Chapter 10
C HAPTER 10
T HE GIRLS AT THE BAKERY SCREECHED AND HOWLED AND TEASED unmercifully.
“He’s cute!” Karen shouted. “For an old guy with long hair and no beard, he’s a smasher!”
“Is he . . . I mean, are you dating?” Rose put in.
“No, no. Nothing like that. Shh. Someone will hear.”
“Why was he here?”
“He didn’t get anything to eat. He just left.”
The truth was, Mary was sick. Sick at heart, with a sense of loss so deep it propelled her to the restroom where she sank down and put her face in her hands. Just like that, he’d gotten off his chair and left, telling her to have a good day and he’d see her around.
She could hardly accept what Chester had done. Why couldn’t she have the nerve to stand up to him? She’d just been so caught off guard. Or was it God’s leading?
She was thoroughly tired of Chester after Maine, but here he was grieving for his grandmother, which was sad and kind of sweet. And the truth was, she would love to meet his family. Why? She had no idea.
She thought of Steve, the way he’d complimented her on the bakery, noticing details Chester never would have. And that sensation of the prolonged gaze into each other’s eyes. She’d never experienced it before. Well, whatever it was, she’d certainly lost it now, thanks to Chester, whose conniving approach was clearly aimed at getting rid of Steve.
If only she felt closer to God, she would ask Him to lead her in the right direction. But He never seemed to care, or even hear.
What had her father said? “The prayers of the unrighteous are hindered because of their evil deeds.” With all her disobedience, how could she expect a plea for help to penetrate the ceiling? She felt the beginning of the heart palpitations, the nausea rising in her throat.
A thick, blinding darkness descended. The bathroom disappeared as her breathing accelerated. She sucked in much-needed air, breathed out. She got to her feet, gripped the edge of the sink as the light shone on her terrified face. She fought for control as wave after wave of panic threatened to control her. She had to get out of this confined space, but when she reached for the door, it seemed as if the handle was liquified.
She yanked at it, convinced she was losing her mind.
She stumbled, moved quickly out the back door, kicking two cardboard boxes out of her path. She pressed the emergency bar at the back door and lunged out on the sidewalk, stumbling around the building and away from everything she knew.
She had to get away, but where would she go?
As she walked, the sidewalk seemed to buckle, to split apart, leaving huge crevices for her to plunge into a wide abyss. She felt the roof of her mouth turn to sandpaper. She began to run, afraid of what the sidewalk would do, afraid of her own mind.
She was aware of the stares of passersby, aware of concerned expressions, and still she ran. The only thought was to get away. She came to a red light, the crosswalk sign with the red hand lit up. She had to stop. Her hands clenched, she leaned against an iron lamppost, her breath coming in shallow puffs.
She heard the sound of tires screeching, a door slamming, and footsteps.
Quickly, she turned, slipped into a narrow alleyway, and began to run.
“Mary! Stop!”
Wide-eyed, she turned to find Steve, his blond hair tousled in the wind.
“Leave me alone.”
He reached her, reached out for her arm.
“Stop, Mary. What’s wrong? What happened?”
She was breathing too hard to answer, but when she looked at the kindness in his eyes, she sank back against the brick wall of the alleyway and began to sob uncontrollably. She had no reserve, no shame, only the release of profound hysteria and an all-consuming sense of helplessness.
A sound of raw pity came from Steve’s mouth, and he came close, grasped her heaving shoulders, then drew her into his strong arms.
He had never heard anyone cry this way. The weeping came in hoarse spurts, from a place so wounded she sounded almost like an animal.
He held her without speaking, feeling the tears soak through the thin fabric of his summer shirt as her face sagged against his chest.
Oh Mary, Mary , he thought. What has caused you this much pain? He felt a surge of protective anger. Had that Chester fellow done something to her?
He put his cheek to her hair, that abundant ripple of gorgeous red that set her apart from hundreds of others. It was soft and thick.
She drew a deep breath, then another. He provided a clean navy blue square of cloth with white paisley print. A men’s handkerchief. Lifting her chin, he looked into her red, swollen eyes, the splotches of red on her freckled cheeks, applied the handkerchief and told her to blow.
She was shaking now, visibly trembling like a leaf in a storm, her eyes widened with fresh waves of terror.
“Just go, Steve. Leave me alone.”
Her arms dropped away, but he stayed close.
“I can’t do that.”
“You have to,” she choked, before sobs overtook her.
She bowed her head. Suddenly, she looked up, her expression pleading.
“I need help, Steve. Is there anyone who can help me?”
“There are lots of people who can help. But first, tell me what happened?”
She looked around.
“I don’t know. It’s this thing that happens to me . . .” She shook her head. “I need someone to help me.”
“Okay. Here’s the plan. First, we’ll take you home.”
“But the bakery . . .”
