The Amish Seamstress (3 page)

On the other hand, Zed was being himself. When it came to creativity, he could be as obsessed as I was. Filming wasn't my area, but sewing and embroidery and other handwork were. Far too often I would ignore more important tasks that needed doing in order to press on with some creation that consumed my every thought. This tendency drove my parents crazy, but sometimes I just couldn't seem to help myself.

“Fortunately, this film preparation stuff
is
for a class,” he said to
Mamm
, interrupting my thoughts. “Two classes, actually. This semester I have scriptwriting, and in the spring I'll take storyboarding. So I'll be able to do both—course work and prep work for my new film—at the same time.”

He grinned, but she just shook her head in bewilderment. As world savvy as she was overall, my
mamm
had trouble understanding how someone could make an entire college career out of moviemaking. In fact, on her scale of useful occupations for a grown man to have, I felt sure that “film director” fell somewhere near the bottom, right between “hairdresser” and “videogame designer.” In her life, at least, there simply wasn't any point.

“Speaking of location scouting,” I blurted out, “we need to get going while we still have some sunlight. Oh, and we may be a few hours, so don't hold supper for me.” With a surge of guilt, I added, “Though I can do these dishes for you when I get back, if you want.”

“We'll see,” she said, her hands on hips as she surveyed the pile. No doubt, every single item would be washed and dried and put away before Zed and I even reached our destination. “You two have fun.”

Smiling, I headed outside, grateful she and my
daed
both seemed to understand the depth of my friendship with Zed. Better than that, they accommodated it, even if he was Mennonite, not Amish, and a college student besides. As families went, I was usually the odd one out around here—a square peg to the round holes that were my parents and siblings—but at least they respected my judgment enough to give me this.

Of course, once the day came that my
rumpspringa
ended and I joined the Amish church, I wouldn't be able to hop in a car and just run off with some guy for a few hours, even if he was a trusted family friend. But for now they took such things in stride, and I appreciated it more than they knew.

Zed and I headed toward his banged-up old red Saab, which was waiting in its usual spot in the driveway. As we climbed inside, I noticed that mysterious gleam had returned to his eye, but I didn't ask what it was about. I knew he would tell me in his own good time.

Soon we were out on the road, zipping up and down hills, past farms and fields and houses, and he was telling me all about his plans for this next movie he would be making. He'd recently won a big contest for his last film, and that success made him eager to plunge into the creative process yet again.

I couldn't blame him. I felt the same way. I had made most of the costumes for the reenactment portion of that film and would do so again
for this one. It had been such a thrill to work with Zed like that, even if I hadn't understood a lot about the specifics of moviemaking. Before agreeing to help, I had read his script, so I knew going in that the story would be respectful of the Amish, which I appreciated—and which no doubt went a long way in convincing the bishop to approve my association with the project.

But beyond that, I had never even
seen
a movie, much less helped out somebody who was making one. Of course, when Zed was in high school, I'd seen him working on the computer plenty of times, editing the little films he'd made with his cell phone. But in college it was different, starting with the big, fancy camera and lights and things he was allowed to check out from the media lab for his film project. I had found the process fascinating—and the final result incredibly satisfying.

In the end, the film he made was wonderful—so wonderful, in fact, that the professor of his community college film class had encouraged Zed to enter it into the Pennsylvania Film Festival's “New Voices” contest once the semester was over. That was where he had won not just one but two big prizes.

The movie had focused on one of Zed's ancestors, an artist and wood-carver named Abraham Sommers who had lived in Switzerland back in the 1700s. The story was all about the legacy of that man's Christian faith, symbolized by three beautiful carved wooden boxes made by his own hands, and how that faith had been passed down through the generations all the way to today, just as those boxes had been passed down.

Thinking of it now, I found myself overwhelmed with emotion. I turned away and gazed out at acres of cornstalks swaying in the breeze, a surge of sadness filling my throat. I knew this feeling wasn't so much about Zed's touching movie as it was the fact that he was leaving in just a few days. I took a deep breath and held it in for a long moment. As I let it out, I wished for the millionth time he wasn't leaving at all.

I understood why he wanted to go off to school—why he practically had to, given his field of interest—and I knew how blessed he was that a Mennonite college even offered film classes. Still, the selfish part of me yearned to hear him say that he'd changed his mind and decided to stick around Lancaster County forever.

Oh, how I would miss him!

“You okay, Iz?” he asked, sensing my distress.

Turning back, I gave him an encouraging smile. “I was just thinking how…different it'll be not having you around anymore.”

“Different as in sad? Or different as in better?”

I smiled, forcing away any tears. “Different as in I sure hope Thanksgiving gets here soon, because I'm going to go nuts without my best friend around.”

To my surprise, he didn't make a joke or say something sarcastic. He just swallowed hard and nodded.

“I'll miss you too,” he replied softly. “More than you can imagine.”

We were quiet the rest of the way, but it was a comfortable silence, borne from four years of close friendship. I hoped that friendship would continue to endure despite the impending distance between us and the diverging trajectories of our lives.

Once we reached our destination, he parked along the side of the road near the head of a hiking trail, and a few moments later we were trooping down that path into the woods. Even though it hadn't rained for several weeks and most of the walk was dry, it became quite muddy in places, just as he'd warned, probably thanks to a spring or two that bubbled up from the ground along the way. At the worst parts, my big boots made a moist sucking sound with almost every step.

