The Healing

by Linda Byler

  All of them, actually. All of them. A great love enveloped her. A gratitude lifted her from the everyday cares and worries of the day. Blessed. She was blessed.

  After mowing the lawn, John started up the Weed eater, turned it upside down, and began edging the borders of Mam’s flower beds.

  He went to bed with a pounding headache and no reason not to believe his Lyme symptoms were coming back the minute he overexerted himself.

  A long hot shower did nothing to relieve the pain, so he went to the kitchen for ibuprofen.

  His mother was on the recliner, a book on her lap, her hands folded, sleeping so soundly she never heard him enter the kitchen.

  Her pale blue housecoat with the buttons down the front sagged open at the throat, revealing the pale line where her dress covered her neck and shoulders, the deep tan where it didn’t. John felt a tender pity for his tired mother. She looked so vulnerable, so helpless in her deep sleep, when in life, she was so smart, so in charge, always talking, always capable.

  He smiled at his father who sat on the other side of the room, reading.

  “You hurting?” he asked, peering over the top of his glasses.

  “Nothing much. Headache.”

  Dat nodded. “Too much lawn mowing.”

  “I have to toughen up, Dat.”

  That night, his dreams kept waking him up and his heart pounded as the familiar tremor overtook him. He rolled onto his back, opened his eyes, and prayed, took deep, cleansing breaths that he counted—in, out, one, two—keeping his concentration centered on calming his mind and body.

  He had learned this was effective most of the time now. He no longer felt as if he was slipping away into a chasm of no return. He strongly believed the anxiety was due to the Lyme disease, but he alone could battle it by learning methods of relaxation, which pretty much eliminated his nights of terror, the dread of sleeping alone, the fear that rose like weird shadows on the wall.

  And God heard his prayers, that was another thing.

  Battling on, through days of fear and weakness, he had come to feel God, a Higher Being, a strength when he was weakest, an unexplained assurance that all would be well. He depended on this faith to help him up the ladder of the deep valley of Lyme. He had fallen so low, the cavity of his pain and fatigue so deep, that death seemed like a mercy.

  But he was getting better, one joint pain, one panic attack at a time.

  Morning brought a dense brain fog, a head that felt as hollow and empty as a helium balloon. The spot between his shoulder blades felt as if someone had taken a baseball bat to him. But he got out of bed, brushed his teeth, dressed, and went downstairs to start his day.

  One day at a time. Teeth clenched in determination, muscles screaming, he took a hot detox bath with Epsom salt, vinegar, and baking soda, then drank a glass of water with a raspberry-flavored Emergen-C packet dissolved in it, and made his way out to the barn to help with the morning feeding.

  His sister Lydia called a couple hours later. He found himself getting emotional, missing her a lot. They talked of everyday mundane subjects, Dewan, the dogs, the crops not getting in on time. She said she wished he was there.

  Then, “Barbie says Lena’s coming for another year. What’s up with that? I mean, did she ever . . .”

  A long pause.

  “What?”

  “Well, isn’t anything happening between you two?”

  “I wish.”

  “Well.”

  “No, Lydia, it’s Samuel. He’s not taking this well. We talked, Lena and I. We’re going to wait for a year, hoping Samuel will be able to move on. I can’t do this to him. He’s my own brother.”

  “Oh, come on, John. He’ll get over it.”

  But she knew kindhearted John would stick to his word.

  Lydia told Susie and Sara Ann the next time they had sisters’ day, which brought on two sets of eyes that bulged in disbelief, hands flung in the air followed by sharply expelled breaths of disapproval.

  Whoever heard of such a big baby? Samuel needed to buck up and move on.

  Seriously, these things happened all the time. Lena didn’t want Samuel, it was that simple. He needed to get over himself.

  They fed on each other’s lack of sympathy, one as disdainful as the other. Then they all went home and worried they’d been too harsh. Each wrote Samuel encouraging letters of sisterly love.

