Sarah's Orphans (5 page)

Isaac seemed barely to notice. If she were honest, she'd admit that he treated her as his mother, and he always had. She'd been fourteen when he was born, old enough to provide for most of his care. But she'd been only nine when Luke had been born. Her mother must have been more involved during those years, and perhaps that was why he suffered from her absence more.

Did she make excuses for her mother?

Maybe.

The year before, Sarah had spent three weeks working at the Texas coast on a mission trip after a catastrophic hurricane. That experience had given her a bit of perspective. She understood their situation was challenging, but they still had a home, still had each other, still had an intact community around them. She'd also had the benefit of
Englisch
counseling to help her deal with her mother and father. Perhaps she needed to seek the same for Luke. Although he didn't show any symptoms of an eating disorder like she had, obviously he was struggling with their situation.

Instead of running out after her brother, she remained where she was, sewing by the light of a gas lantern and praying for the restoration of her family.

CHAPTER 7

T
he next morning things went more smoothly. Henry ate early and then hurried off to work. Several of the Amish youth who worked at the restaurant in their small downtown area shared a ride. He had to be at the end of their lane by seven a.m.

Sarah thought that Luke seemed better this morning. Though he didn't apologize for his outburst the night before, he did thank her for his lunch, and he teased Isaac that at least he had managed to get them a ride to school in the buggy.

“I'd rather walk and not be in trouble.” After he grabbed his lunch box, Isaac threw his arms around Sarah's waist, giving her a tight hug goodbye.

“Tell
Mamm
goodbye,” she reminded him.

He'd waved awkwardly at Deborah, who was busy staring at a sheet of paper. Andy was already walking through the snow to the buggy. Although they'd had no new accumulation, the temperature hadn't risen above freezing for days. But this morning Sarah could see the snow in the road melting as the sun finally broke through the clouds. She was glad that Andy's forecast had been wrong. She'd had quite enough snow to last her for a few weeks.

Sarah cleaned up the breakfast dishes. She spent the next twenty minutes cutting up vegetables for a soup, grateful that she had ham to add to it and that they could have cornbread and fresh butter with the meal. Next, she fetched her sewing and spread it out on the kitchen table. Glancing up, she noticed that her mother had gone back into her bedroom and changed clothes. She was now wearing her Sunday dress. As Sarah watched in amazement, she carried the single suitcase they owned out of her bedroom and set it next to the front door.

“
Mamm
, what's going on?”

But instead of answering, Deborah continued to stare out the front window.

Sarah's stomach began to quiver, and she thought she might not be able to keep down the little she had eaten. She closed her eyes and focused on breathing deeply and calming her digestive system. Some days it worked. Other days she lost that fight, but she was determined to try. She would not be ruled by her illness as her father had been by his.

Opening her eyes, she saw that her mother had donned her coat.

“Where are you going?”

Deborah turned to look at her then, actually look at her for the first time in what seemed like months. Glancing back at the road, as if she was afraid she might miss something important, she walked quickly across the room and sat down next to Sarah.

“I'm leaving.”

“What?”

“The letter—it was from my cousin.”

“Your cousin?”

“Yes, and she's offered to let me come and stay awhile.”

“What cousin?”

Her mother waved away the question. “I only took enough money to pay for the bus fare.”

“You're taking the bus?” Sarah's mind was swirling. In fact, it felt as if the very room were tilting. She shook her head, aware that the situation was quickly spiraling out of control. “
Mamm
, where are you going?”

“To my cousin's, in Florida.”

“But what about us?”

“You don't need me.”

A shadow crossed Deborah's face, and Sarah was certain that she was about to shut down again. She'd uttered more words in the last five minutes than she had in the previous month.

“We do need you. How can you say that? You're our mother. You're—”

“Stop! Just…stop.”

Sarah's heart skittered into a triple beat as a car vehicle pulled up in their driveway. She recognized Amelia Stark's van. The woman often gave rides to the Amish in their community for a minimal fee. She'd even driven to Tulsa to fetch Sarah the time she'd been in the hospital there.

“
Mamm
—”

Deborah turned on Sarah with the ferocity of an Oklahoma twister, and Sarah realized in that moment of complete honesty that her mother had been wearing a mask since her father's death. Perhaps since long before that. Gone was the blank stare. Instead, what she saw now was confusion and anger and, under that, determination.

“You are going to have to handle this. I cannot be here…cannot be here one more minute. Do you understand?”

Her eyes searched Sarah's. There was no tenderness in her expression—only desperation.

Before Sarah could respond, before she could even process what had just happened, her mother was out the door, down the steps, and climbing into the waiting van. Sarah ran outside, but Amelia was already driving away, and she was taking Sarah's mother with her.

She had to do something. She had to stop her. She had to at least try.

Sarah went back inside to grab her coat and purse. She ran back out the front door but then stopped when she remembered the pot of soup she'd left on the stove. She went back into the house and turned off the burner. Hurrying across the yard, she prayed that the tractor would start. She skidded to a stop when she entered the barn.

Andy had been working on the tractor because it kept stalling. What had he said last night?

Still waiting on a part
.

Apparently he'd taken the engine apart to find out what was wrong, or Henry had—he was the mechanic of the family. The pieces were placed carefully across his workbench, and the tractor…well, the tractor wasn't going anywhere.

