The Healing

by Linda Byler

  “So, are you going shopping before then?”

  “Before when?”

  “Thanksgiving.”

  “I can. Give me money. Shirts at Kohl’s aren’t cheap. Every time I bring them home from off the clearance rack, every one of you turns his nose in the air. So hand over some cash.”

  She stretched out a hand, wiggled her fingers.

  “Aw, Mam. I only get half my paycheck. You guys get the rest. Surely you can foot the bill for a couple shirts.”

  Mary stood with her hands on her hips, pancake turner glinting in the yellow lamplight.

  “Marcus, do you have any idea what we’ve spent on John? And now Dat pays for a hired hand.”

  Marcus spoke with a few curt words.

  “Your own fault. I wouldn’t cart him off to a doctor.”

  “Marcus Stoltzfus.”

  “I mean it. There’s nothing wrong with him. You should see him with Marty.”

  Wisely, Mam remained silent. She could smell jealousy like garlic. He reeked of it. But still.

  After Marcus left, she wended her way to the back living room, behind the double doors, and bent down to touch John’s shoulder.

  “John, are you awake? Do you feel well enough to manage chores with your father this morning? You should be getting some exercise, don’t you think? Thanksgiving will soon be here and you’ll want to play volleyball, no? Why don’t you try getting up at your usual time, John?

  John rolled over, winced. So many questions.

  He did make an honest effort. To climb the stairs took every ounce of strength he could muster, hanging on to the railing with both hands, his breath coming in short painful gasps from lungs that felt as if they were underwater.

  He knew he shouldn’t play volleyball. It took him the rest of the week to regain even a fraction of his adrenaline. He knew the only reason he forced himself to keep going was Marty. Every weekend now, he looked for her brightly clad figure. She always wore brilliant shades of teal blue or lime green, red or purple. Not deep dark plum-colored purple, but a fiery in-your-face color that was like the field of wild columbines by the creek. She was full of energy, color, and movement, everything John longed to possess. She had a natural vitality that came from a happiness within.

  Marty wasn’t nearly as pretty as Lena, the girl of his dreams since eighth grade, but somehow, Lena faded away. She was Samuel’s girl now, and she was always a bit quiet and thoughtful when she was around the house.

  Where Marty was a bright and showy tropical flower, Lena was a delicate orchid. Each one held a fascination, but John knew he had no chance with either one, stumbling around in a disease riddled body full of bacteria, a stomach sloshing with vitamins and crazy detox pills, along with that evil doxycycline that would eventually chew a hole in his stomach.

  Thanksgiving Day the sun was tucked behind a wall of lowering clouds promising rain and perhaps snow squalls. Mam didn’t send the boys with a dessert. Nine chances out of ten they’d forget the fruit or pudding, leaving it to turn mushy or rancid below the buggy seat, accumulating a steady coating of horsehair.

  And Cool Whip wasn’t cheap.

  She put a turkey in the oven, filled to capacity with the usual sausage stuffing, almost cried to think of herself and Elmer alone with the turkey between them.

  Well, nothing to do about that. She had thought about inviting aunts and uncles, but they weren’t young anymore and had a habit of complaining about the cost of Amish drivers these days, with gas so dear.

  It irked her, this flagrant display of bad manners, but she didn’t say anything. It wasn’t worth causing a family rift.

  “Mam, what were you thinking?”

  Marcus held the new red shirt out in front of him between his thumb and forefinger like it was a dead animal.

  “What?”

  “I really do not like this shirt. I look like an elf.”

  Mam pictured him in a green felt hat and green shoes with pointy toes. She laughed loudly, from deep down.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Oh wear it. Elves are cute.”

  She laughed again. It felt good, so normal, to kid around with a son who was healthy, who could sleep well and eat well, with an appetite for life.

  One by one the boys appeared, having slept in, with various cases presented, shirts too old, too wrinkled, a button popped, trousers too short.

