by Linda Byler
John grinned, thinking she was another Mam. DNA copied to perfection. Sara Ann and Susie were all over him, children staring wide-eyed.
Far into the night, the family sat around the elongated kitchen table, cups of steaming coffee and mint tea, sugar and cream, whoopie pies and Swiss roll bars, Chex mix and popcorn, children reaching across parents’ laps to make faces, steal whoopie pies.
Mothers were too engrossed in conversation to notice how late it was getting until a child howled in unwarranted anger. “All right, all right. Time for a bath. He’s tired.”
Mam was pushing back her chair, saying, “Here, I’ll go with you. Battery lamp on the shelf, Susie. I’ll get the towels and washcloths.”
Sara Ann followed, a howling whoopie-pie-smeared Kore in tow, headed for the bathtub, where the three of them spoke as fast as they could, in low tones, the door closed securely against John and Samuel.
“Isn’t it something, Mam? How Samuel has given up? Oh, and he just gets better looking. He’s so happy, I could cry.” Susie wailed, sniffed.
Mam snorted, as she bent to get clean washcloths, yanked open a door in the bathroom cupboard for towels.
Little boys splashed like fish in the sudsy water.
“His happiness is not, let me assure you, not from giving up his will. It has nothing to do with Lena or John. His happiness comes in the form of one fancy, worldly girl named Emily.”
Gasping, Susie straightened from her hunch over the side of the tub.
“Not English? Mam!”
“No, she’s not English. But . . . well, just wait till you see her.”
Questions sprang from Sara Ann’s normally serene face.
“They just moved in, from Lancaster. Joe and Mary Beiler. Remember S’ Dans Amosa Joes?”
Waved her hand in dismissal.
“No, you wouldn’t remember. You were little girls. Anyway, their daughter Emily is, well, picture perfect. Wild, even. So fancy you have no idea. She . . . well, she’s coming tomorrow. Samuel insisted. They had their, I don’t know, second or third date last weekend. He is smitten. Forgot all about Lena, evidently. Oh, I just can’t see any good come of it.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Sara Ann shrieked.
“Shh,” Susie warned.
“But, Mam, surely you can tell us one good thing about her. I love her name. You can’t judge a book by its cover.”
Mam crossed her arms, drew up her shoulder.
“You can’t?”
And the girls knew exactly what their mother meant.
She watched them stuff resistant little limbs into pajamas, draw a comb through wet locks, amid varied sounds of outrage, howls of exhausted little bodies that had traveled all the way from Kentucky, and wondered how she ever raised ten babies.
But then she sat on the recliner, rocking, one baby in each arm, kissed the tops of damp little heads, breathed in the smell of Dial soap and Downy fabric softener, and remembered very well why she had had ten children. She could not have known back then how grown children tramped all over your heart, wearing sturdy boots. Some of them hobnailed. It was so important to pray they find the right partner, for God to place a shield around them, protect them from lust and infatuation, wrong choices, high pedestals.
Or were there wrong choices?
God was in control. He led them together, didn’t he? He allowed the marriage to take place, so there you go. Well, He allowed accidents, too. And death.
Just wait till the girls met Emily.
She drank cup after cup of coffee, then lay awake, wide-eyed, rigid with worry and consternation. Finally, she fell into a fitful sleep and dreamt senseless dreams she only half remembered and didn’t care about at all.
She wore her new brown dress, for fall, and Thanksgiving. It was a nice fabric, with just the right weight to it. A bit of a pucker in the weave. She hoped the girls wouldn’t think her too fancy herself. She knew she’d bought that dress and sewed it with Emily in mind. Well, she couldn’t wear her old brown “peach skin” one either. No use being as frumpy as she could when a new girlfriend appeared for Thanksgiving dinner.
“Nice dress, Ma.”
“Don’t call me Ma.”
The girls laughed, raised their eyebrows and rolled their eyes. Now who was fancy?
John felt good.
