CHAPTER 18
C HAPTER 18
M ARGARET WAS NERVOUS . T HERE WAS NO OTHER WAY TO DESCRIBE her feelings. Afraid of being disappointed, afraid of her own ability to carry an intelligent conversation, afraid of liking him more than he liked her. Her confidence seemed to have evaporated.
Her new dress was green, a hideous, nauseous green she simply couldn’t wear, she told Rebecca, after agonizing over the sewing machine for almost an entire day. Mary got into the fray when the dress was draped over a chair, discarded, and Margaret stormed off into her room.
“You’re not getting away with this, Marge,” she said, holding up the dress to inspect the workmanship after she’d cooled down and made an appearance at the sewing machine room door.
“What?”
“We paid for this fabric, it’s a beautiful shade of green, and you’ll wear it,” Mary said firmly.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mom, but I don’t think so. It’s the color of vomit.”
“Margaret, stop.”
“I won’t wear it. It’s a market dress.”
Always the mediator, Rebecca sat on the couch, looking from one to the other, her lips pursed in deep thought, watching her mother’s frustration and Margaret’s obstinate face, the usual battle of wills.
“We made a special trip all that way,” she ground out.
“You didn’t have to go. The horse needed exercise, so what are you wailing about?”
Rebecca got up, slipped the dress over her head, took a few steps with her arms held out, then twirled across the floor gracefully.
“It’s pretty. Very different. The fabric falls in a great way. Like, it drapes perfectly.”
Margaret frowned, her eyebrows drawn. “It’s green, in a horrible way.”
“It feels nice, though.”
“I’m not wearing it, Rebecca.”
And so the discussion came to a halt, the way it did so much of the time, with Margaret holding court and Mary disappearing to draw on reserves of patience, thinking how useless these arguments really were.
The new dress was hung with Margaret’s everyday dresses, and she spent a long time picking and choosing from the layers of colorful dresses in her closet, Rebecca sitting on her bed, her knees drawn to her chin, her eyes bright with curiosity.
She had never seen her confident sister so completely unhinged.
“You know, Rebecca, I don’t think it’ll work out with Mike, so why am I worried about what color to wear?” she said finally, flopping back on the bed.
“Sweater. Did you forget you’ll wear a sweater? Always black. That will tone down the vibrant green.”
“I’m not wearing one. It’ll ruin the whole effect.”
“What’s that even supposed to mean?”
Margaret pushed Rebecca to the side, putting her into a fit of laughing.
“Get off of me.”
The cobalt blue was worn for a few minutes, then exchanged for a purple one, which gave way to a navy blue which was discarded in favor of a rust color, which Rebecca told her quietly made her look like an overripe neck pumpkin.
“Rebecca, you have to stop saying things like that. I mean it, he said eight o’clock, it’s almost seven, and I haven’t done my hair yet.”
Below them in the kitchen, Mary was putting the chocolate chips in a double boiler, adding peanut butter, making the triple layer bars she would leave beside the coffeemaker if he came inside when he dropped her off. She was humming low under her breath, the way she did when she baked, but the song in her heart was actually more a prayer than a hymn. When Steve wandered into the kitchen, following his nose to the melted chocolate, she grabbed his arm when he went to the kitchen drawer for a spoon.
“Huh-uh, Steve. Date night.”
“Come on, Mary,” he begged.
“Wait till they’re finished, okay? The boys will want some, too.”
When Margaret appeared, she was wearing a navy blue dress without a sweater, which Mary promptly tried to remedy, but was waved off, with a “Not tonight, Mom.”
Mary stirred the chocolate, peered past the woodwork as headlights wound their way up the drive, the decreasing light of evening obscuring most of her view. Upstairs, Rebecca knelt on Margaret’s love seat in her room, parted the curtains, and stared. On the recliner in the living room, Steve craned his neck sideways, trying to see whether the young man would get out of his vehicle to open the door for his daughter.
He did. A good sign. He settled back in his chair and breathed deeply, anticipating the taste of the chocolate bars.
Margaret found Mike to be polite, his voice low, a little rough. She sat stiffly, trying to match his politeness.
“There’s a volleyball game, you know. You want to go afterward?” he asked, in his low, gentle voice.
