THE NEXT FEW hours were a merciful blur to Tabitha as she struggled to maintain some sense of calm. Onkel Fram ranged between sorrow over “gut old Lizzie” passing to making sly references about his now ownership of the haus and land. But Tabitha didn’t have time for his meanness when she knew she had to prepare for the bishop’s visit and then the undertaker—an English Mr. Wesley—to arrive.
She had tenderly changed Aenti Elizabeth’s dirt-soiled gown once she’d gotten her into her own bed with Onkel Fram’s help. Now she had nothing to do but wait for morning. Sleep was out of the question, even though Fram somehow found a way to fall to snoring on the couch. Tabitha sat at the kitchen table, holding Rough in her lap and idly sipping at a cup of jasmine tea. She felt wide-eyed and beaten, and she knew that she had cried all of the tears that she could while in the garden. I wonder if the salt will make the plants grow better. She knew she was over-tired and then wished more than anything that John might appear and take her in his arms. She cuddled Rough closer on her lap with one hand, then lay her head down on her arm on the table, not realizing when she fell into a deep, fitful sleep.
“She’s completely worn out—poor thing,” Ann Yoder whispered to John in the early morning gloom of the darkened kitchen.
“I’ll carry her up to her bed if you’ll accompany us,” he said, already easing a sleeping Rough from her lap.
“Let me have the pup, and you lead the way with the poor girl. Heaven only knows how she managed to fall asleep with the likes of that man’s snoring.”
John carefully nudged Tabitha into his arms and lifted her with ease from the table. Her head fell back against his arm, revealing the bruise-like circles beneath her eyes, but he thought that she was still achingly beautiful, and he trod the steps to her room as if he were carrying a babe in arms.
Ann turned back the covers, then bustled out of the room. “This pup needs to pee,” she whispered in a carrying tone over her shoulder. “And I’ll not have my best apron soiled.”
John heard her go downstairs, then gently laid Tabitha down. He decided there would be no harm in slipping off her sensible shoes and did so easily, but then she began to murmur and he put a reassuring hand on her brow.
“Mmmm—John, please. Please, Gott, send John . . .”
He almost withdrew in shock and amazement that she called for him in her sleep-drugged state. She probably is only thinking that Rob is away and needs a strong shoulder to lean on during this difficult time. But he could not deny that the sound of her speaking his name had brought raw tears to his eyes. He wanted so badly to ease her pain. He was so grateful that the bishop had stopped to tell him the news of Beth’s death before taking the buggy into town to fetch Mr. Wesley—a man used to the Amish and their odd hours of action.
John gently stroked the hair that had worked loose from her kapp and wished he knew how to comfort her. The best he could do was ease the sheet and quilt up over her small frame and then leave her in peace, though he longed to stay beside her. But courting or not, it wasn’t proper for him to be alone with her in her own bedroom. So, with another tender stroke of her pale cheek, he left her to get some sleep while she could.
Tabitha awakened to bright sunlight streaming through her window, and for a brief moment she wondered if the night before had been nothing but a bad dream. But then she saw the dirt stains on her sleeves and hands and knew once more the wash of sorrow that Aenti Elizabeth was truly gone. Tabitha rubbed at her eyes, then wondered how she’d gotten into bed, when there was a soft knocking at her door.
“Kumme in,” she called, her throat still a bit hoarse from all of her crying.
To Tabitha’s surprise, Ann Tudor entered bearing a tray with a mound of toast beside a delicate pot of tea.
“And before you say you cannot eat, think of all that you must do today. You’ll need your strength, even with John by your side.” Ann settled the tray on the bed beside Tabitha, then moved to raise the simple window blind higher.
Tabitha winced at the onslaught of sunshine, then spoke slowly. “John?”
“He’s been sitting downstairs for three hours now, waiting for you to waken. Why, how do you think you got to bed in the first place if it weren’t for his strong arms?”
Tabitha combed her memory, trying to pick out any moments in John’s arms, but she’d been exhausted and the time was lost to her. She picked up a piece of toast and Ann smiled.
“Gut. Eat. And in case you’re wondering why I’m here—well, I saw the bishop passing and hailed him, with my nightgown on to boot. I figured since you’ve been bringing me pies and all that, the least I could do was help you out today.” Tabitha chewed quietly, then asked, “Why pie?”
Ann laughed. “You mean, why is pie the key to having a friendship with me?”
