The Redemption of Sarah Cain (34 page)
Long past midnight, she thought there must be a phone ringing somewhere, though in her sleepy haze, she questioned ever having turned hers off. Groping in the darkness, she put the receiver to her ear and heard the voice of Megan Holmes. ‘‘Please, Teacher? It won’t take me long. I’ll hurry.
Please?
’’ ‘‘All right, Megan, one more time. But be very careful,’’ she said, now standing behind a long line of noisy children, bundled up for a wintry recess, waiting impatiently to get back inside the school building. They were jostling one another, vying for position, overly anxious for the door to open.
Just then, she thought she must have dropped the phone when Meggie’s screams awakened her. She sat straight up in bed, her heart pounding nearly out of her rib cage. The silence in the Amish farmhouse made her ears feel clogged, deafened.
Sarah drew a deep breath and reached for a glass of water and, out of habit, another aspirin. As she swallowed both water and pill, she realized that while she knew the precise location of Megan Holmes’s gravesite, she had no idea where her own sister’s body was buried.
S
arah was ravenous at breakfast and took a second small helping of scrambled eggs, along with her oatmeal. After Lydia left for school, Sarah followed Hannah around, helping her gather up her lunch bucket and books for school.
After everyone was out the door and on their way, she cleaned the kitchen thoroughly, baked some bread, and took a roast out of the freezer to thaw for supper. Feeling far better than she had in days, she sat at the table and reached into the small shoe box that Lydia had brought downstairs before breakfast. ‘‘These were Mamma’s favorite shells,’’ her niece had said with a big smile. ‘‘Ten of them . . . gathered with Grandpa Cain, when Mamma was little.’’
‘‘Oh, really?’’ Sarah replied, surprising herself with immediate interest. ‘‘I’ll take a look once the house is quiet.’’ Which is precisely what she planned to do at the moment.
Lifting the lid off the box, she peered inside. There she found colorful seashells, smooth and pearlescent.
Lydia wanted me to see
these . . . why?
she wondered. But there was an instinctive quickening of her senses. She knew, possibly, that it was a type of reward from Lydia for Sarah’s willingness to stay on ‘‘a while longer.’’
Smiling, she picked up the first shell—a snail shell, also called moon shell, which she knew from the occasional walks with her father. She examined it, stroking its glossy fullness, its rounded borders, enjoying its opaque rose color, the smoothness in her hands. A whiff of salty ocean air tickled her imagination. She was a girl, back in Watch Hill, a few blocks east of her parents’ summer cottage.
Her father had once said,
‘‘Human beings often despise aloneness.’’
This bit of wisdom he had shared while holding a gossamer shell in his hand.
‘‘We avoid isolation at all costs. Yet we must
reconcile with solitude, learn to embrace it, so that we can hear God’s
voice.’’
God’s voice . . .
Was he referring to the still, small
inner
voice he often mentioned? Was it an audible utterance? Had Bryan heard it, too?
Embrace the solitude. . . .
She pressed the snail’s shell to her cheek. Its coolness soothed her. Was the lack of God’s voice in her life evident to others? And what of Ivy and Gilbert and their children? When,
how
had they managed to hear—listen to—such a divine pronouncement? Was ‘‘hearing’’ an outgrowth of their purposeful solitude, their abandonment of things, the embracing of a simple, uncomplicated life? Or the reverse—the
reason
for having heard?
She stared at the milky-colored shell.
‘‘Treasures from the sea
teach us heavenly lessons,’’
her dad had said repeatedly when she was growing up.
God’s treasures . . .
The phone rang, startling her. Carefully, she returned the moon shell to its cradle in a wad of tissues and got up to reach for the wall phone. ‘‘Cottrell residence.’’
‘‘Hullo, Sarah’’ came a somewhat familiar voice. ‘‘I met you at the quilting last week . . . at Susie Lapp’s place. My name is Miriam Esh.’’
‘‘How are you, Miriam?’’ She was careful not to sound too exuberant.
‘‘Well, I’m doin’ just fine, I reckon, and how are
you
gettin’ along?’’
She did not know if the woman was referring to her physically, or otherwise. ‘‘We’re fine,’’ she said cautiously.
‘‘I understand Lyddie’s at Peach Lane School, teachin’ the youngsters.’’
‘‘And enjoying it, too, from what she says.’’
‘‘Wonderful-gut news.’’ Miriam paused. ‘‘Well, now, the reason I telephoned you was to see if you might like to join some of the womenfolk again. We’re gettin’ together Thursday at my house to sew a new binding on an old quilt.’’
‘‘It’s kind of you to ask.’’
‘‘So you’ll give it some thought . . . ’bout coming?’’
‘‘Yes, I think I
will
come,’’ she replied, glad that the work frolic wasn’t scheduled for tomorrow. She fully intended to meet with Bryan Ford in the morning.
‘‘I could ask someone to stop by ’n pick you up, if you’d like.’’
She thought of riding in an Amish buggy—her first time. The notion made her nervous. ‘‘If you give me directions, I’m sure I can get there on my own, thanks.’’
Miriam obliged her. ‘‘Watch for a hitchin’ post on the east side of the road, and that white picket fence at the corner of such and so’’ was the gist of it.
Sarah smiled to herself as she said good-bye. What a folksy way of telling a person how to locate a place. Her father, unpretentious man that he was, would have enjoyed it. Of this, she was certain.
