The Healing

by Linda Byler

  “I’ll go.”

  Always Amos, the helpful one, the kindhearted, in a genuine way. He disappeared through the kitchen screen door. Faintly, they heard his calls, then silence as he made his way upstairs.

  The rest of the family waited, trying not to imagine ruined pizza with lukewarm toppings and a tough crust or watered-down iced tea.

  When Amos did not return, Dat rose to his feet, made his way across the patio like an old man, his face a mask. Mam wiped the perspiration from her streaming forehead, impatient now.

  After a while, Amos returned by himself, saying they were supposed to go ahead and eat, they’d be down.

  “But is he all right? John, I mean?”

  “Yes. He was lying down. The heat is hard for everyone.”

  Supper began without Dat or John.

  Upstairs, John had been lying on his bed in the even warmer bedroom, shades drawn against the midday heat and light that pressed on his exhausted body like a heavy piece of armor. The air he could inhale seemed to evaporate, so he took to inhaling deeply, holding his breath as long as he could before exhaling, resulting in lightheadedness and a fresh new fear of losing consciousness.

  This all came out, shamefacedly, his eyes averted as he struggled to keep from crying. He finished with his arms crossed in front of him, his now thin shoulders held stiffly, the tension in his young body apparent by the way he was poised, ready to run.

  “You’re weak,” Dat said, asking no questions, expecting no answers, keeping all conversation to a minimum. For one reason or another, Dat seemed to understand the importance of this.

  “Yeah, I guess I am.” Then, “Am I going to die?”

  Dat pondered this question, decided to keep it simple. John was obviously enduring a massive struggle of some sort, and would likely not absorb a long or complicated lecture.

  So he said, “No, you will not die. But it might be a good idea to tell Dr. Stevenson that you aren’t getting better.”

  “But I am. Some.”

  “Will you go if Mam makes the appointment?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “I’m not satisfied with the results of the Lyme test.”

  They joined the rest of the family, without comment. Dat’s face registered enough seriousness to stop any frivolous questions, and certainly any teasing.

  John ate a slice of his favorite pizza, silently, as if he was eating without touch or taste, robotic, his eyes without clear focus. Mam watched her youngest son, the pizza crust in her mouth going dry with fear of the unknown.

  Dear God, will John lose his mind? Become handicapped? Mentally ill? She left the table, stood at the kitchen counter seeing nothing.

  Dat navigated the patio table surrounded by garrulous boys who were unaccustomed to restraint, spoke of any problem easily and unselfconsciously, never harbored secrets, and never had any serious health problems. So he set a light mood, with easy grace, telling the boys about the two fawns at the edge of the alfalfa field, the way the clever mother doe thought she’d hidden them away, in plain sight.

  “Hey, you wait till buck season. That daddy is likely Old Grunt.”

  “You wish! Duh!”

  Later, Dat thanked God for sensible young men who picked up on the seriousness of John’s situation and turned what could have been a disaster into a table easily accessible with lightheartedness, normalcy, exactly what Dat instinctively recognized John needed.

  He saw John break a small grin, even, at the mention of anyone’s ability to actually bag the monster whitetail that roamed these Pennsylvania forests.

  Dat watched from the corner of his eyes and was gratified to find the spark of recognition.

  Later, he had the discussion with his wife, who was steadily sliding down her own steep incline of worry and anxiety. She had been so sure it was Lyme, the diagnosis anticipated, the awaited answer to all the mental issues John was displaying.

  A schizophrenic? Their own son, and him on the verge of entering his years of rumschpringa. The thought struck a chord of fear, imagining the mental wards, the medication, the label he would have to wear. He would never lead a productive life, shambling through his days confused and disoriented.

  Oh, dear God. Mein Vater im Himmel.