Zed talked nonstop as we went, going on and on about the story for his new movie and the various scenes he wanted to film here, but I wasn't really listening. My mind tended to wander in and out no matter the situation, but now I was starting to feel even less focused than usual. What was the matter with me today? Perhaps it wasn't just my growing sadness about Zed's departure but the realization of how different his world was going to be from mine from now on.

Here in Lancaster County, the ways he and I lived were fairly similar, despite the fact that I was Amish and he was Mennonite. Zed's mother, Marta Bayer, was Mennonite and had been for years, but she'd been raised in an Amish home, so she'd always cooked lots of Amish foods, taught her kids the language of Pennsylvania Dutch, and in many ways emulated an existence more Amish than Mennonite.

Of course, as a Mennonite Zed had access to some things I didn't, such
as electricity and a car and a computer. But in many other ways his lifestyle was still quite Plain. Most importantly, he and I held the same core beliefs about God and His Son, about how being Christlike meant living simply and humbly, in full submission and surrender.

Once Zed went off to college, however, the Amish influences around him would be far less pervasive. At least he would be at a Christian school, but Goshen wasn't the only college in the area. Who knew what sorts of temptations awaited off campus in town or at some of the secular schools nearby? My mind filled with images of sleazy bars, wild parties, and coeds in tight tops and short skirts. Even if Zed was living and studying in a Christian environment, could he remain the same, solid, faithful guy he'd always been once he had that much freedom—and no one from home to see what he may or may not be doing?

“Okay, Izzy, here we are,” he said now, oblivious to the scowl that had formed on my face. He bent down to pass beneath a low-hanging branch and then turned to hold it out of the way for me as I moved forward.

My scowl fading, I looked up and couldn't help but notice how tall he was getting these days. Tall and handsome and sweet. No doubt some beautiful college girl would try to nab him within weeks—if not days—of his arrival at Goshen.

We moved forward, side by side, to where the path opened up into a broad clearing, and then we came to a stop.

“What do you think?” he asked as he made a sweeping motion with his arm.

In the distance I could see what looked like the remains of a couple of old log cabins. One was missing a roof, the other an entire wall, but the parts still there looked utterly authentic.

“Don't you think this could serve as our little cluster of Amish homes?”

I hesitated, wishing I had paid more attention to what he'd been saying about the film itself. I knew it would focus on an historical topic, but beyond that I couldn't recall what that topic was or even the era it would be in.

“You do you understand what I was saying about selective framing, right?” he asked, taking my confused silence for reticence.

I cleared my throat, embarrassed to admit that no, I didn't understand
what he'd been saying, but only because I hadn't been listening. “Tell me again now that we're here.”

With a nod he moved forward, clomping another ten feet or so toward the ramshackle structures and then coming to a stop. “It's simple, really.” He held his arms out in front of him, making an
L
shape with the thumb and forefinger of each hand, and then moving the
L
s together to form a square. “Even though the cabins are in pretty rough condition, what I'm saying is that we can make them seem intact with some simple camerawork.”

“We can?”

“Yeah. Pretend this is the camera lens,” he said of the square, “and that the frame includes only what you can see through here.”

I walked over to him and peered out toward the cabins through his fingers.

“Now, move me so that the top of the frame is aligned just above the door on that first cabin.”

Placing a hand on his upper arm, I did as he said, surprised at the hardness of the muscle I could feel through the fabric of his sleeve as I pressed his arm downward. Zed was so lanky and tall—and his life so cerebral and sedentary compared to most of the men I knew—that I'd never thought of him as being muscular before. But now I realized he must have bulked up during his summers of physical labor at the Gundys' nursery business and over Christmas breaks on their tree farm. I felt bad I hadn't noticed that until now.

Once I got his hands into place, I again leaned in close, viewing the scene as he had instructed and trying not to think about the enticing scent of sandalwood that wafted from him. Was that aftershave? Cologne? Had he always smelled like that?

“See?” he whispered, tilting his head down toward mine so he could look through his hands with me. “If the lens never goes higher than this, the viewer won't even know that building doesn't have a roof.”

Unable to speak, I simply nodded, aware not just of his scent and his build but of the heat that radiated from his chest and arms. Suddenly, I wanted to be in those arms. Wrapped in them. Pressed against him. Our hearts beating in tandem.

His attention was still on the cabins, but mine was on him. What was going on with me? I had known this guy for years, ever since we were little kids. We hadn't always been close, but the year we were both fifteen, I had been hired as a caretaker for his dying father, and we had come to know each other well. Almost immediately our friendship moved into a romance, one that was all-consuming. But then my parents sat me down and expressed their concerns—that we were too young, that he was Mennonite and not Amish—so out of respect for them, Zed and I had agreed to cool things down and keep our relationship purely platonic after that. It took some time, but eventually I really did grow to think of him as a brother. To my relief, when I later explained that to my parents, they took me at my word and had trusted us to keep it that way ever since.

Now here I was, no longer a child of fifteen, seeing this man in a way I hadn't in several years—as a love interest, not just a friend. We were so much alike, he and I, and so very compatible. As my mother liked to say, Zed was just so
easy
, so loveable. A truly good guy to the core. Our relationship had only grown stronger since, and I enjoyed and appreciated him more than just about any other person on earth. In every sense of the word, he was my best friend.

But was he just a friend? Or something more? At the moment I wasn't sure. For some reason, I found myself wanting to embrace him—but not like a hug between buddies. With shocking clarity, I realized that the embrace I yearned for was the
romantic
kind. I wanted to be held—tightly—by this tall and sweet and handsome man, to be taken into his loving arms.
Just
friends?