Brant's Return

“I did not abide by your actions,” my father said sternly. His eyes moved away but not quickly enough to hide the pain in them. “But I wanted to protect you, too, in what way I could.” Protect me. Another man wanting to protect me, but going about it for misguided reasons. I didn’t only want to be protected. I wanted honesty. Love.

My father looked at my mamm, and she unclenched her hands in her lap and took one of his. “To bring in the legal system is not our way, Isabelle, you know this, but even if it were, how would it be to put the man tasked with your care in prison? Who would provide for you when we could not?” He shook his head, muttering some Swiss Amish word under his breath, a curse presumably, though it was too soft for me to hear which one. “We thought with the money, he would at least take care of you . . . your child.”

“And the others?” I asked, incredulous. They had simply let Ethan walk away with stolen money.

“They were not happy.”

“No, I imagine not.” I rubbed at my temples, disbelieving. My God. That day I’d driven out of here with Ethan, was all that money in suitcases in the trunk? Or had he cashed it out later somehow? My mind spun. It was . . . unfathomable. “How much?” I asked.

My mother studied my father. His expression didn’t change. “Close to a million dollars.”

I closed my eyes for a second. It’s what I had thought. “He knew you wouldn’t press charges. He knew.”

My mom and dad regarded each other again. “He must have, yes.”

For a moment we were all quiet, as I looked back and forth between these two people, so misguided, but so faithful in their beliefs. I didn’t understand them, maybe I never completely had. But I couldn’t hate them either. They were my parents and I still loved them. “I had a daughter,” I said softly. “Her name was Elise. She was beautiful.”

My mom put her fist to her mouth and choked out a small sob. I saw my father’s arm flex. He’d squeezed her hand. “We know,” he said so softly I almost didn’t hear, and then louder. “We know of the crime against you and Ethan and . . . Elise.” He said her name on a whispered breath, and the tone was one I recognized. It was the one he used when he said his prayers.

“We have mourned her too,” my mother said, her voice pained. My eyes filled with tears, but they didn’t fall. There was something deeply comforting in the knowledge that others had grieved for her sweet little life in addition to myself. They hadn’t known her, but they had loved her. I could see it in their eyes, and it brought me peace. “You didn’t come to us,” my mom said.

I shook my head. “I didn’t know if I’d be welcomed. And I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t bear the thought of being turned away. Not then.” I shook my head, the memory of that time still causing echoes of pain. “I got a job, though.” I smiled, a genuine one as I pictured Graystone Hill. “It’s only a couple of hours from here, and it’s wonderful. It helped me begin to recover.” For several minutes none of us spoke.

“You have people who care about you?” my mom asked softly, her eyes full of a mother’s sadness. Hope.

I thought immediately of Brant and my heart raced from both longing and despair. I missed him. I was heartsick.

I was carrying his child.

In some ways my mother’s question was complicated, but in some ways it was not. I had created a life at Graystone Hill that I loved, and the people there were my family. “Yes,” I answered.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I reached across the table. My parents only hesitated for a moment, but then they took my hands in theirs and we sat there for a minute, tears streaming down both my mom’s and my face. I knew I couldn’t stay, just as I knew they’d feel uncomfortable for not believing they could show more than a little hospitality. I was still an outcast, and I didn’t want them to experience shame in their community. God, I loved them. Had missed them. I squeezed their hands one last time and then got up. “The bag by the door contains the money Ethan stole from your community, plus a little more. Please pay them all back. Tell them . . . well, tell them how sorry I am.”

My mom and dad looked completely shocked. “It is not your crime, daughter,” my dad said, and I heard the raw emotion in his voice. No, it wasn’t. But I still carried the regret of the part I’d unwillingly played. Paying them back would help make amends. Before I’d left for my parents’, I’d researched a struggling charity that did wonderful work helping victims of violent crime get back on their feet physically and emotionally. They were currently fundraising to build temporary housing for their clients and I’d stopped by on the way to Ohio, making a very large, anonymous donation to their cause.

Now, I would work on forgiving myself. I managed a small smile and a nod. There was nothing more to be said. I knew their beliefs, their rules, and I knew our lives simply didn’t mesh any longer. When I got to the door, my mom touched my arm and I turned, surprised that she’d followed me. “Our post office box is still the same,” she said, quickly regarding my father where he still sat.

She wanted me to write to her. And in that moment, I knew I would. I nodded, my eyes moving over my mom’s pretty face one last time—memorizing it—before I left, closing the door behind me. Outside I took a deep breath. I’d received the gift of a loving goodbye this time, and it would sustain me.

I pulled my coat tightly around me to ward off the chill, heading toward the Graystone Hill truck parked a quarter of a mile away off a side road where no one was likely to spot it. Hesitating, I gazed at the old barn in the middle of the field, picturing the hayloft, the place where I’d once spent so many happy hours.

On a whim, I turned, heading toward it, stepping over the rows of fall vegetables. The still-familiar smell washed over me as soon as I stepped into the large, drafty space. I closed my eyes and inhaled the smell of hay, of horses, of old barn wood. Of childhood and dreams and endless possibility. My dreams had never been plain, never modest, or solid-colored. I hadn’t known how to fit into that box. Always alone. Always. Until Brant. My soul had felt a unity with him I’d never felt with anyone else. But now . . . I sighed, running my hand along the edge of one of the empty stalls. A soft whinny caught my attention, and I moved to the end where a chocolate-brown mare stood. Her mane was coarse under my palm as I pet her. My eyes snagged on the tiny window in the hayloft, the portal I’d used to live out a thousand different stories in my head. My heart lightened. Strangely, this place that I’d been banished from was reminding me who I was. Helping me reclaim my soul. Helping me remember the girl who’d managed to hold on to her limitless dreams despite the many boundaries surrounding her.

My dream portal. If only it were real. If only I could teleport Brant here.

If only he could love me.

Oh, if only so many things.

I crooned to the mare for a moment, rubbing my cheek against her velvet one, finding comfort in her gentle presence.

“I figured I’d find you with another man.”

I opened my eyes, whirling around. Brant was standing there, watching me, his lip quirked up teasingly, but the expression in his eyes so very, very serious. His smile slipped. My heart pounded. We both stared from across the space.

“She’s a . . . a she.”

“Ah.” He glanced at the horse behind me and then moved slowly forward, closing the distance.