“We’ll see.” Betsy sighed. “Put it in Gott’s hands.”
After breakfast Rachel helped Mamm get some laundry going, and then she caught a ride into town with her brother Abe. Today was the group session, a time for counseling for the Amish travelers involved in the January crash.
The old folks did not attend; Rachel suspected that they talked through the crash with the ministers. For the young people in the van like Elsie, Ruben, Rachel, and Zed, and Haley Donovan, the Englisher girl who had helped them at the scene, the trauma had been eased by conversation and advice, and they had become good friends, too.
In the months since the accident in January, Dylan had helped Rachel let go of the guilt that had overwhelmed her. When James had been injured, she had blamed herself. Now Rachel knew that none of it was her fault. Not the crash. Not the fact that James’s seat belt had been broken. Gott didn’t make mistakes. It was sad when bad things happened, but Gott was with her. He would see her through.
Dylan opened the session by asking about friends and family. “The four of you were in the van, and I think you’ve benefited from these sessions,” he said. “But I wonder about other people in the community. We know a tragedy like this has a ripple effect. It’s my job to reach out and help other survivors work through their grief. I’m wondering if you guys can help me?”
“I think it would be a good thing for folks to talk with you,” said Elsie Lapp, who had lost her father, Thomas, in the crash. “Sometimes I see Fanny, so busy at home with the baby and the house chores.” Fanny Lapp had been married to Thomas, and tragically, he had died before their third child had been born. “She never complains, but I think her heart is broken. Her first husband was taken to heaven, too.” She shook her head. “I have asked her to come along to these meetings, but she wants to stay close to home.”
“Would it be okay if I stop by to talk with her?” Dylan asked.
“You could call during the day.” Elsie’s mouth puckered as she thought it through. “Maybe you should bring Haley? Folks might get to thinking the wrong thing if an Englisher man comes by to visit a widow.”
“We could do that,” Haley said.
“And I’ve been trying to get James to come join the group,” Rachel said, “but I don’t think it’s going to happen. His dat and the bishop don’t want James spending so much time with Englishers. They think he’s drifting away from living Plain.”
“That’s a tough issue.” Dylan explained that he had been visiting James last weekend when Jimmy Lapp announced that he didn’t want Englishers in his house anymore. “I’m going to try to meet with James whenever he goes into Paradise for treatment. I’m sorry I can’t do more, but I respect Jimmy’s decision.” Dylan asked about others in Elsie’s family. Thomas had left behind three little children, as well as Elsie, brother Caleb, and sister Emma, who taught the Amish children of Halfway.
While Elsie talked about her family, Rachel’s mind wandered to her own concerns. James was in her thoughts all the time, but she could hardly tell the group about her courtship blues. It wouldn’t do to bring such matters up, especially in front of fellas like Ruben and Zed.
After the meeting, the group walked down the street to the pizza place—Dylan’s treat. They divided into smaller conversations, and Rachel told Haley how she dreamed of living in a house in town like Haley, or an apartment like Dylan.
“Not everyone belongs on a farm,” Rachel said. “Mucking the stalls and milking cows doesn’t suit me. And without all the farm chores, I could spend more time painting. Gott willing, I could make enough money to support James and me.”
Although Amish couples traditionally kept their engagements a secret, except from family, until just a month or so before the planned wedding, everyone here knew that Rachel and James had long planned to marry in the fall.
“Elsie told me your paintings sell well in the Country Store,” Haley said.
Rachel nodded. “And I’ve started painting again. I’m thinking I might sell them through that gallery in the city.”
Dylan joined their conversation, asking where Rachel would like to live. She said that she had been thinking that her family and James’s might build a house on the outskirts of Halfway. “We could build it special for James,” Rachel confided in Dylan. “One of those houses with no stairs, and ramps, and extra-wide doorways for a wheelchair.”
“Have you talked to James about this?” Dylan asked.
“A little bit,” Rachel said. Of course, she hadn’t mentioned the details about building a house for the wheelchair because she knew it would upset James, who longed to get back on his feet.
“I have mixed feelings about this,” Dylan said. “As your therapist, I support your plan because it seems to fit your needs.” But when it came to the long-term plan that involved James, Dylan had his doubts. Life-changing injuries like the one James had sustained often ended romantic relationships. He encouraged Rachel to look toward her long-term future with a “wait-and-see” attitude.
She imagined a life in which she and James lived in an apartment where she could spend most of the day painting. Why could no one else see that? Everyone around her would have her leave James behind. It would not be a bad life at all. She and James could be very happy together, if everyone would stop being so gloomy.
“Are you nervous?” asked the young doctor with the shiny shaved head and polka-dotted bow tie. Dr. Alec Finley stood in front of James, his hands clasped together expectantly.
“I reckon,” James admitted. Now that it was time for the actual treatment, he was struck by how odd it was that he was pinning his hopes on electricity—the thing forbidden in Amish homes. “You won’t be giving me a shock?”
“Not at all. Some patients tell us that it’s actually soothing. This is a treatment that’s been used for many years to help relieve chronic pain. In your case, we’re trying to use the mild electrical stimulation to prime your nervous system so that it relays signals from the brain to your lower extremities.”
