The Healing

by Linda Byler

  The teaching of her parents stayed with her, and she felt guilty spending on anything she wanted, so she didn’t. But Barbie would not need to know this.

  She walked into a beautiful, airy kitchen, built in the latest style with a pot rack above a massive island surrounded by barstools.

  The propane gas refrigerator was the only Amish thing about the kitchen. Photographs of the children were held in place on the refrigerator by magnets. They were thin, brown-haired children with brown eyes and prominent teeth, resembling their mother, except for the oldest, whose face contained a vacant expression, with bewildered, empty eyes.

  Lena was taken on a tour of the remainder of the house, into a cavernous living room and tasteful playroom, a massive master bedroom done in soothing tones of gray and beige. The open stairway led to the upstairs, smaller than Lena had imagined, but as serviceable and pleasant as she could have hoped. The children’s rooms were adjacent to her own, with a large, well-lit bathroom that had a skylight in the ceiling. Her room was furnished with a four-poster bed, a chest of drawers, and a long low dresser with a mirror, all in cherry. The bed was made perfectly in a rose-colored quilt, with an array of gray accent pillows and shams. Candles burned in their glass containers and silk flowers draped tastefully from cut glass vases.

  Lena’s eyes grew wide at the candle-scented room, the beauty of the furniture, the soft rug beneath her feet.

  CHAPTER 18

  JOHN RETURNED TO WORK, HIS MIND AND BODY SPENT. IMAGES OF having been put through a gigantic wringer washer flashed through his head. He’d been spun mercilessly into the hot waters of an old love brought to life, wrung through the rollers of knowing his love still belonged to Samuel, and likely always would.

  Didn’t most girls experience a case of indecision? Cold feet?

  Well, at least he’d had the courage to ask, then stated his intentions. Well, not really, but he’d let her know how he felt. And she hadn’t seemed upset about that.

  Dewan waltzed into the office, unzipped his windbreaker, hung it on a hook, catwalked over to the desk, and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Ow!” John yelled, leaning sideways.

  “You wanna know something? Of all the cream puffs I ever met, you are the creamiest. Where’s your mojo?”

  “My what? I don’t know what that word means.”

  “Mad today, are we?”

  “Go away.”

  “Happy to, ma man.”

  “I’m not your man.”

  “You sure ain’t. You ain’t nobody’s man. You out there, dude. All. By. Yourself. Yeah!”

  He banged through the door, and John heard him remove the cleaning tools. Good. Let him clean the cages. His shoulders ached, his head was spinning as if he’d stuffed it full of cotton candy, and his stomach felt sour, with a churning in his lower intestines. At home, his mother would have pried until he relayed every symptom, and then would have brought a collection of herbal remedies to his side. Here, he had learned to battle through the anxiety, calming himself by his own deep breathing technique, living with joint pain and stomach ache, night sweats and nausea.

  He learned to wait out the weakness. On mornings when it was the worst, he’d go back to bed. Lydia could pound and yell all she wanted, but there were days when he was simply not getting out of bed. Sometimes he had to rest, close himself off from the rest of the world, especially with the customers that arrived by the carload, taking Alvin and Lydia both to cater to their unreasonable demands. Not all of them. Most folks were fair, understanding, polite, but all in all, John still found them exhausting.

  The puppies sold. One by one, the folks from as far away as Lexington came to buy the expensive purebreds. Prices ranged from a thousand dollars to as high as three thousand. Every day, the people rolled in the gravel drive in SUVs, low sports cars in brilliant hues, leaving with puppies in pet carriers.

  After that, buggy rides to church with Lydia and Alvin were different. There was lighthearted banter, easy subjects, a good conscience, having paid a whopping amount on the loan they’d taken out for the kennel. Lydia refused any of the money for home improvements, saying no, her house was just fine, they didn’t need a porch till that kennel was paid for. Alvin told Lydia on the way to church that he felt like the man in Proverbs who praised his wife for selling her wares in the marketplace.

