Miriam's Secret (2 page)

There was the possibility that Shirley might take over Miriam's duties with Mr. Bland—if Miriam's life went in another direction. If, say, Ivan Mast asked her home some Sunday evening…and things progressed from there. One thing was certain: Miriam would say
yah
to dating Ivan at the drop of a hat. They had been sweet on each other all through their
rumspringa
time—if smiles and winks from Ivan counted. Even though Miriam's
rumspringa
hadn't amounted to much, her heart had taken Ivan's attention seriously. One highlight had been the three-day trip she'd taken with a group of young folks to Virginia Beach. The others had made sure Miriam and Ivan had moments alone to chat with each other. Ivan hadn't said anything then about long-term plans. No doubt he had his reasons, she figured. Surely soon he would ask her home after a hymn singing. They were both baptized now. Maybe that was why Ivan had been waiting. Surely another girl hadn't caught his eye. She would have noticed, wouldn't she?

After the turn into Mr. Bland's lane, Mindy slowed her pace and made her way toward the familiar barn. She stopped and waited patiently while Miriam climbed down the buggy steps. Miriam unhitched Mindy and led her into the barn and then a large stall. Grabbing a bucket from the barn floor, Miriam dipped it into a large bag of oats. Feed for Mindy was another thing Mr. Bland wasn't stingy about. The horse was downright spoiled with the oats she ate each day. Miriam smiled and poured the grain into the feeding trough. Mindy stuck her snout right in and began to munch happily away. Miriam walked out of the barn, pausing to close the door. She rushed across the yard and into the house. Faint noises were coming from the bedroom, so Mr. Bland must be up. He was an early riser.

“Bones can't rest no more,” Mr. Bland would mutter as he came out of the bedroom on some mornings.

Miriam busied herself with the breakfast preparations. Bacon and eggs were on the menu this morning. It was Mr. Bland's favorite breakfast besides pancakes, which, if he had his way, he'd have every morning. But Rose had told Miriam, “Absolutely not!” when Miriam had mentioned Mr. Bland's preference. “One morning a week is enough!” Miriam had served pancakes just yesterday. She turned on the electric stove and studied the soft glow of the burner for a moment. She'd gotten used to the fancy
Englisha
household gadgets during her time working here. There was the electric stove, the microwave, and the electric washer and dryer. All nice conveniences she never talked about at home.
Mamm
would worry and wonder how much the convenience was affecting her daughter. Would she one day wish to forsake the Plain community's ways in favor of an easier
Englisha
life?

Miriam straightened her shoulders. That would never happen.
She was Amish and would always be Amish. That's all there was to it. One day she'd become a Amish wife—hopefully Ivan's!

Miriam paused to listen. Where was Mr. Bland? He still hadn't come out of the bedroom. She turned down the burner on the stove and went down the hall to Mr. Bland's bedroom. She knocked on the bedroom door and called out, “Do you need help, Mr. Bland?”

A low groan answered her call but was quickly followed by, “I'm okay.”

“Are you sure?” Miriam waited.

There was silence for a moment. “Maybe I could use some help with this shirt.”

Miriam opened the door and entered to find Mr. Bland seated on the side of the bed, dressed except for his shirt that was hanging over one shoulder. A disgruntled look was on his face. “I'm having trouble this morning.”

“Let me help you.” Miriam lifted his arm gently and brought the shirt sleeve around.

Mr. Bland sighed as his arm slid in. “Maybe I should just stay in bed all day.”

“And miss your bacon and eggs? I don't think so!” she teased.

He smiled. “You're awfully cheerful this morning.”

“I can be a sourpuss if you prefer,” she retorted.

“I doubt that!” He chuckled. “Although with me, it could happen.”

“Now, come.” Miriam stepped closer to button his shirt. “No reason for being downhearted. The Lord has made a beautiful day. I'll help you outside to enjoy it right after breakfast. You can put on your jacket and sit on the porch.”

He seemed pleased as she finished the last button and helped him stand. “I think I'd like to go out on the porch right now.”

“Before breakfast?”

“Sometimes the soul needs feeding more than the body,” he explained. “It's been a long night, dear. Someday when you're old, you'll understand.”

“Well, if you're sure.” Miriam took Mr. Bland's arm, and the two made their way into the living room. He waited while she grabbed his jacket from the rack and slipped it on him.

“I dreamed about her last night.” His voice hung in the air for a moment.

Miriam didn't ask. She already knew. There was only one woman Mr. Bland would dream about—his beloved Thelma. There were pictures of her everywhere in the house. Thelma and Mr. Bland at their wedding. Thelma and Mr. Bland on vacation somewhere with a great range of snow-covered mountains behind them. Thelma and Mr. Bland on a beach with ocean waves rolling in at their feet. Mr. Bland had told Miriam about Thelma soon after she'd started working for him. “She was the most beautiful woman I ever knew. Right near an angel from heaven.”

Miriam led him toward the front door. “What was the dream like?”

“I saw her.” A smile spread across his face. “She was young again. Like when we first met, only even more beautiful. Heaven has made her radiant.”

Miriam opened the front door, and they walked out. She helped Mr. Bland into the rocker. She didn't know what heaven would be like. Bishop Wagler said one wasn't supposed to have wild imaginations about such things. But if Mr. Bland dreamed about his
frau
, what could be wrong with that?

He sat down and groaned again.

“Let me get a blanket,” Miriam said. “That chair must be cold.”