“We’ll stop and tell your staff. They can handle things, right?”
“But I can’t let my aunt find this out.”
He took charge then, walking her back to the bakery, talking to the girls, giving directions to the driver, while Mary huddled into the back seat and told herself the whole thing was ridiculous, she’d be fine.
They reached her home, and he walked her to the door, then told a concerned Lizzie that Mary needed to rest, and he’d be back later in the evening.
“But I don’t understand,” Lizzie burst out, her eyes wide.
“I don’t want to speak for her,” Steve said kindly, “but I think a long nap is a good place to start.”
Mary told Lizzie she just needed a cool shower, then she’d start the fan and try to rest a while before lunch. She wasn’t feeling well.
“But you’ve been crying,” Lizzie said, wringing her hands.
“I’ll be fine.”
It was only by the strength of her willpower that Mary got through the shower and into her room and dressed in a clean, light cotton dress.
She did deep breathing to calm herself, tried thinking fresh hopeful thoughts, but that was an impossibility at that moment. So she allowed the roiling, shouting, accusing voices to have their say.
She was condemned. Cast out. And here God was showing her the wrong ways in which she lived, by giving her two attractive men to choose from, both of them wrong. There were no right decisions for a soul living in disregard to a father’s voice. Everywhere there was evil. The bakery was all wrong, the money tainted with ungehorsamkeit , paving the road to hell.
She had to get out of the bakery, out of the city, the Sodom and Gomorrah her father spoke of.
She would return to New York and give herself up completely this time, and so be blessed with a quiet conscience, free of sin. On and on, the ways of repentance and the planned aftermath rose and fell.
No one could help her but herself. She’d tell Steve she was going back to New York and this time it was to stay. Chester would have to be told, too.
Broken fragments of childhood scenes flitted through her mind, then. Her mother’s discreet tears after her father berated her for buying a package of colorful Lifesavers for the boys. The sharp orange sparks as the plowshares hit one stone, then another, the plodding mules, and their slatted sides.
A great, overwhelming pity for those mules overtook her, and she began sobbing into her pillow. They’d been mistreated, underfed, and yet they lived in perfect obedience, plodding through the heat of summer and the ice of winter, hauling wood, her father’s harsh shouts bringing them into subjection.
Even the mules were much better than she was.
She thought of her sisters’ kindness to their mother, their faces lined with worry long before they should have known what it was. From the time they were five or six they felt anxious for their mother, a simple-hearted soul completely overridden by her husband as she slaved over a hot stove, a steaming wringer washer, a stony garden, and endless canning. Mary thought of the many ways they had all been punished, pounded into obedience by his forceful ways. And it had worked for her siblings. They had found the right path, set their feet on the journey he devised for them, and found peace.
Her mother told her the biggest mistake they’d made as parents was to allow her to have access to all those books. Books from the library, books for a dime from yard sales, books borrowed from classmates . . . they simply fed her fantasies, causing her to feel discontentment in the life she was meant to lead.
She’d read relentlessly, but that was not the reason she’d left. She left because she had to experience life away from the crushing dictatorship that was her father. Her siblings had all absorbed it like thirsty sea sponges, absorbed the sour verses and threats, believed the way he did, shunned every appearance of wrongdoing. And so they became blessed.
Her aunt knocked lightly.
“Yes?”
“Are you hungry? Can I bring you some lemonade?” she called softly.
“I’ll be out soon.”
She was alarmed at her own weakness, the way her legs did not want to support her. She told Lizzie she’d had a weak spell, and Steve had come to see the bakery, and she’d asked him to bring her home.
“Well, Mary. Was that the same Steve who took you on a ride with his team?”
“Yes, it’s him.”
“Is he . . . are you . . . ?”
“No, nothing going on.”
“Oh, well.”
She drank some fresh-squeezed lemonade but refused to eat. Her aunt watched her pinched features, her furtive, darting eyes, and thought there was more going on there than she’d say. She tried in her own gentle way to extract more knowledge of Mary’s condition, but gave up after nothing was forthcoming.
When the shimmering heat gave way to the cool of evening, a horse and buggy was brought to a stop at the hitching rack, and Steve climbed down, tied his horse, and ran a hand through his hair before stepping up on the back porch where Mary sat on the glider with Lizzie.
Lizzie got up, but he waved her back down.
“Don’t leave.”
Mary introduced them, and they greeted each other properly. Of course, Lizzie knew of his family, the way she knew everyone, so they were soon engrossed in a lively conversation of who’s who, the way of most Amish folks originating and living in Lancaster County.
“Yes, yes,” Aunt Lizzie kept saying. “Of course. Wasn’t that Reuben’s Shteff’s Jonas? One of his brothers died in Mexico with stomach cancer. Had a hesslich time of it, bringing that body over the border. And yes, she believed his mother was a sister to Joonie Beiler’s Hannah. Joonie from Gap, along the 30.”