  “I am blessed to be married to a virtuous woman. You know, if it hadn’t been for you, I’d never dared build a kennel.”

  Lydia pooh-poohed that idea, saying modestly they were in it together. But Alvin kept saying what a lucky man he was, that the day he married her was the best day of his life.

  “Not every wife would be content to live in that house, Lydia.”

  John thought of Gideon and Barbie. To each his own, he thought. He didn’t know the cousins of Lena’s, so who was he to think less of one couple than the other?

  He found himself longing for a relationship of his own, but only with Lena. No one else could ever take her place. So strongly did he think of her, so sure was his love. If Samuel was the one she would choose, then he’d stay single. There were worse things.

  As if reading his mind, Lydia turned to him. “You never said much about Lena. Did you find her cousin’s house from the station in Dexter Falls?”

  “Yeah.” No other information was offered.

  “What’s their name again?”

  “Gideon and Barbara Lapp.”

  Alvin turned his head. “Is he the guy who makes those mini cabins on skids?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There’s a guy, hasn’t been in Kentucky too long, I think his name is Lapp, began making these rustic looking little cabins, sets them up on customer’s location, landscapes and everything. They say he’s making money like crazy.”

  “Money, money, money. It’s this generation’s idol.” Lydia’s voice became low, modulated to a holy tone. “We are approaching the house of the Lord and all we talk about is how much money we are making, or how much someone else is. Talk about temptation coming in a sneaky way. We’re losing out spiritually, Alvin.”

  He nodded soberly, in total agreement.

  A hush pervaded the interior of the buggy, driving up to the forebay of the old white barn, lined with men wearing wide-brimmed black hats, black suit coats, and trousers with white shirts barely visible beneath long beards.

  Alvin passed the barn, drove up to the house, pulled the one rein to the right to give Lydia easier access to the ground. She exited neatly, holding Andrew in one arm, then turned to rummage below the seat for the bag containing four loaves of homemade bread. The young women generously offered to make bread, or soft cheese, or peanut butter spread, for the lunch that would be served after services.

  John helped Alvin unhitch, then went to stand with the unmarried young men assembled in a group just inside the shop door. John had never bothered trying to make friends in Kentucky, always too sick to care. He spoke when someone addressed him, but certainly didn’t go out of his way to be friendly, so most boys let him alone.

  He heard snatches of who would be going where, Christmas festivities, but didn’t bother asking details. Of course he wanted to go, now that Lena was in Kentucky, but if she wanted to see him, she’d have to call.

  He’d have to practice patience, that was sure.

  The congregation was seated in the large basement, the older men removing their hats when the young men filed in. They shook hands with the ministers before being seated. The number of a page was spoken from a young man in the back row. Black German songbooks were opened, until the right page was found in the Ausbund, then a strong voice led them all into the proper cadence of the old, lilting plainsong.

  John felt his eyes fill with tears, touched by the beauty of a hundred voices raised in German praise. It was good to be here, good to know he belonged to a group of Christian people who still, after all these years, wanted what was right and good for them and their children. It was good to see eye to eye with like-mi
nded brethren, although hardly ever in perfection. Acceptance and forbearance often smoothed the rough spots, the difference of each man’s conscience.

  Someday, if the Lord willed it, he would regain his health, take instruction class to learn how to live a Godly life, and become a member of the Amish church.

  He dared not think of Lena by his side.

  Vaguely, his gaze wandered down the row of single girls, dressed in a colorful array of dresses, with white capes and aprons pinned to them, neat and starched in their Sunday best.

  A few dark-haired, dark-eyed girls were attractive. He noticed a slim blond girl who dimly resembled Lena, but no. Not one of them could even begin to stir his interest.

  Perhaps someday, though, when Lena married his brother, Samuel, he’d have to consider a girl such as these. He sighed, then berated himself.

  His mind wandered to Lena constantly. He only heard a fraction of the sermon. When his lower back began to ache, he sat up straighter, reached back to massage the aching muscles, grimaced, then leaned forward, his chin cupped in his hands.

