Wounded Heart (9781455505654)

by Senft, Adina

  “Um…well, you were here. And I hear David out there. Besides, there’s no customers here yet. It’s too early.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and resisted another urge to give him the spanking that his parents clearly should have given him years ago. All her good intentions of asking him his plans, of not rocking the boat in Melvin Miller’s favor, flew out the window on the wings of exasperation.

  “Aaron, I’m not happy with this. You’re late to work three days out of five, and when you are here, you don’t pull your weight. I’ve spoken to you about it before, and I don’t see any improvement.”

  Under his shaggy thatch of hair cut in the Englisch fashion, he at least had the grace to look abashed. “I got a lot of things going on, Amelia.”

  Sure he did. Parties and running around in his flashy buggy, that’s what. “Is that all you have to say for yourself ? What kinds of things?”

  “My dad, mostly. He needs help on the farm, even though he has my two older brothers to help him. I was up at four this morning milking.”

  “And I get up at four on Mondays to do the wash. We all have our work at home as well as here. You’re not the only one.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t have my dad down your back. He’s got me working all the time I’m at home. I have to leave if I ever want to—” He stopped, and two scarlet patches flared in his cheeks.

  So he had the ability to blush. Never mind, it was none of her business. “Well, I’m thinking that obeying your dad is your first responsibility, but I need someone I can depend on. I’m going to have to let you go, Aaron.”

  He gazed at her, stricken, as if she’d slapped him the way she’d wanted to a moment ago. “You’re firing me?”

  She was a little surprised to see that he cared this much. But at least he had alternatives. Carrie had none. If she didn’t give Melvin a job, he’d have to go to Indiana, and Amelia wouldn’t be able to bear her best friend’s distress if that happened. “Ja. This is two weeks’ notice. But if you decide to go today, I’ll write out your check.”

  He slid his bottom off the desk and stood on his own two feet. “How are you going to manage without me?”

  Look at him, standing there with one hip cocked, as if her business would crash without his hard work and determination. Hmph.

  “I’ll manage. And if I can’t, I’ll hire someone else.” He didn’t need to know that she was going to ask that someone else immediately—probably this evening, so he could start on Monday.

  “You know, Amelia, I don’t feel comfortable working the two weeks if you don’t respect what I do for you. I’ll just take my check now, if that’s okay with you.”

  Now? As in right now? “Aren’t you going to finish out the day?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Aaron, stop playing hard done by. Of course you’re wanted. But I need someone who wants to be here, too, day after day. And I don’t think you do.”

  She thought she heard him mumble, “You got that right.”

  “And that’s fine. Building pallets isn’t for everyone.”

  “You make it sound like some kind of career.”

  “We both know it isn’t. But it’s good, solid work, and it’s needed, so I do it. You know perfectly well I’d rather be at home, but God didn’t set me on that path.”

  “I know.” At least the attitude had leaked away. “But I can still have my check?”

  “Yes. Just let me write it out.”

  When she gave it to him, he had the grace to extend a hand and shake hers. “Denki, Amelia. Good luck.”

  Businesses didn’t run themselves on luck, but she wasn’t going to explain that to him. “I hope you find the work God means you to have, Aaron.”

  He just smiled the kind of smile that Emma used to when she had a secret to keep, and loped out the door, shoving the check into the tight front pocket of his worldly jeans. With a sigh Amelia resigned herself to running the air nailer with David, and turned to gather up the job slips. But when the phone rang, her hands jerked and all the slips flew up like doves frightened out of a tree.

  She grabbed the phone. “Whinburg Pallet and Crate, Amelia Beiler speaking.”

  “Aunt Amelia, it’s me, Marie—your niece?”

  She had twelve nieces, and Marie was her sister Donna’s second girl. “Hi, Schatzi. Wie geht’s? ”

  “I’m well, thanks. Mamm says I’m to say hi from her, and she’s looking forward to seeing you at Christmas.”

