Between You and Me

by Susan Wiggs

  Really? Hang out with Leroy? They didn’t hang out; they were neighbors. “You need to sleep.”

  “You’re more entertaining than sleep.”

  Reese smiled. “I’m whining.”

  “I’m a PT. I’m used to whining.”

  She thought for a minute. Looked out at the beautiful day. “I have a brilliant idea. Meet me down here in ten?”

  “Now I know I want to be your best friend,” Leroy said when they entered the remote parking garage, which was located six blocks from their apartment building. “You have a car. How come you never told me you have a car?”

  “I generally don’t work that into a conversation. I don’t drive it much and it’s a pain to park.”

  “Poor little rich girl.”

  “Knock it off.” She walked to her designated space and touched the key fob to unlock it.

  “And it’s a freaking convertible,” Leroy said. “A Mini Cooper. Damn, Reese. If you’d take people for a ride in this rig, you’d definitely have more friends.”

  “How diplomatic of you to say. Let’s hope the battery hasn’t died. It’s been so long since I’ve driven anywhere. A car is pretty useless in the city, as I’m sure you know.”

  “True. But this car.” He settled into the passenger seat and gave a fist pump when the engine turned over with a healthy chug. With the touch of a button, the convertible top lifted and folded down on itself.

  “It’s a hand-me-down from my dad,” she said, fastening her seat belt. “The perks of being an only child.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Someplace interesting.”

  “That narrows it down.”

  She found her way through the snarls of traffic around the Old City and merged onto the riverside parkway. Philly was an urban patchwork of elegance and blight. The grandeur of the historic district gave way to the Strawberry Mansion area and Fairmount Park, a transitional area reaching for gentrification. The Colonial- and Federal-era brick turned quickly to block after block of exhausted grit, and finally suburban sprawl. There was a charmless uniformity to the areas north of the city, as though a committee had determined what success should look like and patterned the neighborhoods after it—iron lampposts, carriage houses, wrought-iron gates, and tree-lined driveways.

  They passed a staid-looking enclave of meticulously maintained neoclassical homes. Each bastion of brick and stone was surrounded by lavish gardens and lawns with placid ponds and self-conscious statuary. “I grew up there,” she said, gesturing at the area.

  “In Gladwyne? Whoa, that’s swanky.”

  She flashed on a memory of shady autumn walks with Juanita, piano recitals in preternaturally quiet community halls and churches, catered backyard picnics her parents hosted for their colleagues around their perfectly symmetrical, spotless swimming pool.

  “I don’t know about swanky, but it’s my original ’hood.” On a whim, she turned down a shady boulevard and trolled slowly past the well-kept homes. “That’s our house.” She pointed out a sprawling Greek revival home set back on a manicured lawn.

  “Looks beautiful here, Reese,” said Leroy. “Your folks must be squillionaires. Do they still live there?” He craned his neck, looking back at the park-surrounded mansion.

  “No, they’re in the city now in a big high-rise. They wanted to be closer to the hospital and their practice.”

  “It must’ve been fun, growing up here.”

  “It was. I remember running around with my friends, riding bikes . . .”

  “See. You do have friends,” he pointed out.

  “Had. We’ve gone in different directions. It all seems so long ago. My parents sent me off to boarding school for high school.”

  “Oh,” he said. “How was that?”

  She wasn’t sure how to characterize the school for him. “Ah, the Lawrenceville School. I suppose you could call it a lifestyle choice as much as an education. Is it bad that I actually liked it better than I liked living at home?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I used to feel guilty about that, but I don’t anymore. It’s the sort of place where people send their kids so they’ll get into Ivy League colleges.”

  “Did it work?” he asked.

  She’d earned her BS degree from Princeton and was about to get her MD from Penn. “Yeah,” she said. “It worked. How about you, Leroy? Where did you go to school?”

  He chuckled. “Higher education wasn’t a priority for my family. Amish, remember.”

