When he mentioned his blog—“Food for Thought”—Heather clicked over, wanting to read all about him. She leaned back, devouring the latest entries, then when she was finished, she returned to the chat room to read several more posts before realizing she had been online far too long already—more than two hours.
Well, I have the time, don’t I?
Looking out the window, she whispered, “Do I?” Her gaze swept the expanse of the hilly green landscape, and she was struck with a desire to talk to her mom. Could Heather’s mother see her from heaven, here, struggling to deal with her own frightening diagnosis?
Drumming her fingers on the table, she hoped her father would keep his intention to visit earlier than planned, as his recent voice mail had indicated. Did he actually want her participation in creating a floor plan for the house he was so eager to build? She considered the idea of a modern-style farmhouse planted in the middle of Amish country, boasting “electric,” as the Riehls called it . . . and a fully modern kitchen and bathrooms. Was he concerned at all about what his Amish neighbors would think, shunning as they did everything from cars to televisions? And shunning their own people, too, if they failed to follow church ordinances to a tee.
She shivered at the thought of losing one’s family because of such rigid practices. So much of their lifestyle was mystifying to her, especially the concept of total yielding, of giving up one’s will for the sake of God and a cloistered society—the opposite of the self-expression she had been groomed to embrace. There was much to be said, however, for the Amish work ethic.
She wondered if the Plain reverence for working the land had somehow gripped her father.
“We’ll have more time to enjoy
nature—plant a garden together,”
he’d declared in his latest voice mail, as if that was a good enough reason to relocate. But to pull up the roots of their entire life? The state of Virginia
was
congested, sure—at least where they lived, close to Williamsburg. But why sell their beloved family home and move here?
Heather tried to imagine her father gardening—certainly she had never thought of
herself
as an outdoorsy type. Except for afternoons spent at the beach with casual college friends or taking long walks with Mom—before the cancer came and stole away her mother’s strength—she had been satisfied to spend much of her time inside. Too, her master’s program in American Studies had swallowed up her hours.
Until last month . . .
Since her diagnosis, she’d read nearly everything online about non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and its supposed cures, both conventional medical and alternative healing methods. It was the latter that had brought her here, to the place where she’d last felt true peace, the kind that propelled her away from the stress of real life.
Ah, Lancaster County . . . a love Mom and I
shared for so long.
Since arriving at the Riehls’ tourist home two weeks ago, she had taken frequent walks along Mill Stream. She’d also enjoyed quaint activities like gathering eggs with the Riehls’ oldest daughter, Becky, age twenty. And before withdrawing somewhat from Becky and her family, Heather had learned to pinch off old blossoms from the colorful perennials along the walkway, and she’d worked in the family’s garden, too.
Yet even in this picture-perfect locale, Heather felt pulled in opposite directions—experiencing both a nagging restlessness and at the same time an inexplicable sense of satisfaction. More so than she’d experienced on the historic Williamsburg campus, surrounded by the trappings of the academia she adored. Nearly more happiness than she’d felt even with Devon Powers.
Before
he was sent off to Iraq.
She sighed, needing to push aside the memory of their breakup . . . the tactless way Devon had handled things. No, she must be free of all that nonsense to focus her energies on the hope of finding a natural cure. Her oncologist, Dr. O’Connor, had referred to her disease as “quite curable.” But that cure came with the price tag of chemo, and quite possibly radiation, which she’d adamantly refused. She would not take the route that had killed her mother if another viable means of treatment could be found.
Thankfully, she’d gotten her name on a waiting list with Dr. Marshall—the very naturopath her mom had once hoped to consult. If there was an earlier opening, the clinic would bump up Heather’s scheduled appointment, still weeks away.
Heather leaned back in the booth, stretching her neck. As she did, she was quite aware of the large safety pin taking in the waist of her jeans.
Can I beat this disease?
She pondered the question so hard, she thought she had literally verbalized it.
Looking around, she felt somewhat embarrassed, but no one at the nearest tables appeared to have taken any notice of her. She turned her attention back to the page still open on her laptop. Thanks to Wannalive’s urging, she was more determined than ever to try the natural approach first.
Will Dr. Marshall be able to help me?