  Mam turned a deaf ear. Boys could be worse than the girls ever were. Especially if a girl was in their sights. All except Abner, who lived on a cloud of confidence, wore the same three shirts and black Walmart sneakers and could not have cared less about what the other boys wore or what was in style.

  He had no patience for name-brand shoes or jackets or shirts. Why pay that amount for a name written on the clothing? Much more important to sock away his paycheck, make a nice down payment on a substantial home, start up his own business. Besides, style for Amish people was laughable, in his opinion. There weren’t a whole lot of options when you were sticking to the ordnung.

  Mam eyed her oldest son with a critical eye.

  “That’s an awfully old vest.”

  Abner gazed down at his black vest, puzzled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Turn around. That back is turning purple, it’s that old.”

  “Ah, who cares?”

  “Maybe Ruthie does.”

  “If she breaks up with me because of an old vest, then she doesn’t love me very deeply.”

  Mam raised her eyebrows, dipped her head. She thought about how she couldn’t stand Elmer when he wore the one pair of Sunday pants, the ones that were too short, exposing those horrible argyle socks. But she had married him, of course.

  Last, John appeared. His face had turned from pale to an odd shade of green. He sagged into the recliner, turned his head away before anyone could speak to him. Perhaps if he rested a while, the dizziness and nausea would pass.

  He had woken up soaked, the bedsheets and his T-shirt wet with perspiration from the dreaded night sweats that plagued him constantly.

  The hope of volleyball, and Marty, had gotten him out of bed, but he knew this would be one of the worst days.

  Well, he’d lie here a while, see what occurred.

  “’S up with you?”

  Allen slapped his shoulders, peered into his face. “I thought you always felt OK on the weekends.”

  No answer.

  They all got themselves going and were out the door by lunchtime, eager to join the crowd of youth who would spend the holiday in Amos Beiler’s huge shop.

  John sat in his buggy, weak and dizzy, longing to wave a hand in front of his face and erase all the symptoms of Lyme disease like a magic wand in the nursery rhymes. He knew with an ever-increasing certainty that he couldn’t play today.

  A sense of loss crept up, an unwanted specter of a future lying in recliners, incarcerated in a body that would remain in this weakened state.

  He was handicapped, at sixteen. He had no idea how to fight it, if the arsenal of medication did nothing. For a while, he had felt better, even with the debilitating stomach cramps. He imagined the doxycycline whapping the Lyme bacteria, one by one, the cells killed effectively.

  Then what happened? In all the books he’d read and all the stories he’d heard, it seemed as if not one case of Lyme was the same as any other. After the Lyme bacteria was zapped by antibiotics, a host of other problems raised their heads. He felt like a walking cauldron of microscopic bugs that cavorted happily in his bloodstream, hid in his cells, consumed the herbal vitamins and minerals his mother so desperately placed before him.

  Her latest thing was Body Balance, a liquid supplement derived from aloe vera and sea vegetables. What in the world were sea vegetables? He pictured a garden on the sea floor, wet corn and potatoes and string beans waving in the ocean currents.

  He always drank the four ounces she set before him, shivered, swallowed. It couldn’t do any harm, but sure didn’t do much good.

 
He guided his little horse named Crayon into the short drive that was already parked full with glistening black and gray buggies. Each was washed and polished, the pride of each young man’s heart. Interiors were upholstered in an array of colors, dashboards made of glossy wood, cherry, oak, walnut, carved intricately. Some had speedometers, battery gauges, a small clock built into the side.

  John spied Marty, wearing a brilliant rust-colored dress and cape, almost orange. She looked like a Baltimore oriole, all movement and color.

  He dreaded telling her. He almost turned Crayon around, got out of there, home to his room where everything vanished and quiet surrounded him like a healing balm. His friends clustered around him, helped unhitch, friendly, genuinely glad to see him.

  Ivan searched his face, said nothing.

  He told Marty, determined to get it over with.

  “I have Lyme disease. I won’t be able to play.”

  She looked at him, her eyes opening wide.

  “What do you mean, you have Lyme disease? Bad? I mean, you seriously have it?”

  John nodded, miserably.

