The Redemption of Sarah Cain (23 page)

She was mighty glad the sad ordeal of goin’ through her mother’s belongings was behind them. Susie had settled down a bit, minded her manners, but still was adamant ’bout taking the upper hand with nearly every aspect of the sorting process, from what should be done with the Sunday dresses, capes, and aprons to who might want the nightgowns, Kapps, and shoes.

Going upstairs, Lydia brought down a pile of socks to darn at the kitchen table while she waited for her brothers and sisters to arrive home from school.

Aunt Sarah was foolin’ with some kind of flat typewriter attached to a square with lit-up words. ‘‘Your mother’s friend seems to thrive on conflict,’’ she said from across the table.

‘‘Oh, now and then, maybe. She and Mamma used to have their moments sometimes, too, but, oh my, how they loved each other; even more than they fought, guess you could say.’’

‘‘So they argued often?’’

Lydia, surprised at her aunt’s inquiry, looked across the table. ‘‘So . . . I guess Susie’s definitely out of the question?’’ She didn’t wait for her aunt to answer. ‘‘I’m thinkin’ Susie’s not someone you’d pick to raise us.’’

Aunt Sarah’s face broke into a grin. ‘‘I wouldn’t wish her on my own worst enemy.’’

Lydia had no intention of fussin’ with Aunt Sarah and changed the subject. ‘‘Well, then, how do you feel ’bout going to the quilting . . . at Susie’s house?’’

Turning pale again, Aunt Sarah mumbled something unrecognizable to Lydia. Maybe a cuss word. Maybe not, though she couldn’t be sure.

When no further comment came from her aunt, Lydia forged ahead. ‘‘Miriam Esh will be there. Preacher Esh said so.’’

‘‘Was it your minister who came earlier?’’

Lydia nodded.

‘‘Sometime I want to speak with him,’’ Aunt Sarah said unexpectedly. ‘‘Not ’bout last night, I hope?’’ She felt ever so bold speakin’ up.

Sarah got up at that moment and, without excusin’ herself, left the room.

Fearin’ the worst, Lydia darned much too fast and pricked her finger, spurting blood on Caleb’s church sock.

Sarah was desperate to contact Bryan, but she didn’t want to disturb him in the middle of an important meeting. She wrote a short email message, hoping he might read between the lines.

Bryan,

This place is closing in on me. What was it you said about
Amish country doing me good? Well, think again! The truth is
I’m going stark raving mad. I need to hang at a club somewhere.
Care to join me on a binge?

Sarah

Almost as soon as she’d sent the hasty message, she regretted her spontaneity. Sure, Bryan would come to her rescue—he always did—but had she been too presumptuous to ask?

While Sarah chopped lettuce for a salad, she overheard Anna Mae mumbling to herself. Sarah was certain the girl had no idea she was being observed, yet the more she listened to the idle chatter, the more she felt she should approach Anna Mae.

Leaving the salad fixings behind, Sarah washed her hands and went to the doorway to the utility room. There stood Anna Mae, facing a row of winter coats, hats, and scarves, a glazed look in her green eyes.

‘‘Anna Mae, are you all right?’’ Sarah asked.

Startled, the girl turned to face her, eyes too wide and the look of a polished plate on her face. ‘‘I . . . uh . . . Lyddie!’’ hollered Anna Mae.

Puzzled, Sarah stood her ground. ‘‘You don’t have to call for your sister. You can talk to
me
, if you like.’’

Anna Mae put her hands over her ears, lowering her head to her chest, still talking, but nonsensically. ‘‘Mamma’s gone away . . . she’s gone away from here. Ach, Mamma—’’ ‘‘Anna Mae,’’ Sarah interrupted, ‘‘look at me!’’

The whispered chanting continued. ‘‘Mamma’s gone home to heaven now . . . gone far away to heaven now.’’

Suddenly Sarah fought tears that threatened to blur her vision, though she could see only Meggie Holmes in her mind’s eye, remembering her student’s mildly autistic mannerisms—recalling the breakthrough that had come at long last, after months and months of reaching out to the pixieish girl. All for naught, in the end. . . .

‘‘Anna Mae?’’ she whispered, crouching down to the child’s level. ‘‘Your mamma didn’t want to go away. You must believe that.’’

Her young niece said nothing in response. No more muttering or covering her ears. But she was quivering hard.

‘‘Please . . . let me help you.’’ She reached out to the girl.

But Anna Mae backed away, stumbling backward, falling into the wall of coats and scarves. ‘‘No . . . no . . . no,’’ she whimpered.

Just as she was about to touch the girl’s shoulder, Lydia emerged in the doorway. ‘‘What’s wrong with my sister?’’ she asked, a ring of accusation in her voice. ‘‘Aunt Sarah, what’s happened to Anna Mae?’’

The heartfelt moment—that glimmer of verity—had passed, burst like a bubble against a barbed wire.

Lydia’s hands were on her hips, demanding an answer. ‘‘Anna Mae was yelling for me. I
heard
her.’’

‘‘Your sister’s upset,’’ Sarah replied, turning toward the kitchen. ‘‘I couldn’t seem to help her.’’

