Fraying at the Edge (32 page)

“Sorry.” He held up his hands. “I didn't realize I was being offensive.”

They picked up their pace. “How about I start preaching the gospel every time you start preaching disorder to the Old Order?”

“That's fine. For every hour you listen to me, I'll listen to you.”

“Except you totally discount the foundation of my beliefs, and yours aren't so easily dismissed.”

“Why do you think that is? Could it be my reasoning and proof outweigh yours? Even if we both accepted that God created the universe and that the Bible is His Word, no one knows exactly how He meant all the verses to be taken—literally or figuratively. Did certain stories take place, or are they metaphorical? The King James Version, New Testament, says, and I quote, ‘All scripture is given by inspiration of God.' I read that last night, and all I'm saying is maybe ‘inspiration' isn't the same as God literally giving every line of the Word to be taken literally.”

“Wait.” She paused, holding up her hand. “The Bible actually says, ‘All scripture is given by inspiration of God'?” That phrase “by inspiration” meant something very different to her today than it did before the trip.

“It does. Second Timothy 3:16.”

She started walking again.

“Ari, we've spent nearly two weeks seeing what inspiration does for people. You inspire me to be a better person. Inspiration causes composers to write music and artists to create beautiful paintings and writers to—”

“Ya, I get the idea.” Confusion clouded her thinking. Had he planned this trip to plant that one seed?

“How can anyone tell for sure the way God meant for mankind to process certain verses? In Genesis it says, ‘God blessed them and said, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth, and subdue it; and rule over every living thing that moves.” ' Let's say that's exactly what God inspired to be written and there have been no alterations of meaning throughout centuries of translations. How does any preacher or priest or bishop know whether God was saying, ‘Go, enjoy yourselves, procreate to your heart's content'? They don't. But your preachers teach that as if it's a command of God. And that's just one example.”

He'd held his tongue for several days, and now his passion for her to find moderation in her faith poured from him. Thankfully, he'd stopped trying to totally strip her faith from her, but he still pressed her to rethink what the Amish believed. This was actually harder to discount than an overt attack on faith. Was there any truth in what he, a nonbeliever, said? It wasn't possible, was it? But he made sense, and she wished he'd never picked up the Bible to study it.

The more frustrated she felt, the faster she walked. “No matter how much I try to do what you want, it's never enough. You're always pushing me.”

Nicholas matched her pace. “Don't be upset.”

“You get to tell me your opinion whether I want to hear it or not, but you absolutely cannot dictate how I feel about it. Even the Amish don't do that.” When her Daed gave a ruling that upset her, he left her alone to feel what she needed to and to work through it.

“You're right.” He held up his hands. “I'm sorry. You're completely right. I just have so much I want you to think about.”

“Could we walk in silence for a few minutes, please? Or maybe you could just stop walking with me.” Was she really talking to him like this?

“As gorgeous as Savannah is, it has some really rough areas. I can't let you walk alone.”

Silence, precious silence, reigned for a few blocks. Despite Nicholas's best efforts to tone down his opinions, she couldn't imagine having to listen to his freethinking views until next October. She longed for peace, the kind that would come with returning to Summer Grove and building a faith-filled life among her people.

Nicholas paused to read a street sign. “Let's cross here and go up the block. There's a place not too far from here called Back in the Day Bakery. Everything in it is the best you've ever had.”

“Fine.” She hated the sulky tone in her voice. It seemed that mood swings were becoming a part of her, intertwining with her personality like weeds entangling with crops. Maybe the unpleasant shift in her nature was a by-product of her love-hate relationship with this new world.

There weren't so many live oaks down this way, and none of the trees had moss. The houses and businesses surrounding them no longer looked majestic. The more modern buildings were run-down, and the feel of the Old South had disappeared. This spot could be any poor neighborhood anywhere in the country. One structure stood out, and she knew it was a dive bar.

“Wait.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, Nicholas stopped walking. “I think I'm turned around.”

