by Linda Byler
Mark said he vaguely remembered the Jewish butcher on Second Street coming up with old remedies for animals, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was.
Sadie brought apples and carrots, bits of cookie crumbs, even a few raisins, which Paris lipped off her extended palm halfheartedly, then turned her head away. Sadie even braided her mane and tail the way she did when she was a single girl at home. She braided a length of pink ribbon into the creamy colored hair, then stood back to admire it.
She would get better, wouldn’t she? These antibiotics would work, surely. For awhile, it seemed as if they would. Paris was eating better, her eyes looking only a bit brighter, but definitely not clouded with the same pain as the week before. Sadie was ecstatic.
Anna came to check out Paris’s progress, only to be completely struck when she saw this poor, sick horse sagging against the wooden slats of the stall’s divider. Anna tried to contain her emotions, but the tears spilled over on to her pale cheeks. She looked over at Sadie beaming proudly through the door.
“She’s getting better!” she announced confidently.
“Sadie! She’s so sick! I had no idea.”
“Oh, no, Anna. She’s a lot better than she was.”
And now Anna understood. She could not reach Sadie to tell her Paris was dying.
Was Anna the same? Sadie could not reach her to tell her she was starving.
Sadie was blind when it came to relinquishing her desperate hold on her horse.
Was Anna as blind when it came to seeing why she controlled her determination to be stick-thin? For Neil? For that controlling person who hurt her over and over?
Anna’s heart cried out for help, for herself as well as for Paris. I’m so stupid, God. Sadie is so pathetic, God. Humans are all pretty much in the same boat, aren’t they?
When Tim came to the barn, he found two sisters holding onto each other as they grappled with the bitter struggles of their lives. He backed away silently, lifted the iron latch, and slowly moved through the door out into the biting cold.
Chapter 17
HE TURNED AS THE LATCH CLICKED AGAIN AND watched as Sadie stumbled through the door, then bent her head to gain momentum as she started running to the house, her only thought to be with Mark as soon as she possibly could. Tim waited, and when Anna did not appear, he turned back, hesitant at first, then decisively. He found her with Paris, a bewildered look in her eyes as she raised her head to find Tim watching her.
“She’s not going to make it.”
Tim nodded.
“Sadie will grieve terribly.”
“Yeah.”
Anna gave Paris a final pat, sighed, then turned, her eyes luminous in the flickering yellow light of the kerosene lantern. She stood, her arms loose inside the too-large sleeves of her heavy, black coat, her thick, dark hair too heavy for her thin, almost translucent face. She shifted her feet self-consciously, bit down on her lower lip, then, as if reaching an agreement, said his name too loudly.
“Tim.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think … do I … ?”
There was a long, painful silence as Anna tried to muster all her courage, her low self-esteem putting up a visible battle. She cleared her throat, jammed her thin, white hands into her coat pockets, then raised her head quite suddenly.
“Paris is going to die, right? There is no such thing as a miracle, right?”
Tim gazed at an object over her head. He would not meet those large eyes, so full of hope already lost.
“They’re few and far between.”
She nodded. She looked behind herself, then lowered her small frame to a bale of fragrant hay. Tim reached down and pulled another bale out, facing her as he sat down, his large hands on the knees of his jeans, as if he was unsure what he should do with them. Neither said anything. Truman scraped his halter across his wooden feedbox with a heavy rumbling sound. Duke snorted, a wet slobbering sound from the automatic water trough built between the two stalls. A black cat slunk along the stable wall, saw them, and quickened her slow creeping pace. The wind rattled a loose piece of spouting in a quick, staccato rhythm, then quieted down. Anna pulled a loose piece of hay out from beneath the baler twine, chewing it reflectively.
“You’re eating,” Tim observed dryly.
Anna looked startled, then caught the twinkle in his eye, her lips parted as she smiled timidly. “Guess I am.”
“Feel free to eat the whole bale.”
Anna laughed. The sound was new to Tim. It was the loveliest thing he had ever heard, a gentle, deep-throated, genuinely delightful sound from this frail, captivating girl. He had never heard her laugh.
She paused, tilted her head sideways, and said, unexpectedly, “Am I so thin?”
Tim searched for the right answer, took his time. “You’re too thin, yes.”
“How much too thin?”
“Hospital thin.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You are not serious.”
“Yes. I am dead serious.”
“Well … ”
Anna stopped, looked at her black, fur-lined boots, then lifted her head to find his gaze, kind, patient, and above all, understanding.
“I … sort of … back there with Paris, when Sadie stood there with all that false … believing … hope, whatever it was, making herself believe her horse was getting better, when in reality she’s dying. I … Well, Tim, that’s me.”
She said his name! The most unique way he had ever heard it pronounced. Tee-yum. Oh, say it again, he thought. Please say my name again. But he said nothing.
“That’s me,” she repeated. “I have to stop forcing myself to throw up. I do it a lot. It’s so repetitive, it’s like going to the bathroom or washing my hands. Eat enough to suit Mam or Dat or Leah, whoever, feel like I weigh 300 pounds, wash dishes, slip away, and … and … well, it’s easy to make your stomach obey after you get the hang of it. Am I out of control, do you think?”
