19

Geena had been right to encourage Bethany to wait before asking the sisters about her mother. She felt better prepared to hear the truth than she had last week, when it was fresh. Painful. She had needed time to “process,” as Geena would say.

But the time had come to find out more. Bethany had woken up on Monday morning with a strange inner knowing that it was time. Could it be she was finally sensing the intuition that Naomi said belonged to everyone? Or maybe it was the prompting from God that Geena had said would come, in good time. And here it was.

Over the weekend, Bethany had confided in Naomi, telling her everything she knew about her mother, and Naomi had repeated her standing invitation to the quilting bee. “Come to the quilting bee on Monday,” Naomi said. “Come and ask.”

Bethany hadn’t given Naomi a definite answer, but all morning long, she kept getting a tug she couldn’t ignore. More like a push. At noon, she appeared at Naomi’s front door. “I’m going to go.”

Naomi smiled, as if she knew all along.

The Sisters’ Bee was meeting at Edith Fisher’s house. A Log Cabin quilt top, pieced from purple and blue fabrics, was stretched onto a large frame in the living room, with chairs positioned around the frame. The women were just finding their places as Jimmy Fisher darted in and handed his mother a bag of lemons. His eyes locked on Bethany’s and he made his eyebrows do that crazy up-down dance, which always made her grin as hard as she tried to squelch it. Edith Fisher caught their look and glared suspiciously at Bethany, who ducked her head in embarrassment.

Edith held up the bag of lemons. “I’ll put the teakettle on. I’m serving my shortbread,” she announced as if it were a surprise.

“I’d hoped you would,” Naomi said kindly.

Bethany had hoped she would not, but fat chance. She was amazed that Naomi—who was a fine baker—could be so charitable about Edith Fisher’s rock-hard shortbread. A person could chip a tooth on it.

The ladies chatted to each other in a mingling of Penn Dutch and English. For a moment Bethany closed her eyes, letting the harmonious sound of the two mingled languages fill her. The best sound, she thought. Like music.

“Has anyone seen my favorite thimble?” Ella asked Bethany and Naomi. “I’ve misplaced it.”

More and more, Bethany felt a spike of concern about Ella’s with-it-ness. She was always looking for that one lost thimble, the one with the band of roses around its base, though she had plenty of other thimbles.

When the women had settled in their seats and pulled out their needles and thread, Bethany took a deep breath and blurted out, “I have a question to ask and I would like an answer.”

Heads bobbed up. The sisters looked curiously at Bethany.

“I want to know the truth about my mother.”

Hands stilled. Chins dropped to chests and eyes riveted to needle and thread. All but Naomi. She kept her head high. Bethany was so glad she was beside her. “I went to Hagensburg. I saw my mother. I know she’s schizophrenic. I also know that some of you visit her once a month.” She hoped someone in the room would speak, but it was as quiet as death.

The ladies peeked around the circle at one another, avoiding Bethany’s eyes; then each turned to Edith Fisher, just as they always did when there was a difficult decision to make. It was remarkable how much authority Edith possessed. She would have made a fine deacon, Bethany thought, and wondered why in the world she was thinking such a stray thought when she was waiting to hear the truth about her mother.

“What’s that you were saying?” Edith Fisher said stonily.

“I said I wanted to know the truth about my mother.”

Sylvia let out a deep sigh and set down her needle. “I always thought we should have told her, right from the beginning. Do I have your permission, sisters?” She looked around the circle for approval. “Edith, is it all right for Bethany to know our secret about Mary?” Everyone waited.

Bethany looked at Edith Fisher. She shrugged her big shoulders up and down, but at last, she muttered, “I suppose we knew this day would come, sooner or later.”

Sylvia picked up her needle and thread and set to work. “Bethany, your mother started this quilting bee,” she said. “When she married your father, she moved here to Stoney Ridge and asked Ella to teach her to quilt. Ella has always been known for her fine quilting and for her bottomless well of patience.” She nodded at her sister.

