CHAPTER 13
C HAPTER 13
“S TILL NO GIRLFRIEND? ” S ARAH ASKED I VAN AS SHE SLID THE PAN of brownies from the oven.
Ivan shook his head.
“Time you get on that.”
Who was to say he had the wisdom and understanding to marry someone? There was no guarantee in matters of the heart. He was afraid—that was what it boiled down to. Afraid of marrying a sweet-natured girl who simply turned sour, made unreasonable demands, and looked at you as if you were a cross to bear. A girl could be attractive one minute and then a weight around your neck the next.
And Margaret certainly didn’t qualify as sweet. She never said much, was terribly rough around the edges at times, especially around her friends, the gaggle of girls in brilliant colors, chewing gum, snapping it, laughing too loudly, flirting too much. Margaret always seemed shy around him, but around other guys she lit up. Didn’t that mean she had no interest in him?
She was in a league all her own, of this he was convinced, which was why she spent far too much time in his mind. The color of her hair, her aquamarine eyes, the way her cheekbones created a contour of movement when she talked, the flashing of perfect white teeth.
“Who did you have at the table?” Ivan’s mother had asked him.
When he told her, she’d frowned, shook her head.
“Mental. Her mother is mental. Comes from some community way out in New York. You don’t want her.”
“I didn’t say I did. I just had her to the table.”
“Good. That poor father of hers went through a lot with his wife. I think she’s still mental at times, you just never hear about it.”
S PRING WAS IN the dips and hollows, by the bank of the creek, in the planting and plowing across the patchwork of fields in Lancaster. Everywhere, farms and small homes were a beehive of activity, humming with energy, gardens being planted, horse stables cleaned, barns pressure washed.
Mary was in a frenzy of housecleaning, washing windows and bedding and curtains, wiping floors on hands and knees, cleaning and organizing throughout the house. She loved it, to stand in the doorway of a freshly cleaned room shining in the golden glow of late afternoon sunshine with a sturdy sense of accomplishment.
Rebecca was a good, willing helper until the horses in the barn began to occupy her mind and she lost focus. Margaret refused to help except for tidying own room, and even that was a struggle.
“Mom,” Margaret yelled as Mary glanced into her bedroom. “I see absolutely no sense in this. Housecleaning is a ridiculous, unending chore and I’m not doing it!”
“Yes, you are.” She said it firmly, but in a quiet, level voice.
Alarmed, she watched Margaret pick up her alarm clock and throw it against the opposite wall, shattering the glass front and creating a dent in the drywall, before storming off down the stairs in a white-hot fury.
Mary was frightened but stayed calm for Rebecca’s sake. They picked up buckets and mops and went downstairs. “Let’s call it a day,” she said, freeing Rebecca to head to the barn. They left Margaret’s room untouched. She could clean up the broken glass when her anger subsided.
I T WAS A beautiful, balmy spring evening, the air as soft as the golden sunshine, the daffodils already withering as the bold red tulips upstaged them. New lambs skittered beside their stoic mothers. The wind had settled, which made a perfect afternoon for volleyball at Jonas King’s, and Margaret wore her newest spring dress in lime green, setting off her peculiar hair color and accentuating her unusual eyes.
She was unaware of her parents’ close observation of her mood swings, from the episode in her room, to the maniacal high following, laughing hysterically at something Logan described that no one else found quite humorous.
But Sunday morning, she seemed okay. Mary caught her breath as she saw her come down the stairs, dressed and ready for church. It was prideful to notice her great beauty, but just this once, she allowed herself a bit of luxury.
After church, Margaret scootered off by herself, the group of youth being less than a mile from home. She seemed to be in a normal, even state of mind.
Margaret walked her scooter up the gravel drive, her eyes going to the line of vehicles parked in the field, searching as always for the black Mustang, which was never there. Her friends greeted her, and she was swept up in the circle of colorful girls, saying soft hellos to a few young men, glad to see the volleyball nets being set up.
She loved to play, and knew she was becoming one of the best. She jumped into the first game and played with abandon, experiencing a genuine rush from the fierce competition. She was totally swept up in the game when she became aware of the tall, dark presence beside her.
“Hey,” he said, very low.
She looked over, wide-eyed, her cheeks flushed with the activity. She smiled, said nothing, then looked away before focusing on the ball.
When they rotated, she was aware of him following her, but she tried to stay calm, focused on the game.
“How have things been for you?” he asked quietly.
“Good. And you?”
“Fantastic, with the weather and all.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
And he was gripped with impatience, a rush to continue the conversation, to really get to know her. But that would mean asking to take her home that night, which she’d likely say no to. She’d been so childlike and trusting that first weekend, and he’d dropped her like a hot potato.
He was embarrassed, the way he kept watching her, the grace with which she moved, her motion like a song, a piece of poetry.
His mother’s words rankled, cut into his joy of being here with her. Mentally ill. The words seemed like an unfair label. He had googled a bunch of mental illnesses, and none seemed to fit Margaret.
When she went for the ball, she was so quick, and so unaware. She plowed straight into him, knocking him away with a few quick backward steps, then sent the ball up and over the net before giving him a sideways look of apology, a quick “Sorry.”
