CHAPTER 25

I watched the bishop’s large gloved hand turn the doorknob.

“I’d better stay out here,” I said. I’d be content in the cabin with Armin and Ginger while Bishop Troyer made his house call. But then I considered how vexed I’d be if I woke up in the morning and found my father had stolen away during the night. I got to thinking about what I’d miss if I didn’t accompany the bishop—possibly clues about my mother.

A block of chilly air barged in as he headed outside. The door shut behind him.

“Wait, I changed my mind,” I said. “I’ll walk over to the house too.” I grabbed my coat, stuffed my arms into the sleeves. “Rhoda might need help preparing dinner.”

“On Sunday, we have leftovers,” Armin said. “Rhoda did her cooking yesterday.”

“You all take this day-of-rest business seriously, and yet the bishop’s working.”

“As did Jesus when he healed the man with the shriveled hand in the book of Mark.” Armin gave Ginger a back rub and the dog stretched out her short rear legs. “I’ll come into the house later.” I guessed he meant after the bishop left. Armin probably didn’t want to be further enmeshed in the family’s tumult. But I had no choice.

I stepped into the boots and hurried outdoors. Dusk had begun to spread her tinny-gray wings; tissue-paper–thin clouds drifted overhead. The air felt a smidgeon warmer. The snow beneath my feet was softening.

“Wait up,” I said, trailing Bishop Troyer across the slushy barnyard.

I figured he was about fifteen years older than Pops, but in spite of his slim frame and somewhat stilted gait, the bishop possessed ten times the vitality; his strides were taken with purpose. From what I’d seen, he was a righteous man. I recalled the other night; he’d had every reason to glower at me when I’d nearly pulled my car out onto the road in front of his carriage. I’d been negligent, yet he hadn’t brought the incident up to shame me.

I caught up with him. “Just a minute,” I said, my heel skidding on the snow.

He kept heading toward the back steps. Someone had shoveled and swept them off—I assumed Peter or Jeremy. “You don’t have to come in with me,” he said, “if it’s too painful for you.”

“I can’t hide out at Armin’s all night. And I’d like to see Rhoda.” Bitterness continued to eat me, like termites chiseling into decaying wood. I eagerly awaited Pops’s bewildered expression when he saw the bishop. Then I recalled the Ten Commandments. Honor thy father. I prayed in silence: Please, God, remove this hostility. Let me start with a clean slate.

The bishop climbed the stairs, scuffed and stamped the snow off his boots, and made his way through the utility room in a confident manner that told me he’d been here many times before. Entering the kitchen, he shed his black hat and coat.

Rhoda stood at the counter. “What a fine gut surprise.” But her facial expression seemed filled with dread: her lips pulled tight. And yet for all I knew, Rhoda herself had asked Bishop Troyer to come see Pops. Maybe she hoped the bishop would convince Pops to stay a few days. I liked Rhoda so much; I hated to see her disappointed. She took the bishop’s coat and hat.

“I’d like to speak to Ezekiel, if I may.”

“Yah, that would be gut.”

“Where might I find him?”

“He was up for a short while, but he’s back in bed in our small room on the first floor. I’ll show you the way.”

I followed the two of them through the living room. They were speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch so I wouldn’t understand them. Or maybe it was just out of habit. I realized when they spoke English, they were doing it as a courtesy to me. I could make out several words; they were talking about Reuben and how furious he was having my father in the house. Reuben had threatened to bodily remove Pops. The bishop said it would be unfitting for an Amishman to physically evict a person, no matter the weather or circumstance.

I didn’t know what I expected as we neared the bedroom. I got this crazy notion Pops might be gratified to see the bishop, to confess his wrongdoings. But why would my father spontaneously reverse his thinking the moment he saw Bishop Troyer?

Pops was wearing reading glasses and sitting in bed drinking tea—his cup sat on a tray on the bedside table. A propane lamp stood nearby. A magazine—The Connection—lay open in his lap. He looked better, his face less gaunt and his eyes clearer.

“Hello, Ezekiel.” Bishop Troyer pulled the door completely open and stepped into the room with Rhoda and me shadowing him. “Do you remember me from when we were younger?”

“I guess.” Pops flipped the magazine’s page. “Rhoda tells me you’re a bishop now.” Pops didn’t seem to be showing much respect. I wanted to jump in and say something, but I remained silent. The bishop would get nowhere if I interfered.

“Once again, God has worked all things together for good,” Bishop Troyer said.

“How’s that?” It seemed Pops was trying to antagonize the bishop, but Bishop Troyer remained calm.

I recognized the reference to Romans that our pastor had quoted, something about God working for the good of those who love him, to those who were called according to his purpose. Which left Pops out, I assumed. And me, too, if I were honest with myself. Did I really love God? More than caramel ice cream and lattes? More than anything on earth? Even the dream of finding my mother?

