Love Redeemed (28 page)

She couldn't say it. Not even to Daniel. It was private, between Michael and her, whatever it was.

“It's his choice.” Daniel shoved his hat back on his forehead and contemplated the hammer in his hand. “It sounds like he's doing all right. He's made friends with a Mennonite girl and the man who owns the diner is good to him. They're helping him…get right with things.”

A Mennonite girl. Jealousy stung Phoebe with the force of a horde of wasps. “What things? How can a Mennonite girl help Michael?”

“Michael had a lot of bitterness. He didn't just blame himself.”

“He blamed me.”

“No, he blamed God for not saving her.”

“And he's better?”

“He seems to be.”

Those folks in Springfield weren't family. They weren't Plain. They wouldn't understand his faith and his path. Still, they were trying to help him. He needed the help. He needed his faith back. Phoebe gathered up her courage and asked the question she'd come to ask. “Can you go talk to him? Convince him to come home?”

Daniel dropped the hammer again. This time it hit his boot. “Ouch!” He hopped around, his face scrunched up in pain. “Me? Why me? Why not you?”

She had prepared for that question. “Because I'm a girl and I can't go chasing after a man.” Her parents had been through enough. She
wouldn't shame them more. “It wouldn't be right. My parents wouldn't want it.”

“I have work to do.” Daniel stooped and picked up the hammer again, looking as if he wanted to do that work now instead of talking to her. “Rachel and I get married in less than two weeks.”

“Michael's your friend.”

“And I tried to convince him to stay.” Daniel pounded a nail, the noise a solid
smack, smack, smack.
He could work out a lot of frustration nailing. Would it work for her? She tried to focus on his words. “Which is more than you did.”

Maybe she didn't want to hear his words after all. She hung her head and studied her dusty feet.

Daniel's growl echoed in the half-finished room. “All right. All right. I'll do it.”

Phoebe clapped her hands in the sheer relief of the moment. “Danki. You are a good friend.”

“I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for Michael. He needs to come home and be baptized.” Daniel's face turned candy apple red. “I'm doing it because Rachel will never let me hear the end of it if I don't.”

“She's so happy. You're making her happy.”

The red deepened. “We'll see.”

“When can you go?”

He groaned. “Don't nag. I have to talk to my daed first. I'll go when I can. And there's no guarantee it'll do any good. I tried to stop him before he left and he wouldn't stay.”

“Time has passed.”

Daniel's dark brown eyes studied her. She saw a sudden kindness—a kind of pity almost—that hadn't been there a second before. “And it's helped? You're better?”

She had Irene, Bethel, Molly, and Rachel. Mudder. She had people who lifted her up. Michael could have had that here, if he'd given people a chance. “I'm getting there.”

“That's
gut
.”

“I'm happy for you and Rachel.”

“I'm sorry for whatever I did in all this. You can't know how sorry.”

She offered him her best smile—a little weak around the edges—and trudged to the doorway.

“I hope things work out.”

She almost missed those last words in the banging of the hammer against nail.

She bowed her head.
Me too.

Those two words became her silent prayer. If Daniel could persuade Michael to come home, they could both begin the next leg of the journey. Together or each on their own road. She couldn't be sure which it would be.

Michael needed God more than he needed her. If necessary, she would learn to live with that too.

Chapter 26

M
ichael arrived back at the motel after ten thirty. He didn't like Sophie going home so late. If she were his daughter, he wouldn't allow it.

What a stupid thought. Why had his mind gone there? Shaking his head, he lugged his shopping bag across the parking lot. It was filled with the used jeans and shirts Sophie had picked out. She'd been right about the Goodwill store. The clothes looked almost like new and she'd seemed to know which ones he should try on. He wouldn't have to do that again for a while. And they were even cheaper than the discount store.

