The Haven (12 page)

“Don’t mind Fern. At first, she can be as prickly as a jar of toothpicks. It takes awhile for her to warm up to folks. But she does love to feed people. We eat at six.”

His stomach rumbled again, louder this time. Sadie’s lips parted and laughter spilled out of her.

Will smiled. “Then I’ll be back in an hour.”

Amos barely had one leg out the door of the Mennonite taxi as Fern peppered him with questions about his appointment with the cardiologist. This was exactly why he refused to let her accompany him to the doctor, even though it was clear he had ruffled her feathers. She promised she would stay in the waiting room, but he knew she would somehow worm her way into the doctor’s office with a laundry list of questions. He was a grown man, for goodness’ sake!

“So what did he say? Is there trouble brewing?”

She had such a worried look on her face that he felt himself softening. It was nice, really, to have someone fuss over him. He closed the car door and waved goodbye to the driver. “Everything’s fine, Fern. Just fine.”

“Fine, as in Fern Graber’s version of fine, or in Amos Lapp’s version?”

The sweet moment between them fizzled. What was
that
supposed to mean? “Fine as in everybody’s version of fine.” He started to walk toward the house.

She caught up with him. “Did he give you every test for rejection? Stress tests, biopsies?”

“He gave me every test known to man. I have no blood left. I’ve been completely drained by those sharp needles. And it took all day long!” That’s what annoyed him about being sick, most of all. Losing time for his farm. He glanced over at the field he had put in Will Stoltz’s care. He cocked his head and squinted his eyes. The furrows should be straight, like a ruler; Will’s furrows wove like a ribbon of rickrack.

“If everything is so fine, then why are you feeling so tired and wrung out?”

Amos glanced at her. Should he tell her? She was peering into his face, concern written in her eyes. She was waiting for him to explain. He looked past her to the setting sun, dropping low behind the pines that framed the house to the west. “The doctor thinks my problem is I haven’t grieved for Menno.”

She tilted her head.

“He thinks so much happened, so fast, that I just put off my grieving for my boy. And now, it’s catching up with me.” He missed his son in a way there wasn’t words for. He clung to the past so hard it was like leaving an arrow embedded instead of pulling it out and letting the wound bleed clean, then heal.

“I’ve wondered the very same thing.” She nodded solemnly. “He’s a good doctor.”

He turned his head sharply toward her. “Then why didn’t you say something? You could have saved me a doctor’s visit.”

“You were due in, anyway. Besides, you’re not exactly the easiest man to try to tell what to do, you know.” She folded her arms against her chest and held her elbows. “So what did the doctor recommend?”

Amos felt a surge of stung pride, recalling the doctor’s advice. He had told Amos there were some interesting facts about heart recipients that weren’t true for other organ recipients: 75 percent were male, 25 percent were female. In addition, he said, most of the transplant cardiologists and surgeons were men. And yet, the doctor explained, men have a harder time coping with the surgery than women do. More depression, for example.

“Why would that be?” Amos asked him.

“My theory is that men are uncomfortable with the idea of accepting someone else—heart, spirit, or piece of meat, whatever way you want to view your donor heart—into their bodies and their being. Simply put: receptivity is not easy for men.”

Amos would never tell Fern
that
particular piece of information. He could hear her response now: “Amen to that. Amen!”

Amos waved a pamphlet in the air. “He wants me to go to a grief support group.” He set his jaw. “But I’m not going.”

“Now I see where M.K. gets her famous stubborn streak.” Fern took the pamphlet from him and skimmed it. “Wouldn’t really hurt to talk to somebody about your grieving.”

“I’m not talking to a bunch of strangers.”

She closed the pamphlet. “Maybe not. But you could talk to somebody. Somebody caring and understanding. Somebody you trust.”

“Like who?”

She paused, tilted her head, and Amos watched her expression go from hopeful to saddened to resolute. Then it passed and her brow wrinkled as her eyes traveled over the field with the cockeyed furrows. “Maybe like Deacon Abraham.” She pointed to a horse and buggy driving along the road. “He’s coming up here, now. Probably to talk about Sadie.” She took a few steps toward the house, then stopped and swiveled around. “Ask him to stay for dinner.”

“Fern, hold up. Why would Abraham want to talk to Sadie?”

She took a few steps back to him, with a look on her face as if she thought he might be slightly addle brained. That look made him crazy, especially because he often felt addle brained around the females in his household.

She tilted her head to the side and plunked a small fist on her hip. “Have you noticed how quickly rumor becomes fact in this community?”

Her frown grew fierce—a ridiculous expression for someone who could be pretty when she smiled.

“Here they come. Looks like Esther’s with him.” She took a few steps toward the house, then stopped and swiveled around again. “Send Esther up to the house. You be sure to tell Abraham about what the doctor said. About grieving for Menno.”

