The Mercy (14 page)

When the feeling returned to her nose and fingertips, Rose pulled off her boots and set them just so near the stove. Then, tired but pleased, she climbed the stairs to her room. For the first time in a good many weeks, she felt like dancing a jig. Just not one accompanied by fiddles and guitars and whatnot. Goodness!

She lit the gas lamp in her room and dressed for bed. Instead of going right to sleep, Rose found Isaac’s letter in the drawer and reread every word, wondering why he hadn’t asked her to meet up with him again next week. Wondering, too, if he might write his invitation instead.

H
en had such difficulty sleeping Saturday night, she got up and repeatedly walked the upstairs hall. When that didn’t tire her, she slipped into the room where Brandon had slept during his stay. All but one night. Yet she couldn’t let herself dwell on that sweet time with him. She brushed it aside lest the memory hurt her even more.

Eventually, she leaned down to press her face into Brandon’s pillow, yearning for his familiar scent. Alas, she’d stripped the bed and washed the sheets and quilts up nice and tidy, just as any Amish hostess would after a guest departed.

A guest . . .

Lying there, she stared at the doorway and into the hall, hearing her little girl moan in her sleep. Her heart broke for Mattie Sue even now as she rose and tiptoed across the way. Gently, she lowered herself onto Mattie’s bed and looked into the dear, innocent face.

Hen hadn’t told Rose how hard Mattie Sue had cried Friday evening at the table, too distraught to eat a bite, when it was clear her daddy wasn’t coming for supper. Nor did she tell her sister how Mattie Sue had taken herself off to bed Saturday afternoon and sobbed so hard she’d slept for two hours. It was during that time Rose had come with Dat’s socks and two sets of darning needles. Surely, though, it was an excuse to look in on them. Rose was so kind and caring. Hen wished now she’d treated her better during the years in town.
With Brandon . . .

Before October, whenever Hen and her husband had a conflict, no matter how bitter, they rolled to the middle of their bed and made up with great affection that very night. Never before had they struggled like this . . . or for this long.

Hen looked lovingly at Mattie Sue, her blond curls gracing her shoulders as she slept. The little white organdy prayer cap hung nearby on the bedpost.
I can’t keep her from her daddy. She loves him . . . and he loves her.

She left Mattie’s side and went to her room to light the lantern. Then, carrying it downstairs, she checked the stove and added more logs. Quickly, she located her Bible on the end table in the front room. Placing the lantern close to the page, she read from Genesis, chapter forty, reminded of Joseph’s perseverance in the face of many difficulties. He trusted that God was in control. Joseph’s great hope didn’t come from his own willpower—or from wanting his own way.

Willpower fades . . . it doesn’t last,
she thought.
I must trust God to work in my husband’s life. And mine.

In the quiet, Hen knelt to pray beside the settee where Brandon had sat to play with Mattie Sue and Wiggles. She focused on one thing only. Not on what she wanted or thought she had to have in order to be happy, but on God’s love. Was it possible to demonstrate that kind of love to her husband? Was she willing to let go of her own will—give it up to God’s sovereignty?

Hen prayed, pouring out her sadness, her sorrow . . . and her words of repentance. Wiping away her tears, she rose, picked up the lantern, and carried it back up the stairs. It was time for rest now as the peace of God filled her heart. And then and there she knew what she must do to mend her marriage. Sure as her husband could see once again, she knew.

After Preaching tomorrow,
Hen told herself, pulling another quilt over her precious girl.

Rose typically did not daydream during the sermons at Preaching. But this Lord’s Day her mind was still caught up with Isaac Ebersol and their first date. In fact, she’d thought of little else since she snuffed out the gas lantern in her room late last night.

Goodness, had she ever known such a unique fellow? Even more fun-loving than Silas Good, and not as conservative. The fact that Isaac seemed to delight in going to the barn dances he’d described didn’t bother her too much, not when she’d never actually heard they were forbidden by her church. Yet somewhere inside her, Rose knew it was best not to tell Hen nor any of her sisters-in-law about them. Nor Dat, either. It wasn’t as if she’d ever find herself going to such a line dance. After all, Isaac hadn’t even asked to see her again.

And that was the main reason Rose sat in church pondering the young man from Bart. Oh, she certainly did hope he’d ask her on another date, and soon. He was very different from any of the young men who’d casually taken her riding. She thought briefly of Hank Zook. But no, Isaac wasn’t like anyone she’d ever known.
Not even like Nick . . .

Then and there, Rose planned to surprise Isaac and bake his favorite cake for his twenty-first birthday in August: German chocolate sauerkraut cake.
If we’re still seeing each other by then!

It was well after the shared meal following Preaching when Hen left Mattie Sue with Rose Ann and drove to Quarryville . . . to Brandon’s street. She pulled up in front of the house and parked, staring at the yard, the porch. Had she truly lived here once?

Hen hadn’t expected to feel such a gamut of emotions, especially sadness. Her hands were clammy, clenched in her lap. She’d worn her woolen shawl over her Amish dress and apron, and she felt worse than merely out of place.

Gathering her wits, she stepped out of the car to knock on the front door.