“After what?”
“Dinner. I’m sorry, I thought I told you we were having dinner together.”
“Dinner?”
“You know, supper. I was trying to impress you by being classy.”
Margaret laughed genuinely and began to relax.
Seated in a small booth with the yellow glow of a dim bulb above the table, Mary was delighted by the cozy ambiance of the Asian restaurant. He introduced her to new dishes, and she was surprised to find herself enjoying a variety of foods she would never have thought to try.
They talked easily then, and she found herself drawn to him in a whole new way, something much deeper than physical attraction. His quiet voice gave her a feeling of belonging, as if she’d been on a journey and had finally reached her destination.
At the end of their two-hour dinner, she laid down her fork, looked him straight in the eyes, and said she felt as if she’d come home, and wasn’t that mysterious?
He was wiping his mouth with a napkin and was taken completely by surprise. He could only fold it slowly and lay it beside his plate, before steadying himself with a deep breath.
“What do you mean?” he began, then picked up his napkin and lifted it to his mouth, buying time.
“I just feel as if I came home. Like, you know what I mean. You’re gone, then you come home where you can relax, be yourself, you know. Home. But you wouldn’t believe the case of nerves I had earlier this evening. I bet I tried on ten dresses and none of them were good enough. I was a nervous wreck. I was so worried you wouldn’t like me very much, but I think you do.”
He shook his head, gave a small laugh, laid down the napkin for the third or fourth time before meeting her clear, open gaze. He tried to fathom the look in her eyes, which was completely open and guileless, which he found extremely attractive.
She was simply different from any girl he had ever met.
“Yes,” he said. “I do like you.”
“I thought so. Good, I’m so glad. Now, since we have that out of the way, we can really enjoy the rest of the evening. Oh, and I also need to know, what are your thoughts on dating practices? Like, do you believe in the new way?”
Clearly taken aback, he questioned her with his raised eyebrows. “You know, the going thing is distant courtship, which means you never touch each other, not even hold hands, and certainly never, ever enter the girl’s bedroom.”
He stared at her, tried to comprehend her words.
“You don’t have to answer right away. I just like to be upfront with everything. Ivan, my ex-boyfriend, was, well, let’s just say very hands on, and that made me feel guilty. I hate feeling guilty. It’s not fun. So, what do you say?”
He cleared his throat, took a drink, wiped his mouth.
“Well, let’s just say I’m neither one of those.” He felt the heat rise in his face.
“You’re blushing. That’s so sweet. Okay, so we understand each other. Thank you for being honest.”
He laughed. “There is no alternative, is there? With you, I mean. No alternative to being honest.”
“No, probably not. I hate beating around the bush. It’s so much easier to just talk about things.”
He sat back, folded his arms across his chest, amusement written all over his face, his eyes bright with interest.
“You are just the way I heard you were. And I am intrigued. Do you know how tiresome it is, dating girls who are never truly themselves?”
“Maybe I’m not either, and you’ll marry me only to find I’m a real shrew, grouchy and discontented, hard to get along with. Marriage is like that, you know. You can never really tell what you’re getting into. You just go ahead and jump off a cliff, hope for a soft landing.”
She put her hands to her chin, rested her face on them, leaned forward and presented him with her wonderful gaze.
“But I think honesty is a good foundation, don’t you?”
He was so lost in her eyes, he could only nod, then grinned a helpless lopsided grin.
“You know my mom is bipolar. She has a mental disorder, and I was afraid I’d have the same thing. I did have some of the symptoms, but so far I think I’m okay. I hope.”
“What were her symptoms?” he asked, genuinely concerned.
“She was crazy as a bat there for a while. Lots of ups and downs, I guess, panic attacks. She’s on medication now. Her dad, back when she was a child in New York, was a genuine piece of work, I guess, or so she says. Like, if we’d get married, there’s a whole bunch of aunts and uncles that dress in the old way. But they’re pretty nice to us.”
He nodded again, speechless.
“What is your mother like?” she asked quickly.
“She’s the best. She is a widow, you know. She’s very patient and kind, stays busy, and probably spoils me. But we only have each other, so that’s why.”
