The Redemption of Sarah Cain (19 page)

Glad for the solitude, Sarah unzipped one of several garment bags, removing her designer pant ensemble. She fingered its wide V-neck collar, imagining Heidi Norton’s reaction—Bill Alexander’s, as well.

Any number of her dazzling shoes, at home in Portland, would accessorize splendidly. She would waltz into the real estate office next Monday morning, wearing one of her terrific Lancaster outlet purchases.

Monday afternoon, January 24

My sister. . . .

That’s how Aunt Sarah spoke of Mamma today, far different
than before. Even the tone of her voice, when talking of Mamma
has softened some—more the way I would expect her to be.

I don’t know for sure, can’t tell really, if Aunt Sarah’s grieving
much at all. English folk must have their own way of sorrow.
It just seems awful strange that she would go out and shop, of all
things, when she’s here to look after her family’s needs. I tend to
think Mamma’s sister is altogether
ferhoodled
. Prob’ly needs
some tending to herself
.

‘‘There’s someone I’m hopin’ I can take you to meet soon,’’ Lydia said with uncertainty after supper. ‘‘An Amishwoman you might want to consider for a foster mother . . . for us.’’

Her aunt looked somewhat wary, all of a sudden. She draped her damp tea towel over the dish rack.

Lydia forged ahead. ‘‘Miriam Esh is well respected in our Plain community. She’s a kind, Christian lady—never married— but she has a tender place in her heart for children.’’

‘‘What about Susie Lapp?’’

‘‘She’s out of the question, I’m sure.’’

Aunt Sarah stiffened. ‘‘How old is this other woman—uh, Miriam?’’

‘‘Midthirties or so.’’

‘‘Single, you say?’’

Lydia nodded her head. ‘‘Not that she didn’t have the chance to wed. She just never did.’’

Aunt Sarah folded her arms and moved to the bench near the table and sat. ‘‘Are you fond of her?’’

It wasn’t fair for Lydia to speak up and say that
she
prob’ly wasn’t the one to be askin’, ’specially if she ended up marrying Levi King and makin’ a home with him in the near future. ‘‘Miriam’s wonderful-gut, really she is.’’

‘‘But do you
like
her?’’

Sometimes you just do what you have to, whether you like it or
not
, Lydia thought. She nearly smiled to herself, for Aunt Sarah reminded her of her own persistent streak. ‘‘I s’pose I’d have to say I don’t know Miriam all too well. We attend the same quiltin’ bees and work frolics sometimes, but that’s mostly all . . . and Preachin’ at the meetinghouse, too.’’

‘‘What about the other children? How would they feel about Miriam as a mother figure?’’

Lydia had to think on that. ‘‘Caleb prob’ly wouldn’t have much of an opinion, but Anna Mae might. Josiah and Hannah perty much go along with what the older ones say or do.’’

Aunt Sarah’s eyebrows lifted, then lowered slowly. ‘‘So you don’t know the woman well enough to live with her?’’

‘‘She could come here . . . live with
us
,’’ Lydia responded quickly. ‘‘Miriam doesn’t have much of anything, seein’ as how her parents live in northern New York now—moved up there with some of Miriam’s married brothers, hopin’ for more land than is available ’round here. Her cousin, our preacher, and several other distant relatives look after her and keep her farm goin’.’’

‘‘I believe you’ve thought about this a great deal.’’

‘‘Well, it would
expedite
things.’’ Her use of Sarah’s word must’ve triggered the momentary furrow on her aunt’s brow.

‘‘Please don’t misunderstand, Lydia.’’

‘‘But . . . well, isn’t that why you wanted to talk to Susie Lapp?’’

Aunt Sarah leaned forward slightly, her painted lips parting momentarily, as if she were truly surprised at Lydia’s blunt remark. ‘‘Please give Miss Esh a call whenever you can. I’ll meet with her at her convenience.’’ No longer smiling, Aunt Sarah went and poured herself another cup of coffee.

For all the world, Lydia wanted to tell her aunt that no one in the Amish community referred to the women as ‘‘Mrs.’’ or ‘‘Miss.’’ Truth be known, it was prob’ly a very good thing Aunt Sarah would be headin’ home in a few days.

Normally, Lydia wouldn’t have thought of using the telephone to chat with Fannie at such a late hour. Bishop Joseph wanted the People to limit phone conversation and visiting— save it for the face-to-face meetings. Yet she felt she must talk things over, at least briefly, with someone. Fannie’s was the best ear to bend.

‘‘When you get around women like Miriam, you hear things—
learn
things. Know what I mean?’’ she said, relaying her conversation with Aunt Sarah on to Fannie.

