The Redemption of Sarah Cain (21 page)
‘‘I best not say more.’’ Lydia was weeping.
‘‘No, you
best
go upstairs . . . to bed.’’ With that ultimatum, she flicked off the kitchen light overhead. ‘‘And don’t forget to turn off the sink light,’’ she said, hoping Lydia would follow her upstairs and not throw a fit about getting caught with a boy, the way Ivy once had at age seventeen.
She recalled the night when Mother had discovered Ivy and her boyfriend kissing in the living room. Ranting and raving, their mother had called for their father to ‘‘come down and talk to your daughter.’’
It had been one of the few times Mother had lost her temper with her favored daughter. Ivy had been put on restriction for two long, unmerciful weeks, and what a miserable fourteen days they had been. For young Sarah, as well. With Ivy banned from phone privileges, along with her many other social engagements, life became nearly intolerable.
Once again, Sarah was very glad to have her own bedroom. Sharing space with Ivy during those weeks was the last thing she would have wanted. So she practiced the piano an extra hour each day, filling up the after-school and evening hours. All the while, Ivy sulked in her room, sometimes more loudly than other times. Ivy’s idea of taking discipline with grace meant throwing shoes about the room at the most unexpected moments. At least, that was what Sarah came to envision whenever the clamorous bumps landed overhead as she sat at the piano soothing her soul with Bach or Chopin.
How very strange that Mother, who cherished peace and quiet above all else, seemed to disregard the fits of fury befalling the house those weeks.
Waiting for young Lydia to ascend the steps, to get her tail upstairs and back into bed, Sarah paused in the hallway and recalled again Ivy’s teenage temper tantrums and other transgressions. Why would her sister, ill-tempered as she had been, want to abandon city life and come here to live in a peace-loving place—almost a foreign land—like Amish country?
Something monumental must have happened to change her. Over the years, Ivy had endeavored to convey to Sarah in her letters that such a transformation
had
, indeed, taken place, though Sarah had always rejected the notion. Yet this night she considered the possibility of a spiritual conversion, perhaps for the first time.
Lydia was coming up the steps now, her head low. Brown braids, long and thick, hung forward to her waist. Sarah started in bewilderment at the near specter of her sister—Lydia was, indeed, a younger version of Ivy.
‘‘We’ll talk more tomorrow,’’ she said as the girl passed.
‘‘Jah, good night, Aunt Sarah.’’
It was difficult for her to accept Lydia’s description of the People’s dating habits. Was her niece purposely hoping to trick her, trying to cover up for wrongful actions with her boyfriend? She hardly knew what to think.
Exhausted from the extremely long, grueling day—and the night, as well—Sarah literally could not wait to return to bed. But sleep did not come as readily as before. She considered appropriate discipline for Lydia’s seemingly underhanded conduct. Restricting the girl from social activities hardly seemed an option. After all, what events could be going on in the middle of winter around here? Humdrum sleigh rides, boring quilting bees . . . what?
Settling in once again, Sarah realized anew how little she knew or understood of Ivy’s family’s Plain life-style—‘‘the People’s way,’’ as Lydia liked to put it.
Tomorrow she would ask to read one of Ivy’s journals. Maybe skimming through her sister’s personal writings would give her some much-needed insight. The idea that such a conservative group of people actually condoned their young people’s courting practices—the way Lydia had described—seemed hard to swallow. Exactly what would Ivy have done if
she
had discovered Lydia tonight in the arms of that wiry young fellow completely unsupervised?
Eager as Sarah was to return to modern civilization, she felt far less urgent about meeting either Mrs. Susie Lapp or Miss Miriam Esh. An irresistible emotion welled up inside her as she reached for Ivy’s homemade quilts, covering up for the night. She had not encountered such an empathetic feeling, almost maternal, for a long time now, and she scarcely knew what to do about it.
Most of all, she felt compelled to get to the bottom of Lydia’s late-night liaison, and as soon as possible. On behalf of her dead sister she would do this. For no other reason.
Monday night, January 24
I am horrified (heartbroken, too). Aunt Sarah burst into the
kitchen tonight while Levi kissed me, right after he’d proposed
marriage and I’d turned him down. Ach, I don’t see how our
courting relationship, if it’s even to continue, can ever be kept
secret now, as is our custom. I can only hope my aunt leaves
before she spills the beans to anyone!
So awful mixed up, I am. I
do
want Aunt Sarah to help us
find a family, if that’s what Mamma intended. Somehow, I don’t
believe our dear mamma had that in mind at all. I think she
wanted Aunt Sarah to raise us herself. But how can that be,
when Sarah Cain doesn’t know the first thing about bein’ Amish
. . . or a mother? Neither one.
My heart truly belongs to Levi King. Someday I hope to be
his bride, but first some mighty important things must be worked
out for my brothers and sisters. Then, thank goodness, Aunt
Sarah will be on her way. I can only hope and pray Levi will wait
for me!
