The Amish Seamstress (7 page)

I sobbed again. This time
Daed
didn't respond.

Ahead, our two-story house rose above the green sea of cornstalks. The afternoon sun glinted off the silo. A flock of starlings swooped toward the barn.

I hiccupped and turned toward him, swiping at my eyes. “Would you tell
Mamm
what happened?”

He shook his head. “You need to.”

“She's not going to be happy with me.”

He didn't respond. She'd been so set on me being a teacher. Then she'd adjusted her thinking to me being a caregiver. Now I'd have to convince her I could make it as a seamstress. And I already knew her opinion on that occupation, that I was far too slow to make a living at it.

Mamm
stood at the island in the kitchen, rolling meatballs and pursing her lips as I told her what happened. Then she looked over my head at
Daed
and returned to her work without saying a word. For once I longed for her practical advice, for some word of encouragement to keep me going. She wasn't a bad
mamm
. She just wasn't the sweet, nurturing type I sometimes needed. I knew how constantly frustrated she remained with me. If only shaping me could be as easy for her as molding meatballs for supper.

I excused myself to my sewing room, but when I reached the hallway, she called my name. Still expecting a wise word, I turned around in anticipation.

She plopped the next meatball onto the sheet. “Don't forget that Zed is coming for supper. He'll be here in an hour.”

I sighed, glad I would be seeing him tonight but sad for the reason why. He was leaving for college tomorrow and this was his farewell supper with
us. Because of his mother's busy clinic schedule today, she'd had her big meal with him the night before.

Thankful that I had the next hour of sewing to distract me, I continued on toward my workroom, an enclosed sunporch at the back of the house. It was hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and no one but me wanted to spend time in it. It was where I did my reading and handwork and where I wrote in my journal. Where, when
Mamm
let me, I would dream a day away doing mending and sewing and my embroidery.

I was sliding open the window to turn on the generator outside when I heard the front door open and close. It was my younger sister Linda, who called out to
Mamm
that she would be in the kitchen in a minute to help. She was fifteen and our mother's second pair of hands around the house.

Leaning out from the window, I flipped the switch on the generator, and as it roared to life I slid the window closed again and sat down at my sewing machine.

I heard a knock at my door and looked up to see Linda standing there, smiling. “Zed will be here soon,” she said.

“
Ya
, I know.”

She crossed her arms. “Gee, try not to sound so overjoyed.”

“It's not that,” I said. I let out a breath. “I quit the caregiving program this afternoon.”

I should have known she wouldn't be sympathetic.

“Izzy, what's wrong with you?” She unfolded her arms and dropped them to her sides. I wasn't surprised by her exasperation. If it hadn't been her chastising me, it would have been one of my older sisters once they found out.

“It…it just wasn't right for me.”

“Nothing's right for you,” she muttered as she left the doorway and headed down the hall.

“Except for Zed,” I whispered. “Zed is right for me.”

I felt so spent, I was certain I couldn't cry any more if I wanted to. I'd planned to sew for the next hour, but instead I stared out the window at the gigantic sunflowers in our garden, swaying wildly, too heavy for their stalks, and at the rabbit that darted around their bases, upsetting their
balance. Then, once Stephen began to chase the little creature, I watched it race to the edge of the cornfield, backtrack in confusion, and then make one final push and disappear along the ground among the stalks.

I had no idea what I was watching or what I was even thinking when I realized Linda called my name sometime later. I pushed away from my machine.

“Izzy!” she yelled again.

“Coming,” I said, expecting I needed to set the table.

“Zed's here!”

Oh, goodness. Where had the time gone? I surged to my feet, upsetting my chair and then righting it quickly. By the time I reached the hallway, he stood under the archway to the living room.

Linda swerved down the hall, back to the kitchen, as Zed stepped toward me. “What's wrong?”

I hadn't even cleaned up after my crying jag. “Nothing. Give me just a minute.”

After washing my face and hands, I ventured back out to the living room.

Zed sat on the couch looking at a library book with Thomas.
Mamm
was setting the table and said, without looking at me, “Supper's ready. Thomas, go call Stephen and
Daed
.”

I'd hoped to talk with Zed before we ate, but there wouldn't be time. As we moved toward the dining table, he glanced at me, a questioning look on his face. “What is it? Problems in class?”

“I'll tell you later,” I said, as quietly as I could.

Somehow I got through the meal, thankful that no one brought up the subject of what had happened at school today. Either
Mamm
had told Linda not to bring it up or else she knew well enough to leave it alone. Thomas and Stephen would never have thought to ask about my schooling anyway.

Soon the conversation fell to Zed's trip to Indiana in the morning. “I'm hoping my Saab will make it,” he told us as he reached for another helping of mashed potatoes.

“I heard one time that red cars are pulled over more often than others,”
Daed
replied. “Do you think that's true?”

Zed laughed. “I might get pulled over for going too slow, but never for speeding. Not in that old thing. My bigger concern is for next semester. Indiana is one thing, but making it all the way across the country is something else.”

I looked at him, my eyebrows raised.

“Oh, right, I haven't told you my big news yet.” He gave me an excited smile and then directed it toward the others around the table as he announced, “I may have a chance to spend spring semester in Los Angeles at a film school. Goshen has an arrangement with…”

He continued talking but I stopped listening. California? My Zed hoped to study filmmaking in Los Angeles? That was even farther away than Indiana! I shivered, realizing that,
ya
, I was excited for him but overcome with grief for myself. I truly was losing my best friend.

