The Healing

by Linda Byler

  “You may be right.”

  He drew her against him, sat with her on the couch, and promised her his whole life, if only she would say yes. They parted with the understanding of a letter written at the end of January, a simple yes or no, neither of which she was capable of.

  The van returned to Kentucky, filled with the lively discussions of three married sisters and their spouses, children fussing, singing, whining when they were thirsty or hungry, Lena largely forgotten.

  In Virginia, it began to snow, fat, lazy flakes that kept the windshield wipers slapping back and forth, creating a wide arc of visibility only slightly better than above or below its reach.

  “Getting slippery,” the driver commented.

  “Why don’t we find a rest area or restaurant? Take a break,” Alvin suggested.

  Lena declined to join them, saying she wasn’t hungry, then lay back on her pillows and disappeared from view, which brought some speculation among the sisters. She looked like a ghost at the Christmas dinner. Didn’t look very happy, especially given she hadn’t seen Samuel since before Thanksgiving.

  Barbie was overjoyed to have Lena back.

  Naomi was hopping up and down, her mouth open, though there were no words, no sound from the display of pleasure. Lena got down on her knees and opened her arms, but Naomi turned away, her thumb in her mouth, her eyes frightened.

  She knew Naomi didn’t often like to be held, but it was a disappointment, anyway. “Naomi, look what I brought you,” she said, getting up to rummage in the large tote she had brought from home. She found the deck of “Go Fish” cards.

  The cards became Naomi’s constant companion. She ate her meals with them, slept with them, shuffled them continuously. Mark and Josh teased her by taking them away, which upset her so badly that she became violent, throwing dangerous objects across the room.

  So Lena was thrown headlong into her challenging duties and was introduced to the Down syndrome child named Eli Ebersol, his parents living only half a mile down the road. He was walked to the schoolroom at Gideon Lapp’s every day, and walked back home, bundled into many layers of warm clothing.

  Her days were busy, all day, every day, working with building blocks, flash cards, trying new kinds of play therapy she had read about. They took long walks when nothing else seemed to work, strolling among bare trees and old brown leaves.

  Snow was infrequent, soft, mushy, layers that never lasted very long.

  At night, in the privacy of her room, she thought about Samuel and John and the differences between them.

  John had written her a letter just before she left for the Christmas break, saying he wished her a wonderful holiday with Samuel and that he hoped he hadn’t caused any confusion that would upset their relationship or cause her any stress. He would love to be friends with her if she was comfortable with that, and she should let him know if she needed anything while in Kentucky. She hadn’t responded. What could she say? But she held on to the realization that John had put her happiness above his own. Samuel had elevated himself above John, practically shouting at her that he was the better choice for a spouse. Shouldn’t that tell her something?

  But John was younger, and yes, he had Lyme disease. Perhaps he would never recover, would only get worse. Would he expect her to be his constant nurse? Would she be willing to do that?

  How he ever got Gid Lapp’s telephone number was beyond her, but Barbie stuck her head into the room and said some guy wanted to talk to her.

  Her heart fell. Surely it was Samuel, perhaps wanting an answer sooner than they’d agreed.

  “How are you, Lena?”

  It didn’t sound quite like Samuel’s voice.

  “This is John.”

  “Oh! Hi, John.”

  “I thought I’d call, see if you’d like to come shopping with me some Saturday evening. There’s a huge mall about thirty miles from here. I need some stuff. Shirts. Shoes.”

  “Of course I’ll go. It sounds like fun. Who else is going?”

  “No one. I got Clyde to go. I could ask Dewan to join us?”

  “Who is Dewan?”

  “Someone I work with.”

  “Oh. Well, he would probably be all right.”

  “Clyde’s OK, too.”

  She laughed, the sound different to her own ears. When had she laughed like that?

  She dressed carefully, wearing a sky blue dress with a black apron and soft cable knit cardigan, also in black, a gift from her mother.

  It was very serviceable, very married-woman type of clothing, but Lena preferred it over the heavy woolen coat.