Brandon answered, wearing blue sweats and a shocked look. “Hen. This is a surprise.”

“May I come in?”

He opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Nice to see you.”

“Thanks.” She reminded herself to be sure to speak only English this visit. There in the small entryway, she took in the familiar sights, remembering how she’d felt living here, bringing their baby home from the hospital. . . .

Brandon motioned for her to sit on the sectional in the living room. He sat nearby, although not next to her. For the first time, he did not ask immediately about Mattie Sue, or even inquire after her whereabouts.

Finally she ventured, “How’s your sight today?”

“Shadowy now and then, but becoming more dependable each day,” he said with enthusiasm.

“That’s wonderful to hear.”

He nodded, the moment somewhat awkward. “So, tell me, how’s your mother’s doing? Any word?”

Hen made herself breathe before answering . . . still staring at Brandon. He seemed so friendly.

She recounted her mother’s progress so far. “She’ll be out of the ICU tomorrow, Dad said.”

“Terrific . . .” He smiled. “And how’s Bishop Aaron?” he asked. “Have you seen him lately?”

“Well . . . at Preaching today, though I didn’t get a chance to speak to him. I visited some with Barbara, though.” Hen wasn’t sure what to say, but they continued making small talk until an even more uncomfortable lull developed. Hen’s gaze fell to the coffee table, and she was dismayed to see a real estate brochure and a business card there. Sighing, she forged ahead. “I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“Not to see me?” He smiled again.

She motioned toward the real estate brochure. “I just hope I’m not too late.”

“Late?”

“I take it you really do want to sell the house.”

“Oh, that. I meant to talk to you, but—well, it’s not easy getting in touch with you.”

She could hardly swallow. “So you’re moving ahead with the divorce?” She stared down at her folded hands. This was going terribly. Hen wished she hadn’t come.

“I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression, but—”

“No, no. I understand. Like you’ve said before, nothing has changed.”

“Hen, please, hear me out.”

“You live in your world, and I live in mine.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.
Everything
has changed . . . at least for me.”

She searched his face. “I don’t understand.”

Brandon leaned forward. “Going blind, even temporarily, helped me see what I’ve been missing, what I was too imperceptive to realize before . . . too unwilling to grasp.”

He spoke so earnestly and with such care that it gave her the courage she needed. “Brandon, I came to tell you I want to come home. That is, if you’re still willing to have me.”

“What?” He frowned . . . then brightened.

“I’m leaving the Amish life behind for you. For us.” She thought of their elopement. “And this time I mean it.”

“Hen, I can’t let you do that.”

“No, you’ve misunderstood. I
want
to come home, Brandon.”

He leaned back on the sofa, his eyes intent on her. “I’ve known for a while that I was a fool to require you to wear modern clothes and pretend to be English when you’re clearly Amish through and through.”

“But—”

“I won’t let you give up something that makes you so obviously content. That would be cruel.”

She wanted to please him, wanted to erase this serious frown on his handsome face.

“When I was blind, I couldn’t see your Plain clothes, but I saw
you,
Hen . . . who you are, fully and completely. It took being without my physical sight to realize how terribly blind I was, that my wife is beautiful in every way, no matter what Amish dress she’s wearing.”

Hen blushed and looked toward the window. The room was resplendent with sunlight, just as she’d always remembered. This lovely room . . .

“I was surprised how you took care of me,” he continued, “even though I’d talked repeatedly about divorce.”

She breathed in everything he was saying, hoping for more.

“Your entire family accepted me despite everything, as if I belonged—not the outsider I’ve been determined to be.”

“So then, why do you want to sell . . .” She couldn’t go on or she might cry.

“The house?” He chuckled thoughtfully and rubbed his hands together. “I want to look for a place closer to your family, somewhere in the country.”

She was stunned. “You’re telling me you want to move . . .
closer
?”

“Honestly, Hen, I never thought I’d say this, but I miss the country. You know, the sound of barn swallows chattering in the distance.”

“The way the haze hangs low on the fields first thing in the morning,” she said, knowing he’d seen it only once—the day he’d left.

“And all that fresh air.” He laughed. “Do I sound like a poet?”

She shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”

“I’ve been considering the idea for the past week. Maybe a house near Salem Road. What do you think?”

“I . . .” She was overcome with joy. “Oh, Brandon, I don’t know what to say.”

He ran a hand through his thick shock of hair. “Well, I figured if my wife and daughter weren’t going to budge, then I might as well go to them.” He moved over next to her on the sofa. “Would that be all right with you, my love?”

She had to be dreaming. Brandon never talked like this—not even when they were dating.

“I have to admit it,” he said with a trace of embarrassment. “There’s something about the Plain mindset—and their values, too.”

“Brandon, I never thought I’d—”

“Listen to me.” He slipped his good arm around her. “There’s something about
you,
” he said, smiling into her eyes. “I want us to be a family again . . . you, me, and Mattie Sue.”

She longed for that, too.

“We can have the best of both worlds—your Plain life intermingled with my English one. I know we can make it work.”

“But how?”

“Well, with God’s help.”