The Choice (39 page)

Somebody
had to do
something
. The only prayer Carrie ever said aloud was the Lord’s Prayer, but she felt the need to speak what was on her heart, like Abel always did, as if the Lord God himself was standing beside her.

Carrie placed one hand over Yonnie’s, and one hand over Abel’s. “Um, dear God in heaven, none of us deserve your forgiveness, but still, we’re asking for it. We’re hoping for it. Please have mercy on our Yonnie. She made a mistake, a dreadful mistake, and she’s sorry. She’s so very sorry. Please, God, have mercy. Amen.”

As soon as Carrie finished, Yonnie inhaled deeply, as if filling up her lungs, then exhaled, a sigh of great relief.

One moment Yonnie was there, and the next she was not.

Abel fell on his grandmother’s still chest and wept for all that had died with her, heartbreaking cries that Carrie knew would heal him in the end.

If only Daniel could have heard this truth, she thought, stroking Abel’s back. If only he could have wept like Abel was weeping. If only Daniel could have known that grief was meant to heal.

16

Abel and Andy, quiet and solemn, went birding for the afternoon. As soon as the undertaker arrived for Yonnie’s body, Carrie told Clara she’d be gone for a long while, and she went straight to Mattie’s house. If Yonnie’s passing had taught her anything, it was not to wait on important things.

One of the Zook boys opened the kitchen door when he saw Carrie marching up to it.

“If you’re looking for Mattie, she’s upstairs,” he said, eating a sandwich.

Carrie took the stairs two at a time, just as she had when they were girls. She found Mattie in her bedroom, whipping a sheet in the air, letting it float over the bed. Standing across the bed from her, Carrie pulled the sheet taut, tucking it into the corners.

“Yonnie died this morning.”

Mattie froze. Her eyes went wide with shock. Slowly, she sat down on top of the bed.

Carrie sat next to her and told her about Yonnie’s confession, choking up as she spoke about Daniel. Mattie listened carefully, wiping away tears with a handkerchief.

“I need to go, Mattie, there’s so much to do to get ready for Yonnie’s viewing. But first, there’s something I have to ask you.”

“Anything,” Mattie said. “How can I help?”

“I need to find Sol. How do I get in touch with him?”

Mattie closed her eyes and moved her lips silently, as if whispering a prayer, then opened them as she slipped off the bed. “I’ll get his address.”

Carrie took the bus into Lancaster to Sol’s apartment. She had never been to that particular part of town before; she felt apprehensive, but she knew she needed to see him. She held the piece of paper that Mattie had written on and looked for the apartment number on it. She knocked on 13B and took a step back. Sol opened the door, looking as if he had just walked in the door from work, still in blue jeans and a dirty T-shirt and work boots.

For a long moment, he blinked a few times, as if he thought he was dreaming. Then he swallowed, and opened wide the door. “Carrie, come in.”

Carrie looked around the dingy apartment. She thought she saw cockroaches scurry out of an empty pizza box.

“Do you want to sit down?” Sol asked tentatively, tucking his shirt into his blue jeans, looking around to see if there was an empty place to sit.

She shook her head. “No. I need to get back soon. I just came to tell you something.”

His eyes flew to meet hers.

“You asked me to forgive you,” she said, her voice shaking. “You asked me several times. I’m sorry I didn’t offer it to you.” She folded her hands against her stomach. “It was wrong of me to hold on to that anger. It hurt you and it hurt me and it wasn’t fair to Daniel. And it just . . . it’s no way to live.” She looked up at him. “I forgive you. I’m not mad at you anymore. That’s all. That’s all I came to say.”

Sol’s eyes started to swim. “I don’t know what to do, Carrie. Tell me. Tell me which way to turn.” He looked as if his very soul ached, as if he had finally come to the end of burnt-out solitude.

In all the years she had known Sol, she had never seen him look helpless. Her every memory of him was marked by his sure smile and his confident way of handling whatever life threw at him. He looked so hurt, so frightened and broken, and she couldn’t bear it. She felt something turn over in her chest.

“All that I can tell you is that I’m not afraid of God anymore. There’s peace in my heart. I don’t feel God’s finger wagging at me. I had that part of knowing God all mixed up. But the past is the past. What’s done is done. I don’t want you feeling bad about it. I’m grateful for the life God has given me.” She looked deeply into his eyes, hoping he understood.

Sol reached out for her hand. Carrie smiled, a sweet conciliation, and put her hand in his.

Within a few days, a funeral service was held for Yonnie. Emma and Steelhead came to the cemetery, standing at a distance, on the edge. Carrie noticed that Emma still wore Plain clothes but her prayer cap was absent. Carrie exchanged a smile with her, but she didn’t leave the graveside to go speak to her as Abel did. Emma was happy, Abel said. She wanted Carrie to know she was happy. Seeing her made Carrie’s heart ache; she missed her sorely.

Afterward, back at the house, Carrie carried an empty plate to the kitchen to refill with cookies. She thought of Yonnie eating cookies for breakfast and felt a wave of grief, missing her quirky ways. It saddened her that Yonnie had waited so long to set things straight. Maybe, at the very end, people need the truth to be known. Abel was right, the truth did set people free. If only Yonnie had told the truth to set Daniel free. Yonnie’s secret had kept Daniel in a prison, of sorts.

Abraham lingered after others left to return to their farms for chores. “Would you have a moment, Carrie?” the deacon asked her as she handed him his coat. He gave her a warm smile.

Carrie threw a shawl over her shoulders and the two went outside.

