CHAPTER
41

Gloria drove past Sol Speicher’s orchard on the way out of town and recalled Orchard John’s thoughtful gift. Leona will know to return the book. . . .

Her father’s voice jolted her. “Once we’re home again, your head will clear.”

Even so, the deacon’s words echoed in her mind. “You haven’t counted the cost.”

New tears welled up, and she wiped her face on her arm, drawing the attention of her father.

“Gloria, surely you know why I showed up.”

“Out of concern,” she replied, knowing what was expected. “Why else would you travel so far?”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said more gently, “Your mother and I love you, Gloria. You can’t question that.”

“Well, you have a strange way of showing it.”

He frowned. “Caring fathers rescue their daughters.”

No, you’re overbearing. She tried to pinpoint exactly when things had soured between them. Had it been the day he refused to let her stay in Colerain?

Gloria looked over at him accessing MapQuest on his phone. There was a time when I admired him.

He glanced at her, and their eyes locked for a moment.

“Dad, do you remember when I was little, and we used to go on sleigh rides, just you and me? You’d let me sit on your lap and hold the reins. I was so scared the first time. But soon, I was laughing, because I was convinced I had the strongest and most fun-loving Daed ever.”

He turned back to his phone again, saying nothing.

“And our summertime walks near the creek . . . remember those? You recognized all the wild flowers by their color and shape . . . you taught me their names.”

“We were Amish then.” He harrumphed. “I’m glad that’s all behind us.”

“But those are special memories to me,” she insisted. “Honestly, they were the best days of my life. We were close then, Dad.”

“No one in their right mind returns to a backward way of life after experiencin’ the real world,” he said. “It’s ridiculous to think otherwise.”

“But, Dad—”

“Don’t waste your time reliving the past.”

She stared at the road. “There was a time . . .” she murmured.

They sped by the farm landscape, neither of them speaking.

The countryside of my childhood . . .

Her father’s voice sounded husky when he finally said, “Don’t worry; I haven’t forgotten all of it.” He fidgeted a bit. “You once said I was the best father in the whole world.”

“I meant it,” she whispered, turning south toward Route 222. “But do you also remember the day I announced that I’d made a new friend . . . my first-ever bescht friend?”

He sighed loudly, as though suddenly disinterested.

“It was because of your decision to move us from Salem, Arkansas, when I was in sixth grade. You made that happen, Dad.”

“Listen.” His tone was softer now, less obstinate. “I want you to have a secure life, which is why Darren’s so ideal for you. He can offer you what I could never give your mother monetarily.”

But I don’t love him, she thought, comparing Darren to Orchard John even now as she was leaving it all behind.

She felt the old anger rising within her, the feeling of being trapped and held against her will.

“Have you considered letting go of that burden . . . that resentment?” the deacon had asked so firmly, yet compassionately. The burden of bitterness toward Dad.

Was Deacon Ebersol testing me? All those questions . . .

He had also asked if she was ready to stand up to her father.

Apparently not, she thought, and yet she now understood the deacon’s point . . . that her life decisions belonged to her. Her alone. Becoming Amish is my choice to make, she thought. Not my father’s, nor my mother’s.

And it was in that moment, something quickened in her. She glimpsed her father and remembered how she’d felt, only hours earlier at Preaching, overwhelming love . . . and a sense of conviction.

With a full heart, she forged ahead. “I realized today that I’ve been holding a grudge toward you,” she admitted.

He actually chuckled. “I doubt you’re the only one.”

“Dad . . . I forgive you for trying to take me away from the People of Colerain again.”

He frowned as if startled.

“And for moving us away three and a half years ago, when I was too young to say otherwise. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest about this before, but now it’s time I let go of the bitterness.”

Her father took a sharp breath and crossed his arms, seemingly disoriented by her frankness. At last, he muttered, “I guess I never realized how much the Plain life meant to you.”

“You didn’t know how much it meant, because I didn’t. Not until now.”

He shifted and turned to look out the window.

The week with Leona and her family had been so eye-opening—the cheerful hours continued to parade through Gloria’s mind. But reconnecting with Leona rose above all the warm memories.

I was that close to starting something new. Will I always miss the People there? She thought again of Orchard John, whom she’d left for a second time without even a fond farewell. And I forgot to say good-bye to Leona’s Dawdi Benuel, too.

Her father was still staring out the window when he spoke again. “Gloria, you’re my only daughter.”

She glanced at him, waiting, a lump in her throat. “What is it, Dad?”

He inhaled deeply and gradually released it, his manner tentative. “All those memories you talked about—sure, I remember you meeting little Leona that first day of school. It was around the time I also remember thinking, My daughter’s growing up so fast, I can’t keep up. . . .”