‘‘I want Mamma back,’’ Anna Mae was crying, still in the utility room. ‘‘Please make Mamma come back to me!’’

Sarah returned to the kitchen and picked up the knife. She slashed through the head of lettuce, her mind replaying the insinuations, the vicious whispers that had turned to public furor after the accident in Stonington. Remembering caused her to feel nauseous.

Bryan, please hurry
, she thought, chopping the lettuce into much finer pieces than necessary.

‘‘What happened with Anna Mae earlier?’’ Lydia asked her while they washed and dried supper dishes.

‘‘I think your sister may need to talk to a therapist. Do you know what I mean by that?’’

‘‘Head doctors are for English folk,’’ Lydia said softly but firmly, wringing out the dishrag.

‘‘You don’t understand. I’m quite familiar with cases like Anna Mae.’’

Lydia spun around to face Sarah. Her eyes were fire. ‘‘My sister is
not
a case study!’’

‘‘I didn’t mean—’’ ‘‘But you’re thinkin’ it all the same. I can see it in your face.’’

Sarah was struck by the similarities between her deceased sister and Ivy’s daughter. The slant of her lips in a display of anger, the tilt of her stubborn head.

‘‘Anna Mae needs love and attention, that’s all. She’ll be fine, you’ll see.’’

‘‘I do hope so’’ was all Sarah said.

‘‘Our mamma knew how to care for us,’’ Lydia said, almost sadly, suffering her own loss anew. ‘‘She loved us through the Lord Jesus himself. She always said it was God’s love pouring out through her to us. But more than that, Mamma was a kind and loving
person
, too.’’

Sarah listened, amazed. This was a side to Ivy she had not known. The things Lydia was saying about Ivy were difficult for Sarah to grasp, but she wouldn’t admit her feelings to her niece. She did think, however, that this might be an opportune time to inquire of Ivy’s journals, if such writings existed. ‘‘I’d like to know more about my sister’s adult years,’’ she said, tempering her words. ‘‘If you don’t mind . . . if you feel comfortable . . .’’

‘‘What would you like to know?’’

‘‘I wonder . . . may I read your mother’s journals?’’

Lydia drew in her breath. It was obvious to Sarah that the girl struggled with the notion.

‘‘I don’t know . . . I—’’ ‘‘You have every right to guard your mother’s personal things, I understand.’’

‘‘Mamma didn’t keep many diaries, really,’’ Lydia blurted. ‘‘She learned from Grandpa Cain about being particular, ’bout taking care to discard the ordinary. If you must know, Mamma kept only a few journals.’’

How strange to hear Lydia reiterate the words of Sarah’s own father.
Grandpa Cain, indeed
. It seemed the man had affixed his imprint on his oldest grandchild quite effectively.

‘‘One diary will do,’’ she said.

Lydia frowned. ‘‘You’ll return it, then, when you’re through?’’

‘‘Of course.’’ She folded the tea towel, noticing the embroidered words for the first time:
God’s way is the best way
.

Not a single light flickered on the wall this night as Lydia snuggled down under the warm quilts Mamma and she had made together. Her thoughts were of Levi, a hopeful but somewhat troubling shift from her mental scuffle with Aunt Sarah.

She’d ended up handin’ over one of Mamma’s journals to Aunt Sarah before going off to bed, having chosen one of the earlier diaries because she wouldn’t be ready to read it herself for several more nights.

Sick in spirit, she skipped writing in her own journal, finding that it was almost too much to bear, her giving an account of the past day, ’specially with the growing hostility between herself and Aunt Sarah.

And what was to become of her and Levi’s love? Sadly, they weren’t courtin’ at all, and not seeing Levi broke her heart— puttin’ her beloved off as she had. All because of them bein’ orphans . . . and Aunt Sarah not willing to take her rightful place.

Turmoil had come a-callin’ when Mamma’s sister stepped foot in this house. And all in just a matter of forty-eight hours.

Sarah sat propped up in bed with a single pillow, wrapped in her warmest bathrobe. She opened randomly to Ivy’s diary.

March 17, 1989

Our Lyddie is seven years old today. She is the apple of her
father’s eye, and mine, too.

Can it be that already we have lived in Lancaster for nearly
two years? Susie Lapp has become the dearest friend a woman
could ever want. I believe God planned our friendship, bringing
the two of us together in a spiritual bond. In some ways, Susie
has become somewhat of a sister to me, though we have much
more in common than I ever did with Sarah. We are true sisters—
Susie and I—in the Lord and otherwise
.

Sighing, Sarah marked her spot in Ivy’s journal. She might’ve thought, for a moment, that she was too tired to read further. The truth was she had no desire to go on. Ivy’s observation about Susie Lapp being a ‘‘true sister’’ pierced Sarah’s soul. And quite unexpectedly, she felt she understood the reason behind the friction she had experienced with Susie Lapp today. Clearly evident were the psychological goings-on between Mrs. Lapp, one of Ivy’s ‘‘spirit sisters,’’ and herself, Ivy’s one and only biological sister.