rectangular windows upstairs and three windows and a new screen door below. The well-scrubbed front porch held only three Shaker-style chairs. The flower garden in front of the house exploded with ruby-red pansies, lavender zinnias, and enormous sunflowers. The pine and cottonwood trees shading the driveway were full of scolding blue jays and a small gray bird whose call sounded like a cat mewing. Two little girls burst out of the house, screaming Becky’s name. Wisps of hair the color and texture of dandelion fluff escaped from the sides of their miniature white caps. Above us, the blue jays screeched in unison.
“Are Paige and Whitney with you?” the smaller of the two girls asked. She looked about six and wore a plain blue short-sleeve dress that swung around legs as plump and smooth as summer zucchinis. Her sister, wearing a similar dress, was older by a year or so. She hopped up and down on one tanned bare foot. In her serious gray eyes and delicate nose, I could see her aunt’s face as it must have looked twenty years ago.
“No, honey, I’m sorry,” Becky said. “They’re with their daddy today. They had a swimming lesson they couldn’t miss.”
“Oh.” The girls’ faces wrinkled in disappointment. The screen door opened again, and their mother walked out. I inhaled sharply when I saw her. The one thing Becky forgot to tell me was that Hannah and Tyler were identical twins.
Becky glanced at me, taking my surprised look to heart. “Oh, my, I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?”
I nodded mutely.
“Twins are genetically very common among the Amish. I’m so used to it that it didn’t even occur to me to mention it.”
“Becky, I’m so glad you came.” Hannah held out a hand. She wore a simple, dark brown dress closed at the neck with straight pins, and a full white apron over it. Her golden blond hair was pulled back in a bun and tucked into a fitted white cap identical to her daughters’. Her face—Tyler’s face—was free of any makeup, making her appear younger than her twenty-seven years.
“Oh, Hannah, I’m so sorry.” Becky’s eyes filled with tears. She took Hannah’s hand, and they looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Behind them, the girls shuffled their bare feet and played with the loose strands of hair feathering their faces. A small red hen broke the emotional moment by jumping up on the porch and pecking at the clean wood.
Hannah stepped away from Becky and briskly clapped her hands. “Ruthie, Emma, I told you to round up those chickens and put them in their pen. Get along with you and do it now.” Her voice was firm but loving.
“Can we show Becky the new chickies?” the younger girl asked, scurrying across the porch to catch the protesting hen and tuck it under her arm.
“Later, Emma. We have grown-up things to discuss right now.” Hannah turned back to us. “Please come and eat with me.”
Her house was as neat and plain inside as out. Hand-woven rugs softened our steps on the shiny hardwood floors. The long windows had white gossamer curtains pulled to the side, letting the slight breeze blow through a living room that with its simple sofa and straight-backed chairs appeared almost empty, so accustomed was I to the abundance of furniture in the average American home. A natural pine rocker sat next to the front window; a delicate spindle-legged table next to it held a twig basket full of fabric scraps and a frayed leather Bible. On the pale walls there was only a pegged rack, a handmade shelf displaying a curved mantel clock, and a shiny calendar showing a clear mountain lake reflecting a snow-capped mountain. Carrying the food we brought, we followed Hannah into the kitchen, where dishes covered with embroidered tea towels or aluminum foil crowded the countertops.
“There’s plenty,” she said, pulling plates from a cherry-wood hutch that dominated a corner of the kitchen. In the hutch, colorful crystal glassware and fancy teacups fought for space
“Are Paige and Whitney with you?” the smaller of the two girls asked. She looked about six and wore a plain blue short-sleeve dress that swung around legs as plump and smooth as summer zucchinis. Her sister, wearing a similar dress, was older by a year or so. She hopped up and down on one tanned bare foot. In her serious gray eyes and delicate nose, I could see her aunt’s face as it must have looked twenty years ago.
“No, honey, I’m sorry,” Becky said. “They’re with their daddy today. They had a swimming lesson they couldn’t miss.”
“Oh.” The girls’ faces wrinkled in disappointment. The screen door opened again, and their mother walked out. I inhaled sharply when I saw her. The one thing Becky forgot to tell me was that Hannah and Tyler were identical twins.
Becky glanced at me, taking my surprised look to heart. “Oh, my, I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?”
I nodded mutely.
“Twins are genetically very common among the Amish. I’m so used to it that it didn’t even occur to me to mention it.”
“Becky, I’m so glad you came.” Hannah held out a hand. She wore a simple, dark brown dress closed at the neck with straight pins, and a full white apron over it. Her golden blond hair was pulled back in a bun and tucked into a fitted white cap identical to her daughters’. Her face—Tyler’s face—was free of any makeup, making her appear younger than her twenty-seven years.
“Oh, Hannah, I’m so sorry.” Becky’s eyes filled with tears. She took Hannah’s hand, and they looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Behind them, the girls shuffled their bare feet and played with the loose strands of hair feathering their faces. A small red hen broke the emotional moment by jumping up on the porch and pecking at the clean wood.
Hannah stepped away from Becky and briskly clapped her hands. “Ruthie, Emma, I told you to round up those chickens and put them in their pen. Get along with you and do it now.” Her voice was firm but loving.
“Can we show Becky the new chickies?” the younger girl asked, scurrying across the porch to catch the protesting hen and tuck it under her arm.
“Later, Emma. We have grown-up things to discuss right now.” Hannah turned back to us. “Please come and eat with me.”
Her house was as neat and plain inside as out. Hand-woven rugs softened our steps on the shiny hardwood floors. The long windows had white gossamer curtains pulled to the side, letting the slight breeze blow through a living room that with its simple sofa and straight-backed chairs appeared almost empty, so accustomed was I to the abundance of furniture in the average American home. A natural pine rocker sat next to the front window; a delicate spindle-legged table next to it held a twig basket full of fabric scraps and a frayed leather Bible. On the pale walls there was only a pegged rack, a handmade shelf displaying a curved mantel clock, and a shiny calendar showing a clear mountain lake reflecting a snow-capped mountain. Carrying the food we brought, we followed Hannah into the kitchen, where dishes covered with embroidered tea towels or aluminum foil crowded the countertops.
“There’s plenty,” she said, pulling plates from a cherry-wood hutch that dominated a corner of the kitchen. In the hutch, colorful crystal glassware and fancy teacups fought for space
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