Did that woman ever stop handing out unasked-for advice? What irked him all the more was that she was usually right. Under his breath he muttered, “Yeder Ros hot ihr Dann.”
Every rose has its thorn.

She spun around. She had heard him. She heard everything. “Ken Rose unne Danne.”
There is no rose without a thorn.

Impossibly weary, Amos sighed and went to meet his friends.

“Abraham,” Amos said, shaking the man’s hand after he’d tied up his horse to the hitching post.

Esther went up to the house to visit with Fern. The two men walked together, away from the house.

Abraham couldn’t keep a grin off his face when he heard Amos tell the story of the visiting bird boy and surveyed the cockeyed furrows. “Well, wheat seeds can grow and flourish and reach for the sky whether the rows are straight or crooked. Maybe there’s a lesson in that for us, eh, Amos?” He gripped his hands behind his back. “But I can tell there’s something you want to tell me.”

Why, Abraham was as prescient as Fern! It baffled Amos that some people seemed to be able to see what wasn’t visible. He was a man who relied heavily on his sight and hearing. He looked into his dear friend’s kind brown eyes. “I just came from the doctor. I thought that I was having heart trouble again. But the doctor said my heart was fine, that the problem was I hadn’t grieved for Menno. I buried it, he said, amidst all the busyness of the heart transplant and trying to get well. Grieving has caught up with me.”

A flicker of surprise passed through Abraham’s eyes. He stroked his wiry gray beard, deep in thought, and gave a sad half smile. “So, in a way, you are still having heart trouble. The kind that can’t be fixed by doctoring.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Amos peered up at the male falcon, soaring over the fields, hunting for an evening meal to bring to his mate. He was the size of a crow, with a three-foot wingspan, a dark head with a pale breast cross-barred with dark brown. “What do I do with that information, Abraham? I can’t switch feelings on and off like a diesel generator.”

“You’re not new to grieving, Amos. I remember how it was when you lost your Maggie. You didn’t heal from that loss overnight. Grieving takes time. It can’t be rushed.”

How well Amos remembered what it felt like when Maggie had passed. It was like a limb had been torn from him, with no anesthetic. The pain was so deep then, he wondered if it would ever lessen. Just yesterday, his thoughts had drifted back to a lazy Sunday afternoon, long ago, when the children were playing in a tree fort in the backyard while Maggie and he sat on a wooden swing nearby beneath the canopy of a maple. He thought those days would last forever.

“God’s ways are not ours, Amos. As much as we rejoice that our loved ones are in God’s holy heaven, we miss them.” Abraham looked into the sky to see the falcon swoop down on an unlucky bobolink flying low in the field. “Memory is a strange thing. At times, so sweet. At times, so painful. But it’s what separates us from fish and fowl and beast. God wants us to remember his gifts and blessings.” He put a hand on Amos’s shoulder. “There’s a difference between keeping memories alive and using them as an excuse not to start living again.” He pulled his hand away and crossed his arms against his chest. “My advice for you is to talk about Menno. Remember his life. Celebrate the gift of a son God gave you, even if it was for a brief time. I think, by remembering, it will allow your grief to surface. And, in time, to heal.” He patted Amos’s back. “Talk, Amos Lapp. Talk and remember.”

Abraham made it sound so simple, but Amos knew it wasn’t. Grief was a hard, lonely thing to bear.

Suddenly, he realized that Abraham had something else on his mind.

Abraham’s eyes were fixed on the farmhouse. “And now I’d like to talk to Sadie. Alone.”

S
adie saw her father and Deacon Abraham talking outside her bedroom window, over by the field Will had plowed. If, that is, you could call it plowed. It looked more like a giant hand had scooped down from the sky and raked its fingers haphazardly through the dirt. The sight of the wiggly furrows made her smile. Any eight-year-old boy in her church could have done a better job, but, of course, she would never tell Will that. He had seemed so pleased with his efforts.

She studied herself in the mirror as if seeing herself for the first time. Usually, she only looked to see if the knot she wore on the back of her head caught all the strands, even the one that always seemed to work its way loose. Now she pulled out the pins that held her hair and let it tumble. She shook it free and studied her face like it was the map of some unknown country. Was she pretty? She shook that thought off, as quickly as it came. That was vain, and mirrors don’t tell everything.

Her thoughts traveled to the conversation she had with Will, just a short while ago, and to the way he brushed back a swoop of her hair that had come loose.

It still shocked her that she talked to a stranger, a boy stranger, the way she talked to Will just now. But there was something about him that made talking so easy and natural. She’d never felt so comfortable around a boy before, around most people, and certainly not an English boy. It was nice to be able to share her thoughts with someone outside the church, someone who had a different point of view, who saw things more objectively and didn’t layer a situation with shoulds and shouldn’ts.