  Donna lived away up in Lebanon, and they got to see each other only a couple of times a year, usually at Christmas and in the spring when her brother-in-law brought the family down for the mud sales. “I’m looking forward to seeing her, too. But…why are you calling? Does she think I’m taking too long to answer her letter?”

  “No, it’s not about that. Mammi called us last night. She says you’re looking for a second opinion on an MS diagnosis?”

  Mammi needed to mind her own business. “Yes, I am. But what—”

  “I’m calling because I have a job now, Auntie. At Dr. Stewart’s office in Strasburg.”

  “Strasburg?” That was miles from Lebanon.

  “Ja. I’m on my own now, sharing a house with two other girls. Anyway, Dr. Stewart is a really good doctor, and since I make her appointments, I can put you down for tomorrow morning if you can make it. Can you?”

  Amelia’s jaw hung in the wind, swinging open and shut like a gate without a latch. How could she have been so dense? Worrying about finding a second doctor in the phone book when all she had to do was put the word out among her own family that she needed help?

  Pride again. She’d become so hardened, so used to thinking she was so capable, that she just never thought of giving someone else the chance to serve.

  “That would be wonderful. But…but what is Dr. Stewart’s specialty? She’s a lady doctor? Does she know about MS?”

  “She knows about all kinds of things, Auntie, including that. She’s a holistic doctor. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who walk out of here well, sometimes for the first time in years. And half her patients are Amish. You’ll be in good hands, I promise.” Holistic. Did that mean whole? Never mind, Marie was speaking again, making the appointment for the next day. “I just need one thing. Can you ask your doctor to send your MRIs over here? Dr. Stewart will want to look at them, too. And it will save you the cost of getting another set.”

  After Amelia agreed to make the call, she sent her love to Donna and the family and hung up.

  Maybe it was her mother, getting overinvolved the way she did every time the subject of health came up. Or maybe it was God’s hand, directing her to the very person she needed to see.

  Amelia just hoped that in the end this new doctor would have the right answer.

  Chapter 9

  Carrie loved it when the boys came over, so as soon as the dishes were done, Amelia got them into their coats and gum boots and hitched up the buggy for the trip to her house. Carrie squealed with delight and pulled them all into the kitchen, which was warm and smelled of fried sausages and cinnamon.

  “I’m so glad to see you. I’m trying to make these pumpkin cookies, and I could really use your help.” She set Elam in front of a bowl of cooked pumpkin chunks and handed him a potato masher. “Why don’t you mash this while I talk to your mama. And, Matthew, can you measure out two level cups of flour?”

  “Actually, I was hoping to talk to Melvin.” Amelia shot Carrie a meaningful look and was gratified to see her brighten as though someone had turned up a wick behind her eyes.

  “Sure. He’s in the sitting room reading the newspaper.” With a smile, she returned to her worktable. “That’s it, Elam. Really mash it good.”

  Melvin looked up as Amelia crossed the room and sat in Carrie’s rocker. “Hello, Amelia. What brings you our way on this windy evening?”

  Even as he spoke, she could hear branches tapping on
the side of the house. They ought to be trimmed back, but nothing would make her say so.

  “Carrie loves to see the boys, and with school they don’t get over here as much as they used to. And I wanted to speak to you.” He folded the paper, which was open to the Help Wanted section, and gave her his full attention. “I wondered if you might be interested in a job at the shop.”

  He paused, as if he were unsure she actually meant him. “Your shop?”

  “Yes. I let Aaron King go this morning, but if I don’t find another builder by Monday, I’ll be running that air nailer myself. I just don’t have the time or the strength to do it.”

  “You’re asking me. But Amelia…” He took a breath. “I don’t know a thing about building pallets.”

  “You helped build RVs, didn’t you?”

  “Sure, but that’s different.”

  “Probably a lot more complicated. Believe me, if I can build a pallet, you can. And David Yoder will help you. He knows as much as I do about it—more, in fact.”

