The Amish Seamstress (6 page)

From where we stood, I could see into Phyllis's room, to the empty but perfectly made bed. I forced my eyes toward sweet Mimi instead. She smiled and gave me a little wave, her faded eyes lighting up as best they could.

How could I not have known?

“Phyllis passed,” the supervisor whispered to me.

I returned my gaze to her face. “But why? How?”

She shrugged. “I know she seemed fairly healthy, but she did have a heart condition. It finally caught up with her, I imagine. That's my best guess, anyway.”

“When?” I managed to rasp. “When did it happen?”

“This morning, around ten.”

Around ten. My mind raced. At ten, I'd still been in class, taking notes, or trying to. More likely I'd been thinking about Zed.

I felt weak, as though I might pass out.

The strange thing was, I wasn't even sure why. I had really liked Phyllis and cared about her, but it wasn't as if we had ties outside of this place. I had known her for all of three weeks, yet now the news of her death was hitting me as hard as if she had been one of my own beloved relatives.

The supervisor, Heather, must have sensed the depth of my reaction, because she gripped my elbow more tightly. “I know it's hard when your first patient dies—”

At that the tears started, followed by an outright sob.

“But you'll be done with your coursework in a week anyway,” she added softly in an attempt to make me feel better.

I wiped my eyes, saying, “I just didn't expect her to die.” Another round of sobs overtook me.

“I know, Izzy. But it happens in this work all the time. If you can handle that, well…” Her voice trailed off, and then she added, “You learn to expect it, even in the healthy ones. That's part of what being a professional caregiver is all about.”

Our very first lesson in the program had been on being a professional—and right now I was being the exact opposite of that. “I'm s-sorry,” I stammered.

“It's all right. Go to the break room for a few minutes, get ahold of yourself, and then finish out your shift.”

With a nod I made my way down the hallway, shielding my face with one hand as I continued to cry. Instead of going to the break room, where I was bound to run into someone, I headed for the double doors to the breezeway, aiming for the conference room, expecting it to be empty.

As I opened the door, a realization overcame me. Obviously, I wasn't
made for caregiving. Another sob erupted from me as I staggered through the door, only to come face-to-face with my instructor.

With a look of dismay on her face, Patricia said, “For heaven's sake, Izzy, what happened?”

I managed to respond that Phyllis had died.

“Oh, dear,” she said, putting her arm around me. “And you're taking it this hard?”

I nodded. “I don't know why,” I sniffled.

“Sit down. I'll get you some water.”

As she left the room, I put my head in my hands. I wanted to call
Daed
and ask him to come get me. There was no reason to finish the training. What if Mimi died next? I couldn't take that, I really couldn't.

Patricia returned with a bottle of water and asked if it was my first time to be close with someone who died.

“I took care of a man several years ago who lost his life to cancer.” Zed's father, Freddy, to be exact. I hadn't actually been present when he'd passed, but then again, I hadn't been present when Phyllis had either. Another sob caught me by surprise.

I put my head back in my hands.

Concern filled Patricia's voice as she patted my back. “What can I do for you?”

I took a raggedy breath. “Could I use your phone?”

“Of course,” she said, digging in the pocket of her smock and then handing me her cell.

As I dialed the number of our phone, located in the barn around the corner from where
Daed
did his woodworking, I prayed he wasn't using one of his power machines so he would be able hear it.

It rang and rang, ten times. Thinking the answering machine was about to come on, I began to ready myself to leave a message when a boy's voice said, “Hello?”

“Stephen?”

I could barely hear my brother as he said, “
Ya
.” He was eleven and home from school already.

“Go get
Daed
.”

I held the phone to my ear for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Patricia said, “Izzy, I can take you home if you want.”

I shook my head. That was the last thing I wanted.

Finally
Daed
came on the line and I told him I needed a ride earlier than expected. The care center was only a few miles from our house. He'd been transporting me both ways each day.

In a soft voice he asked, “So soon?” Then, intuitive as ever, his voice became even quieter as he added, “Izzy, what happened?”

I swallowed hard, fearing another sob was going to escape. “I'll tell you when you pick me up.”

I handed Patricia back her phone. “
Danke
,” I said, my face growing warm as I realized my mistake. “I mean, thank you.”

“Of course,” she said. “The weekend will do you good. Everything will look better on Monday.”

I hiccupped as I shook my head. “I'm withdrawing from the program.”

“Why would you do that? You only have a week left.”

“I'm not meant for this sort of work.”

“Izzy, every person in the medical field, whether an aide or a doctor, has a story about when they felt incompetent.”

I shook my head.

It seemed as if she might roll her eyes but then she didn't. “Think about it,” she said, her voice kinder. “Then come by Monday morning—either way—and talk with me.”

I nodded, but I knew I wouldn't. I thanked her again and said I needed some fresh air. Leaving my uneaten lunch behind in the break room—content to abandon it rather than risk having to explain myself anymore—I went outside to wait for
Daed
.

