She prayed again for Nancy and Obed and hurried down the road.
• • •
Claire could not wait to tell her sister, Rose, about the baby girl she had just delivered. This had been a special birth, indeed! Nancy and Obed, both in their forties, had been married eighteen years. Until today, only a succession of heartbreaking miscarriages
marked their desire for a family. Claire had held her breath these past nine months, doing everything in her power as a midwife to make this a safe pregnancy, praying daily that it would be God’s will for Nancy to carry this baby full term.
It had been a long and difficult labor, lasting nearly nineteen hours, but late this afternoon, the Lord had allowed her to hand that deserving couple a perfect, healthy, safely delivered baby girl!
All children were miracles, but this babe was maybe a little bit more of a miracle than most. Rose would want to know this wonderful news, and Claire was dying to share it with someone.
The way home from Nancy’s took Claire directly past Mrs. Yoder’s restaurant in Mt. Hope. It was Rose’s night to work, and Claire knew that no one at the restaurant would mind if she stopped in to tell her sister about the successful birth. It was that kind of a place—a true family restaurant.
As she tied her horse to the railing provided, she wondered again why Rose had taken this job. Henry had inherited a fine farm and was healthy and strong.
As she went in, two plump, gray-haired women tourists were leaving the restaurant. One was wearing bright yellow shorts, a top printed with purple roses, and yellow hoop earrings. The other woman had on plaid shorts, a cherry-red blouse, and white-rimmed sunglasses. Compared to the subdued shades Claire was used to seeing, this clothing almost hurt her eyes. The two women seemed unaware of the jarring effect of their colors. Each had a big smile, and they were obviously having a grand time visiting Amish country.
“Get the special,” the woman in yellow shorts confided on her way out. “The pot roast is to die for.”
“Thank you.” Claire was amused. It was not exactly a secret
that Yoder’s had delicious slow-cooked pot roast. “I will remember to do that.”
It usually took a couple visits to Holmes County for out-of-town
Englisch
to figure out that it was okay to speak to the Amish. This must not be these women’s first trip here. Claire was startled by a sudden whoosh of air behind her and saw a large, chartered bus opening its doors. Several more tourists walked out of the restaurant and piled into the bus.
It made Claire happy to know that Gloria Yoder’s gamble in establishing a restaurant in this small village was giving people so much pleasure. It had certainly been a boon to the town. Money coming in from the outside world was a welcome thing, indeed.
Margaret Hochstetler, the hostess for the night, greeted her with enthusiasm. “Claire! It is good to see you!”
“And how is our little James doing?” Claire had delivered three of Margaret’s children. The last one, tiny James, had been especially tricky.
Margaret, a robust Old Order matron, laughed. “Not so little anymore,” she said. “He is helping his father plow this spring. Four horses at a time, that boy can handle.”
“And him only ten,” Claire marveled.
“His father says he is a born farmer.” Margaret grabbed a menu. “Are you eating with us or have you come to see Rose?”
“I was hoping for a minute with her.”
“That is no problem. Now that the bus has left, we are not so busy tonight.” Margaret lowered her voice. “I saw Rose taking some aspirin a few minutes ago.”
“I hate to hear that,” Claire said. “My sister has dealt with a bad back ever since giving birth to her first child.”
“Oh, the poor thing,” Margaret said.
Claire agreed. It wasn’t as though Rose enjoyed the work. She had always fought lower back pain, and carrying those
heavy trays of food took a toll on her. She acted tired all the time these days—weighed down, instead of her usual happy and confident self.
And Rose didn’t look like herself these days either. She had always dressed well, making her dresses from the best grade of fabric that she was allowed within the confines of their church
Ordnung
. She bought new shoes more often than Claire thought necessary. In fact, Rose had always stepped a little close to the sin of pride, but not anymore. Now her shoes were worn, scuffed and run down at the heel. Some of her dresses had been worn until they were beginning to fade. Either her sister no longer had the money to purchase the things she needed, or she had simply stopped caring about her appearance. Claire’s attempts to talk to her about it had not been welcomed.
