Sarah's Christmas Miracle (13 page)

T
WELVE

S
arah squirmed and fidgeted during the entire bus ride from Canton to Cleveland, unable to read her book or nap. She nibbled a sandwich
mamm
had packed, grateful for her foresight. And she had time to think long and hard about her mother, Mrs. Pratt, and Adam. An Amish girl was expected to marry, and if God was willing, bear children. If she possessed so many doubts now, maybe she wasn’t cut out for a woman’s noblest calling.

As houses, factories, and endless commercial strips passed beyond her window, the one person she didn’t dwell on was Caleb Beachy.

Best to leave meeting him in God’s hands.

She couldn’t turn back now as the bus pulled into the Greyhound station’s parking lot. After retrieving her bag, she headed inside and found the snack bar, ticket counter, and ladies’ room in the airy terminal. Her grand adventure had begun. People waiting to board buses or looking for anticipated loved ones eyed her curiously as she gazed around the room. She doubted they saw many Amish folk in Cleveland, especially not a single woman traveling alone.

A kind-looking woman at the information counter smiled as Sarah approached. “May I help you?” she asked, perusing her clothing. “Where did you come from, miss?”

“Fredericksburg,” Sarah answered cheerily.

“Virginia? I have a sister living in Richmond.”

“No, Fredericksburg, Ohio.” Upon the woman’s perplexed expression, she added, “It’s a small town south of Wooster.”

“I see, but actually I should be asking where you’re headed. Do you need to make a connection?”

Sarah withdrew one of the maps from her bag. “I wish to take the Rapid train to Davenport Street.”

The woman scanned the sheet, locating the “X” Mrs. Pratt had marked before handing it back to her. “You need to take the Red Line and get off at the West Boulevard-Cudell stop. You can catch the train at Public Square. From here, you can either walk to the square or catch the Euclid Avenue connector.” She pulled a pad from her desk drawer.

“I’ll walk,” said Sarah, unsure what a connector was.

“Okay, you’re on Chester Avenue.” The woman pointed toward the street. “Head west, which is to the right, until you get to East Ninth. Then turn right, go two blocks, turn left on Superior, and walk to Public Square. You can’t miss it. The Rapid Transit station is the lowest level of the Terminal Tower.” While she spoke, she marked on the pad with red marker. “When you get to the square, look up. The tallest building is the one you want. Good luck, honey.” She ripped off the top sheet and handed it to Sarah.

She thanked the woman and left the station, clutching yet another map in her hand. Under the terminal’s canopy she studied the red marks and breathed a sigh of relief—it was only a six-block walk.

But as she set out, the light snow steadily increased to near-blizzard conditions. By the time she reached Ninth Street, she couldn’t see ten feet before her. Sidewalk shoveling had been spotty at best. Some storekeepers had cleared a path, but many abandoned storefronts promised a foot of slush to trudge through. By the time Sarah turned onto Superior Avenue, her outer bonnet and gloves were soggy, and the inside of her leather boots felt clammy.

However, she forgot how cold and damp she was the moment she arrived at Public Square. The festive display of holiday lights snatched her breath away. All four quadrants of the Square blazed with colorful blinking exhibits, one more impressive than the next. As she crossed the street, she entered a wonderland of red-and-green walkways winding through dozens of illuminated Christmas trees. Each glowed from hundreds of points of light. She marveled at the Soldiers and Sailors Monument and stood in awe before the Old Stone Church, beckoning people inside to worship. Even though most of the decorations were secular, Sarah spotted a Nativity scene in one quadrant that drew her like a moth to a flame.

As snowflakes fell on the ceramic sheep and wooden shepherds, she approached the manger with her heart swelling with anticipation.

Wise men journeyed for hundreds of miles two thousand years ago. Can’t I walk a few blocks without complaining of discomfort?

Sarah stood transfixed for several minutes while office workers and shoppers hurried past her. She wasn’t in a rush, though. She paused before the gentle reminder of what was possible through faith.

After a little while, she smiled and turned up her face to try to determine which building was the tallest, but heavy snow obliterated the skyline.

A young man wearing a stocking cap and baggy jeans paused beside her and stared up too. “Wha’cha looking for?”

“The Terminal Tower.” She withdrew a damp map from her pocket.

“It’s right in front of you,” he answered, his grin revealing a gold tooth. “Cross the street and you’re there.” Before she could thank him, he disappeared into the throng.

Sarah fell in step with the people entering the building. The lobby’s interior—marble floors and walls, a picture-frame ceiling of carved golden roses, brass latticework above each doorway—caused her mouth to drop open. Never had she seen anything so ornate. She trailed the crowd of tan trench coats, black briefcases, and plaid scarves into an inner court of shops and restaurants.
And English tourists think Amish folk dress alike.
All the stores seemed to sell only one type of item—fancy underwear, perfume, scented soaps and lotions, tennis shoes, jewelry—instead of a little of everything like back home. She walked to the railing and peered down into the Rapid Transit station two floors below. Heading for the escalator marked “To Trains,” she almost followed the tide of humanity sheeplike onto the wrong train.

High on the wall hung “eastbound” and “westbound” maps with the stops along each route indicated. Sarah felt a surge of adrenaline when she spotted the West Boulevard-Cudell station on the Red Line—the stop nearest Davenport Street.
I’m getting close…that much closer to my
bruder.

“Can I help you, miss?”

