Secret, The

by Beverly Lewis

  Dr. O’Connor had definitely made a mistake. But it wouldn’t make sense to argue with him. He was obviously convinced of the diagnosis.

  When the lights came up again, she could see the concern on his face. “I wish I had better news, Heather,” he said, his mouth a tight line.

  How old was this guy? Not much older than she was.

  “But . . . I’ve got big plans.” A surge of adrenaline made her feel lippy. She was going to marry her fiancé one year from next month. “This isn’t going to happen, okay?”

  The doctor nodded as genuine relief spread across his face. “I wholeheartedly agree. You’re a fighter, Heather. And this disease is highly curable.” Pausing to shuffle through some papers on his desk, he quickly turned to his laptop. “I’ll see about an opening for your first round of treatment.”

  Treatment? The word stopped her heart. She was well acquainted with the word and what it entailed—a combination of chemo and radiation. Her mom had endured the effects nobly, and according to her doctors it had extended her life a few months. But from what Heather had witnessed, the results had been dubious at best as her mother’s quality of life dropped drastically. “Uh, no . . . I’m not interested in nuking my insides.”

  His look of astonishment was off-putting. “Well, let’s talk about survival rates—”

  “My mother was promised four more years.”

  “Your mother’s cancer was quite different from yours. And she was twice your age.” He drew a long breath, holding her gaze. “Why don’t we set a time to discuss this further . . . perhaps after you’ve slept on it?”

  I’m supposed to sleep?

  “I don’t think you understand, Doctor. I watched my mom die. I’m not sure what killed her, the cancer or the treatments.”

  He flinched at her comment. “Heather, I urge you to take some time to think about this. Without treatment the disease will progress . . . and you’ll become very sick. Eventually it will take your life.” He paused, his eyes small slits. “Of course, if you’re worried about fertility, most centers offer some preservation procedures.”

  She reached for her purse and slung it over her shoulder. As she got up, the floor seemed to slip from beneath her, and she leaned down to grip the chair to steady herself.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She forced a smile.

  Perfectly fine.

  “You’re strong, Heather . . . and in otherwise good health,” the doctor emphasized. “Every patient responds differently—there’s no guarantee you would react to radiation the way your mother did.”

  There’s no guarantee I’ll be cured, either.

  “Thanks anyway.” I’d rather not die before I’m dead.

  She didn’t bother to pull the door shut behind her. Let him get up from beside his high and mighty desk and close it himself.

  What must it be like playing God? The thought lingered as she hurried past the receptionist’s desk where she’d made her co-pay.

  They should be paying me! Glancing up at the clock, Heather was suddenly unable to suppress the lump in her throat. Overwhelmed, she pushed open the door, helpless to stop the tears spilling down her cheeks.

  “Why, sure, we stock a large variety of herbs to help with digestion,” Grace told her customer. She led the woman to the tonics and tea section of the store. “Here’s what we have.” She reached for a popular herbal combination. “This one has a nice blend of herbs . . . it’s helped lots of folk.”

  “Is this something you drink?” The woman turned the package over in her hands.

  “Oh jah, and real tasty, too, I’m told. You can mix it with any kind of juice.”

  The dark-eyed woman took a moment to read the ingredients and compare the first suggestion to several other options, including bitter orange tea leaves. “Have you ever tried this?” she asked. Then, sputtering, she retracted her question. “Oh, well, I doubt you have stomach upsets.”

  Grace hardly knew what to say. There had been several times recently when she’d experienced queasiness, but it had nothing to do with indigestion. “You might want to just try one of these and see how it works for you.”

  The woman’s face creased with uncertainty. “It’s hard to decide.”

  “You’re welcome to try one, and if it doesn’t help, bring it back,” Grace offered.

  “Fair enough.” The woman followed her to the cash register.

  “Remember, if you have any questions at all, just ask. If I can answer them, I will. And if not, I’ll find out the answer for you.” Grace made change and counted it into the woman’s hand. “Now that you know where we are, you’ll have to come again.”

