My Amish Boyfriend Page 3

  Mom’s lower lip slips out into a pouting expression as she stubbornly pushes the yogurt carton away from her.

  I know this is all backward and bizarre. It’s like I’m the mom and she’s my child—and I’m sure it appears totally weird to onlookers. But that’s the way life is right now, and I have to accept it. I love my mom more than anyone on this planet. Even though helping her is awkward and inconvenient and sometimes, like yesterday, I just want to be selfish, I am determined to stick by her. I want to get her through this illness. I think I would do almost anything to help Mom get back to her old self.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” I tell her. “If you eat the yogurt and some crackers and drink the soda as well as some juice, I’ll let you have another pill.”

  She brightens a little, reaching for another cracker.

  I feel slightly like a traitor as I watch her struggling to eat and drink. I honestly don’t expect her to put away the short list of things I’ve given her, but after a few minutes, she’s polished it all off and is holding out her hand for another pill.

  I feel torn now. Is it crazy or irresponsible of me to have made that agreement with my mom? “Are you sure?” I ask with uncertainty.

  “Yes, Shannon.” Mom keeps her hand out. “The other pill has worn off completely. I’m sure it’s because of the stress. I need another pill.”

  I nod, thinking that makes sense. Also, I remind myself, Mom is the adult here. These really are her pills. Who am I to play the drug police? So I dig through my purse, unzip the pocket where I’ve tucked her prescription bottle, remove a pill, then re-cap the bottle and carefully zip it back into the pocket. Mom washes down the pill with the last of her water and is soon peacefully sleeping again.

  It’s only an hour later when I hear the bus driver announce that we’re arriving in Hochstetler. “Really?” I say to no one in particular since Mom’s still soundly sleeping. “We’re already there?”

  “That’s right,” the elderly woman up ahead tells me. “This is Hochstetler. Are you getting off here?”

  “Yes!” I say urgently, scrambling to gather up our stuff. I peel off the blanket, trying to wake my mom.

  “All out for Hochstetler,” the bus driver calls out after the bus stops moving.

  “Come on, Mom.” I tug on her arm, removing the pillows from behind her and shoving them into the bag I brought to carry them in. “We gotta go, Mom.”

  “You need a hand back there?” the driver asks as he comes down the aisle.

  “Yes, please,” I tell him. “My mom is really sick, and she’s on medication. I’m not sure she can even walk.”

  He nods with a kind expression. “You go on out. Take your things. I’ll help her get out.”

  I thank him, then hurry on ahead, eager to get out of the bus. The sun is still high in the sky as I stand on the sidewalk next to a restaurant, waiting. Glancing around, I wonder if my mom’s family is somewhere nearby. Will they come to our aid?

  “Here you go,” the bus driver says as he and another man help maneuver my mom down the steps. Her eyes are open now, but she looks totally spacey and out of it. “Let’s get her onto that bench there,” the driver says.

  I follow them over to a cement bench, watching helplessly as they set her down like a limp rag doll. I hurry over to sit next to her, holding on to her shoulders so she doesn’t slide off and crumple onto the ground.

  “Which are your bags?” the driver asks me.

  I quickly describe our luggage, and before long he’s plunked them down next to the bench. “You gonna be okay?” he asks me with a concerned frown.

  “Yes, thank you,” I assure him. “We have family meeting us here.”

  He tips his hat. “I hope your mom gets better soon.”

  I nod. “So do I.”

  He and the other man climb back into the bus, the door closes, I hear the hiss of the brakes, and just like that, the bus pulls out, leaving us behind. Suddenly I miss it and wish we were still on it. I glance up and down the street, looking for someone—anyone—who could be here to help us. But no one even makes eye contact.

  I’ve never felt so alone, and I’m starting to freak. What if none of Mom’s family shows up? Mrs. Wimple gave me my grandparents’ phone number along with a twenty-dollar bill, but she seemed convinced I wouldn’t need either of them. Now I’m not so sure. But to get into my purse might mean spilling Mom onto the ground, so I simply squint into the bright sunshine and look around, hoping to spy someone who is looking for a pair of weary travelers.

