The Calling

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  “Are you having bad dreams?”

  “Terrible.”

  “So when it happens in the daytime, have you ever noticed what you were thinking about?”

  Bethany tilted her head. “Today, it happened right after I’d been at the Sisters’ Bee and heard what they had to say about my mother. I was thinking about how my mother might have walked down that same road when she was my age. That’s when I started to feel dizzy. Confused.”

  Geena nodded. “There could be all kinds of reasons you’re having those episodes. It would be a good idea to have a physical exam—just to rule out anything like—”

  “You think I’m going crazy, don’t you?”

  Geena smiled. “I was going to say, like low thyroid. Anemia. There could be a lot of physical reasons you’re having those episodes.”

  “But you think I’m getting schizophrenia, don’t you?”

  “I’m not a doctor. I’ve had a few counseling classes in seminary, but I really can’t make a diagnosis—”

  Bethany squeezed her eyes shut. “You do. You think I have the sickness.” She thought she might start to cry and she swallowed hard a few times. Only a few tears trickled out of the corners of her eyes, and she surreptitiously wiped those away with her sleeve.

  Geena sighed. “I don’t think you’re describing mental illness. I think you’re describing panic attacks. Frankly, that makes a lot of sense, given all that’s been going on in your life lately.”

  Bethany’s eyes popped open. “Panic attacks?”

  “Yes. Just like it sounds. They’re very real. And very frightening. But they can be managed too. Panic attacks typically begin suddenly, without warning. They can strike at almost any time—just the way you’ve described. Waking up in the night or walking down the road. Symptoms usually peak within about ten minutes, and you can be left feeling worn out. Exhausted.” She put her hands on Bethany’s shoulders. “Look, I shouldn’t be diagnosing you. But I will help you find a good counselor, if that’s what you need. A counselor can give you coping tools. First, we need to get you to a doctor. That’s the best place to start. You may just be run-down or needing vitamins or something simple like that.”

  “What if it’s not simple? What if I’m going to get the sickness?”

  “Then we’ll deal with that. There’s lots of treatments now, Bethany, much better ones than when your mother was diagnosed. If you were showing signs of schizophrenia, and I truly don’t believe you are, but if you were, you would be at the earliest stages of the illness and at the most treatable point.”

  A breath eased out of Bethany in an odd sigh.

  “Can I give you one piece of advice?”

  She nodded, but she couldn’t quite meet Geena’s eyes.

  “I know it’s been a hard week, a hard summer . . . well, just a hard year for your family. But you need to hold on to what is in front of you, not spend your life looking for what’s been lost or what might never come.”

  She gripped Bethany’s shoulders firmly to make her look at her. “You do not have to live the life your mother lived. Or your grandmother.” She softened her grip, then dropped her hands. “Don’t start going down that worst-case path. Just put it out of your mind for now.”

  If only it were that easy to put things aside. To send it to the back of Bethany’s mind like she sent Sammy to bed when he was tired. If only life were that simple. “So . . . what should I do?”

  “Pray,” Geena said, then immediately closed her eyes and lowered her head.

  Geena was going to pray here? Now? Out loud? Prayers were said in private silence, as was the Plain way, unless it was the Lord’s Prayer. Feeling awkward, she followed Geena’s lead, closed her eyes, and ducked her head down.

  Quietly, in everyday language, as if Geena were speaking to someone she knew well and respected enormously, she thanked God for Bethany, for bringing things to light so that Bethany could deal with them and not be frightened by them. She asked for guidance and direction to help her get answers for why she was having these episodes and the support she needed so that she could keep doing the good work she was doing—helping her family, the community garden, and the soup kitchen.

  “Amen,” Geena said, and then looked up at her and smiled. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Bethany shook her head. “No. Not hard. But a little casual, considering you’re addressing the Holy Maker of the Universe.”

  “Yes! Isn’t it amazing?” Geena clapped her hands together in delight, like a child. “That a wondrous and majestic God would want us to talk to him like we’re talking to our own father! And he does. Says so in Galatians 4:6.”