  “Yes, Caleb told me the Amish typically finish school after eighth grade.”

  “That’s right. Lucky me. I’m from a large family, so the quicker we went to work, the better for the family.”

  “I used to fantasize about belonging to a big clan, like the Swiss Family Robinson.”

  “Trust me,” he said. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Not in my family, anyway.”

  “What was it like, then?”

  He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Life centers around farming, family, and faith. There’s a low tolerance for dissent. I was a misfit. I wanted to be out in the world, and I knew it would be impossible to have it both ways. I had to choose between the life I want and the family I love. They keep me at arm’s length.”

  “Leroy, I’m so sorry. You must miss them.”

  “Sometimes. I’m okay now. Where are we going, by the way?”

  “New Hope. About an hour’s drive from here.”

  “Oh. Why? What’s in New Hope?”

  “It was either there or Jim Thorpe. I thought New Hope sounded nicer.”

  “Oh,” he said again. “Nicer for what? Besides a Star Wars movie.”

  “For doing something interesting on my day off,” she explained.

  “Why the sudden preoccupation with being interesting?”

  “I had a wake-up call. I’ve been on a treadmill for years—school and work, reaching the next rung on the ladder.” Reese felt funny saying so aloud, but she couldn’t deny the sense of discontent that had been creeping up on her for far too long. She was growing disenchanted with urbanized, mechanized, high-pressure medical care—and that was just in her professional life. Her personal life had emptied out as well. Dating and sex had become as rote and routine as daily rounds. “I want the magic back,” she told Leroy. “And how bad is it that I’m jaded so early in the process?”

  “It’s the battle fatigue of med school,” he said, ever the voice of reason. “Once you get through each rotation and find the right residency match, your attitude will improve and you’ll discover a Zen-like calm. Trust me, I’ve been around docs long enough to know.”

  “I want you to be right,” she said. “My whole career is focused on healing people so they can live their lives. And in the meantime, I worry that I forgot what Zen-like calm looks like.”

  “Let’s see if New Hope delivers, then.” He tipped back his head and smiled up at the summer sky. “This is some ride, Reese. Your life does not suck.”

  “Glad you think so.” She hesitated, wavering about whether or not to level with him about her plan. Yes, she thought. If he was truly her friend, he’d understand. “I have an ulterior motive for going to New Hope.”

  “Aha. I’m not going to like it, am I?”

  “There’s a rural residency program at the regional hospital there. I set up a meeting with the two preceptors who run it.”

  “So it’s a work thing. On your day off.”

  “But it might be a really excellent work thing.” She told him what she’d learned about the residency program. It had been founded by an elderly family practitioner, Dr. Mose Shrock, a preceptor with deep Mennonite roots. The program’s mission was to raise the standard of care in rural areas. As a resident at the small level-one hospital, she could live and train in a remote, rural community, learning the old ways of a country doctor in a practice with endless variety.

  “Rural medicine? Seriously? Your parents will disown you.”

  Her stomach twist
ed. “You’re probably right. It might not be right for me, but I won’t know unless I check it out.”

  With the radio playing hits from the nineties, they rolled into a tiny town loaded with charm. There was a main street filled with cafés and antiques shops, an ancient canal lined with paths for bikes and pedestrians, all surrounded by a brilliant canopy of summer foliage. They parked and got out of the car, surveying the scenery.

  Families and couples were strolling about, enjoying the sunshine. “Wow, I really do need to get out more,” she said.

  “What do your folks do for fun?”

  “They go to seminars. Save lives. Win awards. Fellowships. That sort of thing. When I was a kid, we used to take two vacations a year. One to a decadent place like Capetown or Paris, and the other to a place in the world that needs help, like a hospital in Lesotho or Bhutan.”

  “Sounds amazing to me.”

