The Redemption of Sarah Cain (11 page)

‘‘Nice meeting you,’’ she mumbled.

‘‘Oh, I guess I didn’t introduce myself properly. My name’s Theresa Barrows. What’s yours?’’

Sarah forced a smile. ‘‘Sarah Cain.’’

‘‘Sounds Plain, you know? It really does. I think you’ll fit right in over in Lancaster County.’’

Sarah made a slight head gesture, an unintelligible sound, reached down for her briefcase, and found her novel. A person engrossed in a book during a flight was usually able to avoid conversation. She was anxious to find out if that were true.

The historical novel—
Black Hawk
—was a riveting tale set in the northwest panhandle of Idaho, near a well-known 1910 mansion on Lake Hayden, now a refurbished estate. A Native American saga and love story wrapped up in one.

As she read, she soon found herself going back over the same sentence or paragraph three or more times. The young woman’s comments had intrigued her more than she cared to admit.

‘‘You’ll feel like you’ve stepped back in time. . . .’’

Just what she
didn’t
need or want—an escape from reality. She was quite happy with her little self-made ‘‘kingdom’’ in Portland, thank you. A ‘‘world’’ that had been a long time coming. She was much smarter than to let herself get caught up or lost in the nineteenth century.

Exasperated, she closed her eyes but kept the book open, letting her thoughts slip away. . . .

When Mother had been ill—unable to tend to Sarah—it was Ivy who frequently volunteered, and all too eagerly. Her suffocating approach, even as a teenager, caused Sarah to lash out. She could scarcely tolerate Ivy’s obnoxious behavior, under the guise of ‘‘helping Mother.’’ Sarah had so despaired of the wornout expression that she often clamped her hands over her ears. She’d much rather have Mother looking out for her, though their mother was sickly and sometimes too frail to keep up with Sarah’s inquisitive mind, not to mention her mischievous fingers.

So it was Ivy—hovering sister that she was—who attempted to take up the slack for Mother’s ongoing lassitude.
‘‘You ought to
be glad I’m here to look after you,’’
Ivy would say, her hands on her shapely hips as she stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of Mother’s handmade ruffled aprons, insisting that Sarah
‘‘come inside and get out of the dirt this instant!’’

Thinking back to those days, Sarah realized anew that the ridiculous aprons Ivy wore in her late teens were a mere foreshadowing of the unfashionable clothes she would wear as a Plain wife and mother of five. Laughable, to say the least. Though with Ivy’s life cut short unexpectedly, Sarah wondered now if she had missed something important along the way. Something that might have given her a clue—something tangible to go on—regarding Ivy’s decision to abandon her modern heritage and join the ranks of the Plain community. What in her and Ivy’s mutual childhood upbringing had supplied her sister with the fuel to fire such a change? Was it truly a yearning for the ‘‘Old Ways’’ as Ivy so often wrote, her hand steady on the simple, unadorned page, her letters and loops perfectly formed? Had Sarah failed to read between the lines?

What
had
she overlooked?

Second Officer Mitchell’s voice intruded on her thoughts, pointing out their location over Cleveland, Ohio, and giving the current temperature in Harrisburg.

Sarah straightened in the seat, closing her book, eager for the flight attendants to serve up something cold to drink. Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she was thankful to see the Bible college woman engrossed in what appeared to be an Amish cookbook.

Terrific
, she thought, eyeing the male flight attendant and toying with the idea of ordering a stiff drink or two. On second thought, perhaps she should tough it out soberly for whatever might lie ahead for her in the ‘‘back-in-time’’ land of Grasshopper Level.

Chapter Nine

J
ah, you must wear your warmest coat this-after,’’ Lydia reminded Josiah and Hannah as they made ready to go outside and play following the Sunday noon meal.

‘‘But, Lyddie, it ain’t so awful cold now, is it?’’ Josiah insisted, his forehead knitting into a big frown.

‘‘It was right chilly on the ride home from church, I’d say.’’ She patted the top of his thick blond hair, cut straight under his ears—the common Plain blunt-cut.

