A Simple Faith

by Rosalind Lauer

  3

  Dylan followed the country doctor up the street with a sense of purpose and amusement. It was the first Monday in recent memory that he hadn’t lost the entire morning to meetings and bureaucratic reports. Dylan was shadowing Dr. Henry Trueherz with the intention of accompanying him on house calls, but so far they had spent nearly an hour shopping in the little town of Halfway and chatting up the Amish merchants there.

  At Ye Olde Tea Shop, Lovina Stoltzfus had given them an update on her husband, Aaron, who was recovering at home from heart surgery. “We’re going to stop in and see him this morning,” Henry had told the middle-aged Amish woman, who had wiped down a table and served them tea in record time. “But how are you doing? It can’t be easy running this shop and taking care of your husband and keeping the sheep business going.”

  “It would be overwhelming if it were all on my shoulders,” Lovina had answered. “But the Heavenly Father helps us when we need it most. I’ve got some good girls like Susie here to help me run the shop, and we got some good men pitching in at the farm. You know Jonah King? I think he’s sweet on our Annie, but he’s a right good worker, keeping everything going.”

  Dr. Trueherz seemed to know all the Amish in Halfway by name. He cajoled all the young women working in the tea shop, asking about their families, whom he also knew by name. He reassured Lovina that her husband would be more active in the coming months, and he told a girl named Susie that he would be visiting her little sister Katie today to see if he could give her something to stop that fever.

  At Molly’s Roadside Restaurant, the doctor had purchased breakfast for the two of them while Molly updated him on recent developments in Halfway. A loaf of bread from the Sweet ’N’ Simple Bakery came with news of the Fisher family, who owned the bakery. And now, Doc Trueherz wanted to stop in at the Country Store.

  “I like your methodology,” Dylan told the country doctor.

  Henry raised his chin as he paused, his hand on the knob of the Country Store. “And what’s that?”

  “Personal attention. You’re one of the few doctors I know who is happy to leave the clinic. You’ve stepped out of the crisp white coat, and you’ve built relationships with the community.”

  Henry pushed his glasses up on his nose, barely hiding a grin. “You noticed.”

  “It’s not just that you remember all these faces and names, as well as their medical histories. These people seem to like you; they trust you.”

  “And I’m a good customer. Did you notice that, too?”

  “I did. Are you going to stop in the Amish furniture store and pick up an armoire?”

  Henry laughed. “Don’t be silly. I leave the large purchases to my wife.”

  Dylan liked Henry Trueherz more by the minute. Staff at Lancaster General seemed to think of him as some legendary folk hero, and now Dylan was ready to sing along with their praises. “Seriously, how did you gain their trust?”

  “Time and patience.” He looked back at Dylan, his eyes twinkling. “Give it twenty years and they’ll trust you, too.” The bell jingled as Henry opened the door.

  “Something to look forward to,” Dylan said under his breath.

  “Good morning, Elsie.” Henry greeted the teenage girl seated behind the counter as he made a beeline down one of the aisles.

  Dylan paused between a display of birdhouses and a handmade cradle to smile at the young woman.

  “This young man is Dylan Monroe,” Henry called. “He’s a psychologist interested in working with the good people of Halfway.”

  “Another doctor?” Her smile lit up the room, though from the rue in her brown eyes Dylan sensed that there was more to Elsie than a cute button nose and rosy lips. “It’ll be so nice to have two doctors helping folks.”

  “But he’s a therapist,” Henry called from behind an aisle of candles and sock dolls. “He doesn’t look at sore throats. He treats problems we can’t cure with an antibiotic.”

  “I see.” When Elsie spoke, Dylan got a flash of her jagged, unevenly spaced teeth. “Well, there must be some very sad folks who need you. I just don’t know who they might be.”

  “I realize the Amish don’t usually go outside the church community for counseling,” Dylan said. “But I want to let people know that my services are free and readily available. I’ll be working at Lancaster County General, but I’m hoping to set up a counseling center here in Halfway.”

