“Stop worrying.”
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of John Tomasetti’s Tahoe, not sure if I’m impressed by his perceptivity or annoyed because my state of mind is so apparent. We’ve been living together at his farm for seven months now, and while we’ve had some tumultuous moments, I have to admit it’s been the happiest and most satisfying time of my life.
Tomasetti, a former detective with the Cleveland Division of Police, is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Like me, he has a troubled past and more than his share of secrets, some I suspect I’m not yet privy to. But we have an unspoken agreement that we won’t let our pasts dictate our happiness or how we live our lives. Honestly, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I like to think the sentiment runs both ways.
“What makes you think I’m worried?” I tell him, putting forth a little attitude.
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m fidgeting because I’m nervous,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
He glances at me, scowling, but his eyes are appreciative as he runs them over me. “You look nice.”
I hide my smile by looking out the window. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s working.”
Good humor plays at the corner of his mouth. “It’s not like you to change clothes four times.”
“Hard to dress for an Amish dinner.”
“Especially when you used to be Amish, apparently.”
“Maybe I should have made an excuse.” I glance out the window at the horizon. “Weatherman said it’s going to rain.”
“It’s not like you to chicken out.”
“Unless it’s my brother.”
“Kate, he invited you. He wants you there.” He reaches over, sets his hand on my thigh just above my knee, and squeezes. I wonder if he has any idea how reassuring the gesture is. “Be yourself and let the chips fall.”
I don’t point out that being myself is exactly the thing that got me excommunicated from my Amish brethren in the first place.
He makes the turn into the long gravel lane of my brother Jacob’s farm. The place originally belonged to my parents but was handed down to him, the eldest male child, when they passed away. I mentally brace as the small apple orchard on my right comes into view. The memories aren’t far behind, and I find myself looking down the rows of trees, almost expecting to see the three Amish kids sent to pick apples for pies. Jacob, Sarah, and I had been inseparable back then, and instead of picking apples, we ended up playing hide-and-seek until it was too dark to see. As was usually the case, I was the instigator. Kate, the druvvel-machah. The “troublemaker.” Or so my datt said. The one and only time I confessed to influencing my siblings, he punished me by taking away my favorite chore: bottle-feeding the three-week-old orphan goat I’d named Sammy. I’d cajoled and argued and begged. I was rewarded by being sent to bed with no supper and a stomachache from eating too many green apples.
The house is plain and white with a big front porch and tall windows that seem to glare at me as we veer right. The maple tree I helped my datt plant when I was twelve is mature and shades the hostas that grow alongside the house. In the side yard, I catch sight of two picnic tables with mismatched tablecloths flapping in the breeze.
I take in the old chicken house ahead and the big barn to my left, and it strikes me how much of my past is rooted in this place. And how much of it is gone forever. When you’re Amish, there are no photos. There are no corny albums or school pictures or embarrassing videos. My parents have long since passed, which means everything that happened here, both good and bad, exists only in my memory and the memories of my siblings. Maybe that’s why I can’t stay away. No matter how many times my brother hurts me, I always come back, like a puppy that’s been kicked but knows no other place to be, no other comfort.