Tabitha nodded, and Ann sat down on the side of the bed, careful not to disturb the tray.
“Why, child, pie is something that—that—look, you’ve heard of the English writer, Mark Twain, right?”
Tabitha nodded tiredly. “Ya.”
“Well, I read once that Mark Twain said “Pie needs no advertisement,” and he’s one smart Englischer for writing that. Pie is gut for breakfast, lunch, or dinner—it’s far better than cake. And pie just seems to make people happier. I remember once when—” She broke off so suddenly that Tabitha was intrigued against her will.
“You remember when . . . what?”
“Never mind,” Ann sniffed. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s about my mamm and daed, isn’t it? Aenti Elizabeth—she—she told me how you were once all three gut friends, but now they’re gone, just like Aenti Elizabeth.”
“Ya, child, and I’d give anything to have them back. You see, I was jealous when your fater chose your mamm—your mamm and I were real close. And we tried baking different pies to win the attentions of a certain gentleman, but in the end, he liked your mamm’s apple far better than my huckleberry with a spiced crust. We fought over pie. It seems so silly now. I’m sorry. I bet you won’t want to speak with me now that you know the truth.”
Tabitha didn’t miss the ring of wistfulness in the other woman’s voice, and she thought about her and Letty and how they’d made up. Tabitha reached out a hand and laid it tenderly on Ann’s weathered palm. “I’ll make you pie anytime, Frau Yoder.”
The older woman smiled. “Call me Ann, honey.”
John thought Tabitha looked so fragile, clad in a dress and pale blue blouse that matched her sorrowful eyes. She didn’t wear all black, and he knew instinctively that this was in tribute to her aenti—who had died in all the vibrant color of an early spring garden.
Tabitha lifted her gaze to his, and he nodded as if to reassure her that she could get through the coming hour or so, for the bishop and Mr. Wesley had already arrived and were being admitted by Ann Tudor.
The bishop came, as he did to any death, to offer the condolences of the community and to bolster the spirits of the family left behind. Mr. Wesley came to take the body away to be prepared for burial, to be dressed in a white dress and kapp, and to be placed in an old-fashioned coffin that had a top half that opened so that those at the funeral might pass and look upon their loved one once more before burial.
All of this passed quickly through John’s mind now that the men had entered the house, and Tabitha accepted their handshakes and words of kindness. There was, he realized, a certain spine of steel in her, as she stood slim and straight, speaking to the men. He admired this when he could also see that she shifted uneasily from foot to foot, as if in anxiety but determined not to show it.
The women of the community came too, bringing hearty food and casserole dishes that could be kept to eat late at night when sleep wouldn’t come because of sorrow. Sometimes a woman would come and simply sit in silence in the living room as John and Tabitha sat too. There were no words spoken—as often the mere presence of a friend brought solace without unnecessary conversation.
And then John realized that Tabitha wasn’t eating, and he sought in his heart to do something about the situation. He knew she’d feel better in the days to come, but he wanted to try his own hand at tempting her appetite. He decided he’d rope Matt into helping him and left Tabitha a bit early to set about exploration of the unfamiliar terrain of his mamm’s kitchen.
“Now what is it you want to do?” Matt was chewing an apple and looking both doubtful and confused.
John blew out a breath of frustration. “Look, Tabitha didn’t really eat today that I noticed and—”
“Ya, and her aenti just died, so who wants to eat? And with that creepy Onkel Fram hanging around, I’d lose my appetite too.”
John chose to ignore his little bruder’s excuses. “Matt, I want us to cook her some—well, gut things to have for breakfast tomorrow that might tempt her appetite.”
“Exactly what kind of good things?” Matt chewed suspiciously. “You know neither of us knows how to do little but scramble an egg.”
“I’ve been looking through mamm’s recipe box and—”
“What?” Matt chortled. “I would like to have seen that.”
John sighed. “Look, we’re making her miniature raisin pies, all right?”
Matt choked on his apple. “As in—many pies? We couldn’t even get the pie crust done correctly for one single pie, let alone many small ones.”
“O ye of little faith.” John smiled. “Let’s pray and see how it goes.”
John was glad that Matt held his tongue for the odd baking prayer. “Okay.” John clapped his hands when he’d finished. “Mamm writes that a secret to mini-crusts is putting cream cheese in the dough. So, that’s what we’re going to do. Now wash your hands.”
Two hours later John surveyed the messy kitchen table with satisfaction.
