A Simple Spring: A Seasons of Lancaster Novel

by Rosalind Lauer

“Got it.” Mike’s voice sounded a lot more confident than he felt.

  As Mike pulled on sterile latex gloves and spread out a sterile towel, he asked Jacob a few questions, trying to distract him with conversation. It was clear that the guy was in constant pain, but once he got an injection of local anesthetic, that would subside. Mike laid the sterile tools out on the towel, along with a stack of gauze. Then he went around the exam table to speak with Jacob, face-to-face.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Jacob gritted his teeth, but nodded.

  “Are you scared?”

  “Some. I don’t know that I can take any more pain.”

  Mike put a hand on Jacob’s good arm. “It’s going to get better. Any minute, the doctor will be in here with Amy—she’s the nurse—and they’ll inject you with a painkiller. Your fingers will go totally numb.”

  “Yeah?” Jacob let out a breath. Although there was still anguish in his eyes, the fear seemed to have faded. “That’d be good.”

  “It’ll be better soon.” Mike squeezed Jacob’s arm, silently praying for the Lord to guide his father’s hands during the procedure and help Jacob heal quickly. Probably the greatest health concern for a wound like this, besides the obvious loss of manual dexterity, was the risk of infection.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” Mike added. “Most important. You’ll need to keep your injured fingers cleaned and bandaged for a while. We’ll give you sterile gauze and tape, and you’ll need to come back for follow-up. But if you remember just one thing, it’s this: Keep your hand clean and covered. Got it?”

  Jacob bit his lower lip. “Clean and covered.”

  “Right. You don’t want a staph infection. If you get an infection, it could kill you, so don’t forget.”

  “Clean and covered,” Jacob repeated.

  “Good.” The door opened, and Mike stepped away as his father returned with Amy, the nurse who assisted him weekdays in the clinic.

  “Let’s see how those fingers are cleaning up,” the doc said, checking the hand again. “I think we’re ready. I see Mike’s got us all set up here. Amy, let’s get a syringe prepared for Jacob.” He went to the sink to wash up.

  “Will do,” she said.

  Mike took that as his cue to leave. He had his hand on the doorknob when his father said: “Feel free to stay and observe, son.”

  Mike felt the burden of expectation. His father wanted him to stay, but he couldn’t stomach it. “That’s okay. I’ll make myself useful elsewhere.”

  The door to the other exam room was open and he poked his head in. Amy hadn’t had time to clean up, so he went in, tore the paper from the exam table, and tossed it into the trash. For good measure, he wiped the table down with antiseptic, rolled out new paper, and clamped it down onto the table. Mike wasn’t afraid of work. After high school he’d taken the advice of his pastor and spent two years with the Peace Corps. Assigned to a rural village in Jamaica, he’d worked to bring health care and hygiene awareness to the people there.

  Sometimes the faces of the people he’d worked with in Jamaica were vivid in his mind.

  There was Algernon, a nine-year-old boy who had worked the beach at the property line of a major resort, selling beaded necklaces. He’d befriended a few children of Mrs. Fitzroy, a woman struggling to make ends meet after her husband was mistakenly killed in a drug raid. He’d visited scores of children receiving care in the local hospital, kids whose parents could not afford to give up a day’s work to make the trip to see their children. And then there were the local kids who stopped by his bungalow every day, hoping for some papers to color on or a taste of a warm Fanta soda. Oliver, Rodell, Vonnie, Leonda …

  Every mission came with its share of frustration, but when he’d left Jamaica Mike had been exhilarated by the opportunity to touch countless lives … and the blessings those people had brought him. He had been able to embrace the goals his parents had engrained in him: to help, serve, and love.

  But not long after he’d arrived back in Paradise, he’d realized that his gifts were far different from his father’s. Mike could rally people to take care of their personal health, but he was not equipped to work in the trenches, suturing wounds or diagnosing diseases. He had learned that he was a people person, but he didn’t have the stuff to be a surgeon.

  Or a country doctor, like his dad.

