An Amish Christmas (8 page)

They weren’t in a position to pay for storage, and her parents had little extra space, so she filled every old box and bag in the house with items to toss, attempt to sell, or donate to charity.
Faced with the mountains of papers relating to the children’s past schoolwork and art, she dedicated one plastic storage box to each of them and steeled herself to pare down the memories to fit. Vans pulled up to the house to haul away sofas, chairs, lamps, tables. Any money they made from whatever might be salable would go directly to the credit card companies—the most immediate problem—and the rest to the small-store owners with whom they had unpaid accounts. Although she and her family desperately needed money, it was critical to Meg to know she would take care of these local people after all. When she informed James of this, he nodded in agreement, a sign to her that at least some remnant of his basic decency had survived.

She boxed and shipped the family photo albums to her parents’ house, plus some small items that held sentimental value for her. She told each child to pack two cartons of whatever they deemed important and sent those along as well. Despite the cost, some things were simply beyond her resolve.

They had under a week left until the day they would leave the house for good. Meg kept her eye on the deadline, forcing herself to remain numb to the sight of her life being dismantled. The children, on the other hand, made their feelings abundantly clear. Sam retreated further into himself, while the other two remained angry and sullen. Lizzie continued to do the most crying and yelling at Meg, while Will glowered, watching television alone in the basement playroom or disappearing into his bedroom, refusing to answer any questions. Meg told the children that they were responsible for clearing out their rooms, so they could choose what to keep. As she disposed
of the things they’d left behind, she tried not to look at Lizzie’s bags of favorite childhood dolls, and sadly emptied the cartons into which Will had carelessly tossed his basketball trophies and football memorabilia. At the last minute, she retrieved his favorite skateboard from a box; somehow they would make space for it in the car.

One of the few times she broke down was the afternoon she spent in the basement, sorting through Christmas ornaments. She had collected a few new ones each year and any time they traveled, ever since James and she had gotten married. Each one held a special memory. The lights, tinsel, angels, and decorations to adorn windows and doors—it was unbearable. Christmas was so soon, it killed her to think they would miss having it one last time in the house. Of all the holidays, it was by far her favorite and the one she made the biggest fuss over. Everything about it was exciting to her: wrapping presents, baking cookies, filling the house with the sound of carols and silly singing Santas. When she was growing up, her parents had little appreciation for a holiday they believed had degenerated into “nothing but an excuse to get people to spend their money.” They would go to church and put up a small tree, the cheapest one they could find, which Meg would decorate with her handmade paper cutouts. On Christmas morning she would receive something useful, like socks or mittens. It was a joyless event all around. As an adult on her own, Meg did her best to create a virtual festival, with huge, lavish presents and mountains of food.

Now she was facing another holiday season back in her parents’ house. They would approve of the fact that the kids would
get little or nothing, but only because Meg and James could no longer afford big gifts. Or small ones, for that matter. Meg’s tears were a mixture of sorrow and bitterness.

Whether James was thinking about any of this, only he could say. He spent most of the time in his study, even sleeping on the couch there at night. Meg asked him to handle the dismantling of that room and all the bookshelves’ contents throughout the house, which he did without comment. Often he went out around dinnertime. It was obvious he wanted to avoid eating with the family. Meg would have liked to avoid those meals herself, with her two older children either sulking or complaining and Sam growing progressively more nervous and fearful. But she wasn’t about to run out on them, and her resentment toward James grew deeper each time he failed to appear. She wasn’t sure what to make of the hard set of his mouth when he did address her. Clearly, he was angry, but whether it was at her, himself, or the world, she couldn’t quite say. Neither of them made any attempt to discuss it—or anything else beyond what was absolutely necessary.

The tension in the house only increased as all three children realized their ideas of what would fit in one suitcase were far off the mark. There were multiple sessions of Meg sitting on someone’s bed as that child wept or raged over parting with ever more precious items. Even Sam yelled through his tears when he had to make the impossible choice between the large bags of tiny stuffed-animal key chains and assorted plastic aliens. “It’s too much, Mommy,” he cried. “Please don’t make me do this.”

