The Healing

by Linda Byler

  Mam saw her husband’s nostrils flare, turn white, and braced herself for the thunderous outburst that was sure to follow.

  “Samuel. Marcus. Leave the room. You are wrong in your opinion and are showing no mercy toward your brother, who is obviously racked with a disease that affects his nervous system. Until you read up on Lyme disease, try to understand, you have no right to those uncensored opinions. Go to your rooms.”

  There were baleful glances, but they didn’t leave before muttering, “But . . . we’re the ones with him on the weekend.”

  Allen interjected softly, “He doesn’t play volleyball, Samuel. Mostly he sits around.”

  Daniel nodded, agreeing quietly.

  After Marcus and Samuel obeyed their father and left, Lydia tried to calm the tension by saying their response to John’s weakness was probably normal.

  When Abner spoke, Lydia was appalled at first, then outraged. He believed in Lyme disease, believed John was a victim of the chronic illness. But his parents did nothing right, according to his surefire plan.

  Lydia couldn’t look at either one of her parents, bowed down with the months of John’s refusal to cooperate with any plan they presented. This blame was heartless, a flagrant display of the eldest son’s self-righteous position.

  If anyone should be sent to their room, Abner should. She bit her tongue to keep from lashing out.

  Then Amos, the quiet, sensible one, spoke.

  “I think John is sick. If it is all in his head, what’s the medical term for that? Anyway, if it is, he’s still sick. I think he should go live in Kentucky with Alvin and Lydia for a while. He should get away from Mam and Dat. Obviously, he harbors a deep need for privacy, looks on his parents as destroyers of something very important.”

  Mam stood up and left the table. No one was taking John away from her. No one understood him the way Dat did. No one would see to his medication. No, he was her son. Hers and Dat’s.

  Amos tried again, more gently this time. “Mam, it would be for the best, maybe. I know you mean well, but I honestly feel you’re stifling him. It’s like he’s sipping on small amounts of oxygen in order to breathe, when he needs great, deep lungfuls of air to even begin to feel better.”

  “I won’t allow it.”

  At that, everyone busied themselves with coffee—pouring fresh cups or dumping cold forgotten cups. Children were carried to bed. Susie began to fill the sink with hot water to wash the empty cups.

  Later Dat got out the prayer book and they all knelt around the table as he spoke the soothing German words written by the sacred forefathers, the prayer so appropriate for the times when family members were ill.

  Lydia was ready to do battle. After Mam’s display of clutching ownership of her son, Dat’s noncommittal shrug of indecision, and the boys’ attitudes, she saw the whole picture with laser sharp insight.

  No wonder John rolled himself into a quilted cocoon and refused to talk. And there was a very real tornado on the horizon in the form of the beautiful Lena, Samuel’s girlfriend.

  CHAPTER 13

  IN THE MORNING, EVERYONE LEFT JOHN AND LYDIA ALONE. MAM HAD no intention of allowing his move to Kentucky, but figured she might be able to glean a bit of information through Lydia.

  She brought him a portion of the breakfast casserole—hash browned potatoes on the bottom, eggs, sausage, cheese, bacon and crushed corn flakes on top.

  “Here you go, John. A dieter’s dream.”

  He smiled faintly with his mouth, but nothing changed in those haunted, weary eyes.

  She cut a square for herself, filled a glass with cold orange juice, poured a mug of black coffee. Children played around them—scooting trucks, galloping horses, a game of whack-a-mole among the older ones.

  Softly, Lydia started in.

  “You should get new contacts. Those lenses do nothing for your eyes.”

  There was no indication that he’d heard.

  “You always had gorgeous eyes.”

  She detected a spark of interest. “Gorgeous?”

  “Well, nice eyes. Handsome eyes.”

  He cracked a small smile.

  He took a sip of orange juice. When he didn’t offer any form of conversation, she sipped her coffee, ate her portion of the casserole.

