The Missing

by Beverly Lewis

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve heard of our farm diet, no doubt—mostly meat and lots of starchy foods like potatoes and noodles.”

  Heather said she was well aware of it. “Most people think eating heavily produces more energy, but it’s just the opposite. It takes more work for the body to process and digest all that food, leaves less energy for healing.”

  “S’pose so.”

  Heather smiled. “Thanks for taking time out of your day to introduce me to Sally. I’d like to keep in touch with her.”

  “If it helps you get well, that’s what matters.”

  Heather leaned back, stretching her neck. “To be totally honest, I’m really conflicted about all this.” She sat up straight again.

  “Oh?”

  “My dad’s too cautious. He’s come close to demanding that I return home and start conventional treatment.” Heather drew a deep breath. “He’s opposed to the ‘cleansing malarkey,’ as he puts it. He said if I were underage, he’d drag me right back to my oncologist.”

  “I can see why you’re torn, then.”

  Heather paused. “Dad’s understandably concerned.”

  “And you’re still under his covering, jah?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re in submission to your father, under his authority—just as he is under God.”

  Heather looked stunned. “Um . . . we don’t live like that.” She laughed. “If I decide to do this lodge thing—crazy as it sounds—I’ll do it.”

  “You mean, against your father’s wishes?”

  “Well, does he want a compliant daughter, or a living and breathing one? My mother did things his way, and look where that got her: six feet under.”

  Grace wasn’t at all accustomed to hearing anyone speak so disrespectfully, especially of a parent. “Perhaps you’ll think this through some more?”

  Heather tugged on her loose-fitting blue blouse and patted her jeans. “I’m not meek and mild like you, Grace. My mom raised me to think for myself . . . so did Dad.”

  Grace tinkled a nervous laugh, feeling awkward at hearing someone be so candid.

  Just across the road, three little girls in pale pink dresses ran barefooted, chasing a yellow tabby cat. “Look there,” Heather pointed out. “Amish children are so happy-go-lucky, like they don’t have a worry in the world.”

  “Well, too, off-Sundays are our day for reading the Good Book and visiting relatives and friends. Things are bound to be more relaxed on days like this.” Grace explained there were so many families and friends to visit, her parents had always kept track of which ones they went to see. “That way, we get to visit everyone at least twice each year.”

  Heather’s eyes grew wide. “You have that many relatives?”

  “Mamma has nine siblings. My father has eleven. And all of them are married with lots of children . . . so there are a-plenty of relatives.”

  “That’s one thing I’ve often wondered about.” Heather tilted her head. “Nearly all my life, in fact.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How different things might have been for me.”

  “With brothers and sisters?” Grace asked.

  “Right.” Heather stopped and drew in a long, slow breath. “You know, I rarely tell anyone this, Grace, because it’s no big deal to me. But I’m adopted.”

  “Well, for goodness’ sake.” Yet even more than this news, Grace felt surprised at Heather’s sudden openness.

  Heather nodded. “It’s true.”

  “Ach, you look just like your father.”

  “People have said that,” Heather acknowledged. “But I’m very much like my adoptive mother—or so it’s turning out.”

  “You must feel mighty special, bein’ handpicked by your parents and all.” Grace didn’t quite know why she said it in just that way.

  “This is so out of character for me . . . telling you this. Even my former fiancé never knew this about me—can you believe it?” Heather groaned a little.

  “Well, there are plenty of things I never told my beau, either.” Grace confided that she had been the one to break off their engagement.

  “Then we have something in common. Except that my fiancé dumped me.” They turned into the Riehls’ lane, and Becky came running out the back door. “I’ll keep mum, all right?” Grace said quietly.

  Heather squeezed her arm. “Even better, just forget what I told you. I always had a close relationship with my mom, so I’ve never thought about searching like some adoptees do.” Heather smiled sweetly. “Thanks again for taking me to Sally.”

  “You know where I am, anytime I can help.”