Her heart ached for all three, and she suggested they each pack a second, smaller bag if they were willing to have it beneath
their feet for the entire car trip. She hoped she was doing the right thing: It was roughly seven hundred miles to Homer, New York, with the kids cramped in the backseat. They gladly agreed with her idea to sit with their own pillows and blankets; that would keep them warm and comfortable without taking up trunk space. However, their pleasure dissipated when she pointed out that they also needed to wear their heaviest jackets and warmest clothes because the weather would be far colder going north. She didn’t mention that they would nonetheless still be underdressed, as there had never been a need to outfit them for snow and ice. The blankets were necessities for the drive. When they got upstate, somehow she would have to provide them with warmer gear.

In some ways, it was a relief when the day they were to leave finally arrived. Meg didn’t think she could stand much more. They were all exhausted and emotionally drained from disposing of their old lives. The children got out of bed as soon as she woke them, and they moved about quietly, speaking only when necessary. Everyone ate a quick breakfast, and, as planned, they were ready to go by ten o’clock. Meg knew there was no point, but she washed the breakfast dishes and sponged down the counters. She couldn’t bring herself to leave the house looking abandoned and uncared for.

As she passed through the kitchen on her way out, she noticed that she had removed everything from the refrigerator door except the magnet with the state motto. Somehow she had overlooked it.
To be, rather than to seem
. She slipped it into her pants pocket.

James’s 1969 white Mustang was his pride and joy, what Meg
called his favorite toy. He had bought it for himself as a reward when he had been hired for the job in Charlotte at a salary far higher than what he had been receiving at his previous company. Initially, he had driven the car a fair amount, but now he took it out only for an occasional spin, unwilling to forgo the conveniences of his BMW. Although the Mustang had two doors, it was designed to hold four people; the back had a bucket seat design, with a rise in the center of the seat and on the floor. Without a lot of interior room, it was barely comfortable for four, much less five. It had never been James’s intention to drive the car anywhere with his entire family at one time, much less on an extended trip. No one was surprised when the backseat proved miserably tight for three people with small suitcases, pillows, and blankets.

It was also predictable that, as the youngest, Sam would be forced by his siblings to sit in the middle. “Why do I have to sit on the hump?” he asked unhappily.

“Because you
do
, that’s why,” Will said.

“Look, kids, you’re packed in there like sardines,” James said. “If you want to jettison some stuff, it might be a little better.”

Unwilling to relinquish any of the little they had left, they immediately stopped complaining, while Meg and James grimly struggled to get everything in the trunk. Meg was keeping her fingers crossed that the car would be up to making the trip.

It was a sunny day, the blue sky streaked with patches of wispy clouds. There was total silence as they pulled out of the driveway. Meg noticed that neither James nor the children
looked back at the house. She guessed that for them, as for her, it would have been too much to stand.

The leased BMWs had built-in navigation systems, but no such thing existed when the Mustang was manufactured. They would be using the driving directions Meg had printed out while they still had their computers, plus some old AAA maps. She removed the Southeastern States map from her handbag and unfolded it.

“Take the next left,” she intoned, imitating the voice from her car’s navigation system. “Drive twelve million miles. Then, destination is on the right.”

No one smiled. All three children got out their iPods—with no monthly charges, they were among the few electronic gadgets they had been able to keep—and retreated into their music. Meg looked out the window at the streets of Charlotte flying by. If they had been leaving under different conditions, she and James would have been sharing memories and making comments on what they were passing. Instead, James stared straight ahead as he drove. No matter how things were resolved, she knew in her heart she wouldn’t be coming back here. This life was finished.

Lizzie and Will started fighting before they got to Winston-Salem, and everyone was short-tempered by the time they pulled onto I-81, the highway on which they would be doing most of the driving. The route took them through Virginia. Thinking it would make for a pleasant interlude, Meg had planned a stop at Luray Caverns. If they had to make this trip, she figured, at least the kids could see a few interesting sights and learn something.