While he messed with his phone, Ariana saw three scantily dressed women on the street corner. A man in his forties approached the youngest one of the group and motioned for her to turn around. Ariana's stomach churned. He pulled money from his wallet.

“Nicholas.” Without taking her eyes off what was happening, she tapped the back of her hand against his arm. “We should do something.”

“About?” He looked up.

“He's trying to buy her. We need to stop him.”

“No, we stay out of it.”

“Stay out of it? Where is your moral line?” Ariana started to walk toward them.

Nicholas grabbed her arm. “For hookers to be so open about what's going on, the police have to be looking the other way. It's her decision and her right, Ariana.”

“Maybe she doesn't know there are better ways. We could talk to—” Ariana tried to jerk her arm free.

Nicholas tightened his grip. “If you approach that situation, you can't cause anything but trouble. It's dangerous.”

“Hey,” she yelled, flailing her free hand.

“Ariana, stop.” Nicholas tugged at her, and she stumbled along beside him. “Be quiet and walk away.”

“She doesn't have to do this!” Ariana focused on the woman.

Nicholas dragged her farther away.

She lost sight of the girl as Nicholas led her around the corner. Ariana finally pulled free, but when she tried to walk back to the bar, he stepped in front of her. “Leave it alone, Ariana.” He held out his arms, blocking her.

“Fine.” She stopped and gestured toward the bar. “But why is it that all you want to do is pull me away?”

“It's not your business. To her, you're the enemy—you and your middle-class modesty. If you approach her, a fight will break out, and she'll be fighting you, not the guy.”

“Why?”

“Because you have no understanding of her life or respect for her rights.”

“Her rights? How can you of all people talk about her rights? She's someone's daughter, like I'm yours. And I'd bet she's younger than I am!”

Nicholas wiped his brow with the back of his thumb. “Let's get out of here, and then we'll talk, okay?” He glanced at his GPS and motioned up the block.

Ariana shook from deep inside, and thoughts of the girl and so many others like her rocked her to the core. “I want to go home.”

“Okay, we'll leave first thing tomorrow. We can turn in the rental and fly back tomorrow.”

“No.” She stopped, folding her arms tight as she tried to control her trembling. “I want to go
home.
” Tears fell.

“Come on, Ariana. We've talked about this. We have a plan in place.”

“You'd let that girl sell herself because it's her right, but I can't go home to a safe place because it's too religious for your comfort zone? Where are
my
rights?”

Nicholas glanced down the block. “Can we keep walking for now and talk about this in a bit?” He clutched her arm and tugged, getting her feet moving again.

When Old Savannah looked like itself again, he slowed, and they headed to a bench in one of the green squares. She melted onto the wooden seat.

“Look, Ari.” Nicholas's hands were trembling. “You have the rest of your life to live Amish, to be the wife of this Rudy person, and to please your family in Summer Grove.”

“Stop diminishing my reasons for wanting to go home. Saying I only want to please my family is hypocritical. Who were you trying to please just then? I'll tell you who—the man who had the money.”

“I was defusing the situation while you were being rash. It wasn't about trying to please anyone.”

“Maybe, but that doesn't change that you continue to please yourself by being willing to blackmail my family if I don't stay here for a year.”

“Blackmail?” He stared at her for long moments. “Okay, maybe that is what I did. But—”

“My life isn't out here. It's in Summer Grove, being Amish, marrying Rudy, living under the wisdom, guidance, and restraint of the Ordnung, where the black and white of what's on the pages of the Word matters. We take it literally, and we make it matter in literal ways, just as you do with music theory.”

“That's a good, solid argument—something you wouldn't have been able to articulate without this time away from your people. But about three hundred years ago, music theory was used in literal ways. Before then and since, it's been used to understand how music works, and musicians and composers break every rule in order to free their creativity. That's all I want for you, to get free of the literal and be creative in building your life.”

Once again he'd silenced her with his knowledge, turned her own words against her to make his point.

“Ari, honey, I know the Plain life feels safe, especially after what just happened, and in some ways it is safe. But it's also thwarting all you could be. You're so smart. You wouldn't look at the Plain life with such favor if they hadn't had a lifetime of teaching you their ways.”