  Barbie eyed her with approval, shook her head wryly, said she could wear feed sacks and be the most gorgeous girl at the mall. Lena’s cheeks flushed at the effusive compliment, but she hid her pleased expression.

  “Who’s this John?”

  “You met him.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes, my boyfriend’s brother. Just a friend.”

  She hid her expression after that statement, too.

  The unexpected rush of pleasure at seeing him again was clearly not something she had expected. It was a homecoming, only better—a light in a window, in the middle of a dark forest.

  How could she explain what she felt? Baffled, she became quiet, sitting alone in the back seat, without hearing Clyde and John’s conversation. There was no valid reason for this unexpected joy, unless it was just sympathy, pity, or leftover admiration from his school years. She had always admired John, she knew, even as an eighth-grade student, mostly for his kindness, his unselfish attitude.

  As the car wound its way along narrow country roads before turning onto a wider highway, flat and smooth, Lena was still lost in thought.

  But once they got to the mall, her mind eased. She simply accepted the joy of walking beside his tall form, looking into his astonishing eyes, listening to his quiet voice—just being there, in the aura of humility that surrounded him.

  His attitude about the world and the people who lived in it was filled to capacity with a generosity of spirit that far surpassed her own. It occurred to her that to honor and obey him would not be a strenuous task. He didn’t even seem very sick. Perhaps he was really recovering this time.

  John looked down at her as they walked past the dizzying array of stores, promising slashed prices, money saved. How could you save money by spending it?

  “You’re quiet tonight, Lena.”

  “Am I? Sorry about the dull company I’m turning out to be.”

  “Do you have a lot on your mind, maybe?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “How is your work? Being with the children all day must be tiring.”

  “Oh, no. No. It’s not the children.”

  She wanted to tell him that it was him. If she was honest with herself, she wanted him to hold her again, the way he had at the train station. But this was her boyfriend’s brother, not to mention the fact that they were in a very public place again. And what if that letter he had sent her meant he really did want her to be with Samuel, that perhaps he had met someone else?

  They stopped for supper. The restaurant was dimly lit, with muted sounds, booths that left them alone, a private corner that suited them both perfectly. John was young, but had an air of maturity that spoke of a much older man. She fumbled her silverware, found herself folding and refolding the napkin, taking anxious little sips of water, excusing herself to go to the ladies’ room, where she sat and had a very tiny nervous breakdown before returning to the booth, hoping her eyes would give nothing away.

  “You were crying.”

  “No. Well, just a little.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not now.”

  He let it go, spoke to the waiter, ordered food for both of them, telling her the crabcakes were delicious here. Lena had never eaten crabcakes, and certainly didn’t know what a Caesar salad was. But she found the food delicious and ate every morsel with the same abandon she had eaten th
e cheeseburger that day, which John found endearing.

  But no. This was Samuel’s girl. He had picked up hints from Lydia that Lena hadn’t looked well over Christmas and he was worried she had never received his letter and was suffering because of him, somehow. He became sure he had written the wrong address, his mind foggy as it often was. He needed to clear the air, be sure she didn’t make a big mistake because of his blunders.

  He wiped his mouth, leaned back, and looked at her. Like an appraisal, she thought, but kinder. When his gaze did not waver, she became uncomfortable, then looked at him with a question in her eyes.

  “I asked you to go with me tonight to tell you it bothers me a lot, the fact that I made it known to you how I feel. I have no right, Lena. You are Samuel’s girlfriend, and I want you to say yes, to marry him. You are the perfect couple. I don’t know what I was thinking, saying the things I did. I’m sorry.”

  Lena was busy straightening her knife and fork, her eyes downcast. Her lips trembled very slightly. The lighting was too dim to decipher the true extent of her feelings, but he heard her say softly, “I got your letter.”

  “You did?” he said, surprised and a little embarrassed. So he was just repeating himself.

  There was silence, and he thought perhaps his letter hadn’t been strong enough, clear enough for her to see where he stood.

  “I’m sick, Lena. I have Lyme disease. I have to wait till I’m healthy to even think about a girl. It could be years till I’m completely better. Plus, I’m going home. I miss my friends, my family.