The one-hour tour of the underground caverns didn’t go well. The two older children complained continually that they were cold and bored. Sam dragged his feet, saying he had a stomachache. James was either snapping at them to keep quiet while the guide was talking, or fruitlessly trying to interest them in the difference between stalactites and stalagmites. The less they listened to him, the more annoyed he became at their unwillingness to appreciate the beauty surrounding them.

It was a relief for all of them when they eventually checked into a motel for the night, the cheapest one they could find that seemed reasonably clean and safe. The children piled onto one of the beds and turned on the television. Meg took a shower so she could have ten minutes of peaceful solitude, the same reason, she guessed, that James went alone to fill the car with gas. She dried herself as best she could with the small, rough towel provided as she thought about what would be the least expensive dinner options.

The next morning the children were groggy, surprisingly unwilling to relinquish their scratchy blankets and get out of their uncomfortable bed. Meg and James dressed and split up so that one could get the free coffee and doughnuts from the motel’s lobby while the other kept an eye on the children. It was nearly eleven before they checked out, and the amount of complaining and stops demanded from the backseat escalated considerably from the previous day. It was a slow, unpleasant ride under a cold and gray sky all the way to Pennsylvania.

When she had planned this drive back in Charlotte, Meg estimated that they would reach Lancaster County that afternoon.
She knew it was an area with a big Amish population. Neither she nor the children knew much about the Amish, and this would be a wonderful chance to learn a little bit. It was Sunday, with few things open, but her research at home had turned up a film about the Amish with regular Sunday screenings. At least they could see that much.

Meg didn’t recall what time the day’s last showing of the film was, but when she saw it was four o’clock as they pulled off the highway, she knew they were probably too late. This detour had been a bad idea, she thought, but they might as well check on the movie and see whatever sights there were along the way. She directed James to an address in the town of Intercourse, the name of which provided Lizzie and Will with numerous snickers. It had snowed earlier in the week, evident in the graying snow and patches of ice on the sidewalks and roads. On the local Route 340, they passed closed shops that obviously catered to tourists the rest of the week. The town appeared deserted.

When they arrived at the theater, it was closed.

James exhaled in annoyance. “This was a waste of time.”

“Turns out that’s true,” Meg said, maintaining a level tone. “So we’ll go back to the highway and move on.” She thought about how late it was. “Actually, we should probably find a motel around here for tonight.”

James pulled the car back onto the road. It was completely dark now, and the evening brought with it the coldest weather they had encountered on their trip. Meg retrieved a penlight from her bag to consult her AAA guidebook. Busy flipping through the section on lodgings, she didn’t notice when James
somehow took a wrong turn and left the main road. It took her a while to notice that they were driving on unlit country roads, probably far from an area where they might find a motel.

“Where are we?” she asked James. “I can’t see any street signs.”

“How should I know? I’m retracing my steps back to 283.”

“No, this isn’t the way back. We definitely didn’t come this way.”

“Mom’s right,” Will offered. “There were stores.”

“Are we lost?” Sam asked.

James’s voice rose. “No, we are not lost! Would everybody just relax? Meg, can you see where we are on one of those maps?”

“No, I don’t have anything with this much detail.”

“If I had my navigation system—”

“Well, you don’t,” Lizzie interrupted. “Suck it up.
We
don’t have anything we want, either.”

“Watch it, Lizzie,” James warned.

“It’s really, really dark here,” Sam whispered loudly to Will.

“It’s called night, you idiot” was Will’s retort.

“All three of you keep quiet!” James ordered. “Not another word.” He braked at a stop sign. They could drive straight or take roads veering slightly right or left. There was also a tight hairpin turn to the extreme right, with the road sloping sharply down. He pointed in that direction to Meg. “Maybe that’ll take us back.”