Katie's Choice(15)
“Yeah,” was all he could manage. He dropped his gaze to his keyboard, even though he had nothing to type. Maybe he should send an e-mail to Monica. “What about—”
“That’s enough for tonight. See ya.”
Zane looked up. “You’re leaving?”
“I told you, I’m in rumspringa.”
“And that means you can go out at this time of night?” For all intents and purposes it was early. In Chicago, things didn’t get started until nine o’clock. But this wasn’t Chicago.
“Yeah, city boy, I can.” With a jaunty wave, John Paul closed the door behind him.
Zane stared at the door and pondered the riddle that was the Amish culture. They dressed alike—well, mostly—they kept to themselves, and seemed almost cultish in their support of each other and their community. Yet they let their children run wild for years, then expected them to come back and rejoin the fold. He shook his head at it all and made a mental note to find out how many of the Amish teenagers found their way back to their church and how many of them headed for something more.
His computer chimed, bringing him out of his thoughts. He had a message from Monica. She was online now, and he could easily engage her in a chat. Instead he opened his e-mail and read the words of encouragement and well wishes she’d sent. “Hope you got there safe . . . let me know how things are going . . . don’t forget me . . . miss you already . . . love you, Monica.”
No mention of the ring. Or accepting his proposal. But it was only a matter of time.
He hit Reply and started composing his e-mail. “Got here safe. Sorry I didn’t call. Busy night trying to settle in. This is going to be quite an adventure.”
As he typed the words, the angelic face of Katie Rose Fisher floated into view.
Ruth washed her face in the bathroom sink, then padded her way to the bedroom she shared with Abram. How many years had it been? Thirty-six if she counted the first year they were married. They had adopted the traditional way and spent the first year of their marriage traveling from one family member’s house to another until they moved back in with her elders.
Thirty-six years together and never had she felt this self-conscious around her husband. It was wrong, she knew, and everyday she asked God for guidance and deliverance from her prideful thoughts. She had suffered through the surgery, accepted that her body was forever altered. She had accepted it as much as a person possibly could. But each day she was more and more aware that her bones practically showed through her skin, skin that was pale and waxy, as her hair fell out in huge clumps.
“Time for bed,” Abram said, standing on the opposite side from the door.
“Jah,” she said, touching her bonnet only briefly. Not too long ago this was the time of night when she would brush her hair, running her fingers through it to keep it healthy and whole. But after this last treatment, she barely had any hair to speak of.
Lord, I did as You commanded. I’m fightin’ this cancer, but I’m not able to fight these unholy thoughts. Help me, Dear Lord, to change these thoughts and accept this change without grief. Aemen.
She didn’t want to feel this way, to be vain and proud, but how could she not lament her hair? The Bible said a woman’s hair was her crowning glory. All the glory was to go to God, but she had no glory left.
She extinguished the lamp and pulled back the covers on her side of the bed. She slipped between the sheets and turned away.