“Does she know about us?”
“Yes, she does. She wants to meet you.”
“Let’s go tonight.”
“Already?”
“If you think she’d like that? We could go there instead of the volleyball game.”
They left the restaurant but decided against meeting his mother at this late hour, and instead drove around a while before deciding to go home to her place, where they spent another few hours with coffee and what remained of the bars her mom had made. She listened more, then, while he talked of losing his father, the hard times financially for his mother. He told her they lived humbly, nothing like the house she lived in.
“You know,” Margaret replied, “I really love small houses. Less to clean.”
She had a mysterious gift, that of making him feel as if he was capable of great things. She said how nice it was he took care of his mother, and that she looked forward to meeting his siblings.
Reluctantly, well after midnight, he said it was time to go. He felt awkward and unsure when she followed him to the door, and told her goodnight too quickly and then left, sat in his truck, breathing as hard as if he’d run a marathon. He drove home slowly, processing the whole evening.
Margaret climbed the stairs to her room, wondering why he hadn’t asked her out for the following weekend. She’d probably said too much, scared him away. And when she turned out the light, all her insecurities came to haunt her. She often felt adrift at night, like a falling star without end. She wondered if that was a symptom of being bipolar.
Oh, calm yourself now , she thought, bringing her restless mind into subjection.
Unable to sleep, she turned her thoughts to God. What did it mean to trust Him with her life, her future? She had heard people talk about God like He was a close friend. What would that feel like?
“God, I’d like to know you better. Help?”
It was a simple prayer, but honest and heartfelt.
T HE FOLLOWING MORNING , she asked her mother what it meant to be born again, which caught Mary completely off guard. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, and then tried to explain. She told her a little about her own experience of accepting Jesus’s gift of salvation.
When she’d finished speaking, Margaret shrugged, said she didn’t really understand. Then she asked if her mom had ever felt like a falling star, a meteor shooting through space, especially at night. “Is that part of bipolar disorder?” Margaret asked, watching her mother’s expression for any clues.
“I can’t say that I’ve felt that exactly,” Mary answered cautiously. “For me, it was periods of feeling really happy and productive followed by periods of deep depression. And panic attacks, where I felt really nauseous and like the world was spinning and I couldn’t escape. But I’m glad you told me about it. If it keeps up, we could talk to a doctor. I sure wish I had taken your dad’s advice and gone to a doctor much sooner than I did.”
At work, Margaret struggled to keep her energy up. She thought of Mike’s blue eyes, the long brown hair that was thick and wavy, so different from the short haircuts everyone sported these days. She liked his name, Mike, a good common name. She thought of him as she chopped tomatoes and refilled the pickle container. She relived their evening and decided she hadn’t said more than she should have. She was just being herself, and if he didn’t like that, it was better to know now.
After checking her phone far too often, she turned it off, deciding she didn’t want to be the kind of girl who was desperate to hear from a guy. He’d contact her if he wanted to, and she’d see his message eventually.
She got home ravenous and exhausted. Mary was removing a pan of lasagna from the oven, the table set, the smell of cheese and tomato sauce making Margaret swoon.
The supper was delicious, as always, with lively conversation across the table. There was fresh chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting for dessert, and cornstarch pudding with peaches, her father’s favorite.
Logan wanted to go to Washington Zoo. He’d heard about it from a boy at school whose whole family had gone on a charter bus. It was free, and why couldn’t they go?
“I’d much rather go riding, like Margaret and I did,” Rebecca announced. “We could take four horses, and Mom and Dat could just stay in the house. Right, Dat?”
“Sounds like fun,” Steve said, raising his eyebrows at Mary.
“Sure. We could do that. Maybe Margaret would enjoy taking her new boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. We had one date.” Eyes on her plate, she drew the tip of her finger around the rim.
“Another one coming up?” Steve asked casually.
“That’s more information than you need to know, Dat. I have never in my life seen a family quite as nosy as this one.”
“You don’t need a boyfriend to go to the zoo,” Logan interjected.
“I don’t want to go to the zoo, and I certainly don’t want to go trail riding by the river, ever again. You all can just go without me.”
She got up and stomped out of the room, leaving her family with the sure knowledge that there was no second date planned.