  “Mom?” I say quietly. “Can you wake up? Please?”

  She moans softly, her head wobbling back and forth like one of those bobblehead dolls in slow motion. Although I refused to pray earlier today, back when Mrs. Wimple asked me to pray to get through traffic, I decide it’s time. I’m usually the first one to admit that I don’t take my faith as seriously as some people—like Merenda or Mrs. Wimple or even my mom—but put me in a helpless situation or back me into a dark corner, and I will most definitely call out to God for assistance.

  As I’m praying, with my eyes wide open, I notice something’s different in this town. I feel like I’ve gone back in time or I’m watching a historical movie being filmed here, because every so often, I see a horse-drawn carriage going down the street. I also observe some people dressed in old-fashioned clothes moving about this town. Finally, when a couple of young women in long dresses and crisp white bonnets walk past me, I get it. They are Amish. I know this from having watched a couple of reality shows about Amish teenagers, although I’ve never actually seen a real Amish person before.

  Everything starts to feel entirely surreal as I sit here on the bench in this strange little town. The hot sun beats down on my head as I try to support my mom and keep her from sliding off the bench. I look down at her, realizing that she probably looks like a drunk. Besides being strung out on diazepam, her hair is messy and her clothes are rumpled and dirty looking—and I notice she’s missing a shoe! Fortunately, it was only a worn ballet flat, and I packed a couple other pairs in her bag. I glance down at the mishmash of bags and suitcases surrounding us, knowing that we must look both desperate and pathetic.

  I look up and down the street again, hoping beyond hope that a nice air-conditioned car will pull up and take us home where our family will take care of us. Perhaps my grandparents have a swimming pool, although I’d happily settle for a nice long shower. As I study the cars and passersby, I notice that Hochstetler is rather busy for a small town, and it definitely has a slightly touristy feel to it. In fact, it actually seems like a clean and attractive community.

  Of course, that just seems to spotlight how Mom and I do not belong here. We’re like a messy little blotch on an otherwise pretty picture. I suspect this is not what Mom’s family expects to find when they come to pick us up. That is, if they are coming to pick us up.

  Is it possible that the mysterious relatives have already passed by and, spotting our embarrassing spectacle, decided to simply continue on their way, pretending they didn’t know us? I think of the cars that have driven slowly past, looking at us like we’re sideshow freaks. Maybe Mom’s family checked us out from a safe distance and then went on their merry way.

  I’m about to lay Mom out on the bench like a dead body in order to dig out my phone and call the number that Mrs. Wimple gave me this morning when one of those horse-drawn carriages stops right in front of the bench.

  “Anna Hershberger?” a man wearing a straw hat calls out to me.

  I shake my head. “No, I’m not Anna Hersh—” I stop myself, staring up at him and wondering if that’s the name Mrs. Wimple wrote down with the phone number. “My mom’s name is Anna,” I quickly say, before he can drive away. “Anna McNamara. She’s come to—”

  “Anna!” he exclaims as he hops down from the front of the boxlike carriage, hurrying to Mom’s side. “It is Anna. What is wrong with her?” he asks me.

  “She had some medicine,” I explain. “It made her go
to sleep.”

  He frowns at me. “Sleeping out here? On the street?”

  I simply hold out my hands. What can I say?

  “You must come with me,” he says with authority. “We will go now.”

  “Who are you?” I demand. I suddenly feel wary about taking my drugged-up mom anywhere with a perfect stranger. Even if this dude does look relatively harmless with his concerned blue eyes and goofy beard.

  “I am Benjamin Hershberger,” he solemnly tells me. “I have come here to pick up my sister Anna and her daughter Shannon.” He peers curiously at me. “That must be you. Shannon?”

  “Yes!” I nod eagerly. No way could he know both our names if he wasn’t a relative.

  He kneels down by the bench, peering curiously at my mom. “Anna?” he says with concern. “Come now, Anna, it’s time to go home.”