  “Did you hear about our new venture? Or should I say projected stupidity?”

  He watched her, but had no response.

  “We’re thinking of raising dogs. Puppies.”

  “A kennel?”

  “If the loan goes through.”

  “How many?”

  “Puppies? Or kennels?”

  “Hmm.”

  “You should come help us.”

  “Me? I’m no good to anyone.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I have days when I can’t do anything. Climbing the stairs is like hauling myself up a cliff.”

  “You never did that. How do you know?”

  “Well, you know.”

  Lydia asked no questions, never mentioned his health, always played down his version. Like training a colt on a long lead, she allowed him to choose the pace.

  Before anything could be accomplished, Mam and the sisters returned, the sons-in-law come back from helping Dat with chores, and general chaos resumed.

  John returned to his room, where he stayed the remainder of the day. He was not present when the large van arrived to take them home to Kentucky. The goodbye hugs were stiff, handshakes completed without eye contact. This family is falling apart, Mam thought, but she had no regrets about not allowing John to leave.

  She was glad to see the girls return to Kentucky, though she would never admit it. No one was taking John. She was the one who saw to all his needs. Lydia had no idea.

  Lydia sat on the second seat of the van, little Andrew strapped into his car seat between her and Alvin. She reached over and smoothed her husband’s collar, then slipped a hand through his straight dark hair.

  “Well, Alvin, I never thought I’d see the day when I’m glad to return to Kentucky. That was a harrowing experience.”

  Alvin nodded. “It’s tough, chronic Lyme.”

  “I would love to have John.”

  Alvin nodded. “Absolutely, he needs to get out of that house.”

  The first few hundred miles, the conversation was centered on John and the situation with his brothers, the parents too occupied in their single-minded purpose of protecting their son from every form of adversity. They were blind to John’s ongoing battle with severe depression.

  “It is amazing what a whopper of a mess Lyme disease can make,” Lydia concluded. “But I am not finished. I have only just begun to fight.”

  “Famous last words.”

  “You watch.”

  Back on the farm, Mam set her house in order, Dat helping her put away folding chairs, carrying benches to the basement, immensely relieved to be alone, their authority intact.

  To have John removed would be to concede defeat. They were strong, stalwart Amish people, hardworking, used to facing trials, plowing through whatever God chose to send their way, a song on their lips, heartache and disappointment hid away. Everything was all right, and would always be. They had managed before, and they would manage again.

  The girls had pooled their money and bought a musical clock for Mam. It was an expensive affair, but well worth it, the soft tones of a harmonica playing gospel music wafting through her kitchen now, the song “Eagle Wings” making her nose burn. She succumbed to tears of emotion, overcome now with a great and abiding gratitude for her family.

  Yes, yes, we will wait upon the Lord. We will rise up with the wings of an eagle.

  She mopped the floor, washed the remainder of the dishes, then sat down at the kitchen table with the Nature’s Warehouse catalogue and sent for another new herbal remedy she felt would do John good.

  His appointment with Doctor Stevenson came up the first week in January. John grudgingly agreed to go, which surprised and deli
ghted Mam.

  His heart rate was low, his iron low, and he had a vitamin D deficiency, which was common among Lyme patients. When John was taken for more lab work, the doctor had a hurried conversation with Mam and listened to her account of his reclusive behavior, his unwillingness to talk.

  Without a doubt, he was depressed, which was very common, as well. He prescribed a good antidepressant and an antianxiety medication, which he felt was all John needed to be able to resume his usual work.

  But John asked questions, read about antidepressants, and refused them, leaving Mam with no choice but to store them in the back of the cupboard and hope for the best. Dat tried to get him to change his mind, to no avail.

  The snows of January kept John in the house, his mind foggy, never quite able to decipher what he read or what people meant when they talked to him. The ever-present exhaustion clung to his limbs, the night sweats and joint pain a steady rhythm of the passing days. He was making progress with the anxiety, however.