  CHAPTER 9

  LENA ZOOK WAS THE THIRD DAUGHTER IN A STRING OF SIX GIRLS, after which a boy had been born to Henry and Elizabeth Zook. They named him Henry Jr. to carry on the father’s name. They lived in Lancaster among the thousands of other Amish, below Christiana, until Henry decided farming his fifty acres of expensive ground was a study in futility. He needed more acreage, more cows, and a cheaper mortgage payment, which is what he set out to do. He traveled the Pennsylvania Turnpike to Route 365 and found a presentable, if weathered, set of buildings on 183 acres of good, rich soil that bordered the Juniata River.

  His wife, Lena, never demurred from the duties before her. Fiercely loyal, devoted to Henry’s happiness, she gamely packed their belongings, bade her family farewell, and rode off to Jefferson County with a light in her eye and an eagerness to her step. She scrubbed and painted, made the old house livable, mowed grass, cut borders, planted shrubs and flowers and a huge garden, scrimped and saved and lived in the warming light of her husband’s admiration.

  The girls were blessed with their mother’s comely face, their father’s blue eyes, her graceful stride and sense of adventure. They worked side by side with their parents and became skilled in horse driving, garden planting and harvesting, the milking of cows and the raising of calves.

  The Henry Zook farm hummed along and the cows increased in number. The milk check easily paid the mortgage, the cost of living, with a growing nest egg put by. Elizabeth was a contributor, pinching her pennies, wasting nothing, wanting nothing, teaching her girls frugality and the rewards of backbreaking labor.

  An acre of sweet bell peppers, then one of tomatoes, followed by squash and cucumber. Before long, the cows were sold, the dairy barn converted to raising steers, and they were running the first successful produce and beef operation in Jefferson County.

  The girls worked alongside their parents like young men, shouldering baskets of peppers and tomatoes, driving a six-horse hitch, everyone lithe and tanned and strong. Injected with this work ethic, along with a life of frugality—waste not, want not, a penny saved is a penny earned—the girls were soon followed by a string of eager young men who recognized a virtuous woman when they saw one.

  It proved to be the one thing that was the mother’s undoing. Every Monday morning, practically, the oldest daughters, Annie and Rebecca, lingered over the breakfast dishes with yet another proposal to be mulled over.

  Weren’t there any other girls in the community? Elizabeth lifted her hands in exasperation.

  Two daughters, and so many boys. It would be the ruination of them. All this lavish attention would swell their egos till they spoiled like grapes on the vine in the hot September sun. No good could come of it, you mark my words, she told her daughters.

  Then Lena went off to teach school, turned sixteen, and joined the crowd of youth, her years of rumschpringa a vise to her mother’s heart. She knew well, among six daughters, Lena was the most kindhearted, the one who was endowed with a natural empathy for the poor, the hurt, the downtrodden.

  Every sick calf or injured kitten was nursed back to health under her capable hands, a heart tumbling with tender pity like an overflowing cup. Her brother Henry adored her, following her around wherever she went.

  All this came naturally, springing up from the good set of genes on her father’s side, Elizabeth reckoned. His sister Sarah had taken care of both his parents with barely any help from the remainder of the family, saying it was a joy to fersark them. When any words of praise came up, she brushed it aside like an irksome housefly.

  That was the pattern of Lena’s life. The empathy came naturally, easily, never planned or done to be held in high esteem by anyone around her.

  Schoolteaching proved to be an outlet for all he
r energy, her enthusiasm, the drive to excel. Kindness wasn’t even thought about. She just had a heart for the children, as if God had created that wellspring of love and kindness for the sole purpose of teaching school.

  She had only been at the teacher’s desk a few days when she noticed John Stoltzfus. Outgrowing any of the school desks, he was painfully ill at ease, conscious of his size and, seemingly, his mop of wavy hair.

  His brown eyes contained a certain maturity, an aging beyond his years that was disconcerting. He seemed to view the world around him with a kind of sadness, as if he couldn’t quite catch up to the boundless energy of those around him. Defeat, she finally concluded. A certain ownership of having been beaten, left behind.

  Lena knew he had six older brothers, knew too the fact that his mother was a hard worker, a no-nonsense kind of person who had no time for gentle pity.

