CHAPTER 8
C HAPTER 8
I T ALL STARTED WHEN M ARGARET DEMANDED AN ALLOWANCE, SAYING her friend Sarah received ten dollars a week for cleaning flower beds and pulling corn stalks. “I need a pair of Nikes like Betty Sue has,” she said. “And I know you won’t buy them, so I’ll just earn the money.”
Mary felt an irritation, a stab of anger at the demanding tone, as if she, Mary, owed her something. In fact, the whole world Margaret inhabited owed her something. Everything.
She calmed herself, silently counted to ten, then looked at her oldest daughter with a level stare, the petulance of Margaret’s mouth and challenge in her eyes like a dagger.
“In our home, everyone is expected to pitch in,” she replied calmly. “Helping out is just part of life.”
“You and Dat are so hopelessly old-fashioned,” Margaret countered. “All the other kids my age get an allowance. It teaches kids how to handle money. Anyway, when I’m sixteen I’m going to do exactly what I want.”
Up went Mary’s eyebrows, “And when did you decide this?”
“What? The allowance or doing what I want?”
“Both.”
“I don’t know. I need stuff that you and Dat won’t buy for me. I’ve worn exactly the same pair of shoes all year long. You should see Betty’s Nikes. They’re amazing.”
Margaret drew out the “amazing” into a long hopeful whine.
Mary was folding towels, didn’t yet know what she’d make for dinner, hadn’t slept much the night before due to Logan’s strep throat, and was not in the mood for Margaret’s selfishness, or the derisive tone she used to belittle her parents.
“Margaret, why do you have to put your father and me down? Why can’t you simply ask for a new pair of shoes?”
“Cause I wouldn’t get them.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“See, there you go. Being all negative.”
“But you didn’t.”
She folded a towel in half, then again, tucked it under her chin and brought the sides in to form a neat rectangle, then expertly flipped it on the pile. How many stacks of towels had she folded in sixteen years? How many meals had she cooked and how often had she cleaned those rooms?
But she loved it. Every chore was a labor of love, a duty she counted a blessing. She had found her calling, which was simply being a wife and mother, a deeply fulfilling role and an honor.
Mary and Steve’s love had multiplied, settled into something deeper, an almost spiritual sense of owning a mysterious bond that stayed, even after upsetting disagreements. It was marriage, in all its blessed forms, and for this, she was eternally grateful.
Their life together was far more than she deserved, and she often marveled at Steve’s courage and strength through the difficult years, the times when many men would have given up. That kind of love was rare, it was sustaining, a gift from God.
Where would she be without this love?
It seemed as if the veil of fog had been lifted, and she could see clearly, understand life as a believer is meant to understand. She saw that every trial, every sadness, is meant to produce fruit, and this constant rotation was like a large wheel, the turning of time, the ebb and flow of the tide of life.
But here was Margaret, a problem to be faced.
“I didn’t ask, because you always say no. Dat does too.”
“I don’t think so. What about the dress fabric we bought?”
“I didn’t want what you made me get.”
“Margaret, stop. You know very well that bright red you wanted was too flashy.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
Mary sighed, took up the stack of clean towels, and stacked them in the bathroom closet. On her return, she looked at the clock.
“Margaret, would you run to the basement for a jar of canned chicken breast? It’s too late to make much for supper and Dat will be home soon.”
“Why do you call him Dat? He’s not your father.”
Mary chose to stay quiet, knowing any answer would only fuel the fires of her daughter’s argumentative mood. Margaret got up and went to the counter to eat a slice of leftover pizza, eyeing her mother as she ate.
Mary looked at the clock. “Margaret, please. I need the chicken.”
She finished the pizza, deliberately slowly, then made her way to the basement stairway, calling back over her shoulder, “Ten bucks, Mom.”
The door opened, letting in a rush of cold air, just the kind of weather Mary loved. She smiled at Rebecca and Chris, who were building a snow fort in the backyard, their faces red with the cold, their gloves dripping wet. Christopher’s beanie was pulled low, so that he needed to raise his face to peer out from under the brim.
“We built a fort, Mom!” he shouted.
“I did, Chris, but you helped a lot. His boots are packed with snow.”
“Okay, good job, Chris. But you need to go to the laundry room, on the rug. You’re both dripping melted snow.” Rebecca ushered Chris ahead of her, obeying immediately, with no questions asked.
The basement door finally opened, and Margaret appeared, carrying the required item.
“Make enchiladas, Mom.”
“I don’t have flour tortillas. I was going to make chicken spaghetti.”
“I love that, too.”
Mary glanced at Margaret, surprised by the agreeable words. “Would you make the salad?”
“If I can get the shoes.”
“We’ll see.”