  Every day, that was becoming more and more clear to Mike. It was his parents who couldn’t let go of the dream of their son attending medical school and taking over his father’s practice.

  He left the door of the exam room open and returned to the reception office, a tiny cubby filled with file cabinets and his mom’s desk.

  “You didn’t want to watch the procedure?” His mother didn’t even look up from the calendar she was filling in.

  “I took a pass. As time goes on, I’ve got less and less of a stomach for that kind of thing.”

  “No kidding.” She lifted her eyes, suddenly focusing on him. “How are you going to take over the practice when you can’t handle a simple surgical emergency?”

  He leaned against a tall file cabinet and gestured toward the back hall. “That is no simple emergency, Mom. I wish Dad would send cases like that on to the hospital. That guy’s fingers could have been saved. Someday, a patient might take legal action against him for doing a quick fix when the hospital could’ve done a more thorough job.”

  “No, honey.” She shook her head. “Your dad’s patients are not going to sue him. These people appreciate his earnest care and his availability. Didn’t you hear Jacob? He can’t afford the two or three thousand dollars that a hospital visit would cost him. And your father is the most dedicated health care professional I’ve ever met. Dedicated to a fault.” She spun her chair toward him and tilted her head. “What’s this really about?”

  He bent down to peer out the pass-through. The waiting room was empty for the scheduled lunch break. “I’m not surgeon material. Two years in the Peace Corps showed me that I’m really good at working with people. That’s where my talents lie.”

  “Doctors work with people every day.” She clicked her pen open and shut. “Are you getting cold feet about going into medicine?”

  Mike tried to breathe against the crushing weight of pressure in his chest, pressure to fulfill his parents’ dream. “I’m just saying that I can’t stomach surgical work like that. If I joined the practice someday, and that’s assuming I could even get into med school, I would have to send cases like Jacob’s on to the hospital.”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” His mother tapped her pen against one knee. “Your brother Drew was disappointed on that front. I think he would have been a great doctor, but a few hundred med school admission departments didn’t agree with me.”

  “It’s cutthroat competitive, Mom,” he said, trying to prepare her for the inevitable.

  “But don’t count yourself out, son. You’ll get credit for serving in the Peace Corps, and it takes a special college student to give up two years of his life. And think about it; you’re going to get a degree from Temple University. Your father and I are both proud of you, Mike. You need to trust in God that everything will work out.”

  “I hope so.” He crossed his arms, uncomfortable with the conversation. Mike had spent the last year and a half trying to escape the fact that he was miserable living and working here. Each week he ticked off the days until he could escape to the city. He wanted desperately to get away from Lancaster County. Unlike his father, the local healer, he didn’t really belong here. Everything about the city had more appeal to him, even the Episcopal church he attended with his gran.

  His mom turned away at the sound of the outside door opening—another patient—and Mike realized that his father and Amy had worked through the short lunch break. As the Amish woman checked her daughter in with Celeste, Mike recalled Sadie King, the most unusual Amish girl he had ever met.

  Now, there was another person who didn’t belong in Lancaster County. He grinned at the
thought of Sadie King singing onstage in a dark, smoky club. She’d really thrown him when she’d shared that secret confession. He wondered if Sadie was overdoing the rebellion thing, maybe compensating for missing her parents, who’d been killed a year and a half ago.

  Maybe. But most likely she was a kindred soul, someone who just didn’t belong here.

  That saying—bloom where you’re planted? Life didn’t always work out that way.

  FOUR

  Okay, here’s proof that I am such a city slicker,” Remy McCallister said as she and Mary headed down the sunny lane toward the road. “I never knew you needed to weed a wild strawberry patch.”

  “Sure you do. Otherwise it’ll get choked out, just like any other plant. If you don’t clear out the weeds, they soak up all the good things from the soil, and take all the sunshine and water. And pretty soon, you have no strawberries left at all.”

  The two young women carried empty pails, which Mary had promised would be stuffed with weeds by the time they were through. It was the perfect time for some outdoor activity, with the little ones napping, the men installing equipment in the new milking barn, the other children off at school or in town for Susie’s appointment with the doctor.

