The Healing

by Linda Byler

  John shrugged off the quilt to press the pillow tighter to his ears. This trick wasn’t going to work.

  When the high-pitched whining turned into short, mournful puppy sobs, John threw the pillow off his head, turned his head, and opened one eye.

  At first, he thought it was one of Andrew’s stuffed animals. Then the mouth opened, a tiny pink tongue emerged, and a heartbreaking sound reached his ears.

  John lifted his head from the pillow, opened both eyes. He had never seen a cuter puppy, that was sure.

  “Come here, little castaway. Come on.”

  He spoke gruffly, barely above a whisper, his voice unused for so long.

  “Come on, come here.”

  The journey to the bed was too long, so the puppy flattened himself on the floor and let out a series of yelps.

  “All right, all right.”

  John rolled out of bed, crawled over to the shivering black puppy, and scooped him up. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding him against his white T-shirt, against the beating of his heart, without thinking if it was pounding out a regular rhythm or not. The puppy was cold, shivering, and likely very hungry as well. He should be allowed to have his mother’s milk. What was wrong with that Dewan? He should know better. The puppy could take sick, and those Labradoodles were valuable.

  “All right, little castaway. We’ll get you warm.”

  He bundled him into the quilt against his chest and stroked the curly-haired back until he quieted. But he knew he couldn’t keep him here very long, he’d get too hungry.

  John felt a warm glow of accomplishment, having soothed the crying animal so soon. The puppy had been helpless, taken from his mother and siblings, placed on the cold hard floor of his bedroom.

  Perhaps they were both castaways. Thrown out into a strange world without comfort, cast away from the society they knew.

  John swallowed, the lump that rose in his chest another sign of weakness. All this puppy had ever known was the warmth and comfort of his mother’s milk, the heat from her body, the comfort of lying in a pile with five brothers and sisters. Then Dewan’s hands had lifted him away to a barren, cold bedroom floor that filled him with new sensations of fear and loneliness.

  The puppy slept.

  John’s thoughts continued to unfurl, creating the slim shadow of a path through the thicket of Lyme disease. He couldn’t help the fact that he was its victim. He couldn’t help it if he was crippled by the onslaught of frightful encounters, circumstances that roared into his life like raging lions.

  Neither could he help himself from the fear of death, or losing Lena, or the fact that his heart was deteriorating beneath the skin of his chest.

  It was hard to face life. Stress stripped away the strength to fight anything. So he did what worked best, which was to rest, hide away from the clashing words and pounding questions.

  One excuse after another.

  Now where did that thought come from? He wasn’t excusing himself for any of his actions. It was a necessity, a means of survival.

  Eventually, he would have to return to the comfort of his family, like the sleeping puppy. He would need to be strong enough to meet inquiring eyes, to answer questions, to make decisions, and yes, to deal with Lena.

  His heart dipped to his stomach at the thought.

  And he knew the decision would have to be made. He had to face up to it. He should tell her that it was a mistake to come to Kentucky, that she should go back to Samuel. Perhaps he was standing in the way of her happiness and was only a blip, a notch in an otherwise smooth surface. Maybe she was trapped wondering if he would make the better husband, when all along he wasn’t fit to even survive.

  He was only a joke, a temptation, before she gave herself up to the will of God.

  He cried, then, quietly, swallowing his sobs in a manly way, the tears leaving tracks down his cheeks and disappearing into the soft, curled hairs on the puppy’s head. With the surrender came release, peace like the full power of the sun after the storm’s fury has been dissipated. He felt a small amount of strength in his arms, an interest in his surroundings, and knew in a quiet, whispered way that God had been here, in this room, had shown him the way, perhaps dimly, but it was there.

  Give her up. She is not yours. She belongs to your brother.

  He sat up. The puppy whimpered.

  “All right, little fellow. You lie down here till I brush my teeth, OK?”

  Brushing them proved to be a hurried affair, with the awful cries that came from his bed, the puppy feeling the full pangs of his hunger. He raked a comb through his unruly hair and yanked a shirt off the hanger and shrugged into it, then scooped up the howling bundle and made his way shakily down the stairs.

