The Revealing (10 page)

Bethany stopped by her room one afternoon as Mim was gluing flowers on cards. “Those are pretty.”

Bethany never said anything nice just to please you. If she said they were good, then they must be.

“Maybe you could sell them at the Bent N’ Dent. Maybe it could turn into a card business for you. That would sure make Mammi Vera happy.”

Ever since Mim started eighth grade, Mammi Vera was trying to spur Mim to think ahead about her future, what she would like to do after she finished schooling. “Sie sehnt net weider as die Naas lang is,” Mammi Vera would say, with a frown of concentration on her face.
She didn’t see further than
her nose is long.
Her grandmother assumed Mim didn’t have enough on her mind, but the problem was her grandmother
had no idea of all that ran through Mim’s mind. How could she? She never bothered to ask.

Bethany tossed a manila envelope on Mim’s bed. Each week, Bethany dropped off this week’s Mrs. Miracle responses and picked up the most recent letters for Mrs. Miracle that were sent to the
Stoney Ridge Times
office. “There’s an envelope in there that’s supposed to be important. Not sure what’s in that, but the receptionist said to make sure Mrs. Miracle saw it pronto.”

Bethany waited by the door, arms folded against her chest, as Mim opened and read the letter. It was from the features editor, a man Mim had never met and never wanted to. Bethany said he was quite unappealing, a real curmudgeon. “What’s up, Mim? You look as worried as a duck in the desert.”

Mim didn’t even glance up. “You say that’s how I always look.”

Bethany lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I sure hope this Mrs. Miracle gig doesn’t blow up in your face. First of all, you’re supposed to be eighteen years old to have a column at the newspaper. Secondly, the bishop would not approve of you telling people how to live their life. Thirdly, Rose doesn’t know anything about it, so you’re being deceitful. Fourthly, Mammi Vera would blow an artery if she knew.”

Mim kept her head down. Did Bethany think those concerns hadn’t crossed her mind? They did! But Mrs. Miracle had a life of her own.

Bethany waited another long moment, then let out an exasperated snort. “Fine. I’ve got enough problems of my own.” She spun around and walked down the hallway.

As Mim reread the letter, she could hardly breathe. The
editor said he had an offer to syndicate the Mrs. Miracle column. Was she interested? Because he was. Call me! he wrote, underlining it twice.

First, she had no idea what syndication meant. Secondly, whatever it was, she didn’t want it.

She pulled the dictionary off her desk and looked up the word:

syndication
| ˌsin-də-ˈkā-shən |
noun
• publish or broadcast (material) simultaneously in a number of newspapers, television stations, etc.:
his reports were syndicated to 200 other
papers
.

Oh, boy. Mim threw herself on her bed, headfirst.

Geena Spencer had once been a guest at Eagle Hill and liked Stoney Ridge so much she ended up moving here. She became the housemother to the Group Home for wayward girls, and Bethany couldn’t get over the changes there—a person would hardly even recognize it anymore. If a house had a personality, the Group Home used to look sad, neglected, lonely. Now it was smiling, laughing, buzzing with activity.

The very first thing Geena had done as housemother was to get rid of the television. The previous housemother let the television stay on all day and all night. As soon as it had been given away, the wayward girls made noises about being bored and
boom!
That was the moment Geena implemented change number two: each girl would be required to work or volunteer ten hours a week in addition to attending school. But they had so much time, Geena pointed out as they howled and
complained about the new rule, why not use it for good? So they did, and it did do good. Mostly . . . for the wayward girls.

On a rainy afternoon in early April, Geena stopped by Eagle Hill and Bethany invited her in for tea and fresh hot scones with a drizzled maple glaze. They had developed a comfortable friendship. By the time the two women came into the kitchen, Luke and Sammy were reaching for second and third helpings of the scones cooling on the countertop. Luke’s and Sammy’s appetites were a kind of natural calamity. Bethany had watched it with amazement for years and yet it still surprised her how much those boys could eat. Not only did they eat a lot, but they ate it fast. They were appalling.

It was always peaceful when Geena came for a visit; even restless Luke didn’t need to be jumping up and moving about. He would hang around just to hear her stories about the wayward girls. They especially loved to hear about a tough cookie named Rusty who had blossomed like a summer rose at the Group Home. An aunt had emerged out of nowhere and asked Rusty to come live with her; things were going well, Geena said. A success story. Of course Luke and Sammy lapped up Geena’s stories about her work with the Group Home. The boys hadn’t been much of anywhere outside of Stoney Ridge, so it was all romance to them.

“Tell me something you learned at school today,” Geena said to Luke as she took a third scone. Mid-bite, her eyes flickered to Bethany, who was staring at her. “Sorry,” she said with her mouth full. She pushed the basket toward her. “I had a small breakfast.”

Bethany had never seen a woman with an appetite like Geena’s. It was impressive for someone who was barely five
feet tall and hardly tipped the scales at one hundred pounds, soaking wet. She fit right in with Luke and Sammy.

