Anna's Return (24 page)

“Do you miss it?” Rosemary asked. “Your life in Chicago, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” Anna said, trying to be honest.

“Gracie’s real mother—birth mother, I mean. She wasn’t Amish, was she?”

The question startled Anna. “No, she wasn’t.”

Jannie hadn’t been anything definite, it seemed. Just another of the lost kids who ended up in one big city or another.

“It makes me wonder.” Rosemary tilted her head to the side, watching Anna’s face. “I wonder if you’re doing the right thing, trying to bring up an English child in the Amish world.”

For a moment Anna couldn’t speak. The blow had been unexpected. Finally, she fell back on words that weren’t her own.

“Her mother wanted me to raise her right. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Sure, I know you have Gracie’s best interest at heart. I just wonder if bringing her up Amish is what her mother had in mind.”

Anna took a breath, tamping down her anger. Rosemary seemed to be one of those people who blurted out what was in her head, even when it wasn’t really any of her business.

“Gracie is my child,” Anna said. “I must make the decision about what is the right life for her.”

It was what she believed with all her heart. She just wasn’t sure she knew what that right life was.

 

 

Anna
shook out the damp sheet and pinned the corner to the clothesline Joseph had put up for Myra in the backyard. The breeze caught the sheet, billowing it out like a sail. Anna lifted her face.

It felt like fall suddenly, with a crispness in the wind that hadn’t been there the previous day. The calendar was turning to October, and this long September warm spell was coming to an end.

Anna clipped the sheet to the line, trying to concentrate on the simple task. Trying not to let her mind spin back to that conversation with Rosemary yesterday.

Was it right, to consider bringing Gracie up as Amish? Was that what Jannie would have wanted?

When she and Gracie had arrived, all she’d been able to think about was safety. Like a rabbit diving into its hole at the approach of the fox, she’d bolted home, knowing they’d take her in.

Knowing, too, that she could disappear into the community. The outside world would look only at the dress and think Amish, without peering any more closely at the individual behind the prayer kapp.

The panic that had driven Anna had vanished quickly, but it had taken weeks to make her feel safe. Now she did. Now she seriously considered staying.

And that brought her full circle back to the question she would like to avoid. Was it right to bring Gracie up here?

She reached automatically for the basket to pick up the next piece of laundry and found it empty. She’d hung the entire line full with sheets and pillowcases without even noticing.

She stood for a moment, frowning as she watched them flap in the breeze. She wanted to talk to someone. If she could lay out all her doubts, maybe her course would become clear.

As a child, she’d always turned to Leah, the big sister who could solve every problem, but she couldn’t talk to Leah, of all people, now. She would be so hurt if she knew Anna had doubts.

All of them would, if they knew. The whole family had enough to worry about, what with Joseph’s slow recovery and Myra’s cheerful pretense that nothing was wrong.

As Anna picked up the basket, she saw movement out by the barn. It was Samuel, leading one of the horses. Over his shoulder was the chain he’d used to move her car that first day.

Anna dropped the basket and scurried toward him, telling herself it was none of her business what he was doing, but compelled to go anyway.

By the time she reached the barn, he’d already disappeared inside. She hurried in. Samuel was harnessing the horse to her car.

“What are you doing?” she said.

Samuel looked up. He was probably startled, but his stolid face didn’t reveal it. He patted the horse’s shoulder.

“I asked you that the day you came back, when I found you in here harnessing up Joseph’s buggy horse.”

“I know. I remember.” She crossed the barn floor toward him. “What’s going on, Samuel? Where are you taking my car?”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Your daad sent word over by Matthew. He’s arranged for the junkyard man to come for it today. He asked if I’d haul it out of the barn for them, not wanting the tow truck to come in here.”

“Today.” She’d been expecting it, but still it seemed to catch her by surprise.

“Ja, today. You did tell him to get rid of the car, ain’t so?”

