What do you think, Moe?”
The cat meowed twice loudly, and Heather gave him a pat. “Hey, now . . . I wish I could take you and Igor along, but I don’t think any of these places accept cats.” Besides, there are probably zillions of Amish barn cats running around.
The tilt of Moe’s head seemed to indicate his displeasure. He was never too keen on sharing her with his brother, let alone anyone else.
Sighing, she decided to leave her father a note about her plan to take a break before working in earnest on her thesis . . . something vague like that. No need to concern him. And any way, he’d understand; lately he’d talked of getting away for a while himself.
“Terrific.” She looked down the long list of accommodations, wondering how many phone numbers she’d have to try—didn’t these people have Web sites or email?—before she landed a place to call home. A place to defy gravity.
Moe leaped off her lap, a black streak across the floor, and dashed into the hallway and out of sight. Headed for what, she had no idea. Maybe to find Igor, who was undoubtedly asleep on Dad’s bed down the hall. Cats were weird like that, but these two were definitely family to her and Dad.
The elegant photo on Dad’s desk caught her eye, and she leaned down to gaze at it. Christmas past . She’d had no problem returning to live at home, putting off her master’s studies. Someone needed to be with Mom those final months and then keep Dad from becoming a total recluse during the first shock wave of grief. The emotional anesthesia they’d initially felt wore off quickly, following the funeral.
Then, a year or so ago, she’d moved into the spacious loft over the garage that connected to the rest of the house. The living arrangement allowed her to come and go as she pleased, which suited her need for seclusion.
I’m like Dad. We need our space. Lately, though, her father had begun to rally some, but just about the time you thought you were home free, waves of grief had an uncanny way of creeping up, building until they overtook like a tsunami. She’d discovered over the long months that one never fully recovered from losing a parent. And although Dad rarely talked about Mom’s passing, she assumed it was even worse to lose a spouse.
Turning her attention again to the many addresses, she enjoyed the quirky names of the towns—Ronks, Gap, Stras-burg, Kinzers. Each had its own wonderful personality.
“Which one . . . and which host family?” Heather tried to imagine what it would be like to live with strangers, even for a few months.
What about Amish farmers? Maybe she’d help with the chores and get a reduction in boarding costs. She laughed at the image of herself perched on a stool beside a cow, bucket in hand. Yeah, that’ll be the day.
She stared at the brochure, tracing the words with her finger.
Mom would never let me get away with this.
Her dad might not, either. But then, he wouldn’t know. . . .
Her breath caught in her throat. It was one thing to talk bravely to herself or to a cat. But what if the diagnosis was correct? What if she was dying?
With just the end of this semester left to complete her M.A. course work, Heather decided to forge ahead and finish up. Nothing must keep her from that. Sick or not, she’d worked too hard to quit now. Meanwhile, she would take her exams next week, then go north to Lancaster County for some rest and relaxation before fall. If she felt up to it, she could work on her thesis there.
The list of names and addresses blurred suddenly. She’d held her emotions in check for this long since this morning’s appointment. Wasn’t she entitled to a good cry?
The tears fell fast, dripping onto the page . . . landing on the names Andy and Marian Riehl, who lived in a town called Bird-in-Hand. When at last Heather pulled herself together enough to call the number, a woman politely answered what she later referred to as their “barn phone.” And Marian’s warm
The cat meowed twice loudly, and Heather gave him a pat. “Hey, now . . . I wish I could take you and Igor along, but I don’t think any of these places accept cats.” Besides, there are probably zillions of Amish barn cats running around.
The tilt of Moe’s head seemed to indicate his displeasure. He was never too keen on sharing her with his brother, let alone anyone else.
Sighing, she decided to leave her father a note about her plan to take a break before working in earnest on her thesis . . . something vague like that. No need to concern him. And any way, he’d understand; lately he’d talked of getting away for a while himself.
“Terrific.” She looked down the long list of accommodations, wondering how many phone numbers she’d have to try—didn’t these people have Web sites or email?—before she landed a place to call home. A place to defy gravity.
Moe leaped off her lap, a black streak across the floor, and dashed into the hallway and out of sight. Headed for what, she had no idea. Maybe to find Igor, who was undoubtedly asleep on Dad’s bed down the hall. Cats were weird like that, but these two were definitely family to her and Dad.
The elegant photo on Dad’s desk caught her eye, and she leaned down to gaze at it. Christmas past . She’d had no problem returning to live at home, putting off her master’s studies. Someone needed to be with Mom those final months and then keep Dad from becoming a total recluse during the first shock wave of grief. The emotional anesthesia they’d initially felt wore off quickly, following the funeral.
Then, a year or so ago, she’d moved into the spacious loft over the garage that connected to the rest of the house. The living arrangement allowed her to come and go as she pleased, which suited her need for seclusion.
I’m like Dad. We need our space. Lately, though, her father had begun to rally some, but just about the time you thought you were home free, waves of grief had an uncanny way of creeping up, building until they overtook like a tsunami. She’d discovered over the long months that one never fully recovered from losing a parent. And although Dad rarely talked about Mom’s passing, she assumed it was even worse to lose a spouse.
Turning her attention again to the many addresses, she enjoyed the quirky names of the towns—Ronks, Gap, Stras-burg, Kinzers. Each had its own wonderful personality.
“Which one . . . and which host family?” Heather tried to imagine what it would be like to live with strangers, even for a few months.
What about Amish farmers? Maybe she’d help with the chores and get a reduction in boarding costs. She laughed at the image of herself perched on a stool beside a cow, bucket in hand. Yeah, that’ll be the day.
She stared at the brochure, tracing the words with her finger.
Mom would never let me get away with this.
Her dad might not, either. But then, he wouldn’t know. . . .
Her breath caught in her throat. It was one thing to talk bravely to herself or to a cat. But what if the diagnosis was correct? What if she was dying?
With just the end of this semester left to complete her M.A. course work, Heather decided to forge ahead and finish up. Nothing must keep her from that. Sick or not, she’d worked too hard to quit now. Meanwhile, she would take her exams next week, then go north to Lancaster County for some rest and relaxation before fall. If she felt up to it, she could work on her thesis there.
The list of names and addresses blurred suddenly. She’d held her emotions in check for this long since this morning’s appointment. Wasn’t she entitled to a good cry?
The tears fell fast, dripping onto the page . . . landing on the names Andy and Marian Riehl, who lived in a town called Bird-in-Hand. When at last Heather pulled herself together enough to call the number, a woman politely answered what she later referred to as their “barn phone.” And Marian’s warm
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