He had so much to look forward to, so much to live for. The lively banter around the kitchen table had been an elixir, a boost to his mind and spirit. The months ahead seemed like only a short time, and then Lena would return. Nothing could hold them back now, with Samuel so completely taken by Emily. He showered, dressed in a sage green denim shirt, his black denim trousers, strapped on the cumbersome boot on the injured foot, slipped a warm brown sock on the opposite foot, and went to join the group around the kitchen table again.
Little Sallie barreled toward him, collided into his knees and wrapped her arms around his legs. Dressed in her pajamas, her blond hair like a dust mop, she was the most winsome of them all. John bent to lift her up, hobbled over to the table, and slid onto the bench beside Daniel.
“Oatmeal or cereal?” Mam called.
John wrinkled his nose. “Coffee.”
So much to say, so much to listen to. John had not felt such a lifting of his spirits in years. He had no idea what the injuries he’d sustained in the accident had done to his Lyme disease, but he did know his body could heal itself, same as everyone else, so he must not be too bad.
Perhaps the impact had knocked all the Lyme right out of him. Who knew? He knew one thing for sure. The anxiety that had been the worst of all the Lyme symptoms had not returned after the crash.
Perhaps he’d been so close to death that nothing mattered, eliminating the dread and anxiety, the constant foreboding of being terminally ill.
He would grasp a newfound hold on life, on the good contained in a world that had almost been torn from the thin, unhappy grasp he’d had on it.
It seemed to him he’d been only a fourth of the person he could be. He’d been so weak, tired, aching, pain buzzing in his joints like miniature chain saws, ears rasping and pounding with pressure, until he thought he would surely lose his mind, listening to the high insistent ringing.
He’d been swallowing thousands of pills over the years, soaking in detox baths and pitying himself, growing old and bitter long before his time.
Was it really over?
The fear of the symptoms’ return made him break out in a cold sweat, until he made himself stop thinking about it. Thoughts were often difficult to control, but it could be done, with God’s help. Absolutely.
Forge ahead. Keep your eyes on the goal. Ask God for His help. You’ll get there.
No one told him Lena would be there. No one as much as threw a hint that she had traveled with his siblings, all the way from Kentucky.
He was lying on his back, his knees upraised, Sallie combing his hair with Dat’s large, orange comb, Andrew straddling his stomach, yelling, “Come on, Giddup. Go. Go,” with Kore building a runway for his jet from a pile of colorful Legos.
He heard a commotion in the kitchen, turned his head to see what was going on, to find a vision in a black wool coat standing shyly by the counter, the girls chattering like magpies.
Lena!
He sat up, dumping Andrew into the pile of Legos, which set up yells of disbelief from Kore, shrieks of outrage from Andrew, and a stiff scolding from Sallie, who wielded her comb and ordered him to lie back down this minute.
She turned her head. Their eyes met. He felt the heat in his face. He struggled to his feet, amid more yells from his niece.
“Hey! Sallie, stop that,” from Sara Ann.
He hobbled over, took her hand. Blond hair, white covering, blue eyes and porcelain skin melded with the black wool of her coat as a mist formed in his eyes.
He remembered watching eyes, stepped back with decorum, said, “Hello, Lena.”
“Hello, John.”
The girls were making all sorts of strange
grimaces, blinks, clearing their throats. They said later they had never encountered anything so sweet in their entire lives. You could feel it. The love. It gave them chills. They rubbed their palms up their forearms and blinked madly to keep the tears and the wobbly chins at bay.
They sat side by side on the sofa in the living room. They had eyes only for each other, talking in low, muted voices. The children crowded around like curious chipmunks, eyes bright with interest, but too shy to speak.
Samuel brought Emily.
Together, they stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, laughing, red-cheeked, cold after the long buggy ride. The girls hung back, suddenly bashful, eyeing the burnt orange hue of her dress. No cape. Short sleeves.
Short sleeves?
What? For Thanksgiving dinner with the boyfriend’s family? Boy, Mam wasn’t kidding. Her shoes. Oh my word, thought Susie. They looked like crocheted baby booties. Well. And her hair combed like that? And that was a tiny covering by anyone’s standards. Well, best to stop staring, gather themselves together, and make introductions to the best of their astounded ability.
