When Hope Blossoms (11 page)

“Okay.” Bekah bounced the book in her lap and cast a sidelong look at Amy. “Are you gonna talk to Mr. Roper?”

The sudden shift in topics caught Amy off guard. “What for?”

Bekah rolled her eyes. “Remember? I told you he had a really good Web site. He could show you how he did it.”

Amy forced a chuckle. “Honey, between Adrianna and Parker’s escapades, I think Mr. Roper has seen just about enough of us since we got here.”

“Well, who else can you ask?”

Amy mentally searched through her list of acquaintances. She didn’t uncover anyone who had knowledge of computers or Web sites. “I don’t know, but if I’m meant to have a Web site to help build my business, I’m sure God will put someone in my pathway to help me.”

Bekah raised one eyebrow. “Remember what Grandpa always said? God provides food for the robin, but God doesn’t throw the worm in the nest—the robin has to dig it up himself.” She threw her arms wide. “Why not just talk to Mr. Roper? If he doesn’t want to help you, maybe he can tell you the name of somebody else in town who could help. I don’t see what it would hurt, just to ask.”

Amy sighed, too weary to argue. “I’ll think about it. Why don’t you go up and take your bath now? Just don’t be noisy. Your brother and sister are asleep.”

Bekah tucked the book in the crook of her arm and scuffed around the corner. Amy sank against the sofa cushions and stared at the wallpapered ceiling overhead. The ladies had all seemed to think a Web site would be a big help in building her business. She needed a steady source of income, and she knew she could quilt.
“God doesn’t throw the worm in the nest.”
She chuckled. Maybe Bekah paid more attention than Amy realized.

Mr. Roper might not appreciate being called the worm to her robin, but she could use his advice. If the Lord provided an opportunity, she’d ask him about creating a Web site for Threads of Remembrance. But only if the Lord opened the door.

B
ekah rested her fingertips on the edge of the tall counter that surrounded the librarian’s desk and whispered, “Miss Bergstrom?” The group of town kids congregated in the library’s Reading Corner were speaking out loud, but that didn’t mean it was right. People were supposed to be quiet in a library.

The librarian lifted her gaze from the computer screen. A pleasant scent lifted with the woman’s movement—floral and sweet. “Yes, Bekah? Can I help you with something?”

Bekah flicked a glance toward the Reading Corner. She hoped the kids there wouldn’t overhear her request. “My brother wants to check out books about donkeys.” Heat filled her cheeks. Did all brothers embarrass their sisters, or was she the only girl mortified by a younger brother’s wild ideas? Bekah had hoped the chores of the first half of the week—they’d put off their trip to the library until Thursday afternoon—would chase Parker’s crazy interest in donkeys out of his head, but he’d held on to it. “But the only ones I can find are too hard for him to read. Do you have any picture books about donkeys?”

Without so much as a blink, the librarian left her chair and came around the desk. The flowery scent came with her, so much more pleasant than the perspiration Bekah detected on her own skin. Miss Bergstrom looped her arm through Bekah’s elbow and smiled. “Come with me. I think we can fix Parker right up.” Fifteen minutes later, Parker happily hugged a stack of four children’s books featuring donkeys, and Bekah trailed him out of the library.

When they reached the bicycles, Bekah held out her hands. “Here, Parker. Gimme your books.” He reluctantly released them. Bekah stacked the books in the basket attached to the handlebars of her bicycle. She gave Parker a firm look. “Now, remember, stay
behind
me. We can’t ride side by side on the road.”

Parker poked out his lower lip and scowled. “I know, Bekah. I’m not stupid.”

Bekah set her lips in a grim line. Parker wasn’t stupid, no matter what some people might think, but he didn’t always remember things like he should. Mom had said it was Bekah’s job to look out for him, so even if it made him mad, she reminded him of important stuff. Like not riding down the middle of the road.

Without another word, they mounted their bikes and Bekah led the way out of town. The bold sun made the asphalt shimmer. Heat scorched through her clothing, until her head and shoulders felt like they were on fire. Eager to get back to the farmhouse and out of the sun, she pumped hard against the wind, her tennis shoes squeaking against the rubber pedals of her bike. Sweat trickled down her forehead and stung her eyes. The distance from town to their home wasn’t long—she and Parker had ridden farther distances when they lived in Arborville—but riding in the full heat of the sun, with the wind trying to push her backward, made the two-mile trek seem more like ten.

She glanced over her shoulder to see how Parker was keeping up. To her consternation, he’d fallen several yards behind her, his red face crunched into a fierce scowl. He rode with his back hunched and his elbows high—an awkward pose she was glad no one was around to witness. She didn’t like feeling embarrassed about Parker, but that dumb Tyler had made her look at her brother in a different way. It bugged her that Tyler was right. Parker’s long face
did
look a little bit like a donkey. Bekah braked her bike and waited for him to catch up.