  “But we need you. Who’s going to take your place?”

  John shrugged.

  “Well, guess it is what it is. I’ll ask someone else.”

  John watched her go, a bright bird that flitted from one group to the next, her objective the same. The game had to be organized, won. Failure wasn’t an option.

  John lowered himself into a camping chair on the sideline, the sense of failure welling up in him like nausea. He blinked hard to keep the tears from forming.

  He felt a light presence, smelled a wonderful scent, like flowers and cedarwood. Strawberries and lemons.

  Lena.

  She sat on an empty crate beside him.

  All around them, young people moved, a sea of colors mixed with the traditional black trousers and vests, the girls’ black aprons pinned around their waists.

  The shop was enormous, with vaulted ceilings, cement floors, stacks of lumber, half-finished sheds, air hoses, saws, and forklifts. There was the smell of paint and wood, coupled with the metallic odor of nails and screws, air guns and compressed air.

  Lena spoke softly. “Hi, John.”

  He turned to look at his former teacher, his brother’s girlfriend. She was wearing a dress the color of a summer sky, a blue so pale it was barely blue at all. With her white blond hair and blue eyes, the effect was almost angelic.

  Samuel was a lucky guy.

  “Hi.”

  A small smile.

  “You’re not feeling well?”

  John shook his head, avoided her compassion. He knew without looking that it was there. It always was. Her blue eyes were always kind, soft with caring and sympathy. He supposed it was the way she viewed anything, all God’s creatures. Wounded kittens, dying puppies, whatever hurt or maimed animal or human being crossed the light of kindness.

  So, she viewed him the same way. A mewling sick cat, maggots crawling in wet fur, death imminent.

  “It must be tough, at your age.”

  When no answer was forthcoming, she remained quiet, her gaze turned to Marty, organizing the volleyball set, bright, vivacious. Her eyes slid sideways to scan John’s face, found a longing that was almost feral in its intensity.

  So that was how it was. He wanted to be with her, play his best, prove his worth. She knew his status at home. A loser. Sick in the head. She had heard more than enough from Samuel, had seen firsthand the derision, the eye rolling and snickers.

  But they were boys, young men who found it hard to understand the weak, much less have a compassionate heart. Lyme disease was a cruel, misunderstood disease.

  She placed a cool hand on John’s forearm.

  “Don’t feel bad, John. Lyme disease always gets better, doesn’t it?”

  He turned to meet the lights surrounding her, the blue of her eyes so brilliant he could think of nothing else. He felt weak, consumed, drawn into a vortex where nothing existed except the blue of Lena’s eyes. Her gaze did not waver, but held his steadily. John blinked, his eyes taking in the golden luster of her face, the plane of her faultless nose and mouth. He blinked, confused with an unnamed emotion that constricted his throat, as if tears were close to the surface, but a wild elation, a rejoicing of his senses held them back.

  Her hand was still on his arm.

  His answer came in breathless tones.

  “Yeah. Well, thanks. It’s sort of tough right now. About the time I get my hopes up, I get . . . like this.”

  He spread his hands helplessly.

  Lena shook her head. “Like I said, it must be tough. I can’t imagine at your age. And you were so good with Marty.”

  “Thanks.”

  Lena nodded. His profile was decidedly attractive. She didn’t know what it was that drew her to him. Pity? She wasn’t sure. She had always thought him strangely attractive, in spite of his heavy, wavy hair and thick lenses in his eyeglasses. Even in eighth grade, though she would never have admitted it then.

  Just then, John tugged at his glasses, blinked his eyes, wiped them with his fingers. Without replacing them, he turned to her.

  “If there was only some cure, some antibiotic or treatment.”

  Lena had never seen his eyes without his glasses. They were not green or yellow or blue, and certainly not brown. Amber. She envisioned a pool in a forest creek, with the sun shining on fallen, golden leaves. His eyes were astonishing, surrounded by the thickest, darkest growth of lashes she’d ever seen. It wasn’t the physical beauty that brought the song from her heartstrings, as much as the depth of suffering, the wells of anguish coated poorly with bravery. As if he knew courage was possible, but not within reach.

