Beside Still Waters (A Big Sky) Page 9

  "So why don't you just return? You can work on the farm while Dat is at the mill—"

  "Return? Return to what? I've never fit in, Marianna."

  "How can you say that?" She shook her head.

  "I've always done a good job playing the part, but I never felt like I was supposed to be Amish. It just didn't seem right."

  "So leaving feels right?" She rubbed her forehead, realizing how tired she was. Wondering why she was even bothering to talk with him. It was obvious his mind was set. "I've never understood why you left. I thought at first it was just rumspringa—"

  "No, that's not it. I've known since I was twelve that I was going to leave." He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

  "What do you mean?" David was twelve, and her father's fears for him doubled in her own mind.

  "Do you remember? Maybe you don't—you were only nine, but there was a neighbor down the road. And he decided to go on his way. He left the Amish, but he didn't leave and just get a job. No, he stayed around and got into trouble. He caught a few Amish barns on fire. He ended up in jail. His name was Henry."

  She rubbed her chin. "I don't remember, but I've heard something about the barn fires before. So what does this have to do with you?"

  "It was during that time—just a few weeks after they caught him and jailed him—when I was supposed to be tending to some sheep out in the pasture. Instead, I went fishing with a friend. We caught a few, but then got hot and decided to jump in. That's when Dat found me."

  Marianna covered her mouth with her hand, imagining her father's anger. She eyed Levi, wondering still what this had to do with his leaving. A whipping couldn't have done that. "I bet he got a big switch from the willow tree for that."

  "No. It was worse."

  She spoke in a loud whisper. "What could be worse than meeting him out by the woodshed?"

  Levi was silent.

  "What? You have to tell me now." Overhead in the tree an owl hooted and the sounds of frogs croaking came from the creek as if urging him on too.

  Levi shrugged. "He just looked at me. You know that look. I was standing there dripping wet, and he asked if I wanted to change my name to Henry. Then he stalked off."

  "Levi, that's horrible. He compared you with him? With that?"

  He shrugged. "I felt like my fate was sealed. I thought from that moment this is the way things were going to turn out. That I would leave and cause trouble in my leaving."

  "But they don't have to turn out this way. You're making a choice here. Those words long ago—Dat didn't mean them. I'm sure he doesn't remember."

  Levi didn't argue, but she could tell he wasn't giving her words any mind either. She followed his gaze up to the sky, taking in the view of the stars and wondering if he too was remembering when they were little kids and lay out on nights like this and made their own dot-to-dot pictures with the pins of light.

  "Maybe I should have died that night too." He leaned against the trunk of the tree as if no longer able to hold up his weight. "Then they wouldn't have to leave."

  "Are you talking about the accident?" Even as she said the words she knew he was. She stared at him and shook her head. "It would kill Mem to hear you talk like that."

  "Yes, well, consider what the Amish believe. I've attended many a child's funeral. They believe death saves them from the world of sin. Maybe I could have been saved."

  "Levi, you need to get some sleep and not go on like this. Does it have to be this way? Can't you just come back? Is our life so horrible?"

  He stood there for a while, silent. Finally he shrugged. "Dat's running from it, too. Just in a different way."

  She wanted to tell him it wasn't this life, this place, their father was running from; it was loss. And it was fear of more loss—of the other children following—that quickened his steps, but she didn't. Levi knew that, just as she knew.

  "I'll write you." She didn't know what else to say. "And I'll tell you about what it's like to live in the mountains with the bears."

  He nodded and fixed his eyes on hers, but it wasn't the defiant Levi who was looking at her. It was eight-year-old Levi who got scared of a thunderstorm and came to her room even though he was the older brother.

  "And who knows. Maybe Naomi and I will come for a visit. I've always wanted to go to a western rodeo."

  Marianna nodded, but both of them knew that wouldn't happen. They were all running, and he was going the opposite direction. Away from family. Away from the way of life he knew. He was caught up in a wandering that had straddled him between two worlds, leaving him hanging in a void and uncertain about what to do about it.