“So, Mary is your niece?”
“Yes, my brother Amos’s daughter. Did you tell him, Mary?”
“I might have. I don’t know.”
It was wearisome, this endless circle of relatives and acquaintances, of whom Mary knew very little, so she did not contribute to the conversation. She watched a blue swallowtail butterfly on a delphinium and wondered how the monarchs were faring this year, until she heard Lizzie mention her father’s name repeatedly.
“He was always like this. He never got along with any of us, as far as that goes. Caused terrible rifts in the family, before he took himself off to New York. Never amounted to a hill of beans, either.”
Steve turned to Mary.
“You’re very quiet.”
Mary shrugged, toyed with the corner of her apron.
Lizzie got to her feet. “I said enough now. I’ll let you two have your visit. Nice meeting you, Steve.”
“Yes, you too, Lizzie.”
They watched her walk across the patio and into the house.
Steve left his chair and came to sit beside her. He pushed the glider easily, and they rocked as the air turned into the sweet comfortable atmosphere of a summer evening.
He turned to look at her. “How do you feel?”
She shrugged. Her mouth trembled. She hated this vulnerability, this wanting to pour out her deepest, most ridiculous fears.
“Mary, you asked about help, so I’ve been doing research. I think for starters, you need to see a doctor. A medical doctor. I believe your problems might benefit from some medication, maybe counseling. I’m not an expert, but I’m sure there are ways to stop these attacks.” He paused, wondering if he was being too pushy. “Of course, the choice is yours. I don’t want to pressure you into anything.”
She thought about what he was saying, but had already made up her mind. For a long moment, she was quiet, before looking into his eyes, which left him unsettled, the dilated pupils darkening the color.
“I’m going home to New York.”
He felt as if the muscles of his sternum let loose, dropping his heart into his stomach.
He bent his head, trying to absorb the words.
“May I ask why?” he said soft and low.
“To find the blessing I lost when I moved here.”
“And how did you lose a blessing?”
“That’s what happens when you don’t live your life according to your father’s wishes.”
And here it was, he realized. Here was the separation between his own will and that of the Spirit. He could make suggestions, but first, she might have to come to terms with her own preconceived notion of salvation.
“Will you see a doctor there, then?”
“I’ll sell the bakery first. And yes. I’m open to seeing a doctor. Today was scary, Steve.”
She began to talk, giving a vivid description of the bizarre sidewalks, the liquid door handle, and finally the absolute conviction she was losing her mind.
“I can’t pray, Steve. God doesn’t hear me on account of having lost the blessing.”
“I don’t understand what you mean by that, Mary. Lost a blessing? How did you lose it?”
“Disobedience. You can easily lose a blessing.”
He shook his head, put his forearms on his knees. She looked at his blond hair, the wide back straining at his polo shirt, his black denim trousers with no suspenders.
“But where does your faith come in?” he asked.
“What is faith, Steve? What is it?”
“It’s our personal belief that Jesus died for our sins, and that through him we are saved by the blood He shed. We can’t earn salvation. Without God’s grace, it’s hopeless.”
“I don’t understand that. You mean we can go about our lives and do whatever we want and say we are saved by our faith? Do you even know how far off track you are?”
Almost, he started laughing. He sat up quickly and turned toward the wisteria growing across the railing to hide his smile.
“I’m not saying that.”
And then Mary went on a long rant about the disobedience to Moses in the Old Testament, the children of Israel repeatedly suffering on account of it. Unknown to her, she repeated her father’s dialogue, word for word.
Finally, she stopped.
“Or don’t you agree? Say something.”
“Sure, but that’s only part of it. If we were all perfect, Jesus wouldn’t have even needed to die for us.”
She just stared at him. He sighed.
“Listen, I’d be happy to see you go to a doctor. You know, panic attacks can be from an imbalance of chemicals in your brain. There are medicines for that.”
“The more I think about it, the more I think I’ll be alright, now that I’ve made up my mind to go home. God knows my heart, and He’ll give me back my blessing after I’m there, so the panic attacks will go away.”
He had no idea how to counter that kind of thinking, so he didn’t even try. “When you go home, will you write to me?”
She looked at him, sharply. “Why would I?”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“You never found me.”
“Good one,” he said dryly, suddenly irritated.
“Are you mad now?”
“No, just disappointed. I had hoped you would come to see me as a potential boyfriend, suitor, eventual husband. But I guess your mind is made up.”
She looked at him forlornly, but willed her heart not to give in. “I have to go back to New York. It’s the only way. If I were to start a relationship with you, it would be cursed. God would never bless relationship born out of sin. But can we change the subject now? I want to tell you about my dream. Not a dream dream, the kind you have at night, but a dream about hiking alone in some great wilderness. Did you ever hear of Amish people doing that? Do you think it would be allowed?”
