The Amish Seamstress (33 page)

E
IGHTEEN

I
settled into a seat in the middle of the bus, next to the window, knowing the drive from Nappanee to Lancaster was going to take about eighteen hours, far more than my trip out in the van, thanks to various stops and detours along the way.

At least I had a double seat to myself. As I positioned my bags overhead and settled in for the long trip, my mind drifted back to the encounter with Shelly at Goshen.

She had acted in an incredibly aggressive manner, which had been hurtful, yes, but also confusing. I knew Zed well enough to know he preferred far more demure women. How could he possibly be attracted to her? Was there a chance he just hadn't seen that side of her yet? The thought made me feel better. I could only assume that if she was determined enough to speak to me that way, she would no doubt show her true colors to Zed eventually too, and then that would be the end of that.

Maybe there was still hope.

Wishing it wasn't all so painful, I turned my attention to the passing scenery as the bus drove out of town, noting the acres of corn stubble decomposing in the fields. I told myself that maybe this was just a
season for Zed, a time when he needed to explore his options. See what the world had to offer. Realize that what he really wanted had been there next to him the whole time.

Such a process was probably necessary, but that didn't make it hurt any less. For me, it would have been easier simply to look away for a while, so I didn't have to observe from the sidelines while he played the field. The idea was tempting, but I knew I couldn't do that. If I wanted any hope of a future with Zed, I needed to do the very opposite—in fact, I needed to stay close and insert myself into his world as much as possible. To that end, I was grateful for the research and costuming of the film. At least that gave me a reason to interact with him frequently, and perhaps, at some point he would realize his true feelings for me too.

Opening my handwork bag, I pulled out the book he had left me, deciding to use my time to do more research. As the bus rolled down the highway, I read quickly but then slowed for a quote by William Penn. After I read it one time, I read it again.

They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it
.

Death cannot kill what never dies
.

Nor can spirits ever be divided, that love and live in the same divine principle, the root and record of their friendship
.

If absence be not death, neither is theirs
.

Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas;

they live in one another still
.

William Penn

Some Fruits of Solitude / More Fruits of Solitude

His words comforted me deeply, especially the line
Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still
. It made me think of my ancestors who first emigrated from the Palatinate region of Germany, through England. They must have known this to be true when they crossed the Atlantic to America, leaving loved ones behind that they had to know they would never see again in this lifetime.

I couldn't help but wonder whom Bernard and his wife left behind. I thought of their daughter, Abigail, and the rest of her mysterious story. Whatever took place, it was no doubt very painful. When it came to Indians and settlers, there was much pain on both sides for many years.

In the side pocket of my bag, I'd tucked the papers with the family tree Verna and I had created from her Bible. I knew that Indian conflicts continued in this country for a long time, and as I studied the list closely I pondered how many generations passed before most of the Indian conflicts finally came to an end.

I returned to the history book to check the timeline in the back, skimming down to Custer's Last Stand, which I supposed marked the end of the worst of it. That hadn't happened until June of 1876—113 years after the Conestoga Indian Massacre.

I dug in my bag and pulled out the family tree list I'd made with Verna, from the chart in her Bible. Looking at it, I counted down through the generations and saw that by 1876, Abigail was long dead and her great-great-granddaughter, Odette, would have been thirty-five. Wow, I thought, five generations of ancestors—no six, counting Odette's children—had lived through a time of serious Indian conflict. That was even more than I had expected. Folding up the paper, I decided that regardless of what Abigail and Gorg and Bernard did or did not do in their time, the whole thing was heartbreaking for everyone on both sides, settlers and Native Americans. I couldn't believe these matters had been handled for so long with acts of violence, greed, and more, causing such pain and loss.

I put away the family tree and the book and pulled out my photocopy of the chapbook written by Abigail instead. As the bus continued to rumble down the road, I read it through again. Then I put it away and took out my handwork, all the details and unanswered questions of Abigail's story swirling around in my mind as I embroidered. Afternoon turned into night, but I couldn't sleep. Cushioning my head against the window, my mind was a jumble of imaginings from the past. The ship that brought Bernard and his wife to this country. Abigail as a child, gazing at the curious little Indian girl. Abigail's continuing relationship with Konenquas, even into adulthood. The rest of the story we might never know.

The one thing I did know was that her story, as recorded in the chapbook, surely ended with the massacre of the Conestogas, Konenquas included. The thought made me ill.

I managed to fall asleep eventually, though I didn't dream. I awoke at dawn, thinking of Zed and feeling overwhelmed with sadness again—an
emotion I couldn't seem to shake all day, no matter how hard I tried. By the time I reached Lancaster that afternoon, I felt raw with grief.

My father had hired a driver and met me at the station. On the way home I asked
Daed
if he could get the remaining boxes from Rod's house, the ones Verna told me should be mine. He said he would, but not until Monday. I'd hoped to have the boxes to look through over the weekend, but it was too far for me to go alone with the horse and buggy, and I knew I couldn't rush my father. I settled back against the bench seat of the van. It was just as well. It would have been rude to show up at the Westler place right before Thanksgiving anyway.