  As the oldest female in the King household, Mary was the expert on everything from baking shoofly pie to getting windows sparkling clean to caring for the little ones, Sam and Katie. Every day Mary coordinated the preparation of three meals for eleven people—twelve, when Remy was eating with the family—and she seemed to manage it all with ease and good humor. Today, for example, Remy had helped Mary prepare lunch for the family as well as for the neighbors and friends who had come over to help Adam, Jonah, and Gabe install the new milking machines in the barn. Without blinking an eye, Mary had fed a small village of people. In the morning she’d packed coolers for all the children going to school, as well as for Susie and Sadie, for their trip into town. Then she’d stretched things out to produce enough sandwiches and split pea soup for a dozen people.

  Remy hoped that at least a few of Mary’s fine housekeeping skills would rub off on her. Come October, after Mary wed Five and moved in with the Beiler family, Remy would be the woman responsible for keeping the family fed and in clean clothes. It was a thrill for a girl like Remy who had always longed for a big family. A thrill, but also a huge challenge.

  Being Amish wasn’t part of Remy’s heritage, as it was with the members of the King family. Remy smiled, thinking how Adam still teased that she was an “Englisher,” though she now dressed Plain and wore a prayer kapp over her bun. Over the winter Remy had come here to Lancaster County in pursuit of a story for her newspaper. In the process of her investigation, she had fallen in love with Adam King and had come to embrace the Plain way of life. She had been meeting with Preacher Dave and planned to attend classes to prepare for baptism into the faith. The training would last through the summer until baptism in October, but with so much to learn—including the very specific Pennsylvania Dutch language—Remy was glad for the time.

  The important thing was that she was on the right path. God had led her to Adam and his loving family and this tightly interwoven community.

  Walking down the lane, Remy turned her face toward the sun and breathed in honeysuckle-scented air, thinking of a song she’d learned at the singings.

  Come, gracious Spirit, heav’nly Dove, with light and comfort from above.…

  She had been searching for a home, and in her quest she had found light and comfort, her God and the love of her life here in Lancaster County.

  “Here we go.” Mary directed Remy to an embankment by the side of the main road. “These rounded leaves are the strawberries. The tall ones that look like little cornstalks?” She wrapped one gloved hand around a weed and yanked it out. “These are the weeds. Best to pull closest to the ground.”

  “Got it.” Remy put her gloves on and set her jaw. “Let ’er rip.” She dug into the tangled vines and tore out weeds with both fists. They went into the bucket, and she reached in again.

  “You’re mighty good at weeding,” Mary said. “Are you sure you haven’t done this before, city slicker?”

  They both laughed, and Mary turned her head away from a meandering bumblebee. “Oh, go away, bee!”

  “Buzz off,” Remy joked, grabbing another handful of weeds. The sound of a car on the road drew Remy’s eyes away from the berry patch, and she squinted as the black sedan slowed and the male passenger turned to stare at Mary and her.

  Mary watched with pursed lips as the car rolled past. “Is that the car? The one that followed you and Adam?”

  “I don’t know.” Remy frowned as she recalled the dark vehicle that had followed them back from the Yoders’ barn after last Sunday’s singing. Adam had pulled over to the side of the road and tried to wave it on, but the driver had hung back behind the buggy, its bright lights blinding them for a few miles. “It was dark, and for a while we couldn’t see anything but the car’s headlights. When the car finally passed us, we saw that it was a sedan in a dark color. Blue or black.”

  “I keep hoping it was just a visitor who was lost and was afraid to pass,” Mary said as the dark car dipped down the hill and out of sight. “We’re seeing more and more tourists these days, with the good spring weather.”

  Remy nodded. She had been hoping the same.

  “Oh, well.” Remy reached into the briar patch and plucked another handful of weeds. They were chatting about the excitement over the new milking machines when they heard a rumble on the road again.

