Trading Secrets (8 page)

I nod in affirmation. “For sure—and on more than one level.”

Zach turns to look at me, and for the first time I see what looks like genuine kindness in his dark brown eyes. “Thank you for calling your uncle.”

“I was glad to.” I slowly shake my head in amazement. “I'm so glad Uncle Brad and Dad were together.” I explain how Dad flew my uncle to Chicago this weekend. “Otherwise it might've been tricky trying to reach my uncle. I'm not even sure if I still have his cell number.”

“Brad sounds like a good guy,” Zach tells me. “I really appreciated his help.”

“He thinks you should get a local vet to look at Molly.”

“He told me that too. And I agree. I'll run over to Daedi's
farm first thing in the morning. He has a phone in his barn I can use.”

“Your grandfather has a phone in his barn?”

Zach makes a half smile. “
Ja
. Phones aren't allowed inside the house. No wires can go into a home. But some farms have phones outside of the house, sometimes in an outbuilding or in a barn—but only to be used for business.” He shakes his head with a dismal expression. “Not my daed, though. He would never allow a phone in here. He's very conservative. Both my parents are. You may have noticed.”

Suddenly I feel awkward again. Although Zach has warmed up some, I know that he's probably still irked at me for tricking him—and for embarrassing him in front of his family. “I know you got the note I wrote to you this morning,” I begin slowly. “But I'd like to apologize face-to-face too, Zach.”

He waves his hand. “Never mind.”

“No,” I insist. “I want to say how sorry I am for deceiving you. I want you to know that I never set out to do it. And when I came here, I didn't mean to embarrass you like that. I just couldn't think of any other way to meet you. I wanted to meet you, Zach. I wanted you to know why I never told you I was a girl. I wanted to make you understand that—”

“I
understand
how it happened,” he says abruptly. “I picked you as my pen pal. I thought you were a boy. You went along with it.” He shrugs like it's no big deal, but I can tell he's still not okay with it. “I know all that now.”

“Good, but I want you to know that early on, I'd planned to tell you I was a girl, but the more I got to know you, the more I got worried. I was afraid you'd stop writing to me. I didn't want to lose you as my friend,” I continue meekly. “You felt like such a good friend in our letters. You understood me and I
understood you. I know it was futile, but I just wanted to keep our friendship going.” I let out a long sigh. “Because there were times . . . when it felt like you were my very best friend, Zach.”

He barely nods and his eyes are sad. “
Ja
. I know.”

“And the way you helped me”—my voice cracks with emotion—“when my mom died. Well, I'll always be grateful for that. You'll probably never really understand how much that meant to me.” I look into his dark eyes. “But I do hope that you'll forgive me—I mean, for deceiving you. Not right now . . . but in time, anyway.”

“
Ja
. . . I am working on it.”

I shiver involuntarily as the cold night air sinks into my slightly damp clothing. Wrapping my arms around myself, I start shuffling my feet to get warm, but I realize it's useless. “It's really cold out here,” I mutter. That's an understatement since I feel like hypothermia isn't too far away.

“You should get into the house.” He points to my jeans and sweatshirt, which look less than sanitary after the recent horse-birthing experience. “And get out of those.” He frowns. “What were you doing out here in the barn at night anyway?”

“Hiding out,” I confess.

“Hiding out?”

“From you . . . and from your mom.”

He makes a knowing smile. “Sorry about that.”

“But Katy said I can sleep in their room. She said to just slip in quietly.”

“
Ja
. Good advice. I'll walk you to the house.” He picks up the blanket and wraps it around me like a cape, which feels very sweet and thoughtful. This kind gesture alone sends a rush of warmth through me as we scurry toward the darkened house by the light from our two lanterns.

“I'm going to clean up some,” he says as he turns on the water in the laundry sink on the back porch. “Then I'll stay with Molly and the colt tonight.”

I remove the blanket from my shoulders and lay it over his hunched back. “You might need this tonight.”

“Thanks.” He continues scrubbing his hands.

“Will it disturb anyone if I clean up in the bathroom upstairs?” I ask.

“Mamm and Daed are both heavy sleepers.”

“Oh, good.” I'm starting to shiver from the cold again. “Thank you,” I mutter, not even sure what I'm thanking him for. Perhaps just the prospect of warmth.

“
Ja
,” he says solemnly, still focused on washing up. “Thank
you
.”

With lantern in hand, I tell him good night, then quietly make my way through the kitchen and front room, creeping up the stairs until I finally reach the no-frills bathroom at the end of the hallway. Once I close the door, I fumble to find the switch to the battery powered-overhead light. It makes a lonely buzzing sound and lets out a greenish sort of light, but it illuminates the room better than the camp lantern. Of course, there's no lock on the door. I noticed that last night but figured it must be just one more oddity about the Amish. Or else privacy just isn't important to this family. At least I'm relatively assured that no one will come busting in here at this hour. It must be nearly 2:00 by now.