  Now Lena could not hide her dismay.

  “Home?” she whispered.

  “Yes. I am nothing but a burden to Alvin and Lydia, unable to pull my share. I have no interest in the dogs. Their workload is overwhelming, and with Dewan, it’s just . . .”

  “Who is this Dewan?”

  “He’s helping at the kennel. He has so much energy, such a positive outlook, he’s a great worker. He . . . makes it hard for me, saying Lyme disease is all in my head.”

  When Lena said nothing, he panicked.

  Her, too? Did she feel his weak spells were all in his head, like some mentally ill person who heard voices? Or worse, that he didn’t have Lyme disease, was only an overgrown, paranoid hypochondriac? How could you explain any of these symptoms if not the Lyme bacteria wreaking all that chaos in an otherwise healthy body?

  “Lena.”

  She looked up. Her blue eyes were blank, devoid of feeling.

  “Do you believe I have Lyme disease?”

  “I do. Although to be sure, you would need to do another test. Which is possible. I think Lyme patients have impaired nervous systems, weak cognitive abilities, simply an overall sense of fatigue, which, yes, can alter the brain.”

  “That’s a nice way of saying it’s all in my head.”

  She didn’t respond, and John wished he hadn’t come. Why hadn’t she at least written him a short note to let him know she received the letter?

  Finally, after a silence laced with tension, Lena spoke, quietly, placing one word to the next, like carefully strung beads.

  “John, you have to stop running away from other people’s opinions. You left home to get away from your brothers, and now you’re running away from Lydia and Alvin and Dewan.”

  “That’s not true,” he mumbled, but he couldn’t look in her eyes.

  CHAPTER 20

  IN KENTUCKY, SPRING ARRIVED LONG BEFORE JOHN NOTICED THE running water, the softening of the chilly air, the odor of dead, wet grass being awakened by the kiss of the sun. Creeks ran full, rushed purposefully toward larger tributaries, emptied into rivers that carried nutrient-rich waters into the sea.

  Gentle rain pattered on the roof of the dairy barn, the gutters holding the runoff that gushed across the gravel drive. The cows stood huddled in the barnyard, contentedly chewing their cud, rain running down the patches of black and white, the split hooves set solidly in the ever-increasing quagmire of mud and water.

  If you stood still and listened, you could hear the short, high yaps of puppies trying out their ability to bark. Occasionally, a mother would answer in a series of high whines or yelps, shooting through the music of the rain in an uneven cacophony, short bursts that shattered the sound of pattering raindrops.

  Alvin Beiler opened the door of the cow stable, raised his face to the sky, picked his straw hat off his head by the front brim, and scratched his head. More rain. Well, that would settle the urge to hitch up the Belgians and get an early start on the fieldwork. He replaced his hat, scraped the sides of his Muck Boots on the cast-iron blade cemented on the stoop of the entrance to the dairy barn. He’d go have a cup of coffee with Lydia. She’d said something about baking whoopie pies.

  The sound of singing rose above the rain and the dogs.

  It was Dewan. Alvin shook his head, a smile crinkling the lines around his eyes. That guy was truly the happiest, most vocal human being he had ever encountered. He had endless energy, endless good humor. He had no family to speak of, except the aunt who raised him. How many children would be so accepting of their fate, harboring no malice, no self-pity? Alvin had realized early on that Dewan was an exception, had lucked out having him in his employ. A godsend, that’s what he was. He was so glad his wife had encouraged him to give him a chance.

  He headed for the house, hunching his shoulders against the rain, suddenly eager to be in the presence of his talkative wife.

  The kitchen smelled of sugar and chocolate. He found her emptying a cookie sheet of perfectly formed, soft round chocolate cookies, flopping them neatly on a layer of newspaper, where two dozen more were laid out in rows to cool.

  Little Andrew was on the floor, the homemade wooden barn beside him, animals from the plastic white container scattered around it.