  Although Mary kept working, Remy stepped back from the berry patch, her hands on her hips as the same black car came gunning over the hill. This time she stared right at the driver, almost daring him to stop or say something through the open car windows.

  And then, to her dismay, the car slowed as it approached.

  “Look, Mary. He’s coming here.” Fear shimmered down her spine as the vehicle rocked over a bump in the road then seemed to roll to a stop.

  Mary straightened and moved beside Remy. “Maybe he’s lost. Folks are always coming down here, needing directions.”

  The man behind the wheel wore sunglasses that masked his face. Remy also noticed a searchlight attached to the side of the car, near the side-view mirror, which she recognized as a tool used by some police officers. Was it a cop?

  No … there were no markings on the car, and the driver was dressed casually in a green polo shirt. Remy clenched the bucket, her knuckles white as the car slowed. The man stared at them, as if soaking up the details of their appearance. Then the car rolled on past, leaving Remy staring at the dust swirling behind it.

  “Just someone who’s lost, I think,” Mary said as she bent back to the strawberry patch.

  Remy had a feeling there was more to it. Many a stranger barreled down this deserted country road raising dust behind their car, but most didn’t give her a feeling of insecurity. She suspected that this was the man who had followed Adam and her in the buggy. What did he want from them?

  As she bent down to tug on a weed, the hairs at the back of her neck still tingled. Someone was watching. Who was he?

  An hour or so later, golden sunlight still bathed sections of the garden as Remy lifted a heavy watering can.

  “More water for this one,” Mammi Nell advised. The creases around her eyes were pronounced as she watched Remy pour water into one of the many potted celery plants growing in the garden behind the Doddy house. “Just a little more. Celery plants drink lots of water,” the older woman said.

  So far Remy had toted four buckets of water out here from the kitchen of the house, and it looked like they would need a few more for their thirsty celery plants. Although watering the garden sounded like an easy task, it turned out to be far more time-consuming when there weren’t handy faucets and hoses everywhere.

  Nell moved behind Remy, inspecting each plant as Remy watered. At one point, she didn’t like the damaged outer stalk of one of the plants, and she found a sharp tool t
o trim the bad area off.

  “I didn’t know you could do that,” Remy said.

  “Oh, ya.” Nell nodded. “It will grow back.”

  File that away as gardening tip number two hundred and twelve, Remy thought. She had learned much about cooking and gardening already, but every day some new bit of information came her way. Some days she felt like she needed a crash course on all things Amish, but most of the time it was a delight to be expanding her knowledge with practical skills. She felt sure that if her mother were still alive, she too would have enjoyed learning about the Amish way of life.

  “So.” Nell plucked a dried leaf from a plant. “I hear you’re starting die Gemee, the classes with the ministers, soon. Getting ready for baptism.”

  “Yes, Mammi.” Remy nodded, feeling a bit awkward about calling Nell King “Grandma.” In her heart, she felt that she was already a part of the King family, but nothing was official. She and Adam couldn’t marry until she was baptized in the faith.

  “And then, the wedding.”

  “In November. So many huge events are coming my way this fall. I don’t know which one I’m more excited about.”

  “They are two very big decisions.” Nell spoke slowly, deliberately, and Remy focused on her every word. “I reckon you know that they are both forever. There is no divorce in the Amish church. And if you leave the faith …” She frowned, shaking her head. “You will be shunned. Adam might be shunned, too. It’s not like other religions where you can turn away on Sunday, then come back on Tuesday.”

  “I understand that, and I’m very committed. I love Adam, and … and I’m thrilled to be his girl. I’m still learning about the Amish faith, but I’m equally committed on that front, Mammi. I believe God brought me here to live with you and your wonderful grandchildren. I think …” For a moment, the knot of emotion in Remy’s throat made her pause. How could she tell Mammi Nell how much it meant to her to have found a home here? How could she describe the attraction to this man who could make her pulse race with the brush of his hand? How his vow to lead this family inspired her? How his secret sense of humor and tenderness warmed her? Keep it simple, she thought, adding, “I think God’s love has brought me here.”