Rebecca's Choice (The Adams County Trilogy 3) Page 19

  M-Jay died today. Not unexpectedly, but I still feel completely alone. I wasn’t expecting it, Manny. I also wasn’t expecting the fury that rose over the inheritance. No one knew, of course, but M-Jay kept his word. He was true to the end. It would have been easy for him to tell me “no,” but he didn’t.

  Rachel especially took it hard. I suppose I had some idea how much her mind was on the money. The problem is mine is also on the money. I’ve always told myself the money had nothing to do with my decisions. In my heart I still believe it, but when the time came, I wanted it, Manny. I wanted the money with an intensity that alarmed me and still does.

  Here I am, though. The funeral’s over. I’m living on the home place. Rachel’s fuming is about over, I think. The spoiled child. It will do her good to live without her heart’s desire for a few more years. Eventually I’ll see to it that she gets it back.

  In the meantime, I have the inheritance in my hand. It’s strange how it affects me, even soothes my heart—the freshness of it, the numbers in the bank, the rolling fields that bear my name, the animals that live and die because I want them to.

  It’s delightful how men, young and old alike, look at me, that intent look of respect in their eyes. I never got such looks before when I was Emma-the-schoolteacher. Sure I still teach, but I am now the Emma who owns three farms and money besides. You would almost think I was in love, Manny. Isn’t that crazy? But then the thought breaks my heart, and I cry. I’m left with an agony that doesn’t go away.

  The inheritance increases in value each day. I take comfort in it. I tell myself it is Da Hah’s reward for my faithfulness to Him and the faith all these years. Does His Word not say, those who obey Him will prosper?

  Rebecca glanced at the clock, its hands were approaching midnight, but she pulled another letter out.

  Manny,

  I am frightened tonight and sick of myself at the same time. Remember the boy and girl I told you about? His parents are leaving the Amish. I was expecting Rebecca to show up in shock at school, her face long, but she hasn’t. She looks resigned, but not worried. Instead she is almost happy.

  I wish I knew why. I thought at first she had not been told, but then I asked her, and she blushed. She knows, but she is not devastated. Does she know something I don’t?

  But that’s not really why I’m frightened or sick of myself. I found out today that I’m dying. Yes, Manny, the end cannot be far away. Sure, the doctor comforted me with words. He said with the advances in medicine… all those things… and I do have money. It will be a while yet, he said. Years, in his words, but I know better.

  My time on this earth is short. The preachers have always said that, but this is different, more different, more real, more shocking than I had ever imagined. What is it like over there? Do they really have streets of gold? Are there really rewards for all the sacrifices we have made here?

  I think the unthinkable, the awful, and I come up with only doubts. I am sick of myself. The money, the farms, they now just make it worse. I know I came by them by no desire of my own, but I have enjoyed them willingly enough. I have even tried to use their pleasure to heal my heart.

  Will I have children in heaven, Manny? I ask, and I tremble at what I have lost. Maybe I should have had my eyes opened years ago. I wonder if you ever had any. Is there a boy or a girl who carries your blood, the color of your eyes, your twinkle in their eyes, your ability to love. Are you childless, Manny?

  Can God really make up for my mistakes? I shudder at my nerve in asking, yet I shall soon see Him, so I might as well ask now as later. He is not one who doesn’t know what I feel anyway.

  I should have loved the widower, Manny, all those years ago. I would have felt disloyal to you, to our love, but it would have been worth it. I tried to do the right thing, but it was the wrong thing. I see now an even worse thing. I should have loved you, Manny. I should have. I never thought the day would come when I would say that. Is it because I am dying?

  I thought you were wrong then, but that wrong would be easier to make right than what my life has become. I know it, Manny. I know it with every ache and beat of my weary heart. I’m sure my heart is dying because I never allowed it to love. The doctor would tell me I’m crazy, but I just know. I know because I was there through all the pain.

  Now I am left with numbness. The pain doesn’t even come that often anymore. That is frightening too. I am dying, Manny, as sure as my heart has been dying for a long time.

  Rebecca didn’t look at the clock, as she removed the last letter. The pages rustled in her hand, the kerosene lamp flickered, and she reached over to turn up the flame without her eyes leaving the white paper.

  Manny, Manny, dearest Manny,

  At last I can say it. I now know what to do. The relief is immense. My joy returned for a while at least, and then the sorrow returns. Rebecca was here today. She told me the story of her and Atlee, and I told her what I was supposed to say.

  Even in my dying, I could not but say what is right. I told her she must, of course, marry the Amish boy. The words came out of my mouth, but my heart was crying. I’m too old to change, Manny. I know it, and I accept it. I saw that today. I can never change, but I know I should have. I should have loved you.

  In my dying I can still save Rebecca. Perhaps that is the atonement for my sins, the purging of my life. That in death I should save another and be rid of this accursed money in the process, I cannot but look at it so. It brought me a false joy, comfort for what should not have been comforted, peace where there should have been none.

