The Search (13 page)

Jonah snorted. “Impossible. Dying would take too much work. He’ll outlive us all.”

“He’s dying all right.”

“Where is he? The cottage looked empty.”

“He lost that years ago when the bank took it. It’s been up for sale for a long time. He’s at the Veterans Hospital over in Lebanon.”

Jonah sighed. “What’s he dying of?”

“Some kind of cancer. Hopscotch disease.”

“Hodgkin’s?”

“That’s what I said.” Bertha stood and went to the window, crossing her arms against her chest. “Them doctors are looking for family members. They want bone marrow for him.” She turned back to Jonah. “They think it might cure him.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting tested to give your brother—a man who has done nothing for anybody his whole livelong life—don’t tell me you’re planning to give him your bone marrow?”

“I tried. I’d give it to him if I could. But I’m not a match.” She sat down in the chair. “But you might be.” She looked into her coffee cup and swirled it around. “And so might our Bess.”

“Bess?” Jonah looked up in surprise. “She’s a distant relation to him.” He easily dismissed that notion. “What about your sisters? Why don’t they get tested?”

“Two did. Three refused because he’s still shunned. The two that did—Martha and Annie—they aren’t a match.” Before Jonah could even ask, she answered. “And their husbands won’t let their children or grandchildren test for it.”

“Because he’s been shunned.”

Bertha nodded. “You and Bess . . . you’re his last chance.”

Jonah exhaled. “What makes you think Simon would accept my bone marrow, even if I were a match? You always said he was as cranky as a handle on a churn.”

“You leave Simon to me,” she said in a final way.

On the following Sunday, before church, Jonah was buckling the tracings on the buggy horse. Bess and his mother were upstairs getting ready to leave. His mind was a million miles away from churchgoing. He was thinking about what his mother had told him yesterday, about wanting him to take a blood test to try to cure Simon from his cancer. His mother rarely spoke of her brother—Simon had been excommunicated from the church years ago. He wasn’t included in family gatherings, his name wasn’t spoken, and he was ignored when he was seen, which was often.

Jonah could never figure out why Simon stayed in Stoney Ridge. He moved there right after he was discharged from the army due to an injury. Simon had been drafted in World War II and served as a conscientious objector, stationed as a maintenance worker in a base camp in Arkansas. He was accidentally shot in the foot. He claimed he was cleaning a gun, but the story was vague and changed each time he told it. Samuel, Jonah’s father, said it probably went more like this: Simon was doing something he shouldn’t have been, like hunting when he was supposed to be on duty, then blamed the Army for the accident. Using his disability pension, Simon bought a run-down home near his sister’s farm and ran it down even further. It was as if he enjoyed being a thorn in everyone’s side. But . . . that would be Simon. His father said Simon was born with a chip on his shoulder.

Jonah slipped the last buckle together on the bridle and looked up over the horse’s mane to see Lainey O’Toole walking toward him.

“Bess invited me,” she said, as she took in his confused look. “To church.”

“Our church?” he asked, wondering why Bess would have put Lainey in such an unfair position. She might have meant well, but Lainey shouldn’t feel obligated to come. “Our church . . . the service lasts for three hours.” He knew enough about the English to know they zoomed in and out of church in scarcely an hour’s time. Why, the first hymn was just wrapping up after an hour in an Amish church.

Lainey shrugged. “I’m used to that. The church I’ve been going to the last few years has long services, plus Sunday school.”

“The preachers speak in Deitsch.”

“I remember. I used to go with your mother.” She smiled. “As I recall, those preachers can get a good deal across with just their tone of voice.”

A laugh burst out of Jonah. She surprised him, this young woman.

“I can still understand a little bit of Deitsch. Growing up in Stoney Ridge . . . living with Simon those few years, I picked up a bit.”

Jonah looked past her to the rose fields, then turned back to her. “Du bisch so schee.”
You are so lovely.
Did he
really
just say that? Oh please no. He suddenly felt like Levi Miller, self-conscious and bashful and blurting out ridiculous, awkward compliments.

She gave him a blank look. “I guess I don’t remember as much as I thought.”

Oh, thank you, Lord!
“I said, ‘Well then, hop up.’ ” He offered her his hand and helped her into the buggy. He happened to notice that she smelled as sweet as a lemon blossom.

This was how church was meant to be—pure and simple, Lainey thought as she followed behind Bertha and Bess. This must have been what church was like for the first disciples—no fancy church building with a steeple that grazed the sky. Just a home, shared, to worship in. And God was there.

Today, church was merely a well-swept barn. But God was here. She could feel his presence.

It was such a hot and humid July morning that the host—the Zooks of Beacon Hollow—decided to hold the meeting in the barn, where it would be cooler. The sliding doors were left wide open to let the breeze waft through.

