Love Redeemed (15 page)

“You can't blame yourself for this. It's making yourself more important than you are. No matter what happens, Gott is in control.”

The words were like a bucket of icy water poured over her. She hadn't seen that about herself, so
grossfelich
, so proud. “You're right.”

Annie touched her arm. “I'm so sorry, Katie, so sorry.”

Katie turned and accepted her friend's hug. Sometimes there were no words that could fix a broken heart, but Annie's attempt to offer her comfort touched her. The pain in Katie's chest lessened a fraction and she felt the stitches working their way in and out, in and out, sewing the wound that was her heart back together one agonizing stitch at a time.

Chapter 12

M
ichael fumbled with his ticket, wishing he had pockets. All the money he had to his name was in an envelope stuffed inside his shirt. He didn't want to put it in his duffel bag. What if something happened to the bag? He dropped onto a bench in the small, nearly empty building that passed for New Hope's bus station and looked up at the clock hanging on the drab green wall. Twenty minutes until the bus would pull in and stop for a few minutes before heading on to Springfield. His stomach did a strange little flip-flop. He'd never traveled anywhere alone before and never on a bus like this. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and took a long breath through his nose, breathing in the smell of dust and bleach cleanser, and let it out. It would be a time of learning. That's how he tried to think of this self-imposed journey. Time to figure out how he'd gone so wrong. Time to let Phoebe's family heal without seeing him at every turn.

Whatever awaited him in Springfield, it had to be better than the judging glances, the looks of profound disappointment, the conversations that ceased when he walked into a room. Anything would be better.

“Michael!” He opened his eyes. Daniel strode toward him, his expression relieved. “You haven't left yet.”

“Nee.”

Daniel plopped onto the bench next to him. “What do you think you're doing? I stopped by your house to see why you didn't come to
the service or class yesterday. Your mudder said you were gone. She'd been crying—”

“I'm going away.” He held up his hand to stem the flow of Daniel's words. “I don't know when I'll be back.”

“But you're coming back? You'll be baptized, right?”

He wanted to reassure his friend, but he couldn't. “I don't know.”

“Running away won't solve anything.”

“I'm not running away. I'm taking a different path.” He didn't want to tell Daniel how empty he felt. How empty the world seemed. He no longer had that assurance God was with him and would take care of things. He hadn't taken care of Lydia. He hadn't answered all those prayers. “I'm getting a fresh start and giving the Christners room to have theirs.”

“You need your family and your friends.” Daniel tugged at his suspenders, his brown eyes troubled. “When times are hard, we need our community. We need to stick together.”

“Sometimes we can't. We shouldn't.”

“They've forgiven you.” Daniel leaned forward, elbows on knees, his expression earnest. “You know they have. They've told you so.”

“It's one thing to forgive. It's another to constantly be reminded of a loss. They need time to heal a little. As much as they can.”

“Things will get better.”

Michael snorted. He gazed around the bus station with its echoing, empty corners. “Not for Lydia they won't.”

“So that's it.” Daniel rubbed at the faint stubble on his cheeks with both hands, his expression twisted in deep concentration as if trying to figure out an arithmetic problem. “You haven't forgiven yourself.”

“If it were you, would you?”

Daniel chewed at his lip, his gaze following an elderly couple, each pulling a bright green suitcase on wheels. “I'm as much to blame as you are. I encouraged you to talk to her that day.”

“I made the decision to do it. I take responsibility.”

“Then ask Gott to forgive you. He'll do it. That's what Thomas says. He says God's forgiveness is all we need. I asked to be forgiven for what I did that day and I have.”

“I'm glad for you.” He
was
glad for Daniel. He harbored no ill will toward his friend. The decision to approach Phoebe that day had been his and his alone. “If Gott answered prayers, I wouldn't be in this predicament.”

Shock made Daniel's mouth hang open for a moment. “You're blaming God?” He stuttered the words. “You're in this predicament because of what you did, not what He did.”

On that point, Michael remained abundantly clear. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to help a friend back into the fold.”

“The friend needs to leave the fold for a while.”