  It was one thing to be seated around a table agreeing with everyone else, and quite another to come home and picture your brother’s handsome face, the gleaming blond hair, bent in pain and misery.

  CHAPTER 23

  IT WAS AUGUST AND A NEW FAMILY HAD MOVED IN FROM LANCASTER County. The girl’s name was Emily, and the youth were gathered for her eighteenth birthday, an unusual event, as birthday parties were normally reserved for the sixteen-year-olds, as an introduction to the world of rumschpringa.

  Mam had given out all the information any of the boys would need. The new folks were named Joe and Mary Beiler. From Intercourse, down the 340 off Leacock Rd. He was a farrier by trade, but was opening a harness and tack shop, would fix carriages, something the community badly needed.

  Emily was the oldest, and she had a sister turning sixteen in the fall. Looking pointedly at Samuel, she hoped Allen and Daniel would look nice, behave in a manner that would encourage girls to become interested.

  The sun slid behind the wooded ridge, brought an end to its pulsing heat, twilight a welcome reprieve from the day’s high temperatures.

  John drove Crayon, allowing him to find his own pace, thinking of Lena, knowing this was his last chance to see her before she left for Kentucky.

  Every supper with the youth, every hymn singing had been a form of torture, watching her from a distance. Samuel was usually beside her at the volleyball net, Lena smiling, laughing with him, and John could not know if she had a change of heart, or if this was only her way to soothe his battered ego.

  Not once did she allow herself any form of communication with John—no eye contact, nothing.

  John was amazed to see a palatial home situated on a long, low rise, surrounded by woods, a picturesque setting, a costly home that only the more fortunate could have acquired. A large shop was being built, a wagon lined with horses, carriages pushed into decent rows.

  When there was not enough space for horses in a barn, a borrowed flatbed wagon served the purpose, scattered with blocks of hay, horses tied to each side. John found a spot for Crayon, spoke to different acquaintances, and found Ivan seated at a picnic table.

  All the guys feigned disinterest, but were subtly looking for the new girl, taking in the views of the grand brick and vinyl siding home, the large windows and many different angles of roof and walls, the well-kept lawn and costly shrubbery.

  Here was no ordinary Amish farmer, indeed.

  Emily made an appearance, with Lena, walking together, deep in conversation. John’s heart swelled, knowing Lena’s kindness, thinking about Emily being introduced to a new group of youth, displaced from her friends. Of course, Lena would do everything in her power to make the evening easier for her.

  Emily was dressed in a brilliant shade of pink, setting off her dark skin and black hair. She looked like a tropical hibiscus flower. John could not help staring a few moments too long. Her smile was stunning. She was of medium height, perfectly formed with a grace about her that caught every young man’s attention.

  Lena paled beside her, but not in a bad way. Lena was delicate, like a white flower with her blond hair, the aura of light that surrounded her. And John knew where his heart, his whole life, belonged.

  Hesitantly, Emily joined the next game of volleyball, with Lena’s urging. John smiled, knew it would take Samuel less than an hour to take up the space beside her, which is exactly what happened.

  Blond, blue-eyed, his skin tanned to a copper color from his days on a roof, his pale blue shirt magnifying the blue in his eyes, Samuel was Jefferson County’s golden boy, for sure. When he placed himself beside Emily
and spoke to her with the confidence of one acquainted with his own ability to be a charmer, Emily responded the way dozens of girls had always done, and would continue to do.

  When darkness fell, two lights were set up, powerful battery-powered bulbs that lit up the entire field. There was a call to come to the house for refreshment. Emily was situated by the birthday cake and there were swells of singing, a blush of color in her cheeks, before she bent to blow out the eighteen candles.

  There was a tremendous amount of food. Huge piles of wraps, dips, sandwiches, trays of cut vegetables and fruit, cheese, and some squares and wedges of meat paste concoctions John had no idea how to eat. All of it was delicious. He went back for seconds and found Samuel with a lopsided grin on his face.

  Samuel mouthed, “Wow.”