He avoided the shadows thrown by the buildings and hugged the bright spots cast by the overhead street lights. A cool evening breeze buffeted trash across the parking lot. He zigzagged to avoid a half-eaten hamburger still wrapped in an orange paper and then a dirty disposable diaper, both only a few feet from the dumpster. The first row of spaces was filled with old, broken-down cars. It looked like an old junk lot.

Exhaustion weighed down his limbs, but he felt a certain contentment. The time he'd spent with Sophie had been almost fun. She'd tried on hats in front of a mirror and asked his opinion about silly-looking sneakers. Mostly, she'd made him parade in and out of the dressing room so she could inspect the clothes for a good fit. Finally, after what seemed like days, she'd pronounced the last three pairs as “decent.” It
hadn't been his normal idea of fun—not like fishing or baseball or bow hunting—but all things considered, it hadn't been half bad.

He juggled the bag and dug in his pocket for the room key. Really a room card. Apparently hotels didn't have keys. It took a second for him to realize he didn't need the card. The door stood ajar, and the curtain in the window that ran the length of the room fluttered where the glass had been broken.

Michael froze, trying to wrap his mind around what he saw. Why would someone break into his room? He didn't have much, but what he had he needed in order to get by. He should do something. But what? He'd never worried about this sort of thing back home. No one did. They were willing to share with the other families, but they did expect a
by your leave
. Should he go in? Or stay out?

He settled the bag on the ground and pushed the door with one finger. It swung open. He stuck his head in and took a quick glance around. With the parking lot lights casting a spotlight, he could see a little. He pushed the door wider and ran his hand down the inside of the wall until he encountered the switch. Light flooded the room. Squinting, he held his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes.

Someone had ransacked the room, shoving the bed spread, blanket, and sheets to the floor, overturning the lamp, and knocking over the chair that set at the small desk. An empty spot smudged with dust stood where the TV had been. The microwave no longer occupied a spot in the kitchenette and the refrigerator door stood open, his meager supplies gone.

He sank into the chair by the window. After a second he thrust his head between his legs, trying to fight the lightheaded sensation.
Breathe. Breathe.
He rose, stumbled to the dresser, and ran a shaking hand along the back side. The envelope he'd taped there was gone. His savings were gone.

His hands tightened into fists of their own accord. He loosened them. He'd worked hard for that money. He'd labored for it. For someone to take it just wasn't right.

Maybe somebody needed it more than he did. Maybe. But stealing was wrong. If a person asked, it would be different. He leaned his head
back and struggled for calm. A grown man dealt with problems peacefully. A grown man knew anger solved nothing. Got nothing done. A man made a plan and carried it out.

When he was certain he could stand, he trudged back across the parking lot to the office. One dingy light illuminated the small room. The overnight clerk appeared to be napping, head down on the counter. Michael pounded on the door. The poor man popped up with a start, then hustled to unlock the door. “Can't leave the door unlocked at night. Sorry.”

Michael described the scene he had found in his room. The man, whose name tag identified him as Bob Murdoch, returned to the other side of the narrow fake wood counter, a martyred look on his pimply face. “It ain't the first time and it won't be the last. Druggies, usually, looking for something they can sell.” He ran a hand through greasy black hair, smoothing it to his knobby head. “Sorry about the money, but the sign says we're not responsible for valuables left in rooms. Like they told you when you moved in, we got a safe here. 'Sides, that's what banks are for. No one leaves money taped to the back of a dresser—lessen they're survivalists. You don't look like no survivalist.”

Michael held up his hand to stem the flow of words. “It's fine. I'm not asking you to cover the loss. I just want to know what I'm supposed to do now. The door is broken and so is the window. The microwave is gone.”

Bob Murdock looked relieved Michael wasn't making a fuss. “Tell you what, I'm just gonna give you another room.” He studied something on the computer in front of him. “Yep. Here we go. We got 108 open, just a few doors down from where you are now. You can move in a jiffy. No hurry to call the cops. They ain't gonna find who did it. They never do. You can move your stuff now or in the morning—it's up to you.”

