CHAPTER 20

The next morning by seven, I felt as trussed up as a turkey on Thanksgiving, including the long straight pins fastening the back of Rhoda’s sapphire-blue dress—as if holding in my stuffing. I also wore a delicate white apron that reminded me of Alice in Wonderland.

How had I allowed Rhoda to talk me into wearing an Amish outfit? Because Lizzie’s waist was two inches slimmer than mine, I borrowed a dress and apron from Rhoda, who’d said the dress was too small for her—still on the loose side for me but at least I could breathe. If I wanted to go unnoticed, I’d better don a white prayer cap, Lizzie had informed me. My fault for voicing my concerns about staying home all day with Pops, who still hadn’t gotten up. Maybe he’d slept even more fitfully than I had. Or maybe his kidneys had given out, and he’d never wake up again.

A pitchfork seemed to stab into my belly as I considered the possibility, but I dismissed the gruesome image and reminded myself it was time for tough love. I had to get him to agree to see a doctor.

Grandma Leah and Grandpa Leonard opted to stay home and care for him. The poor things; they were clinging on to every moment of seeing their wayward son. I took comfort from it, knowing I wasn’t leaving him completely without care.

Shivering in Armin’s open buggy fifteen minutes later, I pulled the black wool bonnet down over my ears and held the coat’s collar around my neck. Today, the azure-blue sky was as vast as an ocean and hard as polished chrome. The snow from last night—a couple inches—was pristine, cloaking the blemishes of the earth. The sun’s intensity reflecting off the snow made me squint. I reached into my purse and found sunglasses, then slid them back away. I hoped I wouldn’t stand out too much; I wanted to fade into the woodwork, be anonymous.

“I’ll tell everyone you’re my cousin visiting from far away,” Lizzie called to me as she hurried to the family carriage. “They might think your bishop allows you to wear your hair this away.”

She was referring to the fact that I hadn’t parted my hair exactly down the center as instructed. But I’d slicked back my bangs, gathered my disorderly locks with a rubber band, and tucked the ends up under the cap. My hair had been such a mess this morning; it needed taming.

Armin climbed into the open buggy, his weight making the rig shift. I couldn’t help noticing how good-looking Armin was in his black felt hat and black coat. His boots were polished and he was cleanly shaved. I bet every eligible woman at church would flirt with him. None of my concern, I told myself, but I wondered how he’d escaped matrimony so long.

Minutes later, Reuben drove his covered buggy, carrying Rhoda, Jeremy, Peter, and Lizzie, out of the barnyard, and Armin followed. Thunder wasn’t as feisty on the icy ground. I guessed the temperature to be in the mid-thirties. We followed Reuben’s buggy for ten minutes to a three-story home standing beside a barn and several outbuildings, their roofs white. Dozens of carriages—carbon copies of Reuben’s—were parked outside. Young men in their teens, about Peter’s age, unhitched the horses and led them into the barn.

“You’re having church here?” I craned my neck and expected to see a spire.

“Yah, in a home with all the wall partitions removed,” Armin said. “Unless it’s got a sizable basement. Rhoda and Reuben’s house is built that away—most of the walls on the first floor come down. Every family is expected to host church service at least once a year. During the warmer months and depending on the size of the home, we often meet in barns.”

Ahead, women in black winter coats stood clustered, waiting to enter. I was grateful Rhoda had lent me old-fashioned black leather ankle boots or my feet would’ve been freezing in the snow. More buggies arrived, mostly driven by bearded men and teeming with children who jumped out and threw snowballs at each other in spite of their parents’ admonitions. It was a frolicsome, riotous scene that brought me back to my youth—the sound of their exuberant laughter, their quick movements, all refreshing and endearing.

Oh, I longed for a child of my own, more than I’d realized.

A covered carriage rolled up and I recognized the bishop—his features and copious graying beard were embedded in my brain. As he got out and walked to the front door, the sea of people seemed to part, and several men tailed him inside, followed by the rest of the males, including Reuben and Armin, then Jeremy and Peter.