He nodded.

Miriam rushed into the house and returned with the quilt from the couch. She lifted his arm and helped Mr. Bland stand enough to slide the quilt partly under him. The rest she draped over his shoulders and arms.

He settled in with a contented look on his face. “It's a beautiful morning, Miriam. And you are beautiful too. Almost as beautiful as Thelma.”

Miriam looked away. “You don't have to say that, Mr. Bland. I'm just ordinary.”

“Some man will love you someday like I loved my Thelma.” He beamed with pleasure.

“That's awfully nice of you to say.” Miriam felt her face flush as Ivan's handsome face rose in her mind.

“It's true!” Mr. Bland's gaze settled across the open fields. “Don't ever forget that.”

“Thank you,” Miriam replied. “I'm going to finish cooking your breakfast now.”

He said nothing more as she slipped back into the house.

Chapter Two

M
iriam tended to the eggs—sunny-side up as Mr. Bland liked them—and turned the bacon. Her thoughts drifted back to Mr. Bland's kind words, though she knew he'd exaggerated considerably—especially the part about being beautiful. She knew she wasn't that
gut
looking.

Her hope rested in the words
Mamm
often told her: “Beauty is the condition of the soul.”
Mamm
said the same thing to Shirley, and to fourteen-year-old Naomi, and to Dana who was nine. But the truth was that Miriam's three younger sisters were beautiful in their own right. And seven-year-old Elizabeth and five-year-old Cheryl would be no different.

Daett
didn't have lots of money, but he had beautiful daughters—if you disallow me, Miriam decided. Was that why Ivan hesitated to ask her home? He'd certainly smiled at her often enough, but perhaps he wanted a beautiful woman as his
frau
. And that was to be expected, wasn't it? Didn't every husband
think such things about his beloved? No doubt
Daett
did of
Mamm
. Miriam could easily imagine her
daett
telling
Mamm
how
wunderbah
she appeared to him. The words would be spoken with the same tone of love and admiration Mr. Bland used for his beloved Thelma.

Miriam rubbed her neck, sure that she was flaming red at such thoughts. But Mr. Bland wouldn't notice when she went back outside. He'd be in the midst of thoughts about his Thelma and the great love he once enjoyed with her. How sweet that Mr. Bland had dreamed of his late wife last night. The Lord must have sent such thoughts to comfort him during his final lonely days on this earth.

Mr. Bland isn't dying, Miriam corrected herself at once. That wouldn't happen anytime soon. He'd had a bad night, that was all. She would make a point of cheering him up today. Maybe she'd cook something special for lunch. She'd ask him what he wanted, but she already suspected what that would be: a bowl of potato soup spiced with pinches of salt and pepper.

The first time Mr. Bland had shown her the recipe, he'd told her, “Make this for me once in a while, Miriam. Rose won't do it. I suspect the soup reminds her of what she wishes to forget—the time of great poverty in our youth. Even after I married Thelma we went through some hard times. This soup sustained us. Now the taste of it takes me back to those precious years when Thelma and I were poor but in love. That potato soup kept our bodies and souls together.” His eyes twinkled at the memory.

Yah,
Miriam told herself. She would go ahead and make a bowl of potato soup for lunch. From how Mr. Bland had looked when she left him on the porch, this would fit his mood exactly.

Miriam sprinkled a few grains of salt on the eggs. That was how Mr. Bland liked them. Not too much. “Just a touch,” he'd
say. With a smile on her face Miriam put the plate and a glass of orange juice on a tray and walked through the living room to the porch. Mr. Bland would enjoy his breakfast on the porch. If not, she would help him back inside.

“Mr. Bland!” she called as she swung open the screen door. “Breakfast is ready.”

There was no response. Miriam approached him and waited for him to look up. Had he started his morning nap already? She tried again, louder this time. “Breakfast, Mr. Bland! Just as you like it!”

When he didn't move, she laid one hand on his shoulder. His body slumped forward. Miriam gasped as she dropped the tray and grabbed for him. The tray clattered to the porch floor. She moved to the front of the rocker and fell to her knees. Her hands were on his now. “Mr. Bland! Mr. Bland!”

His head slumped lower.

She noticed he had a slight smile on his face, but the life had clearly gone out of him.

Miriam took a deep breath and forced herself to her feet.
What happened?
she wondered. Was she to blame? Should she have not encouraged him to sit on the porch? Had she done something wrong? Why would Mr. Bland die without warning? Tears stung her eyes, and she wiped them away. Now was not the time to give in to emotions. She must do something, but what? Perhaps
Englisha
doctors could still bring Mr. Bland back—if she called them quickly.

With another glance at Mr. Bland, Miriam rushed inside to the phone on the kitchen wall. What number should she call? 9-1-1? Isn't that what the
Englisha
people used in their times of trouble?
Yah
, it was. Her hand trembled as she punched in the numbers.

A woman's voice answered quickly. “What is your emergency?”

Miriam choked out, “The man I work for just passed, I think. He isn't responding. I left him on the porch while I fixed breakfast, and now he's not…” Miriam caught her breath. “I think he's…dead.” A lump formed in her throat.

“What is your location?”

“County Road 135—2945 County Road 135,” Miriam managed to get out.

A barrage of questions followed.

Yah
, she could leave the phone to check Mr. Bland's pulse, but she knew there wouldn't be one.

The operator assured her paramedics were on the way. In the meantime, could she start CPR?