Crossing to the window, I part the curtains and look out. The rain is coming down in earnest now. Water streams down the glass in a kaleidoscopic waterfall. The dormer window looks out over the tin roof of the front porch. Having been a mischievous teenager myself, I notice how easy it would be to sneak out the window. I check the lock, find it secure. When I shine my light on the sill, I’m shocked to see that the window is nailed shut. Had someone been coming to Mary’s window? Or were the nails a father’s effort to keep his daughter from venturing out? Whatever the case, the nails tell me the parents knew something was going on.
The generator has been removed from the scene, so I go back downstairs. I grab the battery-powered work light, lug it up the stairs to Mary’s room and set it up on the chest of drawers. Donning latex gloves, I begin my search with the night table. In the top drawer, I find two Bibles, an ancient tome titled Martyrs Mirror, which is a record of persecutions suffered by European Anabaptists during the Reformation era. In the second drawer I find a hairbrush and comb. A kapp in need of mending. I smile when I see the mirror. Young Amish girls are no different that other girls when it comes to adolescent vanity. In some of the more conservative Amish homes, mirrors are forbidden. I wonder if Mary’s parents knew about this one.
The night table nets nothing of interest so I move to the chest. I find boys’ trousers with tears and holes that need mending. Underclothes. A baseball and well-used glove in the bottom drawer.
“Where did you keep your secrets?” I say aloud.
It’s been a long time since I was a teenager. But I remember what it was like. The awkwardness. The longing for things I didn’t understand, most of which I knew I could never have. Like Mary, I had secrets, and those secrets caused me untold agony. It’s the loneliest feeling in the world to so desperately need the love and support of your family, and feel as if you don’t deserve it.
I go to the bed. It’s unmade, the covers turned down and rumpled. A faceless doll with blond curls lies facedown next to the pillow. I wonder if Mary tossed it aside when she was roused from bed by her killer. I pick up the doll and an overwhelming sadness engulfs me. Amish dolls are faceless because in the Bible, in Exodus and Deuteronomy, graven images are forbidden.
I set the doll against the pillow. Lifting one side of the mattress, I feel around, but find nothing. At the second bed, I do the same. Nothing hidden beneath the mattress. I’m probably wasting my time; frustration grinds inside me. Kneeling, I lift the quilt for a quick look beneath the bed. My beam reveals a lone sock surrounded by a dust bunny the size of my fist. I’m about to straighten when a flash of lightning brightens my view. In that instant of light, I notice one of the floorboards sticks up a scant quarter inch higher than the rest.
“What the hell?” Reaching beneath the bed, I pry at the oak plank with my fingers. Surprise ripples through me when it lifts easily. Using my shoulder, I shove the bed over a couple of feet. My pulse spikes when I see the hiding place—and the small book staring up at me. I should photograph it before moving it, but I don’t have the camera with me, and I don’t want to wait. I reach for the book.
It’s a homemade journal, about six inches square and an inch thick. The front and back covers are made of pink construction paper. Glued to the front cover is a slightly smaller swath of contrasting pink felt upon which the white lace cutout of a sheep is secured. Three holes have been punched along the left side. The paper is secured with pink ribbons tied into neat bows at each hole. The book is meticulously made by caring hands and with much attention to detail.
I open the journal. It’s filled with lined notebook paper, the kind any kid would have at school, that’s been painstakingly cut to fit inside. The words Mary’s Journal are written in slanted cursive with blue ink. I turn the page and read.
May 19
I saw HIM today at the shop when Mamm and I went to deliver the quilts. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I would faint. My legs were shaking so badly Mamm asked me if I was cold. I don’t understand myself. He is not Amish. I should not be having these feelings. . . .
May 24
He spoke to me today. Just to say hello, but my poor heart didn’t know that. I could not look at him. Mamm and I were delivering the second quilt (the green baby quilt I love). How I hated to see that quilt go. I felt as if I were giving away my own child! But I know some loving mamm will give it a good home, and it will be used to wrap a well-loved baby.
May 29
I volunteered to stock candies this morning. Not for the money, but because if I work over six hours, I get a lunch break. I can go to the park, and I know he will be there. I feel terribly guilty for that. I know my feelings are wrong. Against the will of my parents. Maybe against God’s will, too. But I wonder . . . how can something that feels so wonderful be bad?
I stare down at the words, aware of my heart drumming against my breast-bone. Who is he? The father of her unborn child? Does she reveal anything about him at some later point in the journal? Realizing I need to take it with me and read it from cover to cover, I rise and scoot the bed back into place. I’m midway to the door when my cell phone trills.
“Chief, it’s Glock.”