“Well, we did it, little bruder. Danki.” John suppressed a grin; Matt looked like he’d been wrung through a flour mill. However, the reality was that twelve miniature and delectable-looking raisin pies sat on a simple dish, ready to be taken to Tabitha in the morning.
John clapped Matt on the shoulder, and a flurry of spices emanated from his younger brother’s shirt. John did laugh out loud then. “I don’t think there’s ever any chance of either of us taking the art of pie making for granted.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Matt moaned. “You’ve got a girl to cook for you.”
John nodded, the smile fading from his face. “Ya. . . look, Matt—” But the truth he’d been about to share was lost as his bruder made a dive for the nearly empty filling bowl and the moment was gone.
John slowly set about putting the kitchen to rights as he prayed that his small gift might bring on Tabitha’s appetite and do her heart gut.
Tabitha was up before dawn the next day. She felt too restless and keyed up to sleep much past 5:00 a.m. She wandered restlessly about the kitchen, touching things here and there and missing her aenti so much that she could feel the pain like a palpable thing within and around her. She had no desire to eat, and it was too early to start Onkel Fram’s breakfast as he usually didn’t rise until an hour or so later.
She walked into the living room and dropped onto the couch with a disconsolate sigh, then started upright when the back door was eased open with a tiny squeak.
“Who’s there?” she asked into the gloom, then breathed a sigh of relief when she saw John’s tall form enter.
“It’s me,” he said softly, and she was reassured and comforted by his familiar deep voice.
She noticed that he balanced a tin-foil wrapped plate in one hand as he came toward her, and she gave him a wan smile. “Did someone leave more food outside?”
He eased down onto the couch beside her. “I bet you’re sick of food, aren’t you?”
“I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I know that many people don’t know what else to say or do, so they bring food. I—I can’t seem to work myself up into eating though,” she admitted.
He tugged the tinfoil off the plate with gentle fingers. “Ach, but this isn’t any auld food, Tabitha.”
She peered down onto the plate and saw the small circle shapes. “Miniature pies?”
“Ya, and I made them—at least, Matt and I did.”
She felt a laugh bubble up unexpectedly in her throat. “You made them—for me?”
He gave a soft laugh too. “I know it might seem odd, but I was worried about you not eating and I thought maybe something small and dainty . . . might—well, tempt your appetite.”
Tabitha stared at his strong fingers holding the plate. To think, he yielded that strength to make something with tenderness and care so that I might eat. She felt a pang of hunger in her belly for the first time since her aunt died.
She lifted one of the little pies and cradled it in her palm. “I’ll have one if you do.”
“Done,” he agreed.
She watched him eat and then took a bite herself. “Mmmm—raisin. One of my favorites.” She chewed thoughtfully. “It’s really gut.”
“Are you surprised?”
“Well,” she smiled. “Ya.” She felt shy suddenly, sitting there in the half light, sharing food with him. But he chose another pie from the plate and leaned back on the couch, and she did the same.
Then she felt like talking, in much the same way she had felt like eating—with a sudden pang. “John?”
“Hmmm?”
“How do you get over it—someone dying, I mean?”
She watched him shake his head. “I could tell you something of Derr Herr, I suppose,” he said after a moment. “But even Derr Herr wept and mourned when He lost someone He loved.” He spread his hands before him, then turned to her. “I guess you keep hurting for a while, maybe a long while. And maybe that hurt gets less after time, but it could be that it flares up in heartsickness—like a cycle. I don’t think there’s meant to be an easy answer.”
“I want there to be. I’m afraid I’m not very gut at feeling pain, and it seems that it’s one emotion that demands to be felt.” She passed a hand over her eyes.
“That’s true,” he agreed. “And, of course, the emotional and spiritual pain starts to feel like something physical so that you don’t want to sleep—or eat. But I think, I think life is waiting for you, Tabitha. I think it waits in all of the stars that will shine, all of the seasons to come, in the very garden where your Aenti Beth died—it waits for you to come and join again in the world Gott has given you.”
She smiled faintly, feeling her heart respond to his encouraging words. “You’re wise, John Miller, do you know that?”
“Nee, at least I don’t feel that way much of the time.”
She reached out an impulsive hand and touched his wrist, then let her fingers slip away. “You should, John. You’ve done my heart gut—with both your words and your pies.” She picked up another raisin-filled crust and took a bite. “Danki,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome.”
She told herself that she imagined the note of sadness in his voice and concentrated on finishing her pie.