An Amish Gathering (Three Amish Novellas)

by Beth Wiseman

  “Shall I pick you up?”

  She nodded. “That would be nice.”

  They talked about the last singing, the friends who’d attended, what couples were pairing up, Leah Petersheim and Aaron Lantz’s recent marriage, an editor showing interest in publishing Leah’s first story. They speculated on how the Petersheims had felt when three of their four daughters became engaged in such a short time.

  A car came up behind them very quickly. Ben pulled over to the shoulder and it went speeding past, startling Ike. He reared, and Ben fought to steady him, to keep control.

  His heart pounding, Ben turned to Rebecca and found her looking pale and shaken, clutching at the dash of the buggy.

  “Someone should do something about drivers like that!” she muttered.

  Nodding, Ben pulled the buggy back onto the road. Sharing the road with modern day horsepower could be dangerous. It was easy to get lulled into a false sense of security, listening to the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, talking and gazing at the scenery. When there were accidents, it was the buggy occupants who were hurt the worst.

  Thank goodness nothing had happened. He couldn’t stand it if something happened to Rebecca and he wasn’t any more able to save her than he had been Lizzie.

  Amos and Naomi didn’t need another tragedy in their family.

  Chapter Five

  DR. PRATO HELD OUT HER ARMS. “REBECCA! IT’S SO GOOD to see you.”

  Rebecca hugged the woman who’d listened to her tears and fears after Lizzie died. She took a seat, and the older woman sat opposite her. The office was a comfortable place, filled with books and photos of Dr. Prato’s children.

  “So tell me how you’ve been,” Dr. Prato invited. “I haven’t seen you for, let’s see here”—she consulted her file—“three years.”

  Her eyes were warm as she gazed at Rebecca over the rims of her poppy-red reading glasses. She’d once confessed that she was in her sixties, but she looked much younger with her streaky blonde hair and trendy Englisch outfits.

  Bringing her up to date took a few minutes. Then Rebecca fell silent.

  “So tell me why you wanted to come in today.”

  Rebecca stared at her hands.

  “You don’t need to choose the right words. Just say what’s on your mind.”

  Looking up, Rebecca met her calm gaze. “I noticed my family sometimes still acts worried about me.”

  “They’re responsible for their own behavior. You can’t control that.”

  “I know.” She twisted her hands in her lap.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “I’m hearing voices. A voice,” she corrected.

  To her amazement, the other woman didn’t blink. “And whose voice is it? When we first started our sessions, I recall you thought you heard your sister’s. I told you at the time that that wasn’t unusual. Twins have quite a close bond.”

  “Ya. I remember.”

  “And your sister was quite—well, how would you describe her?”

  “Dominant,” Rebecca confessed. “Stronger, more outgoing. Definitely more adventurous.”

  “A risk taker.”

  Rebecca nodded.

  “Which is why it wasn’t surprising that she died that day.”

  “But I should have—” She stopped. “I know, you’ve been telling me for a long time that it wasn’t my fault.”

  Dr. Prato smiled. “And one day you’ll believe me. One day you’ll forgive yourself. But you haven’t yet, have you?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Not entirely. I’m supposed to believe it’s God’s will. That’s what we learn from the time we’re children, that everything is in order. That God is in charge. That it’s His will—”

  “If people live or die.” Dr. Prato looked at Rebecca over her glasses. “From the way you’re talking, I wonder if it isn’t only yourself that you haven’t forgiven. Maybe you haven’t forgiven God?”

  Rebecca bit her lip. “No, I don’t think I have,” she whispered. “I stopped being angry at Him. But how long is it supposed to take to stop missing her? To not feel bad that she’s gone? To not remember the way that she died?”

  “I wish I could tell you. Everyone’s experience with grief is different.”

  “Some people tell me that it’s time to be over Lizzie’s death— not lately, you understand, but they’ve said so. Not Mamm and Daed. They never have. Or Marian.”

  Or Ben. He was around constantly, and though he’d seen her at her worst moments, he’d never suggested that she should be setting aside her grief. He just listened. And listened and listened.

  “Something you want to say?”

  Rebecca shook her head. She wanted to think about it for a while.

  “So let’s return to this voice you’re hearing,” Dr. Prato prompted.

  “I heard it the other day when I stood by the pond.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  “Are you afraid, Rebecca?”

  Rebecca started to shake her head, then stopped. “I could say that I’m not afraid, that it’s simply that I haven’t wanted to put on my skates since the accident. But that wouldn’t be truthful.”

  “And you’re always truthful.”

  There was no need to look at Dr. Prato to see if she was questioning or implying anything. She was simply stating the truth.

  “You don’t—you don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You don’t think there’s something wrong with someone hearing a voice?”

  Dr. Prato smiled. “Do you?”

  “Now you’re answering a question with a question.” Rebecca smiled in spite of herself. “No one else I know talks about hearing voices, so I have to think it’s a little strange.”

  “Since I moved to this community, I’ve gotten to know a number of Plain people. I’ve never heard any of them having such experiences, no,” Dr. Prato admitted. “But that doesn’t mean that they don’t.” She leaned forward. “Sometimes, when others don’t talk about deeply personal things, you can start to wonder if you’re different, if something might even be wrong with you. Now, think about what the voice is saying.”

