The Healing

by Linda Byler

  “Perhaps the best thing for you would be to get away from everything, try something totally new. I don’t know . . .”

  His voice trailed off.

  John stood by the bulk tank and watched the confusion in his father’s face until his own thoughts started to cycle downward. He would die, likely, at a young age, but there was nothing he could do to change that. He would go when his time was up.

  He couldn’t tell his parents that, though. They’d think he was crazy, take him to a facility for the mentally ill.

  But the thing was, after all the exhaustion, all the mental suffering, all the excruciating pain in his joints, what was so horrible about dying?

  If you understood grace and God and Jesus Christ, then he only needed to believe that He died on the cross. It was a gift. Nothing he had to pay for, or earn. That was another thing he couldn’t tell his family, that the whole plan of salvation from beginning to end was very clear, coming to him one night, like a whisper. A soft and infinitely precious knowledge of Christ’s love for his poor, suffering soul.

  He wanted to keep it in his heart, sacred, hidden away, forever. If anyone saw a change in him, then that would be praise to God, and not to him.

  Dat nodded. Their eyes met, each one knowing they were old souls, well-versed in the way of suffering, of hitting brick walls and dead ends and cul-de-sacs wide enough to let them turn around, change an opinion.

  “So, you think you will go, then?”

  “Probably. If it’s not too difficult for Mam.”

  “We’ll see. Let’s go eat supper.”

  They walked into the house, side by side.

  Of course, Mam immediately listed all the reasons it was a terrible idea, why no one else could care for him the way he needed. There were the pills, first off, followed by detox baths, gluten-free food, limited sugar intake, footbaths, and on and on.

  She called Lydia and left a message, telling her to be in the phone shanty at seven, then proceeded to chastise her erring daughter up one side and down the other until Lydia drummed the tips of her fingers on the plastic folding table and hummed as loud as she could to shut out her mother’s voice. That resulted in a shriek of “What is wrong with this phone line? Don’t they have a decent phone service in the hills of Kentucky?”

  But in the end, Mam calmed down. Tears dribbled down her face and dripped off the end of her wobbly chin, and she told Lydia it was just so hard to see him go, as sick as he was.

  And Lydia said that she understood. “But Alvin and I think it could really help him. And we think with his kind and gentle nature he’ll do great with the dogs.”

  Mam thought but did not say, “That upstart Alvin knows zero, zilch, nix about Lyme disease so how can he know what is good for John and what isn’t?” They parted on a friendly note, then, as mothers and daughters generally do, even laughed about the humming phone line.

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they reasoned for the thousandth time, each one returning to her workload with a lighter heart, if not a spring in her step.

  John thought his mother was remarkable, though, in the end. She gave up, accepted the fact that he was going to live with Alvin and Lydia, and set about sewing new denim pants, going to Walmart for new underwear and a few shirts. She stocked up on his pills, wrote detailed instructions for their usage, went over everything every day.

  She ran back and forth to the phone shanty, making arrangements, calling drivers and Amtrak and Lydia. She called Susie and Sara Ann and told them both to keep an eye on the situation, that Lydia could be bossy and a tad flighty, so if they saw any indication of John’s unhappiness they were to call straight away, and not put it off, either.

  John said goodbye to his friends, with a wistful feeling he hadn’t thought possible. Marty hugged him lightly, glanced his way flirtatiously, as if she wanted him to remember her. John knew it was only to add him to the string of addle-brained admirers she already had, but she was a sweet girl. She’d given him a boost of confidence when he needed it most.

  His brothers were awkward, clumsy in their goodbye wishes, suddenly unsure if John would be all right, half apologizing for their lack of understanding. Samuel gave him a fifty-dollar bill, told him to stay well, awkward as a bumbling first grader.

  He didn’t say goodbye to Lena. She stayed away from Samuel’s home, was not present at the youths’ gathering, either the supper or the hymn singing. John searched for her bright head among the milling crowd, but finally realized she simply wasn’t there.

  Which was for the best. He had no right to feel anything for his brother’s girlfriend. That was sure.