  “That’s nice of you, trying to help folks that way.” Elsie wore the same clothing as other Amish women—a violet dress, black apron, and cape. Her dark hair was parted in the center and pulled back into a knot under her white prayer Kapp.

  But despite her manner of clothing, Elsie was different. Even seated on a high stool, it was obvious that she was extremely short. Dwarfism, dental abnormality, malformation of the wrist bones …

  Of course, it was Ellis-van Creveld syndrome, a mutation of the EVC gene. He had read that this rare disorder was more common among Old Order Amish, a genetic abnormality traced back to one ancestor named Samuel King.

  He felt a bit foolish for not detecting it right away, but Dylan tended to pick up the vibe of a person—their aura or tone—before the details of their physical features registered. He liked to equate himself with a musician who could compose a beautiful song but became lost when it was time to write down the notes on stark white paper. For Dylan, the flowing wellspring was lost when you stopped to collect the small puddles of detail.

  “My wife loves this soap.” Henry placed two bars of lavender soap on the counter. “Last Christmas, she sent it to all the out-of-state relatives.”

  “Mary Zook makes it,” Elsie said. “The lavender grows like a weed on the back acres of their land.”

  Dylan lifted one of the bars and sniffed. A relaxing scent. Some therapists used scents and white noise to enhance guided imagery, and lavender was a classic, used since ancient times to heal everything from headaches to blemishes. “Do you have lavender oil?”

  “We do.” Elsie slid from her stool and disappeared down one aisle. Dylan followed.

  “Planning to do some aromatherapy?” Dr. Trueherz asked.

  “Maybe,” Dylan said as he chose the larger bottle from the selection on the shelf. Or maybe I’ll just rub it into my temples and pray for a clean slate.

  “How’s everything at home, Elsie?” asked Henry. “Fanny’s doing well?”

  “Ya, she’s fine.”

  “The baby must be due soon. Anna’s checking in on Fanny? Taking her vitals? She’s got to watch her blood pressure.”

  They were talking about preeclampsia. Dylan recognized the symptoms from when his wife, Kris, had been pregnant, but when he turned to say something, he noticed Elsie looking down, her cheeks flushing. The conversation embarrassed her. Of course it did. He had read that Amish women did not discuss pregnancies in public; sort of a throwback to the days when babies were delivered by storks.

  “Anna visits a few times a week. And Sarah comes along.”

  “Good.” As Henry opened his wallet and paid for his purchase, Dylan handed a ten to Elsie Lapp and exited the store, wanting to escape the memory of Kris that had crept up on him.

  Climbing into the Jeep, Dylan asked about Elsie Lapp’s small stature, and Henry confirmed that it was EVC.

  “I’ve come across some unusual cases here,” Henry said. “Maple syrup disease and hemophilia. And glutaric aciduria, a metabolic disorder that requires a fairly complex treatment. Remember Susie King, back at the tea shop? She has GA, but her family has worked with me and she’s navigated through it. It’s her family we’re visiting first, the Kings.”

  “The Kings …” Dylan found his list. “And who is Susie’s father?”

  “That was Levi King, but he’s dead now. Both parents are gone. Her brother Adam is now the head of the household, alongside his wife, Remy.”

  Dylan made the notes. “What happened to the parents?”

  “A double murder, around two years ago. It was a tragedy.�
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  The details were vaguely familiar. “I think I read a few news stories about it.”

  Henry nodded. “Levi and Esther King. You can imagine the trauma suffered by their family.”

  “I can.” He could imagine it, feel it, taste it. He’d lived trauma, though Dr. Trueherz was probably not aware of his history.

  Dylan wrote down names, trying to piece together families as the Jeep traveled on the road dividing broad expanses of open fields. Stoltzfus … Zook … Lapp … King … Not so many surnames, but lots of people.

  “When did you decide to make it your specialty, studying ailments specific to the Amish?” Dylan inquired.

  “I saw myself as a country doctor at first. A few months out here, I began seeing cases among the Old Order Amish that doctors back in the city weren’t encountering.”