Stephen started talking about chasing the rabbit back into the corn.
Daed
shook his head, saying he hoped warrens of them weren't in the field. Then Thomas wanted to know what a warren was, and the topic of conversation shifted far away from Zed and his future.

When the meal was over, I stood to clear the table.

“Linda and I will see to cleaning up,”
Mamm
said. “I know Zed has to leave soon.”

“Are you sure?”

She gave me a how-silly-can-you-be look. She was right. I'd never insisted on cleaning up before.

I turned toward Zed. “Want to take a walk?”

He nodded. I led the way out the front door with him behind me. He caught up with me on the porch and then we went down the steps side by side.

“To the overlook?” he asked.

“
Ya
,” I answered. It was our favorite spot, about a half mile away and above a creek bed, with amazing sunsets on clear nights, like tonight.

We turned on our country road the opposite way of town and walked along the narrow shoulder. When the house was out of sight, Zed asked, “So what happened today?”

I told him the whole story, barely pausing to breathe, telling him all
about Phyllis and the connection I'd finally made between her death and
Mammi
Nettie's.

“Of course you would react that way.”

I sighed. “But I made a complete fool of myself.”

“Oh, Izzy. You're too hard on yourself. The fact you're able to show your emotions is one of the best things about you.”

“
Danke
, but I don't think you're going to like what I have to say next.”

“I doubt that,” he answered. When I didn't jump right in, he said, “Try me.”

Increasing my stride, without even meaning to, I blurted out, rather loudly, “I quit the program.”

He didn't respond.

“See—”

“Why?” His voice wasn't accusatory, only curious.

I tried to explain as best I could, but my reasons sounded silly and unfounded, even to me.

“Didn't they prepare you to deal with death in your coursework?”

I shook my head. “Not yet, anyway.”

He reached for my hand. “Do you think it would have made a difference if they had?”

I thought about that for a minute, relishing the feel of my hand in his. He'd never done that before. Finally, I answered him, saying, “Maybe a little, but in the long run, no. There will always be people who die unexpectedly, and I'll never be prepared for it. Someone in my family will die again some day, maybe unexpectedly, and I'll have to deal with that, but why would I subject myself to that all the time as part of my job?”

He nodded sympathetically and squeezed my hand, sending a shiver up my spine. “I understand. You must have felt so shocked and helpless. I wish I could have been there with you.”

“
Danke
,” I whispered, encouraged by his kindness. “You know what the worst of it was? The supervisor and my instructor thought—actually, they both implied—that I needed to get over it right then.”

Zed squeezed my hand again. “That's just wrong.”

A buggy approached from behind us and Zed let go of my hand.
Grateful for his quick thinking—I wouldn't want anyone to spread rumors—I stepped ahead so we were single file until the buggy passed.

Once it did, Zed caught up with me and stated, “But I'd hate for you to stop caregiving.”

I must have bristled just a little.

“Now hear me out,” he said. “You have a gift, Iz. It was evident when my father was ill. I've seen it in the way you interact with my grandmother. The reason you hurt so much is because you
care
so much.” He paused for a moment and then said, “It would be a shame for you not to take care of others.”

“But I couldn't bear to lose another patient.” I knew my words came out as a wail, even though I didn't intend that.

“That's how you feel right now, but give it time. Think about it. You might change your mind.”

A moment later he led the way off the road to the shortcut through a neighbor's field. We kept to the fence line, again walking single file, until we reached the viewpoint.

Below, the creek was an end-of-the-season trickle and the marshy area on each side was browning, but the field of alfalfa across the way was a mesmerizing emerald green.

The sun had started to set, a ball of orange sending streamers of pink and yellow across the sky just above the horizon. I wished Zed would take my hand again, and not just to comfort me this time.

It dawned on me, as the sun sank farther, that perhaps Zed loved me too—but he didn't know it yet. As much as I wanted to reveal my feelings for him, I knew I needed to hold my tongue and bide my time. He had to be the one to say it first. I knew him so well, enough to know he had to come to the truth of our relationship on his own, without any prompting from me.

We stood there as dusk fell and then the sun set completely, in those few fast moments when day passes to night. In no time hundreds of fireflies ascended from the marshy area below, dancing in the darkness, flitting up around us, swarming this way and that, blinking on and off. There were always a few here at dusk, but now it seemed as though hundreds, if
not thousands, were all about us. I gasped in delight and Zed even jumped around a little.

“This is amazing! Absolutely incredible. If only I could film it!”

I told myself that this many fireflies had to be some sort of omen—an indication about the brightness of our future. I hugged myself in anticipation. But then the fireflies began to fade away again, one by one, until only a few flickers remained.

Facing the inevitable, I asked him, my tone as effortless as I could make it, “What will you do when all of those college girls start taking an interest in you?”

“I'll just have to suffer through it, I suppose,” he responded with a leering grin.

I'd half intended it as a joke, but he was only half kidding in return. It was clear he looked forward to dating while away at college, dating girls who weren't me.

I wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him,
No! Don't go out with anyone else! You should be mine and mine alone!
But of course I didn't. Instead, thankful that the darkness hid my sorrow, I said, “We should head back.”