Daniel was silent for a moment. “What about Phoebe?”

“What about her?” His heart lurched at hearing the name spoken aloud. He bowed his head, hoping his hat would hide the change in his expression. “Is she all right?”

“Rachel says she's grieving and that's natural, but she hasn't come to prayer service or class either. She won't talk to Rachel or Molly about it. Rachel says her heart is broken. You'll abandon her in her time of need and grief?”

He waited a beat, two beats, three, waiting until he was sure his voice wouldn't betray him. “It's for the best. She'll never be able to heal with me around to remind her of what we did.”

“I thought you…” Daniel's face turned beet red. “I thought you two…you cared for her.”

Always. He would always care. But that couldn't be allowed to matter. Michael stood and grabbed his duffel bag. “That's between her and me.”

“I know.” Daniel scrambled to his feet. “If you feel this bad, imagine how bad she must feel. Her sister. Her responsibility.”

“My fault.”

“She feels no less responsible and you're leaving her to face everyone on her own.”

“She's better off.”

“Did you ask her if that's what she wants?”

“Nee.”

“You're being a coward then.” Daniel's voice hardened. “You're running away and leaving her to fend for herself. You really don't care about her.”

“I'm leaving because I do care about her.” A voice blared over their heads much louder than necessary, considering there were only a half dozen people in the room, telling Michael his bus was now loading. “I have to go.”

“Don't leave.”

“Goodbye, Daniel.”

Daniel didn't move to follow him, for which Michael was grateful. He led a straggling group of four or five folks heading to the parking lot where the buses loaded.

“Lydia is safe now. She's in Gott's arms.” Daniel's voice carried over the murmur of people saying their goodbyes. “You're the one in danger.”

“Take care.”

“Write me,” Daniel called. “Send me your address so I can write you.”

Michael didn't acknowledge the commands. He didn't look back until he reached his bus. Daniel had disappeared from sight. His throat tight, eyes burning, Michael sucked in air and tried to regain the sense that he was doing the right thing. Phoebe didn't attend church service. She didn't go to baptism class. She suffered from a broken heart. He'd broken it.

The bus driver, a tall man with muscles that bulged under the short sleeves of his uniform, held out a hand, beckoning for the duffel bag so he could put it in the luggage alcove under the bus. Michael shook his head and held it close. The few things he owned were in the threadbare bag that had belonged to his daed. He'd hold it close. The guy shrugged and Michael shuffled forward to the open door.

Phoebe wasn't talking to anyone. She needed to move on. He wanted her to move on. He wanted her to be okay.

Michael slipped a cell phone from the pocket on the side of his bag. Swallowing against the acrid taste on his tongue, he found the number Daniel had given him several months ago. Daniel had urged Michael to call Phoebe. Talk to her. He never had. If he'd taken Daniel's advice,
maybe things would've turned out differently. There would have been no need to steal her away at the lake.

The dial tone sounded in his ears.

It rang once, twice, three times, four times. Nothing. Not even a voice offering voicemail. He hadn't gone so far as to record a message himself and somehow, it relieved him that she hadn't either. He'd bought a phone in a fit of pique because he really hadn't done anything during his rumspringa that he wouldn't normally do. Then he'd never used it. His hard-earned money from the New Hope Nursery down the drain.

Even if she had the cell phone where she could see it and feel its vibration—none of them had musical ring tones for fear their daeds would hear it—she most likely wouldn't answer. And what would he say if she did?
Sorry. I'm running away and leaving you to face what we did because it's best for you.
She might try to convince him to stay. Phoebe, for all her whimsical ways, believed. She had faith in their community and their ways. He'd never heard her say anything that told him she didn't want to worship in the traditional ways, marry, have children, and live out her life as a Plain woman. She'd want that for him as a friend, if not a special friend destined for more. Her character was one of the things he most liked about her. It shone through in everything she did. He didn't have to talk to her to know.

It didn't matter. She should be free of him and the memory of what they'd done. With time, the pain and the shame of it would fade and she would find someone new. Someone who knew how to contain himself until the right moment, the proper moment.

