Page 75 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Ina.” Neva says her friend’s name firmly, and then sets her hand over Viola’s. “She’s a police. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Ina hisses. “None of this is okay.”

Viola snaps at her. “We have to tell.”

“Tell me what?” I say.

After a moment, Neva squares her shoulders, raises her chin. “I’ll do it then.”

All eyes fall upon her. Neva maintains eye contact with me. It’s so quiet in the small room, I can hear the air-conditioning rush through the vents, the hum of the refrigerator, the steady drip of water from the sink.

“We all noticed something different about her,” Neva says. “She’d lost weight. Grown quiet. Pale.” Her voice is little more than a whisper. “A few weeks before she died, she came to me after work. She was just … broken inside. Her heart torn to pieces.”

The young Amish woman is putting on a brave front, but she’s anxious and upset. Her foot is jiggling a hundred miles an hour, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s perched on the chair as if her legs are springs and she’s ready to launch herself into a run at the first sign of danger, which is apparently very close.

When the silence goes on too long, I push. “What did Emma tell you?”

“It was about Daniel. When he was working for her parents. At first, she said he’d been … looking at her funny. I mean, she’d mentioned it before and we just kind of laughed it off, you know. But this was different. Serious. It had been happening the whole time he was there, working for her parents. Emma told her mamm, but Mrs. Miller … wouldn’t listen. It hurt me to hear that. Emma was so sweet. Innocent. And in love with Elam. She didn’t want anyone to know.”

I pause, take a moment to make eye contact with each girl. Viola has stopped crying, but her eyes and nose are red. “Daniel raped her?” I ask.

Neva nods. “He trapped her out in the milk house. She was … so ashamed. Blamed herself. Thought she must have done something wrong. Her mamm—” She bites off the word, her eyes flashing anger.

“We told her it wasn’t her fault,” Viola whispers.

Neva shakes her head. “She didn’t listen. It was incredibly sad.”

“She’d been saving herself for Elam,” Ina says, her voice shaking with anger. “All she wanted was to marry him and have children.”

“She was … despondent,” Neva says.

Looking miserable, Viola sniffs, keeps her eyes on the table. “It was like we couldn’t … reach her.”

None of what I’ve just heard is news; I’d already heard it from Esther Miller. But hearing it from these young women, seeing the anguish on their faces, adds yet another ugly layer to an already hideous story.

“Did Emma tell anyone else?” I ask.

Neva gives another shake of her head. “I don’t think so.”

“She didn’t want anyone to know,” Viola adds.

“Practically killed her to tell us,” Ina puts in. “And we’re her best friends.”

“Do you think that’s why Emma killed herself?” I ask.

Neva nods. “I do.”

“She felt guilty about it even though she had no reason to blame herself,” says Viola.

“And she couldn’t get away from him,” Ina adds.

I tamp down a rise of outrage. “Her parents didn’t protect her?” I pose the question, but I already know.

Neva shakes her head. “They were … old-fashioned that way. I mean, about … you know, men and women.”

No person or society is perfect. Far from it. I would never profess to be a fair judge of the Amish. I’ve got too much baggage to be impartial. There are elements about being Amish that I loved and to this day regret leaving behind. But there are also certain aspects of the community that I was born into that I detest. Generally speaking, the Amish are a patriarchal society. While most women certainly have a voice, a few do not. Growing up, I heard the whispered stories. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized sometimes there’s a fine line between coercion and force. Even when that line is crossed, some prefer to look the other way.

“Did Emma’s datt know what had happened?” I ask.