  Becky was inching toward them now, her face pink with embarrassment. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but your father dropped by a little while ago, Heather. He said he’d call your phone and leave a message for ya.”

  “Thanks, Becky. I’ll check my voice mail.” Heather turned to Grace. “I hope we can talk again soon,” she said. “I’m really interested in your herb garden, too. I’ll drop by tomorrow, if that’s all right.”

  “Why, sure. And you can meet my sister, Mandy, then . . . and my brothers, too, if you like.”

  “Evidently I’ve already met your grandmother, although I didn’t know it at the time.” Heather stretched a bit.

  “Mammi Adah?”

  Heather nodded. “She brought her wonderfully wicked sticky buns over the first day I arrived. I’m sure Sally Smucker and Dr. Marshall would not approve.”

  “Jah, all that decadent lard and sugar . . .” Grace noticed with some surprise Becky was already headed back to the house.

  “Well, I’m sure Mammi will be happy to see you again.” Grace turned toward the buggy. “She could help answer your questions about herbs.”

  “The healing ones, right?” said Heather.

  “Where’d ya hear that?”

  “Online . . . I figure if I’m dying, I need to know this stuff. Speaking of which, my laptop awaits.”

  Befuddled at how glib Heather was about her poor health, Grace quietly said, “A blessed Lord’s Day to ya.”

  Heather waved and headed up the walkway and into the house.

  Still perplexed, Grace spoke to Sassy. “Let’s go home, girl, and see how Willow’s doin’.” The mare nickered softly at the sound of Willow’s name.

  chapter

  twenty - two

  Why did I spill my heart out to Grace?

  Frustrated at being so upfront with someone she hardly knew—an Amish girl at that—Heather hurried upstairs to her room at the Riehls’. She closed the door and turned on her iPhone to check for emails and listen to the voice mail from her dad.

  “Hey, kiddo. Will you meet me at the house site later this afternoon? Call me.”

  “Is he hoping for another chance to hammer away at me?” She booted up her laptop, wanting to write in her journal for a while. Running her fingers through her hair while she waited, she got settled on the bed, sitting cross-legged. She was still surprised at how she and Grace had connected nearly from their first meeting. She appreciated how Grace had accepted first the news she was sick, then today’s talk about her adoption. She hadn’t given the latter a thought in a long time. It was enough to know how lucky she was to be Roan and Karen Nelson’s daughter.

  She picked up her phone to return her dad’s call. When he answered, she said, “I got your voice mail.”

  “Hey, I’ve had a brain wave.” There was an unmistakable lilt in his voice.

  “About the house?”

  “Can you meet me at the site?”

  Now? She wanted to unwind from her visit with Sally’s.

  “Can it wait until tomorrow, Dad?”

  “Well, sure. You’re probably tired. Actually, I’m surprised how you’re holding up this well—this long—without chemo, Heather.”

  Here we go. . . .

  “Um, Dad, if I’m not worried, you don’t have to be.”

  “Look, kiddo, I have news for you: I’
m your father, and it’s my job to worry.”

  She sighed; she heard the trace of fear in his voice. The stubbornness, too.

  “I want you to hear me out.”

  “Not today, Dad, please.” She stopped, waiting for his retort. When there was none, she added, “Do we really have to fight about this?”

  He sighed heavily. “Come home with me. That’ll solve everything.”

  “We’ll talk more about this after you meet Dr. Marshall. How’s that?” It was her last attempt. She’d run out of words and energy.

  “Fine. But I still want to see you first thing tomorrow. Bye, Heather.”

  She whispered, “Bye, Dad,” and hung up.

  Somewhat relieved, Heather switched over to read Wannalive’s latest blog entry. She posted a comment, which he responded to immediately. It helped to think that someone somewhere was on her wavelength, even if that person was essentially a stranger.

  She replayed in her mind the fascinating visit with Sally, the most disciplined person she’d ever encountered. Sally had found clever substitutes for everything from sugar to dairy. And she no longer ate red meat, saying adamantly that once her dreadful cravings ceased, she scarcely missed such foods. “Now that I’ve been preparin’ food this way so long, I hardly give it a second thought,” she’d said. Heather almost wondered if she couldn’t just skip the lodge and sit at the feet of the preacher’s wife.