He closed his eyes against the tidal wave of nausea. She wasn't going to answer. He didn't really expect an answer. As he walked past a trash can he let the phone slip from his hand and disappear into the mound of empty soda cans, water bottles, and dirty tissues. Those days were over. Today he moved forward as a man, independent, striking out on his own. He climbed the steps to the cool, dark interior of the bus.

He dragged the duffel bag—which now seemed to weigh a hundred pounds—behind him through the bus's narrow aisle and looked for an empty seat. Passengers were crammed into almost every row.
He'd rather have a row to himself, but he didn't see any. He gauged the people sitting in the adjacent seats, debating. The trip would take an hour. He would sit next to a stranger for an hour. Would there be conversation? Did a person talk to his neighbor when thrown together by sheer happenstance? About what? He didn't know. He'd never ridden on a bus before. Blank faces greeted him on either side of the aisle. A skinny woman with bad skin and bleached hair let her gaze collide with his and then skitter away. Hugging bony arms to her chest, she turned to look out the window even though the bus hadn't left the station. He moved on.

“Catch a seat anywhere, buddy.”

Michael looked back.

The driver gave him a toothy grin in the enormous rearview mirror over his head. He had gold lining on two of his front teeth and an enormous gold crucifix dangling around his neck over a gray uniform shirt. “I need you to sit down so we can get going. I've got a schedule to keep. They don't bite—most of them, anyway.”

Aware of dull thudding in his temples and heat that scorched his cheeks and neck, Michael shoved the duffel bag into the rack overhead and sank into the first open seat. His neighbor turned out to be an elderly lady wearing a funny little box hat on her head and holding a large picnic basket in her lap. She smelled like lilacs and mothballs. A wide smile on her wrinkled, powdered face, she scooted closer to the window, her arms clutching the basket. Michael wiggled into the seat, trying to figure out where to put his long legs and arms without touching her.

“Pack us in like cattle.” She had the high, quavering voice of his
groossmammi
. “Like the airlines. The more people they pack in the planes, the more money they make. Don't even serve peanuts anymore without charging.”

“They serve peanuts on buses?” The question flew from his mouth before he could stop it. He sounded like a hick. He should know they served peanuts. “I mean—”

“No, honey, they serve peanuts on the airplanes.” She giggled, a strange sound coming from a lady who looked to be pushing eighty.
To his amazement, she patted his hand. Her fingers felt dry and crinkly, like tissue paper. “You're a silly one, aren't you? You look just like my grandson Matthew. A fine boy. A fine boy. Well, not really a boy, anymore. Goodness, he's married and has two children now. My great-grandchildren…”

So that's how it was on buses. People did talk. And talk. And talk. He rested his head on the seat and closed his eyes for a second. His hat slid forward. His hat. He grabbed it and settled it onto his lap without opening his eyes to see if anyone noticed. He should've left the hat at home. He should've left the suspenders and pants with no zippers and all the other stuff that marked him as different.

Home. It wasn't home anymore. He didn't live there. Officially, he didn't live anywhere. The thought loomed like a huge trapdoor opening under his feet. But no, he was only homeless until he arrived in Springfield. His hand went to his chest. The packet he'd slipped inside his shirt was still there. All the money he'd saved from working at the nursery in Bliss Creek and then the one in New Hope this past year rested in that envelope. The money that would give him this new start.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think. He just wanted a few minutes' rest. He'd done nothing but think as he worked with the plants for the last three weeks. Think and think until he was sick of thinking. He wanted his mind to be a big, fat blank for a few minutes, an hour, long enough to sleep.

“My daughter, Bertha, now she has four kids. All girls. I think they were trying for a boy and just kept having girls.” The lady's voice continued to bathe him in babble. Soft, kind, sing-song babble. Michael liked her voice. There was no censure there, no pity. Only the need to have someone listen. “Their names are Autumn, Winter, Summer, and Spring. Doesn't that beat all? I always knew my daughter would get even with me for naming her Bertha. It was my mother's name. She swore she would change it when she grew up, but she never did. She just made everyone call her Bert like she was some boy or something…”