  CHAPTER 14

  A WARM SPRING RAIN FELL FROM BUNCHED GRAY CLOUDS ON THE day of his departure, the windshield wipers swishing back and forth in hypnotic rhythm, the tires on the wet highway hissing beneath the fast-moving minivan on Route 695, on their way to Altoona to catch the 11:45 Amtrak.

  The driver was chugging coffee from a stainless steel cup with a black lid, having been out till two o’clock in the morning. “Them Amish kids,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t be so bad if they were ready to go when I get there. I waited thirty-five minutes for Lee Beiler’s boy to leave his girlfriend’s house, which made me late to pick up the girls at Abner King’s. So then I had to listen to their yakking. Ah, it’s tough, hauling these kids late at night. Chewing gum stuck to the carpet. Half-empty soda cans. Always stop at Sheetz to load up on snacks and junk. Why can’t they date in their own county, I’d like to know?”

  The cell phone rang, a startling outburst of sound that caused the driver to scrabble wildly in his right T-shirt pocket. The van lurched to the left as he switched hands on the steering wheel, but kept up his speed of 70 mph, the tires hissing, sending up a steady spray of water from the slick tarmac.

  “Hello,” he answered, much too loudly.

  An eighteen-wheeler loomed, sending a heavy mist across the windshield. The driver flipped the turn signals, pulled into the left lane, zoomed past the tractor trailer, a concrete barrier on the opposite side, talking into the phone pressed to his ear.

  “Is that right? Yeah? Well, I’ll have to check my book, but I think next Wednesday is free. What time? You said nine? Oh, eight thirty. Is that the appointment or the time you want me to pick you up? Okey dokey. Righto. See you then, Henry. No problem.”

  The cell phone was dropped back into the pocket, the memo book held to the steering wheel, a pen procured to jot down the time.

  John breathed a sigh of relief when the memo book was replaced, the traffic thinned, and the concrete barrier came to an end. To be wedged between a large truck and a wall of concrete, moving so fast in a steady downpour, made John break out in a cold sweat. He found himself breathing hard, a tic beginning in his right eye. He grasped one hand with the other to still the tremor that began, slightly at first, then more powerfully until he had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from clacking.

  He breathed deeply, then again. He glanced at his mother, seated beside him, unaware of anything amiss, calmly watching the gray, soaked countryside move past the window. His father sat in the front seat, his straw hat laid beside him, his seat belt fastened, relaxed, smiling.

  John breathed in, held the breath deeply, then let it out, feeling his stomach contract, loosen.

  They had decided to accompany him, afraid a bout of brain fog would impede his journey to Kentucky. Lydia had had a few words with Mam on the subject but had relented, voicing her frustrations to the supportive Alvin, as always.

  “He’ll never be free of her.”

  Alvin calmed his wife by reminding her that she was, after all, accepting the fact that he was leaving, so what were a few more days?

  The Amtrak station and the ride to Kentucky were spent in a tiresome battle to overcome the threat of the unknown, the cloying sense of impending disaster.

  He arrived in the Amtrak station in Kentucky. Stepping outside, he felt a sweltering sun, humidity that brought rivulets of sweat dripping down the si
des of his face. Shaken by the fresh onslaught of fear, John stood white-faced, his hands hanging loosely, his mouth partly open, a blank, dark stare from behind his thick lenses striking a response close to revulsion when Lydia faced him. She shook his hand, smiled warmly, but thought he appeared mentally impaired, otherworldly. She had a moment of apprehension, but refused to show it.

  Her parents were oblivious to John’s appearance, greeted Lydia effusively, if a bit falsely, Lydia thought.

  “You’re looking well, Mam.”

  “Well, yes, of course. It’s always good to get away. We had a relaxing trip. Enjoyable. I think John enjoyed it as well. Right, John?”

  John nodded, dutifully.

  His eyes. Lydia felt the panic rising. His eyes were like a wild person’s. Why was he so frightened? They were like dark pools of misery, flecked with hopelessness.