  “She can’t hear you,” I say. “Her meds have knocked her out. I wouldn’t have given them to her, but I didn’t realize we’d get here—”

  “I will help her.” He scoops up my mom, cradling her like a child in his arms as he climbs into the back of the strange little carriage. “Come,” he calls to me. “Help me with her now.”

  Grabbing the bag with the pillows, I hurry to climb into the boxy carriage, quickly shoving the pillows onto the firm bench as I try to help Mom recline somewhat comfortably without falling off. Meanwhile he gathers up our other bags and sets them inside too. Then, without saying a word, he climbs into the seat in front, and just like that, we start moving down the street.

  As I sit next to Mom, holding on to her to keep her from sliding off the bench seat, everything begins to feel very surreal again. The sound of the horse’s hooves clip-clopping on the pavement, the bumpy swaying of the carriage as it rumbles along—it’s so unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before that for a moment I honestly think I’m hallucinating. Or perhaps I’m still asleep in my bed, having another strange dream.

  I watch in wonder as we slowly move through the town, then take a turn that leads us down what eventually turns into a country road with small farms spotted here and there along the way. I begin to accept that this is not my imagination. It is for real. I peer up at the strange man driving the horse. It seemed like he was really my mom’s brother, which would make him my uncle. But studying him as he drives the horse, with his old-fashioned looking black jacket, his yellow straw hat, and his black leather boots, he seems like someone from another world, maybe even another planet. I begin to wonder—where on earth is he taking us?

  4

  We’re still rumbling down the country road when Mom starts to wake up. Not surprisingly, she looks startled and afraid. “Where are we?” she demands, clasping my hand so firmly that it actually hurts.

  I quickly explain about her being asleep when we arrived in Hochstetler. “Your brother Benjamin picked us up.” I point to the driver of the carriage. “I’m not sure where he’s taking us, though.”

  “Benjamin?” She says his name slowly.

  “He is your brother, right?” Suddenly I’m worried. What if I’ve let some crazy person kidnap us? But with a horse and carriage?

  “Yes, yes.” Mom sits up now, holding on to her head as if she’s getting dizzy. “Oh, dear! Please, can we stop? I feel sick.”

  I call out to Benjamin and he stops the horse, turning around to peer inside the carriage.

  “My mom’s feeling sick,” I explain to him. “The motion of the carriage makes her dizzy.”

  “Oh?” He rubs his chin. “Does she want to walk?”

  “No, no, I don’t think so.” I dig through the bag, looking for a water bottle and some saltines. “She’s too weak to walk.”

  He gets down and comes around to the side door to peer inside. “Anna?” he says in a gentle voice. “How are you?”

  “Oh, Benjamin.” Mom’s voice chokes with emotion. “I’m not very well.”

  He nods. “Ja. I can see that. Does the buggy make you sick?”

  “Everything makes me sick,” she says as I hand her a saltine. Pointing to her head, she sighs. “I have a sickness that makes me dizzy.”

  “Oh.” He frowns. “How will we get you home?”

  “Just give us a couple minutes,” I assure him. “Sometimes crackers help. And a little water. Then we can go.” To be safe, I remove one of the emergency barf bags and keep it handy.

  “Okay,” Mom declares after a couple of crackers. “Go ahead and drive the buggy, Ben. Don’t worry about me. Just get us there.”

  “Ja.” He nods. “You can rest better at home.”

  Once again we are moving down the road. I consider offering Mom more diazepam but don’t want her to fall asleep again. “Your brother seems nice,” I say.

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “Is he Amish?” I ask tentatively.

  “Yes.”

  “What about the rest of your family?” I ask.

  “They are all Amish, Shannon.”

  I try not to act as stunned as I feel. “They’re all Amish? Does that make you Amish too?”

  “No. I am not Amish. That’s why I left.” She leans back, closing her eyes again.

  “Oh.” How am I supposed to wrap my head around this? I want to ask her to explain herself, but I know this isn’t the time or place—I don’t want to stress her out. So we sit there without speaking, hearing only the rumbling of the buggy’s wheels, the rhythmic beat of the horse’s hooves, and an occasional car passing by.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Shannon.”