His eyes lit up. “I love hiking. In the wilderness, surrounded by nothing but trees—it’s when I feel closest to God.”
“So it’s allowed?”
“Here in Lancaster? Absolutely. In Pinedale? I don’t know.”
“I’m going to do it, you know.”
“ Ach , Mary. You’re not making sense. Moving back to your parents for total obedience, already planning something you’re afraid they’re going to forbid.”
“What would you say, though, if I did that?”
“Could I go with you?”
“No, that wouldn’t work. Then I’d depend on you. I’d need to do it by myself, find my own inner strength and wisdom, untangle a lot of dark thoughts. You know, find out who I really am.”
She saw his worried eyes and looked away, fighting the urge to sink into his sweet gaze. She had to resist. She had to be disciplined, submit herself to the ordnung , finally learn to respect her father and live in submission. It was the only way to receive God’s blessing and get past these debilitating panic attacks.
“Steve, I want to stay here. I really do. But it’s like there’s this constant voice in my head telling me I’m condemned. These episodes must be God in His mercy telling me to turn around, to repent, to obey . . . before it’s too late. I’ve tried ignoring the voice, drowning the voice in drugs and alcohol . . . none of that worked. It just comes back, stronger than ever. I’m done.”
Suddenly it hit her that she had also tried honoring the voice and returning home, only to have returned more confused than ever. But this time, she would do it right . . . whatever that meant.
Steve’s voice cut through her thoughts. “But what if it’s not God’s voice condemning you? Mary, you might be struggling with a kind of mental illness. There is help available for that. You can get help and stay here.”
“Not the right kind of help.”
He was reluctant to leave, so they merely prolonged the evening by talking themselves into a circle. Steve found himself completely at sea. She had made up her mind and devised a plan, one that would undoubtedly fail. And he could do nothing to stop her.
M ARY SOLD THE bakery to a young English couple, who were truly from England, who would turn it into a tearoom, complete with all kinds of fancy pastries and a wide variety of teas. Mary consoled many disappointed customers, had a tearful farewell party at Pizza Hut with the girls, a long explanatory talk with her aunt, who tried to talk her out of going back to New York and failed. When she told Chester Nolt she was leaving and why, he shouted redemptive verses at her until his face was quite red, then resorted to half-hearted apologies before taking his leave.
Before she sold the bakery, she searched online and found a home in Pinedale to purchase. It was a small house tucked on the side of a hill with a gravel drive winding through fir trees and across a small wooden bridge. Her eyes took on a new light, her cheeks bloomed with color as she wrote a letter to her father, letting him know of her decision.
A tender moment with Steve wrenched at her heart, and for that evening, she regretted her decision. She stayed in his embrace, told him she cared about him, of course she did, but this parting was a necessary part of her journey. He promised to visit, and she looked deeply into his kind and gentle eyes and found the beginning of her destiny.
All her siblings, every last one of them, heartily supported her decision. The winter had set in by the time she had settled on her property, but finally, she held the keys and buggies full of family members came by, each of them armed with soap and rags and buckets.
Her father was strangely aged and rickety, an old man with a cane that bore most of his weight. His long hair was white, his beard containing only flecks of gray, his eyes watery and without good vision.
He said he was glad she had made the decision to come home, he only hoped it was done with the proper attitude, and that her house would be in the proper ordnung . She smiled, said it would.
She painted and scrubbed, laughed and joked with her sisters, climbed the ridge behind the house with her adoring nieces and nephews, felt an old stifling burden lift, and knew she had come home, a true prodigal.
Her little house was brown with a newly shingled gray roof, a front porch, and a few outbuildings, one of which her brothers renovated into a small horse barn. Abner had a good brown Standardbred mare for her, and she’d purchase her own buggy soon. There were lilac bushes and untrimmed yews surrounding the porch, a stone chimney and two bedrooms, complete with an open floor plan and a kitchen island. Two low windows looked out across the front yard to the fir trees and the winding driveway. The floors were genuine oak, which she refinished for hours on her hands and knees, working alongside her sisters-in-law, who promised to bring patterns to make plain clothes. Mary slanted them a look which seemed to tell them to back off a bit. She was here, wasn’t that enough? Did she really have to change her entire wardrobe? But she recognized the rebellion in her heart and conceded, saying yes, she’d need patterns.
The joy of being home yet away from her father’s daily croaking admonitions was almost too much. She sang as she worked, she whistled and twirled her way through her days, then subscribed to the local paper and began circling “Help Wanted” ads, which were rather scarce, the way everyone did everything online these days.
Winter closed in, snow fell, and the temperatures dropped. Wind howled and shook her little dwelling. She stoked the wood fire, sat in her new glider rocker with the beige cushions, and waited for her blessing.