by Linda Byler
“I’ll always be bald.”
Why did she find such complete satisfaction in saying that if it wasn’t really true?
Matthew snapped to attention.
“Ew. Really?”
“I’ll wear a wig.”
That clearly gave him the creeps.
Still, if he stayed quiet long enough, she could admire his good looks and hang onto the past, but she really just wanted him to leave.
Just go, Matthew. Go. You know you don’t want me. She was surprised she hadn’t said it out loud, surprised he still sat in that vinyl chair. For what?
“You think you’ll ever look like yourself again?”
That was her undoing. That one unnecessary question that was brought on by his fear of having a less than perfect wife.
With all the strength she could muster, her voice a rough squawk, she asked him why he cared.
“You don’t want me, Matthew. I won’t leave my family. I don’t have to. Just go, and stop tormenting me. Maybe God allowed me to suffer because I would not have given you up any other way.”
Her voice turned to a whisper.
“You know there is nothing colder than ashes, after the fire is gone, just like that old love song Mam used to sing.”
“You scare me, Sarah. You’re losing your mind.”
She looked directly at him.
“No, Matthew. You have it all wrong. I am finding my mind.”
She began crying then and did not care that Matthew cast her a wild-eyed look and began backing out of the room. He would always remember a caricature of the former Sarah, misshapen, peeling, bandaged, hideous, but inside her a marvelous thing was slowly taking shape.
It was like a new barn rising after an arsonist’s foolery, a beautiful thing, a symbol of caring, people working side by side, a whole community of love, including English, Mennonite, Hutterite, German Baptist, all following their Christ, all different, and all the same.
Strong and sure, grasping the truth handed down through the ages, Sarah’s faith was alive and well.
Three weeks after the burning beam hit her, Sarah had made remarkable progress. Steadily, the healing process brought changes. Her hair was now a light copper-colored sheen over her scalp. Her eyelashes were short but coming in thick and fast, and the perfectly shaped wings of her eyebrows showed promise as well.
She walked the hallways, unassisted sometimes, enjoying an easy friendship with the staff, other patients, and the scores of visitors that entered the hospital daily.
She watched the red buds of the trees by the parking lot turn a beautiful lime green color. Then tiny leaves as big as quarters grew into small leaves of a darker hue. Lawn mowers appeared, landscaping companies mulched around shrubs and flowers, and she could only watch, her hands aching for the soil in Mam’s garden back home.
Matthew never visited her again. It didn’t surprise her. It left only a dull ache for a time remembered when he had been her utmost goal in life. The fact that he was the one who had brought all that yearning, the sweetness of young love to her life, always made her sad, but it was a fading melancholy feeling now.
When the doctor took the bandages off one day, he was pleased. In fact, he was so pleased that he forgot his professional manner, if only for a minute or so.
“Marvelous!”
Sarah smiled as best she could, a warm glow beginning to spread through her senses.
Would the time be close now? She eagerly anticipated the long-awaited moment when she would be dressed in her usual garb, the Amish colors and fabric she missed so much, and walk out the glass doors and never look back.
Her physical therapy sessions on the first floor went well after the first few times, when she had thought her skin would split open with the force of simple movements. She worked with the therapists, gritted her teeth, and kept going, pulling ropes attached to pulleys with weights on the other end, or simply lifting light weights, or raising and lowering her arms and legs.
She had started looking forward to physical therapy as she became acquainted with the therapists and those around her, other burn victims who shared their stories and formed a bond of closeness based on their shared experiences.
It was ironic, the way there were not Amish or English or Mennonite in a burn center. Each patient wore the exact same shapeless, colorless garments that tied in the back. Her bandages served as a covering, and no one could tell she was Amish.
For the first time in her life, she knew the feeling of blending in with other people with no distinctive dress or mannerism to set her apart. It proved to be very interesting.
The usual questions were always about school. Had she graduated? Was she in college?
In Sarah’s culture, any young girl in her twenties would have been asked about her marital status, her situation as a dating or non-dating young girl. School was out of the question, except for being a teacher in a one-room parochial school.
There were no goals as far as a career was concerned. Marriage, managing a home, and motherhood was the only route, chosen for her by her parents’ wishes. A rarity was the young girl who preferred to stay alone, becoming self-sufficient as a teacher or storekeeper.
Sarah walked the hallways wearing the light robe her sister Anna Mae bought for her. It was green, the color of her eyes, with a belt that tied around her waist, the hem reaching almost to the floor. She felt good when she wore it, sweeping along, her gait improving as each day went by.
She talked on the phone to well wishers, looked forward to her family’s visits, spent hours with a small hand-held mirror searching for all the small improvements she could find.
She grimaced as she checked the growth of the new hair sprouting from her head.
She’d even prayed it would be straight, wryly remembering Dat’s words about asking God for selfish favors. Just let it be straighter. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just not as curly as it used to be, she had pleaded.
Sadly, the new growth on top of her head looked a bit like steel wool, only a dark, copper color. She could not bear to look at it or touch it. What would she do if her hair was curlier still?
Sitting on the side of her bed, she pushed her feet into the slippers Mam had supplied for her, a pair of green and beige plaid Dearfoams that matched her robe.