  And more and more . . . Marianna knew exactly how he felt.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ten women sat around Marianna's living room, like they did every last Thursday of the month. Today there were no quilts stretched onto frames. There was no lively chatter fluttering between them as their fingers worked. There were no colorful strips of fabric spread on their laps, spilling onto the floor. Marianna didn't like that she wouldn't see the finished quilts she'd been watching progress. Just as they wouldn't see hers. She knew that once they left, life would go on around here, people would congregate, laugh, cry together at times—all without her. Quilts would be finished and spread onto beds, their beauty transformed into comfortable warmth.

  "Whatever you do, don't let the children leave the train, even to stretch their legs during a stop," Eleanor Ropp said, refolding Josiah's and Ellie's clothes that filled a box, as if not knowing what else to do with her hands. "My cousin's son did that and they didn't realize the boy was gone until they reached Detroit. Thankfully another Amish family had gotten off at that stop and had taken care of him until his parents returned the next day, or who knows what would have happened."

  "Marianna is always good with the kids." Mem took a sip of her lemonade, wiping the drops of water that beaded on the side with her thumb. Weariness wrinkled her face, and though her lips were tipped up in a tight smile, Marianna knew Mem wished for a nap, and longed for a few moments of peace to process the fact she'd be leaving her home.

  "Abe will be there, too," Mem continued. "Without our farm to tend or his job to head off to, I'm sure the boys will stick to their dat's side, not believin' they have him all to themselves."

  The looks on the women's faces were somber, and Marianna knew her family's absence would be felt. Her parents had lived in this house since before she was born, and her grandparents owned it before that. She couldn't imagine someone else living here. Another woman cooking at the stove. Another man sitting in the large chair by the woodstove like her father always did on Saturday nights as he read the Amish paper—The Budget—cover to cover. Tears rimmed her eyes, and she didn't care to wipe them away. She thought again about staying in Indiana, but it would be impossible. She'd have to get a job and still she'd be living in someone else's home. Then there was the new baby to think about.

  Her mother wouldn't say anything until her pregnancy was obvious—it was always the case. Even though she had no problem carrying children—unlike others in the community—it took her mother time to grow excited. Perhaps losing Marilyn and Joanna had something to do with that.

  Marianna had only talked to her father once about her sisters, but he'd confessed how much her mother had loved them. How much time she'd spent with them, caring for them. She'd been full of joy and laughter, he said. Marianna loved her mother, but ever since that conversation she'd been a little hurt too. Didn't Mem love the others as much? Her mother wasn't hurtful or mean. She was always kind and caring, but Marianna was jealous of what her sisters' experienced—what she'd never had.

  Maybe Montana would help. A new life, a new baby. Marianna dared to hope she'd get a glimpse of her mom happy and content. Maybe someday she'd witness her mother's unhindered laughter and broad smile. Things everyone spoke of, but she'd never seen.

  "Do you want to pack the food—the canning—in your cupboard and take it with you?" Mrs. Ropp asked her m
other.

  "No." She sighed. "There isn't room. Leave some for Williams and you can take the rest I suppose."

  "Are you sure? You'll need food there."

  "Yes, I very well know we'll need food, but I need clothes and bedding for my children even more. And I need my sewing machine to make more. Besides . . ." She gave a tired smile. "My husband talks as if it's the Promised Land. Maybe the food will grow and can itself."

  Forced laughter spilled from the women's lips, but no joke could lighten Marianna's heart. She turned back to her boxes, taped them up and hoisted one, carrying it to the porch. As she attempted to look over the top of it to find the porch stairs, she heard the sound of footsteps hurrying toward her. And then arms wrapped around the box, taking the load, lifting it.

  "I'll get that for you." It was Aaron's voice. "Any place special you'd like me to put this?"

  "Just inside the barn door. There's supposed to be a truck coming tomorrow to load it all up."