I'm just peeling off my dirty clothes and looking forward to a nice hot shower—counting my blessings that Zach's dad had the sense to install a propane hot water heater—when I realize I have nothing clean to put on after my shower. I left my backpack, which is nearly empty anyway, in the barn loft.
I'm just hanging my less-than-clean T-shirt on a peg, deciding that I'll have to sleep in that, when I hear a quiet tapping on the door. Snatching up a towel, I hold it in front of me. “Someone's in here,” I hiss at the door.

“It's just me,” Katy whispers as the door cracks open. “Here.” She dangles what looks like a flannel nightgown through the slit. “I thought you could use this.”

“You're an angel,” I declare as I take the garment.

She quietly giggles, then shuffles down the hallway.

After a long, hot shower, armed with a block of soap that smells faintly like cheese, I rub myself warm with a stiff, rough, line-dried towel that makes my skin tingle and finally pull the thick flannel nightgown over my head. Very cozy!

I know it's ironic, but as I tiptoe down the hall to the girls' bedroom, I feel extremely grateful for these unexpected Amish “luxuries.” How wonderful to have indoor plumbing, hot water, clean and dry clothes, and a real bed! As I slip between the sheets, which feel much softer tonight, I utter another silent prayer.

This time it's a prayer of thanksgiving, first and foremost for the miracle that occurred out in the barn tonight, but also for these simple comforts. I smile to think of what Lizzie would think of me right now—feeling so delighted with so little. As I drift off to sleep, I vaguely decide that many of life's delights are simply a matter of perspective.

W
hen I wake up on my second morning at the Miller house, Zach's sisters make no special efforts to be quiet as they get dressed. I'm not sure if it's because they no longer consider me a “guest” or just didn't realize I was there when they got up. It doesn't matter anyway since despite getting only a few hours of sleep, I'm wide awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed in the borrowed nightgown, I watch, mesmerized, as the three sisters help each other dress for school. They seem to have a routine all worked out—almost like it's been choreographed.

“I know some of your clothes are still on the line and wet,” Katy tells me as she fastens Sarah's white
kapp
into place, straightening the strings alongside her chin in a maternal way. “And I put your other dirty things from last night in Mamm's wash basket for today.”

“Thank you,” I say sleepily.

“So I thought you probably have no dry clothes to put on. That's why I set out some of my things for you to wear.” Katy points to a teal blue dress and some other things lying over
the foot of my bed. “Unless you want to wear man clothes again.” She giggles. “Then you'll have to borrow something from Zach.”

“Do you
always
wear man clothes?” Ruth asks me with wide eyes.

“No,” I mumble. “Not really.”

“Zach's clothes would be too big for her.” Ruth states this in a way that makes her sound older than just ten. “You should wear Katy's things, Micah. You're about the same size anyway.”

With Ruth watching and making her wry little comments, Katy and Sarah help me get dressed. I'm embarrassed to admit that I do need help. First there are these funny old-fashioned undergarments, followed by the loose-fitting dress that has no buttons or zippers to keep it closed. Instead, the girls show me how to use straight pins to hold it together. I don't say what I'm thinking, but really, this seems odd. Who decided straight pins were the correct way to fasten your clothes—and why? It all seems pretty complicated to me, especially for people who admire simplicity.

“You always pin your clothes together like this?” I ask Katy as she's finishing up. “Or is it just because this dress is unfinished or something?”

“This is how we always dress,” Katy assures me as she secures the last pin. “We have our reasons.”

“Is it religious?” I ask curiously.

“I can't explain it all right now.” Katy turns around to help Ruth braid her hair, as Sarah pulls on her long black stockings. With Ruth's braid finished and pinned tightly to the back of her head, Katy secures her white
kapp
snugly into place with more pins.

“Do I wear a
kapp
too?” I ask Katy. I'm kind of getting into this now. It's like wearing a costume. It might be fun to parade about like an Amish girl for one day. At least until my own clothes are ready to wear.

“No, Micah. There's no reason for a
kapp
,” Katy tells me.

“Why not?” Ruth asks her big sister.

“She is not really Amish,” Katy says.

“A woman is not supposed to go out with her head uncovered,” Ruth points out to her sister.

“Or with her hair down,” Katy adds. The youngest sister is studying me now, almost as if she doesn't quite know what to make of me. I'm sure I'm an amusement to all three of them.

