Always in My Heart Page 5

  Hope turned within his embrace. “Danki, ehemann.”

  “If you’ve been praying for the boy for years, it’s time to surrender him to the Lord. Our future is in His capable hands.”

  Chapter Six

  “You have reached your destination.”

  The British voice from the GPS announced the impossible. James Webb leaned over the backseat toward the taxi driver. “That thing must be broken. How can we be at the address I gave you?” he asked. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  The driver pulled off the highway into the mouth of a gravel driveway. “It’s not broken, young man. This is it. There’s the address on the mailbox.” He pointed to a dented rural box sitting crookedly on a wooden post.

  True enough, the address of the Bowman family of Paradise, Pennsylvania, was stenciled in block letters in black paint.

  “But there’s not a light on anywhere.” James hesitated. Every bad horror movie about ax murderers luring teenagers to decrepit farmhouses came to mind. And it was close to midnight—the witching hour.

  The driver shifted to face him on the seat. “This is farm country, son—people go to bed early and get up before dawn. Whoever you’re visiting has probably been asleep for hours. Want me to take you back to town? You could come back tomorrow.” The driver grinned, revealing a gold cap on a back tooth.

  James did a quick mental accounting of his finances. The bus trip from Philadelphia to Harrisburg to Paradise, along with a few fast-food meals, had taken most of his savings. After he paid for this cab ride, he didn’t have enough left for a motel room, no matter how budget-minded the chain.

  “No, thanks. If you’re sure this is the place, I could always sleep on their porch until they wake up. Don’t country folks usually have one of those rope hammocks hanging from a tree?” He gave a forced laugh as the car jostled up the rutted lane.

  “Okay, in that case, here you are.” The cab driver pulled to a stop and punched the button on the meter. “That will be forty-two dollars.”

  While the cabbie retrieved his duffel bag from the trunk, James nervously counted out his remaining cash. He had just enough, including a two-dollar, thirty-cent tip. “Here ya go. Sorry the tip’s not bigger.” He handed over the wad of bills and coins.

  The cabbie set his bag on the bottom porch step. “Don’t worry ’bout it. I was young once.” He craned his neck to gaze at a row of dark windows. “You’re sure you want me to just leave you here? Maybe I should wait to see what kind of welcome you get.” He sounded genuinely worried.

  “Nah, that’s okay.” James picked up his bag and fortified his courage. “I’ll be fine. The lady who lives here is . . . my mother.” He locked gazes with the cab driver, daring him to dispute the claim.

  But the man merely shrugged. “Sounds like you haven’t seen her in a while.”

  “It’s been quite some time.” James focused on a potted geranium in full bloom.

  “Okay then, call the dispatcher when you need a ride back to the station.” He hopped into the car and left in a cloud of dust.

  Right after I win the lottery, James thought. For several minutes, he stood completely still until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. When the moon crept from behind a bank of clouds, a white three-story house with a wrap-around porch emerged. The house was plain but well maintained. There wasn’t anything eerie or haunted about it.

  James dragged himself up the steps and looked around for a hammock or glider. Nothing. Just one hard wooden bench and two rocking chairs. Not a single comfy pillow anywhere.

  Something flitted past his head in the darkness. James shuddered. He wasn’t a country boy, and the idea of spiders crawling under his shirt collar or mosquitoes feasting on his arms gave him the heebie-jeebies.

  Without considering the consequences, he raised his fist and pounded on the door, loud enough to wake the dead. Then he stepped back and waited for the house to flood with light.

  Nothing happened. He knocked again. Still nothing.

  Then, through the front window next to the door, James saw a flickering light move through the house until it stopped in the room before him. At last the porch door creaked open.

  In the doorway stood a tall man with a flashlight trained on James’s chest and a tiny woman holding a lit candle. Both wore long dark robes and had bare feet.

  The woman said nothing, just stared at him. She reminded him of a tour guide at one of those historical villages. The man blinked like an owl and frowned at him.

