The Healing

by Linda Byler

  “Look at this!”

  A low whistle, the recliner caught under the arm, tilted, and John was dumped out on the floor, sprawled across the linoleum like an ungainly rag doll.

  “Lazybones.”

  Daniel and Allen, laughing, already beginning to tease this early in the morning. John gathered himself up, laughing weakly, with hiccups that sounded like sobs, before righting himself and sagging back into the recliner. But he did not tilt it into the reclining position again.

  “Dat, you need to find worthwhile employment for this guy,” Daniel said, jerking his thumb in John’s direction.

  “He is gainfully employed,” Dat said firmly. “I couldn’t run the farm without him, so don’t go telling me what to do.”

  The good-natured Dat was grumpy this morning. Daniel took a long time lacing his shoes, ashamed to look up.

  He held his hands to the good heat from the woodstove, before making his way to the washhouse for his outerwear. He called back over his shoulder, “I need you to help pull a calf, John. So get your coat on.”

  John stayed on the recliner without answering.

  “Did you hear him?” Allen asked.

  “Course.”

  But his voice was squeaky, breathless.

  Mam turned to look at him, sharply. “Is your sore throat back?”

  John shook his head, got to his feet, still wobbling like a year-old child taking his first steps.

  Steady as she goes, he thought, his trek across the kitchen a test of stamina and balance.

  Mam was gathering laundry, thumping around upstairs, carrying the huge wicker hamper in the hallway, piled high with dirty boys’ clothes. Then it was back upstairs for another one.

  John stood in the washhouse, watching his strong, ambitious mother bend to stop the drain on the wringer washer, fling the lid open, insert the short hose before turning on the hot water. She whirled around, sorting clothes in rapid-fire motion, lifting men’s denim trousers, searching pockets, extracting red men’s handkerchiefs, throwing them on a separate pile.

  “John?”

  Noticing her pale-faced son, she stopped, worry creasing her brown, her eyes kind. “Are you feeling ill? Are you sure your sore throat isn’t coming back? I asked you that before this morning, but you never gave me much of an answer. See, if your sore throat isn’t better, strep can turn to mono, I think. Or is it rheumatic fever? Anyway, you have to watch it. Eli’s Dan’s Elsie got mono and was sick for months. Terrible sick. And your father cannot do without you. You look awful, John. Let me fix you vinegar water with honey.”

  All the more reason to keep his mouth shut, John thought grimly. Honestly, it was like being raked with sandpaper, that onslaught of nonsense. Who in the world was Eli’s Dan’s Elsie? Who cared if she had mono?

  “John, now, I mean it. Don’t overdo it today. Better to be safe than sorry. Perhaps our best route would be to take you back to Dr. Stevens.”

  She yelped, turned to place the hot-water hose into the rinse tubs, reached up to bring down the rectangular box of Tide with Bleach, scattered a cupful across the steaming water before yanking the yellow lever on the air line, resulting in the soft, uneven purring of the air motor sloshing the water by the agitator’s back-and-forth movement.

  John let himself out into the morning sunlight that felt oppressive, hurt his eyes. He took a few deep breaths before opening the door of the cow stable.

  He found his father with his elbows resting on the top rail of the dry cow stall, a worried expression changing the normal good humor.

  “I don’t know. This has gone on too long. I won’t try anything by myself. Think I’ll call the vet. She’s a first timer, and a good one by the looks of her. I’d hate to lose her.”

  John nodded, his knees turning all rubbery at the thought of a calf straining to be born. He left, quickly.

  “John!” his father called after him. “We’re going to clean the horse stables today. You can get started. Dan and Dud need exercise, so get them hitched up a while. You can bring the manure spreader around to the overhang.”

  “All right.”

  He almost laughed at the idea of manhandling the heavy harnesses on the backs of those Belgians. Then he leaned on a cow stanchion and cried, wrinkling his face like a baby. From nowhere, a deep-seated despair settled into his chest, attached itself to the walls of his mind, and stayed there.

  I can’t. I can’t. I have to. My mother will go nuts with a round of doctors and tests and crazy cures. I have to keep going. I have to keep all this weakness or whatever it is hidden.