  The woman smiled. “You’re very kind.” She looked at Grace, her gaze drifting up to the head covering of white netting she wore from morning to night. “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live as you do,” she whispered.

  Grace laughed softly. “Well, we’re not as strange as you may think.”

  “But you don’t drive cars or have electricity, do you?”

  “Neither one, no.”

  “No phones or radios, either?” Looking chagrined, the woman said, “I don’t mean to pry. Your ways are fascinating, though. You see”—and here she stepped closer—“I’ve always felt drawn to a simple life.”

  Grace rarely encountered this sort of open admiration among the English customers here or while tending the roadside vegetable stand in front of her family’s house. Most Englischers were proud of their complicated lives with televisions, computers, cars, electricity, and whatnot. Uncertain how to reply, she only nodded in agreement.

  “Oh goodness, I hope I didn’t offend you, miss. I would just love to know more about Amish folk.”

  Grace thought of suggesting a book, but she certainly wasn’t ready to offer the woman a tour of her father’s house. “We live as our Anabaptist ancestors did.” She suddenly remembered the cell phone one of her aunts was permitted to use for her quilting shop over in Honey Brook. “With some slight modifications.”

  “Oh really? Like what?”

  The woman’s fascination struck Grace as comical. She wondered, for a fleeting moment, if this customer with all her questions was somehow related to nosy Priscilla Stahl. “There are plenty of differences ’tween churches amongst the People. What’s allowed from district to district is entirely up to the voting membership.”

  “Members are permitted to give their input?”

  “Jah, we vote twice a year on our Ordnung.”

  The woman’s bewilderment registered in her big brown eyes.

  “The church ordinance,” Grace added. “Our rules.”

  Another clerk came over to ask Grace something, and she was secretly relieved. “You’ll have to excuse me.” She smiled and scurried off to the other side of the store.

  Such a curious soul!

  She’d heard plenty of stories about pushy Englischers. But this woman had been the first Grace had ever met who’d seemed genuinely interested in their way of life. Of course, that didn’t mean she was ready to join their ranks. All it took to discourage some outsiders was the thought of rising at four o’clock to milk a herd of dairy cows . . . before a hearty breakfast. That and having to learn the language of their forefathers, Pennsylvania Dutch.

  Grace located the item the other clerk had wanted and wondered what might have prompted the customer’s preference for all things simple. She recalled something Mammi Adah often said with a knowing smile on her wrinkled face: “When you get what you want . . . do you want what you get?” Grace assumed it was merely human to crave a different situation in life and not something unique to fancy folk.

  Adah stood out in the middle hallway and knocked and yoo-hooed to Lettie, the newly baked bread warm in her hand. She’d tried to make a point of respecting Judah and Lettie’s privacy but knew she hadn’t always succeeded since she and Jakob had moved into their side of the roomy house.

  Lettie called back for her to let herself in. “You can
just come over without askin’, Mamm, you know that.” Lettie had her hands in a wash pail and was down on the floor on all fours, looking up at her.

  “I baked you some bread.” Adah placed it on the table and sat down with a grunt as she observed Lettie wash the floor by hand. “Your Mandy ought to be helpin’ with that.”

  Lettie kept on, her head down. “Sometimes doin’ the work yourself is better.”

  “Does help occupy one’s mind.”

  Lettie nodded slowly. “At times, jah . . .”

  Not knowing how to broach the subject that nagged at her, Adah rose and walked to the side door, opened it, and looked out. She’d never been one to get anywhere with this daughter by making small talk. No, she had always had to take matters into her own hands . . . her own way. “Did I hear ya wanderin’ the house and talkin’ to yourself in the wee hours?” she asked, eyes still fixed on the pastureland to the south.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, your father and I were talkin’ and—”

  “You know there’s nothin’ to gain from that.”