  Or was it the fact that he slept beside his father, the air mattress a place of comfort, the snoring presence of him on the couch the anchor that kept him from the life-sucking whirlpool of fear? He still lay awake at night, raw with the fear of the unknown, but had learned deep breathing exercises did help to calm him, especially the crazy heart palpitations.

  His weekends lurched by in abysmal sequence, one as tiresome as the other. He watched his brother Marcus circle around Marty, sizing up his prey, take over his spot on the volleyball team, husky, muscular, making spectacular leaps to spike the ball over the net.

  Marcus and Marty began dating in March, just when there was a hint of spring in the air and every young man’s heart had turned to thoughts of love.

  Samuel and Lena were going strong, and Abner asked Ruthie to marry him and walked around with the silent reverence of the newly engaged.

  Then, as if Mam didn’t have enough drama already, Amos started to hang out with Naomi Miller, a plump, bright-eyed girl who came to Jefferson County to work for her cousin and his family.

  The teasing was astronomical, of course, and for a while that spring, it seemed as if the family was back on solid ground. John helped his mother plant seeds in the newly tilled garden, tried sleeping upstairs again, and did, for a while.

  He gained a bit of weight in April, and fed calves on his good days. Then the phone call came from Lydia. She wanted to talk to John. Mam told him grudgingly that his sister would be calling at seven.

  John sat in the phone shed, jumping when it rang before the allotted time.

  “Hey, John.”

  “Hey, Lydia.”

  “Good. You came to the phone on time. You ready to help with the dogs?”

  “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “We sure are. We need someone.”

  “But, I can’t work. Who would do my pills?”

  “John, you are an adult. You will take care of your own pills.”

  “I can’t. You have no idea how many I take.”

  “Can you read? Can you count?”

  “Of course. Duh.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then he asked, “What about Mam?”

  “She’ll let you.”

  The telephone receiver slid in his hand as he broke out in a sweat. How could he attempt such an undertaking? To leave everything dear and familiar and safe, in the weakened state he was in, would take superhuman effort on his part. Then there was the monumental effort of persuading his parents.

  How could he learn about raising dogs when his brain wasn’t functioning properly? What if his thoughts got scrambled and he messed up, even hurt the dogs? It was too overwhelming.

  Obviously no one realized the extent of his weakness. He had thought Lydia understood him, but apparently not.

  He replaced the receiver, walked slowly back to the house, climbed the steps up to the porch, and sat on a wooden rocker. Immediately, his mother’s face appeared at the kitchen window.

  “What did she want?”

  “She wants me to move down there and help in the kennel.”

  “What? I thought we told her clearly that we didn’t approve. How dare she go against our wishes?” She was shrieking, like fingernails on a blackboard.

  John shook his head, pushed past his frantic mother, and climbed the stairs to his room, where he flopped on the bed and allowed weak tears to seep into his pillow.

  He talked to Lena on the porch swing that Sunday evening. Samuel was in the shower, and John was dressed to go to the supper for the youth. He had to pick up Ivan, whose horse had thrown a shoe.

  “What should I do?”

  Lena picked at a thread on the underside of her sleeve.

  He could see only the top of her light blond head, the contour of her tanned cheek. Dressed in the color of a deep pine forest, her eyes looked turquoise.

  Suddenly, she straightened, looked into his eyes.

  “John, you shouldn’t be asking me that question. First, you figure it out on your own. Do you want to go? And if you want to, then you should persuade your parents to let you do that. You need to be the one to decide.”

  “But, I don’t know if I can.”

  “Can what?”

  “I mean, do it. Do the work.”

  “Because of your Lyme?”

  “Yes.”

  “Only you can answer that.”

  Confused, John lowered his eyes. It wasn’t up to him to decide how strong he felt. Was it? He had to wait until the exhaustion went away, till his joints stopped hurting and all the weakness and brain fog cleared. Which could take years.

  “What if I go, and can’t do my job?”

