To Love and to Cherish (27 page)

“Yes, Aenti.” Emma dropped the pot into the rinse water and turned to face her. “It seems a little sudden.”

“To someone who’s been waiting for years, it would.”

“That’s not it. Catherine suffered a terrible trauma when Mudder and Daed…when they…when…”

“So did you. So much so that even after six months, you still can’t say the words.”

“When they died.” Emma dried her hands on a towel and laid it on
the table. She sank onto a chair across from her aunt. “She suffered so terribly she couldn’t eat or sleep. Now she’s marrying a man whom she’s barely begun to court.”

“That’s because I know how short life is and how suddenly it can end.” Catherine strode through the doorway, an almost empty basket of rolls in her hands. “I saw what happened to my parents. I was there when they took their last breaths. Did you know Mudder called for Daed—before you ran up—she called his name? They so loved each other. I want to have that before it’s too late.”

“Catherine, I’m sorry.” Emma rushed across the room to her. “I am happy for you, very happy.”

“I know you don’t believe that I’m better, but I am.” Catherine thrust the basket at her. “You’re the one who can’t seem to look ahead instead of behind. You know who else knows how short life is?”

Emma set the basket on the table. “What do you mean?”

“Thomas. Thomas knows.”

Catherine whirled and left the room. Emma stared at the empty doorway, pondering.

“She’s right, you know.”

Emma closed her eyes for a second, then turned to face Annie. “I do know, but it’s a hard decision. A hard choice.”

“No, it’s not. Carl left you. Thomas never would.” Annie polished the plate in her hand with such vigorous strokes, it was a wonder it didn’t break. “I wish…I wish I had choices. I wish someone shone a flashlight in the window for me.”

She sounded so sad. Emma covered the space between them in three quick steps. She patted Annie’s shoulder. Her sister’s eyes were bright with tears. Emma felt her own tears well. “I’m sorry. There will be someone for you.”

“Maybe not. I need to face that fact.”

“Not yet. It’s too soon to think that way.”

Annie sniffed. “I’ll get along fine, just like you have.”

“What do you mean?” Surviving. Surely God intended that life be more than a bare minimum. “I’m not doing much of anything.”

“You can’t call teaching children not much of anything. The community trusts you with their children.” Annie went back to drying dishes. “I can’t teach—that’s your calling. But I can cook. I mean to ask Luke to let me try to get a job at the restaurant in town. Soon. I keep saying that, but this time, I’m going to do it. What’s the worst that could happen? He says no?”

The thought of working all day surrounded by fancy folks sent a tiny shiver through Emma. She’d grown used to their stares. Even the photo taking. But a steady diet of it would be trying. “Are you sure?”

“I can be much more help with the finances that way.”

Luke hadn’t said much about their finances since the discussion that occurred right after their parents’ deaths, but Emma had watched his face darken and the sun lines around his eyes deepen as he stared at paperwork spread over the table in the evenings after long days of hard work. “Would you be happy working in town?”

Annie’s face brightened. “I love to cook. When people enjoy the food I prepare, it gives me a sense of accomplishment. Is that wrong?”

“No, my child, it’s not wrong.” Aenti Louise put a gnarled hand covered with ropey veins to her mouth to hide a gentle burp. “I like your food very much. Preparing the food that people break together is an honor and a privilege. Ask your brother. See what he says.”

Annie hugged a clean pot to her chest. “I will.”

“Give me that pot. I’ll put it away.” Aenti Louise slid from her chair and held out a hand. “Time to make myself useful.”

They worked in silence for several minutes. Emma sank her hands into the soapy water. She fought drowsiness. Too much turkey and not enough sleep. There would be time for a nap later. Right now, the stacks of dishes didn’t seem to be shrinking fast enough.

“You don’t realize how blessed you are, Emma.”

Emma almost dropped a serving dish that still had chunks of mashed potatoes clinging to the sides. Aenti Louise’s words pierced her. Emma claimed to be blessed. She spoke the words. She even thought them. But did she believe it? She met her aunt’s gaze. “Carl Freiling is trying to convince me he’s changed by giving me letters he wrote to
me while he was away, but never sent. Thomas Brennaman claims to have feelings for me, and he’s having dessert at Helen Crouch’s house. I don’t feel blessed. I feel…I feel confused and afraid I’ll make the wrong decision.”

Aenti Louise sighed.
“Pffft.”

“
Pffft?
What does that mean?”

“It means you have yet to seek the will of God in this. If you had, you’d know what path you must take.”

Emma went back to washing dishes. She didn’t respond to her aunt’s claim. She had no answer. If God was telling her something, she had no idea what it was.

“Do you know the story of Jacob?”

As a child, Emma had loved her aunt’s stories told by the fireplace in the evenings before bedtime. After she delivered babies, she often stayed and took care of the smaller children, giving mothers a day or two to recover and take care of the new baby. Her services were in great demand in those days. “I remember you telling us the stories. He stole his brother Esau’s birthright.”

“I was thinking of later, when he was a grown man. When he wrestled with the angel of God. Remember that story?” Aenti Louise stooped to put away a large pot. She put a hand on her hip when she straightened, wincing in pain. “Why do you think God sent an angel to wrestle with this man?”

Emma glanced at Annie. Her sister gave her a sympathetic smile. There was no stopping Aenti Louise when she started with a lesson. “Because He wanted Jacob to realize who was in control.”

“And who was that?”

“God,” Emma whispered.

