The Missing

by Beverly Lewis

“Over in the Dawdi Haus . . . Edna and Jonas did not want them upset further.”

  Bad enough that they saw their little brother injured.

  “We prayed before I left that God’s sovereign will might be done in this calamity,” Susan said in a near whisper. “Jonas has already searched out the young boys’ parents, trying to befriend the boys’ families. The police were so appalled. ‘How can you overlook this?’ one of them asked, shaking his head and growing almost angry with them. I never saw the likes of it.”

  The tea had steeped long enough. Lettie got up and poured some into two cups. They stirred in sugar and droplets of cream, then sipped the tasty chamomile tea, eating nearly all the cookies before them. As they relaxed together, Lettie hoped to keep in touch with Susan once she left for Hallie’s.

  “I’d like you to know what happens with my search,” Lettie said when their conversation had turned from tiny Danny, who remained in the hospital, though the doctors fully expected him to recover. “You’ve helped in more ways than I can say.”

  Susan agreed to keep in touch by letter writing. “And it looks like you might be still here for the hen party at May’s on Wednesday. ’Tis gut. ”

  “Maybe so, but I trust Cousin Hallie will be quick with a reply. I should be on my way no later than Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Usually it takes only a day for a letter to come from Indiana,” Susan said.

  “That’s what I’m hopin’ for.” The last thing Lettie wanted was to wear out her welcome here, yet in a way, she dreaded leaving. It was becoming more emotionally difficult to continue her wanderings. At night her dreams were of a vagabond, sorely lost, who did not know if she would ever be welcomed home with open arms. The daylight hours were equally filled with longing. She yearned continually for her children back home, as well as for their father . . . her Judah.

  The thought of her beloved poetry books—Samuel’s gift from years ago—crossed her mind. The books had been a comfort in all this. Perhaps too comforting, she thought ruefully.

  When Susan said good-night and they outened the lights and headed to their respective rooms, Lettie found her most treasured book of poems. Holding it, she thought of tearing out the first page, where Samuel had written his greeting and signed his name on her sixteenth birthday.

  But something stopped her from actually doing so. Her missing daughter—hers and Samuel’s, wherever she might be—what if she might cherish this book? Once I find her . . . She considered Vesta Mae, the Jabergs’ adopted daughter across the way. Lettie so badly wanted to glimpse her. “At the hen party,” she whispered, putting the book on the dresser.

  Reaching up, she removed her head covering and began to dress for bed. She slipped on her long cotton robe and took down her hair. Then, kneeling on the floor, she tucked the book of poems, so descriptive in its phrases, deep in the recesses of her suitcase with the others. That special book had been a crutch for more than two decades, something she no longer needed. In all truth, she believed she could walk without it . . . from here on out.

  Truly my soul waiteth upon God. . . .

  With a renewed sense of hope, Lettie covered the books with the clothes she’d already packed for her trip to Hallie’s. She rose and, pulling back the lightweight quilt, slipped into bed.

  chapter

  twenty - five

  Heather wended her way through a maze of Amish buggies to pick up her dad Tuesday morning. Was it just her imagination, or were the horses and carriages multiplying by the day?

  She squinted her eyes, stressed at the thought of their consultation with Dr. Marshall and how things might play out. Would Dad be polite today—listen and learn? Or would he create a scene?

  As she parked near the inn’s entrance, he came strolling confidently toward the car, wearing a sporty navy jacket and tan dress slacks. She figured he had brought mostly jeans and khakis for the trip. “Looking sharp today, Dad,” she said as he opened the door and got in.

  Even before she pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway, he began drilling her with questions about LaVyrle—where she’d gotten her credentials, what kind of credentials did she have, how long had she been in practice? Heather really just wanted to say, Ask her yourself, but bit her tongue.

  The naturopath’s parking lot was busier than at her first appointment last week. Not a good sign, she thought, worried that sitting around was sure to set her dad off even more.