  “Can we help you, young man? Did your car break down?”

  James looked up at the man and tried to sound more confident than he felt. “I’m not old enough to drive. I’ve come to see Hope Klobentz—guess her name is Bowman now, if this is the right house. It’s so dark on your road, nobody can see the addresses.” James dug his hands deep into his pockets and shifted from one foot to the other.

  “This is the Bowman household. Who might you be?”

  “My name is James Webb. I used to be James Klobentz.”

  “Oh my, it’s a—” The white-faced lady spoke, but her legs gave way before she finished the sentence. If the big man hadn’t been quick, she would have collapsed into a heap on the floor.

  If James had heard correctly, she’d tried to say, “It’s a miracle.”

  She thought he was a miracle?

  The man half carried, half walked her to a kitchen chair and then patted her cheeks with his fingers. “Come in; have a seat,” he said to James. “Hope, are you all right?”

  For the next ten minutes, Hope Bowman—if it really was her—cried as though somebody had died, while her husband played nursemaid and polite host to him.

  “Are you hungry? Is that all the luggage you brought?” The man pointed toward his forgotten duffel bag by the door. “Did you come by yourself?” One by one he fired off questions while trying to get his wife to stop crying. Finally, his might-be-mom wiped her face on a dish towel and sucked in deep gulps of air.

  James supposed she was pretty, even though she didn’t wear a bit of makeup and her hair was pulled back into a tight braid. “So, I take it you’re my mother?” he asked. His voice sounded weak and childish, not at all the way he had intended.

  Hope Bowman cleared her throat. “If you were born in Harrisburg fifteen and a half years ago, I believe I am. I’m so glad you found me.” After calming considerably, she smiled. “Praise the Lord! He is infinite in His mercy and grace.”

  “Welcome, James,” said the man. He placed a glass of milk and some type of muffin in front of him. “I’m Hope’s husband, Stephen Bowman. Hope tried to locate you but wasn’t able.” He gestured toward the muffin. “Go ahead, eat. Then tell how you found us.”

  James didn’t know much about God’s grace. Only a couple foster families had bothered to take him to church, and then only once or twice. But one nice foster mom enrolled him in vacation Bible school for half days for a week one summer. That church served the best snacks at refreshment time. Glancing around the huge kitchen, James shook off a nervous twinge. Everything looked spooky in the flickering candlelight. “Could we turn on some lights, folks? Sitting in the dark seems a little weird to me.” He laughed, hoping he didn’t sound disrespectful.

  But Stephen Bowman laughed too as he jumped to his feet. “Yeah, I’ll bet it does.” He lit three glass-globed kerosene lamps. They filled the room with plenty of yellow light. “This is the best we can do—we’re Amish.”

  James stared at one and then the other, and everything fell into place like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.

  “You’re Amish?” The tone in his voice made Amish sound like a substitute for Martian. They didn’t seem to notice—or if they did, they were polite enough to ignore it.

  “We are,” said Hope. “I was only sixteen when I had you.” Her voice had grown stronger.

  “I’m almost that old now.” James held the woman’s gaze for a moment and then launched onward, apparently unable to stop himself from talking.

  “
I’ve always been good with computers. In the last two foster homes I lived in, they let me spend all the time I wanted on the Internet. Guess I stayed out of their hair that way.” He giggled ridiculously while the Amish couple sat watching and listening. “I got curious about breaking into databases. I kind of made it a game. It didn’t matter how secure the server or how protected their firewall . . .”

  Neither seemed to have a clue what he was talking about.

  “That means I was able to unseal the records of my sealed adoption. I found out you came to Harrisburg from a town called Paradise in Lancaster County. According to the website, tons of Amish people live here, but I didn’t think you would turn out to be one. I didn’t think the Amish gave their kids up for adoption.”

  Hope Bowman’s eyes filled with more tears. “Soon I will tell you why, and anything else you wish to know,” she said in a shaky voice. “But first, what are your adoptive parents like? Is your new mom good to you? Does she show you plenty of love?” Her voice squeaked like a wheel in need of grease. “I have prayed for years that you found a happy home.”

