The Redemption of Sarah Cain (12 page)
Upstairs, Lydia was tempted to rest a bit while the children played outside. Sunday afternoons were made for snoozin’, she’d always heard Mamma say. Even Grandpa Cain, who was never Amish and wouldn’t have considered bein’ so, used to enjoy his daily twenty-minute catnap. Afterward, if the summer day was clear and sunny, he’d get up and go out to stroll along the shoreline, searchin’ for his beloved seashells, talkin’ to the Lord all the while.
‘‘Abandoned crab houses,’’
he’d say, showing her one or two of them.
Crab houses
, she thought, stopping just a few yards from her mother’s bedroom, her eyes feelin’ heavier by the second. What mental acrobatics might Aunt Sarah be doing to get from
her
home . . . to them? Was she shedding her worldly life like a hermit crab? And how long would she stay once she got here? Or would Sarah take them all away, back to her world of fine and fancy things?
So many hard questions.
How very strange it had always seemed to hear that Mamma’s sister was so different from them. Two sisters, born to the same parents . . . well, you’d think they’d be something alike. ’Least, some tiny part of their personalities. But Mamma had always said Sarah was her ‘‘complete opposite.’’
She moved down the hall, stopping at the doorway to her mother’s old bedroom.
Dare I go in?
she wondered.
And if I do,
what then?
She knew this might be her last chance before Aunt Sarah came and occupied the room, before they started sorting through—and disposing of—Mamma’s clothing and personal items.
Oh, what she wouldn’t give to breathe in the smell of dear Mamma, wherever the lovely scent might be hiding. In that moment of longing, her prior resolve was shattered. She touched the door already ajar, pushing it open gently, and stepped inside the large room, this bedroom—the private world—of her deceased mother.
She sank back on her heels, staring at the white ceiling and light gray walls—tiny cracks noticeable near one corner—the dark green shades at each of the four curtainless windows and the tall walnut chest of drawers. The double bed with its simple patchwork of reds, blues, and greens caught her eye, and without thinking, she pulled the covers back and crawled under.
Pulling up Mamma’s handmade quilt, she felt the weight and warmth of it on the length of her slender body. She wiggled beneath its heaviness, more than anxious to have some of the burden of her present life lifted. Thank goodness, Aunt Sarah would soon be here.
Here
, in Mamma’s house. Different or not, it would be real nice to have a grown-up under the roof again, twentyfour hours a day.
Then and there, she decided she’d do her part to make Mamma’s sister feel welcome. No tellin’ what would happen when Sarah came, though. One thing was sure, the coldness in her aunt’s voice seemed somewhat less nippy. Lydia noticed it first thing when Aunt Sarah called after supper last night. Something was altogether curious about the way she spoke to Lydia. ‘‘I can easily book a room at a hotel if you’d rather.’’
‘‘No, no, stay . . . with us,’’ she had insisted, puzzled at Aunt Sarah’s comment, but knowin’ for sure what Mamma would’ve wanted. ‘‘We have more than enough room for you here.’’
Josiah and Hannah had crept into the kitchen, prob’ly wondering who on earth she was talkin’ to. ‘‘It’s Aunt Sarah,’’ she’d whispered, covering the receiver end of the phone.
Josiah had shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the Carom board, where he and Caleb were playing in the front room. Hannah showed no particular interest regarding Aunt Sarah, either, and scurried back to the kitchen table, scooting in next to Anna Mae, where they colored pictures of the landscape near Blackhorse Pond.
‘‘Do you have the address where we live?’’ Lydia asked into the telephone. Of course, Sarah did. She and Mamma had written letters through the mail all these years.
‘‘I’ll do my best to locate you’’ came the polite reply.
Lydia thought, at the time, Sarah’s answer seemed a bit weak, like she wasn’t sure if she was truly comin’ or not. But Lydia was wise and recited their house address just for so.
‘‘I do have the street address,’’ Sarah answered.
‘‘But the house isn’t really
on
a street . . . it’s set back a ways from the main road.’’
‘‘And what road would that be?’’
Lydia tried to explain, giving various landmarks, as was their custom in giving directions. But Sarah wanted specifics—highway numbers and street markings.
‘‘The Lord will guide you here,’’ she said at last.
There was a pause. Then, ‘‘What did you say?’’
‘‘Just let God lead you to us.’’ Lydia echoed the words, more softly this time, because she felt less sure of herself now. Not uncertain of her faith in God’s divine direction, but whether she wanted Sarah Cain disrupting their lives further. She didn’t honestly know how she felt anymore about Sarah’s coming . . . or Mamma’s strange choice. Neither one.
If Mamma were still alive, Lydia would like to question her. ‘‘Why’d you ask for an outsider to look after us?’’ she would be pleading. ‘‘Oh, Mamma, what
were
you thinkin’?’’
Lydia awoke with a start and looked across the room at the row of pegs on a narrow wooden board attached to the far wall. There, Mamma had last hung her brown choring dresses, two blue cape dresses for good, and one black woolen shawl, along with several clean white
Kapps
.
Staring at the hand-sewn garments, Lydia rose and moved slowly, reverently toward them. She stood, regarding the dresses with a sigh, then reached up and removed the more faded of the two blue ones. Ach, Aunt Sarah might just dispose of them anyways— not give them a second thought. She wondered who in their church might like to wear, or just have on a hanger, one or all of the dresses her mother had worn.
Susie Lapp and several others came to mind, but Lydia knew Susie could never fit into Mamma’s clothes. Not even her aprons! But, as close a friend as Susie had been, there was a good chance she just might like to have one hanging in her bedroom. For the memory’s sake.