“I did.” She hesitated, but after everything else she’d said to Samuel, she could say this. “I just didn’t think it would bother me so much when the time came.” She moved closer, patting the dusty fender much as Samuel had patted the horse. “This was Jannie’s car. I couldn’t afford one. As you can see, she couldn’t afford much of a car.”

The tension in his expression eased. “Your friend left it to you.”

“I hadn’t driven since the accident, just used public transportation, but she insisted I had to try. In case I needed to get the baby to the hospital or anything.”

“So she cared about the baby’s future, even knowing she wouldn’t be there.”

Anna ran her finger along the side mirror, her thoughts drifting into the past. “We drove out of the city one day, when she felt well enough. She wanted to see the country, she said. To see trees and grass again before she . . .” Her voice failed her.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was a low rumble. “It’s brought up sad memories.”

Anna shook her head. “Bittersweet, maybe. Not entirely sad. She was happy that day.”

“If you don’t want to get rid of the car, you can tell your daad why. He’d understand.”

“No point in that. It’s so far gone it’s of no use anyway, I guess.”

For a moment Samuel stared at her, as if absorbing her words. Then something flared in his eyes. “Were you planning to make a quick getaway, Anna?”

The edge of anger in his voice caught her on the raw, startling her. Samuel, who never lost his temper, was furious with her.

Her own temper rose in an instant. “If you’re thinking I’d run off and leave Myra when she needs me, you don’t understand me as well as you think, Samuel Fisher.”

He seemed taken aback by the direct attack. He took a step toward her, the anger fading from his face, and something solemn taking its place.

“If you left, I would be sorry on my own account, not just on my sister’s. I would be disappointed in you, as well.”

The mood had changed so quickly she felt oddly off balance. Everything that might be between them seemed to hover in the air, unspoken. She wanted to touch him, to assure him that she was here forever, that it was safe for them to love each other. But how could she? The doubts still clung.

She shook her head, trying to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. “I don’t want to disappoint you. Or anyone else. I just . . .”

It was hopeless. He wouldn’t understand. He’d have only the simple answer that she belonged here, so her child did, too.

“Tell me.” He caught her hand in his. “What is troubling you so?”

Anna couldn’t seem to turn away from his intent gaze. Finally she shook her head.

“It’s foolish to let it trouble me, maybe. But when I was working at Rosemary’s yesterday, she said something that . . . well, it raised a question in my mind.” She stopped, not sure she should continue.

“What did she ask?” Samuel obviously wouldn’t let it go.

Anna took a breath. “She asked whether it was right, to raise a child born English as Amish.”

Samuel was quiet for a long moment. She had the sense that beneath his calm surface, tension roiled.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said quickly. “Just forget it.” She tried to smile, but it probably wasn’t very convincing. “I’ve gotten into the habit of confiding in you, and that isn’t fair.”

His hand tightened on hers. “We are friends. We should be able to say the difficult words, ja?”

She nodded, her throat tight.

“So tell me what it was your friend Jannie expected from you.”

She took a shaky breath. “At first, she counted on me as you would on any friend. She thought she was going to be all right. She floated along on that belief for months, it seemed, ignoring what the doctors told her.”

Her throat thickened still more, so that it was an effort to get the words out.

“When she finally accepted that she wasn’t going to survive, all her strength went to the baby.”

“It’s what a mother does,” he said quietly.

She nodded, tears pricking her eyes. “Jannie had always been so timid. Malleable. She never seemed to have a thought of her own, just went along with what everyone else wanted. Suddenly she was a mother lion. She decided what she wanted to do and pushed everyone into line. Got the lawyer, got Pete to sign the papers, arranged for me to adopt. The lawyer was doubtful about me. He tried to get her to give the baby to an agency for adoption, but she was determined that I would be Gracie’s mother.”

“Did she tell you why?”

“She said she could count on me to raise Jannie right.”

“If she thought that, it was because of the person you are, ja?” His voice was gentle.

“Of course.”