  James glared. “My new mom? Do you mean the couple who took me home for a one-year test drive? I guess it was a nice place, since the guy was a big-bucks Philadelphia lawyer. But I don’t remember anything about my first twelve months of life. Before the court could finalize the adoption, the couple gave me back to Children’s Services. Turned out I had a congenital heart murmur. I outgrew it, but apparently my adoptive parents didn’t want to take a chance with a kid with a bad ticker. What if I didn’t make the guy proud on the peewee football field? Or worse, ended up costing them a bundle in medical bills? They threw this defective fish back into the pond and went on the waiting list.”

  “Then who did adopt you?” Stephen asked while Hope sniffled in her handkerchief.

  James looked at the two befuddled people in their tattered bathrobes and felt a surge of pity. “Nobody,” he answered. “I’m a ward of the county. I’ve lived in one foster or group home after another—some good, some bad, mostly mediocre. But don’t worry; the current folks who are paid to take care of me are really nice. They’ll wait three days before reporting me as a runaway. That will give us a chance to get caught up.” James realized that he sounded sarcastic and mean-tempered, but he couldn’t help it.

  The woman’s head reared back as if she’d been slapped. Hope Bowman—his mom for the first few minutes of his life—dissolved into a sea of tears. She laid her face down on the table and sobbed. And this time nothing her husband said or did could stop the hysteria.

  When Hope raised her head, she found her son and her husband watching her. One looking young and shocked, the other far older than his thirty-five years.

  “Are you all right?” they asked simultaneously.

  Nodding, Hope turned toward James Webb. “They told me you had been adopted by a childless couple desperate to have a baby. You were going to a good family, rich enough to send you to any college you wanted.” She straightened her spine as Stephen pressed a glass of water into her hand.

  “College? No university in the country would ever accept me. I’ll be lucky to get into a two-year community college.” James gulped half the glass of milk, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Of course, I’d have to pass the GED.”

  Hope swallowed several gulps of water. “But you said you’re good with computers, that you were able to break down the barriers on the adoption paperwork.”

  “That’s called ‘hacking,’” James interrupted.

  “Hacking into government records,” Stephen said. “Anybody able to do that can’t be stupid.” Her husband tugged on the frayed cuffs of his robe.

  James appeared to find something Stephen said amusing. “I didn’t say I was stupid. I’m good in math and science and with computers, like I told you. But I don’t see a need for English grammar—all those rules and exceptions to the rules. Why can’t people write stuff down like they talk? And what is the point of English Lit? Why read Shakespeare or Charles Dickens or William Faulkner? Those dogs are long dead and buried.”

  “Those dogs?” asked Stephen, retrieving another fresh blueberry muffin for the boy.

  “It means dudes or guys—just a slang term for men.” James sounded delighted to help with vernacular. “And it ain’t just English classes that tick me off. Health is stupid, so is American history, and don’t even get me started on political science. Considering my grades in those subjects, it’ll be a miracle if I graduate high school, let alone get into college.” He lifted the muffin from the paper napkin and devoured it in four bites.

  “The miracle is that you found us,” Hope murmured.

  “The Amish schools here only go to eighth grade,” said Stephen. “Most students graduate at fourteen, then start work.”

  “Yeah, I’d be done with books and homework if you had kept me, but I guess I wasn’t part of your master plan.”

  When James Webb focused his clear blue eyes on her, Hope thought she might melt onto the floor. She swallowed hard but with a throat so dry, her gasp was audible. “I’m so sorry.”

  “There’s much you don’t know, young man,” said Stephen. “Your mother didn’t have a choice at the time—she was sixteen with no money to support you. You can’t raise a child on good intentions.” He picked up her glass of water and finished it. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you wish. But I won’t have you criticizing my wife for something she couldn’t control then and has deeply regretted ever since.” Stephen’s message came through loud and clear without raising his voice.

