“She left because she wasn’t happy in Lancaster County. She wanted something she felt the Amish life couldn’t offer her. I want to know what that was.”
Another sigh. “What do you think it was?” she asked, but she sounded as if she didn’t really want to hear.
“I’m not sure yet, but I’m trying hard to figure it out.”
I went on to tell her about my mother’s interest in photography, how a box of her photos was waiting for me in a storage unit, how I was learning about photography from someone who was studying it in college. I wanted Rachel to know about Lark. To not tell her would seem as though I were trying to hide something from her.
“I don’t understand. What has learning about photography got to do with any of this? Who is this person?”
“She’s the sister of one of Brady’s friends.”
“And why are you doing this?”
“Because I want to know why my mother was interested in photography. Don’t you find it odd that she was? She didn’t grow up around cameras or photographs. Don’t you think that says something about her, that this was the hobby she picked up once she was no longer living an Amish life?”
Again, Rachel hesitated before answering. “I don’t know. I suppose…” Her voice trailed off, and at that moment my phone beeped in my ear.
I pulled it away to check the screen and saw a message.
Low battery.
Unbelievable. In the week I had been in California, I still had not gotten used to the idea of thinking of my phone as something that required constant surveillance from me. Brady always had his phone with him. He probably stayed aware of what his phone needed at all times.
“My phone battery is dying, Rachel. I don’t know how much longer we have.” There was so much more I wanted to tell her. I hadn’t even shared with her about the container gardens, visiting Lark’s church, and eating sushi. “When can we talk again?”
“Do you even want to talk again?”
Her question startled me. “Of course I do. I want to keep talking right now. I just can’t.”
“I see.”
“Can we try for Saturday?” I suggested. “Same time?”
“I guess. But we’re supposed to get our first snowfall on Friday, so if the roads are bad, I’ll need to call from the shanty instead of from here.”
I barely remembered as I sat there in a short-sleeved shirt that it was the second week of November—still early for snow in our part of Pennsylvania, but not unheard of.
“That would be better anyway,” I said. “We need to talk more privately.”
“Ya. You can say that again.”
“Next Saturday, whatever time works for you, why don’t you phone me once you’re in the shanty, then we can hang up and I’ll dial you back so the charges are on my end. Use the cell so I can take the call anywhere. Okay?”
“All right.”
The phone beeped again.
“I need to go, Rachel.”
I started to say goodbye and to tell her just how very much I loved her, but the line went dead and she was gone.
I sat for a moment with the phone in my hands, pain surging in my chest. I could tell she was disturbed about the distance that lay between us and perhaps even how I was approaching my quest for direction. I didn’t blame her. She didn’t have all the facts.
I decided I would write to her and post the letter today. I would fill her in on the details I hadn’t had time to share over the phone. God willing, she would get it on Friday, before the weekend and the coming snowstorm. Once she read it, surely she would understand.
As I went back inside the house, I was struck by the thought that I could have simply come inside while Rachel and I were talking, plugged in the phone, and finished our call that way.
Oh, well. It hadn’t been the best situation for talking anyway.
Liz was still on the phone with my dad, though it sounded as if they were wrapping up their conversation. She motioned for me to come toward her.
“I love you too,” I heard her say. “I will. Okay. Here’s Tyler.”
She handed me the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Hello, Dad.”
“So she’s really okay? Is she telling me the truth?”
Liz could hear his questions even though I had the phone to my ear. She rolled her eyes.
“Tell him I’ve come home with a third eyeball,” she said loudly so that he could hear it.
“I think she’s going to be fine, Dad.”
“She needs a new cast tomorrow, did she tell you that?”
“She did. I can take her.”
“He needs to go to bed,” Liz said, uncapping her water bottle and taking a drink. “It’s almost midnight there.”
“Liz says—”
“I heard her. Look, I am going to try to cut out of here early. No way am I staying the full month.”
“He doesn’t have to do that,” Liz huffed.
“I’m going to shoot for getting home by the end of next week,” he continued. “With a fractured ankle and a hurt shoulder, she will need more help than you can give her.”