The Amish Seamstress (55 page)

I laughed, even though I felt hesitant to do so. I was dying to run right out and see him, but I wasn't comfortable telling Marta a lie. “Here, you talk to her,” I said, and then I handed the phone back to his mother. Of course, as they spoke, she merely rolled her eyes, nodding, and then after she hung up, she handed over the phone to me with a smile and distracted little Sarah while I slipped out the door.

My heart pounding, I moved down the ramp and across the lawn toward the orchard. I couldn't see Zed or his car, but I ran in among the trees anyway, not even daring to call out his name. As I neared the end of a row, I saw glimpses of red between the leaves, and I realized he'd parked on that part of the driveway that wasn't visible from the windows of the house. I kept moving closer until finally I saw him emerge from the next row over. He looked good to me, so good, and so grown up. He was even taller now, his blond hair cut short, with no more bangs hanging in his eyes.

We continued toward each other, moving faster, and then at the last possible moment he flung open his arms and I ran forward and jumped into them. He spun me around, holding me tight, and I held onto him even tighter. He was my love, my future, my best friend in the whole wide world.

“Could we be any cornier?” he whispered, finally coming to a stop but still holding me close.

“What do you mean?”

“Running toward each like that? Ashley and Melanie got away with it in
Gone with the Wind
, but otherwise it's been a movie cliché since
Wuthering Heights
. Cue the Tchaikovsky, why don't we?”

He lowered me to the ground, and I pulled away just enough to look
into his handsome face. I didn't get the references, but I had definitely missed hearing his cinematic evaluations.

“I can't believe you're here,” I whispered, smiling.

“I couldn't not come. It's like you were a magnet and I was a bunch of iron filings.”

Chuckling, I placed my cheek against his chest. “I'm glad to know I have that kind of power over you.”

“You have no idea, Miss Mueller.”

He kissed the top of my head. Then he took my face in his hands and leaned down for one very sweet, slow kiss on my lips.

Afterward he just pulled back and gazed at me for a long moment.

“What?” I asked, tucking a loose strand of hair away, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

“Aw, Iz, you look incredible. So beautiful. It's like you're exactly the same but completely different, you know?”

I nodded. I did know. I felt the same looking up at him. Oh, how I had missed him!

Our fifteen minutes went by like seconds, and then it was time for him to leave. I wouldn't see him again until the ceremony, but he told me he wanted me to stick around afterward, that there was something special he had planned for me.

The next day we left Sarah behind with Rosalee and piled into the car. Marta took the wheel, with Luke in the passenger seat, and Ella and I rode in back, the baby between us. Ella had an infant car seat she used when they were with
Englisch
drivers, but Samuel didn't like it and cried the whole way.

“He's used to being held,” Ella explained, though we all understood. Amish babies always preferred buggies to cars.

The graduation was in the recreation center. When Zed walked across the stage for his diploma, I felt a flutter in my chest. He looked so handsome in his cap and gown.

Tears stung my eyes, and Marta reached for my hand and then for Ella's too. The three of us sat, connected, while Luke held his son. Once Zed walked off the stage, Marta let go of our hands, dug a tissue from the pocket of her apron, and began dabbing at her eyes. Ella shook her head
a little. It was funny how she seemed to be growing more and more practical while Marta became more emotional.

Personally, I sided with Marta. She had raised Zed to be a fine young man—kind, generous, creative, and loving. Marta had an eighth-grade education, although her training as a midwife and years of practice certainly counted for far more than her formal schooling. But still, Zed had graduated from high school and now from college too. The cords around his neck proved it. I thought Marta had every reason to feel relief and joy and sorrow and even a little bit of Plain pride. I knew God had guided her, but she loved Zed with an unconditional, best-for-him sort of love that I could only hope I could emulate with my one child, or maybe two, someday.

After the ceremony, as other families snapped photos, we simply hugged Zed. Marta didn't say she was proud of him. Instead, she said, “Good work.”

Ella tugged on his cord and said, “Don't let all this go to your head. You're hard enough to deal with as it is.”

“
Ya, ya, ya
,” he answered and then winked at me. He took the baby from Luke and held him up above his head.

“I wouldn't do that unless you want to wear his dinner,” Ella cautioned.

The baby smiled and a glob of drool bombed Zed on the forehead.

We all laughed, including little Samuel, and Zed lowered him into his arms, still laughing as he wiped at the mess with a fresh tissue from Marta. I had no doubt he would make a good father. Perhaps he'd be able to make up for my lack of maternal skills.

As we walked toward Marta's car, Zed told his mother I would be staying with him for a while. “I'll bring her back in an hour or two.”

“Perfect,” Marta responded. “That will give us time to make dinner.”

We told everyone goodbye, and after they drove off, we headed back toward the middle of campus. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“The library.”

“For?”

“You'll see,” he told me.

But I had a feeling I already knew.

Once we entered, I followed him back through the shelves and shelves
of books, to the room where we'd watched the film a year and a half ago. As he opened the door I almost expected a group of people to be there like before, but it was empty. The room was dim, lit only by the small amount of light that came through around the window shades.

We made our way up front, and then I stood back as he fooled with the computer, pushing some buttons until an image of the Susquehanna River appeared on the screen. Then he pushed another button, the film started, and we sat down, side by side, to watch it.

