An hour later, she and Preston pulled up in front of her family home, the Klassan farm, where several pick-up trucks were parked, and people were already gathered on the front porch. Not having been home during the two years she’d been in Los Angeles, Elise had no idea what to expect. Certainly she didn’t deserve a warm or effusive greeting, which is why—when her father leapt up from his rocking chair and jumped down the porch steps to embrace her—she lost control of the hard-won composure she’d finally found while showering and dressing.
“Elise,” he said, cradling her face in his rough, weather-beaten hands. “Elise, mein Liebling. You’ve come home.”
As he clutched her to his chest, Elise broke down in tears yet again, letting go of Preston’s hand and embracing her father—the prodigal daughter that had finally returned. She wept for their estrangement which had been tense, but never bitter. She wept for her mother’s loss and for her father’s strong, tan arms holding her. She wept because he welcomed her and loved her, and for so long she had pushed those she loved away, uncertain of how to live the life she wanted and include the people she loved. She wept because she was finally starting to figure it out…and it was too late for her mother, and she only prayed it wasn’t too late for Preston.
“And who’s this?” asked her father, finally noting the man behind her who looked wildly out of place in his designer jeans and crisp yellow dress shirt.
“Datt,” she said, releasing her father and reaching for Preston’s hand. “This is Preston Winslow. My husband.”
Hans Klassan stared at Preston with hard eyes.
“You married our Elise?”
“I did, sir.”
“Officially?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In a church?”
“No, sir. It was a civic ceremony.”
“When?”
“Two years ago last Saturday, sir.”
Her father flinched, cutting his eyes to Elise, and she bit her lip to keep herself from crying more. He was hurt that she hadn’t told them, hadn’t included them, hadn’t given her mother a chance to know her husband. And her regret—already profound—increased.
“Preston?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are you from, Preston?”
“Pennsylvania, sir.”
“Ah! We know many faithful in Pennsylvania.”
“I’m not Mennonite, sir.”
“No? No. You don’t look simple.”
“I’m Lutheran.”
“Lutheran. Humph.”
Elise’s oldest sister, Abby, who’d been watching this unusual introduction, stepped off the porch and tapped her father on the shoulder. “The Lutherans and Mennonites have reconciled, Datt.”
Elise watched as her father—somewhat cautiously—held out his hand and offered Preston a firm handshake.
“Take Elise to your Lutheran Church with you. She is too long away from Gott.”
“I’ll do my best for her, sir,” said Preston, reaching for Elise’s hand and lacing their fingers together.
Stepping forward onto the porch, Elise introduced him to her sisters and their husbands, and the many neighbors and church members visiting.
The rest of the day was full of stories about her mother, tearful prayers, and finding room in the farm house refrigerator for the dozens of casseroles that arrived in a never-ending stream. Like Elise, her sisters drifted seamlessly between tears and laughter, remembering the many sayings of their mother, swapping stories and reminding each other of almost-forgotten laugh out loud moments.
As the sun started to set, Elise helped her sisters, Caitlyn and Lillian, straighten up the kitchen, giggling as Caitlyn swatted Lillian on the butt while she swept the floor.
“Elise,” called Abby from the doorway.
She turned to look at her sister.
“Come with me.”
Elise placed her dishtowel on the counter and followed Abby through the living room and up the stairs to their mother’s room. It had been years since Elise had entered her mother’s room and her eyes burned as she inhaled deeply, smelling her mother, picturing her here, even hearing her hum one of her favorite hymns as she got ready for church on a Sunday morning.
Abby sat down on the bed, and patted the simple, handmade bedspread. “Sit with me.”
Sitting beside her sister, Elise wondered what was going on.
Reaching under their mother’s pillow, Abby pulled out a binder and placed it gently in her younger sister’s lap.
Elise searched her sister’s face, but finding no answers, she opened the three-ring binder, surprised to find a New York Times clipping about her very first show at Tisch carefully glued to a plain piece of white paper. Flipping the page, she found another clipping and another with a picture of Elise as Cordelia in King Lear. She found a Playbill from Ethan Frome, and a small article from USA Today about The Awakening. Her vision was blurred from tears, so she closed the binder carefully as she looked up at Abby.
“She was so proud of you,” said her sister, placing one hand on top of the binder, and swiping away tears with another. “She just didn’t know how…”
“She followed my whole career. She knew everything I was doing. She…She…”
“She loved you,” said Abby, smiling through tears. “Her littlest. Her Liebling.”