Nary a promise for the morrow. . . .
Lydia, too, wanted to keep one of Mamma’s dresses. And she removed the hanger from the peg, carrying the older of the two better ones to her own room.
Standing next to her own strip of wooden pegs, she lifted Mamma’s dress to her face and breathed deeply, wishing for the slightest scent. Knowing full well that these clothes had been thoroughly washed and dried, she was able to detect only the fresh smell of detergent and sunshine.
Touching the dress, she hung it on the wall under her own things, fondly recalling the last Sunday Mamma was well enough to attend Preachin’ services at the Old Meetinghouse. . . .
It had been an exceedingly warm October day. Oak trees sang the colors of gold and bronze. Sugar maples wore flaming crimson, their portly arms extended out over the lane as Caleb drove Dobbin to church, east on Route 896 to Rohrer’s Mill Road, then south onto Iva Road.
During the sermon, Lydia had to try to squelch a coughin’ fit, till she knew if she didn’t slip out and blow her nose somewhere, she would cause too much commotion in the meeting.
Turned out the only bathroom was in use, so she tiptoed outside where she happened on Emma Flaud and two other mothers discreetly nursing their infants. Without sayin’ a word to any of them, she fished for a handkerchief and walked the length of the sidewalk, far enough away from the Meetinghouse to give her sinuses a more than gentle blow.
While she waited to see if another tickle might creep into her throat, Mamma came outside, too. She sat on the steps, next to Emma Flaud. Lydia remembered standin’ there behind a tree, observing her best girlfriend’s mamma and her own sickly mother sitting side by side, not speakin’ a word to each other, surrounded by gentle women . . . sisters in the Lord, suckling their wee babes. Just content to be sittin’ there.
She watched as Mamma fanned herself with her long white apron, her face much too flushed to lay blame on the warmth of a mild Indian summer Sunday. Mamma stopped fanning long enough to reach over and touch the soft, round head of Emma’s new little one.
Lydia had to swallow the lump in her throat, realizing that Mamma’s heart was slowly giving out on her, that she might not live long enough to see her own grandbabies born into the world.
Live ev’ry day as if it’s your last. . . .
Returning to Mamma’s bedroom, her gaze fell on the tall bureau on the opposite wall. She wandered over to the chest of drawers Dat had made for Mamma years ago. For a moment she stood and stared at the bottom drawer, as if just lookin’ at it would make any difference. Deep in the drawer, she knew there must be plenty of scrapbooks with birthday and Christmas cards she and her brothers and sisters had handcrafted at school, poems clipped from
The Budget
and
Ideals
magazines, newspaper articles, and obituaries. Lovely things such as hand-tatted bookmarks and colorful handkerchiefs with crocheted edges or embroidered flowers any Amishwoman might want to cherish. But it was her mother’s diaries and the letters she’d saved over the years that piqued Lydia’s curiosity most.
A girl perty near goes through her life tryin’ ever so hard to walk the straight and narrow—doin’ a right fine job of it, too— till somewhere along the line, the things of the world jump out and allure her. As they were temptin’ her now.
Slowly, heart pounding, Lydia leaned down and opened the drawer, her hands on either side, steadying the heavy drawer as it slid out. A shoe box marked ‘‘Seashells’’ lay off to one side. On the opposite side were dozens of letters, all of them tied in plain white ribbons, prettily, like nothin’ she’d ever seen.
She pulled out a small packet, hoping against hope that God himself might ultimately have mercy on her for what she was about to do. Spying the name on the return address—Miss Sarah Cain—and the date November 7, 1996, she trembled. What would Mamma think of her this minute if she knew?
Quickly, she put the letters back. But her eye caught the bright floral color of a diary, bound like a real book.
Can it be?
she wondered.
Was this the journal where Mamma had recorded her most private thoughts, her sadness and loss over Dat, a possible explanation for her choice of Sarah as her children’s guardian?
Without another thought, Lydia opened to the first page:
New Year’s Day, 1998
. Sighing, she held in her hands the last year’s writings of her dead mother. ‘‘Ach, what’ll I do?’’ she whispered.
She scanned the first page, then the next, her heart wanting desperately to read—to savor—every single word, but her eyes flew over the lines irreverently, searching for a clue, anything referring to Sarah Cain.
And then she spied something.
It’s been ever so long since I’ve
had a letter from my sister. I pray she is well, but more than that I
pray that she will come to know the Savior soon
.
So . . . it was just as she thought. Aunt Sarah was not a believer as they were. And not only that, Sarah was also an unheeding, neglectful sister!
Lydia read on.
I don’t know just what it will take for the Good Lord to get
Sarah’s attention. I just have no idea how He’s going to bring her into
the fold. But I trust the loving heavenly Father to do that
.
Suddenly she heard, ‘‘Lyddie, come quick!’’ Anna Mae was shouting from downstairs. She leaped up and nearly dropped the notebook. Pushing in the drawer till it was secure again, she called back, ‘‘What is it?’’ She rushed pell-mell out of the room and scurried toward the top of the stairs.
‘‘The snow fort caved in on Hannah!’’ Anna Mae hollered.
Lydia stumbled down the steps, her heart in her throat. Whatever had happened to her baby sister was prob’ly the judgment of God on her. Ach, how swiftly it had come.
Dear Lord, please . . . please let Hannah be all right!
She grabbed her long black coat off the wooden peg in the utility room, tripping momentarily on her skirt tail as she followed Anna Mae out the kitchen door into the frigid air.