  John caught his eye and noticed the old sparkle. Samuel was up on his pedestal, rediscovering his sense of well-being. He had been introduced to the tropical brilliance of Emily and found he still possessed the power to charm. He could outshine every other guy present. John could be set back in his place, as second, third, even fourth.

  John caught the sense of Samuel having regained his leadership, and sank back into his own comfortable niche, one that, hopefully, he would no longer want to share. But he shook his head, thinking how shallow love could be. A few short months ago, Samuel had been immersed in hopeless longing, begging John to let Lena go.

  It wasn’t over yet, however. This Emily may prove to be elusive, so he would not get his hopes up just yet. No matter how he longed to be with Lena, he had made a promise with his brother and meant to keep it.

  Loyal, kind, his thoughts never strayed to judgment of Samuel, only saw clearly what was unraveling before his eyes.

  When John was hitching up his horse, she came like a wraith of mist, softly, speaking in a voice only above a whisper.

  “I would like to be taken home.”

  John said, in a tone that matched hers, “Get in.”

  The night was as mellow and soft as warmed milk, the dew hanging heavily on verdant grass, the sky a deep indigo punctured by the many stars that winked above them. The light from the headlights pierced the night, the horse with the gleaming black harness flapping in rhythm to his trotting hooves, the sound of steel buggy wheels on soft macadam, the spray of occasional gravel, creating a sense of peace, of purpose.

  “John.”

  She placed a hand on his arm.

  “This is to say goodbye. I can’t go to Kentucky without knowing how you feel. It’s hard for me to do this. Knowing we made a promise to one another. To Samuel.”

  When he didn’t answer, she drew in a sharp breath, then burst out, “But you saw, John. Surely you saw what was happening.”

  “I did, Lena.”

  “Does that make it all right for us to be together this last time before I go?”

  John’s answer was to shift the reins and draw her hand into his free one, clasping it as if he would never release it. United by the touch, words escaped them, leaving only the sound of the horse drawn buggy traveling through the night.

  “I don’t want to go,” she whispered, finally.

  They were at her house, Crayon slick with sweat, breathing hard, standing still at the yard gate, content to rest. John looped the reins over the headlight, got out of the buggy before helping her out, on his side, away from the house, away from parents who would peer through the darkness, curious to see who had brought their daughter home.

  She stood close, her face lifted.

  He reached through the door to snap off the lights, turned and sighed.

  “This isn’t easy, Lena.”

  “My resolve to spend the winter in Kentucky is weakening by the moment,” she said, in answer to his honesty. “Samuel was completely taken with her. Emily. You saw.”

  “He seemed to be, yes. But how can we be sure it wasn’t to make you jealous?”

  Lena laughed, a low, sad sound.

  “It’s his nature. Why I won’t marry him.”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “No, not that he would prove unfaithful, just the sense of knowing he is capable of attraction, the overblown sense of his own ability to master anything and anyone, when I struggle with my own lack of confidence. Our marriage would have been constant emotional work.”

  “You speak in the past tense.”

  “It is in the past. After tonight, especially. But let’s not talk about Samuel.”

  “About us, then?”

  “Yes.”

  John took a deep breath to steady himself, then spoke with more courage than he knew he possessed.

  “Lena, for me, there is only you. I have never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. I suppose I’m the kind of guy who only falls once, and falls hard. When you dated Samuel, I thought perhaps I could become interested in Marty, but it didn’t seem right. But I guess I’m so afraid of doing something wrong that I can hardly begin dating, with Samuel hovering on the edge of my conscience. And you know, it’s the disease I have. You might be committing to a whining, worthless good-for-nothing that cannot provide a decent living for you. I guess after Lyme disease, my doubts and fears are so deeply imbedded, after being disappointed for so long, that I can hardly grow wings of hope and soar the way a young person should.”

  She answered quickly. “That is why I need to return to Kentucky. I am aware of Lyme, and all you’ve been through. Your improvement shows, though, and in another nine or ten months, won’t it be even better? Tell me the truth, John.”