T HE WEEKEND CAME and went with no message or call from Mike. She went to church, went to the youth gathering and hymn singing, but her mind was occupied with him. Why would he chose to ignore her after that first date? She tried to let him go and move on. She was determined not to waste time on blaming herself. It had only been one date.
And then one afternoon at market, she got a text message. Her heart raced as she scanned the words. His mother had had a stroke and was in the hospital. He wasn’t sure if she would survive. He was sorry for not reaching out sooner.
Tears pricked her eyelids. She was relieved to have heard from him, and also felt the weight of his concern for his mother. She wrote back immediately, telling him how sorry she was about his mom and asking if there was anything she could do. She tried to be patient again, but for a few days there was no answer. And then a text saying she had passed. She felt a jolt when he asked if she’d come to the viewing. “I’d like you with me, if you’re willing.”
Once home, she threw her purse on the table and slid into a kitchen chair. “Mom, Mike’s mother died. He wants me to sit beside him at the viewing. What am I going to do? I can’t wear that old black suit. I guarantee I was thirteen years old when you made it.”
“Mike? Was his mother ill? Why does he want you there? I thought you’d only had one date.” Mary was flustered, trying to grasp what Margaret was saying.
“Mom, I want to go. But my black suit is, well, not wearable.”
Suddenly brisk, in charge, Mary went to the fabric cabinet, taking the DeWalt battery lamp for better lighting. Muttering to herself, she extracted two pieces of black fabric as Margaret peered over her shoulder.
“Which one?” Mary offered.
“Plain fabric is the style, so this one. But Mom, it’s tomorrow afternoon.”
“I can do it. You have a new covering. You need to wear decent shoes. And now, Margaret, don’t roll your hair all the way up to the top of your head. It’s a time of death, so show some respect, and I mean it. Surely he has married siblings.”
“Four.”
Quickly, the dishes were washed, the table wiped clean, and Mary spread the black fabric and began to cut with the trusted patterns, creating a cape, apron, and dress, with Margaret hovering over her. Her mother clucked and lamented, saying it was such a pity she never got to meet the woman, the poor lonely widow, then wiped furtive tears.
A driver was set for three o’clock, with Margaret dressed in her new black suit, her hair smoothed and polished.
“You look nice, Marge, but beauty is as beauty does.” Mary spoke in a gruff, strangled voice, her words coming out all wrong. She had meant to say she was proud of her daughter, but that would be vain.
The viewing was at his brother Paul’s place. When she was dropped off, she hesitated, unsure of whether to go into the house or the large building that seemed to house some sort of woodworking business. The day was overcast, chilly, her skirt flapping around her ankles. She scanned the comings and goings of friends and neighbors, not one of them recognizable. She gathered they were heading toward the house and joined them. As she stepped inside, she heard his voice and caught sight of him hurrying toward her, his face so familiar, looking so right in his pale blue shirt with black vest and trousers.
“How are you, Margaret?”
“I’m okay. You’re the one who should be asked.”
“I’m alright. It’s been a grueling week. My mom didn’t have to suffer, which is so merciful. She would have despised being helpless. I’m glad you’re here. Do you mind sitting with us? I’ll introduce you.”
She nodded, steeled herself, shook hands with four couples, Ben and Marianne, Eli and Rachel, John and Anna, Amos and Lynn, plus a handful of nieces and nephews. It was all a blur, a mixture of strange faces, greetings, sorrow, and searching looks.
She hoped she’d pass inspection.
And then she saw Ivan Stoltzfus sitting with his mother, both as neat and good-looking as a mother and her son could be. She couldn’t avoid them, so she shook hands, averted her eyes, and moved on.
Mike took her to see his mother in her coffin, so pale and waxen, as is normal for the deceased, but Margaret thought she looked at peace, and so youthful-looking in spite of a lonely widowhood.
She watched Mike’s face, which showed no emotion except that his mouth twitched at the corner. Aware of the feelings he was holding back, she found a tear sliding down her own cheek and wiped it away quickly, then walked out behind him as he led her out on the porch and across the yard. They sat on a concrete bench beneath a bare tree, and he told her the story of finding her helpless, calling 911, and the ensuing days at the hospital.