  After three attempts, his muscles screaming in protest, he got a five-gallon bucket, upended it, with Herculean effort mounted it with harnesses slung over one arm, stood on his toes and barely, barely slid the whole mass of leather and buckles, snaps and straps across the wide backs of both Belgians.

  Panting, shaking, he adjusted the britchment, closed the buckles on the belly band, pulled the harness up over the collar. He sagged against the wall of the forebay, closed his eyes for a moment’s rest, before putting on the massive bridles.

  Dat pulled on the garage door from the outside, a question in his eyes.

  “Wondered where you were.”

  John didn’t answer. He found silence useful sometimes, during his bout of the sore throat virus. His parents could be as suffocating as an airless plastic bag drawn over his head. All those senseless questions that ricocheted around in his head until he couldn’t think of a single useful answer. He found no answer handled both of them very well. Eventually, they gave up and left him alone.

  The only thing about that was the guilt. He knew better, had always been taught respect, to speak to elders, be polite, friendly, honest, all that good stuff.

  He was just so sick. So weak and befuddled, aching with unexplained pain in one muscle, then a knee joint, and back to the ever-aching shoulder.

  After the sore throat, it seemed as if a nail was driven into one eyebrow, above his left eye, creating a searing headache that left him gasping with a terrible, dull throbbing ache. He stole ibuprofen, took as many as four at one time.

  How are you, John? What’s wrong, John?

  I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

  CHAPTER 6

  BY THE TIME CHRISTMAS ROLLED AROUND, JOHN HAD LEARNED HOW to deal with the worst of his pain and weakness. He found the best route to waking up was to stay lying flat on his back, focus on a spot on the ceiling, and take deep breaths until he felt steady enough to weave his way to the bathroom. Once there, he would clutch the edge of the sink until he was stable enough to perform his morning ritual of teeth brushing, face washing, and hair combing.

  Inevitably there were pounding feet, clattering voices, pounding on the door.

  “Aren’t you done yet?”

  “What is taking you so long? You don’t even shave.”

  “Get out, John. I’m late.”

  He learned to set his alarm ten minutes earlier, to give himself time to wake up, feel halfway to normal—what was normal?—before ascending the stairs on shaking knees that felt as if all his muscles had liquefied, and what remained, the joint itself, had turned to Jell-O.

  Determination was his ally. He found he could perform ordinary tasks on will alone. He dragged his ever increasingly uncooperative body from one duty to another, his lone objective to hide it all away.

  His sixteenth birthday loomed its gigantic dragon’s head, a fearful spectacle. He had anticipated its arrival for so long, but now he stood on shaky ground, as if an earthquake constantly shivered through his foundation.

  To be among the rumschpringa was a passage to being older, a status of being among a group of youth whose talents, personality, conduct, and of course, appearance, meant something. It was a time for parents to recognize another young man who had started rumschpringa, for girls to come say hello, some shyly, others with boldness. A time of finally owning your own horse and buggy—even if the buggy was secondhand, it was all yours.
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  To drive his own team into the group of youth was almost more than John could handle. Would he pass inspection? Know where to park?

  He knew which horse would be his, had heard Dat speak of it. He was pleased, but kept it to himself.

  Crayon was newly acquired from the horse dealer, Mervin Lapp. He was a speedy little brown Standardbred. It was a funny name for a horse, but John thought it was cool. His buggy was upholstered in red, and he already planned to use a red “seddly pad,” that heavy, usually colorful pad beneath the piece of leather across the shoulders.

  He had a new harness. Made of bio-plastic, it gleamed as if it was wet. He couldn’t wait to add the chrome and silver, the white plastic rings.

  Crayon was no Friesian or Dutch Harness, with all their flamboyance, their arched necks and prancing legs, their tails held like the mast on a ship. They were magnificent, but John loved speed. He loved to go flying down the road with a small horse tugging constantly, wanting to run, an exuberant little horse that could go for ten or fifteen miles without being seriously winded. Crayon was a horse just like that, Daniel said. He drove him, to break him into the long-distance runs, for John, and couldn’t get over the speed, the stamina.

