A Love For Lizzie. Tracey J. Lyons
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but still some days it was hard to accept reality. She had a disfigurement that couldn’t be overlooked. Over the years the members of her community had done just that, continuing to love her and accept her through the flaws.
The Englischers, though, they were different. Some of them would openly stare at her when they stopped by her roadside stand to buy their fresh eggs. They were one of the reasons Lizzie didn’t stray from the farm very often. She couldn’t bear it when people stared at her. Their looks left her feeling ugly and unworthy.
She felt Paul’s gaze on her.
“Lizzie?”
She heard his concern and looked up at him, keeping her face turned ever so slightly.
“You seemed to have gone off there for a minute.”
“Do you know what today is?” The second she blurted out the question, she was filled with regrets. It didn’t do a person good to dwell on the past, to dwell on things that couldn’t be changed, to question the path that God had set forth for them.
Paul looked through the screen door at her, his eyes darkening with emotion. His nod was barely perceptible when he replied. “I do. Ten years to the day of the accident that took your bruder’s life and left you injured.” His voice softened as he continued, “Lizzie, like you, I miss David every day. And like you, I wish we could have changed the outcome.”
She held up her hand. There was no need for him to continue. She knew he was referring to his part in the day. He’d come to the barn just as she’d tried to get David to stop jumping off the hay bales. But David, who had always been the daring sibling, had insisted he could make it from the top all the way down to the bottom in one jump. She had tried her best to grab hold of his arm, but he’d already begun moving through the air when she’d caught hold of him.
Her body had been carried along with his as they’d tumbled down the bales. That was the last thing she remembered before waking up in the hospital. Lizzie pushed the dark memory away as best she could. She looked at Paul. Moving off to the side of the door, Lizzie turned her head ever so slightly to the right, hiding the scar. From the safety of the shadows, she looked up at him, watching as a soft summer breeze ruffled through his dark hair.
Though the Amish did not commemorate the anniversaries of one’s death like some of the Englischers did, she herself always paused for a moment on this day to remember David. He would have been close to twenty-three years old. Three years older than she was right now.
Pushing aside the sadness in her heart, she said, “I’m sorry. I should have begun our conversation with ‘Gut morning, Paul. What brings you around this fine day?’”
Holding the brown paper bag up, he replied in his deep, rich voice, “I have something for you.”
“You know I can’t accept a gift from you.”
“You don’t even know what is inside of here,” he said, swinging the bag back and forth in front of her.
She had to admit he had piqued her curiosity. “Tell me what you brought.”
“I brought you some brushes and watercolor paints.”
Lizzie didn’t like the idea that Paul had gone out of his way to spend his hard-earned money on something just for her. And considering that it wasn’t useful to anyone else, she knew the paints and brushes would have to be kept out of sight.
Thinking how much trouble Paul’s generosity could cause, Lizzie shook her head, saying, “Nee. You’ll have to take these back to where you purchased them. I’m sure you can get your money back.” Furrowing her brow, she gave him a stern look.
“I’ll do no such thing. Besides, I found them at a yard sale, so there’s no use in trying to return them. They only cost me a few dollars, Lizzie. And half of the paints have been used,” he said. Then with a spark in his eyes, he added, “Think of this as my bringing you supplies for your art.”
Lizzie had taken up artwork years ago. Sketching the surrounding landscapes had given her a bit of peace and helped to fill the void left behind after her brother’s death. Since her vader would most certainly frown on using her time to dabble in something most Amish would consider frivolous, Lizzie managed to scrape together a few free hours each month to work on her craft. In her mind her drawings were no different from the beautiful quilts her friends made. Most sold them as a way to supplement their family’s income. All of her drawings were carefully stored in a closet in her bedroom. As it was, Paul wouldn’t even have known about her artwork except that he’d come upon her working on a new sketch at the edge of the back field last week.
The image she’d been drawing was of the freshly mowed hayfield. She’d been drawing the soft, round bales of hay, trying to capture the feel of the image before her, of the golden hues against the dark earth and the sky being bathed in the soft colors of dusk. The black-and-white sketch hadn’t done the scene justice, but Lizzie didn’t have any colors to use on the picture. She’d captured the image as best she could, with her pencil on the heavy white paper.
Resting her head against the doorjamb, she let her imagination wander. The idea that she could add color to her sketches and breathe life into them had her pushing the door open a crack. Seeing the opportunity, Paul shoved the bag into her hand.
“I know you can make good use of these. Your drawings are amazing, Lizzie.”
She felt the skin on her cheeks warm with a blush. Lizzie didn’t get many compliments. “Danke,” she said, gripping the paper bag in her hand. “How is your family?”
Paul shrugged, answering, “They are fine. We’ve been busy at the shop.”
Paul’s family owned a cabinetmaking business. Even with him and his three bruders all working at the shop, they always seemed to be busy. All the more reason Lizzie appreciated the time he took to stop by to check on her family. There was only Lizzie left here to help on the farm. Her older sister, Mary, had married and moved away to her husband’s church district last year. There were no other siblings left. Her mudder had been unable to have more children. Her vader worked from long before sunup to sundown, running their small dairy farm. Lizzie helped where she could, selling eggs, jams and baked goods at the roadside stand.
The farm life wasn’t an easy one. Even so, she knew her vader wouldn’t live his life any other way. She wished things were different. If she had a husband, he could help out. But Lizzie couldn’t even imagine entering into a courtship. Absently she rubbed the side of her face. The scar was a constant reminder of the life she couldn’t have. Most days she didn’t even leave the farm. She felt safe and secure here, away from the prying eyes of those who wanted to see her face, those whose expressions carried all the questions of wanting to know what had happened to leave that mark on her.
Yet, Lizzie thought, she could be perfectly content to live out the rest of her life here, in quiet and safe solitude.
“What are your plans for today?” Paul asked.
Lizzie blinked, looking up at him, realizing the screen door still separated them. She didn’t want him to think she was being rude, so she asked, “Would you like to come in for some coffee and a muffin? I baked blueberry ones earlier this morning.”
“Nee. Danke for the offer, though. I need to get back to work. I just wanted to give you the paints in case you were planning on drawing today.” Paul set his straw hat back on his head.
“Danke again for your thoughtfulness,” Lizzie said, looking past him.
Her gaze settled on the big red barn, where she knew her vader was finishing up with the morning milking. Her mudder had gone into the village of Clymer, a few miles from the house, to pick up some items from the Decker General Store. Cocking her head to one side, Lizzie looked through the dappled sunlight, beyond the shade of the big oak tree next to the house, and squinted her eyes, uncertain of what she was looking at.
“Paul, turn around and