Ella seemed pleased with the compliment. “Patience is a virtue.”

“That it is, dear,” Ada said. “And in short supply today.”

Oh no. Once the sisters veered off topic, it was never a short trip back.

“She called us the Sisters’ Bee, your mother did. And soon a few others joined in who weren’t good quilters. Edith, for example.”

Edith’s sparse eyebrows lifted.

“It’s the truth, Edith,” Fannie said. “Your stitches were long as inchworms.”

“They never were!”

“Knots the size of flies,” Lena added.

Edith’s lips flattened into a thin line of disgust.

Lena waved that away. “It wasn’t your fault, Edith. You just hadn’t learned right. You’ve made a lot of progress over the years.”

Bethany cleared her throat to remind them of the topic of her mother.

Sylvia picked up on Bethany’s cue. “Your mother was a pretty girl, just as pretty as you. She and your daddy made a fine pair. But your mama was awful young when they married. And she started showing signs of the sickness before Tobe was born.”

“What kind of signs?” Bethany asked.

“She grew fearful,” Ada said.

“Oh yes, yes,” Fannie said, nodding her head. “I remember that now. She thought someone was after her. She wasn’t always sure what was real and what wasn’t. But she had good days, when she seemed right as rain. We all thought the sickness would go away after the baby came.”

The sisters nodded. “We did think that,” Sylvia said. “But after Tobe was born, the sickness came on her and didn’t leave. It hit her hard. We all tried helping out—sometimes new mothers get the baby blues.”

Fannie shook her head. “This wasn’t the baby blues.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Sylvia said. “It was something we didn’t know how to handle. Our church was different back then. We had a different bishop—it was after Caleb Zook’s time—”

Ella spoke up. “Caleb Zook would have known how to help her. He was a fine, fine bishop.”

All five sisters nodded. Even Edith gave a curt bob of her head. Just one.

“Our bishop at that time was hard on Mary,” Ada said. “He convinced her that she was being punished for her sins.”

Sylvia poised her needle in the quilt, then looked up. “Poor Mary got sicker and sicker—strange, strange behavior. That doctor gave her some medicine, but she didn’t like the way it made her feel. She slept almost around the clock.”

“All day and all night,” Ella echoed.

“And they didn’t know as much about mental illness twenty-some years ago,” Sylvia said. “Mary couldn’t tolerate those drugs, sleeping all the time, not with a little toddler running around. Your daddy took her to more doctors and tried more medicines. One doctor said she would need to be locked up before she hurt herself. Then your daddy heard about a Braucher in Ohio and they paid him a visit. When they came back from the faith healer, they threw away her medication. They both thought she was healed. Your daddy—” she sighed, “well, the need to believe things were going to be all right was a powerful one. And for a little while, she did seem better.” She looked around the room at her sisters. “Remember that?”

Capstrings bounced in agreement.

“Then she became in the family way with you,” Sylvia continued. “And the sickness came back to her and wouldn’t leave. One of us took turns staying with her, all the time.”

A hot, crushing sensation sharpened in Bethany’s chest. “What happened then?”

The sisters exchanged a glance, then their eyes settled on Edith Fisher.

“It was a hot summer day and I was on duty with her,” Edith said. “Tobe had fallen outside, so I ran out to see if he was hurt. Your mother was resting, and you were in your cradle, sound asleep. But when I came back in, I found her . . .” She stumbled on the words, then stopped. She puffed air out of her cheeks and looked away.

Whatever Edith was trying to say, it was hard for her.

She turned back to look straight at Bethany. “I found her trying to drown you in the bathtub. She said you had a demon in you.”

What did that mean? The heat of the afternoon made Bethany feel like she might faint. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped. The hot spot on her chest grew hotter and larger, spreading up her neck to her cheeks. This truth . . . as it settled in, it was searing her heart.

“So we packed Mary up and took her to that little house for sick ladies,” Sylvia said. “And we never told your daddy or anybody else where she’d gone.”