“Mmm. So the brain can tell the legs to walk.”
“Something like that. I must repeat the reminder that there’s no guarantee. This is a test we’re running. That said, we’ve had some success with a handful of patients—enough to continue the trials. And your profile fits well in our study. I would like to start today, but you have to be ready to make the commitment.”
James leaned back in the chair, hesitant. He could hear his father’s voice, telling him that he was too comfortable with Englishers. “What kind of commitment?”
“We need to administer the electrical treatment every day for at least two weeks, along with two hours of physical therapy. We would like that to be daily, too, although you can take Sundays off if it conflicts with your religious beliefs.”
James knew all this. “I will get here, somehow.”
“I appreciate your determination, James.” Dr. Finley gave a sage nod. “I know … you don’t live so close, especially by horse and buggy. I would like to tell you that we can come to you, but these machines and monitors are expensive, and they’re not portable. You would need to come here.”
The travel was a hardship, but James couldn’t let this chance go. Maybe Dat would let him hire a young Amish man to bring him to Paradise by horse and buggy. He thought of the old saying when a person came to a crossroads: Gott won’t lead you where His grace can’t keep you.
“I’ll get here,” James said. “I want to do everything I can to walk again.”
“That’s the motivation I like to hear.” Dr. Finley clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll start today. Let me get the techs, and we’ll implant the electrodes.”
“Did it hurt?” Mark asked, once they were on their way home with Rowdy pulling the buggy.
“Not really,” James answered. “The setup took a long time.”
It was something to get used to, seeing twelve-year-old Mark driving the buggy with his black hat cocked back and his chipmunk face masked by a pair of sunglasses. Twelve was a bit young to
be driving such a long distance, and Mark preferred to do chores in and around the barn. “What did they do to you?” Mark asked.
“They had to put sixteen electrodes under the skin of my back, along the spine.” James reached back and touched the sensitive spot under his coat. “I think maybe they left some tape on. But it wasn’t painful.”
“That’s good.”
“And after that, there were two hours of PT. That’s what they call physical therapy. But the therapist, JJ, he said PT stands for personal torture, ’cause they work you so hard.”
Mark frowned. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s a joke,” James explained. An Englisher joke. Today had been quite a workout, even for James, who had done his exercises every day at home. He was tired now, and eager to get home. The doctors wanted him to rest. After the rigor of the treatment, he might just take a rare nap.
With the black Morgan moving along at such a quick pace, they would be home fast. Rowdy was quick-footed, but James wished his brother hadn’t decided to use the new horse. Morgans were a high-spirited breed, and Rowdy had been recently purchased from a non-Amish dealer, who had warned them that the horse had been subjected to some harsh conditions.
In the English world, harsh conditions usually boiled down to animal abuse. Neglect. Malnutrition. Sometimes a trainer went too far with a whip.
The Lapps couldn’t abide that. Dat had nearly walked away from the deal, not wanting an unpredictable horse in his stables. But once Mark had set his heart on the horse, Dat had given in.
“Does Mamm know you took Rowdy out on the highway?” James asked.
“She told me Ranger would be the best horse, but when Rowdy started nuzzling me, I couldn’t say no.”
“Rowdy has never done a trip this long before, has he?”
“This will be the first time,” Mark admitted, “but he’s ready for it. I’ve been working with him every day, strapping him on to the smallest buggy. Horses take a lot of patience. You have to do the same thing over and over again, and sometimes you think it’s not working at all. At first he was too scared to move. Then he started balking at the smallest movement. He’s a jittery horse.”
The black horse had a full mane and good lines. “How did you get him to stop balking?” James asked.
“I taught him to put his head down when I give him a cue. It’s a trick I learned from a trainer at a horse auction. When the horse puts his head down, he can’t see what scares him anymore.”
“That’s a smart thing. What’s the command?”
Mark covered his mouth, to be sure the horse wouldn’t hear. “I tell him: frankincense.”
“Like the gift the wise man brought to Jesus.”
Mark nodded. “I reckoned it’s not something folks say every day.”
“That’s for sure.” James asked his brother about working with the horses, and Mark explained that they were like mirrors. “Horses reflect the person who owns them.” Mark believed that Rowdy’s first owner had been cruel to the horse. “I can tell that he’s been whipped before. There are scars. That’s a very sad thing for a horse.”
“But if the owner’s nature comes out through the horse, then Rowdy should be a good, patient horse, now that you are training him.”
Grinning, Mark nudged his brother. “Are you kidding me?”
“I don’t joke about things that matter.”
As they talked, a milk truck came chugging up the road, heading toward them. For a moment, James worried that it might spook the horse. The heft of the huge vehicle made the earth rumble as it approached. But Rowdy kept his head, trotting forward steadily.
The truck was upon them now, the rumble of the tires blocking out Mark’s voice. James put a hand on the edge of the buggy to hold himself steady.
Rowdy didn’t seem bothered by the truck—until the driver hit the horn, letting out a low blast that seemed to blow right through James.
That was the horse’s undoing.
The Morgan skittered to the right, reared up, and whinnied. Staging a defense against the truck, the Morgan turned off the road onto the shoulder. Dust flew as he kicked up sand and stones.