T
he house began to stir somewhat later than it had the day before, Amish laundry day. Today, the scurry of feet on the stairs diminished rather quickly as the children hurried outside to tend to barn chores. Neither Lydia nor Caleb had ever hinted that she should assist with outdoor duties since her arrival, and even if the suggestion were to be made, she knew she would have to decline. Not a single item of clothing in her fine wardrobe could withstand the grime and mire associated with farm work.
Tired as she was, Sarah did not opt to lie in bed, nor did she take pleasure in the quietude. Instead, she got up and purposely ignored Megan’s framed picture on the bedside table, going to the washstand.
Peering into the mirror, she noticed dark circles under her eyes. ‘‘I should have stayed in bed,’’ she whispered to her reflection.
I should have stayed in Portland. . . .
Catching sight of a white towel where decorative brooches of flowers, birds, and a ladybug were pinned in a row, she felt the towel’s smoothness and wondered if Ivy had ever worn this jewelry. She studied each pin, recalling a letter from Ivy written several years ago. Her sister had casually mentioned a brooch purchased at Wal-Mart on sale.
At the time, Sarah had been struck by the humor of Ivy’s comment. For an Amishwoman to be shopping at a discount store, or
any
store for that matter, seemed peculiar to her. She had always assumed that ultraconservative women either made or grew the items they needed. It never occurred to her, until this moment, that Ivy might have actually desired something pretty. Something like these little gold and silver pins, storebought items.
What else did Ivy enjoy?
she wondered.
Meandering to the highboy, she opened the top drawer and discovered a simple, black leather-bound Bible. She turned the first pages and was surprised to see that it was written in English, not the German she expected. There were also five handmade bookmarks near the front of the drawer, two with pressed wild flowers—sky-blue and russet-colored blossoms—she could not identify. And there were three dainty handkerchiefs with crocheted edging, one with intricate embroidery in the corner, creating a pink rose in full bloom.
She inspected Ivy’s personal items briefly, then returned them to the drawer, noticing various undergarments and slips tucked away in the same compartment, obviously store purchased.
Abandoning the dresser, she went to her own suitcases, removing fresh clothing for the day. She had thought of unpacking but was determined not to settle in here, knowing that she planned to leave next weekend, one way or the other. She would not consider changing her mind.
During morning Bible reading and prayers, Hannah pulled on Sarah’s hand when it came time to kneel. For the first time since coming here, Sarah knelt along with the rest of the children. She decided it wouldn’t hurt for her to do as Hannah wished. At least once.
When the youngsters headed out the door for school, Sarah was still thinking through her plan of attack regarding Lydia’s indiscreet conduct last night. How did one introduce such a delicate topic? Was it her place to initiate such talk?
She waited until all the children were well on their way down the lane before turning to Lydia. ‘‘I want to talk with you,’’ she said, making an effort to sound more confident than she felt.
Lydia wiped her face with her long apron, silently leaning against the kitchen counter. Her eyes were wide—like a fawn caught in headlights.
‘‘About last night, Lydia . . .’’ She stopped, groping for the right direction the conversation should take. ‘‘If your mother were alive, she would be appalled, no doubt.’’
Lydia sniffled, shaking her head. ‘‘Mamma would never have come downstairs. She trusted me completely.’’
‘‘I see,’’ Sarah said, but she did not. ‘‘Perhaps you should explain your courting customs, or whatever I encountered in your kitchen . . . since you are obviously quite taken with your young man.’’
Lydia sighed audibly, standing more erect, as if on trial. Her hair, parted down the middle without bangs or curls to frame her face, was pulled into a bun at the back of her neck, covered by the same white veiling she wore each day. She folded her hands in front of her.
Only one time had she not seen Lydia sporting the little cap. Late last night. Because of this, she presumed Amishwomen slept without their coverings, but she had no way of knowing for certain.
‘‘What you witnessed last night is personal—to be kept a secret, really. I pray you will act as if you never saw us, as though my friend had never come here. Can you promise me this?’’
Who does she think she is?
Sarah wondered. Her niece was treating
her
like a child, making unreasonable demands.Without question, she would have pushed the issue further, but tears welled up in Lydia’s eyes. The girl looked positively panic-stricken. ‘‘I don’t understand,’’ she said, yet something inside her struggled to reach out to her niece.
‘‘S’pose if I thought you were truly interested in knowing, I would try hard to make you understand our ways. Forgive me for bein’ blunt, but I don’t think you care one bit what happens to any of us.’’ Lydia covered her face with her hands and began to sob.
Sarah was at a loss to know what to say or do. So when Lydia ran past her, heading upstairs, she set about cleaning the kitchen, starting with breakfast dishes and ending with sweeping the floor.
That done, she trudged into the living room and sat down with an Amish newspaper—
The Budget
. Inside its pages, she discovered short anecdotal accounts of events and nonevents, written by Plain folk. Unusual, indeed.