  Lydia blinked, swallowed her tears of tender sympathy. She wanted to take him in her arms, rock him to sleep the way she rocked Andrew, put him to rest, a deep, long sleep till years passed and the dreaded bacteria that lurked in the deepest, tiniest cells were completely eradicated.

  What if he was more than they could manage? Was he already so far gone, losing his mental powers so rapidly, that he would turn into an invalid, drooling on a wheelchair? For the first time, Lydia felt her own inadequacy, her lack of knowledge.

  Should they ask him to return with his parents?

  The air-conditioning in another minivan was heavenly. John sank into the back seat, folded his long legs into some semblance of comfort, and fell into a deep sleep, lulled by the hum of tires on macadam. Dry macadam. A thin, middle-aged woman drove along the highway, alert, quiet, while Mam and Lydia’s voices rose and fell, a cadence that soothed and relaxed.

  He was awakened when the van pulled off the interstate. He watched the small towns, forests, hills, corn and barley fields, thinking how much the state of Kentucky seemed like Jefferson County.

  They entered a fairly large town, with warehouses and glass-fronted office buildings, brick factories and apartment complexes.

  Harrodsburg, he supposed.

  They drove into a winding country road with spectacular views from lofty heights. Great rolling hills were dotted with horses. White board fences and immaculate pastures surrounded horse barns, fancy stables with white pillared mansions. These homes spoke of racehorses, money, expertise, men born and bred into the racing industry, their lives taken up with the production of fine horseflesh.

  When they arrived, John spied the new building immediately. He noticed the gray siding, trimmed in white, a porch along the front, nestled between the implement shed and the horse barn. The gravel driveway had been elongated to reach the kennel, tall ceramic pots containing a cascade of purple flowers spilling over the sides like a lace collar.

  Wow. Leave it to Lydia.

  The house was a small two-story with old yellow aluminum siding, rusty white shutters, and no porch. There was no word that described this odd little dwelling better than ugly. It lacked any real charm, no matter which angle you came from or how hard you tried to find something pleasant about it.

  The old wood-sided barn had been red at one time, but had been scoured by the sun and wind for decades, so it appeared to be pink, a scaly, peeling shade of grayish pink. A new hip-roofed dairy barn had been built to the front, sided in gray, like the new kennel, which only served to make the original barn appear even more decrepit.

  The corn was heavy and dark green in color, planted uniformly, and the alfalfa had already been cut. Fat, sleek cows grazed in a lush, low pasture, so there was an aura of hard work and dedication about the place.

  It was just like Lydia to choose to build a kennel rather than do cosmetic work on that house. She was a manager, a forthright realist with a sharp mind. She planned every move with eyes toward the future, pinched her pennies, and fell only a hair short of being the leader, drawing Alvin along on waves of her own planning.

  The Kentucky folks agreed that she wore the pants, if they never spoke it. Alvin was a workaholic, going, going from before the crack of dawn to sundown, always willing to lend a hand, lay down the reins of his own team of horses to help his neighbor, leaving his ambitious wife clucking her tongue.

  But the yard was immaculate, flowering bushes trimmed, trees pruned, old shrubs cut into neat oblong shapes, yews and boxwood and juniper holding court along three sides of the faded yellow structure.

  The garden was a rectangular plot, edged to perfection, a profusion of well-fertilized vegetables growing in neat rows.

  Mam walked along the perimeters, commenting on pea stalks already gone, chicken wire on wooden stakes rolled up and stored in the rafters of the garden shed, lime applied to freshly tilled soil, and lima beans planted twelve inches apart.

  Lydia told her there were seventy-two pints of peas in the freezer.

  “My oh, Lydia. When did you do them all?” She harbored a fierce pride in her youngest daughter. She was the one who handed down the gardening knowledge, who taught her daughters when to plant, when to harvest, how to can and freeze, giving timely advice to daughters grateful to receive and apply their mother’s gardening wisdom.

  “Will you do another planting of red beets?”

  “I have more than enough. I did thirty-some quart. Alvin loves red beet eggs.”

  Mam smiled. Yes, she had taught Lydia all of this.