Claire saw her sister wiping off a table and went over to her. “Do you have a minute? I have something wonderful to tell you.”
Rose winced as she straightened up.
“Is that old back bothering you again?” Claire put her hand on the small of her sister’s back, wishing she could make the pain go away. She hated to see anyone hurting, but especially Rose.
“I’m fine,” Rose answered, but Claire knew she was lying.
There was a time when Rose would not have pretended to be fine with her. These days it seemed like her sister was pretending most of the time. Others probably couldn’t tell—but she certainly could.
“Rose, please tell me what is wrong.”
“I said I am fine.” Rose’s voice warned her to leave the subject alone. “What is it you want to tell me?”
Claire saw that it would be unwise to press her sister any further, at least here and now. Instead, she hoped that telling
Rose the good news might make her sister feel more cheerful. It was certainly making her own heart sing!
“Nancy just had her baby. Obed is over the moon.”
A soft, happy smile bloomed on Rose’s face—the first Claire had seen in far too long.
“What did she get?”
“A baby girl. Full term. Eight pounds, ten ounces.”
“Ach!” Rose said. “And Nancy no bigger than a mouse.”
“She did well,” Claire said. “Obed was a great help. I think he will make a good father, and he is such a good provider. That is one child who will never want for clothes or food.”
She saw a shadow pass over Rose’s face, and wished she could take back her words.
“I hope, for Nancy’s sake, that you’re right,” Rose said. There was a hint of bitterness in her voice as she bent to finish wiping off the table.
“I will leave you to your work now,” Claire said. “Come visit soon. I will make that clover and mint tea you like so well.”
There was a slight glitter of tears in Rose’s eyes. “I would like that very much. I—I am sorry for being sharp with you. I am not myself these days.”
“You must not try to be anything special for me,” Claire said. “You know that, no?”
“
Jab,
I know.” Rose glanced away. “But I must get back to work now.”
As Claire left the restaurant, she wished she could hold on to that good feeling she got after each successful birth, but it had evaporated into a cloud of worry about her sister.
• • •
Squinting at the foggy road was taking a toll on Tom. Staying hair-trigger-ready to swerve every time he saw a piece of trash or a dead animal took an even bigger toll. No matter how
hard he tried, he could not turn off the training that reminded him not to let down his guard for a second.
The doctors at the hospital had warned him that he might struggle with this. They told him that a lot of returning soldiers battled the need to be ultravigilant when they came home. They told him to try to relax.
Easy to say. Hard to do. He had been hardwired to suspect anything on the road to be booby-trapped. Inattention could be deadly. Underpasses were especially threatening. He swerved abruptly as he passed beneath one. A truck driver honked at him, but in Afghanistan and Iraq, a soldier never knew when someone would be hiding there, primed to fire at you.
The Honda Civic that the rental place had given him felt small and insignificant compared to the heavily armored troop transport vehicles he was used to. He planned to turn it in when he got to Holmes County and buy something more substantial. With any luck, Moomaw’s over in Sugarcreek would still be in business. He intended to check them out in a day or two and see what they had in stock.
When the bright lights of a gas station appeared to his right, he pulled in, grateful for a chance to fill his tank with gasoline and his body with coffee. He needed a stiff shot of caffeine to counteract the stupefying effect of the painkillers he had taken to make it this far. The stronger the coffee, the longer it had simmered on the burner, the better.
Talking his doctor into discharging him early and placing him on convalescent leave was not the smartest thing he had ever done, but his doctor had seen that he had reached a point when he could not stand one more day of being there. His irritation had grown with every day he got stronger. There came a moment when he could not abide one more nurse, one more question, or one more bland hospital meal.
He never dreamed that driving from Bethesda, Maryland,
to Mt. Hope, Ohio, would be so taxing, but he did not want to stop. After an absence of more than two decades, he felt like a crippled homing pigeon winging its way back, but he had no intention of stopping until he reached his destination.
He sat the coffee on the counter and handed his credit card to the multipierced, gum-chewing cashier. She glanced up from a magazine and caught a glimpse of his face. Her eyes widened at the damage she saw there.