“Shall we walk to the orchards? They’re in bloom, aren’t they?” he asked, knowing full well they were. “Springtime is a testament to the goodness of the Lord. He maketh all things new.” He clasped his hands behind his back as he walked, looking so very content. “It’s been over a year now since Daniel passed.”

Carrie nodded. “It was a year on March 18.”

“Hard to understand why the Lord God took such a young man as he did, but it’s not for us to question God’s ways, is it?”

“No.”

A soft, strong breeze swept up through the trees, scattering a confetti of apple blossom petals down on them. He stopped and cupped his ear. “Do you hear that mourning dove call out, Carrie?”

She listened for the familiar cooing sound.

“Did you know that some birds use the nests of other species? Oftentimes a mourning dove will use an old robin’s nest to raise her family—a nest that is a lot sturdier and more secure than her own.”

The deacon kept walking along in that slow, thoughtful gait of his. “Great horned owls have even taken over crows’ nests. There’s a powerful instinct God put in nature to keep life going.” He stopped and looked at the curtain of flower blossoms that covered the trees, quiet for a long time.

Suddenly, Carrie realized that he had been praying the whole time he was talking, his head tilted to the heavens, as if including the Lord God in this conversation.

“He put it in humans too. The ability to love again. Not to remain so tied to the past that we can’t keep living.”

He started walking back toward the farmhouse. “I had a visitor yesterday. A young man. Said he was ready to start instructions so he could be baptized in the fall.” The deacon fished out his handkerchief from his pants pocket and blew his nose loudly, then put it back in his pocket. “I can feel the Lord God’s pleasure when a young fella is ready to make that decision.” He took his hat off and rubbed the indentation on his hair that his hat had made. “Of course, I always ask the young fellas—each one, I ask—‘now, son, you wouldn’t be making this decision because you’re sweet on an Amish girl, would you?’ ” He put his hat back on. “Why do you think I ask that question of the fellas, Carrie?”

She knew how important it was to have pure motives for baptism. She had struggled with it herself. “Otherwise, one day he might regret the decision. Maybe even resent that girl.”

He nodded. “That’s right. So I asked him, straight off. Know what this fella said?”

She tilted her head, curious.

“He said he’s been struggling a long time, a real long time, about whether he should be baptized in the Amish church.” The deacon chuckled. “He said that he loved the Lord God with all his heart, soul, and mind. Being Amish came after that. But he wanted me to know that he did love an Amish girl. He prayed about it, and God finally gave him peace. He thought God understood.”

Suddenly, as understanding flooded Carrie’s mind, her heart felt too big for her chest.

The deacon nodded. “So I told this young fella, as long as he knew that God came first, above all else, then I would approve him for baptism. Because that’s the most important thing of all, to know that God comes first.” He took a few steps forward, then stopped to wait for Carrie, a smile lighting his eyes. “Just exactly what I told him.”

Walking back toward the house, they finished the rest of their talk. An important talk.

The following week, at first light, teams of men arrived at Carrie’s farm, hauling in beams and boards and wooden pegs. By midmorning, wagons with women and children arrived, loaded with hampers of food. When Carrie saw Esther’s buggy, she hurried to greet her and help her down. Esther gave her a thin smile, rusty from disuse.

As Carrie watched everyone working on her behalf, she felt flooded with gratitude. Watching the barn rise before her gave a catch in her heart. These were her people, her family. She almost sensed her father’s pleasure, as real as the sun shining. Her mind drifted to Daniel too, wondering what he would think about this beautiful new barn. She found thinking of him didn’t cause the sorrow that it used to. She gave thanks to God for bringing Daniel to her, and her to Daniel.

By late afternoon, nails had been gathered up in brown paper bags and hammers tucked beneath the bench seats of buggies. Carrie left Esther and Clara in the kitchen, cleaning out the Tupperware to return to the women who’d brought the food.

She gazed at the new barn, proud and tall against the cerulean sky, the freshly sawn boards still raw and yellow. Inside, she found Abel and Andy examining the posts and rafters. Carrie stood in the center and peered up at the thick beams that crossed over her head, inhaling the fragrance of new wood.

Andy climbed up to the loft and tossed a handful of sawdust on Abel’s head. Carrie laughed—it covered his dark hair like a snowfall. He brushed it off, grinning.

“What are you thinking?” he asked her as she turned in a circle, soaking up the sight of the new barn.

“I was thinking that everyone I know has something at stake in this barn. The women brought the food, the men brought the wood and supplies, all of my neighbors gave the gift of their hard work. There’s a little part of everyone here.” She wrapped her arms around herself, deeply satisfied. “It’s a fine barn, Abel.”

Andy started climbing down the ramp, then decided to jump off, midway, but as soon as he hit the floor he doubled over, clutching his foot in pain. He had landed on a hammer that had been left behind, and the sharp edge sliced into his heel.

Carrie crouched down and pulled out a handkerchief to mop up the blood seeping out of the wound. “Why are you running around barefoot, Andy? You know better!”

Abel bent down to examine the cut. “That’s pretty deep. It’s going to need stitches.”

Carrie took Andy’s hand and placed it against the wound. Straightening up, she said, “Abel, would you mind getting the buggy ready? I’ll need to take him into the emergency room.” She rubbed her face with her hands. “Just the other day, I realized Andy hadn’t needed an infusion of Factor IX in months and months.”

“I’ll go with you,” Abel said.

“So will I,” Esther said, standing at the open barn door.

Abraham peered around her shoulder. “I’ll come too.”