“And you are who you are because of how you were raised. How could she trust you with her baby without trusting what you come from?”

His words seemed to sink into a place deep in her heart, easing and soothing. They rang true, and she knew he was right about what Jannie had intended.

“Jannie knew I was Amish,” she said slowly. “She was the only one out there who did know. She must have realized, must have thought all along that coming home was what I would do.”

“That is what I would think, from what you’ve said about her.”

“Denke, Samuel.” She looked into his face, gratitude welling in her. “Thank you.”

“There is something else I must say. Something you might not want to hear.” His voice was very grave. “Your friendship with the English woman . . . I don’t think it is a gut thing.”

She could only stare at him. “Rosemary? Why would you say that? True, she did raise doubts in my mind, but that’s just because she didn’t understand. I’m sure she meant well.”

“When you are with her, you start to think like an Englischer again, ain’t so?”

Think like an Englischer
. The words echoed. Maybe they were true. Maybe that’s why they stung so much.

She straightened. Grateful as she was to Samuel, she wouldn’t let him dictate who her friends were.

She managed a smile. “I appreciate your help. Now I had better let you get back to your work, and I’ll get back to mine.”

She turned and walked quickly out of the barn.

 

 

“Komm,
komm.” Myra’s hands fluttered as she gestured Samuel toward the bedroom. “The boppli’s crib must go in the corner of our room, where I can get to it easily.”

Samuel carried the crib mattress through the doorway, his misgivings growing. “Myra, you have months to get the crib ready for the boppli. Why must we do it today?”

“Over here.” Myra ignored his question. “The crib must be here.” She sketched the shape of the crib with her hands against the wall.

He set the mattress down. “I will go and get the tools and the other pieces.”

“Ja, ja,” Myra said absently. She stared at the spot where the crib would go, smiling.

He hurried out of the room and back down the stairs, wishing he knew what was going on in his sister’s mind. She had taken a sudden fancy to set up the crib she had borrowed from Barbara, since little Gracie now occupied the one that had been Sarah’s. She didn’t want Joseph doing all that bending, so she’d decided that Samuel must do it.

He glanced into the living room, where Joseph was keeping the two little girls occupied. Joseph met his eyes and gave a helpless shrug. He didn’t know what to do, either.

If Anna were here, she might be better equipped to handle Myra’s sudden whim, but Anna had gone over to Leah’s house this morning to help her prepare for a party at the school.

Anna was never far from his thoughts these days. He sorted through the crib components, which Levi had stacked on the back porch, making sure all the bolts and nuts were there.

He’d gone over and over the conversation he and Anna had had in the barn yesterday, trying to assure himself that he’d said the right words. He could understand her worries about what the English woman had said. It was no simple matter, bringing up an English child to be Amish.

But Gracie had been Anna’s child since she was born, and Anna had never stopped being Amish, despite her attempt to live in the English world. He believed with all his heart that what he’d told Anna was true. Her friend must have known that the way Anna was raised made her the person she was.

He carried an armload of crib bars up the stairs and into the bedroom. Myra still stood where he’d left her, looking with dreamy eyes at the place where the crib would go. Concern edged its way to worry.

“I’ll get the rest of it,” he said, and escaped.

Coward,
he accused himself as he hurried down the steps. If Anna were here, she’d know what to do. He felt a flare of resentment that he knew was totally unreasonable. Anna had every right to go to Leah’s or anywhere else this morning. He should just be relieved she wasn’t back at Rosemary’s again.

He wasn’t wrong, was he, thinking that the Englischer’s friendship wasn’t best for Anna right now? Most Amish had some English friends, but for Anna, so recently returned, he feared the lure of that other life might be too great.

Anna hadn’t liked it when he’d said so. He’d seen the flare of resentment, quickly suppressed, in her eyes.

In the old days, Anna wouldn’t have bothered to suppress it. Maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad. At least then she wouldn’t have been treating him with such cool politeness.