All My Beautiful Tomorrows

Chapter 1

April

Lancaster, Pennsylvania

Wednesday morning, Zook’s Diner, 7:00 AM

H ey, Smiles. What does a person have to do to get some attention around here?

Kirsten MacLeod looked up from the German grammar she had been leaning over, metal coffee pot in one hand, and laughed.

Only one person calls me that and he gets plenty of attention. She smiled at a young man in a green flannel shirt settling onto a stool at the lunch counter. Hey. I thought you were out of town.

Got in last night. But I have to take off again in a few hours with a shipment for Chicago.

She put a clean cup by his hand and poured coffee into it. You really are burning the candle at both ends.

Only way I know to get my trucking business off the ground. My years in Afghanistan slowed my life down a bit. He sipped at his coffee. But I don’t regret the service to my country one bit. It’ll all come together.

I like your spirit, Brandon. Kirsten handed him a plastic-covered menu. Have to wait on some other customers. I’ll be right back.

She went down the counter pouring coffee, taking orders, chatting with customers, and gathering up dirty dishes. When she returned to Brandon, one hand was under his chin and the other was holding the menu the same way he’d been holding it when she left.

You haven’t got far, she said.

Sure, I have. Coffee’s all gone.

She poured him another cup.

You know we really should be seeing each other more often. Brandon put the menu down.

We do see each other more often.

Here in Zook’s Diner, sure. Can’t we change the scenery?

What did you have in mind?

A meal somewhere else, maybe even Philly. A movie. A long talk.

Okay. But it has to be one of the nights I’m not with the Schrock family. So that means Saturday or Sunday.

Not Friday?

She shook her head. Friday doesn’t work.

Okay. Will you go into Philly with me Sunday night?

Sure. Can we go in your rig?

My rig? He leaned back on the red vinyl stool and grinned through his sandy brown beard. You want to go on a date with me into Philly in my rig?

Yeah, I do. Is that too much to take in?

I can handle it. Just thought you’d prefer my Ford.

She made a face. I drive around in an old pickup all the time.

You have a Chevy. My Ford’s brand new.

I don’t care. A pickup is a pickup. What’s the matter, Brandon Peters? Too much truck for you in the big city?

Ha. I pick up shipments in Philly all the time. I’ll be at your place at four. Supper, movie, a long coffee and a long talk. The rig will be your limo.

Promise?

I swear. He raised his right hand. Now that we’ve got our business out of the way could I trouble you for a cheeseburger and fries, Kirsten MacLeod?

You call that breakfast? She didn’t finish writing it down on her pad. You ordered the same thing the last three times.

He shrugged. So, I’m predictable.

Predictable? We’ll see.

At four-thirty Kirsten untied her apron, said goodbye to the other waitresses and the chef, and walked out to the gravel parking lot. She was about to slip behind the wheel of her 2000 red and black Chevy pickup when a dark buggy drew up beside her. A particularly beautiful chestnut horse was harnessed to the buggy. The horse had been brushed until it gleamed. She sat a moment, admiring the mare. A tall and slender Amish man stepped down from the buggy, dressed in black despite the early spring heat, though the broad-brimmed hat on his head was straw. He glanced at her but did not smile. His eyes were a sharp blue, so sharp Kirsten felt the gaze make its way right through her. She quickly dropped her eyes and placed her keys in the ignition, but she could not keep herself from looking back. His eyes were still on her. Now there was a faint smile on his lips. After another moment, he walked across the parking lot to the diner. She watched him go inside.

What was that all about? she murmured.

Her eyes remained on the screen door with its diagonal red Coca-Cola bar.

That was great. Kirsten shook her head and started the Chevy pickup. Really great. Now my life is even more confusing than it was already.

She drove to her house. It was two stories, white, with a small lawn and even smaller rose bushes, but clean and tight as a yacht, as her father used to say. She came in the door, spent a moment looking at the pictures of three men in uniform on the wall by the hallway mirror, went to her room, changed into a long dark dress with long sleeves, unpinned her brown hair, brushed it out, put it up in a tight bun, and walked back out to the truck. She drove for about twenty minutes, passing six horse-drawn buggies on the way, and stopped in front of a farmhouse that was three stories high and painted a bright white just like her own home.