Fannie seemed to understand. ‘‘Miriam sees and hears aplenty, and lots of folk think she’s makin’ up half of what she tells. In spite of all that, she’s ever so kindhearted.’’

‘‘Jah, and I think my aunt prob’ly needs a ladle full of expert storytellin’ . . . from the mouth of a prudent woman.’’

‘‘But what ’bout
you
, Lyddie? You could tell your aunt a story or two.’’

Her back against the kitchen wall, she glanced around in the darkness as she held the phone against her ear. ‘‘Between you, me, and the fence post, I think Miriam’s the one prospect to hold this family together—in one piece.’’

‘‘I think you might be right.’’

That clinched things for Lydia. She said her good-byes and hung up, returning the receiver to its phone cradle. Then she tiptoed back upstairs to her room.

Come tomorrow—if all went well—she and Aunt Sarah would have themselves a visit to the best storyteller ’round Strasburg and Paradise both. And if Miriam consented to be their substitute Mamma, then Sarah Cain could be on her way back to modern city life, with an inspiring story churnin’ inside her fancy soul.

Sarah relaxed more comfortably in Ivy’s bed tonight. Neither did it distress her that she might be stretched out on her sister’s side of the mattress or that Ivy’s spirit might have, indeed, left her body in this very spot.

Something else was more pressing. She wished now that she had had the presence of mind to broach the subject of Ivy’s journal-keeping with Lydia. Having brought a number of Ivy’s letters with her, Sarah was eager to peruse them once again, refresh her memory as to the things pertaining to her sister’s Plain life. But it was the mention of Ivy’s journals that stirred up increased curiosity. Surely Lydia knew of their location in the house.

If Lydia ever brought up the subject again—perhaps later in the week—she would plunge right in and ask. Possibly Lydia would find it in her heart to oblige Sarah and offer one.

She felt herself drifting toward that pre-dream state of neither here nor there. How odd that she should care one way or the other about Ivy’s writings.

It was Lydia who was too restless to sleep. So much so that she got up and opened the wooden chest at the foot of her bed. Quickly, she located the shoe box where Mamma’s seashell collection was stored. Though she had not looked inside since she was a young child, she recalled the rainy afternoon, years before, when Mamma had taken time to sit Caleb and herself down, showing off the colorful shells.

‘‘When I was a girl, I was a collector,’’ Mamma told them. ‘‘I cared only to gather seashells—the more I took from the sand, the happier I was. But, soon, my backpack became too heavy with dozens and dozens of shells, and at home my windowsills were too cluttered to dust. My father—your grandpa Cain— taught me to discard the ordinary ones, to be more particular. He used to say,
‘Choose only the perfect ones, and your collection
will become more important. Remember, there is only one sun and
moon in the sky. Think how trivial a harvest moon would be if there
were three.’ ’’

Enjoying her recollection, Lydia opened the lid on the box and peered inside. Mamma had chosen wisely, for certain. And now that Lydia was old enough to appreciate what had gone into the gathering—the choosing—she touched each of ten perfect shells. They were cool to the touch and smooth as could be.

Returning the prized collection to its shoe-box home, Lydia located her mother’s journals. She had promised herself that each night she would read a good many pages, startin’ with the most recent writings and working backward in time.

So she curled up in her bed with the first of several diaries, attempting to nudge her aunt’s words from her mind.

‘‘My sister kept a diary?’’
Aunt Sarah had said, lookin’ a bit stunned.

Now that Lydia thought on it, she wondered,
What if she asks
to read Mamma’s journals?

Clutching the precious books to her bosom, she felt just now that she fully understood Grandpa Cain’s shell lesson. Mamma had not left behind hundreds, not even dozens, of bound diaries. There were only seven, and they were as important to Lydia as the sun is to God’s green earth.

She began to read.

December 9, 1998

It’s a cold, blustery day today. The dampness is strong in my
bones, and my chest is heavy with pressure like never before. My
doctor thinks I should be admitted to the hospital, but I will trust
the Great Physician for my healing, if it is His will. If I am to
die, it should be here at home.

Lydia and the younger children are so good to play quietly
downstairs when their morning chores are finished. They must be
told soon about my failing heart. I think my oldest girl suspects
how weak I am. I can see it reflected in her sad eyes. She is so
attentive to my needs—tries so hard to be patient with her siblings,
in spite of the tension she surely feels. Lydia really does see
through me, clear to my soul. In many ways, she reminds me of
my sister when Sarah was young, before the accident that claimed
her spirit.

O heavenly Father, help my children continue to love and
serve you even if it is your will for me to be absent from this life.
May they know your peace, joy, and great love
.

Reading what Mamma thought of her made Lydia feel like weeping. All too clearly, she recalled the heavy weight of concern she’d carried during the weeks and months of her mother’s grave illness.