“You have to let me take you home for that,” he said quickly, so only she could hear.
Startled, she said nothing.
Then, “I scootered.”
“It’ll fit in the trunk.”
Her eyes followed the ball as she hopped from one foot to the other before moving away and giving him the thumbs-up signal. Even her hands were astonishing, he thought. He raised his eyebrows and asked if it meant yes. She nodded, and his world exploded in fireworks.
F INALLY, THE LONG line of young people filling their plates was over, and the singing started at eight o’clock, voices rising and falling in the soft spring evening, the mist settling down and bringing a decided chill. After the goodbye song had been sung and the crackers, cheese, and cookies passed around, Margaret’s heart began to bang against her chest, all the confidence of volleyball seeping away.
But there he was at her elbow, a hand touching it lightly, his voice in her ear.
“If you tell me where your scooter is, we’ll load it.”
She nodded, moved through the crowd, found the scooter, and tried to maneuver it into the trunk, which barely closed, and then they left quickly, before anyone would see. He drove slowly, and both were unaware of a certain tall young man in a dark shirt, the light going out of his eyes as he watched the black Mustang turn to the right on the main road.
Back at Margaret’s house, she asked if he would like to come in, as was the custom, but he said they could sit in the car for a while, if that was okay. Surprised, she asked for a reason, and he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I told you I was a coward. Afraid of dating, I guess,” he said sheepishly.
There was an awkward silence, an awful space of time in which they were suspended by their own inhibitions. The longer the silence prevailed, the more Margaret’s panic increased. She had to say something, anything.
“I guess I could get my scooter out of the trunk.”
“I’ll get it. Stay.”
When he returned, she forced herself to ask him about his job, then his parents and siblings, and the conversation was off to a halting start. She was a bit taken aback at how unusual his answers were—always upbeat, always fine, everything about his entire life was wonderful.
“You certainly have a beautiful place. I hear your dad is a successful stonemason.”
“He is. Always too busy, though, according to Mom.”
“Yeah. Parents. But I have good parents.”
“That’s cool. My mom drives me up a wall, but Dat’s a good soul.”
He looked at her, wide-eyed. Who would ever admit to a mother’s shortcomings? Her, evidently.
She noticed his shock. “What?”
“Sorry, it’s just . . . that’s a bold thing to say about your mom.”
“Well, not everyone can have a perfect family like you seem to. My mom’s fine, she just such a mom . I mean, she worries so much about what people think, and she’s always on my case. She and I don’t get along all that great. Never have.”
Ivan was shocked. He couldn’t imagine talking about his mom that way.
“What about your mom? You get along?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh sure. She’s fine.”
“Must be a winner, letting you driving this car around.”
“She is.”
The conversation stalled after that, but he picked up the frayed ends and told her how nice it was to have married siblings he could visit often.
“So, you’re a big, happy family?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Well, you got us beat. We can be real losers sometimes. At least I can. Probably all of us except my sister Rebecca. She’s pretty close to perfect.”
He laughed softly. “You’re so honest. We were raised to keep all the bad stuff hidden. It keeps things peaceful.”
“Like putting a lid on a can of worms,” she blurted.
“No, no, no. It’s just . . . you know, it’s better not to talk about feelings and stuff like that.”
“What? What on earth are you talking about?”
He drew back in alarm. “Sorry, I just meant that staying positive helps to keep disagreements at bay, you know? If you admit to failures, you’re weakening the family structure.”
Margaret breathed deeply, steadied herself.
Slowly she said, “I see.”
He took a breath and shifted the subject. “So, I have wanted to ask you out, but I wasn’t sure how you felt about me. And I also thought I should wait till you’re older. You’re seventeen, right?”
She nodded, feeling like she was being measured and weighed.
“I’m a lot older.”
“I know.”
“Your parents will think I’m robbing the cradle.”
“Do you care what they think?”
“Of course.”
“Dat won’t care. He’s pretty easygoing and he’s kind of, like, old, as in graying hair and all that. Mom is a lot more to worry about. She’s weird.”
“Margaret, really? The way you talk about your mother, I find hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“Well, I told you. In our family, things are much different.”
“Everything’s great?”
“Well, yes.”
“I doubt that.”
He felt caught, trapped in an uncomfortable place where his half-lies bumped against his conscience. He had never thought of them as lies before—he was just being respectful of his parents. To talk about the bad parts—the fighting at the dinner table, the constant tension in the home— that would be wrong. Wouldn’t it? Suddenly he felt confused and uneasy.
Perhaps that was why he merely touched her waist lightly as he walked her to the front door, then stepped away after confirming next Saturday night at eight. And she went through the door in a daze, but not quite as ecstatic as she imagined she might be if he ever asked her out.
What was the deal with his “perfect” family? Really? It almost made her mad, the way he described keeping the peace. Really? She’d be stuck away in some facility if she couldn’t speak the truth. Well, he’d get used to her way of seeing things in time. Why wouldn’t he, when she was obviously right?