"Ah, Kirsten, gut, gut. A tall thin woman in a long black dress met her at the door and hugged her. Malachi is looking for you. His eyes are always on the door."

Oh, I miss him after a weekend, Lydia. I’m glad he misses me too.

Of course, he does.

A man taller and heavier than the woman who hugged Kirsten extended his hand. "Willkommen. How are you today, young lady?"

"I’m fine, danke schoen, Mr. Schrock."

Not Mr. Schrock. You have been coming to our house for half a year now to bless our boy. Adam, you must call me Adam.

Kirsten smiled and shook his hand. Very well. It’s good to be back in your home, Adam. Is Malachi in the front room?

"Ja, ja, he is just there by the window. You know how he loves the big window."

Kirsten went from the hall into a room that had one couch, one chair, and one table. A young boy in a wheelchair with shining blond hair, the sunlight bathing him, laughed and began to swing his arms and legs and head in a kind of rhythm, his mouth open in a wide smile.

Malachi! Kirsten hugged and kissed the boy and mussed his hair. How was your weekend? Did you miss me?

The boy grunted and grinned and continued to swing his body from side to side. 

Well, I think we must go outside for our walk. You can see how beautiful an afternoon it is. Kirsten unlocked the wheelchair’s brake and began to push Malachi towards the door. Adam held it open. "Danke schoen, Adam. You and Lydia can go about your errands in town now."

"Gut. Danke. Adam took a wide-brimmed straw hat off a hook. We will be back at eight or nine."

That’s fine. You know I will be here until nine. Longer, if necessary.

His supper is in the ice box. Lydia adjusted the black prayer kapp on her head. "Yours too. Gott segne Sie."

"Danke, replied Kirsten. Und moge Gott Sie segnen."

Adam drove a buggy from the back of the house and reined the horse in. Lydia walked down the wooden ramp from the front door, Adam helped her up into the seat beside him, and soon the buggy was rattling along the road to Intercourse.

We cannot go as fast as they can, Malachi, said Kirsten as she wheeled him out onto the roadway. But we can stop and smell the roses.

Malachi swung his head from left to right, smiling.

The right side of his face and body was strong and complete, the way a healthy eleven-year-old boy should look. The left side was withered and shrunken. His left hand was curled in upon itself and frozen in that position. When they stopped for a minute, Kirsten took the frozen hand, rubbed it, opened it up, and massaged all the fingers.

How is that, Malachi?

She took his left leg, thin and with very little muscle compared to the right, and massaged it as well. After that she kissed him on the forehead and they continued along the road, sticking to a smooth surface of well-worn dirt at the side and avoiding the stones and gravel in the middle. Twice buggies passed them, their horses stepping briskly, and the drivers waved. Kirsten waved back with one hand while continuing to push with the other.

Look. Kirsten pointed so that Malachi could see her arm and hand and finger. There are purple flowers in the ditch. Should I pick some?

A combination of grunts and gurgles came from his throat. She put the brake on the chair, walked into the grassy ditch, knelt in her long black dress, picked a handful of the small flowers that had no scent, and gave them to Malachi. He put them to his nose again and again. She continued to push the chair. A yellow-breasted meadowlark perched on a fence post and sang out. Malachi swung his body from side to side and used his right hand to push on the right wheel and propel the chair towards the bird. Kirsten took him down into the ditch, although the tall grass made it difficult to move quickly. The meadowlark did not fly. They stayed in the bottom of the ditch and watched the bird for several minutes. Malachi grew still.

It’s my favorite bird, Kirsten whispered. What do you think, Malachi? Or do you like robins more? Or Canada geese?

But Malachi remained quiet.

They were on the road almost two hours. When Kirsten rolled Malachi up the sidewalk to his house the robins were just starting their evening songs. She knew he liked the sound so she stopped by an apple tree in the front yard. A robin was on the highest branch and sending out its music. Malachi swung a little bit and then was still once again, his eyes on the male bird with its deep red chest. Another male began to sing from the top of a tool shed at the side of the house. The air filled with their summer evening calls.

So, it is good to be alive. Kirsten kissed Malachi on the top of the head. Now we should go inside and get something to eat.

Wednesday evening, the bishop’s house, near the Schrock’s home, 8:45 PM

AMEN, AMEN, AMEN.

Bishop Yoder finished his prayer in High German and sat back down at the kitchen table.

