by Jane Jensen
The optimism was nowhere evident in the patient room I entered.
Samuel Hershberger and his young son Aaron shared a large room, each in his own bed. Both were sleeping.
Samuel looked to be in his early forties. His long bangs of brown hair and unkempt beard clearly identified him as Amish, even though he wore nothing but a hospital gown under the blankets. He must have lost a lot of weight, because the skin on his face appeared to be laid over the skull—drawn, loose, and colorless. An IV drip fed steadily into his veins. He appeared to be resting peacefully. I knew what it would take to get an Amish farmer like Samuel Hershberger into the hospital—near death. The loss of their son William must have been a wake-up call.
Aaron was quite young, maybe five or six. He was turned on his side and, although clearly ill, had healthier skin tone than his father. He would probably make it, I thought. I certainly hoped so.
I decided not to wake them. There wasn’t much Aaron could tell me, and Samuel looked too sick to disturb. Instead, I went off in search of their doctor. This wasn’t how I’d planned to spend my Saturday off, but a promise was a promise.
—
“I can’t say for certain what it is,” Dr. Kirsch said, being perfectly blunt about his ignorance.
Thanks to my badge, I’d gotten the doctor to speak to me about the Hershbergers. I left out the fact that my investigation was in no way official.
“My best guess is it’s a particularly virulent viral infection. But these things often remain undiagnosed. Both Hershbergers’ blood work show severe hyperchloremic acidosis, which can result from prolonged diarrhea and vomiting. We’re giving them IV fluids. It’s the best we can do for now. They should pull through fine.”
“Do you know why the fourteen-year-old son, William, died?”
“Dehydration, possibly kidney or liver failure. I doubt there’ll be an autopsy. There usually aren’t with the Amish unless it can’t be avoided. His mother said the whole family had been sick for three days, and William wasn’t keeping liquids down. He worked on the farm that day too. His body just gave out.”
Kirsch was an older man, early fifties, stocky, with a superior air. He clearly was a busy man and not overly curious about the medical mystery of the Hershbergers.
“If it’s a viral infection you don’t recognize, wouldn’t it be the procedure to call in the CDC?” I asked.
Dr. Kirsch looked incredulous. “Well . . . no. Not without a lot more evidence that it’s something unusual. It’s flu season. There are dozens of common viruses going around. If we called the CDC every time we had a patient with flu symptoms, we’d need a CDC the size of the U.S. military.”
“But a boy died.”
Kirsch squinted impatiently. “There have been over forty deaths from flu so far this season alone in the U.S. It’s tragic, but it happens. Dehydration can be very dangerous.”
I pulled out my notepad—not because I really needed it, but to reinforce the message that I wasn’t some dim relative he could bully. “Mrs. Hershberger says the entire family came down ill at the same time, overnight. There were also severe chills and tremors. Isn’t that unusual for the flu? People in a family would normally get sick in waves, not all at once.”
“It depends on when and how they were exposed to the virus.” Kirsch leaned forward, elbows on his desk. He seemed to be taking me a bit more seriously, but I sensed defensiveness in his tone. “If they were all exposed to someone who had the virus, say, at the same church meeting, it’s conceivable they would fall ill at the same time. And chills and shivering are to be expected with severe flu.”
“What exactly did their blood work show?”
Dr. Kirsch opened the file on his desk. “About what you’d expect. Electrolyte abnormalities, hemoglobin and red blood cell counts are elevated, and the acidosis . . . that’s all typical for severe dehydration.”
“Does it actually show the virus?”
“Viruses are detected via a swab culture, not blood work.”
“And was a swab culture done?”
He gave a subtle huff. “No. Confirming the influenza virus via a swab test wouldn’t change the treatment.”
“I understand. Still. I’s dotted and t’s crossed—you understand. Is it possible for you to administer a swab test now and confirm that it’s influenza? Just for our records?”
Kirsch frowned. “You understand that we’re conservative on our use of tests since these patients are not insured. It’s not in their best interest to rack up avoidable expenses.”
I gave Dr. Kirsch a brittle smile. “Run the test on Samuel Hershberger, please, doctor. Text me with the results today.”
—
Ezra was working in the garden when I got home from the hospital. As I parked the car my text alert went off.
Rapid flu test negative in both Hershbergers. No Influenza A or B virus present.
I read the message twice.
I typed in Meaning it’s not the flu?
The reply took seconds. Inconclusive. Likely the virus has left the system and now it’s complications. Treatment same.
Well. That wasn’t very helpful. I’d been hoping for something concrete to report to Hannah. I sighed and got out of the car, stretching my back. I took the opportunity to check out my partner like a shameless hussy.
Since leaving the Amish a little over a year ago, Ezra had changed in many ways. He never had taken to T-shirts, but he loved jeans. In the warm April afternoon, he wore a denim button-down work shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of jeans that clung to his narrow hips and long legs. I preferred his blond hair long, and he indulged me by keeping it shoulder-length. He had it tucked behind one ear, revealing his handsome face as he hoed between the rows.
The first time I’d seen Ezra, he’d been standing in his barn, his back to me, lost in a private moment of sorrow. Now, as then, he could make me forget to breathe. I gave in to the urge to go over and give him a hug.
“I’m covered in dirt,” he warned, though his arms were welcoming.
“Uh-huh. You’re so sexy when you’re working in the garden.”
Ezra’s lips quirked. “’Tis so? Guess that explains why the Amish have so many children.”