  She’d expected him to jump at the offer. Why was he sitting there looking so uncomfortable? “Are you set on going to Shipshey instead?” Part of her hoped so. Then she’d have done the right thing without having to pay the price of his ineptitude.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just—” He toyed with the edge of the paper. “We’re both from the same kind of families, Carrie and I. Plainer maybe than you. I don’t know how I’d feel working with your power tools. They’d be a temptation for me, you see.”

  That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “They’re not powered by electricity. They run on gas.”

  “But you just said you used an air nailer. That seems like a fancy tool to have when a good hammer serves us well and always has.”

  “You can’t use a hammer and ordinary nails to build a pallet.”

  He smiled. “Can’t—or won’t?”

  Men who need work shouldn’t question the faith of those who offer it. “Can’t. If you did, the minute the customer’s forklift slid its prongs into the loaded pallet, the nails would rip right out and the whole thing would end up all over the ground. Which wouldn’t be so good if the customer were shipping eggs.”

  He stared at her, clearly not understanding.

  “We use special coated nails with a twist in them. Almost like a screw. The air nailer inserts them properly so they don’t pull out under the stress of the forklift.”

  Understanding dawned. “I have a lot to learn, don’t I?”

  “Maybe a lot. But it’s not so hard. So you’ll take the job and not go to Shipshewana?”

  With a glance out at the kitchen, where Carrie was laughing at something Matthew had said, Melvin nodded. “I see that my wife has been talking to you. And Emma, too, probably?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t fire poor Aaron just to give me work, I hope.”

  “No. I was thinking of letting him go anyway. He doesn’t pull his weight, and I need someone who does.”

  “I’ll do my best. I may not be the smartest farmer in the world, but I think I can manage your air nailer with its twisty nails.”

  Again Amelia felt ashamed of her opinion of Melvin. She loved and respected Carrie. Would Carrie have married a stupid man? He had just admitted he knew his own limits. There must be depths to Melvin Miller that the casual observer couldn’t see. Maybe he would be a gifted pallet maker.

  She held out a hand. “Welcome to Whinburg Pallet and Crate. I’ll see you at nine o’clock—” She hesitated. Tomorrow was the doctor, then quilting that afternoon, and David was off on Wednesdays. But she couldn’t very well make Melvin wait until Thursday. She didn’t want him thinking she didn’t trust him to do his work if she wasn’t there. David would just have to handle it. “Tomorrow.”

  “And don’t be late?” He grinned at her as he shook her hand.

  “I can be a hard boss,” she warned. “Don’t get ideas.”

  The smile faded. “Thank you,” he said. “I know you’re doing this for love, not because I have any talent at building things.”

  “And you’re working for me for love,” she said. “You want to see Carrie happy as much as I do.”

  “More. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Even rent my land to my neighbors so I can work in town.”

  And if you do that, and you’re content with your work, maybe a baby will come faster. But Amelia only smiled and went back out to the kitchen to see how the boys were doing.

  Carrie looked up from the table, where Matthew was scooping out tablespoons of batter and Elam was carefully pressing them on the cookie sheet with a fork, peanut-butter-cookie style. Both of them had more batter on their faces than there was in the spoon.

  Carrie’s face held so much hope that Amelia could have leaned over the worktable and hugged her. But she didn’t—merely nodded—and that was enough. Carrie squeezed her eyes shut, clasped her hands under her chin, and jumped up and down in silent joy.

  Elam turned to look at her. “Auntie Carrie, did you burn yourself ?”

  “No, sweetheart,” Carrie said on a shaky breath. “I just had a very happy thought, that’s all.”

  “Did God give it to you?”

  Amelia smothered a smile. During prayer time Sunday night, they had talked about where thoughts come from and whether you let them roost in your mind or chased them away like starlings out of the vegetable garden.

  “Yes, He certainly did.” Beaming, her eyes damp, Carrie ruffled his hair.

  “So you will let it stay?”

  “I sure will. Lots of good things will be staying. Like these cookies, if we don’t hurry up and get them in the oven. Would you like to take some home with you?”

  Dr. Stewart looked so young that Amelia wondered if she had gotten out of medical school only the week before. She was smaller than Amelia herself, and her red hair was pulled back in a French braid that lay against her white lab coat in a fat rope.