I resigned myself to waiting and then asked about Frannie.

“Last I heard, she's still in the hospital but stable. They're thinking she'll probably be sent home early next week, so you should plan to start on Monday or Tuesday.”

Even in my nearly exhausted state, I found myself feeling ready to care for her. I could hardly believe that somehow, with Ella's help, I had managed to go from not wanting the job at all to almost looking forward to it. My thoughts fell back to Zed's letter from earlier this fall, the one where he encouraged me to push myself. I would.

Daed
and I shared a comfortable silence the rest of the way home, but once we got there, I braced myself for the usual chaos. To my surprise, however, there was none. As he carried in my bag for me, he explained that
Mamm
and Thomas were out running errands, and Linda had gone to pick up Stephen from school. Once he headed off to the barn, I was alone in the empty house.

Enjoying the quiet, I took a long hot shower, washing away the grime of my trip. Once I was finished and dressed in a fresh, clean set of clothes, I went straight to my little sewing room and worked. My plan was to do as much machine sewing as I could for the next few days so that I could bring as many unfinished pieces as possible to Frannie's, where I would complete them—whether with embroidery or crocheting or some other kind of needlework—by hand.

Of course, when Linda got back, she bombarded me with questions about my trip. Then she bemoaned the fact that I was off to care for Frannie Lantz the next week. “You're so lucky.”

“But you've been working too, right?”

Linda made a face. “
Ya
, but you get to be around grown-ups. I'm tired of changing diapers and wiping noses.”

I shook my head. She wouldn't last a day as a caregiver.

Linda added, “It's not just that.
Everyone
wants your help.”

“Including me.”
Mamm
stood in the doorway. “Welcome home, Izzy. Now both of you, come into the kitchen and put away the groceries. We have a lot to do to get ready for Thanksgiving.”

I put my embroidery down and followed Linda, wishing—and not for the first time—that my mother was a more affectionate, demonstrative person. Hadn't she missed me? Wasn't she glad to see me?

Perhaps being at Frannie Lantz's little
daadi haus
wouldn't be so bad after all. I'd missed my family while I was gone, but now that I was back with them, I was already remembering the reality of day-to-day life around here. All work and no play—and not nearly enough love. At least not enough affection.

I went into the kitchen as directed, but before I jumped in to help, I took it upon myself to give
Mamm
a hug. She seemed startled at first, but then, to my surprise, she wrapped me tightly in her arms and held on for a long moment.

“I missed you, child,” she whispered, bringing tears to my eyes.

Her words kept me warm the rest of the day.

I spent all of Wednesday helping
Mamm
clean and cook. The day after that was Thanksgiving, which started with devotions as a family. We fasted until our noon meal of turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, fresh bread, green beans, cranberry salad, pickled beets, cookies, and pies.

All of my siblings, the spouses of the older four, and my nieces and nephews came, so we had a full table. Afterward, Tabitha, Linda, and I cleaned up. Then, as everyone else sat around in the main room visiting, I retreated to my little room to catch up my journal. Every once in a while the laughter of my family pulled me out of my thoughts, but mostly I kept focused on writing down my experiences at the Home Place.

After about forty-five minutes,
Daed
came to the door of my room. “Aren't you going to join us?”

“I'm content in here.”

“But we're all together.”

“
Ya
,” I answered. “I'm just in here.”

“Izzy, I want all my offspring in one room. I'm so thankful for the full quiver God has given me. Please.”

Reluctantly I followed him. I listened to my family laugh and joke for the next hour, enjoying them to a certain extent but not joining in. It wasn't that I didn't want to be an active part of this family. It's just that my mind kept wandering away to other things, as it always did.

The next day Marta stopped by, and I officially accepted the job as Frannie's caregiver. She asked me to start the following Tuesday and said I could stay in the
daadi haus
with Frannie.

“We'll have to take it day by day, but depending on how she does, we'll try to give you a few days off to come home at some point in two or three weeks.”

I assured her I looked forward to caring for her mother.

On Sunday, as I packed, I made sure to include the photocopies of the letter from Abigail to Bernard, and Abigail's chapbook. I couldn't fathom where to go from here, but I simply had to find the rest of the story. Surely somewhere out there were the answers I needed.

I thought of my
mamm
. I had already shown her the letter and the chapbook—both of which she'd found only vaguely interesting—but now it struck me to ask her if she had any ideas on how to proceed. After all, these were her ancestors too.

I took the two documents downstairs with me and went in search of her. The scent of corn bread baking found me before I found her. She stood at the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand, heating up hamburger soup to go with the corn bread for our supper. Holding the documents up so she could see them, I asked if she knew of any other old family records or papers from her mother's side that might be somewhere other than with the papers Verna had. “The chapbook was professionally printed. It seems as though another copy would be somewhere—an intact one.”