  Tucked beneath his coat, John kept the puppy warm till he reached the heat of the kennel. He found Dewan cleaning the aisle, whistling, thumping his broom in time to the endless beat in his head.

  “Hey, hey! The lost has been found!”

  “Shut it, Dewan.”

  “Oh, come on, dude. Spread a little cheer out here, yeah! That’s cool. Rhyme, rhyme. Spread a little bit of cheer out here. Get it?”

  John couldn’t stop the smile that slid across his face. He laughed outright as he stooped to return the puppy to the fold, watched as his mother nuzzled him and then began the serious chore of licking him clean.

  CHAPTER 19

  WITH TWO SICK COWS AND THREE EXPECTANT NEWFOUNDLAND mothers, the Christmas trip to Pennsylvania began looking very bleak. Lydia said there was no way she was going. Alvin looked pale and stressed. Andrew came down with a sore throat coupled with a barking cough and a fever of 102°.

  John said they should go and he would stay. He was feeling better again, and between him and Dewan, they had everything under control.

  The truth was, Lena was going along, back to her family for Christmas, and John knew everything would be better if he stayed. Yes, he had a plan now, a fresh resolve, felt he knew the will of God, so why put it in jeopardy?

  If he saw her again now, he might lose his resolve.

  Alvin said no. Lydia shook her head in agreement. But John refused to go. So when the van left, Alvin, Lydia, and Andrew were packed into the third seat, waving goodbye after voicing their appreciation with more than a little apprehension.

  And so began the three days that tested John’s stamina unlike anything he’d ever known. Still reeling from the time he’d spent away from his duties, away from all human interaction, he was forced to deal with an overworked, underrested veterinarian, resulting in the loss of a cow.

  Then one Newfoundland had her puppies during the night, and had already suffocated two of them by lying on top of them, her huge, loose body never suspecting the little lumps were her own offspring. She was a first-time mother, and this was not unusual, but John felt it was all his fault. He should not have fallen asleep so soon or so soundly. If he’d been there sooner, the puppies may have survived. Just like if he’d called the vet sooner, the cow might have lived.

  Dewan shored up his faltering courage, saying that cow woulda died anyhow, the infection in her intestines beyond help, which John knew was true.

  But still.

  They ate Chinese takeout and Kentucky Fried Chicken, cereal for breakfast, and bags of potato chips and onion rings, washed down with copious amounts of Pepsi or Mountain Dew. John made fried-egg sandwiches, watched Dewan pour hot sauce and squirt mustard all over the eggs, then tried it for himself. He ate the whole sandwich and ran to the bathroom all day, much to Dewan’s knee-slapping glee.

  “You weak,” he chortled. “You weak as a kitten. Can’t take no hot sauce, no mustard.”

  John glared at him, reminded him of the fact that he had Lyme disease. “You know what? When anything goes wrong in your life, you hide behind that disease of yours,” Dewan said, draining the last of his Pepsi before crushing the can.

  John shrugged.

  “You have no idea. It’s complicated. I could explain Lyme disease all day to you and I s
till wouldn’t be finished.”

  Dewan wiped his hands on his jeans, ridding himself of grease from the barbeque chips he was eating, and shook his head.

  “I don’t wanna hear it. You need to stop thinkin’ about it. Maybe that Lyme bug’s gone and all that’s left is in your head.”

  John knew it was useless to try and correct him, so he got to his feet and went to the dairy barn.

  Back in Pennsylvania, Mam was occupied mostly keeping the frayed edges of her once solidly woven family tapestry from unraveling completely.

  With John absent, everyone felt free to speak their mind, which was a constant crossfire of opinions, speculation, and half-truths. Dat’s face was strained, his mouth a taut line of disapproval. But he knew youth was impetuous and selfish, and he would only add to the chaos to voice a series of reprimands and disapproval.

  How had they come apart so fast?