The supper table was something Mary always looked forward to, her favorite time of day. Steve was there, telling them about his day, asking about theirs, teasing the boys, listening to Rebecca, who always waited to speak till everyone else had their share of time.
The chicken spaghetti was steaming hot and gooey with melting cheese and sauteed peppers and onions, the salad crisp and delicious.
Mary apologized for the quick supper, saying she’d returned late from taking Logan to the doctor, and yes, he had strep throat again. Steve said there was no need to apologize, that everything was just right.
There was a lull in the conversation, and Margaret asked her father for the coveted sneakers.
Steve chewed a mouthful of dessert and asked if her sneakers were worn out.
“No, but they are, like, six months old,” she said, and went on to describe Betty’s new sneakers, which made Steve raise his eyebrows.
Mary lifted a forkful of apple cake with caramel frosting, waiting on Steve’s answer.
“So, these pink Nikes are something the other girls are wearing?”
“Dat, they’re not pink.”
“I thought you said they were.”
“Just the laces. And a bit on the sole with the white. And I think maybe the swoosh.”
“Swoosh?”
Margaret made an impatient noise. “You don’t know the Nike emblem?”
“I’m just teasing. Of course I know.”
“Not funny, Dat.” But she was smiling, casting her father a look of appreciation.
And Steve smiled back, a genuine look of humorous approval, to which Margaret responded with a softening of her attitude.
“Well, Margaret, Mom and I will have to think about it.”
“Don’t get Mom involved. She always says no.”
Mary felt the barb enter her spirit, and it hurt, but she said nothing. She forced a smile and scraped up the remainder of the cake with the side of her fork.
“Margaret, don’t speak about your mother like that, okay? You know it’s not the truth, and words like that can hurt.”
Mary blinked, swallowed against the forming lump in her throat.
“Well, I might be hurt if you don’t let me get the shoes.”
“We’ll see. But remember, there is so much more to life than our own selfish wants. Things are not what make us happy.”
This scenario was repeated over and over as Margaret grew into her fifteenth year. She was constantly seeking to keep her status as a leader, harboring a deep-seated fear of falling into second place. Her whole world revolved around herself, and her sister and two brothers were merely background props for her own stage.
Margaret went to sleepovers, to volleyball games and birthday parties, had a wide circle of friends and a new boyfriend in her head every few months. Dating and “running around” started at sixteen, so before that, any kind of attraction to boys was strictly put on hold, which certainly did not keep Margaret from talking about it.
Dissatisfied with the way Mary sewed her dresses, the colors, and the length of the sleeves, she taught herself how to change patterns, and did all of her own sewing. Mary kept a watchful eye, but realized soon enough that criticism or correction only widened the ever-growing chasm between them.
Margaret hated her market job, couldn’t get along with her boss, claimed she was constantly picked on. She put in her two-week notice and quit, without discussing it with her parents. For the first time in her life, Mary saw Steve lose his temper at one of the children. She cringed, as shades of her father engulfed her. She began to tremble, her hand shaking as she reached for her water glass.
Steve told Margaret in clipped, firm tones, that this was her own problem and none of anyone else’s, that he knew Rueben and Annie well and had no reason to believe Margaret was treated unfairly. This led to Margaret yelling back about having old-fashioned parents who didn’t stick up for their kids. She threatened to leave the Amish and said there wasn’t a thing they could do about it.
Margaret was in hot, frustrated tears as she stormed up the stairs to her room, Mary watching Rebecca’s pale, shocked face. Logan’s eyes were downcast as he picked at his food while Chris loaded peas on his spoon, saying, “one, two, three,” completely oblivious to his surroundings.
Ach, my dear children, so precious. So soon the years accumulate and bring us sorrow, responsibility in the form of shaping, helping to mold a stubborn will.
That evening, on the stone patio, the solar lights casting a yellow glow across their chairs, Steve told Mary this was only the beginning, and he was concerned about Mary’s well-being as well as Margaret’s.
“I’ll be okay, Steve, really. I’m just depending on you to steer me through. It seems as if she hates me.”
“She doesn’t.”
“But why? Is this the reaping my father always talked about?”
“Mary, don’t. Don’t even go there.”
“But why? Why is she like this? What do I do wrong?” An edge of panic crept into her voice.
Steve shook his head, watched the swirl of disoriented moths and other night insects in their dizzying spiral around the lights.
“Could it be she has my mental illness?”
“ Ach , Mary. I know it’s not easy to talk about this, is it?”
“Not really. But what if she is bipolar?”
“She’s young. She’s very self-willed. Stubborn. Remember how we recognized that at a young age?”
“At fifteen, I wasn’t aware of the fear and anxiety, the high moods, or the lows, so perhaps we can’t tell yet. And to approach her about a mental disorder at this age . . . I don’t think is very wise.”