The bandages were mostly gone, except for on her right shoulder and that side of her neck where the skin grafting had taken place. Her face was still discolored, scarred, but her eyes were open. The lids were a dark shade of red and still peeling, but so much better.
She walked down the hallway to the lounge area by the vast windows, to gaze out over the lawn as the sun sank below the horizon.
A sort of melancholy settled over her shoulders, and she sighed, crossed her arms at her waist, and stared unseeing, as distant lights came on, winking along the streets as folks warded off the night, turning homes into cozy, light-filled havens.
At home, Mam would be holding the lighter to the mantle of the gas lamp, turning the knob, and infusing the kitchen in the homey hiss of the standard Amish source of light. Levi would lift the glass chimney of the kerosene lamp in the bathroom as he prepared for his nightly ritual of showering, teeth brushing, and gargling with his green mouthwash—not blue or purple or yellow. It had to be green.
A wave of homesickness washed over Sarah. She wanted to eat shoofly pie with Levi and tease him about the amount of milk and sugar he put in his coffee. She wanted to sprawl across her bed and play Yahtzee with Priscilla. The low IQ game, they called it, but they loved to roll the dice and say silly things and laugh with quiet heaves and great guffaws, the way only sisters can.
She stood in the dim light of the lounge, watching the twilight settle over the unfamiliar land, oblivious to those around her as tears welled up in her eyes.
No one had come to visit today, which was unusual, but she’d talked to her mother and understood. Allen and Rachel had become parents to a little boy named Samuel Lee, and Mam was going to Dauphin County while
she had the chance.
Sarah tried to form a smile as she glanced at an older couple sitting on a sofa. She reached for a Kleenex and blew her nose, hating her own weakness, her moment of self pity.
The elevator doors opened, disgorging its occupants. Sarah paused, watching the people step out.
A head taller than anyone else, his blond hair shining in the yellow lights of the elevator, Lee Glick stepped out, looked to the left, then right, before his gaze traveled the lounge area.
He found her.
His gaze rested on her with a fleeting moment of recognition. He stood completely still, his hands at his sides. He was dressed in a navy blue polo shirt, his neat black Sunday pants, and a pair of black and navy blue sneakers.
His eyes found hers, and he moved toward her, as if in a dream, his gaze never leaving her face.
When he reached her, he stopped only a short distance away, but she could see the expression in his eyes.
What was she supposed to do when tears welled up and flowed unchecked down her discolored cheeks?
“Sarah,” he whispered.
Then he put his hands on her shoulders, his touch so light she barely felt it. He leaned forward and placed his lips on her forehead, on the side that was scarred most. He kissed her cheek, the scarred one. He stepped back, his eyes searched hers, and he breathed out, quietly, and then pulled her close, so gently, she could barely call it an embrace.
But she felt the fabric of the navy blue shirt, the line of his suspenders, the muscle of his shoulder, and she closed her eyes. He held her, as the hand on the clock ticked away the seconds.
The old couple on the sofa bent their heads and whispered knowingly, then looked up, watching eagerly, remembering the time when their love was young.
Finally, he let her go, but he kept her hands in his. The blue eyes were intent on her face, examining, savoring.
“How are you?” he whispered.
“I’m doing well, as you can see,” she said quietly.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed.
She was surprised when he dropped her hands. He drew in his breath, then exhaled, almost a groan, before he gathered her back into his arms and held her there.
She had been crying before Lee arrived, the homesickness unbearable, and now she wanted to stay here in this room and never leave the circle of his arms. She had come home, to a place where she belonged. Of this, there was no doubt.
Once more, he released her, stepped back, and searched her eyes.
“Sarah, you’re alive. You’re here. You did a very brave thing. You are an amazing person. No one but you would have risked her life to save a colt.”
“The colt was not the main thing,” Sarah said, very soft and low, embarrassment welling up, ashamed of the croak that was now her voice.
Bending his head, Lee questioned her.
“The colt. . . .” Sarah began.
She placed a hand on her throat, grimaced, her eyes begging him, and whispered, “My voice sounds terrible.”
“Your voice?”
Sarah nodded miserably.
“Let’s sit down, shall we?”
Taking her hand, he led her to an alcove, away from prying eyes. They sat, side by side, and he did not relinquish his hold on her scarred fingers.
“What’s wrong with your voice?” he asked as gently as possible.
“My throat was burned, damaged from the heat and smoke.”
“It’s okay, Sarah. It’s okay. Just talk to me. Tell me everything.”
And so she did, beginning with her first memory, which was waking up in the room at the burn center. He listened, rapt, as she described the pain, the hopelessness of the first look in mirror, the surgeries, the visitors.
Lee became very quiet.
“Was Matthew in?”
Sarah nodded.
A silence followed, as Lee separated the space between them. Suddenly, he got to his feet and walked away, over to the windows, his hands gripped behind his back as he watched the twilight.
The elderly lady sitting beside her husband raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, while her husband lowered his head and whispered, “What do you think is going on?”
“Let’s find out,” she whispered back.
