The Missing (27 page)
Dad lost no time in nutshelling the reason for their visit. “My daughter has a serious illness. She’s refusing conventional wisdom. . . .”
“Which is?” asked LaVyrle.
Turning, Dad looked at Heather. “Have you filled the good doctor in?”
Yikes.
She felt like a child.
“Dad . . . Dr. Marshall is fully aware of the reason why I’m here.” She paused. “Why
we’re
here.”
This wasn’t intended to be a therapy session, yet LaVyrle stepped right in and became a referee of sorts. She reiterated what she understood to be Heather’s hesitations about chemo and radiation, then recited the benefits of cleansing and juicing and other important aspects of “the lodge experience.”
Heather was in no frame of mind to debate her dad. “What are the drawbacks?” she asked for his benefit.
LaVyrle explained how physically challenging, even grueling, the program could be. “But I can assure you, the diet does become easier for those who stick with it.” She also offered them statistics on the success rate, without making claims. As a professional, she clearly knew better than to offer radical promises. “I believe Heather could greatly benefit by the Wellness Lodge, just as so many others have. We would love to help her.”
“Any guarantees?” Dad asked, working his fingers on the arm of his chair.
LaVyrle gave him a very direct look. “I’m sorry to inform you, Mr. Nelson, there are no guarantees in this life.” She glanced at Heather, a knowing look on her pretty face. “Bottom line, we don’t offer easy cures here, but we do offer hope . . . through re-education, for instance. Clients learn how to work
with
their bodies to reverse the toxicities and deficiencies that have weakened the body’s ability to fight off serious disease in the first place.”
LaVyrle gave them a brochure listing the daily schedule and program for the lodge—including educational sessions, therapeutic massages, blood-cleansing regimens and supplements, and meals based on cleansing teas, organic juices, and other aspects of Dr. Marshall’s plant-based diet, which consisted of eighty percent raw food and twenty percent cooked vegetables and grains.
To Heather, LaVyrle sounded brilliant, and she sensed anew the woman’s passion.
“So let me get this straight: My daughter could endure the rigors of your program and still be sick?” Dad leaned forward, his hand in a fist beneath his shaven chin.
“I’m going to level with you, Roan. The rate of success is very low for patients who attempt this program on their own. This approach is only for those who are motivated and committed to lifestyle change. The lodge experience ensures that a person will have the needed support and guidance while going through the detox. The knowledge Heather would gain, for instance, will equip her with the skill and confidence to continue the regimen at home,” LaVyrle said. “To be fair, there are patients whose illness may still require drug therapy or surgery, depending on the stage and type of illness they are suffering.”
Heather eyed her father. She expected he’d heard all he needed to—that surely he would simply thank LaVyrle for her time and encourage Heather immediately to register for the earliest possible opening.
“You can also read additional testimonials from patients online, if you wish.” LaVyrle folded her hands on her desk.
This is our cue the consultation is over,
thought Heather, hoping her father caught on.
“We really appreciate your time.” Heather inched forward in her chair. “When does the next lodge session begin?”
Her dad ran his hand through his hair and gave her a quick look
.
LaVyrle checked the computer monitor. “We have a few openings left for next Monday.”
Less than a week away.
“I’d like to pay the deposit today.” Heather turned to her dad, hoping he’d offer the necessary money. But his eyes were sending a different message, loud and clear.
“And
I’d
like to discuss this further.” He rose from his chair.
“Dad . . .”
“I think you’re wasting your time here, Heather,” he said, then quickly thanked LaVyrle. He reached to open the door and left Heather sitting there, bewildered.
“This is rather typical,” LaVyrle said as soon as they were alone. “There are many stages of denial . . . and obviously your dad is extremely worried about you.”
“He’s only known for three days, so it’s still a shock. And he forgets how completely debilitated Mom became from conventional medical treatment.” Heather explained how hopeless they both had felt.
LaVyrle smiled thoughtfully. “I certainly understand. And I’ll pencil your name in if you’d like.”
“You read my mind.” She realized her dad didn’t have much reason to trust her decisions at this point. After all, she had withheld her diagnosis from him, although out of loving concern. But he still viewed that choice as uncharacteristically irresponsible.
No wonder he’s so resistant.