“Don’t ya worry about a thing.” Lizzie slipped her hand through the crook of my elbow. She greeted several young women, who spoke to her in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Gut Mariye,” she said to them. I could make out a few words: she was telling them she’d brought her cousin. I smiled and bobbed my head. I figured the longer I kept my mouth shut the better.

The bishop’s wife passed by and bestowed a brisk nod upon me. I waited for her to call me an imposter, but she moved on. I wondered if she knew about Lizzie’s escapades. Lizzie had stood at the side of the road with Joe last night for all the world to see—or at least this little neck of the woods, anyway. And the bishop’s wife had recognized Joe in the bookstore.

“Time to go in.” Lizzie bumped me with her arm. “No worries; I’ll show ya how to act,” she told me as we proceeded to the house. “Do everything I do. When we sing—I’ll warn you, it’s going to move at the speed of a tortoise—you can mouth the words or hum. No one will notice the difference.”

But her statement didn’t ring true: every Amish woman who glanced my way gave me a wide-eyed look of doubt. And the older women weren’t smiling fondly upon Lizzie, although one or two greeted her. I decided that what they thought of me was the least of my troubles. It would be comforting to sit among strangers who knew nothing of me or my nebulous history. Unless they’d heard about me from the bishop’s wife.

Once inside the house, after the men had entered, my nostrils were met with the smell of pine oil. This home was immaculately clean and tidy, and rows of backless wooden benches stood in an orderly fashion, filling every inch. Lizzie explained that the benches belonged to the district; they’d been delivered and set up yesterday, as they were every other week and at weddings. The women found seats on the opposite side from the men. Children of all ages, including infants, sat mostly with the women, but a few men held or corralled toddlers. I scanned the room and found Armin—my, he had wide shoulders and good posture—beside Reuben. On Armin’s other side sat a tall, bearded man with the same espresso-brown hair as Armin’s. Armin seemed to be leaning away from the man, who spoke soberly into his ear.

Armin rotated his head; his eyes scanned the women until he found me. His gaze focused intently on my face and the corners of his mouth lifted. I felt a tingling rush in my chest, like when I drank bubbling 7UP too quickly. I smiled back at him—I couldn’t resist. But then I wondered if he found the sight of me, dressed Amish, comical: no makeup, hair hidden under a cap. I hoped not. But then his gaze—like a jolt of electricity—told me he appreciated what he saw.

The other man, seated next to him, seemed to notice Armin and his stare zoomed in on me too. For several moments, both men watched me. I wiped the grin off my face. The other man spoke to Armin soberly, then the man’s face lit up as he nodded to a woman sitting somewhere in front of me.

“Who’s the guy by Armin?” I asked Lizzie in a subdued voice.

“His older brother, Nathaniel. His wife and mother-in-law are a couple rows in front of us.”

I saw the woman she was referring to: nice looking and a few years Rhoda’s senior, making her late fifties, sitting by a wrinkly faced oldster who had her neck craned and was inspecting me through thick glasses. When she saw me eyeing her, her mouth bunched together.

“Ach, ’tis a long story.” Lizzie tipped her head toward me. “Nathaniel was a widower for many years until he re-met Esther, whose daughter moved here from the other side of the country. The family was hoping Esther’s daughter would join the church and settle down with Armin, but she wed a Mennonite, Zach Fleming, our veterinarian.”

Several bearded men and Bishop Troyer climbed the home’s wooden staircase to the second floor. Lizzie explained the ministers were going upstairs to pray and plan the service while we sang. They didn’t even have a sermon in mind? Our pastor back home had mentioned that he prayed, pondered scripture and his sermon all week in preparation.

Hymnbooks appeared and people opened them, but only a few of the adults in the congregation of about two hundred seemed to glance at the words. Lizzie opened a hymnbook and handed it to me. Amid the rustling, a man’s baritone voice started a German hymn, then everyone joined in. A cappella: no musical instruments. The song moved slowly, like a rolling ocean wave on a calm day, cresting and falling in a lethargic, comforting manner, the voices blending together, vibrating in my ears and touching me somewhere deep inside. I recalled Pops singing Christmas carols in German and now it made sense. Also why he was so set on my studying German in high school and college. As I picked up some of the lyrics, I felt myself healing from within.