The Amish Nanny (9 page)

Shifting, I accidentally kicked Silas's leg. He half opened his eyes, looked at me, and then let the heavy lids lower again before I even had a chance to whisper an apology. I remained perfectly still for a long moment after that, willing him back to a deep sleep, wanting suddenly more than anything else to be alone.

I needed to think.

After checking my pockets to make sure I had my wallet, I made a bold move by slipping on my shoes, quietly standing up, and heading toward the dining car. I couldn't remember if the restaurant would be open yet, but if it was, I intended to have breakfast there, by myself, despite the stares I would get from the other passengers or the fact that my traveling companions might become worried if they woke to find that I was gone. I also wasn't going to think twice about the expense. On the trip out we had brought along several insulated bags full of sandwiches and snacks, and thus had managed to avoid the expensive onboard meals entirely. But the dining car had been so lovely, so inviting, that I had been strangely tempted to splurge. Now I was going to do that very thing. This breakfast would likely cost a fortune, but I didn't care. I had the cash, and for the most part I'd been frugal on the whole trip.

When I reached the dining car, I saw that the tables were all empty save for one, and I was afraid they were still closed. But then a man in a crisp uniform appeared, gave me a nod and a smile, and asked if I would be dining alone. I told him yes a little too emphatically, but he didn't seem to notice. Instead he simply grabbed a single menu from the shelf and led me to a nearby table. I took the chair closest to the window and sat, feeling oddly invigorated by this small act of independence. I accepted the elegant leather menu he handed to me before he walked away to greet another incoming guest. As I studied the choices, a second man came and introduced himself as my waiter. After pouring ice water into my goblet, he asked if I would be having coffee or juice.

“Yes, please.”

“Which?”

“Which what?”

He smiled, but there was something patronizing in his expression.

“Which would you like,” he said more slowly, “coffee or juice?”

I met his eyes and replied, “I want both, thank you.”

He cleared his throat, obviously realizing that I was neither stupid nor obtuse, despite my strange clothing.

“Very good, ma'am,” he said, and then he disappeared again into the back.

Ma'am
. I liked being addressed that way. Though my mother would have found it rather silly, I thought it was polite, not to mention it made me feel more like an adult.

More
like
an adult? I
was
an adult. Contrary to the way my parents treated me or the school board thought of me, I was an intelligent, capable, fully grown adult. And yet…

And yet, at twenty-four years old, the most rebellious, independent thing I could think of to do was eat by myself in a fancy restaurant? How pitiful this moment would seem to my friends back home. Some of them were already married, for goodness' sake, with babies on the way. And here I was, feeling at best like an awkward little girl trying to play dress-up in her mother's big shoes. What was wrong with me?

Eyes on the menu but my mind far away, I thought about that for a bit. Basically, I decided the problem had to do with my own perception of myself. How could I make the transition from child to adult, not just on the outside but on the inside? I knew my number, the count of years since I'd been born, but other than my age, what was going to tell me when I was finally a real grown-up? Did that happen at marriage? At childbirth? If so, and if I never experienced either, would I go through life feeling always like this, like some sort of overgrown child stamping her foot and trying futilely to declare her independence? Maybe that was one reason I'd wanted the teaching job so badly, because I knew it would help confirm that I was a mature, responsible adult.

My thoughts were interrupted by the waiter, who brought my beverages and told me about the chef's morning special. I realized that more people had been coming in, and that almost half of the tables were now occupied. A different waiter moved past carrying two small bowls of fruit, which he delivered to a couple who had been seated directly behind me.

Though I had no idea yet what I wanted to order, I handed back the menu and said the special would be fine. As various conversations slowly grew in volume around me, I ignored them all and instead focused on stirring cream and sugar into my coffee and then sipping it slowly as I looked out the window at the passing landscape. We were in Montana now, I felt sure, and would likely be reaching West Glacier in an hour or so. There, our chaperones would come aboard and join us, one big happy group of weary Amish and Mennonite travelers rattling across this vast country together toward home.

I heard the people behind me say something about a “horse and buggy,” and from their hushed tones I realized they were talking about me. As they conversed, the woman's voice grew louder and soon the man was shushing her. She replied that he needn't worry. She said she'd heard me and my whole group talking earlier and we used some other language. “She probably doesn't even speak English,” she concluded.

“Well, either way,” he whispered in return, “I'm surprised to see them on a train. I didn't think they were allowed to use anything but a horse and buggy, nor go so far from home.”

“Sure they can,” the woman replied softly, with authority. “Judging by their ages, they are probably all on their ringalingas.”

As she went on to explain to the man what a ringalinga was, I couldn't help but roll my eyes. She meant my
rumspringa
, the running around period all Amish kids went through, starting in the mid- to late-teens and lasting for a year or two, sometimes more.
Rumspringa
was a time when we were given extra freedom and privacy, a welcome loosening of the rules as we transitioned into adulthood.

To hear her description of it, however, it sounded more like some sort of parentally sanctioned free-for-all, an easy excuse for wild, drunken, promiscuous behavior, the chief aim of which was for all of the girls to land themselves hearty Amish husbands, most often by “accidentally” getting themselves pregnant.

Trying not to listen, my jaw clenched tighter and tighter as she went on. But then I decided this was a teaching moment I couldn't pass up, and I spun around in my seat and spoke, looking from one to the other as I did.

“Actually,” I told them in a calm and pleasant voice, “I do speak English. The word you're looking for is
rumpsringa
, not ringalinga. Despite popular opinion, the point of this practice is to allow those of us who were raised in Amish homes to understand fully the choice we'll be making if we decide to join the Amish church.”