Amen, amen, amen. Three ministers voiced the words in unison, their heads still bowed.

Amen. Kirsten lifted her face and waited.

The three gray-bearded men sat across the round wooden table from her.

The bishop had one hand in his beard, tugging, while the other held a sheet of paper.

"You are finished for the night at the Schrocks, ja?" he asked Kirsten without looking up.

Yes, sir.

And it is every evening, Monday to Friday, you have volunteered to help them with Malachi? Eden Health Services employs you?

Well, yes, but there is no money involved other than a payment of gas for my truck.

Gasoline. Hm. The bishop’s fingers left his beard and tapped on the table. The Schrocks speak well of you. How do you get along with the boy?

I adore him, sir. He is so fresh and excited by life.

The cerebral palsy was a great blow to them when he was born.

The umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck. There should have been a Caesarean section. It cut off . . .

The bishop held up his free hand. It is what it is. God’s will.

Kirsten did not reply.

The bishop kept on reading, not making eye contact with her. Your father served in the army in the Gulf War. Also, your brother. In Iraq.

Yes, sir. Two different wars.

Both were killed. I am sorry.

Thank you.

A fiancé was also in uniform, hmm?

Sergeant Ty Samson. He was a Marine.

They do not know what happened to him?

He was – Kirsten stopped and took a breath, looking down. He was listed as KIA in Afghanistan more than two years ago, sir. I have not heard anything more since the official letter I received. They never brought his body home. They never found it.

The bishop drummed his fingers. Your mother passed away five or six years ago.

Yes, sir. Cancer.

Once again, I am sorry. He put down the sheet of paper and looked at her. You have had more than your share of trials and tribulations. Yet it has not diminished your faith in God.

No, sir.

We like to think such times bring us closer to him because we must rely on him much more.

I suppose that’s true for me, sir. I really have had nowhere else to turn but him.

You attend a church in Lancaster?

Yes. Our family church. But I do not feel comfortable there anymore. I find it difficult to speak about what I have gone through. I feel people do not wish to hear about it. A number of them have lost brothers and sons too so they would rather not keep bringing it up, even for prayer.

Is that why you want to join the Amish? To make the talk? You understand we would not discuss the terrors of war either?

I would join the Amish to chat? Kirsten shook her head. I would join so I could have people to talk to? No, I would become one with you because I believe in your way of faith. That is why I request permission to take classes and be baptized. Of course, I have seen the Amish people since I was a little girl. But working with the Schrocks I have grown much closer to you all. I have thought about this, prayed about it, this is a step I feel led to take.

One of the ministers leaned forward. You have talked about this with Adam Schrock and his wife?

Yes.

They support this idea of yours?

Yes, sir, but I hope it is not simply an idea of mine. I hope I am following God’s call when I ask you to consider bringing me into your community.

Another minister spoke up. "The Yoder Amish are not so lenient as other groups. Our way is very narrow. Strait is the gate and narrow is the way which leadeth unto life and few there be that find it. Are you sure this what you are called to?"

Yes.

You would marry within our people? Raise your children among us?

She nodded. I would.

The third minster lifted his hands, palms upward. If only it were so easy. You say yes, we say yes, life is perfect. But there are a number of matters to consider. The most important one is your family history.

What about my family history, sir?

Come, come.

He was the skinniest of the men. Kirsten thought he looked almost skeletal. It made her more anxious than she already felt as she sat in the kitchen with the four older men.

You want to be one with our people, the minister went on. "So, you understand what we believe. We do not wage war. We do not enlist. Nowhere will you find a flag flying from our houses or barns. It is not for us to harm others. Thou shalt not kill."

I know that.

But look at your family. Your father was a soldier. Your brother was a soldier. Your fiancé was a soldier. God have mercy on their souls. May I ask about your grandfather?

On my mother’s side or my father’s?

Both. Were they soldiers? Did they fight?

One of them did, yes. Grandfather MacLeod flew an airplane in World War Two.

You see? It is all through your family, from one generation to the next. It is not so with the Yoder Amish or any of the other Amish. We do not raise soldiers. There are no pilots among us. The skinny minister looked at the other men. I cannot see it. Before God, I cannot see her taking instruction and being baptized into the faith.

The bishop leaned his head to one side. "Well, but she does a great work