  "Is there room, do you think, for one more person to ride with your family to the train station?" He placed the box on the porch and turned to her.

  "You?"

  Aaron nodded. "If you don't mind."

  She smiled. It was the first smile she'd allowed herself in days. "I don't mind at all. Denke."

  He smiled at her thanks. "I was hoping for a chance to talk to you before you left." Aaron ran a hand down his face. "I suppose this is as good a time as any." He glanced in the window, and she followed his gaze. The women still worked inside, cleaning things that didn't need to be cleaned. Repacking items that were fine as they were.

  Mrs. Ropp looked to the window, catching Marianna's eye, and then looked away. Another woman did the same. Not being shy at all, her Aunt Ida walked to the front side of the house where they stood and began to wash the interior of the windows with ammonia and ripped pages from an old Budget newspaper. While Marianna didn't enjoy the prying eyes, she knew that if she and Aaron went somewhere where they couldn't be seen, it would be inappropriate and lead to all types of questions. She straightened her shoulders and focused on Aaron.

  "What do you want to talk about?"

  He cleared his throat. "I wanted to ask you something."

  "What is it, then?"

  "That you wouldn't go. I talked to my mom and maybe it wouldn't be so bad for you to stay with your aunt—I mean, if it meant you could stay." His eyes were wide, and he looked younger than his twenty years.

  "I can't. There are important things for me to do. I need to help my mom, but maybe after—" Marianna stopped midsentence. She was going to say after the baby was born and her mother was settled, but that was her mother's news to share.

  "I'm working on the house. And I was thinkin' maybe you'd want to come see it. Maybe that'll change your mind. I could take you later . . ."

  "Tonight?" She glanced over to the sun that was halfway down the horizon. "But by the time we get there, it would be supper. I don't think so."

  He went on as if not hearing her refusal. "It has a large kitchen and two bedrooms. The larger room is connected to the bathroom. And the view of the sunset . . ." He shrugged. "It's something to see."

  She turned her attention from their audience in the window back to him, noticing how his cheeks were reddening. He was imagining them living together. Did he think about those things just as she did?

  She bit her lip and tried to picture the place he was describing. The day brightened around them, and she smiled. To think he'd done that for her.

  Marianna felt her neck grow warm. She tried to imagine the front porch. Wondered about the view from the kitchen window. Was there a nearby tree for shade? A garden spot?

  She studied his face. How could someone care so much about her that he'd do such a thing? She had never felt so loved. Aaron's eyes held hers and she could tell his arms wanted to hold her, too.

  But then she looked away. Lowered her gaze. To see the house would make her want to stay. And if she lost him, then she'd always think about what she could have had. It had to be better, not knowing. Not regretting. Pain tightened her gut. She had to say nay.

  The joy that had flooded her a moment before crashed and shattered into a million pieces like a glass vase hitting the floor. Reality told her to sweep up the pieces and move on.

  "I would love to see it, but I don't think I'll have time today. We're leaving in the morning before dawn."

  "Is that it?" His voice held a note of sharpness.

  She glanced up at him and noticed pain mixed with anger in his gaze.

  "Is what it, Aaron?"

  "That's your excuse? I've been putting a lot of work into it, Marianna. Maybe you should act as if you care, even a little."

  "I do care. I mean it's a nice gesture, but Aaron before this moment I truly didn't know your intentions. I mean, we haven't even had one date. I didn't want to presume—"

  "That I was building it for you? Of course I am." His gaze narrowed. "And I can't believe you're going knowing that." He stepped forward. "I shouldn't be so bold. My dat always says patience is a virtue, but I can't help but picturing you going to Montana and meeting some other guy. My cousin told me there are many bachelors."

  "I'm not interested in anyone else, Aaron—"

  "Then stay."

  She turned away from him and walked to the porch rail, leaning against it. She knew the women inside watched and were coming to their own conclusions as to what this conversation was about, but their opinions no longer mattered. Marianna's heart felt as if Aaron had pushed an invisible hand into her chest and squeezed. Didn't he realize that her whole life she'd waited to hear words like this? Didn't he realize that if she had any choice she would stay?