  They gave him Equi-lete, the premium horse supplement with his feed, made certain he had access to plenty of water, top-quality hay.

  Surely by the time his birthday came, John would be better. The worst of this stubborn strep throat would be gone.

  The girls were coming. That was the thought that drove Mam with single-minded purpose. They were all arriving on Christmas Eve, with the seven grandchildren in tow. Packages were wrapped, set on the old drop-leaf table in the living room, candles and snowmen placed at attractive settings, homemade fudge and caramels, chocolate-covered Ritz crackers and peanut butter, snack mix, trays of cheese and ring bologna, dips and vegetables, crackers and fruit. That was only the afternoon snack.

  The Christmas dinner itself consisted of steaming roasters of the ever-present roasht, ham sliced in soft, fragrant slices that melted away from the knife, a marvelous kettle of mashed potatoes made with butter and cream cheese.

  There were peas and carrots, buttered noodles, pitchers of gravy and coleslaw, applesauce, huge platters of lettuce salad, red beet eggs, seven-day sweet pickles. Desserts were spilling from refrigerators and pantry shelves, but the best one was always kept for last. The pecan pie. Rich with molasses and brown sugar, pecans floating to the top in all their majesty, the crust buttery and flaky.

  Christmas Day was always the same. Mostly, you stayed out of Mam’s way, moved quickly and immediately if she called on you, ate milky, soaked bread bean soup without complaint, and basically turned into a willing but invisible servant. Her face flamed, her eyes snapped, she mopped her face with her white handkerchief, muttered to herself a lot. She kept lists on the magnetic tablet on the refrigerator, crossed them off with the attached ballpoint pen.

  The day before Christmas, John felt a lifting of the enveloping dark cloud of despair and pain. He didn’t feel quite as sick and dizzy as normal, in the morning, so he figured his day would be another step up to wellness. He wished his mother a good morning, got through his chores, actually had a good amount of the scrambled eggs and cheese on his plate.

  He cleaned the forebay carefully, sweeping the concrete over and over until there wasn’t a speck of dust or a wisp of hay. He made sure the watering trough was clean, filled with fresh water, and there was plenty of hay down to feed horses.

  Anticipation ran high. Even Dat, the normally relaxed, the good-humored and unruffled one, had a light in his eye, a spring to his step, looking forward to spending time with the sons-in-law, his girls, and beloved grandchildren.

  It had been a hard pill for him to swallow, too large, lodged in his throat for too long, hearing the news that a new settlement in Kentucky beckoned to the sons-in-law, the girls all struggling in various stages of die uf-gevva-heit. When Mam’s eyes had flashed, a verbal discourse followed, told her sons-in-law they were on a wild-goose chase. Why Kentucky? It was hot down there. Too far away. Think of us, think of your wives.

  Benuel sie Sara Ann, the second daughter, outspoken and opinionated, heaved the sigh that meant her limit had been reached. It was time her mother gave in, realized her girls’ plight, and supported them instead of destroying the delicate web of surrender that was slowly being weaved around them.

  “Yes, Benuel, yes,” she had spoken to her husband. “I know. You will stay if I refuse.” And she had the right to do just that. But she did not want to live with the dark knowledge, like a cloud of flapping crows cawing their way into her conscience, that her husband, the one she had promised—promised, mind you—to love, honor, and obey, was laying aside his pioneering spirit, his dream of farming the land, because of her.

  Here was her mother, selfishly thinking only of herself, wrecking the delicate stairs she was climbing to submission.

  “Mam, stop. You know this isn’t easy. But our husbands want to do this, so stop making it harder. We’ll go, and survive. It will be good for us to be apart. You know the old saying.”

  “Hush. I don’t want to hear it.”

  Mam sobbed into a wad of Kleenex, rushed to the bathroom in a wake of sorrow. The girls shrugged, knowing it was her battle. They had their own private ones to fight by themselves, with God’s help.

  And so, on Christmas Eve, the reunion was exuberant, having not seen each other in many months.