‘‘But I just
know
it’s gonna get warmer!’’ the child insisted. ‘‘It’s got to!’’

Lydia bent low, eye level with her adorable brother. ‘‘And why is that?’’

His round face broke into an angelic smile. ‘‘ ’Cause me and Caleb are gonna build tall snow forts out near the barn, that’s why!’’

Chuckling, Lydia stood up. ‘‘Now, is that so?’’ She resisted the urge to correct his grammar. ‘‘Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?’’

Josiah’s blue eyes widened and his brow wrinkled with wonder. ‘‘I been tryin’ to tell ya things, Lyddie, honest I have. Seems you don’t hear me half the time.’’

Her brother’s words jabbed at her heart. Silence drifted through the kitchen, and Lydia folded her hands, not knowing what to do to dispel the awkward hush.

It was a relief, to be sure, when Hannah rushed across the kitchen and reached for Lydia’s hand. ‘‘Don’tcha see, Josiah, our Lyddie’s grievin’ over Mamma,’’ Hannah tried to explain.

Without another word, the sisters fell into a fond embrace. It wasn’t long before Lydia felt Josiah wiggling through between them. ‘‘I miss Mamma, too,’’ he cried. ‘‘Somethin’ awful.’’

Lydia released her sister and gave her full attention to her youngest brother. ‘‘We
all
miss her,’’ she said with all the strength she could gather up. ‘‘But Mamma wants us to live our lives to the fullest, even without her.’’ She breathed deeply, willing away the painful spasms in her throat.

‘‘How do ya know that?’’ Josiah asked, his eyes blinking.

‘‘I just do.’’

Hannah spoke up. ‘‘Did Mamma tell you that . . . before she died, I mean?’’

‘‘Well, I s’pose she did, in her own way.’’

‘‘Did she write it down somewheres?’’ Josiah persisted.

Lydia thought about that. There was a very good possibility that their mother
had
written encouraging words for them to read at a later date, perhaps. But for now, Lydia knew she simply couldn’t begin to answer her little brother’s questions satisfactorily. It wasn’t that she couldn’t try her best to do so. She just honestly didn’t know what to say just yet. And she wasn’t going to rummage through her mother’s writings to find out. Not just now. Maybe never.

She gazed on the boy standing before her. Young Josiah had always been one to ask difficult questions. He was his father’s son, and Lydia knew it sure as day. ‘‘All I know is the way Mamma lived
her
life,’’ she began again. ‘‘Full up to the brim with the delights of each and every season. Mamma was joyful in the Lord God, too, just as she and Dat taught us all to be.’’

Josiah’s lips puckered a bit, his pudgy hands reaching up to stroke her face. ‘‘I wish I could be joyful just now . . . like Mamma was.’’

‘‘Ach, me too,’’ Hannah piped up.

Lydia pulled out a chair and gathered both her younger siblings close. ‘‘Listen carefully,’’ she said softly. ‘‘Mamma followed hard after our elder brother and Savior, the Lord Jesus. That’s why she was so gut and kind. Mamma was clean from the
inside
out.’’

Young Hannah pulled away. ‘‘Let’s
all
try ’n be like Jesus, jah?’’

That set the mood for more hugging, then voices callin’ upstairs to Caleb and Anna Mae. ‘‘Who’s goin’ outside to play in the snow? If you are, come and get your things on,’’ Lydia said, straightening her long gray apron.

‘‘I’m comin’!’’ the confident voice of Caleb wafted down the stairs.

Anna Mae emerged, shy and restrained from the wide hallway. ‘‘I’m here, Lyddie,’’ she said, her pale green eyes glistening.

Taking one look at Anna Mae, Lydia was perty sure the girl must’ve overheard the conversation with the younger children. ‘‘What’s-a-matter?’’ she asked.

Turning away, her sister cowered near the kitchen doorway, and Lydia suspected Anne Mae was hiding her tears. Quickly, she went to her sister’s side. ‘‘Tell me all about it,’’ she whispered, wrapping her arms around the girl’s shoulders.