He closed the distance between them, the sound of his puffing breaths competing with the crunch of his bike tires on the roadway. Sweat glistened on his face and plastered his hair to his high forehead. Bekah braced herself, ready to push off and keep going, when Parker suddenly let out a yelp. He rose up as if the seat had shocked him, and then he tumbled sideways, landing in the grassy strip alongside the road with the bike on top of him.

Although Parker wasn’t exactly coordinated, he’d mastered bike riding. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d fallen off of his bicycle. Bekah hopped off her bike, pushed the kickstand into place, and raced to Parker. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Parker started to cry. “That hurt, Bekah.”

“I know, Budger.” As big as he was, he shouldn’t be bawling over a bike spill, but sympathy still welled. “Here, let me help you up and we’ll get going. We’re almost home.” She kind of fibbed. They were less than halfway home. But the truth wouldn’t encourage him to keep going.

Parker twisted his body and threw his left leg over the handlebars, but he didn’t move the one caught beneath the bicycle. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Come on.” Bekah reached to lift the bike from her brother so he could get up, but then she noticed his pant leg had gotten caught between the chain and the gear. The blue twill bore a black stain, and the gear had torn through the cloth in one place. Bekah groaned. “Oh, Parker . . .”

Parker’s wails increased. “I didn’t mean to!”

Bekah wiped a trickle of sweat from her temple. “I know it was an accident. But we’ve gotta get home.” She knelt beside him, little pebbles digging painfully into her bare knees, and tugged on his pant leg. The bottom two inches were stuck fast. She huffed in aggravation and yanked harder. The fabric gave way, taking the chain right off the gear.

“Bekah!” Parker grabbed his pant leg. “Look what you did!”

Bekah grimaced at the jagged, grease-stained tear. Mom wouldn’t be able to fix that.

“You ruined my pants!”

“Well, it wasn’t my fault!” Bekah slapped his hands away from the ragged fabric, anger overriding guilt. “How else was I supposed to get you loose?”

Parker whimpered, “You tore my pants, Bekah. And now my bike is broke.” He lifted his hands and peered at them. His eyes flew wide. “I’m bleeding!”

“Lemme see.” Bekah examined his palms. He’d scuffed them when he hit the ground, but they didn’t look too bad. Probably wouldn’t even need a Band-Aid. But Parker did need reassurance. She brushed bits of dried grass from his palms and spoke cheerfully. “You’ll be all right. Just a little scrape. But you’re right—with that chain off, you can’t ride your bike. So let’s scoot you off into the grass and you can wait here while I ride on home and—”

“Noooo!” His wail carried across the empty landscape. Two birds swooped out of some scraggly brush near the road and winged over their heads. He scrambled to his feet, kicking the bike across the asphalt a few inches. “Don’t leave me here!”

“Just for a little bit. I’ll go get Mom and—”

“Don’t leave me!” His voice rose in hysteria.

There’d be no reasoning with him now.
I’m going.
Bekah gritted her teeth and stomped to her bicycle. Parker’s hiccuping sobs followed her, but when she glanced over her shoulder he hadn’t moved. The tears trailing down his cheeks almost made her change her mind, but it would be stupid for both of them to sit here in the sun, waiting until Mom finally missed them and came looking. He’d only be alone for ten, maybe fifteen, minutes. It wouldn’t kill him.

As she straddled her bicycle, she waved one hand in the air. “Stay off the road, Parker. I’ll be right back with Mom.” She pumped hard on the pedals, grateful the rush of wind drowned out the sound of Parker’s continuing wails. Scaredy-cat. He was eleven years old. He ought to be able to sit here by himself long enough for her to go after Mom.

She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if Parker hadn’t fallen off the back of Dad’s tractor and damaged his brain. She wouldn’t have to look out for him. Wouldn’t have to feel embarrassed by him. Wouldn’t have to be his protector and teacher. If Parker hadn’t gotten hurt, they would just be brother and sister, sometimes fighting like all siblings did, but mostly being friends. And Dad would still be alive. Bekah knew that from the deepest part of herself. Dad would never have done what he did if Parker hadn’t gotten hurt.

Her chest constricted, the memories stinging as badly as the sweat that dribbled into her eyes. She forced the remembrances away, squinting at the looming farmhouse ahead. The dancing ribbons from her cap tickled her neck, and she wished she could take it off and shove it in her pocket. If her dress had pockets . . . She stood on the pedals, pumping as hard and fast as she could. But no matter how fast she went she couldn’t escape the confused feelings that rumbled inside her chest.