Samuel took over, suave, confident, making the girls feel like babbling pre-schoolers.
“Emily,” (he pronounced it Um-i-lee, and Lydia felt like gagging). “This is Susie. The oldest. Married to Elam over there.”
In that tone of voice, Susie thought she may as well have married a badger.
But she managed to smile, step up, and shake a limp hand.
Sara Ann and Lydia used up all their hidden reserve and brought forth bright smiles and polite words. “Hello. Good to meet you. I’ve heard about you.”
Emily smiled, shook hands, said all the right things, clung to Samuel’s arm like a parasitic ivy, but spoke kindly to the children, greeted Mam with a flash of recognition, a wider smile than the one reserved for the girls.
Mam’s voice rose a few octaves, along with her eyebrows, putting her in a state of anxious benevolence the girls called “Emily Alert.”
“It’s good to see you again, Emily. I hope you can make yourself at home with all these.”
She waved a hand.
“I heard your mother is making coverings now. That’s so necessary in the community here. Maybe she can help me with my pattern. I have such a time with the pleats. Does she make yours?”
“Yes, she does.”
Lydia thought, She does, does she? Probably wouldn’t fit the six-year-old. She bent to pick up a toy, redeeming her bad thoughts.
Well, she was here. She was definitely here. Samuel was flying up there with the jet streams on a cold November sky. Emily seemed enamored of her blond Samuel, and, as they both knew, they made a striking couple. One any mother would be proud of. As Mam clearly was.
They were going upstairs to Samuel’s room to play Rook with John and Lena, Lydia informed the women bustling around in the kitchen.
Mam nodded, deflated, the beginning of a turkey wattle on her neck, her ears a fiery red from nerves and tension and steaming kettles. Lydia felt a stab of pity and went to lay an arm across her strong, wide back, tucking the drawstring up under her covering.
“It’ll be all right, Mam. She’s very pretty. I think they make a nice couple.”
Mam patted Lydia’s hand.
“Thanks. I need to hear that, gel?”
“She’ll be all right. She was raised this way.”
Mam was lifted from her clutch of tension, her courage bolstered by the daughter’s kind gesture, and served the remarkable dinner with aplomb, her eyes snapping as she sailed from stove to table with her entourage of girls in tow, children underfoot, Legos schpritzing out from shoe heels, children’s books kicked out of the way, shooting looks at Dat.
Help me out here. Don’t sit there like a stump.
The four youngie were clattering down the stairs. John was hobbling, his face alight. Lena was wearing a deep burgundy color, with a neatly pinned cape and black apron wrapped high on her slender waist. Her hair was like platinum gold.
Emily was a striking, dark figure, the color of a sun-kissed pumpkin, her black eyes flashing with gaiety and delight. The men’s eyes watched her, then turned politely to the care of children.
They bowed their heads. Thirty-four people were seated at the extended kitchen table that held twelve leaves, plus the plastic Lifetime tables with folding chairs and benches.
John sat beside Lena, his heart too full to pray without tears. He bit his lip, endured the burning of his nose, and felt a gratitude so deep and wide he could never grasp it all. To have Lena here was beyond anything he had ever expected, or deserved. To be healed from his injuries, to be seated here at all, was so much more than he deserved.
His sound mind, the anxiety and crippling fear a receding shadow, was another reason for gratitude. The realization that he may always have bouts of pain or fatigue, but that he was so much better than he could have hoped to be, even a year ago, was amazing.
A song found its way into his mind and heart.
“Father, I adore Thee, Lay my life before Thee, How I love Thee.”
When everyone raised their heads, eyes met, and smiles sprang from thankful hearts. Samuel turned to look at Emily, who in turn, looked at him, exchanging glances of glad recognition. If not yet love, they certainly had an attraction that would lead to it, even if it was the kind of love that required trials to deepen it, secure it, nail it down against battering winds of life.
John had endured a giant’s share of life’s winds of adversity, but couldn’t know how many more God had planned. He turned to find Lena looking at him and smiled, returning the adoration in her eyes.
“Mashed potatoes!”