T
HREE

D
aed
's reaction to my description of what happened was a simple, “I see.” Then we rode in silence.

His calm response convicted me of just how badly I'd overreacted. The whole story sounded ridiculous. I knew people died, especially in care homes. Especially when they were old.

I shifted on the bench, trying to get comfortable in the heat.

I'd only been fifteen when I cared for Zed's father, Freddy, through the final stages of his battle with cancer. I fixed meals, washed clothes, and helped him manage his medication when Marta was busy with her midwife appointments or off delivering babies and Zed was at school. It wasn't until Freddy's very last day that he needed help with his personal care—and Zed's sister, Ella, and his mother, Marta, were there for that. Marta was with Freddy when he passed.

In the end, their family dynamic worked, but it was complicated, and I often wondered if that had something to do Zed's heightened interest in stories. His origins were different than most people's. Twenty years ago, his father had had an affair with a young woman and gotten her pregnant. Marta had found out about it, but amazingly, in response she asked
if she and Freddy could take in the baby and raise it together—despite the fact that it was the product of her husband's affair with someone else. The birth mother had agreed to the plan, and once baby Zed was born, Marta had adopted him.

The birth mother went on with her life. She eventually married and had several more children, though she ended up dying at a young age due to a previously undetected heart condition. Meanwhile, Freddy abandoned Marta, Ella, and Zed and moved away. Marta had soldiered on alone.

Then, four years ago, Freddy showed up again in Lancaster, more than a decade after he'd left, ill physically but in other ways far healthier than he'd ever been. After a lifetime of alcoholism, he was finally clean and sober, in recovery, and deeply repentant for all of his past transgressions. Amazingly, Marta and Zed both forgave him, reconciled with him, and then cared for him as he was dying. Even Ella ended up patching things up with him at the very end.

All along I knew Freddy would die—he had stomach cancer—and the prognosis was never good. Zed and I became friends as I cared for his father. And although I'd liked Freddy well enough, and I missed him once he was gone, I hadn't been traumatized by his death.

Clearly I'd reacted to Freddy's death in a professional way. So why the outburst over Phyllis's today?

Daed
began whistling as he turned off the main road and onto the one that led to our farm. A hot breeze rustled the leaves of the cornstalks, our one cash crop. Harvest, however, was still a month away.

I leaned back against the seat, willing myself not to think about money. My plan had been to get a job as a caregiver and contribute my checks to the household budget. But now I'd have to take in more sewing, which meant I'd need to work faster to make up for it. I could at least try to be professional at that.

Patricia had asked if I'd had anyone close to me die. Why hadn't I mentioned
Mammi
Nettie? She was
Daed
's mother and had lived with us when I was little, sleeping in the downstairs bedroom next to what was now my sewing room.

I took another raggedy breath.
Daed
glanced my way. “Are you all right?”

I nodded, but I wasn't. Not at all. Another sob rose up from deep within me. I loved spending time with
Mammi
Nettie, listening to her stories and brushing her hair.

Mamm
and
Daed
didn't have much time for her with all their other responsibilities, but every day, both before and after school and again at bedtime, I'd sit beside her and soak up everything she said.

When I was nine years old, I'd hurried into her room one morning before school, and she wasn't there.
Mamm
, who was fixing breakfast, came into the room after me.

“She's gone,” my mother had said, taking my hand and guiding me back into the hall.

“Where?”

“She passed late last night after you went to sleep. The undertaker came around ten.”

Sadie and Becky both stared at me from the kitchen—none of it seemed to be a surprise to them. Perhaps they had still been up last night when it happened, or maybe
Mamm
had already told them.

I pulled away from my mother and stumbled back into
Mammi
Nettie's room, throwing myself across her bed.

Mamm
sat down beside me for a few minutes and rubbed my back. After a while she said, “You girls go finish breakfast,” and I realized Sadie and Becky were standing in the doorway, staring at me.

When we all sat down to eat, I seemed to be the only one upset about
Mammi
Nettie's passing.
Daed
said it was her time. It was as if he and
Mamm
and my older siblings had expected it and my younger ones didn't care. No one else seemed to be mourning. That caused me to flee the table, once again in tears.

Now, all these years later, I wasn't sure if I was crying for
Mammi
Nettie or for Phyllis—or entirely for myself—but another sob welled up in me as the horse slowed for the hairpin turn near our house.

Daed
reached over for my hand, took it, and squeezed. “Izzy—”

“I'm all right,” I stammered, but I wasn't. It seemed Phyllis's death had tapped a deep well of grief inside of me, one fed all those years ago by
my grandmother's death. I hadn't expected that Phyllis would die either. But when she wasn't there, why hadn't I asked someone? Had I been so engrossed in my thoughts of Zed that I hadn't thought to? Or was I that unobservant? Or simply in denial? No matter which it had been, none of those traits bode well for a caregiver.

One of my worst qualities was my absentmindedness. How I could totally lose myself in my thoughts and not even notice what was going on right in front of my nose? Cleary I was unfit to be a caregiver at all.