  She set aside her iPhone and took up her laptop again.

  I met an interesting Amishwoman today. During all of my childhood visits here with my parents, I just assumed these women were very shy. Not Sally! She was literally energized about having cured herself of cancer and was open to any question I had.

  If I wasn’t such a skeptic, I’d be suspicious about why I ended up here, in Amish country. Not that I think I’m a puppet on a string or anything. But how else can I explain my coming here and meeting people like Grace and Sally? It’s like someone Up There really cares.

  She went on, pouring out her thoughts—and questions—until she felt calmer. Finally, she shut down her computer and stretched out on the bed, wiped out. I hope Dad’s not too upset, she thought, for putting him off until tomorrow.

  Grace was sitting in the stall near Willow when Dat walked in and squatted down beside them.

  “How’s she doin’ now?” he asked.

  “Well, if I’m not dreaming it . . . some better.”

  “I thought the same.”

  Her heart was filled with hope.

  “I’ve been in here every other hour—so has Adam,” Dat said. “I must admit, whatever Yonnie’s doin’ might just be helpin’.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Sure’s hard to overlook.”

  “Wonderful-gut,” she said right out.

  “If we can just get the founder under control, I suspect that’s the worst of it.”

  “Are we givin’ her enough powdered alum? That’s what Andy Riehl does for his foundered horses.”

  “Jah, I’ve been doin’ that, too.” Dat wiped his brow. “One tablespoon of cod liver oil two times during the day should limber her up some.”

  “I’ve heard cod liver oil works for lots of older horses.”

  Dat nodded slowly, eyes solemn. “Just maybe we can keep her alive awhile longer.”

  “What about puttin’ her in a mud hole with ice?” Henry Stahl had talked about this treatment some months back, insisting that it worked. A fleeting thought crossed her mind: Has Yonnie heard of it?

  Dat’s gaze was fixed on the mare. “If keepin’ Willow around makes you smile, well then, we must.”

  It was the nicest thing he’d ever said. “I don’t mean to be selfish,” she whispered.

  “That you ain’t, Gracie.”

  Looking at him now, his shoulders rounded as he stooped forward, he looked like an old wounded bird. “Dat . . . I’m awful sorry ’bout asking to hire Martin to—”

  “No . . . no, I understand how you feel.” He glanced over his shoulder, most likely to see if they were alone. “I feel . . . the same sort of tug.”

  “I just see her in my mind. Already home, like she’s never left.”

  Dat faltered as he shared how he sometimes imagined hearing Mamma making familiar bird imitations, the sweet sounds ringing across the backyard. “Or sittin’ out on the porch like she does, talking to the birds that hop right up close to her.” He drew a long, slow breath. “Ain’t easy dismissing all of that.”

  All the pleasant memories.

  Grace heard the note of undisguised longing in her father’s voice. Was this the same man Mammi Adah had suggested Mamma might never have married? “Mamma’s goin’ away is the worst thing ever to happen,” she said.

  He was momentarily quiet, running his hand back and forth over Willow’s shoulder.

  Knowing she should not even think of asking, she said, “If I’m out of order, tell me, Dat. . . . Do you think it was necessary for Mamma to leave for a while?”

  A long pause ensued. Then he surprised her by saying, “The night before she left, there was a problem with one of the new lambs. Adam needed my help.” He sighed, rubbing his nose. “But your Mamma needed me more. . . .” He bowed his head. “I was just too busy.”

  She was astonished at his sincerity. “Ach . . . Dat.”

  “And not bein’ able to make amends with her . . . that’s the worst of it.” Dat began inspecting the bottom of Willow’s hoof.

  “Surely the vet checked for an abscess. But I’ve been keepin’ an eye on it anyways.”

  “Well, that’d be easy to care for, jah?”