  They entered the house from the back, stepped up on a small platform made from treated lumber, no railing, no backs on the steps. Mam spoke before she thought, searing her daughter’s feelings.

  “Alvin could have built a decent patio.”

  Lydia pretended she hadn’t heard, which was the easiest way out of fumbled explanations or announcements that would clash with her mother’s own.

  Her mother did not need to know how much the kennel cost, Lydia being the one who wheedled her husband into its existence.

  The patio could wait.

  The interior of the house was dim and cool, clean, with the homey feeling of an old house, like a trusted friend. The linoleum had scuff marks, holes, and tears, but was waxed to a high sheen. There were a few old kitchen cupboards painted white, and white walls with gray wainscot. In one corner stood a beautiful oak hutch, and in the center of the kitchen were a matching table and chairs. A floral arrangement on the table took Mam’s breath away.

  It was Lydia’s turn to smirk.

  “It’s easy, Mam. That’s daylilies, fern, echinacea, bee balm, vinca.” Her voice was lofty.

  Mam grimaced, laughed. “Now you’re grosfeelich.”

  The small living room was dark, with shades drawn against the heat, painted floorboards, rugs scattered, a heavy gray sofa and chairs. The cherry dropleaf table held another, similar arrangement of flowers.

  “My oh, Lydia.”

  The whole inside of the house was adorable, new furniture mixed with old doors and walls painted white, an opening stairway with a striped runner going up the middle, Mam tsking about how to get that carpet clean.

  “It’s called a battery-operated sweeper, Mam.”

  A snort. “Whatever.”

  She could hardly keep up with the conveniences of the younger generation. Twelve-volt batteries hooked to inverters produced brilliant LED lighting, set blenders to mashing berries and bananas into cold smoothies, or sent mixers whirring, whipping cake batter to perfection without using arm muscles that should rightly be brought into play.

  The young generations didn’t value sadirons and kerosene lamps properly. But she guessed time marched on and waited for no one, especially the ones who clung to the old ways, like her, who would eventually turn into an eccentric old lady with seventeen cats in the house.

  John’s room was on top of the stairs to the right, above the kitchen. It was low ceilinged, with wide floorboards painted white, a sleigh bed and oak dresser with an oval mirror hung above it. A patchwork quilt was tucked beneath fat goose down pillows on the bed and a decorative throw pillow th
at said “Happy” on it.

  An old recliner was in one corner, the arms worn, a loosely woven throw slung across the back, a low stand and a battery lamp beside it. He had his own closet and two windows, one on either wall, for a summer breeze at night.

  Lydia didn’t mean to, but she hovered inches away, like an anxious cat. Was it OK? Would he be comfortable? The bathroom was just across the hall, all right? Sorry, we have to use it, too. Only bathroom in the house. John reminded her he was used to sharing with six brothers.

  “The recliner is there whenever you need to rest. There’s a fan, on hot days. Let us know if you need help, when you feel bad, mentally or physically. Here’s a Bible, for when you need a spiritual boost, too. Are you a Bible reader?”

  John shrugged, felt his face color.

  Lydia nodded. “I know, when you’re young . . .”

  Her voice drifted off.

  Supper that night was a lighthearted affair, both of his parents happily prattling on in an easy manner, away from responsibilities, reveling in the appreciation of their children’s farm, their hard work ethic, secretly taking a portion of the honor for themselves.

  John ate the meatloaf, the creamy scalloped potatoes, added a generous dollop of homemade ketchup, and helped himself to a heaping spoonful of peas. Delicious.

  “You blanched these peas just right, Lydia. I can tell you didn’t let the water boil. You only leave them in till they change color, you know.”

  Lydia chewed, swallowed, said, “They’re not blanched.”

  Confused, Mam poked the tines of her fork into the peas. “But . . .”

  “You just pick them, don’t wash them at all, pour them into a gallon ziplock bag and put them in the freezer. When you need peas, you shake out the amount you need and put the bag back in the freezer.”

  “But you said you got seventy-two pints.”

  “Divided into gallon bags.”