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  “Could it be you, talking to yourself? Is it possible that it’s your inner voice? Maybe you didn’t hear it a lot before, since you were around such a strong sibling. Maybe you’re hearing your inner voice urging you to stop being afraid to live? To do things you haven’t done since Lizzie died? You said you heard it when you were looking at the pond. That’s where you loved to skate, where you did something that made you feel happy and free.”

  “And it’s where Lizzie died.”

  “Yes. That voice could even be you telling yourself not to be afraid of going on without her, couldn’t it? To not feel guilty any longer for not being able to save her?”

  Rebecca stared at the doctor, her eyes wide. “I—I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Think about it. See if it makes sense to you.” She sat back.

  “I will.”

  “And maybe . . .” She hesitated.

  “What?”

  “Maybe it’s God talking to you?”

  Rebecca frowned. “I don’t know. I doubt it. He knows I was so angry with Him for so long for taking Lizzie home.”

  “Was there anything else on your mind?” the older woman asked after a long moment.

  “I was thinking on the way here that I’ll always be grateful that you talked to my parents about me,” Rebecca said quietly. “You really persisted.”

  “You were worth fighting for,” Dr. Prato told her. “I can’t tell you how gratifying it’s been to see your community being more accepting of seeing a mental health professional when they need to.” She smiled. “You’ve come a long way from the first time I met you.”

  Rebecca was ashamed to remember how she hadn’t wanted to live after Lizzie died. She’d developed pneumonia and had been hospita
lized for two weeks when Dr. Prato had stopped by her room at the request of the attending doctor.

  Her parents were dubious at first about her talking with Rebecca. Medical care was one thing, but Rebecca’s daed had felt his daughter didn’t need to speak to a psychologist. But something Dr. Prato had said convinced them. After Rebecca left the hospital, she visited Dr. Prato in her office in town a number of times.

  “I know it was difficult for them to consider at first.” Then she frowned. “That reminds me. I overheard my father calling you a ‘head doc’ today.”

  “It sounds like that bothered you.”

  Rebecca stared at her hands. “He was telling Ben, a friend of the family. Someone who works for him. I went to school with him; he’s my friend. But I never told him that I’ve seen you. I’m not ashamed of it, but I live in a small community. I don’t need people talking about me.”

  “Would Ben do that?”

  “No,” Rebecca said at last. “He’s such a good friend to me.”

  Was it her imagination that the doctor was sitting up a little straighter, looking a little more attentive?

  “Tell me about this Ben.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “He’s just a friend.” She picked at a thread on her skirt. “Well, he’s just always . . . around, you know? People have asked me if he’s a friend or more.”

  Dr. Prato’s brows lifted. “And how do you feel about that?”

  Ben glanced at the clock in the hardware store. He’d dropped Rebecca off almost an hour and a half ago. She’d said she’d meet him here. But maybe she’d started feeling worse. Maybe she was waiting there for him to come get her.

  He returned to the building where she’d asked him to drop her off and walked inside. He examined the building directory. Dr. Seaton, gerontologist. Hmm. No, that was a doctor for old people. An obesity clinic. No. Rebecca was slim.

  There was a listing for a cancer specialist. His heart stopped for a moment, then beat again when he saw a little note attached that said they’d recently moved to a different location. Ben scanned the small list remaining. A pediatrician and a urologist specializing in male patients.

  Then he saw the listing for a Dr. Hannah Prato, psychologist. Maybe Amos hadn’t been joking about Rebecca seeing a “head doc.” Maybe the thoughts Rebecca thought were dark, not insightful. Grief often did strange things to people. Sometimes they couldn’t function anymore. Sometimes they even tried to hurt themselves.

  Although . . . Amos hadn’t been expressing worry about his daughter. He’d been almost jovial. And Rebecca had responded lightly, teasing him in return.

  “Do you need some help, young man?”

  Ben turned and took off his black felt hat in deference to the Englisch woman beside him. Her appearance was so different from that of the Amish women he knew: her hair was short, light brown with streaks of blonde that he didn’t think came from being outside in the sun. She wore a very short dress that matched the bright red glasses perched on her nose. Instead of minding the way he stared at her, she gave him a direct and inquisitive smile as she waited for him to speak.

  “No, I—uh—” He felt like a dolt standing there, unable to frame a reply. “I’m looking for a friend.”

  “Perhaps she’s waiting outside.”

  He hadn’t said she. He shook his head. “No, she wasn’t outside.”

  Her eyes narrowed just a bit, as if she were sizing him up. “I see. Do you know which doctor she was seeing?”

  Again he shook his head. “I don’t think it was any of them.”

  The woman scanned the list. “No? Well, let’s see if we can figure this out.” She ran over the same list of specialists he had, and he shook his head at each one. “That leaves just Dr. Prato?”

  He must have looked appalled, for she reached out and touched his arm. “It’s okay, you know. Sometimes we all need someone to talk to.”

  “I don’t know anyone who sees a head doctor,” Ben told her. “Well, that’s not exactly true. A friend of mine was diagnosed as bipolar last year, and he’s been seeing one.”