  Bethany didn’t know how to respond. She had lived her life attending church—observing traditions, obeying rules, following guidelines—and yet there was so much she didn’t know about God. She wanted to know more. Geena made faith sound easy, enjoyable, fortifying. Exciting. Geena’s faith gave color to the way she viewed the world and those around her, like strong coffee. Bethany’s faith . . . well, if it colored anything, it would be a mild tint, like weak tea.

  “God will answer. Trust me. ‘I call out to the LORD, and he answers me from his holy mountain.’ Psalm 3:4. It’s a promise.”

  “Okay,” Bethany said, but doubtfully. If talking to God and getting answers back were really as easy as Geena made it sound, she would have liked sky writing or a booming voice, or maybe a parting of the Red Sea. Some dramatic, no-questions-about-it sign. Some kind of guarantee from God that she wasn’t going crazy.

  The air was soft and warm after the morning rain shower. Naomi walked over to Eagle Hill as soon as she saw Geena’s car drive into the driveway. She’d been watching for it all afternoon after Bethany told her she was seeing a doctor today, sure she was going certifiably crazy.

  By the time Naomi slipped through the privet bush, Bethany was out of the car, beaming ear to ear.

  Naomi felt a wave of relief. “What did the doctor say?”

  “Geena was right! I’m having panic attacks. I’m not getting the sickness!”

  Naomi beamed. “I knew it! I was sure you weren’t getting it. But I’m so glad that you know it for certain.”

  “The doctor sent me right over to talk to a counselor in his practice. She gave me some strategies to cope, next time I get a panic attack.” Bethany sighed happily. “But at least I don’t have the fear attached to it that I’m coming down with schizophrenia like a bad cold.”

  Geena laughed and reached into the backseat for a bag of groceries. “You two talk. I’m going inside to start dinner.”

  The girls went up to the porch. Naomi sat in the swing that Galen had built for Rose. She kicked off the swing with her two feet so that it gently swayed. “What was it like to talk to a counselor?” More and more, she heard of church members who were getting counseling and it seemed like a good change. Everybody needed help now and then.

  Bethany leaned against the porch pole. “She was so easy to talk to. She told me all about panic attacks and how to discern between true fear and anxiety, and gave me some books to read.”

  “What is the difference?”

  “True fear is a constructive emotion. Like . . . do you remember last winter when Sammy and Luke were wrestling up in the hayloft? And I saw Sammy start to fall and ran to catch him before he fell onto the concrete down below.”

  Naomi nodded. She and Bethany had just walked into the barn and heard the boys overhead. Suddenly, Bethany was at the hayloft ladder, arms cast wide, as Sammy tumbled down the opening, headfirst. She caught him before he hit the concrete floor.

  “I moved so quickly—yet it felt like it was all happening in slow motion. I’ve never moved that fast in all my life and doubt I could again. But fear made me move like that—constructive fear. It was helpful. Anxiety is nameless and vague, and doesn’t provide anything constructive. That’s what I seem to be experiencing in those panic attacks.”

  Naomi stopped the swing from swinging so Bethany could sit on i
t.

  “The counselor also agreed with what the doctor said—that there was nothing in my symptoms to indicate a presentation of schizophrenia.”

  Naomi let out a breath. “What a relief to hear that.”

  “It doesn’t mean I’m immune to it, but the doctor didn’t think it was likely.” She pushed off so the porch swing started swaying again. “He said that one in five are affected by mental illness. One in five! It shouldn’t make me feel better to know that, but somehow, I don’t feel quite so alone.”

  “Speaking of alone, Jimmy Fisher came to talk to me,” Naomi said. “He’s terribly upset that you broke things off with him.” She glanced at Bethany. “Maybe you’ll reconsider, now that you have a better idea of what’s been troubling you.”

  “It was hardly a breakup. We’d only talked of courting for about five minutes.”

  “So, you’ll reconsider?”

  Bethany looked at Naomi, eyebrows lifted. “Since when did you become such a matchmaker?”

  Naomi just smiled. “Only when I get a certain feeling. Like with Galen and Rose. Or you and Jimmy.”

  “What about you and Tobe? Do you have a certain feeling about that?”