  “It is. My parents are good people and good doctors. They gave me every advantage, and I know how incredible that is. Sometimes, though . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  “Sometimes what?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel as if I’m going for their dream. Not my own. They exert incredible influence on me, and I’m so enmeshed in their world that I’m not even sure what my dream is. I know what it’s not. I don’t dream about a brick tract mansion and well-behaved kids who are scheduled down to the last minute of the day.”

  “There. I heard it. You want kids.”

  She thought for a moment. Watched a little boy running around and laughing with a stick in his hand. “I do. I should probably go on a date first. But when? I’ve got exams and work and interviews for the Match and a million other things to do. I have no idea when that part of my life gets to happen.”

  “Maybe you don’t get to pick when. Could be it’s happening right now and you’re too busy to notice.”

  “That’s depressing.” She stopped to watch a plein air painter working at an easel. Wearing a straw hat and a smock, the artist faced a stone bridge that arched over the canal. He seemed to be in a dream world, totally absorbed in his art, creating an image with deliberate, unhurried strokes. “See, he probably knows what he wants,” she pointed out. “Not that I’d ever be a painter. I’m terrible at art. But it would be great to have a passion besides work and medicine. I’d love to get lost in some pursuit that has nothing to do with my goals, or my parents, or just . . . anything.”

  “Then get lost in it,” Leroy said. “It’s not that hard. I get lost when I run. In my mind, that is.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I’m talking about. I’m no runner, though. I’ve gotten lost after too many tequila shots.”

  He smiled. “You’re a mess, you know that?”

  “You’re right. I’m a mess. And I’m no fun at all. No wonder I don’t have any friends. I dragged you all the way out here to rant about my stupid life.”

  “What’s with this soul-searching all of a sudden?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It wouldn’t have something to do with a certain person built like a lumberjack with big shoulders and blue eyes, would it?”

  She blushed. “Certainly not.”

  “You don’t need to explain. I already know what’s really on your mind.”

  “You do, do you?”

  “Caleb Stoltz, that’s what. And what does he have that I don’t? Oh, that’s right—he’s unavailable. You seem to like that in a guy.”

  “Give me a break.” Then she slid a side-eyed glance at him. He had a point. If they were going to be friends, then she should level with him. “Fine. Okay. I seem to be a little preoccupied with him. He is the one who asked about my day off, and I had no answer that didn’t sound completely boring. And it got me thinking about having a more balanced life.”

  “So what’s the attraction? Is it his giant shoulders or his giant intellect?”

  “Now you’re being mean.” She sighed. “It’s just that I’ve never met anyone like him before. Haven’t you ever met a person who totally changed the way you look at something?”

  “I can go one better. I met someone who made me want everything in the world. She’s the reason I left the Amish community. The reason I’m shunned.”

  Reese felt a jolt of alarm. “Wow, I hope she’s worth it. Who is she? Do you still see her?”

  “Her name is Gabrielle. Gabby. I loved her more than life itself. We’re not together anymore, obviously.”

  “Aw, Leroy. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. I miss her, but I can’t be sorry we met in the first place. I lost the girl, but I ended up with a better life. It’s a life that never would have happened if I hadn’t been with Gabby, if I hadn’t fallen head over heels for her. Love is tricky that way. It’s hard to know if it’s meant to last. When we broke up, I thought the world had ended. Then I picked myself up and moved on to a better life.”

  “I’m glad you can say that,” she told him. “I’m glad this is a better life for you.”

  “I could never have this career if Gabby hadn’t nudged me away from the Amish community. In the English world, there are ways to heal people or make things better for them. A lot of the techniques and interventions I use are forbidden by the Amish. So I ask myself, do I want any part of a society that allows a person to suffer, when a safe and simple intervention would help? And the answer is no.”

  “That’s a good point,” she said. “In my rotations, I’ve definitely seen instances where faith and reason seem to part ways.”

  “There was a girl in my community suffering from a bad knee injury. She didn’t have a diagnosis, but I’m convinced it was patellofemoral pain.”

  “She could be helped with intensive PT, then.”