Both of them sat there gaping at me, grapefruit-laden forks frozen in midair, halfway to their mouths. I continued, keeping my voice even and low.

“The good Lord has given every human being free will, you see, but if we were ushered straight from a sheltered, Amish childhood into the commitment of full church membership without any real perspective or knowledge of the world, we wouldn't actually be making a free and informed decision at all, now would we?”

The man was still frozen, though the woman had recovered enough to lower her fork and shake her head no.

“That's right,” I went on. “
Rumspringa
allows us the opportunity to gain that perspective. It's a time of growing up, of gaining a clearer understanding of what a life lived outside the church would really be like. And though it's true that a few individuals use it as an excuse to be foolish, most kids take it quite seriously and behave themselves in a godly manner throughout. Believe it or not, pregnancy prior to marriage is actually quite rare among the Amish, especially when compared to the rest of the world.”

Still no spoken response from either of them, so I couldn't resist adding one more thought.

“Statistically speaking, you know, the majority of us
do
end up making a decision to join the church. Obviously, then, the practice of
rumspringa
does work. I'd say it's a very necessary and useful phase of life. I just wanted to make sure you knew that it has nothing to do with wild parties or illicit behavior or trapping husbands and everything to do with building a solid, obedient, mature church body. I hope that clears up any misconceptions you may have had on the matter.”

My lesson finished, I gave them one last moment to reply, and when they didn't I simply turned back around and gulped down some juice. But then my heart began to pound and my cheeks began to burn as I realized what I'd just done. These weren't little children, my teenage cousins, or even elderly Mennonites interested in the Amish way of life. These were
Englischers
. And I'd been rude. I wanted to get up and run out of there, but instead I forced myself to stay, feet crossed under the table, hands shaking only slightly when the waiter brought my food and I reached for my knife and fork.

The couple behind me, however, didn't last nearly as long. Before I'd even finished choking down my first slice of bacon, they were asking for the check and preparing to leave. I thought I could hear the man say something to the waiter about me, and suddenly I was afraid I might have blown the whole trip for everyone. Was I crazy, speaking to a pair of total strangers like that? What would happen if my companions and I were kicked off the train because of my behavior, way out here in the middle of nowhere? So much for being an adult! Right now I felt more like a toddler who had just thrown a big tantrum than a teacher educating others.

Once the couple was gone, I found that my appetite had left as well. Putting down my fork, I motioned to the waiter and told him I was ready to pay.

“No need, ma'am. It's been covered.”

“Excuse me?”

He pointed toward the now-empty table behind me.

“The gentleman who was sitting there with his wife said to tell you that your breakfast is on him.” Looking at me quizzically, he added, “Oh, and also that they were sorry for having been rude.”

After a long moment, a smile began to spread across my face. I told the waiter never mind, that my appetite had suddenly returned after all and I wouldn't be leaving just yet. He offered to refresh my coffee and then wished me “bon appétit” before walking away.

I scooped up a big bite of eggs and popped it into my mouth. Imagine that! Here I had confronted an
Englisch
couple and basically told them off, yet
they
ended up apologizing to
me
for having been rude—and paid for my meal besides. Shaking my head, I honestly couldn't decide if my actions had been right or wrong. As a Christian, I was to be
in
the world and not
of
it, after all, and by allowing their conversation to get my hackles up, I had been concerning myself with the world and its silly misconceptions. On the other hand, with so much misinformation about my people floating around, how could it be wrong for me to have corrected such an embarrassing assumption, as long as I had done it respectfully?

I still wasn't sure how I felt about what I'd done, but either way, my unintended tirade had earned me a free meal and an apology. Though I doubted I'd ever tell the full story of what had just happened to a living soul, I couldn't wait to share the term “ringalinga” with someone. But who? Maybe Silas, who was currently on a ringalinga of his own.

As was I, actually, now that I thought about it.

At that moment I realized something, and it caught me with such force that the smile faded from my face entirely. Of course. How could I have missed it before? No wonder I didn't feel like a real grown-up much of the time. I'd never had the chance to go through
rumspringa
and experience that transition time from child to adult. Now that I was twenty-four, my loved ones were getting impatient for me to go ahead and join the church, to bring an end to my
rumpsringa
.

But how could I bring to an end something that had never really begun?

I sat back in my chair, thinking of my teenage years as I watched rolling fields, tall trees, and white-capped mountains go by. I'd always been too weak and too tired to make it to most of the group sing-alongs, volleyball games, and picnics with my friends. Sometimes I'd wanted to give participating a try, but I always held back, knowing that the danger was too great, that such activity could cause irreparable harm. I knew there was some big secret about my condition, something my parents were aware of but had chosen not to tell me. Knowing that terrified me, sometimes with a paralyzing fear. In my heart I just knew I was sicker than they let on. Whenever I engaged in any sort of physical activity, I expected the worst, that I might drop dead at any moment.

What else could the secret be, unless it was that I would never be able to teach or to marry or have children—a life sentence almost as scary as death itself. Whatever the secret was, it had to be pretty bad for them not to have told me.

Then this spring I found out exactly what they had been keeping from me all these years. Much to my astonishment, the big secret had nothing to do with my medical condition and everything to do with my parentage: I was adopted.
Mamm
was not genetically my mother and
Daed
was not genetically my father. Instead, my birth mother had been
Mamm
's sister Giselle, the aunt I'd never met. When I was still a newborn, Giselle had given up both me and my older sister, two-year-old Lexie, and fled to Europe. Lexie had been adopted by a Mennonite couple from Oregon, but I'd been adopted by my
mamm
and
daed
and kept right there at home in Lancaster County.