  Oh, John. John. You can beat this horrid disease.

  She balled her fists as the intensity flowed down her arms. “John. I’m going to talk to someone I know. A doctor. I clean his home every other week. He’s not a Lyme specialist, but he has started taking a deep interest in what goes on with so many people. If your parents would allow it, do you want to see him?”

  “Not really. They’re all the same.”

  “You really think that?”

  “I do. I read everything about Lyme disease that I can get my hands on. I go to the library. I send for books. I have come to the conclusion that there is no magic bullet. There are many different strains of the virus, besides all the co-infections like Ehrlichia, Babesia, and Bartonella. The Lyme disease bacteria is called Borrelia burgdorferi, the main culprit. But, you see, it doesn’t matter how much I learn, it won’t help a single thing, simply because no one knows exactly what will work best for the chronic Lyme. Likely a tick burrowed its way into my skin when I was a boy, and the virus lay dormant until something set it off. Hormonal changes, another virus that may have weakened my immune system, anything. I’m chronically ill with the disease, which brings a host of unanswerable questions, problems that are simply not able to be solved, without proper research. The CDC is only starting to acknowledge Lyme as a chronic illness.”

  “What is the CDC?”

  “Centers for Disease Control.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, I could talk endlessly about different remedies, hundreds of people who have given their testimony about homeopathic cures. Rife machines, so many herbal cure-alls it simply boggles the mind.”

  Lena let him talk. She sat spellbound, listening, as this quiet boy told her all he knew about his own afflictions.

  She saw Samuel push his way through a crowd, his handsome face containing the line between the arch of his perfect brows, a sign of irritation. But he was smiling, if only with his mouth.

  “Looking cozy over here,” he remarked, hooking his thumbs in the belt of his Sunday pants.

  John stared up at his brother, as color suffused his face. Lena could tell he fought an inner battle. She watched as he lowered his face, picked at a thumbnail to hide the array of irritation, helplessness.

  “He was telling me about the b
ooks he’s reading on Lyme disease. I find it fascinating, actually. It’s a complex disease, hard to understand.”

  “I see.”

  Samuel nodded, the mockery flitting across his face, the challenge to keep his mouth shut met, cast aside.

  “Yeah well, that may all be so, but if you’re sick in the head your brain can tell you anything and you’ll believe it.”

  John sat, immobile, his head sinking even lower.

  Samuel clapped his hands, stretched to his full height.

  “Let’s find a sunnier subject, old man. No use turning all morose and world-weary, there, old sport.”

  He clapped a hand on John’s shoulder, which felt like a ton of bricks that severed the skin and crushed the bones.

  Lena drew back, gasped, as John shot to his feet, white with anger.

  “Don’t touch me,” he ground out, and limped from the shop.

  Marty found him hitching up Crayon.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Going home already?”

  “Yeah. I’m not feeling the greatest.”

  “We missed you at the net. Get better as soon as you can.”

  Her white uneven teeth flashed in her tanned face, the dimples like parenthesis.

  “Yes. I will.”

  They were watered-down words that meant nothing, and he knew it.

  Obviously, Marty was blissfully ignorant of what Lyme really was.

  He drove home with all his reserves used up. Depleted. He was a hollow skeleton that clanked in the breeze. He couldn’t take this rumschpringa. He felt an urgent need to get away from prying eyes, mothers with questions like thrown darts.

  But where would he go?

  CHAPTER 12

  SAMUEL AND LENA SAT SIDE BY SIDE IN HIS SOUPED-UP VERSION OF AN Amish carriage, his fancy horse high-stepping it to match the shining buggy.

  He had a Friesian–Dutch Harness mix—the pride and joy of Samuel’s life. As they wound their way across the rural roads, through bare woods, along wide-open fields that held nothing but dreary, bedraggled-looking grass, moldy corn stubbles, an occasional rotting round bale that appeared spooky in the light of the waning moon, there was a comfortable silence between them.