A door banged open and Sadie heard M.K.’s voice yell out, “Saa—ddeeee! Dad wants you to come outside and talk to Deacon Abraham!” followed by Fern hushing M.K., scolding her that she would wake the baby.

Sadie took a deep breath. She had expected this visit. Maybe not today, but soon. This had just turned into a horrible day. The worst day of her life.

Sadie had thought by the time she had reached her late teens, she would be able to speak her mind, but she had yet to figure out a way to quell her constant need for approval.

Fern had told her once that she needed to be bolder, that there was a time for submission, and a time for boldness. But Sadie wasn’t a naturally assertive person. Even horses took advantage of her. Just today, the buggy horse—her father’s oldest nag—wanted to go right when she wanted it to go left. They ended up going right and she had to go far out of her way to get to the Bent N’ Dent. Right turns only.

Enough. She had had enough of getting walked on and pushed around, even by an old horse! Enough! She would face this ridiculous accusation head-on.

Sadie twisted her hair into an orderly arrangement. A half-dozen pins slipped into place, and her hair and prayer cap assumed its normal style. She blew air out of her cheeks. If only she could discipline her mind and her heart as efficiently.

Outside, as Sadie passed her father, he gave her a light squeeze on her shoulder. Did he know what the deacon wanted? She had seen them talking together for quite a long time. But her father didn’t say anything to her, didn’t give anything away with his eyes. She steeled herself and went out to meet the deacon, patiently waiting by the fence. When she reached him, Sadie had to hide her hands behind her so that he couldn’t see how much they were trembling.

Abraham was a kind man, and he looked quite sad. “Sadie, I just came from having a long talk with Gideon Smucker. He admits that he’s the father of this baby. He’s willing to go before the church in two weeks’ time, and confess to all. And then he wants to marry you, after the proving period, in six weeks’ time.”

“Is that what he said?” she asked in a shaky voice.

The deacon nodded. “He said he wanted to make things right for you. He didn’t want you to have to face this alone.”

Sadie discovered she was clasping her hands so tightly her knuckles ached. She relaxed her grip, flattening her palms on her thighs.

“So, Sadie Lapp, I’m here to see if you are willing to confess as well, to have a time of proving, then to marry Gid and make things right.”

Sadie’s lips quivered. Her chest grew tight. How dare Gid let others believe he was the father of that baby! And by doing so, he let others believe it was Sadie’s baby. Gid had actually contributed to the spreading rumors . . . not through a lie, but through his omission of the truth. And wasn’t that a lie? What you didn’t say could be just as damaging as what you did. On top of it all, Gid had the unmitigated gall to look as if he was rescuing Sadie from a troubling fate. Tears clouded her vision, but she kept blinking them away. Once she was out of sight, she could fall apart—but not in front of the deacon. What a fool she had been to care about Gid, to think he was someone she might love one day. She wanted to escape to her room, bury her face in the pillows, and cry this intense hurt away.

Minutes ticked by while the deacon waited for a response.

Sadie was terrified: like the first time she jumped off a diving rock at Blue Lake Pond, like the night she knew Gid was first going to kiss her, like the day when the bear came up to the house and poked its nose at the window. She had trouble getting a full breath, and then she felt a little dizzy.

Off in the distance, Sadie heard M.K. shout, “She’s going down!”

Sheer horror shadowed the deacon’s face, and then it was like someone pulled the curtains. Everything went dark. The next thing Sadie knew, she was getting scooped up in Will’s strong arms and pulled so tight against his warm chest that she could feel his heartbeat.

Will had finished observing the falcons—no sight of eggs yet—and he was heading to the farmhouse when he saw Sadie talking to an older Amish man. Actually, she wasn’t talking. He was looking intently at her and she was just standing there, knees locked like a stiff soldier. She noticed Will as he approached. Her eyes looked panicky, like she was a squirrel caught in traffic—too frightened to move. Then he heard M.K. give a shout from the farmhouse porch and Will bolted to catch Sadie, just as her head was about to hit the fence post. He lifted her in his arms like she was a bag of feathers and rushed to the farmhouse with her, the Amish man following close behind. Will laid Sadie gently on the couch as Fern and M.K. fluttered around her.

“What happened?” Fern asked.

“We were having a talk and she just . . . fainted,” Abraham said, visibly upset. “Dropped like a stone.”

Sadie’s eyes fluttered open. She looked bewildered as everyone crowded around her. M.K. brought a cold, wet cloth and slapped it on her forehead.

Fern intervened just as Amos opened his mouth to say something. “Why don’t you take Esther and Abraham outside and give Sadie a moment to pull herself together.”

It wasn’t posed as a question, Will noticed. It was an order. Fern ushered everyone out the door. She held the door open and pointed to M.K. “Your hens require your attention.” Her gaze turned to Will next, and he knew he was about to get ordered out, but the baby let out a healthy squall and Fern’s attention was riveted to the basket in the kitchen.

