Breaking Silence

“This can’t continue,” I say. “It’s wrong. You know that, right?”

She raises her gaze to mine. She’s so young and pretty, so innocent. The loss of that innocence, so fleeting and precious, makes me want to cry. “You don’t know everything,” she says.

Something inside me goes still, and suddenly I realize she’s going to throw something unexpected at me. “What are you talking about?”

She raises her head and begins to work at the knot on the tie of her kapp. “I can’t tell you,” she sobs. “It’s too terrible. I can’t tell anyone.”

“Tell me what?” I watch her, waiting.

She works at the knot, but her hands are shaking so violently, she can’t manage to untie it. Finally, I take the kapp from her and loosen the knot.

After a moment, she looks me in the eye and heaves a sigh. “I’m going to have a baby.”

The words shock my brain, like ice water thrown in my face. For an instant, I can’t catch my breath. I’m going to have a baby. The words shake me from the inside out. All I can think is that she’s too young. That Mose is far from being a man. That they’re brother and sister. And the situation is so fundamentally immoral, I can barely get my mind around it.

“Oh, Salome.” I struggle to keep my voice steady. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “I’m sure.”

Kneeling in front of her, I set the kapp on her head and draw it snugly against her hair. It’s not until I’m actually tying it at her nape that I realize my mamm did the same thing for me a thousand times when I was a girl. It’s an unconscious gesture of kindness, a clumsy effort to comfort her. A long-gone memory that never really went away.

“How far along are you?” I ask.

“I haven’t … you know, for a couple of months.”

Here she is, fifteen years old, pregnant, and she can’t even say the word menstruation aloud. And yet she has had sex with her own brother. The utter wrongness of that makes me want to throw up. I stare at her, not knowing what to say next.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says.

“I don’t even know what I’m thinking,” I say drily.

“Mose isn’t my real brother,” she says after a moment. “He’s adopted.”

“Adopted?” I repeat the word dumbly, not knowing whether to believe her. Still, relief is like a slash across my belly. This is the first time I’ve heard of an adoption, and a very big part of me wants desperately to believe her. A teenage pregnancy is bad enough, but for that pregnancy to be the result of incest is unthinkable. “Does he know about the baby?”

She shakes her head. “I was going to tell him, but then Mamm and Datt…” The words trail off.

“How long ago was Mose adopted?” I ask after a moment.

“A long time. I was five, I think, so about ten years. It seems like he’s always been my brother.”

In the back of my mind, I wonder if the adoption was a legal one. All cultures cherish their children. But in the Amish community, children and family are the cornerstone of life. It would be almost unheard of for an Amish couple to relinquish custody of a child. But there are a few circumstances that would warrant a change of guardianship. If the parents are killed, for example. If financial difficulties, physical health, or certain emotional problems prevent one or both parents from caring for the child.

“Do you know the circumstances of the adoption?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I was too little to understand at the time. Mose never told me.”

I get to my feet and look down at her, my emotions reeling. I can’t believe this innocent young girl is pregnant. I can’t believe her own brother is the father—even if he is adopted. I wonder how Children Services will handle the situation; I wonder if they’ll separate Mose and Salome. I don’t have much experience with that segment of the county government, but I suspect the two teenagers will now go to different homes.

“Let’s go inside,” I say after a moment.

“I can’t,” she says. “I can’t face them. They’ll know what Mose and I were doing out here.”

“It’ll be okay. I’ll stay with you.”

“I’m … ashamed.”

“All of us make mistakes,” I tell her. “What’s done is done. You can’t go back and change it.” How well I know those words.…

She raises her eyes to mine. “Even you made mistakes?”

“Especially me.” I raise my hand, brush at the tears on her cheek. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

Rising, she chokes out a sound that’s part sob, part laugh. “It doesn’t feel like it,” she says, and we start toward the ladder.

CHAPTER 12

Half an hour later, five of us sit at the Slabaugh kitchen table. Nicholas Raber and his wife, Frannie, Tomasetti, and Mose. After leaving the barn, I’d brought Salome inside. She was upset and crying, so I brewed her a cup of tea and we talked for a bit. I asked her about the rifle, and she had no idea it was missing. Afterward, I walked upstairs with her, waited while she took a bath, then put her to bed.

Samuel and Ike are still sleeping. I know this will be the last night these children sleep in their own beds. Come morning, life is going to change for them all in a very big way, especially Mose and Salome. I wish I could protect them from the further upheaval they’re facing, but I can’t.

The lantern flickers in the center of the table, the gas hissing through the glowing yellow mantle. Nicholas and his wife sit together, staring down at the tabletop, their expressions nervous and troubled. Mose is slumped in a chair, staring intently at his hands on the table in front of him. I can tell by the white knuckles that he’s apprehensive. In the dim light from the lantern, I notice the angry red glow of a new acne outbreak just below his cheekbones. Tomasetti is sitting next to Mose, his expression as dark and cold as the night.

After a moment, Tomasetti skewers Mose with a hostile look. “Salome told Kate you’re adopted. Is that true?”

Mose shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze flicking from the Amish couple to me, as if we’re going to save him from having to answer.

“Don’t look at them,” Tomasetti snaps. “They can’t help you. This is your deal. Why don’t you act like a man and level with me?”

Mose wipes his hands on his trousers. “The Slabaughs adopted me ten years ago, when I was seven.”

“Why were you adopted?” I ask. “What happened to your parents?”

“They were killed in a buggy accident.”

“Where?”

“Indiana. Near Connersville.”

“How did you end up here?” Tomasetti asks.

Mose doesn’t look at him. “Rachael was my aunt. She took me in when they were killed.”

“Do you have siblings in Indiana?”

“No.”

“What was your last name before you were adopted?”

“Hochstetler.”

I pull out my note pad and jot down the name. “So Salome is your first cousin?”

He shrugs. “I guess.”

All I can think is that a first cousin is too close for a sexual relationship. That’s not to mention the problem with her age, and the baby. “You’d better be telling the truth,” I say. “You know we’re going to check.”

“It’s true.”

For a moment, the only sound comes from the rain tapping on the windows. Then I’m aware of the hiss of the mantle, the high-wire buzz of tension in the room.

After an uncomfortable silence, Tomasetti asks Mose, “Where’s the rifle that was in the mudroom?”

The question echoes off the walls like a gunshot. I watch Mose, concentrating on his body language, his eyes,