“How about if I put my hair in a braid,” I suggest. “I sometimes do that at home.”

“
Ja
, that would be good, I think,” Sarah says with childlike authority.

“Mamm will appreciate it.” Katy gives Ruth a gentle shove toward the door. “Time to do chores. The chickens are hungry.”

“Breakfast is at 7:00,” Sarah informs me.

“Don't be late,” Ruth warns.

Suddenly the three girls are gone and the room is quiet. For some reason, the image of Zach's sisters getting ready for the day reminded me of a scene from
Fiddler on the Roof
. Lizzie and I had small parts in the musical last year, so I know it pretty well. As I finish getting dressed, pulling on the black stockings, the “Matchmaker” song starts going through my head. I tie my athletic shoes, which look slightly out of place with my old-fashioned outfit, deciding that the Miller family isn't so unlike Tevye's. It's as if the Amish are stuck in a previous century. And they like it this way.

As I go downstairs, I wonder if I could learn to like living
like this too. I mean, once you get used to the deprivations and learn to appreciate the simple things and slow pace, it does have its charms. As I approach the kitchen, I'm aware that it's too early for breakfast, but I'm hoping to make amends with Mrs. Miller by offering her my help.

“I see you have decided to be a young woman today,” Zach's mother says a bit curtly. She is stirring a bowl of batter as if her very life depends on it. Or perhaps it's to release the frustration that's come in the form of an unwelcome house guest.

“Katy loaned me her clothes,” I say, as if she didn't already know this.

“
Ja
. I saw that she left your dirty clothes to be washed.”

“I can wash them myself,” I say quickly as I realize how my laundry will add to her workload. Anything to get on this woman's good side—if she has one.

“No, no,” she says in a weary tone that reminds me of a martyr. “I will wash your clothes. And if God sends the sunshine, they will get dry.”

“Thank you,” I murmur. “Uh, is there anything I can do to help in here?”

She gives me a look that's something between curious and disdainful, then just shakes her head. “No, I have my Katy to help me.” She tips her head over to where Katy is busy at the sink. “Thank you.”

Feeling dismissed, I tell them I'll be out in the barn, checking on Molly and the new colt.

“He is a good-looking colt,” Katy says as I pass by her. “I just saw him.”

I give her a slight nod as I make a quick exit, relieved to get out of the stuffy kitchen. As I walk to the barn, I wonder about gathering up my wet and sodden clothes, shoving them into
my pack, and walking back to town. I could launder Katy's clothes back at the condo and send them back to her tomorrow. She probably wouldn't even mind. Surely her mother would be relieved to be rid of me—and my dirty laundry.

“What?” Zach, who has just come around from the back of the barn, looks at me in a perplexed way—frowning as if he's staring at an alien. Maybe he is.

“Oh . . .” I glance down at Katy's baggy dress, then shrug. “My clothes are all wet and dirty. Katy loaned me this.”

His brow creases as he rubs his chin. I can tell he's not saying what he'd like to say. Perhaps his manners won't allow it. Really, do I look that silly?

I daintily pinch the sides of the skirt, holding it out as if I'm about to curtsy. “What's wrong? You don't like this?”

He just slowly shakes his head. “It's not right for you, Micah.”

“You mean me, Micah the girl? Or me, Micah the pen pal who's supposed to be a boy?” I realize this makes absolutely no sense, but somehow he seems to get it.

“I mean you are an English girl, Micah. You don't belong in Amish clothes.”

For some reason this feels slightly insulting to me. Does he think I'm unworthy, not good enough to wear his sister's clothes? Or perhaps he thinks I'm mocking him, which is ridiculous. But since I've barely begun to repair my broken bridges with him, I decide not to do anything to create an argument now. “How are Molly and the colt doing?”

“They seem all right. But I did take your uncle's advice. I just called the veterinarian. Daed wasn't too pleased about the expense, but I told him I'd cover the bill myself.” Zach's mouth twists to one side, and I suspect he's frustrated, perhaps over the money this will cost him.

“Oh.”

“Dr. Schneider should be here around 11:00,” he says abruptly, as if he has somewhere else he needs to be. Probably he does.

“Well, that's good. I'm relieved to hear that Molly will get the attention she deserves.”

“
Ja
, me too. Horses are too valuable not to be properly cared for.” He kicks a loose stone with the toe of his boot. “At least my father agrees with me on that.”

I tip my head toward the barn door. “Mind if I pay the horses a visit?”

“Go ahead.”