Sylvia Ann was hungry, meant business.
When everyone laughed, she looked around, pinpointed the person closest to the serving dish piled high with buttery white potatoes, and said, “Emily, pass those potatoes, please.”
Emily, clearly delighted to be singled out, complied immediately. Which warmed Mam’s heart. Perhaps there was more between the pages of this book than what met the eye. Samuel beamed.
Was it too much to expect happiness and good things? Did one go strolling down the meandering path of life without peering anxiously around jutting boulders? Didn’t one need to expect blows in the form of Lyme disease and car accidents and daughters marching off to Kentucky with new husbands carrying the proud banner of pioneerism?
No. You picked up each day with both hands and held it. You appreciated all the good, even if you had to sift around in a messy pile of ill feelings and regretted words to find it.
This day I choose to be thankful, Mam thought. This day I will love Emily, be thankful for her, in spite of not being what I expected or wanted for my golden Samuel.
And here was John. Ach John. My John.
She ate turkey and gravy, stuffing and mashed potatoes prodigiously, along with pumpkin pie and cornstarch pudding. Afterward she washed dishes and went for a long walk with the three girls in the biting November wind, the bare branches of the trees whipping and creaking in the woods beside them, their skirts billowing out in autumnal hues, glimpses of white knees that rose out of black stockings like mushrooms.
Mam yanked at her skirt and marched back home, flopping red-faced into the recliner and falling asleep with her mouth open, Andrew on her lap.
CHAPTER 25
HE WAS WITH LENA AGAIN AT CHRISTMAS, WHEN ALVIN AND LYDIA hosted the whole family for a crowded Christmas dinner in the old yellow house.
The farm brought back memories, but mostly, a sense of remembered anxiety, the unsettling knowledge that he had been sick with Lyme disease, weary, drained, struggling to rise above the turmoil in his head. By measuring those days with the way he felt now, he knew he’d come a long way.
He gave the one pill, Protandim, a lot of the credit, although who knew? He’d take what he could get. Wellness for him was likely not the same level as a person who had never had Lyme, but to be able to work, to function at an acceptable level in everyday lif
e, was something he’d gladly live with.
A good night’s sleep, normal rambling thoughts about anything and everything, just being, without fear of losing your mind or worse, were all things he had never thought to be thankful for till now.
When his joints ached at the end of the day, he could accept that, too. They might do that for the rest of his life. Sometimes they’d ache, and other times they’d be fine. That was Lyme disease.
The doctor had said it would always lurk somewhere, although he could enjoy good health. He had been right. A fresh appreciation for the medical field, together with alternative remedies, anyone who devoted their time and energy to help the victims of this disease, brought emotion to his throat, a lump he quickly swallowed, blinking to avoid his brothers’ scrutiny.
They wouldn’t understand. They had not gone through the valley of fear and suffering. And that was all right.
Was that, then, how mercy for other people came about? After you went through your own suffering, sucked into a whirlpool of Lyme disease, did you become sympathetic? John guessed that was the way of it, human nature being what it was.
He felt a surge of joy.
He punched Samuel’s arm with all his strength, resulting in a yowl of pain and outrage. John swung back, escalating their playful scuffle.
Dewan Reynolds stood back, his eyes wide, a shocked expression on his dark face. He held out an arm, pointed, then made a silent, flying leap, wrapping his arms around John in a hug like a giant squid.
John struggled to breathe, then laughed. His brothers gawked, clearly amused at the easy flow, the eager spontaneity.
He gripped John’s shoulders, said, “You look bad, man. Bad.”
“Yeah, well, you know I was in an accident.”
“I heard. You gave Alvin and Lydia a scare. I mean, they, like, flipped out.”
“I’m all right now.”
“Yeah? Hated to see you go, John. You shoulda stayed. Dogs multiplying like rabbits. I got a raise!”
They spent the forenoon in the kennel, inspecting dogs, learning what Dewan did, which seemed to be manage the entire line of dogs and puppies, cleaning, just everything. Samuel commented on the fact that Alvin had really lucked out, finding someone like Dewan.