“Sounds like it.”
“I don’t do it every time I eat something. Just mostly. I was dating Neil and he … he … He’s really cute. All the girls wanted him. He likes his … girls thin, he said. I guess it was Neil’s fault. I just tried to get too thin.”
Tim shook his head. “Wasn’t the guy’s fault.”
“Why not?”
“Your own, more than likely. You were trying to control him, yourself, your whole life, feeling if you were only thin enough, he’d settle down, quit his ways, marry you. Am I right?”
Anna nodded, the pain of hating herself contorting her beautiful mouth.
“He never loved you.”
“He said he did!”
Her head came up, her eye’s black with rebellion.
Tim shook his head.
Anna spluttered, searched for words, then dropped her head miserably.
“Sorry. Don’t mean to hurt you. I had a girlfriend once who was probably about as thin as you. She was hospitalized. We almost lost her. She had to remain hospitalized, went for extensive counseling, nothing helped. She died.”
Anna’s eyes were very large and dark. Her thin hands came up to cover her mouth. “No!”
“Yes. She died so completely mixed up in her own world of suffering.”
“Was she a Christian?”
Tim shrugged. “She was very young.”
“Do you still love her?”
Tim said nothing.
“I miss her, I guess,” he said finally.
“I won’t die. I’ll eat.”
“You have to stop making yourself throw up first. Go for counseling.”
“I’ll ask God.”
“You feel as if he’ll hear you?”
Anna shrugged.
“Did you ever become a Christian, Anna?”
“Amish people are Christians always. From the time that we can sit on our Dat’s knee and listen to Bible stories, we’re Christians. We know who Jesus is and God and the devil, and the end of t
he world and hell and heaven. We’re just sort of raised with all of it.”
“Yeah, Aunt Hannah, the church, the neighbors, all of that, I know what you mean. But sometime, we have to go through that time of taking responsibility. We’re lost, need a Savior. I’m about to start … thinking I need something … or somebody.”
“You mean, get married?” Anna asked, innocently.
“No, I mean, I’m seriously thinking of giving my life to God. Repenting of my past life, accepting Jesus, that whole bit.”
He could feel his face becoming warm. He felt ashamed, lowered his head, his hands hanging loosely between his upturned knees.
“Was your past life very sinful?”
“Yeah. It was bad.”
“Then you need to go talk to Jesse Detweiler. He’s one of the best ministers for the youth to talk to.”
“Will you join the church if I do?” he asked boldly.
“I’m young.”
Tim nodded.
“Why are you going Amish?” she asked.
He found her gaze, held it. She lowered her eyes first, a slow blush creeping up her cheeks.
“Anna, I was raised in the Amish church by my Aunt Hannah, a single, maiden lady. As small and round as a barrel, and rolling around her house, gaining momentum as the day wore on. She was a spitfire! Energy to spare. The house was immaculate, her garden a picture of tilled soil producing tons of vegetables. She’d yell at me for tracking mud into the house, for spilling juice, for everything. But she loved me fiercely. She’d fight with parents of kids who made fun of me, protected me. I had no Mam and Dat.
“It’s Hannah who makes me want to come back. Everything about her life I want for my own. The peace she had. She’d rock on her front porch, listening for the whip-poor-wills behind the house in the mountain. She loved her birds, as she called them. Could tell the name of every bird she heard.
“She chewed people out when she thought they deserved it, but she’d go to their house with a huckleberry pie the next day. She loved God, said she couldn’t die until I became a born-again Christian.”
“How are you going to do that?” Anna asked.
“I don’t know. I guess just tell God that I want to be a new person, accept Jesus, then go talk to Jesse Detweiler like you said.”
“Some people have a very big experience, as if God is talking to them. Did you?”
Tim could tell that Anna was a very innocent, young Christian, not sure exactly how much she understood.
“No. I just have a sincere feeling about … I don’t know, I guess taking care of my soul.”
“Good way to say it,” Anna said, nodding.
Then, “Well, if you’re going to become serious, then I guess I need to pray for help if I’m going to lean on God to help me overcome my … What did you call it?”
“Bulimia.”
“No, the other word.”
“Anorexia.”
“Yeah, that. You said I can’t blame Neil. Why not?’
“Because he was not the one rebelling. You were.”
“He was, too.”
“You were.”
She became very quiet then. So quiet, in fact, that he watched her face, afraid he had upset her.
Then, “I want to be like Sadie.” It was only a whisper, but he caught it.
She stood up to get away before he saw the tears. He heard the sob that rose in her throat and stood up awkwardly, his arms hanging loosely by his side, watching intently as a tear balanced on her dark lashes, then slid quickly down her pearl-hued cheek, leaving a small wet trail, the most exquisite sight he had ever encountered.
He wasn’t going to put his arms around her. He wasn’t even going to touch her sleeve. Not even put a finger on the black wool coat. He just wanted to let her know it was all right to want to be like Sadie. It was okay.