  I can’t even think of a response to that. I mean, I appreciate that she’s sorry, but keeping something like this from me? Especially when I always thought that we were so close? Well, it’s more than a little disturbing, and I wonder, when did she intend to tell me?

  I think about an hour or more passes before the buggy turns off the main road onto a narrower one. We are deep in farm country now, going past one farm after another, and all of them look strikingly similar. Most have a white two-story farmhouse and a big red barn with numerous outbuildings and tall silos all neatly laid out around it. Because it’s late June, everything growing around these farms looks green and lush, and the landscape has a peaceful, pastoral feeling. Like something you might see in a children’s picture book. Very unreal.

  Mom is sitting up straight now. I can tell by her expression that she still feels woozy, but there’s a light of interest in her eyes too. “Up there.” She points to a house and barn coming up on the right. “That is my parents’ home.”

  “That was our parents’ home,” Benjamin calls over his shoulder as he turns the horse and buggy onto a gravel road. “Now it is where I and Katrina and the children live.”

  “Oh?” Mom looks slightly concerned. “What about Mamm and Daed? Where do they live?”

  “In the dawdi house.”

  “Dawdi house?” I ask.

  “Grandparents’ house,” she explains.

  “See that little house on the other side of the barn?” Benjamin points toward a small white structure. “We built that for them not long after Isaac was born.”

  “Isaac?” Mom asks him. “I remember your boys Samuel and Joshua. Did you have another son?”

  “Ja. Isaac is our third son. He is twenty-three.”

  “Born after I left,” Mom says quietly.

  “You left twenty-three years ago?” I ask.

  “I was fifteen.” She looks up at Benjamin. “So you have three sons?”

  “Four sons. Jeremiah is the last son. He’s twenty-one. Then we have two daughters. Grace is nineteen. She got married last month. Our youngest is Rachel. She is seventeen. And that is all.”

  “Six children.” Mom sighs loudly. “How nice for you.”

  “Six children and three grandchildren. Samuel married Abigail Miller, and they have three girls.”

  “Oh my.” Mom looks surprised. “My big brother is a grandpa.”

  He slows down the buggy in front of the small white house now. “You will sta
y with Mamm and Daed,” he declares as we come to a complete stop. “They are expecting you.”

  “Oh, Shannon.” Mom reaches for my hand and grips it tightly. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

  “You and me both,” I nervously tell her.

  Benjamin reaches into the buggy to assist her. “Let me help you, Anna.”

  After some struggling, together we manage to get Mom out of the buggy and on her feet in the driveway. “Hold on to me,” I tell her as I begin walking us toward the little white house. It looks so tiny, I can’t imagine they will have room for us. Benjamin joins us, carrying all our bags.

  “Anna!” The front door pops open and a woman wearing a long, dark blue dress waves toward us. “Welcome!” She has a spring in her step as she hurries to meet us, but when she gets closer, I can see that she is old. Her gray hair is pulled back tightly and hidden under a small white bonnet.

  “Mamm!” Mom’s voice cracks with emotion as the older woman wraps her arms around her.

  “Oh, Anna!” she exclaims. “You came home. At last you came home.”

  Both of them are crying and holding on to each other, and I feel unnecessary and uncomfortable. Ignoring the reunion, Benjamin takes our bags up to the house, and I just stand here, watching.

  “Mamm, this is Shannon,” Mom is saying now. “My daughter.”

  Suddenly I’m being hugged by the gray-haired woman in the long dress. “Shannon,” she places both her hands on my cheeks, staring directly into my eyes. “Welcome, child.”

  “Thank you,” I say as she releases her grasp on my face.

  “Shannon is sixteen,” Mom tells her.

  “Sixteen?” My grandmother shakes her head with a dismayed look. “All grown up and I am only meeting you now?”

  “What should I call you?” I ask her.

  “Mammi,” she declares.

  “That means grandma,” Mom explains as Benjamin emerges from the little white house.

  “I put their things in the other room,” he tells Mammi.

  She thanks him and then he excuses himself, saying he has work to finish before the sun goes down.