In complete agreement, they rose stiffly to their feet. He extended his arm, she placed her hand comfortably on it, and they shuffled their way back to the alcove. They gleefully found a sofa within earshot, where they settled. He produced a magazine to look at, and they both became cunningly absorbed in it.
When Lee stayed at the window a long time, Sarah slowly got to her feet. She felt unsure, but the need to be close to him overrode her hesitancy.
Placing a hand on his arm, she said, “Lee.”
He turned, and she was alarmed at the bitterness in his eyes.
“It’s . . .”
“Sarah, listen. I can’t take one more minute of this, knowing you are going to throw your life away with Matthew. I should have never come.”
Turning on his heel, he stalked away.
The old couple was left in the alcove, unable to see or hear the conversation. Like dominoes they leaned to the right, peered around the corner, their eyes wide, straining through the thick lenses of their trifocals.
“What do you think is going on?” she hissed.
“Mom, now hush,” he hissed back.
Sarah followed Lee. Her pace was steady, her footsteps quiet, her heart swelling as the strains of love rose and fell in her heart, a rapturous symphony that swelled to a crescendo. She had never been more certain of anything in her life.
Her steps quickened.
“Lee?” she called, a question, a bewilderment.
He turned, his face a mask of pain.
“Sarah, if Matthew was already here, I’m just wasting my time, okay? I’ll go now, and I’ll talk to you later. Be careful.”
“Lee, don’t go,” she said.
“I think it’s for the best.”
The elevator door opened, he stepped inside, gave a small wave, and was swallowed up as the doors closed. She stood, her entire being straining toward him, but it was too late.
Slowly, her hands fell to her sides. Sighing, she retraced her steps, without noticing the elderly folks examining the pages of their magazine, and returned to her room. She let the green robe slide from her shoulders, kicked off her slippers, and crawled into the high, narrow bed.
Well, he had come to see her. He was the polar opposite of Matthew. Even their hair color couldn’t be more different. Where Matthew recoiled, worried over the future of her appearance, Lee had told her she was beautiful, which she obviously was not. And he had told her she was an amazing person, which she obviously wasn’t either.
She blushed and put her cold hands to her warm face. Well, one thing was settled. The thought of it made her bounce a bit, shifting her weight from side to side the way a child does before opening a candy bar, so delighted with his gift.
Yes, it was a gift, this knowing, this undeserved reality check, this discovery.
She did not love Matthew. She was consumed by her wanting of him. For what? His good looks? The pride of having him? The winning of the race, beating every other girl that had ever wanted to be his girlfriend?
Sickened by her own human nature, she recoiled from the virtual mirror held to her heart. How long she had strained against the reins of her Creator! How long-suffering was her God?
She bowed her head, clasped her hands, and thanked Him for allowing her this one chance at true love. The future was still suspended, the question hanging in mid-air, but her heart was at rest.
When the telephone rang, she reached for it, answered quietly.
“How are you, Sarah?”
Matthew.
“Good. Tired. Ready for bed.”
“Have any visitors today?”
“One.”
“Who?”
She had a notion to tell him it was the man on the moon, but she didn’t. When her answer w
as not forthcoming, he repeated the blunt question.
“Who was it?”
“A friend.”
“Can I come see you tomorrow?”
For only a moment, the old anticipation crowded out her common sense, but it was instantly replaced by an anger that shook her to the core.
“Why would you want to, Matthew? You have nothing to say to me, and you know it. No, you may not come to see me.”
“Wow!” Matthew answered.
Sarah didn’t bother replying. She was plain down too mad.
“You still there?” he asked, his voice mellow.
“Yes.”
“So this is it. Really it?”
“Yes. It is.”
Firm and hard, her words were spaced, set in concrete. They were sure, sturdy, and full of conviction.
“Matthew, just go live your life. Forget about the gangly little eighth grader who thought the sun rose and set on you and you alone. You have wrung my heart for the last time. Let’s just say the fiery trial I’ve been through has worked very well in producing a solid vessel, shining like crazy.”
“Are you really losing your mind?”
“No, sir. I told you before, Matthew. I just found it.”
“I’ll be up to see you once you get home.”
“Don’t bother.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Goodbye, Sarah.”
Gently, she replaced the receiver, then pressed down on it, firmly.
CHAPTER 8
ON THE DAY SARAH CAME HOME, THE SUN SHONE warmly through a haze that promised rain. The grass on the front lawn had been freshly mowed and trimmed. The tulips had already bloomed, surrounded by a thick layer of mushroom mulch, and newly-planted petunias lifted cheery faces as they turned their purple stripes to the warmth of the sunlight.
Everything appeared dreamlike, with an air of the unfamiliar. Sarah was surprised at the lump in her throat, the heavy feeling of sadness in her chest.
The pink banner strung between the two porch posts that said, “Welcome Home, Sarah,” dissolved the sadness and replaced it with anticipation. Then the front door burst open, and a horde of her family members appeared on the porch, all with varying expressions on their faces. They tried to produce wide smiles of happiness at her homecoming, but most of them didn’t accomplish it, their faces contorting into all sorts of grimaces as they did their best to control the flow of tears.