Luke cut a grin at his brother. “We learned that Sammy thinks the moon was made of real cheese.”

“It’s a mistake anyone could make,” Sammy said, scowling at Luke.

Luke got a devilish look on his face as he turned to Geena. “I just so happened to see you and that SEC lawyer driving through town last weekend.”

“His name is Allen Turner,” Bethany said, eyes on Geena to see her reaction.

Geena stirred sugar into her tea and held her peace. She never corrected anyone or told anyone he was being childish or immature, but often people seemed to realize it themselves. Not Luke, though. He asked her if she was sweet on Allen Turner, and Geena only sipped her tea, pretending he hadn’t asked.

Soon, Bethany had enough of Luke. “You boys go outside so I can visit with Geena.”

Sammy was no problem and quickly went his own way. He didn’t want to hang around to hear their secrets. Luke needed to be asked twice, as usual.

As soon as the boys were out of hearing, Bethany fixed her gaze on Geena. “Is that true? Did you go on a date with Allen Turner?”

Geena waved that away. “We’re old friends. You know that.” She added another spoonful of sugar to her tea and stirred it, a little nervously, Bethany observed. “I came by to let you know we’re going to set a date to turn the soil for the community garden beds.”

Last summer, Bethany and Geena started the community
garden as a way to help the down-and-outers in Stoney Ridge. The Group Home worked a plot, and so did other families who were on government aid. The produce from the gardens helped supplement family groceries. It had been hugely successful; this summer there was a waiting list for the plots.

“Oh,” Bethany said, but her mind was elsewhere, nowhere near the community gardens.

“You’ll help, won’t you?” Geena said, between bites of her fourth scone.

Bethany leaned forward. “Geena, I need your advice. What do you do when a person keeps avoiding something because he is overwhelmed by obstacles?”

“Deal with each obstacle, one by one.”

One by one. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought about that with Jimmy Fisher?

“So, I can count on your help?” Geena said, finishing off her sugary tea.

“Mmm-hmm,” Bethany murmured, concocting a plan to knock down Jimmy’s biggest obstacle to getting married.

The day suited Mim’s mood—wet and cheerless. Earlier today, just after dawn, she was milking Molly only to have the dumb cow shift her big hip and knock Mim right off the milking stool, tipping over the full pail of fresh warm milk. Barn cats, who had been watching the milking from a safe distance, sprang on the spilled milk as if they had conspired with Molly for a free breakfast. When did milking Molly become Mim’s job, anyhow?

She plodded along the road to the schoolhouse through the sodden countryside, alone, because her brothers had over
slept and she refused to wait for them and risk being late. She made her way carefully around mud and puddles and drowned worms. Even the birds weren’t singing this morning.

As Mim approached the schoolhouse, she felt a strange sense that something wasn’t right. The schoolhouse was shrouded in mist, cloaked in an oppressive doom. And it was silent. None of the students were outside on the playground, which wasn’t at all typical; even rain couldn’t keep boys inside when they could be outside.

Something had happened.

Could she have mixed up days again? Was it Saturday? She had done that very thing once, at their old school in York County, and Luke still teased her about it.

But then she saw the backs of a few students huddled together at the open door. She walked up the steps of the schoolhouse and stopped abruptly as she crossed the threshold, expecting something horrific. A dead body, perhaps, or a sinkhole in the center of the schoolhouse that was swallowing it in one bite.

It was nothing like that.

The students’ desks and the teacher’s desk had been reversed. Everything was in the same spot but facing the opposite direction, a mirror image. Danny stood in the center of the room, a baffled look on his face.

No one had any idea how it had happened.

Early one morning, while Brooke was still in her pajamas, she heard a knock and opened the door to find Mim Schrock with an empty laundry basket in her arms.

“Today’s the day we wash sheets.”

Mim always had a slightly anxious look, Brooke thought, as she stepped away to let her pass. She enjoyed Mim and tried to detain her with conversation each time she brought breakfast to her. Some might think Mim was dull because she was quiet and watchful, but Brooke could see there was more going on in her mind than she let others know. And it couldn’t be a bed of roses living with the gloomy Vera Schrock, who probably hadn’t cracked a smile in eons.

Mim headed straight to the bedroom. As she stripped the sheets off the bed, Brooke followed her in and asked, “What would you say, Mim, to a woman who is searching for a new identity? To find herself.”

Mim straightened, blinked, pushed her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. “I’ve actually given this question a great deal of thought lately. What I’ve decided is that wherever she goes, there she’ll be.” She pulled the pillowcases off the pillows, one after the other, and bundled the sheets together. “We only have one set of sheets for your bed, so Mom will put them back on later today.” She hurried out the door like there was a fire.

Brooke spent the rest of the morning pondering the comment made by fourteen-year-old Mim. “Wherever she goes, there she’ll be.” There was some truth in those words.