Bethany’s breaths came in rapid pants and her throat was so dry. “You did that? You let my father, all of us, think she had run off? Just abandoned us?”

“We did,” Sylvia said gently, firmly, “and we’d do it again.”

“But . . . why? How could you do such a thing?”

“We were afraid your father would go get her and bring her back and then we didn’t know what she might do. To herself, to you, to Tobe. We couldn’t risk that.”

Bethany dropped her hands in her lap and looked hard at Sylvia. “But that wasn’t fair! It wasn’t right. Not to my father, not to the rest of us. To not know where she’d gone or why.”

“It might not have been fair,” Sylvia said, “but it was better than the alternatives.”

“How could you put someone away without their will?”

“It wasn’t against her will,” Edith interrupted impatiently. She’d let Sylvia be in charge long enough. “This was all Mary’s idea. She had asked us to help her, begged us, if there came a point when she couldn’t take care of you or Tobe. We loved her. We did what she wanted. We even helped with the divorce papers even though it went against our beliefs.”

“Against everything we believed in,” Fannie said.

“We didn’t think it was the right thing to do. If the bishop knew, we would’ve been in hot water ourselves.”

“Terrible hot water,” Ella echoed.

“Kneeling on the front bench,” Ada added.

“We tried talking Mary out of it,” Edith said, “but she was adamant.”

“But . . . you helped her get a divorce? My father would never have divorced my mother, no matter how sick she became.”

“That’s true,” Sylvia said, “but he also wasn’t willing to protect her. His need to believe everything was all right was stronger than the facts.”

Bethany felt a chill run down her spine. Hadn’t she heard Rose say the same thing to her father as Schrock Investments imploded?

“I know this is hard for you to understand,” Fannie said, “but your mother was desperate. She had moments of clarity that horrified her and she knew the sickness was getting worse. Your mother needed help and your father wouldn’t get it for her. He could never accept what her sickness was doing to her. He refused to believe that she was as sick as she was. We felt desperate too, Bethany. That was when the Sisters’ Bee had a talk and we agreed to do what Mary asked us to do. We didn’t know how else to help her. I suppose we thought this was her only chance to keep herself safe—for her own sake, for others, to give her some peace of mind.”

Edith rose. “We never abandoned Mary. We still take care of her. We rotate a schedule and visit her every month.”

Sylvia gave Bethany a sad smile. “This is why we keep quilting. We raffle off our quilts at local auctions and pay Mary’s monthly bills.”

Bethany tried to steady herself, tried to breathe, as she absorbed this news. “I need to think about it all. I want—I just—” She stood, hoping her knees wouldn’t buckle. “I can’t take it in.” She headed for the door, then stopped and turned around. “How did you know she would never get well? How could anybody predict that?”

The question hung in the air as they all grew quiet again, eyes on Edith. There was something more, a final part of the secret.

“I knew your mother as a girl,” Edith said. “We were childhood friends. I introduced her to your father.” There was a tremor of sadness in her voice. She looked down at her hands, then lifted her head and looked straight at Bethany. “Mary’s mother had the sickness too. She knew what her future looked like.”

Bethany grasped the top of a chair. She felt a blow, as real as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. And that was when it hit her. It was genetic. Her mother’s sickness was hereditary.

“So that’s why you don’t want Jimmy to court Bethany,” Naomi said in a quiet voice.

Edith spoke right to Bethany. “Die Dochder aart der Mudder noh.” The daughter takes after the mother.

“Edith! That’s an awful, awful thing to say,” Sylvia scolded.

“It’s the truth,” Edith huffed.

Sylvia crossed the room and reached for Bethany’s hands, covering them with her own hands, wrinkled and speckled with brown spots. “We kept this secret because we didn’t want you to grow up with such a burden hanging over your head. Not you or your brother Tobe.” She squeezed Bethany’s hands and held them close to her heart. “Just remember one thing, Bethany. Your mother loved you. Don’t you see? She loved you and your brother and your daddy enough to give you up.”