Sarah turned to face a security guard. “I’d like to take the Red Line.”

He nodded, walking her over to a machine. “Five dollars will buy an all-day pass. You can ride as much as you like. Just put your money in and press the All-Day button.”

Sarah withdrew a five-dollar bill and studied the contraption, but she couldn’t figure out where the money should go.

“Here, let me show you.” The guard plucked the bill from her fingers.

She watched him insert it into the machine, press a button, and take the ticket that popped out.

“If you stay longer than twenty-four hours, these kiosks are at every station. Now watch how those people feed their tickets into the turnstile. And be sure to take the ticket with you when it comes back out.”

Sarah ran to the Red Line turnstiles as though late for school with the guard close on her heels. He didn’t leave her side until she emerged on the other side with her ticket in hand. “Listen for your stop,” he called with hands cupped around his mouth.

She waved and grinned until her face hurt. When the train stopped at the platform, Sarah and the other commuters surged aboard like cattle into livestock trailers. Seats filled up quickly with the nimbler travelers, so she grasped a metal pole as they rattled out of the underground station. Soon the train careened back into daylight as she was jostled between other riders. She dipped her head for a glimpse of the city whenever the train rose higher than the deep valley it followed.

“West Boulevard-Cudell, next stop,” announced the overhead speaker.

“That’s my stop,” she said to no one in particular.

“Better stand by the door so you’re ready when it opens,” advised a girl with dozens of skinny braids. She bobbed her head to the left.

“Thanks,” Sarah said, moving into position. When the train lurched to a stop and the door opened, she jumped onto the platform, away from transportation that seemed to operate without human direction. Several people gave her odd looks as they climbed the stairs to street level. Under a streetlight, Sarah studied her map to regain her bearing. Only a few blocks separated her from Caleb’s last known address. She strode off at a brisk pace as daylight slipped away. With the snowstorm and the year’s shortest day in less than two weeks, darkness soon enveloped her in a neighborhood of boarded-up windows, sagging porches, and few shoveled sidewalks.

The cold pervaded her wool coat, thick socks, and ankle-length skirt. Her knit gloves and leather boots were no match for the slush tossed onto sidewalks from passing cars. Sarah’s nose began to run as her spirits flagged.

What if Caleb doesn’t want to see me? What if he shuts the door in my face? Or what if he no longer lives at his most recent address?
That possibility had occurred to her back home, but she assumed new tenants would provide a current address. Now, walking the lonely streets and seeing few friendly faces, she realized the folly of her logic. A seed of fear began to grow in her empty belly. She’d eaten
mamm
’s sandwiches, potato chips, and fruit long ago. Where would she spend the night if Caleb no longer resided at 885 Davenport Street?

When she reached that address, she discovered a large brick apartment building instead of a house. Soot and grime had discolored the exterior, and the windowsills badly needed painting, but a ghost of its former glory still remained.

When a mother and child emerged through the front door, Sarah darted in before it closed behind them. A board of buttons hung on the wall, with names on cards beside each one. She looked at button after button until her focus landed on “C. Beachy, 314.” Her breath caught in her throat. “
Danki,
Lord, that he hasn’t moved again,” she whispered.

Hesitantly, she pushed his button and waited. The interior door began to buzz jarringly. On impulse, she pulled the handle before the noise stopped. Ahead lay a narrow hallway with several doors, and on the right a wide staircase. She climbed the steps to the third floor feeling cold, tired, wet, hungry, and hopeful. She crept down a dingy hallway with carpeting that hadn’t been cleaned in a decade, finally pausing at number 314. Would he even remember his
bleed madchen
? Would he be angry she had tracked him down?

Sarah knocked and waited. She lifted her hand to knock again when the metal door swung wide and her brother appeared in the doorway, holding a letter in his hand. He looked much thinner with short curly hair and a scruffy beard. But it was Caleb Beachy—his warm brown eyes fringed with thick lashes hadn’t changed. “Caleb?” she asked softly.

“Sarah? Is that really you or am I dreaming?” He leaned against the doorjamb, gazing down on her.

“It’s me. Mind if I come in? I’m freezing.”

Cal straightened and moved back. “Sorry, come on in. You gave me quite a shock.”

“I s’pose so.” Sarah stepped past him into a cluttered apartment with dingy walls and worn carpet that smelled faintly sour.

“Don’t mind the place. The cleaning lady called in sick this week.” He grabbed a stack of newspapers from one end of the sofa.

She glanced up to make certain he was joking. “Most men aren’t very tidy,” she murmured, shrugging off her coat.

Cal looked alarmed when he reached for the garment. “This coat is soaking wet! You’ll catch pneumonia if we don’t get you warmed up.” He pulled her over to a steam radiator, turned the valve fully open, and yanked off her soggy bonnet. Droplets of water flew in all directions. “Take off those boots while I get some dry socks,” he ordered, laying her coat and hat across a chair to dry.

Ten minutes later, Sarah sat sipping black coffee in a huge sweatshirt over her dress with thick socks up to her knees. Cal turned up the heat in the apartment until her teeth had stopped chattering.

“So, how do you like living in Cleveland?” She peered around the room, trying not to wrinkle her nose.

“I love it! There’re so many things to do. Okay, this place isn’t the best, but you should have seen my first apartment…beautiful! I’ll be moving outta here as soon as construction picks up. Bad economy, dead of winter. You know how things are.”