“That’s sweet. What kind of photography did she do? Portraits? Landscapes? Architecture?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. My dad has a box of her pictures in a storage unit, but I won’t be able to see them until he gets back from his trip and he can go over there and get them for me.” As an afterthought, I added, “My memories of her with a camera are fleeting, but if I had to guess, I’d say landscapes. She was always drawn to the countryside.”
“How about you? What kind of photography interests you?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
Lark cocked her head in amusement. “You must have some general idea.”
“No, I really don’t. I have been reading up on the history of the subject, which is quite interesting. But I haven’t gotten to the part yet where it talks about different kinds of photography. How many are there?”
“Besides the ones I already said?” She held out a hand and began counting off on her fingers. “Gosh, there’s aerial, wildlife, sports, fashion, weddings—”
“Okay, well I think we can definitely rule out those last two.”
She stopped short, with a grin.
“Bottom line,” I told her, smiling in return, “I have no experience whatsoever with taking pictures. But I’d like to learn.”
She gazed at me for a long moment and then her eyes widened.
“Wait a minute. You people don’t believe in taking pictures,” she said, seeming to remember a peculiarity about the Amish faith she had perhaps heard once and forgotten about. “You think it will steal your soul or something…” Her voice drifted away, as if she knew that wasn’t the real reason, but what else was she to assume?
“That’s not it,” I said, shaking my head. “My soul belongs to God.”
“Well, why not, then?”
“A few reasons.” I recited the verse in Exodus 20 about not making graven images and then added, “Besides, posing for pictures doesn’t help us live lives of humility. Quite the opposite. We would think too much about ourselves. We’d rather be concerned with living in obedience than with worrying about our outward appearance.”
She grinned. “I bet they pay you to say that.”
I laughed and took another bite of my sushi.
“Are you going to get in trouble for taking photography lessons?”
“I told you, I’m not a member of the church yet. That’s why I want to do it before I go back.”
If I go back…
“How about your mom? Did she get in trouble when she took up photography?”
I shook my head. “She left home at eighteen, without ever joining the church. They weren’t happy about her leaving, but there wasn’t much they could do about it. Except pray.”
“Did she ever go back before she…”
I shook my head. “To visit—once—but not to stay.”
Lark tugged on the straw in her drink. “I’d go plum crazy living without cars and electricity and, heaven forbid, my camera. But that’s me. Do you think it’s possible your mom ever wished she had remained Amish instead of leaving?”
I was surprised by the question. More times than I could count, I had wondered why she left in the first place. But never once had it occurred to me to consider whether she’d ever regretted that decision and wanted to go back home again. Of course, if she had, the family and community would have taken her in with open arms, her sins forgiven and forgotten. But once she was married to my dad, returning to the Amish life and joining the church at last wouldn’t have been an option for her. Not unless he was willing to become Amish as well.
Which was about as likely as Timber walking on two legs and speaking Pennsylvania Dutch.
“That’s…I don’t know,” I said, meeting Lark’s eyes. “I never thought about it before. Up till now, my biggest questions have been about why she left.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could rein them in. I had known Lark Parrish for less than an hour, and I was already telling her my deepest, most secret ponderings.
But she seemed to understand perfectly what was weighing on me. “I’d want to know that too.”
We were quiet for a moment as we each ate a piece of our sushi. Then she asked more about my childhood, including how long I lived with my grandparents before my dad’s tour ended and he came back and got me. I explained how things progressed, one tour following another, until finally, by the time he was ready, he was remarried with a two-year-old child.
“I had seen him twice in three years. I didn’t know Liz at all, and they seemed pretty complete with Brady. So I decided to stay where I was, and he didn’t force me to leave.”
Lark was staring at me, wide eyed. “Wow. That’s crazy.”
“Is it?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Why do you think it’s crazy?”
“Because it totally is. Holy cow, no wonder.”
She mumbled the last two words, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say them out loud.
No wonder what? I thought but did not say. I had a feeling I already knew.
No wonder you seem so lost.
SEVENTEEN