“If you'd had your way twenty years ago when you learned Brandi was pregnant, would I even exist?”

“Point taken. Can we look at that situation a little deeper? Your mom was younger than you are now, but she was her own person when it came to making the decision to have you. She didn't kowtow to me because I was a man, or to the church, who would've been much kinder to her if she'd secretly gotten rid of you. Brandi knew every option, knew her choice would ostracize me, her own mother, and even her friends. Maybe it's different today, but twenty years ago no one agreed with teen pregnancy, not even her college friends. But she took all the information and chose what mattered most to her. Despite the sacrifice and how things turned out—with her not raising her own daughter—she was right, Ari. She was a young, mixed-up kid, and she was right.”

“I have no idea how that connects to what we're talking about.”

“Because all I really want is for you to truly know your options concerning life and religion and to make an informed decision that isn't molded by fear or by what anyone else wants, including your Amish family or boyfriend. For now, you are here, alive and well, and I—”

“God put me there. Look at the list of extraordinary events that caused me to be raised Amish. The Ordnung may sound manipulative and controlling to you, but I see it as God's wisdom, and the Brennemans
are
my family.”

“The agreement—”

“Dad!” She stood, her words sounding like Cameron or Susie but not herself.

The word
Dad
seemed to steal his breath, and he ducked his head, shaking it. She had finally shot an arrow that penetrated his armor, striking his heart.

She fisted her hands. “Toss out all notions of suing anyone. Stop using God's Word against me. Let me go home.”

He looked like a man who feared he was losing. If Nicholas came to God, it wouldn't be because she'd stayed. He was too set in what he believed, even when he was wrong.

She couldn't keep listening to him rationalize away what she believed while witnessing evils she had no power to stop. It was just too much.

T
he early morning sky was dark, and stars twinkled brightly as Skylar looked out the side window from the backseat of the carriage. It was almost Thanksgiving, and a foot of snow covered the landscape. The white layer on the road muted the thudding of the horse's hoofs. Abram drove her, Susie, and Martha toward the café. Cilla would arrive in a couple of hours since she wasn't needed until the customers started coming in. Abram thought Brennemans' Perks wouldn't be as busy today with snow on the ground and more expected by midmorning.

Detoxing had meant four long days and nights at the Brenneman home with headaches, nausea, leg cramps, sleeplessness, crankiness, melancholy, and depression. Then, for good measure, Skylar had spent an extra week on the farm, learning to milk cows and tend the horses. The horse venture was her favorite. It was a kind of equine therapy for a former addict. Detoxing was behind her, and a lifetime of craving relief was ahead of her.

“Skylar.” Martha nudged her. “You okay?”

Of all the maternal figures in Skylar's life now, her youngest sister seemed to outmother the others. “Yeah. I'm good. You?”
Good
was an exaggeration, but Skylar had learned numerous lessons the past two weeks as the Brennemans pulled together to help her detox and find new strength to draw from. One was that love thought of others first. Martha was genuinely concerned. Step one in responding to others who cared: assuring the person she was fine. That was the easy part. Skylar lied all the time about how she was doing.

The hard part was step two: doing whatever it took to make sure she
was
fine. The
whatever it took
could be talking to someone, talking to herself, going for a walk, getting a hot bath, tending the horses, or milking the cows. She had swung from exhausted to edgy during her two weeks on the farm, and when she was edgy, she had to stay busy.

“If you start feeling jittery today, I'll make you some of my tea.”

Martha's tea, a concoction of loose leaves she mixed herself before brewing, seemed quite helpful. Or maybe it was just the girl who brought it to Skylar with hope radiating in her eyes. Who knew? The only thing Skylar knew for sure was that she had too many people invested in her success to let them down.

Skylar focused on Martha, her angelic face illuminated by silvery moonlight on freshly fallen snow, and Skylar's heart wrenched. This fifteen-year-old girl was her little sister, the youngest of five girls. Since they shared a bedroom and a bathroom, along with Susie, both innocent girls had seen too much recently—Skylar puking her guts out, moaning in pain, and ranting with anger.