  As far as she knew, the Elmer Stoltzfus family was a good one, nothing out of the ordinary, just a normal household that lived according to the ordnung.

  Or mostly. Samuel and Marcus were on a sizable jaunt of making their mark on the world, stretching the limits as far as they would go.

  And that Samuel was a handsome one. Probably the best-looking youth Lena had ever met.

  It was nothing new to hear whispers and inane remarks peppered through the girl talk, usually pertaining to Samuel Stoltzfus, or Sam, as he liked to be called. A look or a smile from him would send most of the girls into a whirlwind of blushes and giggles.

  Last Sunday evening, he had sidled up to her after the youth had dispersed from the hymn singing, making small talk, and decidedly making her nervous. This was the way it was often done. Talking, caught alone, knowing it would all lead to the question . . .

  “Any plans for Saturday night? You want to go out for pizza with Melvin and Arie?”

  No, no, and no. But Lena had one huge problem, and that was the immediate kindness that always took first priority. She felt sorry for these young fellows who wanted to enjoy her company. She desperately wanted to please them, say yes, I’ll be your girl. I’ll love you now and for the rest of my days.

  But she knew she was too young, too independent.

  Such a short time to enjoy freedom, being an Amish girl.

  And so she stuck close to a crowd of girls, trying hard to give no one the assumption she had any longing to be a girlfriend.

  Her best friend Barbie, a girl of seventeen, not particularly beautiful but not plain, and one of the sweetest human beings on earth, would have been only too glad to have Samuel draw her away from the crowd.

  So why tonight, again, was he circling her? She thought of a wolf, the way they sought out the weakest, the youngest in the herd, then berated herself for such thoughts. Perhaps there was something wrong with her—maybe she was unappreciative, proud. She hoped not. She simply knew she did not want to date anyone, and certainly not this one. His self-assurance was a bit on the arrogant side, just enough so she could tell he was aware of the fact that all the girls would consider themselves extremely fortunate to be asked for a date.

  “Lena.”

  Her heart plummeted, leaving a sick sensation in her stomach. She knew what the outcome would be if he did separate her, ask her out. She detested the polite denial, the disappointment that was always so evident, making her feel heartless, cruel.

  No, Lena would say. No. Not for now. Perhaps someday, if it’s meant to be in the future. A pathetic Band-Aid, slapped on to assuage the failure to secure her as a girlfriend.

  She was only sixteen, and she was ashamed to count the times she had been asked out. There were so many other girls. And guys claimed looks had nothing to do with it.

  Lena knew she was gifted with exceptional beauty, but it meant nothing to her. She treated her appearance with nonchalance, passed it off as of no consequence, which was so much a part of her allure.

  “Lena.”

  She pretended not to hear, hoping it would give him a warning signal. Which it certainly did not do.

  “Lena. May I talk to you?”

  She didn’t speak, merely stepped away, a small sigh escaping her lips.

  He put a hand on her elbow to steer her in the direction he wanted to go, making her resist the urge to poke it into his side.

  Ugh. Here we go again.

  But she was slightly surprised at her own reaction to his earnest speech.

  In the light from the living room that left a rectangle of yellow against the dark backdrop of the house, his clean-cut features were attractive, coupled with the suave speech he had prepared for weeks.

  He made her laugh when he told her how nervous he really was, and flattered her immensely by saying he knew she could have her pick of any guy she chose to have, and so forth.

  She never knew why she said yes. The thrill of actually being the girlfriend of the sought-after Samuel Stoltzfus, making her the envy of everyone? No, Lena just didn’t have that kind of competition in her.

  She thought it all over carefully on Monday in the produce field, and decided she was simply tired of saying no.

  Why not try it?

  She had no intention of falling in love, she just took the easy way out this time, decided to see where it led. He was a very nice guy. Nothing was wrong with him, he was just . . . well, so predictable. Just like all the other guys—except she had to admit he was more handsome than the others.