As my thoughts did loop-the-loops, I compressed my lips together so I wouldn’t interrupt the conversation.

Bishop Troyer moved to the foot of the bed. “Do you think your being here is a coincidence, Ezekiel?”

Pops folded his glasses. “I go by Ed.”

“You can call yourself whatever name you please, but don’t forget that God is in control.”

“I’m in no mood for a theological debate.” His hand wobbly, Pops set the magazine off to the side. “In fact, I’m ready to hit the road. I have a thriving business that can’t run itself.”

“Nee, please don’t go.” Rhoda pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat by him, laid her hand on his arm. “If you want to be called Ed, we can do that. But I can’t let you leave the house to drive on icy roads all the way to Connecticut. It isn’t safe.” She paused and looked him in the eyes. “Dear Bruder, it will never be your true home. In some way or another you will be forever Amish.”

“Bah.” Pops sounded like Scrooge. I was disappointed and embarrassed by his boorish behavior. “Rhoda, you were always such a sweet girl,” Pops said. “I don’t deserve your sympathy. You should listen to your husband and toss me out on my ear.”

“Even if you leave,” the bishop said, “God will pursue you.”

Pops endeavored to get out of bed, but it was obvious by his trembling arms he didn’t have the strength. He wilted back again.

“What on earth are you thinking?” Rhoda plumped the quilt around Pops’s legs.

“That I won’t stay in a house where I’m obviously not welcome.”

At the thought of Pops leaving, I could no longer contain my concerns about his health. “Bishop Troyer, if Pops doesn’t receive medical help soon, he’ll need a kidney transplant. I was planning to have the blood work done to see if I’m a donor candidate.” I didn’t want to explain why Pops and I might not be compatible.

“You’re so young, Sally,” Rhoda said. “I’d be a better donor. We have a cousin with kidney problems, but mine are in fine shape. And your father and I are siblings.”

“I don’t know,” the bishop said, scratching his chin. “A transplant? I don’t believe that’s permitted in our Ordnung.”

“Don’t say that, please.” Rhoda stood. “I can’t let my brother die.”

“Where he’ll spend eternity is more important than his time on earth,” the bishop said.

“All his medical records are in Connecticut,” I said, and all heads rotated toward me. “Tomorrow I’ll call his doctor’s office and find out what to do.” In the back of my mind, I got an itchy feeling. Was Pops still manipulating me? But no matter what he’d done or might do, I loved him more than anyone.

“I can’t imagine any doctor wanting to perform a transplant if there are other medical remedies available.” Bishop Troyer turned to Pops. “Have you tried everything possible?”

“I can answer that.” My hands clamped my hips. “No. He’s ignored most of his doctor’s suggestions.”

“And how would you know that?” Pops demanded.

“I called your doctor’s office.”

“Without my permission?” Grim lines bracketed his mouth.

Thinking about his many falsehoods, my thoughts reverted to Mom. “You’ve got your nerve, scolding me for keeping information to myself when all this time you’ve lied.” Unable to restrain myself any longer, I turned to Rhoda and said, “There’s got to be a way for me to find out who my mother is. I wouldn’t be surprised if Pops knows exactly where she lives.”

“But isn’t your father’s health more important right now?” Rhoda said.

Of course, she was right, but my tongue seemed to have a will of its own. “What if he dies and never tells me?” I said.

“You care more about her than me, the man who raised you?”

It felt like a noose was cutting off my air supply. He’d lied to me for so long, I didn’t know what to believe. “Do you remember a girl named Mavis?” I asked Rhoda. “At least that’s what he says my mother’s name is.” Pops could’ve been fibbing about that, too.

“Yah, I do, vaguely,” Rhoda said. “Around here, Mavis is an unusual name. I think she was Mennonite, but her parents were modern and liberal. Not politically, mind you, but the way they dressed, and they owned the latest appliances, cars, and gizmos. Of course, that was a long time ago.”

“What was she like? Do I look like her?” I glanced past Rhoda and saw Pops shifting away from us.

“Well, now, it’s been so many years, I don’t recall.” Rhoda patted her prayer cap. “What was her last name?” she asked Pops.

His head shook. “I don’t rightly know.”

“I’m not buying that,” the bishop said. “Surely, you’d recall the name of the woman who birthed your daughter.”

I could have run over and hugged the bishop, but I didn’t want to do anything to break the spell. We three stood staring at Pops, who gazed out the window into the darkening sky. Finally, he said, “I guess it could’ve been Miller.”

My heart leaped inside my chest. “Rhoda, do you know anyone with that last name?”

“Yah, Sally, there are many Millers in this county.” She turned to Pops, who seemed bent on ignoring our conversation. “Can you not tell your daughter more than that?”