The buggy rocked crazily as it left the highway. It swayed, ready to tip, and James looked to make sure his brother was still on the bench as it bounced on the shoulder. Ahead of them, Rowdy pushed down a chicken-wire fence, posts popping from the earth.
“Stop!” Mark shouted, pulling back on the lines. “Rowdy. Rowdy! Stop! Halt!”
Head down and holding on for dear life, James could hear the terror in his brother’s voice. In his panic, Mark had forgotten the cue to calm the horse.
Bracing himself as the buggy hit something with a thud, then bounced, James lifted his head.
“Frankincense!” he shouted, his voice booming ahead. “Frankincense!”
At that, the horse stopped and the buggy rolled to a halt. For a moment, there was a strange stillness. Then came the sound from passing cars on the highway. And the creak of the buggy as James shifted back and eyed the tangled wire fencing that was wrapped around one wheel. A sea of dark green now surrounded the buggy.
The wild horse had pulled them into a field of early spinach.
He turned to Mark. “Are you all right?”
“Ya.” Mark’s face was red, his eyes shiny with tears. “You remembered the cue. When Rowdy got spooked, it happened so fast that I forgot.”
“It was the horn that frightened him.”
“I didn’t train him to ignore horns yet.” Mark swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. “We could’ve been killed, all three of us.”
“But Gott spared us today. We’re still in one piece.” James clapped his brother on the shoulder, then turned to look out at the damaged field. “But I can’t say the same for the Yoders’ spinach.”
“And look at Rowdy.” Mark leaned forward to peer at his horse. “Are you okay, boy?”
“Go to him,” James said, taking the lines.
A moment later, Mark hopped down among the short spinach plants to get to the horse.
A squat man wearing a plaid shirt and a bright orange vest came over to the buggy. He was the driver of the milk truck, come to apologize. James explained that they had a skittish horse on their hands. No one had been hurt, but they could use some help getting free from the fencing and back on the road. The man noticed the wheelchair strapped to the back of the buggy, and nodded.
With the driver’s help, the buggy was untangled and Rowdy was led out of the field, back onto the roadside. Mark was a bit sheepish the rest of the way home. James didn’t blame him, but there was a lesson to be learned. A boy needed to mind his mamm.
“After all those afternoons in the round pen, all those times I gave Rowdy the cue, over and over again, I can’t believe I’m the one that forgot it.”
“It happens,” James said, reassuring the boy. Mark wasn’t the only one with a lesson to take from this. James had felt a moment of power, a reminder that he was not a worthless man. The things he had learned in his life still came in handy. Praise Gott, he was not as helpless as he’d thought.
Shandell felt bad that she had lied to James about finding another place to go. Now that she had cleaned up the shack and figured out where to get water and how to keep the stove burning, well, she wasn’t going to move down the road and sleep outside with insects and moles and deer and whatever else. Not that she had anything against creatures and critters. She just didn’t want them creeping up on her or crawling into her sleeping bag at night.
Maybe it was a terrible sin to lie to an Amish person, but she figured that if she could talk him into letting her stay until Thursday, it wouldn’t be a lie after all.
And maybe he wouldn’t even be around for the next few days. Poking her head out the cabin door, she blinked against the bright sunshine. Tall trees swayed to the right and left, their green leaves thick and abundant. She knew the little path between them led over the little hill and back through the orchard, but fr
om here all she could see was the knoll of tall grass and wildflowers. To the left, a small creek ran alongside the hut, and she had gotten some water from it yesterday and set it to heat on the woodstove. Warm water was better for washing up, and she had decided it was safer to boil it before she drank it.
Wow, that sun was warm. She said a little prayer of thanks for the beautiful day. Bad weather would have made it hard to stay out here in a bare-bones shack.
A slight breeze tousled her black hair as she strode past the trees and up the slight rise. Not a person in sight. But the dirt path under her feet was rutted and overgrown with brambles here and there. It had to be hard, maneuvering around the orchard in a wheelchair. What had happened to James? Had he been born without the use of his legs, or had he been in an accident? In the local newspaper that she’d read at the police station, The Budget, there’d been two accounts of men injured in farming accidents. One of them had lost a finger; the other had died. Had James been hurt by a plow? It was sad for a young, attractive man like that to be stuck in a wheelchair.
Accidents were terrible. Her real dad had been killed in a construction accident. She’d been a little kid back then, so it really didn’t hit her at the time. She told her friends that she missed him, but the truth was, she barely remembered him at all. There were vague memories of riding on his shoulders and him sitting at the foot of her bed, reading to her at night.
Reading from the book of children’s Bible stories. He used to lean on one side, a pillow tucked under his arm. Sometimes when she closed her eyes she remembered the gravelly sound of his voice. He’d had a way of reading each chapter with a curious tone, as if it was the first time he had ever come across such an amazing story. And then he would finish a story and cup her face with his big hands and plant a kiss on her forehead. And Shandell had known it was time to close her eyes and sleep, safe and secure in her bed.
That was the dad she missed, but she couldn’t tell her friends that she longed to go back to a five-year-old’s existence.
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