“You all right?” he whispered, leaning close to Sadie. “What made you faint?”

Sadie pulled the dripping wet rag off of her face. “The deacon. He was laying a sin on me.”

“You could never sin!”

Sadie pulled herself up. “No one is without sin, Will.” She put her hand to her forehead. “But I didn’t happen to commit this particular sin.”

He glanced in the kitchen and saw Fern jiggling the baby, trying to settle it. It was the first time he felt grateful for the baby’s loud cry. It provided a moment of privacy. “What particular sin was he trying to lay on you?”

Sadie rubbed her face with her hands. She let out a deep sigh, and then, to Will’s surprise, poured out the story of how people assumed the baby was hers—when he wasn’t!—that the quiet guy he had lunch with at church yesterday—Gideon Smucker—didn’t deny he was the baby’s father—which he wasn’t!—and that the deacon was expecting Sadie and Gideon to marry and set things right.

Will was outraged. He made sure Fern was out of hearing distance and leaned close to Sadie. “You need to stand up for yourself. I know about these kinds of people—they will wear you down and plan out your entire life. You’ve got to have a backbone.”

She hugged her arms across her middle, as though she were cold. “How can you be so sure of that?”

“Because I’ve been in your shoes. This type will run roughshod over you if you don’t open your mouth and speak up.”

“Will Stoltz.” Fern eyed him from the kitchen. “Come and make yourself useful. Get this baby to stop his yammering while I tend to Sadie.”

Will rose to his feet. “You gotta learn to speak your own mind. Otherwise, you’ll get swept along like a twig in a creek. You’ll wake up one day and wonder whatever happened to your life. If you have strong feelings, Sadie, now’s the time to say so.”

Sadie went very still.

M.K. ran to the feed room in the barn, filled up the container with cracked corn, and flew to the chicken coop like she had wings on her feet. The chickens lived penned up in a coop on the far side of the barn. Downwind. After Julia got married and moved to Berlin, charge of the chickens was handed to Sadie, who promptly turned the responsibility over to M.K. Chickens and Sadie didn’t get along. If she had to keep them, she said, she’d as soon not eat them. But M.K. had a hand with fowl. She named them too, every chick of them, before they feathered out. Fern said better not name anything you’re fixing to eat. But M.K. went right on naming them.

The last hen pecked at M.K.’s bare toes as she tossed cracked corn inside the chicken coop. “Try being mean like that again, Kayak, and I’ll have Fern introduce you to the inside of a pot.” Holding the corners of her apron, she hurried Kayak into the coop with the other chickens and locked it tight for the night. She didn’t want to miss a minute of excitement going on inside the farmhouse. She saw Uncle Hank come out from his buggy shop and waved her arm like a windmill. “Uncle Hank! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Sadie’s got the vapors!”

They rushed over to the farmhouse and found Sadie, upright and talking, with color back in her cheeks, sitting at the kitchen table with Amos and Abraham. Will was walking the baby and Fern was at the kitchen sink, looking like she had a kernel of popcorn stuck in her back molar. But then, that look on Fern was not unusual. She was scraping carrots like they had done something that made her mad. She wasn’t idle. She didn’t know how to be idle. Daylight never caught Fern sitting down.

They stopped talking for a moment as Uncle Hank and M.K. came in and sat themselves at the table. “Maybe we could finish up this conversation tomorrow, Sadie,” Abraham said.

“No,” Sadie said. “We can settle it now, Abraham.” She looked around the room at everyone, then her eyes rested on the baby in Will’s arms. “I have something to tell you. Something I haven’t wanted to say until I knew for sure. But I think the time has come to tell you everything I know about the baby.”

In a clear, calm voice, she explained about the baby in the bus station to Abraham. M.K. was amazed, watching her sister talk to the deacon with such confidence.

After she finished, Abraham let out a long breath. “Sadie, why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?”

“But you didn’t ask, Abraham. You just told me what I had to do to make things right. You never asked me for the truth.”

Nose in the air, Esther huffed. “Such disrespect!”

For a span of a heartbeat, no one said anything. For an instant, Sadie felt free. She’d told the truth. Then she felt dreadful. “I’ll agree with you there, Esther.”

Esther’s tiny mouth was pursed full of triumph as she looked around the room.

“It’s disrespectful to assume the worst about someone. It’s disrespectful not to hope the best for another.” Sadie turned to Abraham. “I’m not trying to be rude to you, Abraham, but no one has ever asked me for the truth. Not you, not Gideon, not my friends and neighbors. Love is supposed to think well of others. Not tell tales and gossip.”

Struck dumb by Sadie’s lengthy, emphatic speech, M.K. could only stare at her in amazement.

Abraham looked at Esther. “Did you not tell me that you talked with Sadie about the baby at church yesterday?”