  James shifted on the kitchen chair and looked directly at her. “Sorry,” he murmured. “That didn’t come out right.”

  An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. “It’s okay,” she said at last. “It’s hard to know the right thing to say.”

  Stephen grabbed a muffin for himself. “So you make good grades in math and science?”

  “Yeah, I get straight As in both of those.” The boy bent his fingers back to crack his knuckles. “Don’t know how schools work here, but an A is the best grade you can earn.”

  Stephen nodded. “The marking system is the same in Amish classrooms. We’ve got two girls in school who would love to get an A in any subject. Do you want more milk or muffins?”

  “No, thank you. Girls—you mean I have two half sisters?” The boy’s eyes went wide.

  “You have four sisters,” Hope said. “Josie is twelve, Emily is seven, Greta is four, and we have a newborn named Faith.”

  “Will I get to meet them? I never had any real brothers or sisters.”

  “Of course,” Stephen and Hope answered together. “But right now you need to get some sleep. Tomorrow you’ll meet everyone and take the grand tour of our farm.” Hope smiled, feeling stronger by the minute.

  “Sounds good.” James Webb stood and walked toward his bag. “Gotta admit, I could use some z’s.”

  Stephen rolled his eyes, grinning. “Too bad you hate English class. I could use a few lessons from you. Follow me. I’ll show you the guest room. It’s on the third floor; hope you don’t mind steps.”

  “Nah, a guy’s gotta stay in shape to keep the bullies at bay.” He glanced back at her. “Good night . . . ah, Mrs. Bowman.”

  “You can call me Hope.”

  James nodded and followed Stephen from the room.

  Hope remained seated at the kitchen table, lost in wonder and thankfulness. Her tiredness had vanished with the knock on the door. God had answered her prayers. She’d been expecting another pregnancy within the year—one that might turn out to be a boy. But God had something else in mind; He had given her back her only son.

  She had a second chance with her firstborn. And she would do everything in her power to make things right this time.

  Chapter Seven

  Despite his exhaustion, James tossed for hours in the narrow twin bed, wide-awake and restless. Amish. He had been born—of all crazy things—Amish.

  He couldn’t wrap
his mind around it. Not having electricity. Using a flashlight to find the bathroom in the middle of the night. Driving a horse and buggy instead of a car.

  Well, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about getting his license in six months.

  He racked his mind for the little he knew—mostly from television and movies—about the Amish. They grew most of their own food, he was pretty sure. Raised chickens, gathered eggs, raised and slaughtered their own beef and pork. Plowed with horses instead of tractors. Made their own clothes. Pumped water into the house with windmills or gas generators.

  Would he be learning to farm now that his schooling was finished, or maybe training to be a carpenter, or roofer, or woodworker? Surely they had no need of computer geeks in their short list of job opportunities. No computers or video games or Xboxes. No e-mail or Facebook or Twitter. No DVDs or music downloads or web browsing.

  Would he have to give all that up if they asked him to stay?

  Would he go back to reading paper books instead of his e-reader, looking up numbers in phone books, and writing letters on stationery like during the colonial days? Surely the Amish used telephones, but come to think of it, he didn’t see one on the table or sitting in a charger, or even hanging on the wall with one of those old-fashioned hand cranks.

  “Good grief,” James said aloud in the dark room. He laughed at his own foolishness. Nobody was inviting him to move down on the farm. No matter what circumstances had forced Hope to give him up, he was fifteen, not five. He didn’t need a mommy to wipe his nose or bandage his cuts and scrapes.

  And even if he did stick around, he didn’t have to turn Amish just because the Bowmans were. He could keep his jeans and T-shirts, along with his laptop. There had to be somewhere he could charge it.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to turn off the what-ifs and how-comes that crowded his brain. Yet he couldn’t shake the image of the group of Amish girls he’d seen in the Lancaster City bus station. In their pink and green and blue dresses with little white caps, they reminded him of dolls on a toy store shelf. Would his new sisters look like that?