What he did say thickly was, “Anna, I … ”
When she looked up, another tear shivered on her lower lashes, made another irresistible trail down her shadowed cheek, and he only wanted to feel the beauty of it. He reached out, one large fingertip tracing the wetness on the pearl cheek. He stopped tracing it, his fingers slid to her chin, and without knowing what he would do, lifted her face. Her eyes became dark and wide, her breath quickened. His eyes told her everything. They told her he was attracted to her, she was lovely, he wanted to be with her, protect her, love her to the end of his days.
Had she ever been kissed? Neil? Ah, but the Amish were strict about purity. Some of them. His hand fell away, the spell was broken. The strict rules had spoken. Still, they stood. Suddenly afraid she would go, he could not bear to part with her now or ever. He moved, pulled her close, held her shoulders, lowered his hands, and crushed the too-thin body to his, murmuring things he didn’t know he said.
He remembered saying, “Stay with me, Anna, don’t go. Please stay with me, here, now.”
He wanted to say “forever.” Her frail, thin fingers stayed on his coat sleeve, then, like a hovering butterfly and just as lightly, went up his sleeve to clasp his shoulders with a surprising strength.
Tim never understood the meaning of true love until he held Anna in his arms. He was shaken to the core of his being, the huge difference in what he had always thought was love and this tender caring, this passion to be a better person for her sake. He saw with new eyes the scepter of her love being held by the strength with which her arms encircled him.
Who let go first? It wasn’t him. When they did, they smiled silly, crooked smiles, and both started talking at once, saying what they had wanted to say weeks ago. How good he looked with his dental work. How beautiful she was. How she couldn’t help being attracted to him the first time she saw him. Even if she told him to go brush his teeth? When she became flustered, apologizing, he laughed, a sound so genuine she wasn’t sure she had ever heard it before.
They talked most of the night. The kerosene steadily lowered by the small rectangular flame burning steadily inside the chimney, but still they talked. They decided people like Aunt Hannah and Sadie went on with their lives and never really knew the huge influence they had on other people. They were genuine individuals who were not perfect but had a kindness, a sort of goodness about them, like an aura of peace and calm that made you want to be like them. They cared absolutely.
They talked about Paris. They couldn’t bear to think of Sadie parting with her beloved horse.
“Couldn’t we drench her with some home remedy?” Anna asked, in a desperate voice.
Tim held very still, not even blinking.
Drench?
What was it about that odd word? He remembered it from somewhere? Was it Aunt Hannah? What was “drench”?
When the lantern sputtered, sending sparks up the glass chimney and creating a sort of film around the glass, they knew the kerosene had been used up. The night was over. They walked to the house in the bitter night, the sky black with another approaching storm, the earth still and sharp with the aching cold.
Suddenly shy, they thought of Mark and Sadie lying side by side in their big, cozy bed, creating an intimacy they knew was not theirs to have. They separated quietly, a whispered good-night their only parting.
In the morning the snow was already falling, thinly, but with the same drive that makes real storms start with a vengeance. Sadie was down at the barn trying to lead Paris out into the snow, thinking the soft coldness might reduce the swelling of the laminae, that soft tissue so painfully red and swollen, protruding down into the base of the hoof, causing severe pain. Sadie knew Paris was simply buying time. Some horses would already have stopped breathing. She was convinced it was Paris’s will, that strong spirit, that kept her alive.
Whoever had stolen her, wherever they had taken her, had not been good, leaving her in poor health. Likely she had had a diet of corn, too much protein, or black walnut shavings as bedding. She may have had access to too much grain, which would have foundered her, then because of exposure and a poor diet had fallen into the dire case of
laminitis.
Paris lowered her head, sniffing at the cement floor of the forebay as if to determine whether she had the strength to place her painful feet on top of it. Courageously now, she stuck a foot out, then another, the pain forcing her to place her feet quickly, lightly, as if she was literally walking on eggshells. Her back was bent, her haunches tucked in, as if to touch only the front of the hoof on the unforgiving concrete.
“Good girl,” Sadie coaxed.
When they hobbled out to the snowy whiteness, Paris extended her neck, kept going bravely as Sadie led her in circles, something the last veterinarian had told her to try. But when her breathing came in short, shuddering gasps, Sadie could not bear to listen to the sounds of her intense pain.
Circling once more, she slid open the barn door. A lump built steadily in her swollen throat as she struggled to resign herself to Paris’s fate. She could no longer dismiss the grim reaper on the horizon who would come to claim Paris. She looked up as the door opened and Tim emerged, poking his arms into his coat sleeves, pulling on his beanie sloppily, as if he had to be somewhere in a great hurry. She was puzzled, this being Saturday.
“Sadie! Sadie!”
It was Anna, racing after Tim. Incredibly, Mark emerged, pulling on his clothes with every bit as much haste.
“Sadie!”
“What is going on?” she asked.
“Drench! I remember that word! Aunt Hannah’s neighbor—he drenched his horse with mineral oil! He said it purges the bad bacteria that causes laminitis. Cleans the stomach! Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. He cured Harry, his draft horse. He got laminitis from being too fat!”
Tim was shouting, the veins standing out on his neck.
“What?”
“Mineral oil! Do you have any?” Tim was still shouting.
“No. Oh, my! No, I don’t have any. Please, Mark, somebody! Go get some somewhere.”