She turned in at her driveway and began yelling for Mom as she rode toward the house. When she reached the porch, Mom opened the screen door and stepped outside. She glanced at Bekah, then looked past her with her face pinching in alarm.

“Where’s your brother?”

Bekah quickly explained what had happened.

“You
left
him?”

Mom’s accusatory tone set Bekah’s nerves on edge. She started to defend herself, but Mom turned and darted for the door.

“Stay here with Adrianna,” Mom said, “and I’ll go after him.”

A snide question tingled at the tip of Bekah’s tongue:
Are you sure you can trust me with Adri?
But she clamped her teeth together and dropped her bicycle in the grass. Parker’s books on donkeys spilled from the basket. Hissing in irritation, Bekah knelt and smacked the books into a pile. As she pushed to her feet, Mom trotted out of the house, her car keys jingling in her hand. But before Mom made it halfway to the garage, a familiar pickup turned into their drive. Parker sat in the passenger’s seat, his head sticking out the window.

“Hi, Mom!” Parker called as the driver drew the pickup to a stop.

Mom dashed to the passenger’s side and yanked open the door. Parker tumbled from the seat directly into Mom’s arms. Mom hugged him, then pulled loose and cupped Parker’s face between her palms, examining him. Apparently she found him unharmed because she hugged him again. “Thank goodness you’re all right.”

Parker’s long, gangly arms wrapped around Mom and clung. His shoulders heaved as if he’d been the one riding his bike under the hot sun instead of Bekah. Bekah battled an urge to give her brother a slug on the arm and a sharp reprimand to grow up.

Mr. Roper popped open his door and stepped out. He tipped his ball cap at Bekah, then moved to the pickup bed and lifted out Parker’s bike. He set it in the grass, then ambled around the truck to Mom and Parker. “He’s fine, Mrs. Knackstedt—none the worse for wear.” He ruffled Parker’s unruly hair, grinning. “You’re okay, right, Parker?”

Bekah liked the way Mr. Roper spoke to Parker. The same way he’d talk to any kid instead of being impatient or using the nicey-nice tone some grown-ups used when they figured out Parker was a little slow. She inched around the truck’s front bumper to join the little group, her shadow sneaking up on their three joined shadows. But she stopped before her shadow melded into theirs.

Parker finally tugged loose from Mom and beamed up at Mr. Roper. “I’m okay.” Then he stuck his leg in the air. “But Bekah tore my pants.”

Bekah huffed. “The bike chain did it, not me!”

Mr. Roper chuckled and slipped one hand in his jeans pocket. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way Daddy’s had. “Maybe your mom’ll turn them into cut-offs for you.”

Parker scrunched his face. “Cut-offs?”

“Shorts,” Mr. Roper explained.

Bekah cleared her throat. “We don’t wear shorts.”

Mr. Roper sent her a sheepish look. “Oh. That’s right. Well, then, Parker’ll just have to do with one fewer pair of britches.”

Bekah stared at their neighbor, biting down on her lower lip. The minister of their fellowship in Arborville had made it sound like a horrible sin to leave the church—that the person would be forever haunted with regrets. But even though Mr. Roper didn’t smile a lot, he seemed comfortable driving his air-conditioned truck, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves scrunched up over his shoulders. What had made him decide to not be Mennonite anymore? The curiosity burned inside Bekah. She wished she could ask him all kinds of questions, but that would be nosy. She’d wait until she got to know him better. A person could ask a friend more serious things than she could ask a new neighbor.

Mom slid her arm around Parker’s shoulders. “Pants can be replaced. I appreciate you looking out for Parker. Again.”

“No problem. It wasn’t out of the way or anything.” Mr. Roper started backing toward his truck. “He’s safe and sound now, but he might want to drink some more water. I gave him a bottle because his face was plenty red—”

Bekah nearly snorted. His face was red from crying—she hadn’t left him long enough to get sunburned.

“—and stay out of the sun the rest of the day just in case. Sunstroke isn’t anything to sneeze at.”

Mom nodded, her black ribbons bouncing. “Thank you, Mr. Roper. We’ll do that.”

“All right, then.” He tipped the brim of his ball cap and opened his truck door. “Bye now.”

Bekah darted forward. “Mr. Roper, wait!” The man paused, one foot propped inside the truck. She whisked a glance at Mom’s face, then spun to look directly into Mr. Roper’s eyes. “My mom could use your help with something.”

“Bekah—” Mom’s voice held warning.

Bekah decided to ignore it. Who else could answer her questions about becoming non-Mennonite? The only way she’d get to know Mr. Roper well enough to ask him questions was to have time with him. “Mom wants to make a Web site to help advertise her business, but she doesn’t know how to do it. You have a really good one—I saw it on the computer at the library. So . . . could you maybe help my mom learn how to make her own?”