  A man entered the building just then. The woman waited until he’d gotten into the elevator and the doors closed. “Sometimes a person needs to talk to someone other than their people or their God. It’s okay, really. I’ve counseled Plain people.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Hannah Prato.”

  Ben took her small, smooth hand in his larger, work-roughened hand, feeling like a big, clumsy bear. “The head doctor.”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  “I’m Ben Weaver.” Was it his imagination, or did he see the faintest flicker of expression? “I think you know who I am,” he said slowly.

  Her smile never faltered. “I do?”

  Ben tilted his head to look at her and nodded.

  “Well, you know, whoever saw your friend wouldn’t be able to tell you so,” she said. “Doctors must maintain patient confidentiality.”

  “I know that. But I’m worried about her. She was supposed to meet me at the hardware store, and she didn’t come. I started thinking—”

  Dr. Prato’s smile faded, and her eyes were sympathetic. “You’re concerned that it could be something far worse than you imagined. I understand.” She studied him. “This person you’re worried about— she’s very lucky to have a friend such as you. I can tell that you care about her very much. And what I can tell you is what I said before, that sometimes people see me because they need to talk to someone other than their people and their God. They need to say things and not feel judged. They need to feel that they can explore topics that are outside of the way they usually think.” She paused. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”

  “Ye-es,” he said slowly.

  “I thought you might.” She gave him a nod of approval. Shifting her big shoulder purse and the files she carried, she fished in her pocket and then held out a business card. “If you’d ever like to talk to me, just let me know. When Plain people feel they need to see a doctor, they should feel they can see whatever kind of doctor they need.”

  “I’m glad my friend came to see you,” he told her.

  “I didn’t say—”

  “I know. And I’m glad I met you too.”

  Frowning, she searched his face. “Thanks. But I’m not sure I’d mention our conversation to your friend. I’m not saying to lie; that would be wrong.”

  “I agree. I wouldn’t want her to think I tried to find out her business, even if it was because I cared. But I doubt the subject will ever come up.”

  The doctor’s face cleared. “Let’s hope not. Unless you ever find a good time to tell her, one when you know your looking for her will be understood and appreciated.”

  He let out a gusty sigh. “I’m not appreciated by her,” he said, then his eyes widened at what he’d blurted out.

  “Do you really think so?” she asked, and as she turned and walked away, he thought he heard her chuckle.

  Tucking the card into his pocket, he began walking back to where he’d parked the buggy.

  He was waiting there when Rebecca rushed up, carrying a bag from a popular sewing and craft shop. “Sorry I took so long. There was a line in the shop.”

  “Ready to go?”

  “Ya.” She walked to her side of the buggy and looked surprised when he quickly appeared at her elbow to help her into it.

  He frowned. He was always polite. Then he thought, Maybe she’s nervous since we got so physically close the last time I helped her into the buggy. His face flaming, he rounded the buggy and got inside. With a jerk of the reins, he got the buggy moving. They traveled a few miles in silence, then Rebecca startled him by speaking.

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Staring at me.” She turned to him. “Are you wondering if I’m going to do something crazy?”

  “I—why would I wonder that?”

  “Because my father said I was going to a ‘head doc.’”

  Ben didn’t know what to say. �
�I don’t know much about them.”

  “Then ask. If I don’t want to answer, I won’t.”

  “Allrecht. Why did you go to one? Is something wrong with your head?”

  “I met Dr. Prato in the hospital, when I had pneumonia. She helped me through the grief process.”

  “Then why see her today?”

  She looked at him and hesitated. Shrugging, she looked out at the passing scenery. “I just wanted to talk with her.” She smiled at him. “I’m glad I did. She thinks I’m doing really well.”

  “Ya?” He looked at her. There was a lightness to her mood that had been absent earlier that morning.

  She nodded. “She says that grief’s different for everyone, and there’s no set time for people to come to terms with it.”

  Ben remembered how his mother had said something similar. “Sounds wise.”

  “And since Lizzie was my twin, there was more of a bond than I might have had with another sister.”

  “The two of you were always together,” he recalled. “I hardly ever saw you apart.” But he’d only been interested in her, not Lizzie.

  She looked at him again. “You know, I thought about my mamm and daed and how they’ve never been impatient with me, never chided me about grieving for Lizzie for so long. It occurred to me that you hadn’t either. I’ve never thanked you for it.”

  “You look surprised.”

  “I am.” She stared straight ahead again. “Well, you don’t make it easy to talk to you, you know.”

  “I—don’t?”

  Shaking her head, she turned to him again. “I mean, we’ve talked a lot about important things, like Lizzie dying. But then . . .”

  When she closed her eyes and bent her head, he touched her hand. Her eyes flew open in surprise.

  “Talk to me.”

  She lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “We’ve been friends for such a long time.” She stopped, hesitated. “But something’s felt different the last few days.” Her eyes widened at what she’d said. It had never been in her to be so . . . bold.

  He let that sink in. Maybe it was time to do some real talking. Ben pulled the buggy to the side of the road and turned to face her. “I don’t always have the right words like some men.” Now it was his turn to hesitate.