“Now.” Not that he had much, but what he did have couldn't be secured in a room with a broken window.

It took almost an hour, but finally he found himself alone in a room three doors down. Exact same layout, exact same brown, flowered bedspread, same drab, meadow landscapes hanging on the walls. Yet it felt
different. Almost three months in the other room had made it seem a little like a home. At least that's what he'd been telling himself. This room smelled of cleansers, like they'd just cleaned the carpet in preparation for a new occupant. The toilet didn't have a ring, nor did the bathtub, and there was a new bar of soap lying in its holder on the sink.

It didn't matter. All he wanted to do now was sleep. He'd deal with the break-in tomorrow…later today. After checking the lock on the door for the third time and making sure the curtain was completely closed, he laid down fully clothed on top of the bedspread. The room was bathed in light from the parking lot. He missed the darkness of a country night. Darkness made it easier to sleep. He tried to breathe evenly. After a while the pounding in his head became more of a tapping and then faded away.

He saw a flash of her purple dress a few yards ahead of him. “Lydia? Lydia! Stop. Wait.”

She ignored him as if she couldn't hear his voice. She trotted along, her arms up, reaching, as if chasing something—a butterfly maybe, or a hummingbird. He couldn't see. “Lydia, wait. Come back here. You're too close to the water.”

She didn't seem to hear him. She giggled and clapped her hands together. The sound was infectious. He wanted to smile, but his side hurt from trying to keep up. He couldn't keep up. His boots kept slipping and sliding on the rocks. He tripped over the gnarly roots of a tree. Fell. Scrambled to his knees again. She disappeared from sight.

“Lydia, come on. Come back. Your daed isn't mad. He just wants you home.”

She didn't answer. He couldn't see her anymore. “Lydia? Where are you?”

The light dimmed until it grew dark and the tree branches took on a looming, sinister presence. Wet leaves brushed against his face and he shuddered.

A splash. A faint splash. He stopped, not sure he'd heard it. “Lydia? Lydia!” He began to run, then—running, running, running. His lungs hurt. They might burst. He couldn't get enough air.

He saw her then, floating on the lake.

No. No. No.

He dove in. The water hit him with an icy shock that made his heart stop and then start. His lungs ached for air. Down, down, he went. It was dark. So dark. He couldn't see her. Where was she? He floundered, forced himself up until his head broke through the surface. He gasped for air and swallowed water, went down again, and then struggled back to the top. Finally, a sweet breath of air filled his lungs. He flailed about, looking, seeking, calling.

Nothing. No Lydia.

He stroked in a circle, still gasping. Nothing. No shoreline. He was in the middle of the lake, no shore in sight.

Nothing. No one. No sound.

Only his own breathing. Something grabbed at his legs and jerked him down. He struggled to stay afloat, but the force of the grip carried him down and down and down. Air gone again.

Gott, Gott. Lydia's face floated in front of him.

No, no. It was Phoebe. Her mouth gaped open, her eyes wide.

Sightless, staring beyond him, not seeing.

No. No. Gott. No.

He fought with all his strength to get to her. He couldn't move. The water had turned to mud—thick, dark mud. Clay. His arms and limbs were caught in it, immobilized. He couldn't move.

Phoebe floated away with her sister, farther and farther away, while he struggled to move, struggled for air. His lungs didn't have room to fill with air. He needed air where there was none. He needed help where there was none. He needed saving when no one was there to save him.

No one.

Michael bolted upright on the bed, gasping for air. Both hands clutched the blankets.
Gott, why, why, why?
He wanted to scream the words, but nothing came out. The ceiling fan blew cool air on his sweating face. His heart began to slow.

He couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't take the silence.

He stumbled from the bed and threw himself into the chair next to the end table where the phone sat. Three months and he hadn't
touched the phone once. With a shaking hand, he punched the buttons. To his surprise he knew the number she'd given him by heart even though he had never called it.