  What, if anything, would ever stop this roving pain that moved from his right shoulder to his elbows, then his knees, even the joints of his toes?

  He was young, stunted by Lyme disease, and now, clenched in the grip of a hopeless and despairing love.

  He had fallen hard, flat on his face, helpless as a newborn puppy, at the mercy of God. Wasn’t it God who gave true love to young men’s hearts?

  Of course it was.

  But he couldn’t justify his own feelings for his brother’s girlfriend, coming before God in the house of the Lord, even if it was held in the basement of a large white farmhouse.

  The indecision, the self-denial, proved to create a vortex of stress into which he tumbled headlong. He took to his bed, refused his sister’s frustrated calls, quivered in the grip of a numbing weakness and the knowledge that he must die.

  Over and over, he recorded the palpitations of his heart, imagined it fermented with inflammation, soon to gasp its last pump of blood. Sick and perspiring, he clutched his pillow with clawed hands, begging God for mercy for his sinning soul.

  There was no excuse for loving Lena.

  Lyme disease is a marathon, not a sprint, the old doctor had stated. Hormonal diseases crop up like a fungus, and must be addressed. Detoxifying the body is very important. But who could know?

  Lydia and Alvin were beside themselves.

  Lydia took to the phone, spoke to her mother. Her pride would not allow as much as a tremor in her words as she related the story of John taking to his bed.

  “Lydia!” A note of hysteria. “That is why I didn’t want him to go. These breakdowns come and go. If it was up to me, he’d be seeing a doctor ASAP. But there are no Lyme doctors in Kentucky, probably.”

  There she went, assuming they lived in hillbilly country.

  Lydia said icily, “How would I know? We have no reason to find out, neither of us having contracted the disease.”

  “True, Lydia, true. Well, I can always prescribe the detox bath. It’s a cup of vinegar, a cup . . . “

  “I know the recipe. John does, too.”

  “Well, then. See that he does it. Give him the Emergen-C drink while he’s in there. That should clear up some of the brain fog.”

  Lydia took a deep breath. “Mother, I don’t know if he has brain fog. I don’t know anything. He won’t talk. He just rolls himself in his quilt and shuts me out. It’s as if he has this need to turn himself into a cocoon. There is something so wrong in the way he acts. As if his suffering has to reach out and pull me in, too.”

  “Lydia, I know exactly what you’re talking about. Absolutely. And yes, it is weird, the way he does that. But have you ever read a book on Lyme disease victims? It affects the central nervous system, and they often become so weary in their head, their nerves, whatever, they can’t take the ordinary ebb and flow of life. Did anything unusual occur in the last week? Anything that could have affected him deeply?” Mam asked.

  That was when it hit Lydia.

  “Oh my, yes. Just now I thought of it. Lena came to Kentucky on the train.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath, followed by a cutting shriek.

  “Lena? Abner’s Lena? Samuel’s girl?”

  “Who else?”

  “But Samuel didn’t say anything.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Why would I? I didn’t know she was going to Kentucky.”

  “Mam, let me tell you something. There is something going on between John and Lena, don’t you know that? It’s like his heart is in his eyes when he talks about her.”

  “But there’s no way. No possible way. Samuel is older, a real manager where he works, he’s so handsome and confident . . . just everything John isn’t. John is pathetic, with those hair and glasses. He’s sick, Lydia. How could Lena even compare the two? He has no right, Lydia, no right to even think of his brother’s girlfriend.”

  “Mam, calm down. I think it’s probably just a crush. She was his teacher, remember?”

  “Yes, yes I do.”

  She told her mother why Lena had come to Kentucky.

  “But why didn’t Samuel say anything? Why didn’t I know?”

  There was a trace of hysteria creeping back into her voice.

  “Whatever the reason, her coming may have triggered John’s relapse.”

  “Oh my. It means there are definite feelings there. Now what? Well, one thing sure. You’ll be coming home for Christmas, and I’ll have a long talk with John. I’ll let him know how wrong it is to have . . . well, to allow himself to have an attraction to his brother’s girl. I’ll straighten it out.”