  “And you’ve made some real progress in helping these people.” Henry Trueherz’s dedication to helping the Amish was an inspiration to Dylan. In many ways, Dylan wanted to model his outreach program after Henry’s clinic in Paradise. He would have told Henry that, but the doctor was not a man who enjoyed praise.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever made a house call before?” Henry asked.

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Have you ever been inside an Amish home?”

  Dylan shook his head. “I did my research, but this is my first clinical experience. Actually, this is a first for me in many ways.”

  Henry grunted. “You don’t look nervous at all. Nerves of steel?”

  After what I’ve been through, I don’t have any nerves left at all, Dylan thought. “Not that.” The expanse of winter blue skies and rolling purple hills that surrounded them reminded him of passages from the Bible. The land of milk and honey. Canaan. Or Paradise, as the nearby town was aptly named. “I’ve learned that people are people. Inside, we all have the same essential needs. Shelter, food, drink … love.”

  “For a young man, that’s downright philosophical.” The Jeep slowed as Henry turned into a lane at the top of a hill. “But then again, you are a psychologist.”

  “I’m not that young. Pushing thirty. And though you think of yourself as a general practitioner, I see that you haven’t forgotten Psych 101,” Dylan teased as the silos and outbuildings of the King dairy farm came into view.

  “The human being is a complex thing, a marriage of body and mind,” Henry said. “I treat the body, but I respect what you’re doing, Doctor. I just hope you’re not disappointed when the Amish decline your services. They’ve got a complicated social system that provides a certain therapy of its own.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Dylan knew that community outreach would not be easy here, but then anything worthwhile was generally not easy. “But I’ve also come across a few cases where outsiders have provided therapy for Amish clients. I think their ministers prefer to call it counseling, which would be fine with me. Right now, I just want the Amish community to know that I’m here if the need arises.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The group of buildings that comprised the King dairy farm gave way to hills and valleys of golden fields punctuated by dark cows.

  No, you’re not in Philly anymore, Dylan told himself. Which was a good thing … exactly what he’d needed.

  “Get away from here … far and fast,” Patrick had advised. “Every day you spend in your apartment, in your neighborhood, on these streets … your surroundings are making you miserable. Why are you torturing yourself here?”

  A good question.

  So he’d taken his therapist’s advice and left the city, and here he was in Lancaster County, land of sprawling farms and horse-drawn buggies. Sometimes he fantasized that he had not just changed locations but gone back to a simpler time where you couldn’t be in a rush because your horse didn’t move so fast. A time when your day ended at sundown because there were no electrical inventions to keep the mind churning against sleep.

  Of course, he had a car and electricity; still, the notion of simplicity helped to clear some of the cobwebs from his mind, and it seemed like good karma to be living among the peace-loving Amish people. He had the best of both worlds, with an apartment overlooking an Amish farm and a job at LanCo General, where he’d been able to work outside the shadow of grief.

  The farmhouse door flew open when the Jeep pulled up, and a woman in her twenties waved them in. “Dr. Trueherz, thank you for coming. I’ve been so worried. Her fever’s so high, and you know me. No experience with kids.”

  “Remy, don’t undersell yourself. You’ve got all the tools these kids need. Where’s our little patient?”

  Henry made quick introductions as Remy directed them into the kitchen, where a little wisp of a girl, two, maybe three years old, was curled up on a daybed. Her little face, barely visible for the cloth doll wedged under her chin, seemed aglow, with two patches of red dotting her cheeks.

  “Well, hello there, Katie. What’s going on with you today?”

  The little girl’s mouth puckered as she looked up at the doctor.

  “Too sick to talk? Well, we’ll see what we can do about that.”

  Henry washed up at the kitchen sink, and then opened his black satchel. He scanned her forehead with a thermometer and whistled softly. “A hundred and two. Have you given her Tylenol?”

  “Children’s Tylenol, but the last dose was last night.”