“Yes. The angel fought with Jacob all night. He could have overpowered him at any time. Instead he kept fighting and fighting until Jacob was too tired to fight anymore. Then the angel touched Jacob’s hip socket and with one touch defeated him. That’s when Jacob knew God was in charge. Who’s in charge of your life, Emma? Who are you wrestling with?”

Emma bowed her head and tried to hide her tears. “Plain people don’t wrestle. We don’t fight.”

“Don’t get sassy with me, little girl. We don’t fight physically. But we struggle with God’s will all the time. What are you wrestling with God about?”

“Why did He let them die?” She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” She touched Emma’s face with a wrinkled hand. “But in the darkest hours the only place to turn is to Him.”

Emma turned and accepted her aunt’s hug. “I’m trying.”

“I know. Stop trying so hard and let it be. Stop and listen. Be still and hear. Just be.”

Just be. It sounded so restful. And so impossible.

Emma folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. If only life were as easy to learn. Aenti Louise’s words that afternoon sang inside her head. Be still. Listen. Let God be in charge. She closed her eyes and sat very still.
God?
The image of Carl sitting behind the
wheel of a car floated through her mind. Did he play the radio while he drove? Did he open the windows and sit with one arm dangling outside like she had seen the Englisch men do? Did he stick his head out and let the wind blow his hair? He wouldn’t have worn a hat, surely. How fast had he driven? She thought of the speed limit signs on the highway. Seventy miles an hour. Who could compete with that kind of adventure? She smoothed the envelope with a shaking finger. Carl may have walked away from that sort of worldliness, but the fact remained that he still wanted control. Control of her.

Who is in control? Who’s in charge?
Aenti Louise loved those kinds of questions. Emma hated them.

She tried to listen to the silence again. After a long, fun-filled day with a house full of aunts and uncles and cousins, nieces and nephews, the quiet was lovely. But empty. No words of wisdom came. Everyone had turned in early except her. She couldn’t seem to find the peace necessary to sleep.

Still, it had been a good day. Despite the encounter with Thomas. Despite the empty spaces where Mudder and Daed should’ve been seated. Despite the discussion with Aenti Louise, Annie, and Catherine. Despite the uncertainty in her life. God did have control.
I’m trying, God
.

Instead of going to sleep, she read two more letters. They contained lengthy descriptions of Carl’s life in a fancy world. He went to the movies, saw a play, watched cartoons on TV like a small child. He said he missed her, but every letter brimmed with excitement over some new adventure. Even learning to use a dishwasher and going to a Laundromat filled him with awe and wonder. He described meals in fast food restaurants and conversations with strangers on the bus. He painted a world where everything was something to write home about.

She slapped the fourth letter back in its place. Why? Why did he want her to read all this? Four years later. What difference could it possibly make in her feelings for him now? So he had his adventure and he wanted her to say it was all right that he left for four years to do it. So far, she couldn’t find it in herself to say that. Or feel it. Or forgive him.

She extinguished the lamp and waited for her eyes to adjust to
the inky darkness. A knock on the door made her jump. She gasped and put a trembling hand to her chest. After a few seconds, another knock, this one a little louder. She rushed to the door. “Who is it?” she whispered, her hand on the knob. “It’s late.”

“It’s Carl.” His hoarse whisper sent another tremor through her. “Open the door.”

She nibbled at her lower lip. After a few seconds she did as he asked. “It’s late and it’s too cold for buggy rides.”

“I’ll only stay for a few minutes.”

He held her gaze. She sighed. “Come in.”

Pulling gloves from his hands, he brushed past her. He smelled like the smoke of wood burning in a smoldering fireplace.

Emma relit the lamp and waited until he chose a chair. She lowered herself into a hickory rocking chair a discreet distance away. She folded her hands in her lap. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Same to you.” He fumbled with the eye-and-hook on his black woolen coat. “Did you have a nice day with your family?”

“I did. And you?” She studied her hands. She was too tired for awkward conversation. “Carl, don’t take your coat off. I’m really too tired for you to stay—”

“Did you read the letters?”

She raised her head to meet his gaze. His hand was still on the last hook, as if he’d forgotten what he was doing. His eyes blazed with emotion. She looked away. “Four. I’ve read four.”

“Will you read the others?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Promise me you’ll read them.” He slapped both hands on his knees and leaned forward. “I need for you to read them. So we can talk… about everything. Once you’ve read them, if you can’t get past what I’ve done, then I’ll stop bothering you.”

What he had done? Abandoned her. Adopted a way of living that flew in the face of everything they believed in. Only Carl could believe someone like her could get past all that. “Carl—”

“I know you want me to give up so you won’t have to make a decision,
but that’s not going to happen.” His gaze seemed to pierce her skin and peer at her heart. “You’re the only one here who will understand and forgive.”

“You’ve already been forgiven by your parents and your family. What are you talking about, Carl?” And what did he know about what she wanted? She didn’t know herself. “I haven’t made a decision because there isn’t one to make. There’s nothing between us anymore.”

“That’s not true and you know it. We bonded for life. I’ll not give up. I won’t make it easy for you. Thomas might, but I won’t. I came back here for you.”

He rose. Her heart sliced to ribbons by his words, she followed suit. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say goodnight.”

He came back for her
. “Goodnight, Carl.”

“Now that I’ve spent a few minutes in your company it is a good night.” He touched the brim of his hat and moved to the door. “Until another day.”

He slipped through the door and closed it behind him, leaving her standing in the middle of an empty room. After a few seconds, she returned to her spot by the lamp. His strange, emotional insistence propelled her to pick up the stack of letters once again.

The next one was short. It had been written about a month after the letter describing how he watched cartoons on the television while the dishwasher took care of his lonely plate, fork, and spoon.