Reaching across the desk, she shook LaVyrle’s hand. “Dad doesn’t know it yet, but I’m planning to join the ranks of your cured patients.” She mentioned having met Sally Smucker recently.
LaVyrle nodded and smiled. “Sally certainly has a supportive spouse.”
Heather considered that. “Is it absolutely necessary to have a supportive, um . . . significant other?” she asked, realizing she might be going this alone without her dad’s moral support.
“Well, from my experience with patients, that can be a wonderful help . . . but a good friend is equally terrific, and many clients meet such lifetime friends at the lodge.”
Lifetime friends.
For the first time . . . the sound of that didn’t frighten her.
Adah felt tense while Jakob told of Judah’s visit. His sallow face was creased with deep lines; she’d forgotten how drawn he looked when he was this pale. Getting up from the kitchen table, she went to the stove to boil some water for tea. “Do ya want honey in yours?” she asked.
“Sugar’s fine, love.”
Gingerly she set the teakettle on the burner and set the flame to medium high. “You don’t think Judah suspects anything in particular, do ya?” She glanced over her shoulder at Jakob.
“It’s beyond me what he thinks he knows.”
“So you didn’t tell him anything, then?” She moved back to the table and rested against the back of Jakob’s chair, at the head of the table.
He sat still, head bowed, breathing much too fast.
“Ach . . .
what
?” She went to sit on his right, her customary spot, and leaned forward on the table. “Jakob, you didn’t.”
Please, dear Lord, no . . .
He reached for his reading glasses on the table before him. “Bring me the Good Book, Adah. It’s time for the Scripture.”
Her heart was heavy as she plodded to the corner table, over which the clock shelf ticked off the minutes. Obediently she carried the Bible and placed it in front of Jakob. “Please say you didn’t tell Judah about Lettie’s baby?” she pleaded.
Jakob reached for the heavy book and opened it to the Psalms. “You know how I love ya, Adah . . . jah?”
She nodded her head slowly, tears creeping into her vision.
“And you’ve always trusted me, ain’t?”
Her hands trembled. “Always.”
“Judah’s a mighty smart man,” he said pleasantly. “Wasn’t that why we picked him to marry our Lettie?” His gaze held hers. “I daresay he smells a rat, which is all fine and
gut.
But Lettie’s the only one who has the right to share with her husband what she did before they married, jah?”
Adah gave a deep sigh of relief. “Oh
. . .
thanks be to God.” The secret was still safe.
After a morning at Eli’s, Grace spent part of the afternoon baking lemon meringue pies—one for their supper and two she planned to take over to Riehls’, hoping to run into Heather again. She wondered why Heather hadn’t come to see the herb garden yet, as she’d seemed so eager to do on Sunday afternoon.
When she arrived at the neighbors’, she discovered both Becky and Heather were gone from the house. So she left the pies with Marian, who thanked her repeatedly. “I’ll tell the girls that their friend dropped by.”
At home, Grace stopped to look in on Willow and—surprise, surprise—found Yonnie there. “Hullo,” she said at once.
“Hi, Grace.” An instant smile appeared and he quickly stood up. “Willow’s definitely responding to the softer bedding.”
“How can you tell?”
“She’s less sensitive to the touch . . . more trusting, too,” he said.
“We
have
been putting the liniment on like you said to.”
Yonnie touched Willow’s shoulder. “Your father’s not in a big hurry, but he thinks we might try to walk her slowly in a couple days. Just go a short ways.”
We?
“I think you’ll be pleased with how all this special care will bring Willow around eventually.” He leaned toward Willow. “Ain’t that right, girl?” The horse turned almost immediately and nuzzled his elbow, softly nickering like they were old friends.
“Dat doesn’t think she’ll ever trot again,” Grace observed.
“Well, and she prob’ly won’t ever pull a carriage, neither, but I think she’ll be around for a
gut
while yet.”
I think . . . I think, he says.
But she was less annoyed by his assumptions today than a few days ago. Maybe it was the way Willow fixed her eyes on him. “The vet should be surprised at these small steps forward, jah?”
Yonnie agreed. “It’s not so remarkable, really. A little love sure can go a long way.”
Her cheeks blushed at his comment, and she hoped to goodness he hadn’t noticed.