Lainey sat in the back row bench on the women’s side, in between Bess and Bertha. Bess whispered to her that they had to sit in the back row because no one wanted to sit behind Bertha—she was too big. She also warned Lainey to watch her head. “Barn swallows might swoop in and steal your hair for their nest if they’re in the mood. I’ve seen it happen. Just two weeks ago, to Eli Smucker’s chin whiskers—”

Bertha leaned over and laid a calming hand on Bess, who snapped her lips shut and tucked her chin to her chest.

Lainey had to bite her lip to stop from grinning. She could barely contain the happiness she felt. It nearly spilled out of her. There was no place in the world she would rather be than where she was right that minute. It was a miracle of miracles. On one side of her was Bertha, a woman who had always been good to her, and on the other side was Bess, her very own sister. She could hardly hold back her feelings of praising God.

And to add to her happiness, she was still feeling a little dazed that Jonah had told her she was lovely. She was so startled by it that she pretended she didn’t understand him. But she did. It was a phrase Simon said to her mother in those rare moments when he was at his best. Hearing it from Jonah made her stomach feel funny. She glanced at him across the large room. His dark head was bowed, preparing for worship, she knew. Unlike her mind, which seemed to be darting around the room like one of those barn swallows. Where had these new thoughts about Jonah come from? He had always been just Jonah to her, Bertha’s son. She remembered that she had thought he was a good-looking young man. She had never been crazy about those scraggly Amish beards. Jonah’s was a full, soft brown beard that he had worn since he was twenty. She thought back to being disappointed when he started to grow that beard after he married Rebecca and covered up that fine square chin. His face had so many other interesting features, though, such as high cheekbones and gentle brown eyes that looked at her with warm concern.

Then, as if Jonah had read her mind, he looked up and caught her eye, and she felt a nervous quiver in her belly. She reached down to smooth out her dress as a small, elderly man stood up. A perfect, pure note, as dazzling as a sunrise, floated from his open mouth. The men joined in, then the women, all singing the same slow tune, the same quavery note, almost a chanting. Two hundred voices rising to the barn rafters. They sang for the longest time. Then they stopped, as if God himself was the choir director and signaled to everyone the end of the hymn.

As Lainey inhaled the familiar barn smells of hay and animals, and heard that long, sad hymn, she felt a tidal wave of long-buried emotion. Songs and smells could bring a person back to a moment in time more than anything else. It was amazing how much could be conjured with just a few notes or a solitary whiff. Her thoughts drifted to the church service she had attended with Bertha just a few weeks before her mother had died. The wind that morning had the barest thread of warmth to it. It smelled of the thawing earth, of spring. Lainey suddenly realized that was the last true moment of childhood. The last moment she had been thoroughly happy. A sadness welled up inside her. She shut her eyes and pressed her fingers to her lips. She didn’t want to cry, not here. Not now.

And then came the preaching. She was fine through the first sermon, given by an elderly minister. That sermon was told in a preacher’s voice, hollow and joyless. It was the second sermon, given by Caleb Zook. She vaguely remembered him as a friend of Jonah’s. Caleb was the bishop now, married to the small, copper-haired woman sitting in front of Lainey, who had a baby in her arms and a toddler by her side. Lainey was amazed at how quiet her children were, how quiet all of the children were. When it was Caleb Zook’s turn to stand and preach, his eyes grazed the room and rested on his wife’s face. Some kind of silent communication passed between them, because he shifted his eyes and noticed Lainey sitting in the back row. He delivered his sermon in English. For some reason, such kindness touched her deeply and made her eyes well with tears. An odd pang of longing pierced her heart. She felt overcome with a desire to belong to this—to these people—forever.

The woman with the child on her hip kept her back turned, slowly ladling the apple butter into small bowls. Bess wanted her to hurry, so she could take out the platter with bread and apple butter and serve the farthest table, where Billy happened to be sitting with his friends after the church service ended. Billy had smiled at her during the sermon. Twice. She thought that when he smiled, he really meant it.

She glanced nervously over at Billy. Sometimes, for no reason, looking at him made her chest ache. It was the tall, strong, splendid sight of him, she supposed.

Bess cleared her throat, hoping the woman would notice she was there, waiting. But this woman could not be hurried. Bess chanced another look in Billy’s direction and her heart sunk. Sure enough, Betsy Mast had gotten there first. She was leaning over Billy’s shoulder, filling his glass with sweet tea. The dreamy look on Billy’s face as he looked up at Betsy made Bess think about dumping the bowl of apple butter right on his head.

The woman spun around and handed Bess a platter of freshly sliced bread. Bess went to find where her father was sitting instead, to serve him. She looked all over and couldn’t find him, so she set the bowl and platter at the nearest table. Then she spotted Jonah, still over by the barn, leaning one arm against the door, engrossed in a conversation with Lainey O’Toole. The way Jonah was looking at Lainey—standing a full foot taller than she did, his head bent down as if he didn’t want to miss a word she was saying—something about the sight caught Bess in the heart. She stopped and stared. She’d never seen her father pay such rapt attention to a woman.