Page 113 of Rage

She stares at me, her face a mosaic of pain, of misery and skepticism and the utter certainty that no one could possibly comprehend. I don’t blame her; that lack of scope is a frailty of youth.

“Did you know I used to be Amish?” I ask.

She frowns. “It’s not the same,” she says dismissively.

“I was your age when I left. I know what it’s like to not fit in. To be lost and have nowhere to go.”

A glimmer of genuine curiosity peeks out at me from behind the mask of despair. “What did you do?”

“I survived,” I tell her. “Just like you. And I found a way to move on.”

“I don’t know if I can be Amish again,” she whispers. “I mean, after what happened. I don’t know if it’s the right path.”

“There is no right or wrong resolution,” I tell her.

She looks away.

“Angelica—”

“It’s Angie.”

I repeat the name, liking it. “You know that what happened isn’t your fault, right?”

Her face crumples, a war between grief and shame and a hundred other emotions she can’t contain. “Who else is there to blame?”

“Lance Wingate for starters,” I say firmly. “Carter Brooks.”

“They were bad men, yes. But I did what I did. I was stupid and—”

“You were courageous, too,” I cut in. “If you hadn’t stepped in when you did that night, they would have killed me. Think about that the next time you’re beating yourself up.”

She closes her eyes, tears squeezing through her lashes. “I’m so ashamed, I can’t bear it.”

That is the insidious nature of trafficking. The piece of the equation that devours the heart, destroys lives, and steals every last scrap of innocence. “You’re barely twenty years old,” I tell her. “Wingate and Brooks are twice your age. They took advantage of you. Your youth. Your inexperience. They preyed on that.”

We fall silent and for the span of a full minute the only sound comes from the clinking of dishes from the kitchen. The murmur of conversation from the couple in the booth.

After a moment, I set my hand on hers and squeeze. “My mamm had a saying for those of us with troubled hearts.”

“Amish mamms always have sayings.” She mutters the words with affection.

I switch to Deitsch. “‘When the caterpillar thought her world was ending, she became a butterfly,’” I quote.

She stares at me, tears glistening on her cheeks, her mouth trembling. “My parents want me to be baptized. In the spring. After communion. They want me to start die Gemee nooch geh this fall.”

Die Gemee nooch geh is a momentous occasion for a young Amish person and a lifetime commitment they will honor until death.

“That’s a big step,” I say. “A big decision.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You have some time to think about it.”

“I love my parents. I don’t want to lose my family.”

In that instant, her pain pierces my heart. The ache that follows is so intense, I flinch. “I got my family back,” I tell her. “It wasn’t easy and it’s sure not a perfect situation. But I got them back.”

The bell on the door jingles, announcing the arrival of another customer. We both look, see an Amish family enter, husband and wife and four children.