Bethany had to get out of that house, that stuffy room, away from the looks of pity on the sisters’ faces, relieved Naomi didn’t follow her. She spotted Jimmy in the cornfield and skirted quickly around the chicken hatchery to reach the road, hoping he hadn’t seen her. She desperately needed to be alone.

As soon as she reached the shady tree-lined road, she slowed. She gulped in air and tried to find words to pray, but she couldn’t find them. Her thoughts were on her mother as a young woman—about how she must have walked down this very road when she was Bethany’s age—when she felt her heart start to race and she had trouble taking a full breath of air. Her stomach cramped. A tingling sensation ran down her arms to the ends of her fingers. She stopped on the side of the road and sat on the grass under a tree, hoping it would pass. What was happening to her?

After a few long moments, her heart stopped racing, she could breathe again, and she was left with a wave of exhaustion. A sort of oppression settled over her—weighing her down, stealing her energy. This wasn’t the first time she felt like something might be wrong with her. Each time, it felt different. A few days ago, her hands couldn’t stop trembling. Another time she woke in the night in a cold sweat, convinced she was suffocating. She hadn’t slept more than two hours at a stretch in the last week. Was she too young to have a heart attack? Her father had heart trouble.

Or . . . was she going crazy? Like her mother? It wasn’t the first time she had thought such a thing. After meeting her mother last week, the worry had been lurking at the back of her mind. All summer long, she had been turning into all moodiness and distraction. She tried not to think she was losing her mind, but that was like trying not to think about a cricket that was chirping. The more you don’t think about it, the louder it gets.

Schizophrenia could be inherited. Hadn’t Edith Fisher just admitted as much?

She had to go talk to Jimmy Fisher.

“You’re breaking up with me?” Jimmy’s mouth opened wide and his eyes quit twinkling. “And we haven’t even started courting yet?”

“I’ve given it a lot of thought since we talked, Jimmy,” Bethany said, trying to sound clear and strong and brave. No wavering. “It’s for the best. It’s good that nothing’s gotten started yet. It’ll be easier. We were friends before and this way we’ll remain friends.” It hurt too much to look in his eyes so she didn’t.

He grabbed her shoulders and made her face him. “What have I done wrong?”

Tell him. Don’t tell him. “Nothing. It’s nothing like that. It’s just . . . I’m just not right for you.” To her horror, tears sprang to her eyes and she bit her lip, trying to make them stop. It had been such a long afternoon and she was dangerously emotional, teetering on a breakdown.

“Whatever I did, I’m sorry. If you’ll just tell me, I promise I won’t do it again.”

That pulled her up short. Sympathy was the last thing she expected, or deserved. Tell him. Don’t tell him. She turned her head away and looked at the chicken hatchery in the distance. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He gave her shoulders a gentle shake. “Then help me to understand. Why are you suddenly going cold on me? Usually, you’re only mad if I’ve done something stupid.”

His face looked so sad, she wanted to hug him, but of course she didn’t dare. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not.”

His shoulders slumped. Just as he was about to say something, she stopped him. “Please. I just need to be left alone. Can’t you understand that?”

He shrugged, but not in a good way, as if he accepted what was coming and was bracing himself for it. “Yeah, sure. Absolutely.” He let her go and took a step back, then his eyes turned to a snapping fire for a second and his mouth broke into one of those reckless smiles that made her feel as if her heartbeat missed a hitch. “Don’t you worry none about me, Bethany,” he said, the words clipped, hard. “I’ll get along just fine.”

But then she never doubted that and it was hardly to be wondered. Him with his mighty faith, so strong and solid. It was herself she doubted. “I know. I know you will.”

He gave her a probing look, one she couldn’t read. “Just answer me this . . . what are you so afraid of?”

She turned her head from his hard gaze and felt burning tears flood into her eyes, causing her to sniff like a baby. He just wouldn’t leave well enough alone and made her look at him square in the face. “Tell me.”

She hesitated for a moment before giving him the only possible answer. “Of making a terrible mistake.”