  A year ago, he had started to sense the lack of unity, but now, there was no patching up these wretched ravines that snaked through a once solid ground.

  Lydia was the main speaker.

  Wasn’t she always?

  Dat leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, switched the toothpick in his mouth from left to right, felt his stomach rumble, laden with turkey and ham, filling and mashed potatoes, and listened.

  She described in full detail how his latest episode had been the worst. How he’d stayed rolled in a quilt, refusing to talk, shutting them all out. How do you deal with something like that?

  Lena sat beside Samuel, her red dress the color of the poinsettia on the countertop, her face ashen, the blue eyes underlined in dark shadows.

  Samuel was leaning back, in a matching red shirt, an arm draped possessively over the back of her chair, his blond hair like a regal lion.

  “You were sure you could handle it, Lydia.” There was a slight sneer.

  “Don’t be unkind, Samuel.”

  “I’m not unkind. John’s just up to his old tricks. He drove Mam crazy, now he’s working on Lydia. He knows he can, so he does. He doesn’t feel the best, so he’s taking it out on everyone else.”

  Marcus nodded, in total agreement. Marty was beside him in her outlandish silver dress, her face a study in restraint. She had a soft spot for John. He was cute.

  Lena lifted her coffee cup. Wise Abner saw the tremor, the too-white face, the slightly dilated nostrils, the blue eyes gone dark. Samuel better watch it.

  Fueled by his brother’s agreement, Samuel went on.

  “I believe John has been sick in the past. But now? He’s not sick. I’ve said it before, he’s crazy in the head.”

  His sister Susan jumped to John’s defense. After that, it was a volley of retorts, a few arguing for John’s side, most against him.

  “Does he do any work at all?”

  The father had spoken, hushing the clamor of voices.

  “Yes, of course. When he feels good. I have to yell at him and tell him to get out of bed, get going. Nobody is ever going to get better lying around day in and day out.”

  “But Lyme patients need rest. Lots of it. That’s why it’s so hard. People around them do not understand. They assume they’re lazy, unmotivated.” Mam took up for John.

  “They are lazy,” said Samuel.

  And then Dat spoke, his voice well modulated, even, his words without rancor.

  “This discussion has gone on long enough. No one knows what is truly going on in John’s body but God Himself. John doesn’t even know, neither do his doctors or anyone else. So how can we?

  “I believe Lyme is a disease of many different faces. Symptoms vary from person to person, as do cures. Some of it may be in his head, after these years, but that, too, is part of the disease. I think I’ve spoken these same words before, so all I can do is repeat them. Don’t judge John harshly. Don’t make assumptions or look down on him. He is struggling with issues that are very real to him, whether or not a doctor could diagnose them at this point. Lyme takes time to heal. So give him time. He’ll be all right. We’re not concerned about ourselves, but perhaps we should be. We must be losing out spiritually or we wouldn’t have all this bickering. Remember the easy feeling of wanting to be together? Always accepting, looking up to each other? And here we are.”

  Samuel was ready with a retort, barely acknowledging his father’s words. “Here we are, what? There’s nothing wrong with us, it’s him.”

  “You know things aren’t the same,” Marcus said, angrily.

  “Enough,” said Dat. “Time for dishes, then presents.”

  Mam got up, bustled to the sink, began pounding dishes on the countertop. The girls rolled their eyes but got up to help, bent to wipe the children’s faces, chucked them under sticky chins, kissed greasy little cheeks.

  But Christmas was not the same. John not being present was a testimony unto itself. He obviously didn’t feel much of the old magnetic pull of home, that was sure. Sara Ann hissed to Susie in the pantry that this had all been a valuable lesson for Lydia, brought her down a notch or two.

  Samuel gave Lena her gift later, after the family had dispersed to finish tidying the kitchen, put the little ones to bed. It was a wooden, ornately carved chest containing a twelve-place setting of silverware. It was Oneida, the handles heavy, the knives bigger than the everyday knives Lena was used to. The forks had long, beautiful tines, the spoons were sculpted into lean, graceful contours. The chest was lined with blue velvet. It was the perfect pre-engagement gift.