“I find it hard to believe, really. I’m going to miss her so much.”
He stopped, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His shoulders strained at his jacket and Margaret put a hand on his back, a move that sprung naturally from the compassion she felt in her heart.
“I’m so sorry, Mike.”
He straightened, leaned toward her, allowed her to see the sadness in his eyes, his eyelids heavy with lack of sleep.
“Thank you, Margaret. I’m so happy you’re here.”
Her hand had fallen away from his back when he sat up, so she didn’t really know what to do with it, the way it was stuck at an awkward angle, so she brought it out from behind him and clenched the opposite hand. He reached over and freed it, opened her fingers, and laced them with his own. They sat silently, listening to the wind play with the remaining brown leaves above them.
“It means a lot to me, and I appreciate it.”
She said nothing, content to let him hold her hand.
“Maybe this is a strange time, but I guess grief has a way of making you realize the important things in life. Life is just so fragile, you never know when it might end, and I . . . I just don’t want to waste any more time. So, will you be my girlfriend? You know, the real thing. I’m not saying we’ll definitely get married or anything, but I’m not interested in a casual relationship. What do you think?”
“Yes.”
She looked into his eyes, found the liquid sadness mixed with a budding joy, and laid her head on his shoulder.
Later, she sat beside him on a folding chair in the living room of the large stone house, his siblings and their spouses beside them. There was a long line of folks dressed in black, their somber faces showing respect for the sorrowing. There were handshakes and an occasional sob accompanied by hugs and heartfelt murmuring.
So many relatives cast curious glances at Margaret, thinking, my oh, such a pretty girl for Mike. Finally, he had asked someone. She was introduced to cousins, aunts and uncles, English friends and neighbors.
They were called to eat supper in the basement where long tables were spread and where ladies from the church district cooked, served, washed dishes, and put food away as it arrived—casseroles, ground beef, cakes, desserts, and canned goods. Margaret felt comfortable by Mike’s side and was glad to be introduced, to eat the food the church women had prepared.
As the evening wore on, she became sleepy, the room heating up as hundreds of people moved through, some of them sitting on benches to visit. After everyone finally left, the family knelt as a brother read from the German prayer book, after which they were free to go. Margaret offered to call a driver, but Mike said he was looking forward to taking her home, so they walked to the end of the drive where his truck was parked and moved out into traffic.
For the first few miles, they were both quiet, until Margaret told him what was on her mind. She was remembering the times in Ivan Stoltzfus’s car, and how she did not want to repeat those scenes. He told her he respected her a lot for that and promised to keep from doing those things.
“Well, I already blew the ‘hands off’ thing clear out of the water,” she said bluntly.
He laughed, genuinely enjoying her honesty. “That was just a little bit of extended sympathy.”
“Exactly. It was like comforting my brother.”
“Wasn’t it more than that?”
She smiled in the half light of the truck cab as they pulled up to her house. “Well, maybe.”
“Okay, now you get out before I ruin this ‘distant courtship’ thing entirely.”
“Certainly, I will. Goodnight, sir.”
They both smiled for a long time afterward, caught up in the freshness of a brand-new budding love.
S HE WAS THERE for the funeral, but seated with the cousins on a wooden bench behind the older relatives. There was no singing, only preaching and the announcement of his mother’s name and age, before the entire congregation moved past her coffin to view her for the final time, after which the family was left alone to mourn the loss of their mother.
Margaret stood with a cluster of relatives, knowing Mike was in one of the first carriages in the funeral procession, then was seated at one of the extended tables to eat dinner. It was a traditional meal of mashed potatoes, cold sliced roast beef and cheese, pepper slaw, applesauce, and gravy. A labor of love, the church district worked together to provide comfort and sustenance, cleaning, putting everything in order before the family departed.
Margaret spoke only briefly with Mike before boarding a van going in her direction, with the promise of seeing him on the weekend, creating a song in her heart for the remainder of the week.
Now that he’d asked her to be his girlfriend, the anxious waiting to hear from him would be over. She found herself thinking about the little house with the wide front porch, and how long he would live there by himself.
She was too young, everything was still new, but it was something to dream about.