Her guest was standing at a window with her back to Rachel, and it was clear from her body posture that she was in distress. Rachel went to her at once and put her arm around the older woman. Mrs. Morris’s stoic posture crumbled and she turned and clung to her, weeping.
Rachel rocked her against her chest and patted her shoulder. “There, there, shhh. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Are you in pain?” She led her to the bed and patted the coverlet. “Why don’t you sit down. Catch your breath.”
Obediently, but still sobbing, Mrs. Morris eased onto the bed.
“Are you hurting?” Rachel asked again. “Should I call the doctor?”
Mrs. Morris shook her head. “No, no, it’s just . . .”
“Just what?” Rachel urged, supporting the woman with an arm around her shoulders. “Can I get your pain medication for you?”
Mrs. Morris shook her head and raised tear-swollen eyes to meet Rachel’s gaze.
Rachel walked to a dresser and plucked several tissues from a box and handed them to her guest. “Can you tell me why you won’t come down and visit with your family? They’ve come so far to be with you.”
Mrs. Morris accepted the tissues and wiped her eyes.
Rachel pressed her lips together, searching for the right words, and then went on. “Mrs. Morris, don’t you think it’s time to let go of old grievances? To forgive your son for the past?”
“No, no, that’s not it. I just . . .”
A fresh wave of tears overcame Mrs. Morris and Rachel’s heart ached for her. “I don’t understand then. Why won’t you come down and see your son?”
“Because . . . because I’m afraid,” she murmured. “So afraid.”
“Oh, Mrs. Morris.” Rachel stroked her arm. “What are you afraid of?”
She wiped at her eyes with a tissue again. “To . . . to see him. My son . . . and his wife. I don’t want their pity. I know they hate me and—”
“No, you don’t know that. How could they hate you?”
“How?” She sniffed and looked up at Rachel. “Because I’ve been a wicked, selfish, bitter old woman. I wouldn’t speak to my only son. I returned his letters unopened. And I’ve never seen his wife or my own grandchildren. What kind of mother does such a thing?”
Rachel had no response for that.
Mrs. Morris sniffed. “How could they have come for any reason other than pity?”
“No. No, that’s not why we came.” The soft, slightly accented voice was that of a stranger.
Rachel turned to look at the slender, small-statured woman standing in the doorway. She had long black hair and a dark complexion. Her face with its huge dark eyes was not beautiful but serene and very kind. Mrs. Morris’s daughter-in-law stepped gracefully into the room and a round-faced baby with the same striking eyes and dark hair peered out from a fold of her multicolored sari. Close behind her came a little boy, fairer in complexion but possessing the same hair color and amazing eyes, his small hand clutching his mother’s tightly.
“We’ve come,” the woman said, “to take our mother home.”
“Home with us,” the child echoed sweetly.
And then, before either Rachel or Mrs. Morris could reply, the woman in the sari, the two children, and a tall, ungainly man with thick glasses and tears in his eyes rushed into the room and enveloped Mrs. Morris in a combined embrace. Endearments and apologies and introductions mingled with more hugs and not a few tears, and somewhere between the baby’s squeals and the exclamations of joyous reunion, Rachel slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her.
A bewildered and distraught Mary Aaron stood at the top of the stairs, and at least one guest door was open and an inquisitive face stared out.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop her.” Mary Aaron threw up her hands.
“It’s all right,” Rachel assured her cousin and then her curious guests. “It’s fine. No, really, it’s good. Family.” She wiped away a few stray tears, almost too emotional to speak rationally herself.
“Are you sure?” Mary Aaron asked.
Rachel nodded. “Ya, I’m sure.”
She followed Mary Aaron down the stairs and into the gift shop. At the moment, no one was shopping and the room was quiet. “Well, that, Mary Aaron, is what Englishers call making an error in reverse.”
“What?”
Rachel laughed, still feeling a little emotional. “You may have done what appeared to be the wrong thing, contacting Mrs. Morris’s family without her permission. But in the end, it worked out.” She went behind the counter and began to open a box containing three faceless Amish dolls that had come in that morning.
The dolls were hand-sewn and about fifteen inches high with yarn hair and dresses, bonnets, capes, and shoes that could be removed. They were crafted by an elderly Amish woman who lived at the far end of the valley. The dolls were copies of one that the seamstress had received from her grandmother when she was a child, and they had no facial features because of the belief that it was wrong to make an image of a person. Each doll was an individual, and each had a name, stitched meticulously onto the bottom of a foot. These three were Emma, Laura, and Lena. So far, every doll that the artist had produced had sold quickly. Rachel couldn’t keep them in the shop.
“Ah.” Mary Aaron nodded. “The English world is pretty complicated.”
“Ya, it is. But on a totally different subject,” Rachel began, but then Mrs. Rivera came in and Mary Aaron rang up the baby quilt she’d asked to have gift wrapped earlier. Rachel finished putting out the three dolls in the children’s corner and waited until she and her cousin were alone again before continuing with her private conversation. “What I wanted to ask you was