  Instead of the surge of love she should have experienced, she was riddled with indecision, an agony of doubt. The silverware chest was beyond anything he had ever given her, a beautiful token of his love. The cutlery was meant to grace the wedding table, the esteemed and honored eck, the table with her own carefully chosen tablecloths, her own china and stemware, the wedding cakes and fancy dishes laden with delicacies.

  Samuel was handsome, successful, perfect. She imagined the wedding, flanked by members of the bridal party, every whim catered to, the awaited grand finale of the years of rumschpringa. It was every young Amish girl’s dream.

  But after that . . .

  The days stretched on in her mind, a never-fading ribbon of trying, doing her best, performing a job, impressing friends and family with her abilities. They would see her as the perfect housewife, and soon, mother to the cutest babies.

  The whole thing brought on an indescribable fatigue.

  But she smiled. She bent her head over the beautiful chest, lifted a spoon, stroked the velvet, and said all the right things. When he drew her close and kissed her, she responded appropriately, smiling into his blue eyes and hoping the light in her eyes matched the fervor in his.

  Then, the dreaded question fell like an axe from the ceiling.

  “Lena, do you have an answer for me?”

  She laid her head against his chest to hide her eyes. The kindness of her nature could not bring herself to say no, the future she knew would be hers would not allow a yes. Caught between two worlds, she was as afraid of one as she was of the other.

  She caught her breath. He drew her closer.

  “I love you, Lena. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you have ever told me you loved me.”

  “Oh. I . . .”

  The tension dissolved into sobs, soft, despairing cries that stemmed from her total lack of understanding what was going on in her heart.

  Samuel released her so suddenly she almost fell.

  “What is wrong, Lena? Why are you crying at a moment like this?”

  His face had gone pale.

  She sank back against the couch cushions, bent her head to hide her shame and confusion. He did not try and comfort her, but merely watched her with narrowed eyes and quickening breath.

  Finally, she got up to draw a handful of Kleenex from the box on the lampstand, pressed them to her nose, and blew so delicately Samuel couldn’t be sure she had even blown her nose.

  “Samuel,
I can’t give you an answer because I don’t know what to tell you. I’m . . . not sure. Perhaps it’s just me. I think I need counseling, someone to help me understand matters of the heart.”

  When there was no answer, she searched his face. Cold, hard, his jaw set in a firm line, he turned away from her.

  “There’s someone else.”

  “No, no. Samuel, no.”

  “I don’t believe you. Why did you go to Kentucky?”

  “I told you.”

  “It’s John, isn’t it? Big pitiful baby John, preying on your sympathies.”

  “No, Samuel. It is not John. I’m merely having some indecision. It’s normal for every girl to have second thoughts occasionally, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a girl.”

  A spark of anger flared, was extinguished. Lena took a steadying breath, laid a slim hand on Samuel’s arm.

  “May I have till spring to give you an answer? May I be in Kentucky while I sort out my feelings?”

  He shouted, then, empty accusations hurled across the few feet that separated them.

  “I’m sure John will gladly help you decide.”

  “John has nothing to do with this. Why are you dragging him into it?”

  “Look at me and say that.”

  She could not. Kindness and honesty were her best virtues, and the test Samuel threw in her face was too much to withstand. She bowed her head, the wad of Kleenex pressed to her face as fresh sobs shook her slender frame.

  Samuel got to his feet, grabbed the silverware chest, and glared at her bent form.

  “Have it your way, but you will regret your decision. You will live to be a bitter old woman, saddled with an invalid. You have only sympathy for John. You’re mistaking pity for love.”

  But then he paused, seemed to grasp the severity of his words. On his knees now, the silverware chest beside him, his hands grasped her shoulders.

  “Lena, I love you. I want you to be my wife. Consider your choice, what I have to offer. Financial security, a healthy body, everything. You don’t want John, you pity him.”

  She nodded, raised her eyes to his, swollen and red rimmed.