  Adah turned to see Lettie sitting upright in the middle of the floor, her bare feet peeking out from beneath the green choring dress spread out all around her. “I meant no harm, Lettie.”

  “Then say nothin’ further.” Lettie wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I have enough to think about just now.”

  She means without me poking my nose in. “All right, then.” Adah glanced at the loaf she’d placed on the table. “I just thought you might like some fresh bread this morning. Would you want me to slice a piece for ya?”

  Lettie shook her head. “Denki, but I’ll take a break when I’m gut and ready.”

  Adah forced a smile and said she had work to do, then left for her own kitchen. No matter her hopes, the tension between Lettie and herself had never lifted despite the passing of years. She could only wonder when, or if, her daughter might open up to her ever again.

  chapter

  five

  Today the doctor informed me I’m dying. Someday, he’s going to feel foolish for having ruined my day.

  Heather stopped typing in her laptop journal, resting her fingers on the keyboard as she stared at the screen. She sat high on a barstool at the kitchen counter, one of several favorite spots in the house she’d shared with her parents for so many years. Pulling up her file of personal photos, she smiled as she stared at the most recent pictures of her and Devon, taken at Busch Gardens. Before climbing aboard the Loch Ness Monster, the most intense ride ever. She studied herself carefully. She looked exactly the same then as now, the picture of perfect health. Her shoulder-length brown hair with golden highlights gleamed in the sunlight, and her blue eyes sparkled with anticipation. Sure, she was tall and slender, but that was nothing new for her.

  “See?” she said to a pair of matching black Persians. “I’m absolutely fine.”

  The cats had been a gift from her parents to each other on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The big silver year was celebrated by most couples with a trip to Hawaii or Cancun . . . or silver jewelry and other finery.

  But in spite of their practical approach to marriage, her parents had always been anything but typical. For their special anniversary they’d dipped into their savings and bought the purebred kittens.

  As cat lovers, they had already owned three beautiful cats since saying “I do.” Tiger’s and Sasha’s lives had been short-lived . . . but the sweetest cat of all, Kiki, had surprised even the vet by living seventeen years before succumbing to old age. Mom had been too heartbroken to replace Kiki right away, so they’d waited a couple years to purchase the black feline siblings.

  Heather nuzzled her face into Moe’s gleaming fur. He always seemed to know her mood and liked to meow-talk when alone with her. She sighed and turned to scowl at the computer screen. “Starting over.” She selected what she’d just typed, then pressed Delete. “Hypothetically speaking, if I were as sick as the doc seems to think I am, what would I do?” She floated the question to the air.

  Meow . . . mew.

  She reached for Moe and held him close. “You silly cat.”

  What would Mom advise?

  She recalled her mother’s calm, sensible response to her own diagnosis. While she had gone the route of modern medicine, in the end she’d wished there had been time to pursue an alternative treatment method. But Mom didn’t have the luxury of time. And she had numerous symptoms, Heather thought, wanting to quell the memories.

  Still holding Moe, she got online and found a bunch of emails from friends. The only one she really cared about was from her fiancé, who was still frustrated about having been sent to Iraq. Looking on the bright side of things, though, today Devon had some good news. His tour of duty would be completed by Thanksgiving!

  She hadn’t forgotten the night six months ago when he’d made the upsetting announcement about his deployment. Back in his college days, he had thought it a good idea to join the National Guard and had assumed he’d only be gone on some weekends. But when his unit was called up and he was shipped off to Iraq via Texas, she’d inwardly recoiled, not wanting him to know how frightened she was.

  Now she kissed Moe’s furry head and decided not to tell Devon about her recent trips to the doctor. In fact, the more she considered it, the less she wanted to tell anyone. Especially not Dad.

  He was still struggling over his grief—her depressing news would surely send him spiraling back down into a black tunnel of despair. She must spare her father that if possible.