  The kitchen was warm, too warm, evidently, with a window open, the sill speckled with raindrops. Alvin went to close it, his movements arrested by a shrill, “Don’t you close that, Alvin.”

  He hesitated, looked at her flaming cheeks, shrugged, and left it open.

  “Whoopie pies done? Is there coffee?”

  “Icing isn’t mixed.”

  From the floor came a series of whinnies, followed by a clopping sound, the hard plastic of the horses’ feet being thumped along by Andrew’s chubby hands.

  Alvin got down on the floor and helped him arrange the cows in their stalls.

  “Nay. Nay, Dat!” Andrew yelled. The brown cow did not belong in that stall. The one beside it.

  “Alvin, you can mix the icing. That takes some arm muscle,” Lydia said, dumping cups of 10x sugar over piles of Crisco.

  Dutifully, he got to his feet, his strong young arms whipping the icing into the creaminess Lydia wanted. He spread a thick layer on a warm cookie, pressed another one on top, lifted the lid of the Lifetime coffeemaker, then flipped the burner on.

  “Mmm. The best whoopie pies ever.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  Lydia smiled, pleased to hear the compliment though she knew it was coming, its sweet meaning as effective as always.

  “You’re a great cook, Lydia.”

  “Alvin, I’m baking, not cooking.”

  “Well, I can’t say you’re a great bake.”

  They laughed together. “Try baker. Or the classy version, pastry chef.”

  “Whoopie pies aren’t pastries.”

  “Whatever.”

  They smiled. Alvin sipped his coffee, finished his whoopie pie, reached for the knife to put icing on another.

  More whinnying sounds from the floor.

  The rain fell steadily, dripped off the pine branches by the open window, splattered against the north windowpanes, slid down to the sill and across the layers of yellow siding. The propane gas lamp hissed softly. A piece of wood fell in the woodstove by the dining room door, rattling the door latch on the front.

  Alvin hoped the roof wouldn’t leak after he patched the flashing around the chimney. Brown water stains marked the old pink a
nd white floral wallpaper upstairs in the spare bedroom, where moisture had seeped down from the attic floor.

  It was to be expected, living in an old house, one that had been in a state of disrepair when they bought the place.

  “You need to take a couple of these out to Dewan.”

  “I will.”

  But he stayed sitting in contented silence, soaking up the warmth and coziness of the kitchen.

  “John called,” Lydia said.

  “This morning?”

  She nodded, expertly slapping a thick wad of icing on a soft chocolate cookie, placing another on top. She took up the yellow box of Saran wrap, the cheaper version from Aldi’s, pulled a square of clear plastic wrap, tore it off in a deft downward movement, clapping it on top of the whoopie pie and wrapping it in another quick motion.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “All right, I guess. He doesn’t say much. He asked about the dogs, Dewan. But I always get the feeling there’s a lot more he’d like to say, but can’t. He’s holding back, I can tell, the way he drags out the conversation, then abruptly hangs up without further ado.”

  “When’s he coming back?”

  “He’s not. You know he never cared two hoots about the dogs or the cows. He had absolutely no interest in this work. And I felt so sure he would love the kennel.”

  Alvin nodded. “He’s young. He’ll find his vocation.”

  “Will he? Or will he always be the baby with Lyme disease? Oh, I guarantee you, Alvin, since he’s back home Mam is stuffing him with every pill imaginable. The latest craze is some pill that has five different herbs in it. I forget what all she said. Supposed to detox at a cellular level. Some medical doctor spent forty years perfecting this miracle capsule.”

  “Your mother is gullible.”

  “I know.”

  But she herself hadn’t been much better, she thought, so sure living with them would cure him in no time.

  Early spring in Pennsylvania brought the usual bitter March winds, the crocuses pushing through last year’s mulch, bravely answering the call of the sun’s light and warmth, bursting into colors of purple, lavender, yellow, or white, only to be covered with six inches of heavy wet snow that didn’t last more than a few days. Tulips showed their brilliant display to be blown into a confused disarray by tremendous gusts of March winds that tore the delicate petals into limp, hanging strips.