J
essica was still sitting in a heap on the front lawn when Grace approached. Her shoulder-length auburn hair blew against her pretty face as she wiped away her tears.
What has caused her
such sadness?
Grace sat right down next to her. “I heard ya cryin’.”
“My parents are fighting again,” Jessica managed to say, tears glistening. “Mom’s on the phone with Dad right now.”
Grace pushed her bare toes deep into the grass. “I’m ever so sorry.”
“They’ve been arguing a lot . . . and lately Dad’s hardly ever home. It makes me scared to death.”
“For your parents?”
“Well, them, too . . .”
Grace touched Jessica’s arm. “Who else?”
“I’m nearly too freaked to marry.” Jessica slid her thick hair behind one ear. “I mean, is this what happens after so many years of marriage . . . people just drift apart?”
Wishing her own mother had stayed put, Grace felt she understood something of Jessica’s concern. “Well, don’t forget, there are plenty of couples who get along fine, too,” she said softly.
“Not
my
parents” came Jessica’s bleak reply.
Just then her mother, Carole Spangler, came outside, wearing a long white tunic over her faded blue jeans. Without speaking, she picked up the rubber ball and heaved it over her shoulder, throwing it hard to the beautiful Labrador. The wind carried the ball, but the agile dog leaped high and caught it in his mouth. Then he bounded back across the wide, sweeping lawn and brought the ball to Grace, dropping it in her lap.
“He likes you,” Jessica said, a reticent smile on her face.
Grace picked up the ball and threw it, staring now at her father’s house in the distance. She wished she might offer some words to encourage her friend. Yet she, too, had struggled with similar concerns about marrying Henry.
The dog gave chase but then stopped, panting, as he surveyed the sheep-filled pasture below, his tail arched and his ears perked straight up. Bemused, Grace wondered how a slow-moving herd of sheep could possibly capture the attention of such an energetic dog.
About the time Grace felt she ought to head home, Carole asked Jessica to go and purchase a dozen eggs from the Riehls.“Looks like you have some time on your hands,” she said, to which Jessica groaned softly.
“Oh, let me get the eggs,” Grace volunteered, feeling sorry for her friend.
“Gracie . . . no. You really don’t have to,” Jessica said quickly.
“Well, I want to.” Grace rose from her spot on the lawn and brushed off her long dress and apron.
Carole nodded and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Keep the change for your trouble. I’m much too busy to leave the house even for a few minutes,” she said. “I’m running out of time to make several cakes for our church bake sale.” The woman was often in a bit of a rush, Grace recalled. Even when Carole had come to check Dat’s heart rate and breathing after his recent collapse, she had seemed in a hurry to return home.
Her whole life, Grace had noticed how prone their English neighbors were to living at a hectic pace. Scarcely did they stay at home, Mamma had once pointed out, even fretting on occasion that they were sure to meet themselves coming and going.
“I’ll be right back with the eggs,” Grace said.
Carole thanked her. “Just so I have them sometime after lunch.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve got enough for the cakes. Afternoon’s just fine,” Carole said, eyeing Jessica, who was brushing away tears where she still sat in the grass.
“All right, then.” Grace shaded her eyes from the merciless sunlight and took the money. Then to Jessica she said, “Come over anytime, jah?”
Jessica looked up briefly, nodding. “Thanks, Gracie.”
Heavyhearted, she made her way to the road, turning left toward the house. When she neared the phone booth yet again, it struck her that Dat and Mammi Adah, as well as Mandy, would be eager for word back about Mamma.
“What’ll I tell them?” she said right out.
That Jessica’s parents
are in a pickle, too?
Truth was, her whole family wanted more than word from Mamma. Better yet for Mamma to simply return home—nothing else would satisfy. With less hope of that each day, Grace filled her hours with work and chores, nearly more than a body could accomplish between dawn and dusk.
Now she rushed past the trees that concealed the phone shanty, its single window facing north, toward the Reihls’ farm in the distance.
Tomorrow . . .
As Grace scurried up the road, past her house, she noticed her father’s sheep all clustered in one corner of the meadow and the vet’s horse and buggy parked in the driveway. Breathing a prayer for Willow, she headed straight to the Riehls’, hoping Mandy or Mammi Adah hadn’t spotted her out on the road. She was in no mood to talk of more sad goings-on in the neighborhood.