  “Assuming you’re okay with electricity,” he said. “When I was doing my practicals, I saw a similar case. An almost identical case. In a clinical setting, we used electrical stimulation, and the patient was completely transformed. That’s when I knew I’d be staying English, with or without Gabby. It’s rare, you know, to leave the community. I’ve read that there’s a ninety percent retention rate. Meaning ninety percent of people choose to be baptized and join the church.”

  “Pretty impressive,” she agreed. “What’s the appeal?”

  “It’s safe. And for the most part, simple. You spend your life with familiar people and in familiar surroundings. So most folks follow what their parents want them to do. We stick with things out of fear or inertia, I suppose.”

  “I’ve been doing what my parents want me to do since . . . Oh, forever. When I was small—maybe six years old—I wanted a poster of all the Disney princesses on my wall. Instead, my parents put up pictures of great women of science. Dr. Ann Preston, Mary Edwards Walker, Mary Putnam Jacobi . . .”

  “I’m familiar with the first two, but not Jacobi. What’d she do?”

  “She’s my fave. In the nineteenth century, doctors believed women couldn’t menstruate and think at the same time. So she did an extensive research project to disprove it. On the poster my parents hung in my room, there was a quote from her—‘There is nothing in the nature of menstruation to imply the necessity, or even the desirability, of rest.’”

  “Your parents wanted you to know that,” he pointed out.

  “I was six years old. I wanted to look at Jasmine and Mulan, not menstruation quotes.”

  “Disney princesses. You’re a romantic, then.”

  “You think? I figured I was just shallow.”

  “Or just six, like you said. How about you?” he asked. “Ever been in love?”

  She hesitated. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  They ended their canal-side walk by stopping at a quaint sidewalk café for lunch—lemonade and a caprese salad with thick slices of heirloom tomatoes, creamy homemade burrata cheese, and thin ribbons of fresh basil.

  Leroy wouldn’t be distracted by the lunch. He was like a dog with a bone. “It’s a simple question.”

  �
�I can’t give you a simple answer. Okay, here’s what I think. Maybe I’ve been in love, but it was never life-changing. Not the way it was for you. There was a guy in college . . . and another during my third year of med school. Both times, I thought I was in love. I did love them—that’s what it felt like, at least. But the feelings didn’t last and it wasn’t hard for me to move on. Does that mean it wasn’t true love?”

  He dipped a piece of fresh bread into his salad. “I’m no expert.”

  “It makes me wonder about myself. Maybe I’m not cut out for romantic love.”

  “You’re too young to draw that conclusion. So am I. Let’s not be pathetic. I’ll find someone, and so will you. I keep thinking I’ll know her when I meet her, but I’ve been wrong before.”

  “Well.” She touched the rim of her glass to his. “Here’s hoping.”

  “In New Hope. I’m buying lunch.” He signaled for the check.

  They poked around a couple of antiques shops. She bought a small green glazed pot with herbs growing in it. “In case I decide to cook something,” she said. At his skeptical look, she added, “Could happen.”

  “And God forbid you spend sixty cents on parsley at the market,” Leroy added. He picked up a round painted hex sign with a compass rose and colorful birds. “The tag says this is an Amish sign, but it’s not.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “The Amish don’t use them. They’re Pennsylvania Dutch folk art, though, so people assume they’re the same.” He picked up an embroidered sampler, also labeled Amish. “Now this is probably the real thing. It’s a song we learn in school, sung to the tune of ‘Twinkle Twinkle.’ In der stillen Einsamkeit, Findest du mein Lob bereit . . . There’s more, but I won’t torture you with my singing.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Let’s see . . . ‘In the still isolation, you find my praise ready. Greatest God answer me, for my heart is seeking you.’”

  She examined the stitching and detail. Then she looked at Leroy’s face. He was studying the sampler with eyes gone soft with nostalgia, his mouth quirked slightly in a sweet, sad smile.

  “There must be things you miss,” she said.