  Henry placed his hands around the child’s neck, checking her glands. “I’ll do a quick test, but I’m fairly certain she’s got strep throat.”

  “I should have known.” Remy sat beside the girl and rubbed her back. “I used to get strep all the time when I was a kid.”

  Dylan noticed that her speech pattern didn’t have the same rapid-fire cadence as other Amish people he’d met. And something about her demeanor—or maybe it was her flaming red hair—struck him as distinctly un-Amish. Englisher, as the locals called it.

  The door off the kitchen opened, and a tall man in a wide-brimmed black hat looked in from a side porch.

  “How is she, Doc?”

  “I don’t like this fever, but from the looks of this throat I’d say it’s strep.”

  “Could it be the GA, like Susie has?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. We’ve been testing her since she was born, and it’s been negative.”

  “Okay, good. Then I’ll get back to work.” The man turned to Dylan and nodded.

  “Adam, this is Dylan Monroe. He’s a psychologist shadowing Dr. Trueherz,” Remy said, looking up from the sick little girl.

  Adam nodded again. “I’ll get back to it, then.” He turned away, the door closing, along with an opportunity.

  “Excuse me,” Dylan said before following the man out through an enclosed porch to a path to the barn. “Adam? Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “Come, and you can talk.”

  “This is quite a farm. Dexters and Jerseys?”

  Adam turned to face him, his stern face softening. “You know dairy farming?”

  Dylan had been to a farm once in his life, but he’d done his research. “Just a bit. But I’ve never milked a cow. I can’t imagine the man-hours it takes to keep this place running.”

  “This farm has been in my dat’s family for years. We got some new milking machines in the last year. That made things easier, but now we’re down a set of hands, with my brother Jonah helping out a neighbor.”

  “If you ever need some temporary help, I’m your man.” The words flew out before Dylan had really processed them, but he had no regrets. A little hard work would do him good while it got him involved in the community.

  Adam grunted. “Thanks. We can manage, but you can help me now. Two make work much lighter.”

  They had arrived at the red barn, where Adam led the way through wide-open doors.

  Stepping into the darkness ripe with the smell of hay and manure, Dylan sensed that he truly had entered another world.

  “Here.” Adam tossed something from the shadows.r />
  He caught the ball of soft leather—a pair of gloves. A few bales of hay needed to be transferred from the floor of the barn to an open cart.

  “You take one end; I’ll take the other,” Adam said, and they lifted together.

  “I wanted to talk to you about a program I’m starting here in Halfway.” The hay bale was heavier than Dylan had expected. “Counseling services, open to everyone. We’ve got funding, so the treatment will be free.”

  “Mmm. There might be some Englishers who would do it. I can’t speak for them, but Amish? Probably not.”

  “I’m just trying to get the word out. I figure that if the help is available and it’s free, people might take advantage of it.”

  Adam did not waver. “We work out problems on our own. The family takes care of things, or else we take serious matters to our ministers.”

  “I hear you.” Dylan braced his muscles as they lifted another bale. “But I’m committed to this program. Everyone needs help at some time in their lives.”

  Dylan had needed therapy, and he suspected that Adam could have used some counseling when he lost his parents … and by such violent means.

  Adam grunted, and Dylan wasn’t sure whether it was an answer or a reaction to lifting the heavy weight.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I respect your traditions and rules.” He admired the culture’s complex social system, designed to deal with matters within the community. “But there’s no rule against getting help from an outsider, right? You wouldn’t get in trouble for getting counseling?”

  “No trouble. Folks just wouldn’t do it.”

  Dylan was not surprised by Adam King’s mild rejection. Maybe the closed Amish community was part of the reason he’d accepted the position here. He liked a challenge, and he’d been getting burned out on the city.

  “You know, back in the city, people would have jumped at the offer of free therapy. I used to do counseling there, and some of my clients couldn’t choose a flavor of ice cream without calling for a consult.”

  Adam’s lips twitched, then he smiled. “I lived in the city for a few years. Providence. People had so many problems, so much to talk about.”