I laughed, feeling my mood lift like someone had pumped helium into it. “I suppose that could be a factor, though the lack of birth control might have something to do with it.” I breathed him in for a moment and stole a kiss. Our golden retriever, Rabbit, panted happily and wove around our legs.
“Any news?” he asked.
“The doctor says Samuel and Aaron Hershberger will recover, so that’s good. Unfortunately, the diagnosis is vague. Can I help you out here?”
“No. I was about to stop for the day. Need to do some chores in the barn already.”
“Shall I make stir-fry?” On weeknights, Ezra usually cooked for both of us since I worked late, so on the weekends I liked to take care of him. I went to pull away, but Ezra tightened his arms in one last squeeze.
“Sounds good,” he murmured into my ear. The nuzzle of his lips on my cheek held a lovely promise for later. I smiled.
—
“What’s a brauche man?” I asked Ezra as we relaxed on the couch after dinner.
“Where’d ya hear that word?” Ezra sounded amused.
“Hannah Yoder. She said people thought the Hershbergers had been cursed by a hex-something. And she mentioned a brauche man.”
Ezra settled down deeper into the couch and pulled me closer. “Ah. Well, a brauche man does a kind of magic. Sometimes it’s called powwow.”
“Magic?”
“They use prayers and plants and whatnot, but some say it’s magic all the same. You go to them when you’re sick or there’s a problem with an animal, or bad weather. They say special prayers and give you medicine that you take or . . . like bundles or tokens that yo
u put under your bed or in the horse’s stall. Things like that.”
“Sounds like voodoo, or maybe a witch doctor. I didn’t know the Amish had a folk magic like that.”
“Oh, ja. Have you not seen our hex signs? These are old beliefs, coming from Germany. But not many think anything of it anymore. My grandmother used to go to an old powwow woman.”
“Yeah? Your grandma did?” I sat up so I could see Ezra’s face.
“Yes.” His face was serious, but his eyes twinkled.
“Okay. What did this powwow woman do for your grandmother?”
“Treated aches and pains. Though maybe there were other things she used powwow for too. My father didn’t approve. He’d grumble about ‘the work of Satan’ and ‘being in league with the devil.’ Some don’t like powwow, even when it’s a gut church member that does it. But my grandmother just complained louder about her pain and didn’t stop goin’.”
“She sounds like a character.”
“She was a woman who knew how to get her way. You didn’t cross her. Reminds me of someone else I know.” Ezra was smiling as he told this story, but suddenly his smile faltered and pain darkened his eyes.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry you lost all of your family in one blow.
I didn’t say it out loud, but I lay against his chest and squeezed him tight. Just when I thought the anguish of being shunned had passed, it could crop up again. It probably always would. I still missed my own parents at times, and they were dead. They didn’t live fifteen miles away and refuse to acknowledge I’d ever been born.
“So . . . a powwow man could hypothetically curse someone and make their crops fail or make them sick?”
Ezra shrugged. “Hex signs are to protect from curses. So yes, I guess the Amish believe in such things. Do you?” He sounded genuinely interested in what an English person—that is, someone who wasn’t Amish—might make of it.
“Hmmm.” I thought about it. “I think there are people who believe they can lay curses, and send a lot of bad intent your way. But I don’t think it could actually hurt you unless you knew about the curse and believed in it too. Then you might have a psychosomatic response.”
“What does that mean?”
“If you expect to become sick, really, truly believe it, it can make you sick.”
Ezra’s body, so lanky and relaxed beneath mine a moment ago, grew tense. His hand had been stroking my arm. It stopped.
“Did I say something wrong?”
Ezra bit his lip, then shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder at how easy it is for you to dismiss anything outside of us humans, anything outside the mind. Not sure if I should admire you for it or just feel brokenhearted.”
Leave it to Ezra not to pull punches. He didn’t say things he didn’t mean, and rarely held back on the stuff that was hard to hear. Religion, faith in God . . . it was something Ezra struggled with. He couldn’t be Amish any longer, but he wasn’t an atheist at heart either. In his upbringing there was no such thing as a middle ground. Unfortunately, I had no faith of my own to give him as an alternative. I’d seen too much out there as a cop, experienced too much of my own heartbreak when my husband had been brutally murdered, to believe in an omnipotent being who directed man’s fate and cared.
I cupped Ezra’s face. “I don’t dismiss everything outside of us. God . . . I don’t know. But faith and love . . . absolutely. Curses though?” I put a funny twist on the final words, hoping to get him to smile.
It worked. He huffed. “Ja, okay. Maybe curses don’t work. Or I’d have killed off a few of my mules a hundred times over.”
“Not to mention our furnace.”
Ezra nodded solemnly. “It’s a right bugger.”
“And the shower.”
“The hot water runs the other way when I get in there. Don’t do a lick of good to yell at it.” He was all laconic irony now.
I bit back a smile, playing the game. “And I’ve heard you say some not very nice things to our stove once or twice.”
“The flame on that right front burner has it out for me.”
I relaxed back into him with a laugh. I breathed in the warm scent of his shirt, felt the hard muscles shift under the cotton, and felt heat stir inside me. “I missed you today.” I raised my head to kiss his neck.
“Yeah?” His hand stroked my arm once more, but this time there was an electric intensity to it. He pressed up into me ever so slightly, causing my body to immediately heat, preparing for him.
Someday, our mutual attraction, the love we had for each other, and, yes, the quite lovely sex, might not be enough. It might not be a glue strong enough to hold us together. We came from such different worlds. I feared that day. But for now, I’d take all of Ezra I could get.
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