  Surprisingly, they waited only fifteen minutes before her name was called. She introduced her dad to the nurse who led them down the hallway. So far, he was the consummate gentleman. They followed the cheerful nurse back to LaVyrle’s office, a well-decorated room with comfortable chairs across from a refurbished antique desk. Heather hadn’t seen this room before, having spent the hour last time in an examination room.

  The room had sea-green cloth shades that gathered at the bottom and covered the top fourth of the windows. She admired LaVyrle’s taste in dark woods for her lovely old desk and the built-in bookshelves. “We should’ve invited Dr. Marshall to help pick out your cabinets, Dad.” Despite his seeming ambivalence, she could see that he, too, was taken with the attractive office.

  After being seated, Heather pointed to the wall and jokingly said, “Now’s your chance to check out Dr. Marshall’s qualifications. Look, Dad. I’ve never seen so many framed certificates.”

  “A dime a dozen,” he retorted.

  I can see it now—disaster ahead.

  “Looks like she’s got everything from a chiropractic degree to a license in massage therapy for sports injuries.” He pointed out various certificates, then got up suddenly and went over to the wall, his nose nearly touching the glass as he peered at the words. “Unfortunately I’m not seeing anything MD-worthy.”

  “She’s a doctor of naturopathy . . . in practice for seventeen years. Please don’t judge her before you meet her, Dad.”

  After a few minutes, LaVyrle breezed into her office and closed the door. She wore a smart aqua suit with silver jewelry at her throat. The shade of her outfit accentuated the blue in her eyes, which fairly sparkled now as she reached to shake Dad’s hand. “You must be Heather’s father,” she said, smiling.

  “Roan Nelson.” He nodded, returning the smile. “Heather’s talked about you nearly nonstop since I arrived.”

  That’s a stretch. Heather was amused by her dad’s snap-to-it- iveness. Maybe this will be a slam-dunk.

  “What can I do for you today?” LaVyrle leaned back in her office chair, making eye contact with both Heather and her father.

  Dad lost no time in nutshelling the reason for their visit. “My daughter has a serious illness. She’s refusing conventional wisdom. . . .”

  “Which is?” asked LaVyrle.

  Turning, Dad looked at Heather. “Have you filled the good doctor in?”

  Yikes. She felt like a child.

  “Dad . . . Dr. Marshall is fully aware of the reason why I’m here.” She paused. “Why we’re here.”

  This wasn’t intended to be a therapy session, yet LaVyrle stepped right in and became a referee of sorts. She reiterated what she understood to be Heather’s hesitations about chemo and radiation, then recited the benefits of cleansing and juicing and other important aspects of “the lodge experience.”

  Heather was in no frame of mind to debate her dad. “What are the drawbacks?” she asked for his benefit.

  LaVyrle explained how physically challenging, even grueling, the program could be. “But I can assure you, the diet does become easier for those who stick with it.” She also offered them statistics on the success rate, without making claims. As a professional, she clearly knew better than to offer radical promises. “I believe Heather could greatly benefit by the Wellness Lodge, just as so many others have. We would love to help her.”

  “Any guarantees?” Dad asked, working his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  LaVyrle gave him a very direct look. “I’m sorry to inform you, Mr. Nelson, there are no guarante
es in this life.” She glanced at Heather, a knowing look on her pretty face. “Bottom line, we don’t offer easy cures here, but we do offer hope . . . through re-education, for instance. Clients learn how to work with their bodies to reverse the toxicities and deficiencies that have weakened the body’s ability to fight off serious disease in the first place.”

  LaVyrle gave them a brochure listing the daily schedule and program for the lodge—including educational sessions, therapeutic massages, blood-cleansing regimens and supplements, and meals based on cleansing teas, organic juices, and other aspects of Dr. Marshall’s plant-based diet, which consisted of eighty percent raw food and twenty percent cooked vegetables and grains.

  To Heather, LaVyrle sounded brilliant, and she sensed anew the woman’s passion.

  “So let me get this straight: My daughter could endure the rigors of your program and still be sick?” Dad leaned forward, his hand in a fist beneath his shaven chin.

