Free Leaving Lancaster by Kate Lloyd Page B

child, a below-the-knee apron over a dress. Straw hats covered the boys’ heads and suspenders held up their trousers. They were giggling and jabbering in Deitsch. The scene was both comforting and off-putting, as if Esther’s feet were sliding into her favorite bedroom slippers and finding a pebble at the bottom.
    As if she were awakening from amnesia, childhood memories mushroomed, coming to life in 3-D. When Esther was young she assumed she’d remain in Lancaster County forever, but she’d suffocated under the weight of Mamm and Dat’s expectations. Like a slingshot, she’d catapulted herself to the other side of the country and didn’t belong here anymore.

CHAPTER NINE
    â€œThey don’t speak English yet,” Grandma Anna told me, describing the three preschool children trouping around me, chattering in Pennsylvania Dutch. “These are Isaac and Greta’s Kinner: Joe, Luke, and Sarah.” In their Amish outfits the two boys were hard to tell apart. No Mariner T-shirts or baseball caps here.
    I caught snippets of what they said and was delighted they called me Aendi Holly.
    Grandma Anna corrected them. “They think you’re their aunt, but I told them you’re my granddaughter. So you’re their cousin.”
    â€œI probably look the age of their parents.” I didn’t care if they thought I was as ancient as Mount Rainier. The kids treated me like a celebrity. I wore jeans, blue flats, and a matching belt. And makeup—had I applied too much mascara this morning? I felt over my head and out of place, and also thrilled to be in the spotlight.
    Grandma Anna removed the boys’ straw hats and hung them on pegs at the back door. She turned to Mom, who stood watching us from afar. “This is Esther Fisher, mei Dochder from Seattle. Esther is Holly’s Mudder. ”
    The kids seemed to understand, because they smiled.
    â€œHello, children.” Mom’s eyes—I knew her every look—told me she was glad I was fitting in, but her shoulders and feet angled toward the front door like she couldn’t wait to scram.
    I had to ask myself again: Was Mom’s memory failing? Unlikely. She ran the Amish Shoppe, rarely missing a beat when it came to checking in orders and recalling customers’ names. What was her problem?
    I heard footsteps on the staircase leading to the second floor. A moment later, a woman wearing an eggplant-colored dress and black apron entered the kitchen cradling a baby. Grandma Anna introduced us to Mom’s sister-in-law—Uncle Isaac’s wife—Greta, her prayer cap veiling sandy-brown hair, her strings hanging loosely.
    â€œGood ta meetcha,” Greta said. “This here’s three-month-old Lydia.” Greta stroked the baby’s rosy cheek. “Our older two Kinner are in school. Have ya met my husband, Isaac?”
    â€œNot yet.” I figured Greta was my age. While admiring her baby girl, I noticed Greta’s gaze analyzing me from head to foot. I reminded myself: My mother was the prodigal daughter, come back from sampling the wicked world and returning with nothing except me, a fancy Englischer, which is what Mom told me Grandma Anna labeled anyone who was non-Amish.
    â€œMy sisters-in-law went to town to do the shoppin’ and will swing by in a couple hours,” Greta said, rocking Lydia. “If they’d known you were comin’ I’m sure they’d be here to greet ya.”
    Grandma chuckled. “Ach, even I didn’t know they were comin’.”
    â€œI look forward to meeting them,” I said. “How will I keep everybody in the family straight?”
    â€œWe share the same last name as your grandmother Gingerich, since the women married her sons,” she said with a smile.
    â€œYou’re right.” I tried to memorize Greta’s round face and her fair complexion, and repeated her name in my head, a trick I used with our