I expected Zed to put his arm around me, but he didn't. I leaned toward him in my chair until my shoulder touched his. He leaned against me too, just enough for me to feel the press of his muscle against me. I sat statue still.

The river flowed as the title
Hidden Motives
came on to the screen. And then,
The story of Abigail and Konenquas
.

“Oh, Zed,” I whispered.

“Shh. Just watch.”

So that's what I did. Everything looked so different on screen than it had when we were filming, and at first I was so busy adjusting my mind-set that it was hard to pay attention to the story. But soon Zed's masterful skills took over, and I was swept away into the tale that was now so familiar to me, that of my eight-greats grandmother and how she befriended an Indian woman and ended up saving and adopting, in every way but legally, that woman's child.

Abigail was played by Shelly, and though I had been fairly impressed with her acting during filming, now I could really see why Zed had wanted to use her. On the screen, she came across perfectly, a gifted actress who was made for the part. Konenquas was played by the girl from Belize I'd met the year before—her name was Molly—and fortunately she came across great on film too.

The movie ended with an image of the buckskin Zed and I had found in my
mamm
's desk. As the camera panned in toward the brownish stain that marred the corner of the centuries-old covering, the narrator explained that it was a bloodstain, made the day of the massacre, when Konenquas was fatally stabbed and her blood soaked through to the leather wrapped around her baby.

“DNA testing of the blood has confirmed a direct genetic link between Konenquas and her most current living female descendants.”

“That's you,” Zed whispered, but I just smiled. I had humored him before leaving for Switzerland, but I hadn't needed some Q-tip in my cheek to tell me what I already knew, that I had come down from a brave and beautiful Indian woman who lost her life at the hands of her persecutors, on land once promised to her and her people by our founding fathers. In the end, the promise had been betrayed.

“Though the Conestoga tribe was, for all intents and purposes, eliminated by the Paxton Boys back in 1763,” the narrator continued, “it still lives on in the few who managed to escape the massacre, including a newborn baby girl who survived the killings, was whisked away by a brave Amish friend, and raised without ever being told the truth of her own origins.”

The buckskin on the screen was replaced by an image of the chapbook, the camera slowly zooming inward toward the feather drawn in on one corner.

“Now with the discovery of the chapbook written by Abigail Vogel Bontrager, that truth has been made known at last.”

After that the film ended, and though I knew I should feel sad, instead the overall effect was quite the opposite. I felt uplifted. Validated. As though I was a part of something bigger than just myself.

I tried to explain that to Zed, but he simply took my hand and gave it a squeeze, saying, “As usual, Iz, for someone who doesn't go the movies, you sure know how to put it into words. That's exactly how I feel when I see a really great film. That I'm a part of something bigger than myself.”

As the credits scrolled upward, I read each line, including “Written, directed, and produced by Zed Bayer.” Under costumes was listed “Giselle Lantz and Ms. Wabbim.”

I smiled. “Who narrated it?” I asked. The voice was so rich and deep.

“A professor I met at Millersville University. In fact, he ended up helping with some of the research. And—” Zed stood. “He wants me to go to graduate school there. He said I can get a scholarship, plus he'll hire me as his assistant.”

“That's great.”

He nodded. “It's close to home.”

“
Ya
.”

“There's housing,” he added.

“Oh?”

He was quiet for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought. Then he moved to the computer and turned it off. But he didn't gesture toward the door or seem as though he was ready to leave.

“Zed?”

He turned toward me in the dim light. “I didn't buy a ring. I didn't think you would want one.”

I nodded, barely. He was right. Amish didn't wear rings. Nor did this ex-Amish girl.

“Should I go on?” he asked.

I tried to swallow but choked a little. “Could we go outside? I could use some fresh air.”

His face fell.

“Honestly,” I said. “It's really hot and stuffy in here.”

We headed for the door and then made our way silently through the library, toward the front.

“Wait,” I said. “Stop here.” Among the books was even better than outside, I decided, especially the part where we were passing through, which was completely deserted except for the two of us. “Hold me,” I whispered.

Zed wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. The fabric of his soft cotton dress shirt rubbed against my chin. He was broader and more muscular than the year before, and he smelled faintly of mild soap and spicy aftershave.

He pulled me in even more tightly, fitting me perfectly under his chin. Finally he said, “Izzy, what are you thinking?”

I realized I hadn't been thinking—not at all. I was just “being,” wrapped in his arms.

“What you were saying back in there?” I asked, pulling back to look him in the eyes.

His voice had a hint of the old familiar tease. “About?”

“A ring.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “So I can ask you?”

“
Ya
,” I answered. “Please.”

“Izzy, will you marry me?”

“
Ya
,” I answered. “Please.”

We wed that August, before Zed started graduate school, at his church—and now mine—in Lancaster. The night before the wedding, I apologized to my parents, again, for not joining the Amish church, but they stopped me before the words were out of my mouth.
Mamm
spoke for them both when she said they could see how right this was—not for everyone, not for any of their other children, but definitely for me.

Our wedding was well attended. Ella, Luke, Sarah, Samuel, and Rosalee came from Indiana. Lexie and James and their new little three-month-old baby came from Oregon.

Ada, Will, and their brood were there—Mel and Mat helped serve the cake and punch afterward, and Christy played walk-a-mile, every Amish teenager's favorite game, with the
youngie
. Klara and Alexander came—as did Giselle, all the way from Switzerland. We were together once again.