I wonder if maybe it’s one of many ways I choose to punish myself. For what I did. For what I didn’t do. “See you in the morning.”
I end the call. Around me, dusk hovers low and gray. To my right, a group of plain children wearing traditional Amish garb—black coats and flat-brimmed hats for the boys, headscarves for the girls—play an impromptu game of ice hockey on a pond next to the road. For an instant, the scene sweeps me back to my own childhood. A time when I was never alone and had no concept of loneliness. My life was filled with family, worship, chores—and playtime every chance I got. Before the day Daniel Lapp introduced me to violence, I was a happy and well-adjusted Amish girl. My life was carefree and full of promise. Those simple days seem like a thousand lifetimes ago.
As I drive by the children, a deep ache of loneliness assails me. A longing for what is lost. My parents. My siblings. A part of myself I cannot reclaim. I wave to the kids. Their smiles bolster me. I glance in my rearview mirror as they resume their game, and a powerful need to protect them rises up inside me.
My sister Sarah and her husband live in the last house on a dead-end road. William has cleared the lane of snow, probably with his horse-drawn plow. He’s considered a conservative amongst the Amish community. While my brother Jacob uses a tractor, William adheres to traditional horsepower. More than once it has been a point of contention between the two men.
A neat row of blue spruce trees, their boughs laden with snow, runs alongside the lane. The massive barn stands two stories high. Built on a slope, it sits on an angled stone foundation. Half a dozen windows dot the fa?ade. Four cupolas jut from the apex of the tin roof. No one knows for certain, but it’s rumored the house and barn date back two hundred years. A time when barns were the center of rural life and architectural works of art. My parents brought Sarah and Jacob and me here many times when we were kids. I chased chickens, played hide-and-seek and bottle-fed newborn calves. Once, on a dare, I jumped from a hay chute and sprained my ankle.
I park behind a sleigh, my headlights reflecting off the slow moving vehicle sign mounted at the rear. Beyond, the windows of the house glow yellow with lantern light. It’s a cozy and inviting scene. But as with my brother’s home, my welcome will not be warm.
I take the sidewalk to the front door and knock. I barely have time to gather my thoughts when the door swings open. I find myself looking at my older sister. “Katie.” She whispers my name as if it’s a bad word. Her gaze flicks sideways and I know William is inside. “Come in out of the cold.”
The aromas of cooked cabbage and baking yeast bread titillate my appetite as I enter. But I won’t be asked for dinner. A kerosene lamp illuminates the living room. I see a large homemade table and bench. On the opposite wall, a framed needlepoint sampler that had belonged to Mamm hangs front and center. The initials of our great-grandparents are sewn into the fabric next to locks of their hair. I remember running my fingers over those locks and wondering about the people they came from.
“Come into the kitchen,” Sarah says.
I follow her to the kitchen to find her husband at the table, hunched over a bowl of steaming soup.
“Hello, William,” I say.
He stands when I enter and bows his head slightly. “Good evening, Katie.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner.”
“You are welcome to hot soup.”
The invitation surprises me, since I’m under the bann, but I shake my head. “I’ve only got a few minutes.” I look at my sister and force a smile. “I wanted to check on you. See how you’re feeling.”
She places a hand over her distended abdomen, but her gaze slides from mine. “I feel good,” she says. “Better than last time.”
“You look great.”
William smiles. “She eats like a horse.”
“She ate us out of house and home when we were kids.” I smile, hoping it looks real. “It’s good for the baby.”
“Bad for my bulging middle!” she exclaims with a little too much enthusiasm.
An uncomfortable silence ensues. I touch her shoulder and make eye contact. “Are you still working on the baby quilt?”
“I’m almost finished.”
“Could I see it?”
My request surprises her, but her eyes light up. “Of course.” Touching my shoulder, she starts toward the living room. “Come.”
The stairs creak beneath our feet as we climb to the second level. I follow her to the bedroom she and William share. It’s a large room with two tall windows and an angled ceiling. The furniture is heavy and plain. A dresser that had once belonged to our parents. A chest with steel pulls. And a sleigh bed covered with one of Sarah’s quilts.
She crosses to the dresser and lights a glass lamp. Golden light casts shadows on the ceiling and walls. “You look tired, Katie.”