Bishop Troyer folded his arms. “We’re asking you for the truth, Ezekiel.”

But my father kept silent.

I felt my compassion for Pops shrinking. To think, I’d idolized this man my whole life.

Plodding footsteps came from the hall. A moment later, Reuben bobbed his bearded face through the doorway. “Are ya having a tea party?” When he strode into the room, the floorboards creaked.

Rhoda moved to his side. “You can see we have the bishop here—”

“I’m aware of his presence. And I’ll not let your brother deceive him.”

My father glanced up at Reuben, and I couldn’t help but notice the difference in their builds. Pops, weak and sickly. Reuben, strong and bursting with vitality. Fortunately, the Amish were nonresistant and were taught to never strike an enemy. Yet Reuben had not shown a meek disposition—quite the opposite.

“Please, Reuben, let the bishop reason with Ezekiel.” Rhoda massaged her fingers. “I mean Ed.”

“There’s no use.” Pops crossed his arms, tucking his hands out of sight.

“If you confess and repent from your sins, you will be forgiven and welcomed back home,” the bishop said. “You could have returned at any time.”

“Not everyone chooses to come back and you know it.” Pops’s voice turned surly. “How about me? How about my daughter? Sally’s mother has never asked us for forgiveness.”

“She may never apologize,” the bishop said, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t forgive her.”

I stepped forward. “How could she ask for forgiveness if you didn’t want to be found?” I turned to Rhoda. “Has no woman ever come around asking about me?”

“Nee.” She let out a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

The lamp hissed. I chided myself for my gargantuan disappointment. Ridiculous to think my mother would have been searching for me. Yet Lizzie had located me. Did the Lord not want me to have a mother?

“I tell you, I want this man out of my house.” Reuben aimed a finger at Pops.

“This is what I want,” Bishop Troyer said, “to see you on your knees confessing before the congregation in two weeks.” He shot Reuben a stern look, more like a warning. “Can I count on you being there?”

Reuben shifted his weight, seemed to be teetering. “Yah, okay, I’ll do it.” He glared at my father. “But I still want this man out of my home.”

“To refuse to forgive is a sin,” Bishop Troyer said. “I expect you will resolve this dispute and confess your unforgiving attitude.”

Reuben scratched his belly. “Yah, okay.”

Rhoda and my grandparents had chosen to pardon my father for running out on them. If Lizzie hadn’t found him, his life would be chugging along as usual. No, not really, because his health was deteriorating. I figured his driving here at night had compromised his immune system further, weakening him. If only I hadn’t left for the weekend. But then I wouldn’t have met Armin—a realization that caught me off guard.

The air in the small room grew moist and heavy. I recalled Pops saying, “Don’t worry about what you’d do if you lived your life all over. Get busy with what’s left.” It occurred to me that it might be an Amish proverb, as could many of his snippets of advice.

I left the room, and moments later Rhoda followed me into the kitchen. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Too many people in there.” I reached around my waist to check the straight pins and was glad they were in place. What was I doing still wearing this getup? As I watched Rhoda slicing ham, I realized I enjoyed dressing like her, a woman who had never judged me on my looks. Unlike the rest of the world, none of the Amish cared if I wore designer jeans or the latest fashions. Hadn’t I stood out from the crowd enough for one lifetime? And I’d grown accustomed to the feel of the dress’s soft fabric against my legs.

Rhoda assembled ham, leftover meat loaf, pickles, and cheeses on a platter, and positioned it on the table. Yes, I’d like to emulate her, including wearing what she called her Kapp—prayer cap.

“Should I call everyone for supper?” I asked. Unsure how many were dining, I brought out nine plates and placed them around the table.

“We best let Bishop Troyer have his say first.” She handed me flatware. “I pray he’ll steer both men on the right course.”

“Good luck when it comes to my father. I doubt he can distinguish the truth anymore.” I laid out the plates as she delivered napkins.

“Yah, he can. I saw it in his eyes.”

“You mean he knows where my mother is?”

“That’s a different story.” Her hands cupped her cheeks. “But he feels the conviction of the Holy Spirit. I can sense it.”

“I’m blown away that you’d offer my father a kidney.”

“He’s my Bruder, so I assume I’d be a good fit. But I know little about DNA and transplants. And I’d have to receive the bishop’s permission.”

“It sounds like Bishop Troyer might forbid it.”

“If he does, then of course, I’d have to follow his direction.” She seemed older; for the first time I noticed crow’s-feet etched at the corners of her eyes.

“I was planning to get my blood tested this week,” I said.

“But now you’re not going to?”

“I don’t know.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her my fears. If I asked to have a paternity test at the same time, it might settle two questions. Yet the thought of me being another man’s child sent a shudder through my torso.