  “There are no guarantees, with Lyme disease. But I would think so. My times of relapsing are far less, the symptoms less severe. And I’m learning to work through many of them.”

  They stood, uncertain, ill at ease, each one longing for the comfort of each other’s touch. John’s thoughts raced, wondering what was proper. A handshake? A hug? He had never held her close enough. He thought wildly of kissing her, though he had never kissed a girl in his life and had no idea how it was done. The courage he summoned seeped away like water through a sieve. He couldn’t do it.

  But Lena remembered the magic on the porch swing, couldn’t face the long winter in Kentucky without the reassurance of the same sprinkling of stardust.

  She took two steps toward him. Her arms went to his shoulders. His arms closed around her waist as naturally as the rustle of the breeze through a field of grain. He drew her closer, his heart beating a furious rhythm.

  He whispered, “Goodbye, Lena.”

  She lifted her face, whispered, “Not yet.”

  Their faces inches apart, uncertain. Being this close was enough for one moment.

  She was on tiptoes. He bent his head. Then drew back, his courage evaporated.

  “John,” she whispered, a note of pleading like a song.

  Their lips met, as light as the smallest moth settling on a delicate flower. The sense of having been found was multiplied, sent all rational thought spinning into the warm night, as he pressed his lips to hers, held her even closer. He knew only the sweetness and softness of her.

  When they broke apart, he was in awe of what God had created. He could only sip at the nectar of what He had planned for a man and a woman, but that one taste was more than enough to give his life, any sacrifice this love would require of him, the year in Kentucky a mere blip on the screen of his future.

  She clung to him, her breath on his chest, the scent of laundry soap and his cologne, the sweetness of the hollyhocks by the yard gate. She desperately wanted to stay there, to experience another kiss, but knew the time for sacrifice had come.

  “Lena, I know it’s too soon, but let me tell you this one thing. I love you. I will always love you, give you my life.”

  She stepped back. Her hands fell away, hung at her sides, aching with emptiness.

  “I love you, too, John. You are the reason I could not marry Samuel.”

  His limbs weighed a ton when he tried to step into the buggy. With a groan, he crushed her to him one last time. T
his time he kissed her with all the manly knowledge of this aching goodbye, before he could give her up.

  “Goodbye, Lena.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “I’ll write. We’ll see how things go with Samuel.”

  He picked up the reins and she reached to clasp his hand, his arm, and said again, “I love you.”

  The sound of buggy wheels wrenched at her heart. John hated every inch that expanded between them, but knew it was for the best. Every flap of the harness was a song, every clop of the horse’s hooves a line of poetry. He was in awe of his undeserved blessing.

  Far more than fortune or fate, this was a love designed and finished by the God of love, the One who made manifest every twist and turn of fate. Who wrote the plot for billions of humans.

  He felt puzzled, watching the brilliant beams of light, accompanied by a profusion of orange ones bearing down on him, seemingly too far to the right. He heard a roar that gained momentum by the second. Involuntarily, he slowed Crayon, drew back on the reins, then hauled back on the right one, suddenly aware of the monster truck that bore down on him, much too far to the right, his lane.

  Crayon responded immediately, jumped nimbly into the shallow ditch by the side of the road as John cried out, knowing impact was inevitable.

  Elmer and Mary Stoltzfus were asleep in the back bedroom on the ground floor of the farmhouse, having fallen into a deep sleep after an evening spent at her sister Rachel’s house eating too much of her good cooking.

  Mary sat up, grabbed Elmer’s arm.

  “Dat. Wake up. Someone’s here.”

  Elmer heaved himself out of bed, fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, felt light-headed and disoriented at the blinking lights, the blue revolving one. He saw two officers, badges and belt buckles gleaming.

  Every parent’s nightmare.

  To be taken to the scene of the accident clouded over by a puzzling fog of unreality was one thing, but to see the overturned truck, the dead horse, the buggy in haphazard pieces, the flares, the lights, the ambulance and medical vehicles, was almost beyond human comprehension.