  “I’ve looked at the MRI slices, and from what you’ve told me and the motor-control tests I had you do, I don’t think I can add or subtract anything from the diagnosis you got from Dr. Hunter.”

  Amelia’s stomach bottomed out, the way it did when she’d swung too high on the rope swing as a child. She sat on a couch across a low table from the doctor, smoothing her apron flat across her knees. “So you agree with him?” She needed to hear it, definitely, one way or the other.

  “Yes, I agree with him. What medications did he put you on?”

  Amelia dug in her purse and pulled out the prescription paper. “I haven’t had time to do anything with this yet.”

  The doctor scanned the paper in less than a second. “Just as well. Your niece may have told you that my methods are a little different from the mainstream’s?”

  “She said you were a holistic doctor.”

  “Right. I treat the whole person, not just sore legs or headaches or—in your case—the immune system. So I think you have a choice to make, Mrs. Beiler. We have some options to look at, or you can do as Dr. Hunter suggests and go on medication.”

  “How long will the medicines take?”

  The doctor’s eyes were the color of moss. “You mean, will there ever be a point when you’re off them?” Amelia nodded. “No. You’re looking at the rest of your life, probably.”

  Amelia sagged against the back of the couch. She knew that. But somehow it was worse when it came in a woman’s positive tone.

  Dr. Stewart went on, “But the church is good about looking after its people. I know of patients in Ronks and Intercourse with this condition, and their medications are paid for, no problem. If that was worrying you.”

  “It was. Is. I don’t want to be a burden to my neighbors, even if the fund is for that very thing. I pay my hundred and twenty-five dollars into it every month, just like everyone else, but I’d be taking out much more than that.”

  “If you decide to go that route. There are others.”

  “What others? Dr. Hunte
r didn’t mention any.”

  The doctor smiled, the freckles on her cheeks seeming more prominent than ever. “I know Dr. Hunter. A fine practitioner. But with eyebrows like that, you’d think he’d have more imagination, wouldn’t you?”

  Amelia chuckled. “I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They look like coconut macaroons.”

  “A perfect description if ever I heard one. I’ll have to tell him that.”

  “No!” Amelia sat up in alarm. “Please don’t tell him I said something so foolish.”

  “Of course not.” Dr. Stewart made patting motions in the air, and Amelia settled down. “I’ll steal it and pass it off as my own. No, what I meant was that he doesn’t pay attention to what’s going on outside his little pharmaceutical world. There are experiments and research out there that make me very optimistic that we can get you some help. Maybe even remission, eventually.”

  There was that word again. It seemed to represent hope as fragile as smoke. “Like what?”

  “Like anger therapy, for one. MS has been called the disease of anger, and the reason it’s so prevalent in women is that we turn our anger in on ourselves instead of going out and kicking something.”

  Amelia stared at her. “I’m not angry at anyone.” That wouldn’t be Christian. Didn’t the Bible say the people of God were to put away bitterness, wrath, and anger? A person had to forgive, as Christ had forgiven. As Carrie and her mother-in-law had forgiven. You couldn’t lug that burden around with you anyway—it would eat you up from the inside.

  With a tingle of shock, Amelia realized that this was exactly what the doctor had just said.

  “No? Well, I’ll leave you to think about that one. Then, in Mexico City, a group of researchers have had a lot of success reintroducing myelin to the body. That’s the stuff that’s getting stripped off your nerve casings.”

  “Yes, Dr. Hunter explained it to me. How can they do that?”

  “They use myelin from cows.”

  Amelia stared at her. First anger, now cows? What kind of quack was this woman?

  As if she’d read her mind, Dr. Stewart smiled. “I can see what you’re thinking. But cow myelin is very similar to ours, just as pig valves work perfectly well in human hearts. With regular injections of this substance, patients down there have gone into remission or their symptoms have backed off to the point where they have relief. From what Marie has told me, you’re a young mother with two little boys and other than this you’re in excellent health. I think you’d be a very good candidate.”