  Her eyes focused on the two trees in the distance. For as long as she could remember she felt their boding. Her mother had lost two daughters and she'd been the replacement. She couldn't just leave Mem like this. Couldn't disappoint her and Dat.

  "My mother needs me. I have to help her. She can't do it all on her own."

  "Being the perfect daughter won't make up for the accident." His voice was low, yet the breeze that rattled the leaves on the trees swept his words to her.

  She turned back to him, her hand still gripping the top rail. "Excuse me?"

  "Don't you think everyone in the community can see it? You try so hard to be the perfect daughter. They talk. They all talk, you know."

  Heat filled her cheeks again. A moment ago it had been pleasure at Aaron's attention. Now anger filled her. Shame. The community must think her a fool. Trying so hard and failing. She thought about Mrs. Zook's comments about Uncle Ike. Did they talk about her like that too? Did they laugh at her futile efforts to make up for the loss of her sisters? She swallowed down the emotion, but it stuck like a large cherry pit blocking her wind pipe. "I . . . I've never told anyone that I'm trying to be the perfect daughter."

  "You don't need to tell them." He reached his hand, as if wanting to take hers, and then paused and pulled it back. "I'm just telling you because I care. I really do, Marianna."

  She bit her lip, no longer feeling cared about in the slightest. "How dare you be so presumptuous? First, just because you've decided you've gone fancy on me you think I should get excited about this cabin. Maybe if you'd put the same effort into wooing me that you put into the cabin, I would stay. And second . . ." She lowered her voice and unclenched her fists. "Second, maybe it'll be good for me to get out of this community. Maybe other people, at another place, will stay out of their neighbors' business." She turned to him. "Have you ever thought that maybe I changed my mind. That maybe I want to go?" Marianna squared her shoulders. "Maybe I want to go some place where everyone doesn't already know the story of what happened the night I was born. Maybe I want to be seen for me. Maybe I've changed my mind about just settling down and getting married without seeing a little of the country first."

  "Have you?" He looked at her—not at her eyes, but her soul.

  She didn't answer, because to answer would
be the first thread of a lie she'd have to continue to weave. She knew it. He knew it. And the women watching most likely guessed it too.

  "You don't have to answer that." Emotion pushed his words out.

  "It's not like I'll be gone forever, Aaron. It's just six months, and I'll write letters. I'll send them often."

  He nodded, but she could tell he wasn't satisfied.

  "I'll look forward to getting them, and I'll read every one. I just want you to know, I will wait for six months." Aaron returned his hat to his head. "And, well, if you don't return, I know I'll have my answer. I'll know that maybe taming the unknown ghosts of your past is more important than the future you could have . . . here with me."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Marianna made her way to the train window and looked down at the small group of people—their driver, her Aunt Ida, who wore a displeased look, and Aaron. He seemed so small standing on the platform. Tears filled her eyes as she looked down at him. She had tried to apologize for the way she'd acted yesterday, but every time she tried she got interrupted by one of her siblings. She didn't know what had gotten into her. She wanted a life with him, wanted to see the cabin . . .

  What she didn't want is for him to make things harder. Making leaving harder. Couldn't he understand that she had to go because it was the right thing to do? Not because she was trying to measure up or replace, but because, well, because honoring one's father and mother took on many shapes. Not only following the Amish way of life, but being honoring in the daily little things.

  Ellie sat on her lap, and Charlie sat next to her, silent. His eyes were wide as he took in the train and the people settling into the seats next to them. Marianna had the same feeling of wonderment, even though she tried not to let it show. She'd seen trains, but had never been on one. She'd interacted with Englisch in stores, but never beyond that. Her whole life was centered around people like her. People she understood and who understood her. But being at the station and on the train, she felt like a spectacle. Once, when their neighbor's sheep had given birth to a lamb with three legs, all the kids had gathered around the pen and stared.