Steve nodded. “We better get ready though. Sixteen is coming up, the age they’re pushed right off the diving board.”
Mary laughed. “It’s not funny. But an apt description.”
“Sink or swim.”
“Absolutely. I sank many times.”
“I remember the painful years so well, trying to find my way. Didn’t fit in with anyone. Girls were silly, everyone putting on airs. Hunting and fishing and hiking got me through it, pretty much.”
“There is always prayer. For Margaret. You have to shift it over to God, to allow Him to catch her when she falls, as she inevitably will.”
“Smart woman. Good mother.”
He put his hand on hers, and she curled her fingers around his, as the bugs chased themselves around and around the lights. The moon rose and cast dark shadows beneath the trees heavy with thick green leaves.
A S M ARGARET ’ S SIXTEENTH birthday approached, Mary did her best to win over the contemptuous daughter, to create a better relationship, knowing it was essential at this stage in her life. She offered to help Margaret redo her bedroom, which was met with unusual enthusiasm.
The first thing was to paint her room in the color she chose, which proved to require a round of tedious trips to Lowe’s, then to the Sherwin-Williams store, where she deliberated for an hour, then finally settled on a shade of olive green for one wall, and the perfect white for the remaining three.
Next they picked out a small sofa, curtains, pillows, quilts, and pictures for the wall. The cost was astounding, but Steve said not to worry, it was fine.
But after the furniture was all in place, the windows cleaned and curtains hung, Margaret decided she didn’t like the green. It wasn’t right. So Mary helped her paint it over with a lighter shade. Then it was her quilt. She wanted a comforter, like Mary Beth had. You could send for it online.
She acquired a cell phone, without her parents’ approval. In fact they didn’t even know about it until she needed money to pay the bill, saying she owed Danny two hundred and twelve dollars.
Steve looked up from his recliner, slowly folded the paper, and asked where her own money had gone.
Margaret shrugged. “Spent it, I guess.”
“You know we don’t approve of you having a phone.”
“Dat, that’s ridiculous. Everyone has them.”
An answer to that would only result in a power struggle, so he merely looked at her with a level gaze, before saying, “This is it, then. After I help you out with this, you’re on your own. And I expect to be paid back. Another thing, be respectful with your phone.”
“Thanks, Dat.” She hesitated. “Dat?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks. And I mean it. You’re the greatest.”
“Margaret, if you want to do something for me, be nice to your mother. It’s hard for her when you don’t treat her with respect.”
“I do.”
“Not always. But try.”
Margaret nodded curtly and left to be alone in her bedroom.
H ER SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY party was an eye-opener. Steve and Mary expected their daughter to be in her element as the center of attention among her friends, but she wasn’t nearly as confident as they had imagined. In fact, Mary could barely believe this was Margaret, this hesitant girl biting her nails at the edge of a circle of girls dressed in brilliant colors, like birds in a jungle. But she did stand and smile while everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” And Mary’s heart swelled to see her daughter, this beautiful young woman, ready to embark on her rumschpringa .
Mary took note of all the group dynamics and felt new compassion for Margaret. There was so much to navigate at her age. Groups of boys, huddles of girls, each young person so aware of all the others. They were each growing into themselves, finding out who they truly were, a task so hard to do when so much energy was spent trying to copy anyone perceived as prettier, cuter, or cooler.
The volleyball games lasted far into the night, long after Mary had gotten the younger children settled in their beds. Steve went to bed too and urged her to do the same, assuring her the youth were old enough to look out for themselves now. Mary stayed up for a while, but at midnight, she noted most of the buggies had turned right at the end of the drive and disappeared. Margaret would be coming in soon enough, so Mary climbed into bed and tried to relax. She turned one way, then another, still listening for the door. When she glanced at the clock and realized an hour had passed, she got out of bed. Where are you, Margaret?
Tiptoeing to the living room, she peered into the black night, pressing herself against the window, the palms of her hands on either side of her head for a better view. What she saw sent a chill through her blood.
A vehicle was parked beside the driveway, the lights off. Dimly, she could make out two silhouettes in the half-moon’s light, standing side-by-side against the hood of the car. She turned away and slid down on the couch, her knees too weak to support her weight.
On the evening of her sixteenth birthday, and she was with a man who owned a car. This truth was like a gong, sounding over and over in her ear. Who was this boy? She thought she’d known everyone at the party. Had he shown up after everyone went outside to play volleyball?
What was a mother to do? How could she confront Margaret without driving the bitterness toward her even deeper? Should she wake up Steve and ask him to go out? Then again, she was now officially in rumschpringa , free to make her own choices. But what if this man wasn’t safe?