I N THE MORNING , she bounced down the stairs with the amazing event spilling from her mouth before she reached the kitchen, her mother looking up with a glad expression and the proper congratulations.
“Tell me about it, Margaret. This is so exciting.”
“Never thought it would happen. He just walked onto the volleyball game and never went away, then asked if he could take me home. A perfect evening, a dream come true.”
“I’m so glad,” Mary said, voicing her true feelings.
Margaret slid into a chair, picked at a leftover piece of toast. “The only thing . . .” Here she told her mother of his view on family harmony.
Mary listened, then said, “Oh, wow. Sounds a bit iffy.”
“Yeah, seemed weird.”
“But you know, there are lots of families like that, where you simply don’t speak of emotion and honest feelings, just like he said. And sometimes I wonder if that isn’t the reason marriage problems develop. No one talks.”
“Well, he’s so handsome, and I am thrilled. If we get married, I’m sure I can convince him that being open and honest is the way to go.”
“Whoa there. Never assume you can change someone after you’re married,” Mary cautioned, wagging a finger.
“Well, I don’t see why he wouldn’t agree with me once I explain it.”
Mary spoke to her daughter, imparting the wisdom gleaned from experience, until Margaret flounced off to her room, shouting about how nothing she ever did was good enough, and why couldn’t she ever just be happy for her? But by the time Saturday evening rolled around, the disagreement was forgotten, and the whole family was on hand, watching without being seen as she floated down the walk in her light pink dress, a cloud of her signature scent following her.
Mary turned away after the low throbbing of the car faded.
“My poor father. What would he say? Ach , Steve, I’ll never be free from the ties that bind. The guilt I still carry about my brothers and sisters living real Amish lives, while I’m only half Amish. It’s just so hard at times.”
Steve listened, really listened, then asked if she really thought anything in their lives disqualified them from being fully Amish.
“I know now that we can’t be saved by our works,” she said thoughtfully. “But the Amish are supposed to stay separate from the world, and sometimes I don’t feel that we’re doing that enough.”
“But don’t you think your father went a little too far?”
“Yes, that’s true,” she said, and then let the conversation go. Steve would never fully understand her upbringing.
Steve was proud of his daughter, but concerned about her display of temper, the highs and lows, the refusal to get a proper diagnosis. He hoped this Ivan was no foolish young man, but one who would pick up on the mood swings.
I VAN SMILED AT Margaret from the driver seat, reached over and took her hand, then told her she looked so pretty, so unlike anyone he’d ever met. Margaret knew they were off to a much better start and wondered if the first lack of agreement had merely been an attack of nerves.
“How was your week?” he asked.
She said it was okay, nothing exciting, and that she had a hard time getting along with one of her English coworkers. “How was yours?” she asked.
“Great. Absolutely great.”
“That good, huh?”
“Yep, it was great.”
She nodded, smiled at him, and let it go, telling herself she was overreacting, and she might as well get used to his upbeat ways.
She loved his profile, liked the way he dressed, enjoyed listening to him talk, so what was there to become peeved about? Nothing.
She settled herself into a softly lit booth at Texas Roadhouse, and smiled and talked and laughed. She felt as if she had to pinch herself to make sure this was real. What young girl would not be thrilled to sit here at this fine restaurant and enjoy such a handsome man’s company?
By the end of the evening, she felt relaxed in his presence, entertaining, and capable of impressing him with her views on a number of subjects. She knew they made a striking couple, turning heads as they walked out of the restaurant, her confidence at an all-time high, her happiness reaching to the stars.
The night was in their favor, one of those beautiful spring evenings so lovely it actually made her heart ache, the scent of lilac mingling with early tea roses.
“Would you like to go for a drive since it’s such a nice evening?” he asked softly.
“We could do that.”
“You have church tomorrow, right?”
“I do, and my mom’s pretty strict about me going.”
“Okay. Fine with me. I suppose she’s pretty strict about dating practices as well, huh?” he asked quietly.
“We talked about it.”
“And?”
Margaret shrugged.
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“No.”
But when they drove up the Welsh Mountains and stopped at the overlook, the night as sweet as a dream, and he put his arms around her as they stood beneath the magnificent stars, the heady scent of budding mountain laurel as sweet as old wine, everything her mother told her was forgotten.
H ER FACE WAS pale and drawn as she came downstairs carrying her white cape and apron, standing silently, waiting on her mother to pin it onto her navy-blue dress. From the laundry room came the sound of running water as her father returned from getting the harness on the horse.
“Oh, there you are, Margaret. Is Rebecca ready to have her cape pinned?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t see her.”
“How was your first date with Ivan?”
“Good. We had a good evening.”
Mary detected the worrisome note in her voice, saw the set of her jaw, the hooded eyes, and felt scratched by claws of fear.
The world was such a frightening place for her innocent daughters and, more than ever, her conservative background came up to taunt her. Her own daughter, out in a vehicle with a young man seven years older . . . it was not a good idea. Not now, not ever.
She would have to take matters into her own hands if Steve was planning on sitting there like a nesting duck thinking everything was going to turn out peachy.