Rebecca Kertz - The Amish Mother

Limping Lizzie, the children had called her when she was a child. There had been other names, including Duckie because of her duck-like gait, which was caused by a hip socket too shallow to keep in the femoral head, the ball at the top of her long leg bone. Most of the children didn’t mean to be cruel, but the names hurt just the same.

Lizzie had spent her young life proving that it didn’t matter that one leg was longer than the other; yet her mother had implied otherwise when she’d urged Lizzie to marry Abraham, a grieving widower with children.

Abraham had still been grieving for his first wife when he’d married her, but she’d accepted his grief along with the rest of the family’s. His children missed their mother. The oldest two girls, Mary Ruth and Hannah, resented Lizzie. The younger children had welcomed her, as they needed someone to hug and love them and be their mother. And they were too young to understand.

Mary Ruth, Abraham’s eldest, had been eleven at the time of her mother’s death, her sister Hannah almost ten. Both girls were angry with their mother for dying and angrier still at Lizzie for filling the void.

Lizzie picked several more apples, handing the children a number of them so that they would feel important as they placed them carefully in the basket.

“Can we eat one?” Anne asked.

“With your midday meal,” Lizzie said. She glanced up at the sky and noted the position of the sun, which was directly overhead. “Are you hungry?” All three youngsters nodded vigorously. She reached to pick up the basket, which was full and heavy. She didn’t let on that her leg ached as she straightened with the basket in hand. “Let’s get you something to eat, then.”

The children followed her into the large white farmhouse. When she entered through the back doorway, she saw the kitchen sink was filled with dirty dishes. She sighed as she set the basket on one end of the counter near the stove.

“Mary Ruth!” she called. “Hannah!” When there was no response, she called for them again. Matthew, who was eight, entered the kitchen from the front section of the house. “Have you seen your older sisters?” Lizzie asked him.

He shrugged. “Upstairs. Not sure what they’re doing.”

“Matt, are you hungry?” When the boy nodded, Lizzie said, “If you’ll go up and tell your sisters to come down, I’ll make you all something to eat.”

Jonas grabbed his older brother’s arm as Matt started to leave. “ Mam ’s going to make candy apples,” he said.

Matthew opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he glanced toward the basket of apples instead and smiled. “Sounds goot . I like candy apples.” Little Jonas grinned at him.

Matt left and then returned moments later, followed by his older sisters, Mary Ruth, Hannah and Rebecca, who had been upstairs in their room.

“You didn’t do the dishes,” Lizzie said to Mary Ruth.

The girl regarded her with a sullen expression. “I didn’t know it was my turn.”

“I’ll do them,” Rebecca said.

“That’s a nice offer, Rebecca,” Lizzie told her, “but ’tis Mary Ruth’s turn, so I think she should do it.” She smiled at the younger girl. “But you can help me make the candy apples later this afternoon after I hang the laundry.” She met Hannah’s gaze. “Did you strip the beds?”

Hannah nodded. “I put the linens near the washing machine.”

Lizzie smiled. “ Danki , Hannah.” She heard Mary Ruth grumble beneath her breath. “Did you say something you’d like to share?” she asked softly.

“Nay,” Mary Ruth replied.

“I thought not.” She went to the refrigerator. “What would you like to eat?” Their main meal was usually at midday, but their schedule had differed occasionally since Abraham’s death because of the increase in her workload. Still, she had tried to keep life the same as much as possible.

“I can make them a meal,” Mary Ruth challenged. Lizzie turned, saw her defiant expression and then nodded. The girl was hurting. If Mary Ruth wanted to cook for her siblings, then why not let her? She had taught her to be careful when using the stove.

“That would be nice, Mary Ruth,” she said. “I’ll hang the clothes while you feed your brooders and sisters.” And she headed toward the back room where their gas-powered washing machine was kept, sensing that the young girl was startled. Lizzie retrieved a basket of wet garments and headed toward the clothesline outside.

The basket was only moderately heavy as she carried it to a spot directly below the rope. She felt comfortable leaving the children in the kitchen, for she could see inside through the screen door.

A soft autumn breeze stirred the air and felt good against her face. Lizzie bent, chose a wet shirt and pinned it on the line. She worked quickly and efficiently, her actions on the task but her gaze continually checking inside to see the children seated at the kitchen table.

“Elizabeth Fisher?” a man’s voice said, startling her.

Lizzie gasped and spun around. She hadn’t heard his approach from behind her. She’d known before turning that he was Amish as he had spoken in Deitsch , the language spoken within her community. Her eyes widened as she stared at him. The man wore a black-banded, wide-brimmed straw hat, a blue shirt and black pants held up by black suspenders. He looked like her deceased husband, Abraham, only younger and more handsome.

“You’re Zachariah,” she said breathlessly. Her heart picked up its beat as she watched him frown. “I’m Lizzie Fisher.”

* * *

Zachariah stared at the woman before him in stunned silence. She was his late brother’s widow? He’d been shocked to receive news of Abraham’s death, even more startled to learn the news from Elizabeth Fisher, who had identified herself in her letter as his late brother’s wife.

It had been years since he’d last visited Honeysuckle. He hadn’t known that Ruth had passed or that Abe had remarried. Why didn’t Abraham write and let us know?

“What happened to Ruth?” he demanded.

The woman’s lovely bright green eyes widened. “Your brooder didn’t write and tell you?” she said quietly. “Ruth passed away—over two years ago. A year after Ezekiel was born, she came down with the flu and...” She blinked. “She didn’t make it. Your brooder asked me to marry him shortly afterward.”

Zack narrowed his gaze as he examined her carefully. Dark auburn hair in slight disarray under her white head covering...eyes the color of the lawn after a summer rainstorm...pink lips that trembled as she gazed up at him. “You can’t be more than seventeen,” he accused.

The young woman lifted her chin. “Nineteen,” she stated stiffly. “I’ve been married to your brooder for two years.” She paused, looked away as if to hide tears. “It would have been two years tomorrow had he lived.”

Two years! Zack thought. The last time he’d received a letter from Abraham was when Abe had written the news of Ezekiel’s birth. His brother had never written again.

The contents of Lizzie’s letter when it had finally caught up to the family had shocked and upset them. Zack had made the immediate decision to come home to Honeysuckle to gauge the situation with the children and the property—and this new wife the family knew nothing about. His mother and sisters had agreed that he should go. With both Ruth and Abraham deceased, Zack thought that the time had come to reclaim what was rightfully his—the family farm.

He stood silently, watching as she pulled a garment from the wicker basket at her feet and tossed it over the line. He had trouble picturing Abraham married to this girl, although he could see why Abraham might have been attracted to her. But why would Lizzie choose to marry Abraham? He saw the difficulty her trembling fingers had securing the garment onto the clothesline properly. He fought back unwanted sympathy for her and won.