She put her arm around her little sister. How had this quiet wisp of a girl and Susie's humor-laced sarcasm softened parts of Skylar's stony heart? “I'm strong enough for today.” She had voiced her concern at having to see people today, customers she'd been rude to or whose coffee mugs she'd overfilled or some other embarrassing thing in the weeks she'd worked at the café.

Susie turned from the front seat, and Abram looked at Skylar from the rearview mirror. All of them meant so much more to her this week than when she'd stormed out of the café two weeks ago. How had it happened? If five weeks of living with the Old Ways had made this much difference, what would a year do?

But could she hold on to her newfound strength? Love and gratefulness were like their own high even as her body ached. Her physical aches and low tolerance to pain might take months to fully go away. Odd how that worked—the body became overly sensitive to pain after using drugs to dull the pain. “I'm fine, guys. If I feel lousy, I'll let you know, and you can help me.” Skylar squeezed Martha's shoulders. “Okay?”

She knew a lot more now than she did two weeks ago. She knew she needed to be in Summer Grove with the Brennemans for a while yet. They were good people, and she needed whatever weird magic they possessed. And they needed her help in the café. Other than those things, she had no idea what she wanted to do, and she'd talked to Lovina and Isaac about that. She felt new and different and weird.

Abram pulled around to the back of the café and stopped the rig. When she got out, she stayed with him, and he showed her again how to unhitch the horse from the carriage and rigging. She didn't care about a buggy and how to make it work, but after spending a good bit of time this past week in the barn with the horses, she cared about them. There was something curative about meeting the needs of such beautiful, intelligent creatures.

Using the halter she led the horse to the hay wagon and tethered it. Abram put the horse blanket over it. He'd put up a makeshift shelter of tarps and rods so the horses—their horse and Cilla's or Barbie's horse—could stay dry when there was precipitation. She hoped the thin protection for the horse was enough to keep it comfortable, but that was another lesson she had finally come to accept recently—periodically all inhabitants of Earth groaned under some type of lack, and people who were worth their salt learned to cope without taking it out on others or using drugs.

While Abram filled the trough with fresh water, she patted the horse and let it nuzzle against her. Where had her newfound understanding come from? Maybe desperation. She was seeking answers, and she had found some. Maybe the insight came from watching each member of the family serve her so humbly, reading to her when she was too antsy to read to herself and praying over her. The Brenneman family believed in prayer. Skylar didn't. But there was no denying that faith worked for them, and she was glad. They deserved the kind of peace that came with believing, and if faith in God and the Bible gave it to them, she was grateful. Of all she'd learned recently that surprised her, a greater respect for faith was at the top of the list. She didn't have to believe in faith to accept that it could be real. She didn't know everything. Her internal workings that hated religion had finally quieted. It wasn't likely that the grumblings against faith would ever completely hush, but she could reason with them, and that was enough.

“You ready?” Abram opened the café's door.

“Not really.” She stroked the horse a few more times.

Despite all the progress, a large part of her was as irritable today as she'd been when she stormed out of the café two weeks ago. Apparently feeling good and peaceful would never come naturally for her. But she refused to do anything that would hurt Lovina, Isaac, or any of her siblings. And part of her ached to see her mom, to have the chance to say she was sorry for being bratty, for lying, and for all the rest. At the same time, an equal part resented the way her mom and dad had dumped her for Ariana. Now that she understood the concept of thinking of others first, she hoped she could manage some of her overwrought emotions and venomous thoughts.

“Don't go anywhere,” Skylar whispered in the horse's ear. “I may need the soothing effect of patting you.” She went inside, and something akin to nostalgia washed over her.

Susie glanced up and tossed an apron her way. “If you want to try your hand as an assistant baker, put that on. And if we're not too busy today, maybe you could work on organizing the loft.”

