Trina Smith expected to find a gas stove in the little Amish house, but the refrigerator surprised her. She hadn’t considered a fridge could be powered by gas, too. Not that she had much use for either appliance; Trina lost her appetite when her mother, Patience, died six months ago of leukemia. When Trina did eat, it was only to nibble a piece of toast or an apple, and even then she had to force herself to swallow. Just like she had to force herself to go to bed at night and then to rise in the morning. She was going through the motions because nothing seemed to come naturally anymore.
She set her suitcase down on the floor of the tiny kitchen. Although no one else was in the house, she tiptoed into the parlor. From the dark braided rug to the gas lamp to the sparse furniture, the room was exactly as her mother had described, right down to the ticktock of the clock on the wall.
“As loudly as that clock marked off the seconds, I felt like time was standing still,” her mother once said. “I think it was the clock that made me realize nothing would ever change unless I changed it for myself.”
And so, when she’d turned eighteen, Patience had left the little house. She left the Amish community in Willow Creek, Pennsylvania. And, most significantly, she left her family, which by that time consisted only of her austere, indifferent, drunkard father, Abe Kauffman. Now Patience’s daughter was returning in her place.
Trina walked down the hallway with its bare wooden floor and opened the door to a back room. This would have been where Abe slept. Trina quickly closed the door again. She peeked into the other bedroom, her mother’s girlhood room. It was furnished with a wooden chair, a plain dresser and a bed covered with a quilt that reminded Trina of those her mother had stitched for both of them to use in their own house. Trina remembered how, toward the end of her mother’s illness, no amount of blankets could keep Patience warm.
Trina shivered and walked back to the kitchen, hoping to find a canister of coffee or tea. The first cupboard she opened contained neatly stacked rows of white dishes. The second held glasses and mugs. The third was empty except for a small gray mouse that scurried to the back corner where it squeezed through a crack.
“Ack!” Trina yelped and slammed the cupboard door.
“What’s wrong?” someone asked from behind.
Trina shouted, “Ack!” a second time. Whirling around, she saw a short, plump, white-haired woman wearing glasses and traditional Amish attire.
Squinting, the woman repeated, “What’s the matter?”
“I-I saw a mouse,” Trina stuttered. “It startled me.”
“I dare say you startled it, too,” the woman said with a chuckle and set the basket she was carrying on the table. “I’m Martha Helmuth. I live next door. You must be Trina?”
Martha Helmuth—of course! Trina’s mother had often said she would have run away long before she turned eighteen if it weren’t for Martha Helmuth, whose door and arms were always open whenever Patience needed a place to escape to or someone to embrace her.
“Yes, I’m Trina. Trina Smith,” she confirmed, wondering how Martha knew her name, as her mother hadn’t been in contact with anyone from Willow Creek since Trina was born twenty-five years ago.
“Wilkom to your home, Trina,” the woman said warmly. “The Englisch attorney told us you wouldn’t arrive until the first of March on Tuesday. I would have stocked the cupboards with staples yesterday if I had known you’d be here today. I hope you don’t mind I held on to Abe’s spare key. I’ve been trying to clean up the place for you.”
“Denki,” Trina said, automatically using one of the many Pennslyfaanisch Deitsch words her mother had taught her. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“My, don’t you sound just like your mamm,” Martha replied. “Kumme closer, so I can get a better look at you. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”
Trina obediently took a step toward Martha, who reached out and clasped Trina’s hands in her own, squinting upward. Ordinarily Trina would have felt too self-conscious to allow a stranger to scrutinize her like this, but knowing how loving Martha had been to her mother, Trina was completely at ease in her presence.
“You’re tall, jah? And you’re a brunette, too. That means your eyes must be blue like your mamm’s, as well?”
“Neh, they’re green like my daed’s.” Trina immediately regretted mentioning her Englisch father, Richard Smith, who’d divorced her mother while she was pregnant with Trina. He’d promised to see Trina, but aside from visiting briefly one Christmas or sending an occasional belated birthday card, he rarely kept in touch. And although he became a successful property developer, he’d never contributed financially to Trina’s care; she and her mother had lived in near poverty for most of Trina’s childhood. She hadn’t even known how to contact him when her mother died. Not that he would have come to the funeral, but Trina thought