody hand. The confusion of those few minutes set the course for the next three decades. But she was tired and exhausted of it all. His harmonica playing had been one of the sweetest memories of her childhood and might be the balm she needed now.
“I’d be happy to.” He didn’t waste a moment and picked up the instrument. When the music began, she sensed the words—Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come? She’d had the same question for most of her life. When the strains played that reminded her that Jesus was her constant friend, she knew that this was where her problem had been. She hadn’t let her Savior be her companion.
The melody continued to fill every space of the old home and filled the breadth of Esther’s spirit, and for the next few minutes she grew into childhood again.