  Rebecca is young. She can do what I cannot do. She has the time I do not have. Today I mailed the first letter to my lawyer. In the letter were my instructions to draw up the proper papers. I will use you as the executor of the will. I don’t know how I know you are still alive, but you are Manny. Even if you’ve married, your wife surely won’t object because I’m no longer here. That is by the time you read this. Perhaps you have even told her about me, in which case she already understands.

  I will mail you these letters, so Rebecca can read them. You can too, and I say I’m sorry again, but there is no longer time to make things right between you and me. Rebecca must not make the mistake I made. She must follow her heart. She must dare to love what is forbidden. She must.

  I will write the will to say she doesn’t receive the money if she marries outside the faith. What joy the thought of her choice brings me. She’s a good girl in a way I never was. She has deep convictions. She will choose love. Let her spurn the money, as I never could. Let her take it under her feet as our Lord did the serpent.

  I know she will. Rebecca will never let the love of the inheritance influence her, as I know it influenced me. I told myself it never did, but I doubt that now. My heart is quite wicked, Manny. I am sorry. It should have been yours, and you could have saved it. I know you could have. Left to myself, I only became a worse person than I already was.

  This will open Rebecca’s eyes. Perhaps my confession here will help. Let her see all of this, Manny. Let her see and reject what I did wrong. It is my hope that out of the dust of my broken life may grow another who is wiser than I am. She will return to her love for Atlee. I know she will.

  Goodbye, Manny. It really is goodbye this time. I go to cross the river soon and before my time because my heart has failed me in more ways then one. Rachel can have her cursed money, the farms, the animals, the emptiness they all bring. I would take your kiss, Manny, any day—just one in place of them all.

  Emma

  P.S. Emma. I think that’s what they will call me in heaven. The last name “Miller” doesn’t belong. If they insist, I’ll tell them it should have been “Troyer.” Your name sounds so much better.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Rebecca got up from the bed, the letter clutched between numb fingers, walked over to her window, and let the shade up. Outside the stars twinkled, little flames of light in a dark sky. The tail end of the Milky Way’s great wash dropped almost
to the horizon. Behind her the kerosene lamp flickered, its light dimmed by the display of glory in the sky.

  “I’m not Emma,” Rebecca whispered. The letter slipped from her fingers and slid to the floor. The pages landed without a sound.

  What am I going to do? she wondered. What if someone finds out how Emma felt? She could imagine the talk, the questions, and it would make things between her and John all the worse—almost impossible.

  She realized the letter was no longer in her hand. Panic filled her, the night exaggerated the fears, and wild thoughts filled her mind. Was the letter already lost, swept away from the eyes of the world?

  On the floor she saw the white pages and bent to pick them up. The letters would have to be hidden or destroyed just as the ring had been hidden. As the thought registered in her mind, she recoiled. That action had lead only to distress and finally revelation, which played its part in her present trouble. The letters would have to go.

  Rebecca walked back to where the package lay on the bed. Several of the papers had slid to the floor, and she gathered them up carefully. A search confirmed that she had found all of them. Tomorrow they would be sent back. The conclusion came quickly. She would tell her mother, and Mattie would understand.

  They were letters from Emma, she would say, which Emma wanted her to read. They contained private things, and Rebecca wanted them returned to the Mennonite man, since they really belonged to him. More than that, she wouldn’t tell. She wouldn’t need to tell.

  Released of her urgent concern, she lay on the bed and let Emma’s emotions sweep over her. Tears for the agony expressed stung her cheeks. Then she froze in shock, wondering if she truly was like Emma. Had she rejected Atlee for reasons her heart would regret?

  The question took her breath away. The voice behind the question was Emma’s, and she would have given it no credence, but the years of admiration, of respect, of submission demanded an answer. Was Emma right?

  She clutched the edge of the blanket, fear gripping her heart. Am I deceiving myself as Emma apparently had? Does devotion to my faith drive my decisions? Does it cloud my judgment, blind me to the happiness I could have? Will I grow old, only to regret this choice, this direction of my heart?

  Visions of Atlee returned, as if from the faint and distant past. She remembered his eyes, his face, the tone of his voice, the ring he handed her, the sound of water under the bridge. She wondered at the memory, whether she had extinguished the flame by force of will, by dedication to a higher cause.

  She saw the answer, but her trust of Emma caused her to hesitate before reaching to open the door to her future. Then she trembled and crossed over the threshold. In honesty, she found the courage to step forward. In her sorrow, she left behind her youth, her faith in the absolute, which was Emma. She chose Rebecca. She wept because she was alone, fearful to sever the past. But then it was done, and she cried for joy, which sprang unbidden, unasked for, guilt its shadow, as if she had transgressed against the holy.

  She felt a great love for John. It washed her being, burned like fire in her soul, and brought her upright in bed. She wondered in amazement. Was it the starlight, the twinkle of their bewitchment, the drape of the night, which so moved her? Perhaps Emma had stirred her passions and affected her emotions.

  “If she did then so much the better,” she whispered into the darkness. She let me see. She opened my eyes even more to the love of a man, what it can do, what it feels like, and what it means to life itself.

