Free Crossing Over by Ruth Irene Garrett Page B

in an odd way, my leaving would actually help my mother.
    Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to tell Ottie I was ready to go. The desire notwithstanding, the words simply wouldn’t form.
    We packed up his documents, returned to the farm, and began unloading them with Benedict’s help. Out of my brother’s sight, I took a few dresses from my closet and put them in the van. Just in case, I thought.
    Earlier, when Ottie had come to pick us up, I had also boxed up my crystal swans and put them in the van. I had begun to worry they would be discovered and figured Ottie could hide them better than I could. Subconsciously, the reason might have been far weightier.
    When we were done unloading Ottie’s papers, he suggested we go for a drive to continue our discussion. And so we did. Ottie up front in the driver’s seat; Bertha and me in the back, as always, trying not to draw undue attention to a single English man in the company of two single Amish women.
    My sister said little during the drive, occasionally interjecting mild protests in her soft, insecure way.
    Once, she raised the issue of adultery. Ottie’s divorces. His ex-wives still being alive and such.
    â€œIs this really right?” she said.
    â€œI’m tired of everything, Bertha,” I told her. “I can’t take it anymore.”
    Another time she said, “Don’t you ever take your head covering off.”
    But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell her I already had. I just looked straight ahead until I came face to face with Ottie in the rearview mirror. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “What will it be?” And I nodded.
    I couldn’t say, “Yes, I will marry you,” or “Yes, I will go with you.” But I’d managed a nod, and Ottie knew what it meant.
    On the way back to the farm, I jotted a note to my mother on a scrap of paper. Two paragraphs, maybe three. Something to the effect of, “I’m leaving with Ottie; it’s not your fault; you’ve been a good mother to me; I love you; Irene.”
    I knew that even if an opportunity had presented itself, I wouldn’t have been able to tell her in person. The anguish creasing her face would have been too much for me to bear. At the same time, I felt obliged to let her know what I was doing.
    We let Bertha off in front of the mailbox, I handed her the note, and we exchanged unceremonious Amish farewells.
    â€œGoodbye,” I said.
    â€œGoodbye,” she echoed.
    She began crossing the dirt road to the farm. As she did, my father, who had returned from town, appeared from inside the barn, some sixty yards away. He looked at Bertha, then at the van. When he saw I was not getting out, he began walking toward us.
    We didn’t let any grass grow beneath the wheels.
    Ottie headed down Gable Avenue, turned right on Johnson-Washington County Road, then made another right north onto Highway 1. Up the hill, out of sight, into the unknown.
    Worried that we might be followed—that the police might be summoned by the Amish—we took the back roads out of Kalona. We could have taken the traditional route. Iowa City, then Interstate 80. Instead, we circled south and caught Highway 61 into Missouri and Illinois, bound for Glasgow, Kentucky, home to many generations of Ottie’s family.
    â€œIrene, honey, you’d better look back,” Ottie said somberly, “because it could be a long time before you see the farm again.”
    â€œI know,” I said, deciding against a last glance. “Please keep going.”
    I didn’t want to subject myself to any more emotion than I was already feeling. Besides, it’s hard for a person to move forward when they’re looking backward.
    Later, Ottie tried to lighten the mood when he reminded me I’d be able to assemble a new wardrobe.
    â€œYou can go shopping and buy anything you want. Satin and silk, frills and pastels. All the things you