At midmorning, Sarah was surprised by a visit from Susie Lapp. The woman came with two hot dishes.
‘‘One’s hamburger casserole, the other’s Texas hash,’’ she said as she strolled into the kitchen, wearing a cheerful countenance.
‘‘Well, thank you,’’ Sarah said, thinking of the rock-hard roast on the counter. ‘‘We’ll enjoy this tonight . . . the children and I.’’
‘‘I made some corn fritters, too.’’ Susie seemed more relaxed today. ‘‘Thought you might enjoy ’em.’’
‘‘I’m sure we will,’’ Sarah said, pouring some coffee. ‘‘Care for a cup?’’
‘‘Oh my, yes . . . black coffee would taste awful gut ’bout now.’’
Sarah wondered if Susie was headed off to another house— perhaps to deliver more food to a friend. She did not inquire, however, settling down at the kitchen table with the woman her sister had deemed her closest friend.
‘‘I was rude to you when first we met,’’ Susie said, her eyes downcast. When she looked up, Sarah saw that her eyes were glistening.
‘‘There’s no need to apologize.’’
‘‘Oh, but there
is
.’’ Susie sniffled, then—‘‘Your sister—Ivy— would’ve been appalled at my behavior. I’m sorry, Sarah.’’
Unaccustomed to entertaining expressions of regret, Sarah scarcely knew what to say.
‘‘I heard you’re comin’ to Miriam’s for another frolic . . .
Thursday.’’
‘‘That’s right.’’
‘‘Maybe we can sit together at the quiltin’ frame, you and I.’’
Susie did not make eye contact with her this time. She sat quietly now, sipping her coffee.
‘‘I’d like that’’ was all Sarah said.
Sarah went around to each of the children’s bedrooms—even to Caleb’s and Josiah’s—tucking them in for the night. As she moved from room to room, she realized this was the first time she had done such a thing since her arrival.
Hannah leaned up and kissed her cheek unexpectedly. ‘‘Well, aren’t
you
the quick one?’’ she said, hugging the little girl.
‘‘Mamma
always
kissed and hugged us.’’
‘‘And she told us how the Lord God heavenly Father loves us and sends His angels to watch over us while we sleep,’’ volunteered Anna Mae.
‘‘I think your mother must have loved you very much,’’ she replied.
Anna Mae leaned up on her elbow, propping her head up. ‘‘You didn’t know her too awful gut, didja, Aunt Sarah?’’
She pondered the question, wondering,
Did I ever know Ivy
at all?
Hannah spoke up, her tiny face pensive. ‘‘You’re sisters, ain’t so?’’
Sisters . . .
Uncertain about her response, she said, ‘‘Your mother and I were never close the way you and Anna Mae are . . . not sisters who are also friends.’’
‘‘Well, why
not
?’’ Hannah pressed, sitting up.
‘‘We just weren’t,’’ Sarah answered softly. ‘‘I really don’t know why.’’
Anna Mae’s comment was even more thought-provoking.
‘‘Maybe Mamma wanted you to know who
she
was . . . by knowin’
us
.’’
The sting of tears prompted Sarah to get up quickly and turn off the light. ‘‘Maybe so,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Good night, girls.
Sleep well.’’
‘‘God be with you, Aunt Sarah,’’ they said in unison.
In some inexplicable way, Hannah’s and Anna Mae’s words seemed to belong to the moment, so much a part of this night that her sudden feeling of aloneness might have been the very invitation God had been waiting for.
Embrace the solitude . . . so God can speak to you
.
She did not linger long enough in her stark solitude to hear a divine voice, however. Closing the door gently, Sarah slipped quietly down the hall to Ivy’s former bedroom. She had an important phone call to make.
‘‘Are we still on for tomorrow?’’ she asked when Bryan answered. ‘‘Sarah . . . hi! You must be feeling better.’’
‘‘Much better, thanks.’’
‘‘Great. So where should we meet?’’
‘‘How does right here sound? I want to show you around the farm.’’
‘‘Where exactly
is
this place?’’
‘‘Nestled deep in the heart of Lancaster County, on the outskirts of Strasburg.’’ She gave him directions to the Cottrell farmhouse.
‘‘When’s a good time for you?’’
‘‘How would you like a hearty home-cooked breakfast?’’
He laughed softly. ‘‘You’re feeding me a line, right?’’
‘‘No . . . I’ll feed you cholesterol. Bacon-flavored.’’
Their mutual laughter melted some of the cold hesitancy that had resided in the back of her heart since their college breakup. She could hardly wait to see him again.
T
he fact that today was February 2, Groundhog’s Day, struck Sarah rather humorously as she dressed for the day. She took time to brush her hair more thoroughly than she had in the past few days, hoping to put a shine in it, while the children milked the cows.
Bacon and eggs were planned for breakfast, just as she had envisioned, although she assisted Lydia and Anna Mae in making an extra large batch. Lydia never questioned her as to why so much food, but during cleanup Sarah mentioned, in passing, that ‘‘an old friend’’ was stopping by for breakfast.
‘‘Who’s coming?’’ Josiah asked, offering a quizzical look.
‘‘A man from Boston,’’ she felt comfortable saying.
‘‘Have a gut time,’’ Lydia said, then she left to meet the car that was driving into the lane—one of their non-Amish raw milk customers.