She'd walk.

Maybe someone would pick her up and offer her a ride to town.

She hurried down the lane, not even bothering to skirt the puddles of melting snow. The water splashed up and stained the hem of her dress, and her toes began to grow cold. Still she hurried on, her mother's words churning round and round in her mind.

To my cousin's, in Florida.

You don't need me.

You are going to have to handle this.

Was that what she'd been doing all these months? Planning her escape? What kind of mother left her fatherless children? What kind of person could do that?

She didn't realize she was crying until Andy stopped the buggy, jumped out, and ran up to her. He shook her by the shoulders, asked her something, and took off his coat to drape over her own thin one.

Slowly her presence of mind returned.

When it did, she looked up at her brother, wondering how she could cushion this latest turn of events. Finally, she settled for the truth and simply said, “She's gone.”

CHAPTER 8

P
aul had stopped by the feed store, which was located next to the bus pick-up and drop-off point. He glanced up to see Deborah Yoder stepping out of an
Englisch
van. There was no question that she was Sarah's mother—she was an older, more tired version of her daughter, but otherwise they looked alike.

Both had blond hair. Though Sarah's looked quite pretty peeking out of her
kapp
, Deborah's looked as if she'd barely had time to braid it with tendrils escaping from every corner.

Both were rather short. Paul had insisted on helping Sarah carry her goods to her buggy when she'd returned to buy more. He guessed she was no more than five feet two.

Both were slight. In Paul's family, the women were rather rounded—Plain food and a contented life could do that to a person. But Deborah and Sarah had a gaunt look to them.

Mother and daughter had a small, perky nose. Sarah had a sprinkling of freckles across hers.

Deborah hurried past him without a word, stepped up to the ticket window that fronted the street, and purchased a ticket for Florida. He wasn't eavesdropping, but he heard the ticket seller loudly say, “The bus for Sarasota leaves in ten minutes. You can wait inside if you like, or you can wait on the bus that just parked at the curb.”

She must have said she'd wait on the bus. Without looking around, she accepted her ticket and change, picked up her suitcase, and practically ran to the vehicle.

Where was she going? Why the hurry? And why was she going alone?

None of those questions were his business, although the situation seemed mighty odd. He turned into the feed store and walked to the back, where the bulletin board was located. He found the notice he'd seen the week before, but he'd forgotten to bring anything to write on. So he went to the counter, asked for a pen and slip of paper, and returned to the board.

Still 87 acres.

Still a price he could afford.

Still for sale.

He jotted down the information, including the seller's contact information. The question was, what sort of shape was the place in? He was a fair carpenter, but he'd be putting down nearly all of his money to purchase the farm. He wouldn't have the resources or time for major repairs. Not the first year, and maybe not the second.

Returning the pen, he thanked the shop clerk and walked back out into the brisk February morning. The bus destined for Sarasota was just pulling out. As it passed him, Deborah Yoder glanced out the window, and for a fraction of a second, her gaze met his. Before he could think whether he should wave or not, she abruptly turned away.

That evening, as he was finishing dinner with his brother and sister-in-law, he pulled out the scrap of paper and handed it to Joseph.

He studied it a moment before passing the scrap to Rebecca, and then he reached for his pipe. For as long as Paul could remember, his brother had enjoyed a pipe after dinner—never during the day, never more than one bowl full—and yet he seemed to take great pleasure from such a small thing. Since the surgery he no longer smoked the pipe, but he still carried it in his pocket and took it out occasionally to study it.

It occurred to Paul that his brother was completely satisfied with his life, in spite of the fact that he'd nearly lost it during the heart attack. Or maybe because of that fact. Who could say?

“This is a
gut
price.” Rebecca tapped the scrap of paper. “And eighty-seven acres, it's big enough but not too large.”

“That's what I was thinking, and it's nearly half the price the same amount of land would be back home.”

“
Ya
, La Grange County is a tourist mecca now.” Joseph grunted and smiled around the pipe. “Our
bruders
seem to enjoy that.”

“Sure. It's nice to have the restaurants.”

“Pie from the Blue Gate tastes even better than mine,” Rebecca admitted.

“But for a farmer, it's not so
gut
. I suppose since I'm the youngest, I felt the weight of that more than our
bruders
.”

No one spoke for a few moments. Joseph studied his pipe. Rebecca stood and cleared off the dishes. She washed, Paul dried, and they both insisted that Joseph remain in his chair.

“You're spoiling me and treating me like an old man,” he grumbled. He walked over to a small desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, sat at the table, and began to make some notes.

When Paul and Rebecca had finished the dishes and returned to the table, he rotated the sheet toward them.

“You told me that you had saved this amount.” He pointed at the top number.

“
Ya
. That's right.”

“And we owe you this much at least for your help since I've been sick—”

“You owe me nothing.”

Joseph tapped the second number. “I would have paid anyone this amount, and we've made enough with the Christmas rush to cover it.”

Paul nodded, though he wasn't sure he wanted to accept money from his brother. The doctor bills had been exorbitant. The community had held several auctions to help pay off the debt. He wondered if the money Joseph planned to give him would be better spent returned to the benevolence fund. Instead of arguing, he waited for his brother to continue.

“As far as I remember, the place has been empty for at least a year.” Joseph glanced at his wife for confirmation.