  “I’m going to level with you, Roan. The rate of success is very low for patients who attempt this program on their own. This approach is only for those who are motivated and committed to lifestyle change. The lodge experience ensures that a person will have the needed support and guidance while going through the detox. The knowledge Heather would gain, for instance, will equip her with the skill and confidence to continue the regimen at home,” LaVyrle said. “To be fair, there are patients whose illness may still require drug therapy or surgery, depending on the stage and type of illness they are suffering.”

  Heather eyed her father. She expected he’d heard all he needed to—that surely he would simply thank LaVyrle for her time and encourage Heather immediately to register for the earliest possible opening.

  “You can also read additional testimonials from patients online, if you wish.” LaVyrle folded her hands on her desk.

  This is our cue the consultation is over, thought Heather, hoping her father caught on.

  “We really appreciate your time.” Heather inched forward in her chair. “When does the next lodge session begin?”

  Her dad ran his hand through his hair and gave her a quick look.

  LaVyrle checked the computer monitor. “We have a few openings left for next Monday.”

  Less than a week away. “I’d like to pay the deposit today.” Heather turned to her dad, hoping he’d offer the necessary money. But his eyes were sending a different message, loud and clear.

  “And I’d like to discuss this further.” He rose from his chair.

  “Dad . . .”

  “I think you’re wasting your time here, Heather,” he said, then quickly thanked LaVyrle. He reached to open the door and left Heather sitting there, bewildered.

  “This is rather typical,” LaVyrle said as soon as they were alone. “There are many stages of denial . . . and obviously your dad is extremely worried about you.”

  “He’s only known for three days, so it’s still a shock. And he forgets how completely debilitated Mom became from conventional medical treatment.” Heather explained how hopeless they both had felt.

  LaVyrle smiled thoughtfully. “I certainly understand. And I’ll pencil your name in if you’d like.”

  “You read my mind.” She realized her dad didn’t have much reason to trust her decisions at this point. After all, she had withheld her diagnosis from him, although out of loving concern. But he still viewed that choice as uncharacteristically irresponsible. No wonder he’s so resistant.

  Reaching across the desk, she shook LaVyrle’s hand. “Dad doesn’t know it yet, but I’m planning to join the ranks of your cured patients.” She mentioned having met Sally Smucker recently.

  LaVyrle nodded and smiled. “Sally certainly has a supportive spouse.”

  Heather considered that. “Is it absolutely necessary to have a supportive, um . . . significant other?” she asked, realizing she might be going this alone without her dad’s moral support.

  “Well, from my experience with patients, that can be a wonderful help . . . but a good friend is equally terrific, and many clients meet such lifetime friends at the lodge.”

  Lifetime friends. For the first time . . . the sound of that didn’t frighten her.

  Adah felt tense while Jakob told of Judah’s visit. His sallow face was creased with deep lines; she’d forgotten how drawn he looked when he was this pale. Getting up from the kitchen table, she went to the stove to boil some water for tea. “Do ya want honey in yours?” she asked.

  “Sugar’s fine, love.”

  Gingerly she set the teakettle on the burner and set the flame to medium high. “You don’t think Judah suspects anything in particular, do ya?” She glanced over her shoulder at Jakob.

  “It’s beyond me what he thinks he knows.”

  “So you didn’t tell him anything, then?” She moved back to the table and rested against the back of Jakob’s chair, at the head of the table.

  He sat still, head bowed, breathing much too fast.

  “Ach . . . what?” She went to sit on his right, her customary spot, and leaned forward on the table. “Jakob, you didn’t.” Please, dear Lord, no . . .

  He reached for his reading glasses on the table before him. “Bring me the Good Book, Adah. It’s time for the Scripture.”

  Her heart was heavy as she plodded to the corner table, over which the clock shelf ticked off the minutes. Obediently she carried the Bible and placed it in front of Jakob. “Please say you didn’t tell Judah about Lettie’s baby?” she pleaded.

  Jakob reached for the heavy book and opened it to the Psalms. “You know how I love ya, Adah . . . jah?”