“You shoulda seen the other guy,” Tom joked.
The cashier did not seem to think the comment was funny. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t smiling. He needed to remember to smile next time.
“It was a bomb,” Tom said. “Afghanistan. I asked the plastic surgeon to make me look like George Clooney, but he said no one was that skilled.” This time he remembered to smile.
Still staring at him, the clerk automatically started to blow a bubble, thought better of it, and sucked it back into her mouth.
Ever since he’d left the hospital two days ago, he’d found that a joke and a quick explanation made it a little easier on the civilians he interacted with. They could file the information neatly away in their brain, probably along with a new determination never to let a relative of theirs set foot inside of Afghanistan for any reason whatsoever.
“Sorry.” The girl ran his credit card through the machine, handed him a receipt, then studiously went back to her magazine.
The plastic surgeon had said that the scars would fade with time. He wished the fading would hurry. He was not a vain man, nor had he ever considered himself particularly handsome, but having people steal sideways glances at him wherever he went got old real fast.
Hunger was gnawing at his stomach by the time he neared
his hometown. This was not the kind of hunger that could be filled at the window of a drive-through. As he got closer to home, he began to crave a meal that would fill the emptiness in his heart as much as his stomach.
He wanted comfort food—Holmes County soul food. Homemade egg noodles. Slow-roasted chicken. A custard pie with a crust so light it melted in your mouth. Whipped potatoes that didn’t come out of a box. Gravy made from honest-to-goodness meat drippings. Home-canned green beans seasoned with onions and bacon. A mile-high apple pie topped off with a piece of the best-tasting cheddar cheese in the world—prize-winning cheese made with milk produced right there in the heart of Ohio.
If he was lucky, every bite would be seasoned with the soft, comforting sound of Pennsylvania Deutsch being spoken all around him. It would be a nice contrast to the Farsi he was used to hearing until the day he had been flown out of Afghanistan with an IV in his arm and a sling holding his jaw in place.
As he drove through Mt. Hope, he was a little surprised to discover that a large restaurant had been built in the middle of the small village. Mrs. Yoder’s Kitchen, the sign said. He wondered exactly
which
Mrs. Yoder had decided to start this establishment. The name was so common here, it could have been any one of a hundred Mrs. Yoders.
It was exactly the kind of place he’d been hoping for, and the minute he walked in, he knew he was finally home. Many of the patrons were Amish, and he knew that the Amish spent their hard-earned money only at restaurants where they knew the food to be good and plentiful.
The specialties appeared to be broasted chicken and slow-cooked roast beef. He ordered the chicken, asparagus with cheese and bacon sauce, and bread dressing.
The Amish waitress brought his order, and he sat at a table near the window, consuming crispy, moist chicken, along with homemade bread slathered with his people’s favorite condiment,
Lattvarick,
slow-cooked apple butter. He had healed enough to swallow real food again, and was grateful for every bite.
The sight of buggies trotting past the front windows brought on a wave of homesickness so strong it nearly took his breath away.
“Can I get you anything else?” The waitress laid the bill down on his table. There was something familiar about her. He took a good look at her face.
He realized the tired-looking, worn-around-the-edges waitress was Rose. He had known her since they were both in diapers. She was Claire Keim’s twin. They’d come within hours of being in-laws. He almost greeted Rose by name, but some instinct stopped him.
“I’m trying to decide between the pies.” So many memories he had of Rose and Claire. He remembered playing baseball with them during recess. Those two girls had been able to run bases like colts, even in their long dresses.
“The Dutch chocolate looks good—but I’m also partial to custard. It’s hard to decide.”
“They’re all good.” She showed no sign of recognition, nor did she show any interest in his order. She seemed to be a woman from whom the drudgery of life had stolen all signs of the high spirits he remembered when they were young.
“Custard, please.”
Without a word, Rose headed back to the kitchen.
Not once, through the entire exchange, did she show any sign that she knew him. To her, he was just another tourist wandering through Amish country. It was a little disturbing to discover that the change in his appearance was that profound.