  “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

  “What about my parents?”

  “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

  Her voice was mischievous now. He caught her blue gaze, laughed. She reached out to slap his arm, playfully, but he caught her hand. She tried to pull it away, at first, then found the depth of his wounded heart and soul in the amber of his eyes. There would never be a clear understanding and certainly no words for what passed between them. It was closer than a kiss or an embrace. Her touch was like warm honey, liquid gold that could not be named.

  “John, I . . .”

  She drew her hand from his.

  John swallowed, shaken to the core. All the loss in his young life disappeared, and all he knew was that he had found something so precious it was sacred.

  He didn’t dare look at her. Then he didn’t dare not look.

  She was looking at him with a wide-eyed expression, then slanted her eyes away, downward, her hands clasped on her black apron.

  They smelled Samuel’s cologne, heard his energetic whistling before he burst through the screen door with his handsome tan face and floppy blond streaked hair.

  “Hey, did you wear my green shirt?”

  John’s voice breathless, shaken. “Why would I?”

  “Why would you do half the stuff you do? With you, you can never be sure.”

  John blushed, always aware of the loser he was.

  Lena smiled. “You look nice in that one, Sam.”

  “Yeah, but I wanted to match your dress. You sure you ­haven’t seen it?”

  “Nope.”

  After that encounter on the swing, John’s whole world turned upside down and inside out, like a piece of machinery that flew apart in every direction. He felt as if he needed to search the earth for pieces of it, anything he could use to explain what had occurred. He knew Lena was no flirt. She was far too kind to lead another person into believing she had an interest in him if she did not. He reasoned that it may have been that dangerous trap of infatuation, lust. He could hear his mother’s words in his head, “Don’t be drawn to carnal pleasure by the wiles of the devil.”

  But he knew on some deep level that this was no ordinary attraction. He had discovered something important. And he had been discovered as well.

  That didn’t make sense, either. Per
haps it was just good old Lyme disease, messing with his brain, scrambling his emotions.

  But her words stuck with him, clung to his back like the proverbial monkey. You won’t know if you don’t try.

  Trying was the onslaught of despair. Failure was such an active part of his life that he had come to accept it. It was much easier to fail than to try. He had no heart for Mam’s tearful excesses, or his father’s wounded pride. But why would he want to move away from Lena? Oh, there was Samuel. Oh, right.

  And so his thoughts spun out of control, came back to be centered, examined in a new light, then relinquished.

  He caught his father alone in the milkhouse, surrounded by the warm steam from the deep stainless steel tubs of hot soapy water he was using to wash milkers. Dat washing milkers was so unfair. A sadness welled up in John, an empathy for his overworked father, trying to keep the farm afloat with almost no help from his boys.

  He should not be the one washing milkers. Susie or Sara Ann or Lydia had always done it. Or Mam.

  Dat looked up, wiped a cheek with two soapy fingers, leaving a smudge across his glasses. He turned to wipe his hands on a towel and removed his glasses to look at John. His eyes were encased in wrinkles, as if someone had permanently drawn fine lines around them with a black ink pen. He looked worn down, his enthusiasm dulled.

  “What brings you out here, John?”

  He crossed his arms, leaned against the double tubs, placed one foot over the other.

  “Oh, nothing. I mean, well, yes, something. Not much.”

  John swallowed self-consciously and ran a finger across the smooth, cold side of the bulk tank, leaving a wet trail.

  “I just . . . Lydia wants me to come help them with the dogs.”

  “She does?”

  “Yeah. She called.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “Well, it’s not what I think. It’s what you and Mam decide.”

  Dat chuckled. “You heard your mother.”

  John caught his eye, nodded. Blinked. “I don’t know. Could I leave her?”

  Dat said sure he could. He never thought he’d rebel against his wife’s wishes, but that is exactly what he was doing. He’d finally come to the conclusion that it was largely up to John to figure himself out if he refused to cooperate with his parents’ efforts to help him.