  Naomi looked away, feeling a blush warm her cheeks. “Don’t be silly. Your brother would never be serious about someone like me.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Naomi. Any fellow would be lucky to have you. I mean that. But as much as I love my brother, he’s a ways off from being serious about someone.”

  Naomi grew somber as the smile swept away from her eyes. “What makes you say that?”

  “Tobe spent a long time trying to be what my father wanted him to be. And then he spent a long time running from that. I think he needs time to figure out who he wants to be. He still has a ways to go.” She grinned. “But I won’t deny that he noticed you. Even better was the look on your face when he was around.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about . . . yes . . . I do.” Naomi covered her face. “How embarrassing.”

  Bethany reached out and covered Naomi’s hand with hers. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Duly warned. Enough about me. Maybe you should try noticing how Jimmy Fisher looks at you.”

  “How does he look at me?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.” She smiled her old-soul smile. “He’s the one, you know.”

  “The one?”

  “Yes. The One. The one you’ve been waiting for. The reason you didn’t run off with Jake. Deep down, you knew God had someone better in mind. He’s the One.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She nodded. “You’ll see. I know.”

  21

  Mim waited on the porch for the taxi to arrive. Her mom had left a brief message that they were heading home this afternoon. She wished for her brother Tobe, with his easy laugh. She even wished for her grandmother, all pinch-mouthed. Most of all, she wished for her mom. She searched the road, straining to hear for an approaching car, needing to see her mom’s face. She thought if her mother hadn’t left, most of the bad things from the week might not have happened. There was something about her mom that felt like a shield.

  Close to five o’clock, the taxi drove up to Eagle Hill. Her mother opened the car and helped Mammi Vera out. Mim ran over to meet them. “Where’s Tobe?”

  “Geduh is Geduh.” What is done and past cannot be called again. Mammi Vera walked up to the house, slower and older and a little hunched over, different than she seemed nine days prior. Luke and Sammy barreled out of the house, Bethany behind them.

  While the taxi driver got the suitcases out of the trunk, Mim’s mom dipped her head into the back of the taxi and came out with a six-month-old golden retriever puppy, wiggling and squirming in her arms. Luke and Sammy lunged for the puppy. “Wait, slow down, boys. Let him get used to you.”

  Holding on to the blue nylon leash, she set him carefully on the ground and let the puppy sniff. “Mim, this is the puppy that you gave to Delia Stoltz on the day she left Eagle Hill. Turns out her husband is not fond of having a dog in the house, so when Delia heard about Chase, she thought it would be best to return him to us.”

  Mim bent down to pat the puppy. “She called him Micky, right?”

  Mim’s mom laughed. “That’s right. Short for Miracula fieri hic.”

  Tears sprang to Mim’s eyes and she blinked them away, keeping her head bowed. “Remember, Luke? This pup’s father was Chase. His mother is Daisy, from the Lapps over at Windmill Farm.”

  Sammy bent down immediately, nose to nose with the round-eyed pup. Luke didn’t utter a word. He just watched the puppy, almost reverently, as he made his way sniffing around the suitcases. Then Luke hugged his mother, hard, and took the leash from her. “Let’s go show him around, Sammy.”

  Bethany, Mim, and their mother watched the two boys and the puppy in a footrace down to the barn.

  “How did you know about Chase?” Bethany asked.

  Uh oh. Mim had called Delia Stoltz’s house each afternoon, around five or so, after she was sure Danny wasn’t going to call to go stargazing—which he hadn’t, not in a while—and left long phone messages for her mom. She had told her mother everything, but she accidentally-on-purpose neglected to tell Bethany that she had called. Bethany had said she didn’t want to worry her mom or Mammi Vera, but Mim couldn’t help it. She couldn’t hold all that worry inside her. Besides, Galen had called and talked to her mom each day too. Bethany didn’t know that, either.

  Before her mother could answer, the taxi driver wanted to be paid and Galen and Naomi came over to welcome them home. Mim saw Galen exchange a look with her mom that seemed like married people who sent messages without talking. Their eyes met. His asked: You okay? Hers answered: I’m okay. Not great, but okay.