‘‘B-best not to say,’’ Anne Mae sputtered into Lydia’s chest.

She held the sobbing girl, aware that Caleb, Hannah, and Josiah were inching closer, observing the tender moment. On any other day, she would’ve shooed them off.

‘‘She’s awful sad,’’ Josiah whispered. ‘‘Talks to herself all the time.’’

‘‘Hush now,’’ she said ever so softly. ‘‘The place Mamma went to is heaven.’’ This she said for Anna Mae’s benefit—for all the children’s. ‘‘From what the Bible says, it surely must feel like goin’ home, after bein’ in a strange land for the longest time.’’

The children looked at her with wide, thoughtful eyes. Then Anna Mae wiped her tear-stained face and asked, ‘‘Home? You mean, like here in Grasshopper Level?’’

‘‘Jah, but even better’’ was all Lydia could say. Her own eyes were beginning to blur, and she thought better of tryin’ to conceal the tears. It might do the others good, knowing that she, too, was struggling. But she wouldn’t think of sharin’ her thoughts out loud. Best to keep quiet over her fears about their future. Besides, Mamma’s attorney had assured her that Aunt Sarah was on her way here.

Tonight things just might start to change
, Lydia thought as she dried Anna Mae’s tears with her own apron.

Soon she was waving out the back door to Hannah, Josiah, Anna Mae, and Caleb as they scurried through the snow to the barnyard. ‘‘Don’t stay out too long now. You’ll freeze off your noses if you do.’’

She heard their gay laughter as she leaned against the door. The cold air seeped through onto her legs, but she stayed to watch the cloud of enormous black crows flyin’ overhead. She wondered if the crow-control folks had decided what on earth to do about thousands of ’em roostin’ on top of the Park City Mall roof. Last she’d heard, it was goin’ to be an awful expensive problem. She was glad it wasn’t
her
problem. She had enough to cope with right here at home.

Turning from the window, she thought about warming up an ample pot of potato soup for supper. If she heated up a double batch, there’d be more than enough for Aunt Sarah tonight. She was mighty glad she’d made so many ‘‘cooked-ahead’’ meals, with Susie Lapp’s help, what with company coming and all.

Puh!
Aunt Sarah wasn’t exactly company, but one thing was sure: Mamma’s sister prob’ly didn’t know the first thing about cookin’ from scratch. ’Course, Lydia couldn’t blame her for that.

Tired from the long day, Lydia walked the length of the house to the front room and sat down, thinkin’ there was a mighty good reason why the Good Lord rested on the seventh day. Come Sunday, a body was altogether wore out.

She gazed hard through the picture window at ice-encrusted branches, arbors, and wire fencing. A deserted birdhouse caught her eye down by the springhouse, just past the front lawn, covered with a good six inches or more of snow. A line of oak trees stood sentry along the north side of the land, their strong trunks unyielding, yet unfettered from a recent dusting of snow. All in all, the snowscape was a winter garden, offering a sort of poetry of its own making.

The way Mamma viewed life
, she thought.
Through rose-colored
glasses
. After all, it had been Mamma’s idea, every single autumn since they’d come to Lancaster County, to choose certain garden elements—a cast-iron bench here, an urn or old wagon wheel there—placing them about the yard in advance of winter’s shortened days, knowing full well that icicles in all the right places can and do reflect sunlight. Lift one’s mood.
‘‘Snow has a way of
gathering ever so gracefully on pine boughs and old trellises. The more
silhouettes you can make in your winter garden, the better,’’
Mamma had told her last October, Lydia recalled.

She fought the urge to cry again, remembering instead two days before Mamma went to heaven, when Lydia had tucked sprigs of crimson holly into the railing along the front porch. She’d hoped to break up the monotony of a frozen sea of ivory all around them.

‘‘For you, Mamma,’’
she’d whispered, taken aback by her own breath as it crystallized quickly, drifting up, away from the snow-whitened earth to a low and lifeless sky.