Later that night, when Anna and Tobias’s long wedding day was over, the evening chores done, and I was alone in my bed, Rachel’s words kept replaying in my mind. Truth be told, I didn’t want to believe my current restlessness had anything to do with my dad’s long-ago decision to leave me behind. But once she brought it up, I couldn’t stop wondering if that was part of it, a leftover yearning from childhood.
I hadn’t regretted the decision I’d made in my father’s hotel room. I’d known where I stood with my Englisch family—as a distant fourth to their little group of three. There was no room for me in their world.
And I’d always been okay with the trajectory my life had taken after that—or at least I’d told myself I was. Certainly, I could see God’s hand in it. Here on the farm, I had learned what it meant to be Christlike, to be part of a community, to live among people who put their beliefs into practice, day after hardworking day.
On the other hand, I admitted to myself now, I had also sacrificed much by staying here: the presence of my father in my life on a daily basis, any sort of a real relationship with my stepmother, quality time with my little brother, Brady. Once they moved to California when I was eleven, I started going to stay with them for several weeks each summer. But those visits had always been difficult for me. So many elements came into play. My deep affection for Brady. My jealousy over the life he’d been given, one that should have been mine too. My relationship with Liz, who always seemed so uncomfortable when I was around. My resentment toward my father, who acted oblivious to the fact that he’d basically abandoned me after my mother’s death.
Worst of all, I would spend those times feeling like the odd man out, not just because I wasn’t a true part of their family, but because I wasn’t even a true part of the Englisch world. I was an Amish boy, and being at my dad’s house only accentuated that.
Yet once I came home, it always took a little while for me to reenter my Amish life. Both worlds were mine, yet in truth neither was. I didn’t really belong there. I didn’t really belong here. I was caught somewhere in the middle, a man without any place at all.
I turned over in my bed and pushed the curtains away from the window above the headboard. Moonshine bathed me in pearly radiance. A patch of clouds hung low, and a single star glimmered in the open space between the heavens and the earth. The sky had looked just like this on my first night in this house. I didn’t remember arriving or much of the long ride that had brought us here, but I did remember some of the events leading up to that. I remembered the afternoon my first life ended and my second one began.
Closing my eyes now, I could see myself in my Englisch funeral clothes—gray slacks, a new clip-on tie, a blue button-down shirt that was still wrinkled from its packaging. Just prior to the service, my father pointed out a couple I’d never met, saying they were my mom’s mother and father, my grandparents. They were so oddly dressed, I wouldn’t have believed it except that the woman looked like an older version of my mother. She had the same beautiful eyes, the same, though far more wrinkled, heart-shaped face.
After the service, I sat in the tire swing of the chapel playground while funeral-goers sipped punch and munched on tiny chicken salad sandwiches and talked softly among themselves. My dad, in his dress uniform, stood talking to the man he’d said was my grandfather. But this was not the grandfather I already knew, my dad’s father, the one who walked with a cane and smelled like cigarettes. This other grandfather had a beard like Abraham Lincoln—whiskers with no moustache—and a broad-brimmed black hat.
The other grandmother was with them as well, but she didn’t seem to be paying attention to their conversation. Instead, she just stood there in her dark dress and black bonnet, looking back at me, her face a strange mix of happy and sad.
I couldn’t hear everything my father was saying to them, but I picked up snatches, such as “only for a year” and “just until I can figure out how to do this on my own,” and “Sadie was the one who did everything.”
Sadie.
Mommy.
And then my dad walked over to the swing and knelt down. He looked tired, and the rims of his eyes were red. He told me my grandparents had a farm in the country and they wanted me to come to see it. He said there were cows and horses and a big house and other kids my age.
“And a pond,” I replied, remembering the night of the storm when we still lived in Germany and my mother was still alive.
“What?”
“There’s a pond at the farm. Mommy told me.”
“Uh, well, okay. A pond. You’ll have a great time there. And you get to ride a train.”
I asked when we were leaving, and his face took on an odd expression as he said, “No, Tyler, you don’t understand. I’m not coming. It’s just you and your grandparents.”
My eyes widened.
He looked down at his hands. “I have to go far away to supervise all the people who take care of the helicopters.”
“Are you going where Mommy is?”
“No.” He shook his head.