  My, the little ones had grown. Hard to imagine, Sylvia Ann so big, grownup, at four years of age. And little Thomas, cherubic, so hale and hearty, after a wan babyhood, racked by gas and colic. And here was Mary, the sweet one. Her namesake. Clasped to her chest, stroking her back, murmuring, Mam could not hold back the tears.

  Mary was so shy, quiet, with large eyes and a timid smile. So skinny. Too thin. Mam’s heart ached to think of her darling Mary living in Kentucky, in all that heat and humidity. Chiggers. They had chiggers down there.

  Mary was five now and would go to school next fall. She couldn’t bear the thought of her shy Mary facing the formidable number of classmates, four looming walls adorned with a stern teacher.

  For the thousandth time, she wished they hadn’t moved to Kentucky. All the grandchildren were growing, healthy, and by all appearances, happy. Children are resilient, the girls had assured her before leaving. Now is the time to go, if we’re going to do it. Yes, yes, it was true. At least the children hadn’t suffered. They were too young to know the difference.

  She clasped little Andrew in a firm hug, even as he squirmed and reached for his father. Only six months old, he did not know his grandmother, which brought a wave of self-pity, hidden behind a bright smile as she reached for the baby she had not seen. She had not been there after the birth of her youngest daughter’s first child, named Laura.

  Why Laura? She just couldn’t imagine. But nowadays, young people named their children different names, like Katherine and Caitlin, Miranda and Zachariah. Too many Sarahs and Bens, her girls said. Opinions aired easily.

  She peered into the baby’s face, brushed a palm over all that dark hair, laughed and cooed, held him too lightly. Tears welled.

  “He looks like you, Lydia. A lot. Hardly a trace of Alvin.”

  “Now, if I had a baby picture, you’d have the same look about you. Amazing, isn’t it, the way our children are mini versions of us?”

  Lydia hoped none of them would inherit her mother’s excitable ways, but smiled, pleased to have produced a fine son that moved Mam to tears. Mam had not traveled all those miles to attend her birth, or to help with the housework afterward, having been put in her place by her eldest daughter who told her in a phone conversation that if she was coming to Alvin’s she had to be quiet about Kentucky and all its shortcomings or any form of self-pity. Lydia would be weak, in no shape for her lamentations.

  Lamentations? Where did Susie come up with that long word straight out of the Old Testament? Seriously, here she was being
chastised by her own daughter.

  But decided silence was, indeed, golden, and her daughters, bless their hearts, had struggles of their own, living so far away. But she lay at night, her eyes wide open, staring at the nighttime ceiling with Elmer snoring beside her. The ghosts of anxiety wafted in and out of the room, shadowy nothings that whispered dire predictions of a difficult birth, an incompetent midwife, and all the myriad possibilities of things gone wrong for a first-time mother.

  Oh, Himmlischer Vater, she prayed, over and over, which proved to be the only tool to push the hovering ghosts of fear effectively through the walls of the house.

  When the news of the baby Andrew arrived, she proceeded to weep, sitting on the old office chair in the warm phone shanty, the door flung open, allowing the June morning sun to stream through the door, a caress of comfort to Mam’s worn-out body, having slept very little all week.

  A boy, then, named Andrew. All was well. Lydia was doing fine. Nursing. Yes, they had a wonderful midwife. The best.

  And Mary had dried her eyes with the corner of her apron, as a fresh torrent of tears were accompanied by a loud sob, followed by a frantic search for a Kleenex or handkerchief, which she was unable to produce, so she simply honked in the underside of her apron. What no one knew wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  She sang hysterical songs of praise as she barreled down the rows of the strawberry patch, picking strawberries with lightning speed. She noticed the butterflies and house wrens, the gladiolus and petunias, made enough strawberry jam for the neighborhood, and planned to send a bunch home with the girls, at Christmas.

  She handed Baby Andrew to Elmer, and reached for little Kore, the two-year-old, neither shy nor skinny, a robust little chap with a decided stutter and a mind filled to capacity with things other people should know.

  “Hey, hey, hey, Mommy.”

  Always the start of some story punctuated with truths and half lies, fabricating an entertaining version of some event in his short life.

  And so Mam raised her eyebrows, drew down her upper lip, goading little Kore into a wild and wonderful tale of his runaway cat.