Leaving Lancaster by Kate Lloyd

gruesome scene forever etched in her memory. The driver and his wife died. “If only there were a way to reinvent the past.”
    Holly let up on the gas pedal and reached over to briefly take Esther’s hand. “You and I both lost our fathers too young. But at least you got to know yours as a child and had a chance to say good-bye to him at his funeral.”
    â€œYes. I knew him as a girl. He was a strict but hardworking, diligent man.” She couldn’t bear to mention she didn’t learn of Dat’s death until weeks after his funeral, via Mamm’s forwarded letter. Esther hadn’t shown that pitiful tearstained note to Holly the other night.
    Folding her hands in her lap, Esther’s head fell back against the headrest. All is in your hands, God Almighty, she thought. She’d raised a child alone and owned a business. She was here to see her mother by choice. Why did she feel so helpless?
    The traffic—cars, trucks, a tractor with rubber tires, RVs—grew less dense, and the rain lightened to a drizzle. Holly switched the wipers to the intermittent setting. She slowed the car to what Esther figured was the legal speed limit.
    The deciduous trees—oaks, birch, maples, and elms—growing on either side of the road had discarded much of their foliage, allowing Esther to peer into the landscape to see a newly constructed Englisch housing development with streetlamps. Dozens of homes used electricity; incandescent lightbulbs brightened the porches and yards. A half a mile further, a recently built high school stood next to a sports stadium.
    Approaching from the other direction, Esther spotted a pinto, much like the mare Samuel’s family once owned, pulling an enclosed gray buggy driven by a man wearing a straw hat. The driver looked to be about Samuel’s age when he and Esther skipped town.
    She cracked the window and inhaled the aroma of damp pavement and soil. Her mind reeled with remorse and longing.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    After the topsy-turvy day we’d experienced, I didn’t know what to expect when we neared Beth Fleming’s house. A ramshackle cabin with a beat-up truck and goats munching on weeds out front? No, that wouldn’t be in keeping with what little I knew of Lancaster County traditions. Catalogues arriving at the Amish Shoppe illustrated expansive, well-maintained farms, like those we’d driven by. Impressive.
    Mom had mentioned Beth was a Mennonite, a religious-type cousin of the Amish. Apparently, hundreds of years ago, while they were still in northern Europe, the Amish split from the Mennonites because they weren’t strict enough—something to do with excommunication. Mom went on to say many Mennonites had adapted their lifestyles to the modern world and their traditional, conservative Christian beliefs were much as hers—and what she hoped were mine, most likely. But doubts about God’s goodness and sovereignty still plagued me.
    I felt apprehensive as I pulled into Beth’s driveway and saw an early twentieth-century gray fieldstone home and a two-car garage, its doors shut. I parked next to a light-blue metallic Dodge Caravan. So far, so good.
    â€œWe’re here, Mom,” I said. “You nod off?”
    She rubbed her eyes and looked around, yawning. “Yah, guess I did.”
    I opened my door. A black-and-white border collie, its tail flagging, bounded from around the side of the house and barked.
    â€œHello, there.” I relaxed for the first time all day as I stroked its luxurious coat. “Mom, why didn’t we ever get another dog?”
    She climbed out and stretched her arms. “I offered several times, but you always declined.”
    I remembered my first and only dog. “Oh, yeah, never mind.”
    â€œYou said you couldn’t stand another loss, unless I’d guarantee the pup outlasted you. I bet no dog could take the place of Maxwell, anyway.”
    â€œYou’re