  She didn’t quite intend for me to take it that way, she thought and slowly reclined. Sleep seemed out of place at the moment, but she felt the weariness of her body. The hands of the clock showed two o’clock. What is to happen now? I suppose Emma did offer a way out. She smiled at the thought. It would have been a way to solve the money problem. Now the problem is still there.

  Others would have to resolve the issue, she decided. It was beyond her. She would stand where she had to stand, and that was all she could do. Tomorrow she would return the letters and her answer to the Mennonite man. She wished there was more time but dared not keep the letters longer. The danger of their discovery was simply too great. Atlee might think her hasty and conclude she was like Emma, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Sleep came then, and the dreams followed. She was with John. The buggy door was open, and the night outside sped past, but then it was Atlee, his hands clutching the lines. He laughed when she asked him how he knew how to drive a buggy. He said he always had, had never forgotten, had been Amish once. He said he was coming back for her and knew how to stop her marriage to John, which wasn’t to be.

  He told her he would know how to talk to the bishop, what things would need to be said to convince him. He would tell them, he said, how she used to love him. He would tell the deacon things that would make his hair stand on end, how she cared for the ring he gave her, how she kept it. Hadn’t she? He laughed again, a great swell of sound that echoed out into the night.

  She begged him to stop, to be let off. It’s the middle of nowhere, he told her, and drove faster. The horse had lathers of sweat on its harness, and the specks flew backward and covered the storm front. When she told him to stop before they had an accident, he said that was what he wanted.

  Perhaps if he had one, he told her, she would love him, love him like she used to, when they were children and followed their hearts. There were car lights that passed them, from the front and the back. Then he turned out the lights of the buggy, and she knew the next one would hit them.

  She reached to grab the reins, to pull into the ditch, but he held on. Her hand found the light switch and turned on the buggy’s running lights and the dome light. Her eyes filled with terror, sought Atlee’s face, but it was John’s face she saw, hurt in his eyes. He asked why she wanted to drive, didn’t she trust him, wasn’t he good enough for her.

  She woke upright in bed, her fingernails dug into the palms of her hand. Sweat soaked, she listened for sounds in the house, hoped she hadn’t screamed and given notice to her family of her distress.

  “It’s just a dream,” she whispered in the silence but found no comfort in the words. The world seemed to be out of control, wild, and careening faster than an Englisha’s car around a curve on their blacktop road. Its end seemed almost as certain, a crash in the ditch, a decision by the deacon and Bishop Martin that she couldn’t marry John.

  She had seen the mangled results of an Englisha’s car when it went astray and imagined her own life in the same condition. It could easily happen. Of this she had no doubt. Already the road seemed open, the conclusions almost foreknown. Because if she couldn’t go along with communion until this problem was solved and because it couldn’t be solved, she wouldn’t be going. John would stand with her, of this she had no doubt. They would both be in the ditch and not married.

  Rebecca got out of bed and sought comfort at the window. Now, though, the sight of the open heavens only jarred her further. They seemed so perfect, so in order, each twinkling spot in place, so unlike her life. Could heaven really help this chaos?

  Was she to be cut adrift, separated from her people, not by choice but by necessity, because she stood by John, because she loved him? The irony didn’t escape her.

  The thought of an escape presented itself, and she considered it for a moment. Should she wait a while to mail back the letters and cut ties with Atlee? With her life ruined, why drag John down with her? Perhaps she should do what was best for him. Perhaps she should reconsider Atlee. Surely there would be worse things in life than being married to a Mennonite.

  She rejected the idea and noticed the anger that rose inside of her. If she couldn’t have John, if they took him from her, then she wouldn’t settle for a lesser love, even if it meant a single life.

  A life like Emma’s, the thought came quick and poignant. I am like her—stubborn and willful. If I can’t get what I want, I take nothing.

  In her mind Rebecca heard the words from Emma’s letter as they replayed. He said he t
hought it was Da Hah’s villa. Said he felt we were led together. Said his heart had been heavy, burdened. That today was the first day any girl had brought hope to his mind. I saw our children in his eyes, Manny. A dozen of them. Yet it was as if he already knew what would be. That I would say “no.” His eyes were so sad. He said he understood, that he didn’t have much to offer. I told him that was not the reason, but he didn’t believe me.

  Rebecca placed both her hands on her face, shut out the window, the stars, the night, and the thoughts. “I’m not Emma,” she groaned and was surprised at the silence that came. In the distance the faint howl of a dog rose, muffled through the closed window. She went back to bed and wept till sleep brought silence again.

  Matthew’s footsteps woke her at chore time, the clock she forgot to set the alarm on showed five thirty. Her head swam when her feet landed on the floor, but she forced herself to get dressed. The chill of the early morning air was not broken by any warmth from the floor register. Mattie rarely started a fire in the kitchen stove once late spring was past.

  Out in the barn, she was thankful Matthew seemed lost in his own thoughts. Back in the kitchen her mother didn’t operate under similar conditions.

  “My,” Mattie said, “you are a wreck.”

  “I had a hard night.” A tear ran unbidden down her face.

  Mattie paused, a plate of eggs in her hands. “What was in that package? If it was something awful, then I won’t have Mennonite men coming around here again. Won’t tolerate it.”