Her breathing accelerated, her heart began its staccato rhythm. She fought the rising panic, leaned back, and took deep calming breaths. God would watch over Margaret. This was only a phase, only her first step into rumschpringa . Perhaps this was an acquaintance of hers, only talking, getting to know her. As she sat, her mind slowed, eased, righted itself, and her thoughts remained clear.
She jumped when the door swung open, and Margaret rushed through the kitchen. Mary shrank against the back of the couch, hoping to go unnoticed, but Margaret caught sight of her.
“Mom! Whatever.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“I was talking to Ivan. He’s so funny. Mom, he’s twenty-one. He could probably have any girl he wants, he’s so handsome. He picked me to talk to. You know what he said, Mom? He said he’ll wait, ’cause I’m not old enough, but I know he’s going to ask me out. Like, on a date. Can you imagine riding around in that car? The girls will be so jealous! For sure when Betty finds out, she’ll lose her mind. She can hardly wait to have a boyfriend, and the other boys aren’t half as cute as Ivan.”
She stopped for breath, peeled off her apron, started pulling pins out of her covering.
Part of Mary knew she should just listen, just be grateful that Margaret was sharing this with her. But she couldn’t stop another part from taking over. Was it fear? Her conservative upbringing? Just responsible parenting? She didn’t know, but the words came tumbling out. “But . . . but really. I don’t know if your father and I will allow it. We never imagined a young man who owns a vehicle.”
“There you go again, spoiling my life. You’re the most negative person I know. You two may as well get used to it, because nothing you say will make a difference.”
“Margaret, it’s for your own good. We care about you, and what is best for your soul.”
“You don’t care about my soul. It’s your pride. All you care about is what people will say, thinking you have a wild daughter, and you’re not good parents.”
“Stop. Go to your room. We’ll finish this conversation in the morning.”
With a derisive snort and a toss of her head, Margaret flounced up the stairs, leaving Mary alone with her racing heart and thoughts.
She returned to her bed, and found she was trembling, but listened to Steve’s even breathing, the slight rattle in his nose as he slept deeply. She pulled the blankets up to her chin, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not go to sleep, her daughter’s words like painful darts stuck forever in her quivering, fearful mind.
Was her harvest so painful? She had sown so much rebellion, hated her own father many times, dismissed her mother for being unconcerned, soft, without protecting her when she needed it. Had she been unfair? How much could she blame on her mental condition? Or was none of this through a fault of her own?
Surely, after she had sought and received forgiveness, there was closure. Jesus wipes our slate clean every time we ask, and this I believe with my whole heart , she thought.
Oh, but Margaret was maddening, talking like that. Mary would never have dared at her age.
Should she confide in Steve? What if he lost his temper again, gnawing away at the broken rope that barely held them together?
She prayed a broken mixed-up prayer for Margaret, for wisdom, for guidance, and fell asleep about forty-five minutes before the alarm went off.
Steve was happy, talkative, drinking coffee as she packed his lunch. She decided not to mention anything at this point. She said next to nothing, just answering him when necessary.
“Didn’t sleep well?” he asked.
“Not very much.”
“Guess it’s exciting, huh? A rumschpringa in the house.”
“I guess.”
He kissed her goodbye and was out the door, swinging his lunchbox and Thermos jug, happy, unperturbed. But he knew nothing of last night’s events, and so guilt gnawed at her all day, making her irritable and short with the glowing Margaret. Finally, after lunch, she decided to have a talk with her.
“Margaret, listen, we need to talk. This guy, this Ivan?”
“What about him?”
“Not every guy can be trusted, okay? He’s so much older and you’re so young. I just don’t feel as if you should take him seriously. I have no right to judge him, not knowing him at all, but don’t get too serious. And it troubles me a lot about you thinking it’s okay to make your girlfriends jealous. It’s not good, this competitive spirit. It’s worldly, and not what we want for our children.”
“That’s quite a speech, Mom.”
“Please go slowly. You’re still really young.”
“Mom. I’m not going out with him. Not yet, anyway. You’re overthinking everything, as usual. Calm down. Anyway, I’m sixteen. I can pretty much do what I want.”
Mary let it go at that. She hid her fears from Steve, wanting to create a peaceful environment, smooth, calm waters, without a single ripple of discipline or words of anger that might drive Margaret away.
Her precious daughter. It was painful to remember that at first she had not wanted her. Would things have been different if they’d been together for the first six weeks of Margaret’s life? She had to admit she did not have the same bond with Margaret that she shared with Rebecca and the others. She knew the illness was not her fault, but she wished desperately that she could go back in time and do things differently. If only she had listened to Steve and gotten help sooner.
Dear God in Heaven, preserve her, be with her, protect her. I do love her. She’s just so difficult. Allow me the chance to make those six weeks up to her. Somehow.