“Sure.” Baking didn't sound so great, but she liked the idea of cleaning the loft. It would get her away from the customers, and it would be a nice thing to do for Susie since she hoped to live there once her parents gave their permission.

She slid the white apron over her pullover sweater and jeans. The minutes slipped into hours, and soon snow began falling again, greatly diminishing the lunch crowd.

Skylar went to a table and began removing dirty dishes. Despite the lack of customers, her back ached, and her energy was less than zero.

Abram ran a broom across the floor. “You doing okay?”

“Everything hurts, but yeah.” She sprayed the table and began wiping it.

His eyes showed pride. He pointed at the snow. “It's good sledding weather. Should we close early?”

Martha came out of the kitchen, making a rare appearance in the front of the café. She had a mug in her hand. “A hot cup of tea and an egg salad sandwich.”

“Thank you.” Skylar took a sip. “Perfect.”

“Sit. Enjoy. You've earned it.” Martha picked up the tray of dirty dishes and went to the kitchen.

Skylar went to a table in the corner near the front window since so few customers were here today and she wanted to look outside. She stretched her back while sipping the tea. Snowflakes continued to fall. Would it be difficult to get home? She picked up her sandwich and turned back to Abram. “Have you eaten?”

“Ya. I ate while you were working on the loft. How's it looking?”

“Worse, much worse. Right now it looks as if a bomb has gone off. I think the loft mirrors my life. To bring order, I create utter chaos. Now I need to sort, toss, and give away.”

“If it's a mirror of your life, I suggest you gulp down that food and clean up that loft.”

She laughed.

The café door opened, and Jackson walked in carrying a crate. Skylar wasn't ready for this encounter and hoped he wanted to avoid her too. What had Abram told him?

“Hey, guys.” Jackson's voice carried through the almost-empty café.

“Hi.” Abram set his broom aside and took the box. “Thanks for getting the supplies for Susie. It's made running this café so much easier.”

“Then it works for all of us.”

Susie peered out the pass-through. “Today's special?”

“Please.”

“You got it, Jackson. Just take a seat.”

Abram took the box to the kitchen, and Jackson went to his usual table without noticing Skylar.

Cilla brought him a cup of coffee. “So how goes the sled building?”

“It'll be a speed demon, and I'm hoping to do a trial run today. Care to give it a whirl?”

Cilla laughed. “Me? On something like that?” She walked off, cackling at the idea.

Skylar's nerves were tap-dancing. Was she going to approach him or wait for him to do all the work? Before she could make herself budge, he glanced behind him, looking out the window at the snow, and spotted her. “Skylar.” He spoke her name with such frostiness that ice could've formed around them.

It was suddenly colder inside than out.

He was Abram's friend and an asset to the café, and he'd been a lot of help to Susie.

She picked up her plate and mug and walked to his table. “May I?”

He rubbed his temple. “Actually…”

“Oh, come on. You're fine letting me sit with you.” She sat. Then she fought with herself to apologize. “I'm sorry for coming unglued at you.”

“Thanks.”

She waited. He said nothing, and he kept his eyes on the register, the kitchen, anywhere except on her. “Is there something else I need to say, Jackson?”

“No, that covers plenty. We're good. Let's just let it go, okay?”

“I'd like that.” She took a sip of her tea. “So you build sleds?”

“Not from scratch, no.”

It was apparent he was uncomfortable, and she thought about letting him off the hook by wishing him well and taking her plate to the kitchen. But she couldn't. Why was it so important that they work through this? Was it because she now realized that relationships mattered or because he was Abram's friend or because he was a guy and she was currently without one? She needed to sort through her motivations, but she'd have to do that later.

“How then?”

His dark eyes stayed focused on the table. “I can't do this. I'm sorry.” He rose. “Excuse me.”

When he started to walk toward the counter, she jumped up and moved in front of him. “Wait. What's going on?”

He glanced at the customers. “This isn't the time or place.”

“It is the time. Your friend is my brother, and my behavior toward you was unacceptable. We
need
to talk. Give me five minutes, either outside or in the loft, and then erect all the walls you want.”