As I go into the barn, Zach takes off in the opposite direction. I can tell he's aggravated about something. Maybe it's his dad, or more than likely it's me. I speak calmly to the horses as I go to check on them. “Hey, Molly, how're you doing, old girl?” I reach over the top of the stall door and stroke her mane. She seems much calmer than last night, which is to be expected. But maybe she's too calm. It seems like her head is hanging down somewhat. I don't know what that means, but it doesn't seem to shout good health.

I'm glad Zach took Uncle Brad's advice seriously, but I wish the vet was coming sooner than 11:00. “Hang in there, girl,” I quietly tell Molly. “Help is on its way.” At least the colt looks happy and healthy. I'm guessing he'd like to be outside in the sunshine where he can stretch his legs. Last night Zach told me they like to keep them in a stall for a day or two, though, until they know all is well. Hopefully Molly will be okay.

I check my phone for messages, then, realizing I still have half an hour until breakfast, I decide to have a good look around the farm. Katy gave me a quick tour, but I know I
didn't see everything. I walk around and look at the garden, then stop at the chicken coop, where Zach's brother Jeremiah is carrying a metal basket filled with eggs toward the gate.

“Looks like your hens are doing their jobs,” I say cheerfully to him.

He gives me a curious expression, then slowly nods. “
Ja
. Everyone has their work to do.” As he prudently latches the gate behind him, I notice how much he resembles his big brother. Same dark eyes and dark curly hair beneath his small-sized straw hat. He's so adorable that I wish I could take his photo, but I know that would create even more problems. As he carefully transports his treasure to the house, I notice he even has the same long strides in his gait. I'll bet Zach looked just like that when he was a boy—a few years before he and I started corresponding through letters.

As I'm watching Jeremiah go into the house, Sarah joins me. She has a metal bucket in hand. I peek inside to see that it's full of what looks like trash.

“Taking out the garbage?” I ask.

“No.” She holds up the bucket for me to get a better look—or sniff. “This is kitchen scraps for the pigs.”

“Oh.” I wrinkle my nose at the smelly mess.

“Want to help me feed them?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” I wonder what I just agreed to as she leads the way back around the barn and down a fence line until we reach a penned-in area crawling with about twenty pigs of varying size. She heads over to a small shed-like shelter near the gate.

“Here you go.” Sarah hands me her sloshy bucket, then opens a door to the shed and reaches into a plastic garbage can, scooping out a pail of what looks a little like dry dog food.

“What do I do with this?” I hold the aromatic bucket at arm's length.

She points to a trough where several pigs are already noisily gathering. “Right this way.” She opens a metal gate and leads the way through some very mucky mud. Of course, she's equipped for the task with her black rubber boots. I try to pick my way behind her but quickly realize it's hopeless. A few steps and my shoes are covered in a thick, stinky muck. But I don't complain. Instead I follow her lead, and together we dump our buckets into the trough. Before I can shake out all the sticky, icky contents in my bucket, I'm nearly knocked off my feet by a large and very pushy pig.

“That's Suzie,” Sarah tells me. “She's a real hog.” She laughs like this is clever. But at least she lends me a hand, and I manage to get out of harm's way without falling flat on my face. My shoes, which were once white, are now a gross, brown mess. As we leave the yard and walk through the dewy grass, I try to stomp and shake the muck off, but it's useless.

“You better hose those shoes off.” She points toward a faucet next to the barn. “And make sure you leave them outside when you come to breakfast. Mamm won't want you walking on her clean floor.”

I'm just hosing off my shoes when I hear what sounds like a conflict inside the barn. I can't quite make it out because they're speaking Pennsylvania Dutch, but I can tell it's Zach and his dad and their voices are raised. At first I assume they're arguing about me, and I feel embarrassed and guilty. His dad probably wants me out of their house and hair ASAP. But as I turn off the hose, I hear a word that sounds like
horse
and then one that sounds like
money
, and I realize they're disagreeing about the vet's visit. Although it makes no sense,
I feel equally responsible for this since it was my uncle who recommended a vet. Maybe it really is unnecessary. Not to mention expensive. Although I think Molly is worth it. I would even be happy to chip in from my own funds if it would help. As long as I reserve enough to get me home on the bus.

As their voices get closer to the door, I duck around the corner of the barn. Their lively discussion continues as they exit the barn and walk toward the house, but as they get closer, it comes to a halt. I'm guessing their truce is to spare the rest of the family from hearing their disagreement. I vaguely wonder if there are Amish rules against arguing.

I turn off the hose, and although my shoes look cleaner, they're soggy. I know that, like me, they won't be welcome in Mamm's kitchen. I slosh across the yard, then sit down and tug them off, hiding them under the porch steps before I go in. Feeling like that unwanted guest who just won't leave, I quietly go into the kitchen just in time to see the Millers starting to bow their heads around the breakfast table. Great, I'm late.