  And so Lena bent her back, picked green peppers by the half bushel, listened to the trill of a cardinal in the deep green woods beside her, and shrugged it off. All was right with her world as long as she could work outside on God’s green earth, listen to the varied birdcalls, try to match the warbles and whistles to the bird she thought it was, then watch for a flash of blue or red or orange.

  Love was likely overrated. Romance was probably mostly fantasy, leading to disappointment. She’d expect less, pray more, allowing God to lead her down the path He chose, trusting Him to show her the way. Her own thoughts and feelings were not always trustworthy, so she appreciated her upbringing, the insertion of God’s majesty at a young age, instructions from both parents in the way of truth and light.

  She would set off on this dating journey with the wind in her sails, the sun on her face, and God at the helm.

  Which was why she often found herself at the Elmer Stoltzfus residence on a Sunday afternoon, being Samuel’s girlfriend.

  After church, when the parents stayed longer, or went visiting, the teenagers had the run of the place, and often congregated there, to hang out, then get dressed to attend the evening supper and singing.

  Usually a large meal was prepared for a group of seventy or eighty youth, with many of the parents in attendance. They played volleyball or baseball in the summer, shuffleboard, table tennis or card games in the winter.

  John’s sixteenth birthday arrived in a haze of feeble attempts at appearing normal. Energy eluded him again, like a mirage that shimmered on the horizon, just out of reach. A positive Lyme test, this time, had brought sighs of teary-eyed relief, and a round of doxycycline started immediately.

  His stomach churned with the awful strength of the hateful antibiotics. Bent over, gripping his stomach with both arms, he groaned aloud in the privacy of his room. After he emptied his stomach he’d feel better for a short period of time.

  Mam fussed and stewed, brought probiotics from the health food store, bought tubs of kefir that tasted worse than sour milk.

  But it’s good for you. Good for you. Good for you.

  Over and over the words were ingrained in his cotton-filled head, poked uncomfortably to push aside the fog of his limited deciphering.

  She bought an enormous birthday cake at Giant and had it decorated with a leaping bass and a fishing rod. Happy birthday, John. Sixteen green candles, an impossibility presented to him on a sea of nausea-inducing white buttercream frosting, permeated with artificial colors of the leaping fish.

  “Happy birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!”

  Blow th
em out, John! Clap. Clap.

  But he could not gather enough oxygen to inhale deeply and blow.

  One feeble woosh, the wavering of the tiny yellow flame, before they sprang to life.

  “Come on, John. What’s wrong with you?” A chorus of teasing. John with a half smile, his dark eyes bright with unshed tears, then the downturned corners of his mouth, before another courageous attempt.

  He tried to laugh it off, did laugh it off successfully, then simply let the little neighbor boys take over gleefully, producing powerful jet streams of air from their puckered little mouths, extinguishing the flames of every single candle. He was glad to have the attention off himself.

  Lena stood with Samuel on the sidelines, unable to explain the sympathy that welled up like a physical blow to her chest. He was so tall, so huge and dark eyed and woefully shy. Lena wanted to take his arm, steer him away, to a corner, tell him it was OK to have Lyme disease, that weakness wasn’t some kind of failure.

  She had heard from her handsome boyfriend the results of the blood test and was surprised at his inability to feel empathy.

  “Yeah, he’s been like this for a long time. Mam babies him so badly, it’s no wonder he is the way he is. Doesn’t work more than he has to. Stinking lazy. But he’s the youngest, you know, so we tiptoe around him.”

  Then he proceeded to list all the “crap” he was taking.

  Lena drew her mouth into a thin line of disapproval and spoke after she counted to ten.

  “But would John choose to be weak? He was never lazy in school. I mean, he loved baseball, and was very good. Smart, did all his work on time.”

  “Could be.” Samuel shrugged his shoulders.

  John cut his hair, trimmed off the unruly waves, shortened it so much that it changed his appearance drastically. His father reprimanded him sharply, his mother echoed his words, but there was a glint of approval.

  My oh, he looked nice. But they’d never say that aloud.

  He drove his own horse hitched to the “new” secondhand buggy, and felt a burst of adrenaline, if only for a Sunday afternoon.