Yonnie’s eyes absolutely danced now as he occupied himself with her horse.
Anyone who’s this fond of an old horse must surely
have a good heart.
Grace excused herself and left for the house.
Heather’s dad was on a rant. “Dr. Marshall said it herself today . . . there’s no easy cure. Don’t you see it?” he said.
No easy cure. . .
He’d cornered her, or at least she felt that way in the parked car. The inn where he was staying was just beyond her left shoulder, and the armrest of the car was digging into her spine, her back literally up against the door. “What I see is that you can’t relinquish control even for something as vital as this,” she said.
He leaned his head on the dashboard for a moment. “This? Meaning what . . . your life? Look, I care about you, kiddo.” He straightened and slapped the brochure on the stick shift. “I’ve read every word here—‘the body can heal itself of degenerative conditions’ . . .
et cetera
. Come on, Heather. You’re a brilliant grad student . . . why can’t you see this clearly?”
Why can’t
you
?
She was smarter than to respond in anger. Not even LaVyrle’s reasonable comments had made a dent in his inflexible veneer. “Why don’t you see this as a viable alternative to chemo?” She looked at him, miserable as he seemed. “What can it hurt?”
“I’d rather not find out the answer to that,” he shot back.
They were getting nowhere. “I think we should call it a day,” she suggested.
“Well, I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”
Her heart sank. She desperately needed his assistance with this—financially and otherwise. It was all she could do to keep up with the weekly rent on her room at the Riehls’. “Dad, you know I need your help to pay for the lodge program. I don’t even have the fifteen hundred bucks for the deposit.” Meeting Dr. Marshall today and the ensuing conversation had put the nail in what little optimism she’d had for his encouragement and support.
He shook his head and leafed through the brochure once again. “You know, Heather, if I could return to the past and do everything differently—and if it would bring your mother back—I would in a heartbeat.”
“Please don’t, Dad . . .”
He pulled out his wallet. “You’re as stubborn as I am.” He handed her his credit card. “Here’s my contribution . . . at least for now.”
Surprised, she accepted. “Thank you,” she said, assuming he meant he’d pick up the tab for the final bill. “I wish I could say I know you won’t be sorry.”
“It’s a crapshoot, right?”
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be. Mom sometimes prayed about things.” She put the card in her purse.
He nodded, turning to look at her with soft and now glistening eyes. “I’ll be back to visit you at the lodge next week.” He reached for her hand. “You’re not going through this weirdness alone, okay?”
“Thanks, Dad.” She choked back her own tears. “I mean it . . . thanks.”
L
ettie awakened on Wednesday morning anticipating both a possible letter from Cousin Hallie and May’s hen party. After all, May had said her married daughters were going to be present to help entertain the younger children, and Lettie dearly hoped to be introduced to them. If Vesta Mae was indeed her daughter, might the young woman resemble either Samuel or herself, clinching the truth?
With Susan off again to help her sister Edna today, Lettie needed to keep her mind and hands busy. Rolling out pie dough with a group of other Plain women just might be her cup of tea, especially when she was discouraged at not having heard back from Cousin Hallie yet.
Moving about Susan’s kitchen, Lettie hummed while packing the food to take for the noon meal—her contribution. She’d already discussed the items with Susan: three dozen pickled red-beet eggs, a generous bowl of potato salad, and the remaining chocolate chip cookies she’d baked Monday to cheer up Susan.
Glancing out the kitchen window now, Lettie saw several black buggies already pulling into May’s narrow, tree-lined lane. As she watched the flurry of activity, a sudden urgency gripped her. The loneliness she felt was enormous. She must hasten to go, must see for herself if May’s adopted daughter was truly the reason she’d found herself here in Baltic.
Will I see her face-to-face at last?
Lettie had no idea they would be making pastries and cookies, as well as enough fruit mush to feed seven neighboring families. The enormous batch, to be frozen for next winter’s meals, consisted of crushed pineapple, sliced bananas, and maraschino cherries in a syrup of orange juice, sugar, and water. She’d often made the concoction with Grace and Mandy, but there were thirty women on hand this morning—a very efficient assembly line. May comically offered a running tally of helpers as she welcomed Lettie at the back door.