  Famous last words, Lydia thought.

  Dewan Reynolds was invaluable to Alvin and Lydia. He was a fast learner and his spirited ways were a boon to the puppy sales. He was meticulous in all his work and had genuine affection for the dogs housed in cages, making sure they had access to the dog run every day.

  With John out of commission again, Dewan was at the kennel from early in the morning till late at night. Alvin was often busy in the dairy barn, even if Lydia tried to do most of the chores and most of the milking. The harvest was finished for the year, which was a good thing, with the kennel taking up so much of their time. The situation with John was beyond frustrating.

  Lydia looked forward to the van ride to Pennsylvania to relax, get away from all the hard work and responsibility, if only for a few days.

  Alvin was considering selling the dairy cows, but Lydia stayed adamant. No, there was a debt load there, too. The cows were necessary.

  A litter of Labradoodles had arrived. Six of them. At a few weeks old, they were the cutest thing anyone had ever seen, their doleful brown eyes like liquid gems, the curly hair already apparent, the mild manners from the Labrador retriever bred into them.

  Dewan sat cross-legged on the cement aisle, the cage door open, holding the black one to his face, rubbing a hand over the back, between the ears.

  “This one’s the cutest. Man. John needs to see this. Lydia, you mind if I go upstairs, show this little guy to him?”

  “Go ahead. See if you can help him.”

  Dewan got to his feet, cradling the puppy in both palms, against his chest. He took the steps two at a time, knocked on the closed bedroom door, listened, then knocked again. When there was no response, he put his mouth to the door, and yelled as only Dewan could yell.

  Still, there was nothing.

  So he opened the door and went in. The shades were drawn, so he blinked a few times until his eyesight adjusted to the dim light. He frowned at the heaps of clothing strewn across the floor, the opened drawers sagging from the dresser, T-shirts hanging from the sides, an empty glass on the nightstand, a wrapper containing a few Ritz crackers, stale pretzels that appeared to have been there for at least a week. It smelled of stale bedsheets, unbrushed teeth, perspiration.

  “John, it’s Dewan.”

  He bent, cradling the puppy
in one hand, pulling back the quilt from the greasy, unwashed hair with a forefinger.

  This was gross. This was not John.

  “You depressed, brotha?”

  The soft lilting voice, the question that always gave the listener the benefit of the doubt.

  “Hey there, ma man. You gotta see this little guy.”

  No response.

  Dewan leaned over, pulled the quilt back even farther.

  “You dead in there, or what?”

  He was rewarded by a convulsive shrug, the quilt drawn up even farther. Dewan stood back, pursed his lips, held his head to a side, then drew himself up to his full height.

  “Ah-right. I get it. You don’t want no help. Well then, you lay in that moldy bed and go right on pitying yourself for as long as you want. I don’t understand your disease, but I understand good manners. You headed downhill fast if you keep this up. I’m leaving the puppy, so you get your wobbly backside outa bed and help the little guy when he whines. I’m going back to work, Mr. Lyme Disease.”

  He placed the puppy on the floor and left, closing the door behind him but waiting on the other side to listen.

  Silence.

  Then a snuffling, the sound of a soft body being moved, inch by inch.

  John pulled the quilt up to ward off any sound that infiltrated his world. A lot of nerve Dewan had leaving the helpless puppy. Or had he? Perhaps he hadn’t even left him, and it was all a trick, a devious plan to get him out from beneath the quilt. Well, sorry. Dewan had no idea what it was like to be a victim of this cruel disease. None. So no stupid little puppy was going to be the bait to draw him out, either.

  He heard a soft whine. Then another.

  What had Dewan just called him? Mr. Lyme Disease. That was just cruel. Mean and heartless. He shrugged the covers up over his head and wrapped it even tighter to shut out any whining.

  Another pitiful whine found its way through the quilt. John turned aside, put a pillow over his head, willed the puppy away.

  Now the whining became louder, a shrill, high-pitched sound of desperation, which turned into a full-blown cacophony of sound.