  Getting up, she went to pour some apple juice from the fridge and noticed a picture of the three of them, a magnet framing her parents and herself on the occasion of her college graduation. The grand brick buildings of William and Mary created an idyllic collegiate backdrop. The second-oldest school in the nation, it counted Thomas Jefferson among its distinguished graduates.

  She flashed through her memories of her first year. She’d been so wet behind the ears and unsure of herself, looking back made her cringe at times.

  “You never know what you’ll accomplish if you don’t take the first step.” That was her dad’s mantra, and a good one to live by, too. Heather had succeeded as she lived out her academic dream at the challenging college. How she’d loved the feel of the old campus and the engaging professors—so much so she sometimes fantasized about becoming a perpetual student, maybe working toward her doctorate.

  But then her mother had gotten sick . . . really sick. Heather had deferred her admission to the master’s program and managed to get out of her apartment lease and move home, driving to and from work near Williamsburg. Based on the oncologist’s prognosis, she’d had high hopes for her mother’s recovery. All three of them had.

  Even now, reflecting on the past, a plan began to churn in her head. The idea was quite appealing, actually. Why couldn’t she simply drop out of her world for a while? With Devon serving overseas, who else would really notice?

  Well, there was Dad, of course. He might notice if she disappeared, even though he was always preoccupied with work now that Mom was no longer around. He and Heather rarely bumped into each other at the house, which was just the way she liked it.

  Frankly, her biggest obstacle to running away from it all was the timing. She was so close to the end of her final semester—just another week away. It would be smart to finish her work first, to keep her credits.

  I’m fine, she reminded herself. They just got my lab results mixed up.

  Second-guessing was her forte. What if someone else had gotten her report by mistake? She’d read about the frequency of misdiagnoses enough to know she wasn’t borrowing trouble, yet . . .

  Me and my overactive imagination. Most likely, they’d only misinterpreted her lab results . . . the other tests, too.

  But what if they hadn’t?

  I have plenty of time to sort this out, she decided. Besides, from what she’d observed with Mom, if dying prematurely was absolutely in the cards, you
couldn’t argue with fate anyway. When your number was up, it was up.

  Setting Moe down, she closed her laptop and headed outside to the two-tiered deck. She moved down the stairs to the large water feature her mom and their landscape architect had decided on before Mom died. The cascading mini falls reminded Heather of their many visits to Pennsylvania Amish country, where they had loved walking the back roads, stopping in at roadside stands, and enjoying the sound of gurgling creeks. “Cricks,” one Amish girl had called them, and Mom had looked at Heather with a twinkle in her eye, a smile on her pretty face. The three of them had frequently vacationed there, soaking up the tranquillity offered by rolling, picturesque farmland stretching in all directions.

  I need something like that again.

  Sipping her juice, Heather strolled through the grass, past the patio gardens and around to the front of the grand old colonial where she’d grown up.

  “I miss you, Mom,” she whispered.

  She walked around to the opposite side of the house, taking her time as she pushed dry leaves out of the empty birdbath, wishing she could talk to her mom about Dr. O’Connor’s diagnosis. The last thing she wanted was to be unreasonable. Maybe there was something else she could do . . . perhaps she could look into some naturopathic treatment alternatives in Pennsylvania. There was a woman specialist somewhere in Lancaster whom Mom had wanted to see—Dr. Marshall, she recalled. According to the information Mom had jotted down and stuck on the fridge, her expertise was in stress relief, sleep disorders, cancer, headaches, and emotional well-being. Heather thought the list was still around.

  Her mind was in a whirl as she slipped back into the house.

  Inside, she wandered down the hall to Dad’s den. Somewhere in a drawer, waiting to be inserted into a photo album sleeve, there was a handful of brochures she and Mom had picked up and collected the last time they’d done something impulsive. They had planned the last-minute trip together, anxious to get away from the anxiety-ridden worlds of school and job and housework. Maxed out on stress, both of them had craved a serene spot that summer.