  “Where’s Tobe?” Mim repeated.

  “Tobe isn’t coming back for a while,” her mom explained. “He ended up pleading guilty to withholding evidence and was given a light sentence. He’ll be transferred soon to a federal prison camp in central Pennsylvania to serve out the sentence.”

  “He did the right thing,” Naomi said firmly.

  Galen gave her a look that was a mixture of surprise and confusion.

  “Well, he did,” Naomi said, her chin lifting a notch. “He showed courage.”

  Mim looked at Naomi and realized she had changed from a young girl to a woman this summer. Naomi seemed whole and strong and complete inside herself in a way she never had before. How did people change so quickly?

  “Rose,” Bethany started, “Jake Hertzler—”

  “There’s a warrant out for Jake Hertzler’s arrest.” Rose looked at Bethany. “Tobe got a light sentence because he agreed to provide evidence about Jake Hertzler.”

  “Rose, Jake is far more sinister than we ever realized.”

  “I know, honey.” Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. Mim had never seen her mom cry before. Not ever. Her voice choked on the words. “Mim told me all about it.”

  “You what?” Bethany glared at Mim.

  “Don’t blame your sister. She was worried about you. But after I told Tobe what Jake had done to you—what he had tried to do—he pled guilty and self-surrendered that very day.”

  “But why?” Bethany asked, her eyes filling with tears. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. I just . . . don’t know.” She held out her arms and Bethany sank into them.

  Bethany arrived at the Grange Hall early on Wednesday morning, though the sun was already searing the morning sky with a blinding light. The sisters weren’t expected for hours, but Bethany thought if she could get the bread rising early enough, it would be baked in time for lunch. Just as she pulled the flour bag out of the cupboard and up on the countertop, she heard a knock on the door. When she opened it, no one was there but a note was taped to the door.

  On it were scrawled only two words: I’m sorry.

  Bethany saw Rusty kneeling next to the garden plot of the Gro
up Home, thinning radish starts. She was wearing jeans that were too short and a ratty-looking brown sweater that was much too big. Sunlight streamed on her tangled bird’s nest of long red hair, making it seem as if it had caught fire.

  Bethany stood a few yards away for a while before letting Rusty know she was there, and looked at her, truly looked at her, as if she were seeing her for the first time. She looked beyond the angry eyes and tough-girl attitude, and saw a young, mixed-up teenager.

  A purple martin darted between them, flapping its wings in sudden terror. Bethany spotted a cat slinking toward them on a garden path. She smiled. Jimmy’s purple martin houses were attracting all kinds of creatures. She sat on the edge of the wooden garden bed. “How’d you like to learn how to bake bread?”

  The funniest expression crossed Rusty’s face—wariness and calm and hope, all mingled together. Then she dropped her eyes and tugged on her cutoff jeans. She shrugged. “Beats weeding, I guess.”

  “Good. Put your tools away and meet me in the kitchen in the Grange.”

  A few minutes later, Rusty joined Bethany in the kitchen. Bethany pointed to the sink. “Wash your hands. Then wash them again. Get the garden grit out from under your fingernails. Scrub them like a surgeon heading to the operating room.”

  Rusty scowled at her—which didn’t surprise Bethany because she knew Rusty didn’t tolerate anyone telling her what to do—but she went to the sink and started to scrub.

  Bethany stirred a packet of yeast into a jar of warm water and set it aside. She measured flour into a big bowl, created a well, and added a tablespoon or two of oil. Then she picked up the yeast, now stirred to life—thick and bubbly—and dumped it into the well.

  Rusty peered over her shoulder. “That gray stuff is alive.”

  Bethany laughed. “It is. It’s a living organism. When water is added to yeast, it wakes it up.” She picked up a sturdy wooden spoon and stirred it together, stirred and stirred, until it was a thick, lumpy blob of dough. She scattered a layer of fine white flour across the surface of the countertop, divided the dough into two pieces, one for each of them, and gave half to Rusty. “It’s going to be sticky to start with, but just keep kneading and it will get better. If it’s too sticky, dust it with a little more flour.”