She turned into the Riehls’ lane and saw Becky hitching up one of their driving horses to the gray family carriage.
“Wie
geht’s?”
she called to her best friend.
“Just fine . . . you?” Becky raised her head, her sad face evident.
Grace hurried to her side. “Oh, you’re crying!”
Is everyone
in tears today?
Becky nodded slowly. “Jah, silly me.”
“No, no. That’s all right.”
Becky buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Gracie . . .”
Grace placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder, and she glanced about to see if anyone was watching. “Let’s go somewhere and talk privately, all right?”
“Just help me finish hitchin’ up the horse.” Becky brushed her tears away. “I promised
Mamm
.”
Grace did what she could to speed up the process, but her friend couldn’t keep the words back, and she began to pour out her sadness over Yonnie Bontrager, the handsome fellow she’d had her heart set on. “I thought he liked me. Honest, I did.”
“I thought so, too.” Grace didn’t mention having seen Yonnie heading home alone last Sunday night, following Singing.
“Oh . . . I don’t know what’s the matter between us.”
Grace pondered that. “Hard to know with some fellas.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
She looked kindly at Becky. “Did Yonnie give you anything to go on . . . I mean, did he explain why—”
“He just quit askin’ me to go walkin’—out of the blue, really.” Becky breathed in slowly, blinking her eyes. “He’s been backing away the last couple of youth gatherings.”
“Aw, Becky . . . I’m sorry to hear it.” Grace had observed Yonnie with Becky often enough to believe they had something special.
Becky rose and patted the horse’s mane for the longest time before she spoke again. “To tell the truth, I prob’ly liked him more than he liked me.”
“I don’t see how that can be.”
Becky placed her hand on her heart, a faraway look in her eye. “He’s nothin’ like he used to be. . . .”
Some fellows lost interest all too quickly. “Well, best to find out before you’re engaged or . . .” Grace stopped, thinking of Jessica’s parents.
“Or married?”
“All I’m sayin’ is, it might be for the best if you part ways . . . since he’s actin’ like this.” She touched Becky’s arm. “I’m awful sorry he’s made you so sad.”
They walked together into the house, and Becky’s mother, Marian, greeted Grace with her usual bright smile, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m glad you dropped by. What can I give yous to snack on?”
Grace suddenly remembered why she’d come. Slipping her hand into her pocket, she pulled out the five-dollar bill from Mrs. Spangler. “Our English neighbors down the road need a dozen eggs.” She held out the money.
“You can just put that away. No need to make money off our neighbors. They’ve done so many favors for us!” Marian promptly went to the gas-run refrigerator and pulled out a carton containing a dozen eggs. “These were gathered yesterday afternoon.”
“Des gut
.
”
Grace accepted the eggs and opened the back door as she thanked Marian. She thought she heard the mournful neigh of a horse carried on the wind. Anxious to check on Willow and hear what the vet had suggested, she walked as fast as she could without breaking the eggs.
Please, Lord, help Willow recover.
“As you know, Willow’s not just a drivin’ horse for us,”Judah Byler told the vet, Jerry Wilder. “She’s become a family pet.”
Especially to Grace.
Jerry did a visual inspection of the mare’s knee joints on all four legs, looking for any swelling. He was a stocky man with dark brown hair and glasses, and although he was definitely an
Englischer
, he wore a subdued gray long-sleeved shirt and tan suspenders like an Amishman. Jerry had been looking in on all the Bird-in-Hand farmers’ livestock for the past thirty or more years, and Judah appreciated his deliberate way of making decisions—not an impulsive bone in the man’s body.
Judah touched Willow’s head to calm her some as her ears pricked forward. Her eyes were focused on Jerry as he felt now for any unusual bumps, cuts, or heat, explaining everything as he went. He ran his hands along the mare’s shoulders and hips, then lifted each foot to probe its frog and sole. “I’m looking for any bruises or foreign objects . . . checking to see whether the frogs are full of dirt. So far, it all looks good,” he said of the first two legs.