  She nodded her head slowly, tears creeping into her vision.

  “And you’ve always trusted me, ain’t?”

  Her hands trembled. “Always.”

  “Judah’s a mighty smart man,” he said pleasantly. “Wasn’t that why we picked him to marry our Lettie?” His gaze held hers. “I daresay he smells a rat, which is all fine and gut. But Lettie’s the only one who has the right to share with her husband what she did before they married, jah?”

  Adah gave a deep sigh of relief. “Oh . . . thanks be to God.” The secret was still safe.

  After a morning at Eli’s, Grace spent part of the afternoon baking lemon meringue pies—one for their supper and two she planned to take over to Riehls’, hoping to run into Heather again. She wondered why Heather hadn’t come to see the herb garden yet, as she’d seemed so eager to do on Sunday afternoon.

  When she arrived at the neighbors’, she discovered both Becky and Heather were gone from the house. So she left the pies with Marian, who thanked her repeatedly. “I’ll tell the girls that their friend dropped by.”

  At home, Grace stopped to look in on Willow and—surprise, surprise—found Yonnie there. “Hullo,” she said at once.

  “Hi, Grace.” An instant smile appeared and he quickly stood up. “Willow’s definitely responding to the softer bedding.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “She’s less sensitive to the touch . . . more trusting, too,” he said.

  “We have been putting the liniment on like you said to.”

  Yonnie touched Willow’s shoulder. “Your father’s not in a big hurry, but he thinks we might try to walk her slowly in a couple days. Just go a short ways.”

  We?

  “I think you’ll be pleased with how all this special care will bring Willow around eventually.” He leaned toward Willow. “Ain’t that right, girl?” The horse turned almost immediately and nuzzled his elbow, softly nickering like they were old friends.

  “Dat doesn’t think she’ll ever trot again,” Grace observed.

  “Well, and she prob’ly won’t ever pull a carriage, neither, but I think she’ll be around for a gut while yet.”

  I think . . . I think, he says. But she was less annoyed by his assumptions today than a few days ago. Maybe it was the way Willow fixed her eyes on him. “The vet should be surprised at these small steps forward, jah?”

  Yonnie ag
reed. “It’s not so remarkable, really. A little love sure can go a long way.”

  Her cheeks blushed at his comment, and she hoped to goodness he hadn’t noticed.

  Yonnie’s eyes absolutely danced now as he occupied himself with her horse. Anyone who’s this fond of an old horse must surely have a good heart.

  Grace excused herself and left for the house.

  Heather’s dad was on a rant. “Dr. Marshall said it herself today . . . there’s no easy cure. Don’t you see it?” he said.

  No easy cure. . .

  He’d cornered her, or at least she felt that way in the parked car. The inn where he was staying was just beyond her left shoulder, and the armrest of the car was digging into her spine, her back literally up against the door. “What I see is that you can’t relinquish control even for something as vital as this,” she said.

  He leaned his head on the dashboard for a moment. “This? Meaning what . . . your life? Look, I care about you, kiddo.” He straightened and slapped the brochure on the stick shift. “I’ve read every word here—‘the body can heal itself of degenerative conditions’ . . . et cetera. Come on, Heather. You’re a brilliant grad student . . . why can’t you see this clearly?”

  Why can’t you?

  She was smarter than to respond in anger. Not even LaVyrle’s reasonable comments had made a dent in his inflexible veneer. “Why don’t you see this as a viable alternative to chemo?” She looked at him, miserable as he seemed. “What can it hurt?”

  “I’d rather not find out the answer to that,” he shot back.

  They were getting nowhere. “I think we should call it a day,” she suggested.

  “Well, I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

  Her heart sank. She desperately needed his assistance with this—financially and otherwise. It was all she could do to keep up with the weekly rent on her room at the Riehls’. “Dad, you know I need your help to pay for the lodge program. I don’t even have the fifteen hundred bucks for the deposit.” Meeting Dr. Marshall today and the ensuing conversation had put the nail in what little optimism she’d had for his encouragement and support.