  He agreed. “Just open it up, drain it, and soak it in Epsom salts.” The warm solution drew out the pus and killed the bacteria inside.

  “Sure would be nice if that’s all this turned out to be,” she said.

  “Amen to that.”

  They remained there for some time without speaking. After a while, she mentioned spending the afternoon with Heather Nelson. “She’s the Riehls’ long-term boarder. I took her to visit Sally today.”

  Dat’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

  “She wants to see my herb garden tomorrow.”

  “Fine with me.” Just that quick, he seemed lost in a daydream, and she wasn’t sure he’d heard her at all. Several more times she attempted to engage him in conversation, only to realize he must be tired. Either that or he was only able to emerge from his staid, quiet nature for a brief time. He’s sunk back into himself.

  Heather drove with her windows down after breakfast Monday, letting the warm air rush against her hair and face. The field crickets were ticking off their countdown to summer. Ve-ry soon, croaked the bullfrogs along Mill Stream.

  She refused to set herself up for another possible dispute with her father, recalling the frequent discussions between her parents. Mom had been panicked, wishing she hadn’t given in to all the pressure from both the oncologist and from Dad. Could it be . . . had she lost the will to care about living?

  Sometimes Heather wondered the same about herself. Was the devastation of Devon’s breakup the culprit, compounded with the heartache of losing her mother? It was ridiculous to assume she would be forever discontented without Devon or any other man. I can be happy without a guy.

  Spotting Dad’s rental car on the shoulder ahead, she steered off the road and parked. A horse and buggy were parked there, too, and two Amishmen were talking to her father.

  “Hi, kiddo . . . we’re going to dowse for water,” Dad called to her.

  “You’re kidding, right?” One of the older Amishmen held a willow branch, shaped like a Y, the forked ends held palms down. The third pointed toward the ground.

  “It’s willow witching,” the younger farmer told her. Both wore the same kind of yellow straw hats she’d seen on Andy Riehl and his sons, and the trademark black suspenders with pale blue shirts and black trousers.

  “Watch for the straight end to bounce if it detects water underground,” Dad said, obviously intrigue
d as he followed them.

  “Who are these men?” Heather whispered when they were out of earshot.

  “One’s Potato John—your friend Grace Byler’s uncle.”

  She was surprised at the many connections her dad had made among the Plain folk lately. “Wow, Dad. You’re becoming quite the real-time social networker.”

  He laughed. “Next thing, I’ll need a straw hat.”

  “So who’s the other guy?”

  “Peter Stahl, Josiah Smucker’s cousin. They both live up near Akron.” He explained that the men were visiting relatives in the area, and Josiah thought Potato John could easily find water or even oil on the property.

  “Really . . . oil? Now that would be nice.”

  Dad slipped his arm around her shoulder. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Now that’s a good start,” Heather teased.

  “I’ll make you a promise. No more talk of chemo until after I meet your naturopath. Fair enough?”

  “Deal!” She went with him to the side of the field where Potato John’s willow stick was already springing back and forth.

  “Here’s a gut place to dig your well, Mr. Nelson,” he announced, grinning like a schoolboy.

  “Well, I daresay.” Dad ran to catch up with him.

  He’s even starting to sound Amish. Heather shook her head.

  What’s up with that?

  Washday was always hectic, and Grace was mighty glad for Mandy’s help this morning. She almost wished Becky might come running over and lend a hand as she sometimes did. She could see Becky and her little sisters outside in the early-morning light, hanging up their own washing together.

  Grace found it almost comical that Yonnie kept going in and out of the barn as if he wasn’t certain where he ought to be. Sometimes he’d wave to her and other times he’d call, “Hullo, Grace,” like he’d just done ten minutes before.

  “I’d say you’ve got yourself a new beau,” Mandy said when she came over for another handful of clothespins.

  “Ach, Mandy.”

  “No, I’m serious. We might just need to plant a whole acre of celery this summer, what with Adam and maybe me and—”

  “Yonnie’s not here for me.”