Gloria’s eyes were suddenly teary.

“And three years ago, when you wanted to stay . . .” He paused. “I just couldn’t imagine . . .” He hesitated, seemingly unable to continue.

“Dad?”

He slapped his leg, as if prodding himself forward or terribly frustrated. “It’s just that I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my little girl.”

She smiled through her tears and reached to touch his arm. “That’s not possible, Dad. No matter what.”

He clasped her hand, and in that instant, all the years of conflict melted away.

Leona was busy making tuna salad sandwiches later when her mother came down looking quite refreshed, like she’d had at least forty winks. She ambled to the table and sat in her regular spot, fanning herself. “Such a time earlier.”

Leona carried over a glass of cold water and set it down in front of her, then sat down to have a sip. “Denki for sticking up for Gloria today.”

Her mother pulled a face as if to say, “’Twas nothing, really.”

“And thank you for offering her a place to stay during her Proving, too.”

Again, the same face, only with a hint of a smile. Her dear mother was a woman of few words, but it no longer bothered Leona. She remembered her conversations with Gloria. “Your mother is always so sincere.”

Mamma’s eyes were serious as she peered over her glass. “I daresay she needed a family like ours, ain’t so?”

Leona nodded. “And so do I.”

Her mother’s expression was ever so tender.

Leona rose to finish the sandwiches, but Mamma asked her to sit a bit longer.

“Jah?” Leona said, lowering herself back down.

Mamma looked into her glass and swirled the water, then met Leona’s gaze. “There were occasions when Arkansas Joe and Jeannie lived neighbors to us that I thought you preferred them to your father and me. I knew I couldn’t measure up to lively Jeannie. . . . Who could? Guess I thought you’d found what you needed in them.” She paused a moment. “It prob’ly sounds odd, but after they left, I believed you might be pining for Jeannie as much as for Gloria.”

I was, Leona thought sadly. Till my time in Hill View set me straight.

Mamma continued. “I even let my imagination run wild, thinkin’ that you were angry for not having siblings close to your age. You were so lonely—basically an only child.”

“Nee . . . not angry, Mamma. Neimols.”

“Alas, I should’ve told you sooner.” Her mother paused. “Well . . .” She stopped again, obviously struggling.

“What are you tryin’ to say?”

“You couldn’t possibly have known, Leona, but—”

“It’s all right.” She reached out her hand. “Please, tell me.”

Her mother breathed a great sigh. “I suffered three miscarriages after you were born. The doctor cautioned me not to have more children. It was partly my age.”

“Oh, Mamma.” Her heart ached. “I’m grateful for this family, the family God gave me.” Leona paused as she sat there remembering having watched her mother mix dough so carefully and cheerfully, not the way Jeannie always tossed ingredients about, in such a big rush to finish.

It was a crazy thought, but she had to share it. “Did ya know that Jeannie Gingerich hated makin’ bread?”

Their eyes met, and her mother tittered unexpectedly. “I suspected there were things that she chafed against.” Mamma set her glass down. “Some folk, born Plain or not, resist being fully Amish. And no matter how hard they try, it doesn’t seem to take for them. That’s why there are always a few young folk who don’t choose to be baptized and make Plainness their way of life . . . and faith.”

“Deacon Ebersol mentioned to Gloria the importance of commitment . . . and I encouraged her to think on that very thing here lately.”

“There’s no better wisdom than that.” Mamma’s eyes shimmered with tears.

I’ve observed kindness and mercy in Dat and Mamma all my life, Leona thought, but somehow, I missed it till now.

Later, after Leona helped her father in the barn, grooming their driving horse, she strolled back toward the house. Brownie was waiting for her, whining on the back stoop.

“What’s a-matter?” She sat beside him on the step. “You hankerin’ for something?” She nuzzled him, then got up and called him into the porch. Going to the pantry, she opened the lid on the plastic bin of doggie treats and gave him two. “There, now. That should make ya feel better.”

He thumped his tail appreciatively. “If only a simple treat would help me,” she said, thinking of Gloria.

When her father came in, they all sat at the table, where Mamma had slices of snitz pie on small plates for each of them, leftovers from the common meal. Prior to partaking of the pie, Dat opened his big German Biewel for evening devotions.

“S’pose Gloria and Joe will take turns drivin’,” Leona said, a lump in her throat. “Sure hope they’ll stay the night somewhere to rest.”

Mamma folded her hands on the table while Dat located the Scripture reading, and the three of them sat quietly, surrounded by the glow of the gas lamp overhead.

Her father broke the silence, reading an encouraging psalm. He repeated the final two verses, “‘They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.’”

Mamma nodded. “We daresn’t give up on Gloria,” she said softly before they bowed their heads together in prayer.