Letters to Katie (6 page)
“Johanna.” Katherine slid the needle through the three layers of fabric and batting.
“That’s a lovely name.” She sat down across from Katherine.
“Don’t get crumbs on the quilt.”
“I won’t.” Bekah finished the cookie, brushing her hands to the side. She cupped her
chin on her hand. “So . . . was Johnny there?”
“He was praying in the barn with Chris. Caleb was in the house with Eli.”
“I didn’t ask about Caleb.”
“I figured you would eventually.”
“Because he’s a friend.” She sighed. “Caleb Mullet is the least of my problems.”
Katherine put down the needle. “What do you mean?”
“I think I figured out a way to get Melvin Miller to leave me alone.”
Katherine suppressed a sigh. It pained her that Bekah, who wasn’t
interested in boys at all, had a whole supply of them nipping at her heels. “I didn’t
realize he was bothering you,” she said, focusing on her quilting, not wanting Bekah
to see any trace of jealousy.
“He’s not a bother. Just annoying. Like everyone else.” Bekah shook her head. “I wish
he’d get the point. Some people can be so hardheaded.”
Katherine winced.
“Oh, I didn’t mean you.” Bekah held out her hands. “I know what you feel for Johnny
is real. He’ll come around. Eventually.” But she didn’t sound convinced.
“How do you know Melvin’s feelings aren’t real?” Before Bekah could answer, Katherine
added, “Why do you want to break his heart?”
“I’m not breaking his heart.” Bekah leaned back in the chair. “
Ach
, you can be so dramatic sometimes.”
Katherine ducked her head down. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Melvin pestering me isn’t like you and Johnny.”
“You mean he won’t be chasing after you for the next decade?”
“You don’t chase after Johnny.” Bekah leaned forward. “You can’t help what you feel,
Katherine.”
“Neither can Melvin.”
Bekah didn’t say anything. Katherine went back to the quilt, making tiny, perfect
stitches.
“Maybe you should do something about Johnny,” Bekah said.
“You know I’ve tried.” Katherine looked up. “Since grade school I’ve let him know
how I feel. I’ve dropped hints about going to singings. I tried to make him jealous,
which was a stupid idea. He didn’t even notice when I was sixteen and pretended to
like Tom Herschberger.”
Tom hadn’t noticed either. She was clueless when it came to men.
Bekah grew quiet again. Finally she said, “Then maybe you should find someone else.”
Katherine looked up. “Well . . . I might have.”
Bekah’s eyes lit up. “Really?” She leaned forward. “Do tell.”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure there’s anything to tell. I met someone at the restaurant
yesterday.”
“Who? Do I know him?”
“His name is Isaac. He’s new to the area.”
“What’s his last name? Where’s he from? What does he do?”
Katherine set down the needle. “I don’t know his last name. He’s from Walnut Creek.”
She looked down at the quilt. “Chrystal said he was flirting with me.”
“And why wouldn’t he? You’re so
schee
. And nice. Just because Johnny is too
dumm
to realize it—”
“Bekah. He’s not
dumm
. He’s just not . . . interested.”
“But Isaac is.” Bekah grinned.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Katherine smiled. Bekah’s enthusiasm was infectious.
Their mother came into the kitchen. “Oh
gut
,
Bekah. You’re home. Come with me to visit the Mullets. You can see the new
boppli
.” She walked to the counter, picked up the plate of cookies, and scowled. “How many
did you have, Bekah?”
“Only one. I promise.”
As her mother turned around, Bekah mouthed the words,
How did she know?
Katherine shrugged. Very little got past their
mamm
.
Bekah stood. As she and
Mamm
left the kitchen, Katherine called out, “Say hello to Caleb for me.”
Bekah turned and stuck her tongue out.
“Bekah!”
Mamm’s
voice came from the living room. “That is not appropriate behavior for a young woman.”
Bekah rolled her eyes and followed her mother out of the house.
“You don’t have anything?”
Sawyer looked at Johnny and shook his head.
“I’d be willing to work part-time. A few hours a week, even.”
The pleading in his friend’s eyes surprised and confused Sawyer. He’d never seen Johnny
so desperate. “Business has slowed down.”
“Where have I heard that before?” Johnny muttered.
“What?”
“Things are tough all over.”
Sawyer brushed sawdust from a dresser top. “I know. There’s
barely enough work for me right now.” He peered over the top of the dresser, a sanding
block in his hand. “I wish there was something I could do.”
Johnny didn’t reply. His eyes darted around the workshop—a trapped animal looking
for a way of escape. Sawyer had been surprised when Johnny told him about getting
laid off from Bender’s. He thought his friend had a future there.
“Where else have you looked?” Sawyer asked.
“I started here.” Johnny started to pace.
Sawyer shook his head. “Dude. I’m sorry.”
Johnny shrugged. “Not much I can do, other than look elsewhere. Maybe pray for a miracle.”
He turned, his expression suddenly turning from despair to a grin, but Sawyer could
still see the worry behind the man’s eyes. “Enough about my problems. When’s the big
day?”
Sawyer went back to sanding. “Which day?”
“Joining the church.” Johnny smirked. “Why, is there another special day I should
know about?”
Sawyer grinned. “I talk to the bishop next week. So probably after a few weeks of
Bishop Esh’s counseling and teaching I’ll be ready to join.”
“
Gut
. Looking forward to you being an official part of the community.”
Sawyer put down the sanding block. “If you need a little help—you know, until you
find work—”
“I’m
gut
.” He waved his hand. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Well, if you need anything—other than a job . . .” Sawyer paused. “You know where
to find me.”
Johnny nodded.
“Ya.”
He looked around. “I’ll let you get back to work. Don’t want you to lose
your
job.”
When Johnny started to leave, Sawyer called out after him, “You know that other day
you mentioned?”
Johnny turned around, peering at him from beneath a battered straw hat.
“Ya?”
“November.” Sawyer grinned. “Clear your calendar.”
Johnny grinned. “You got it.”
The door hit the frame with a soft bang. Sawyer paused and said a short, silent prayer
for his friend. He wasn’t sure what drove Johnny’s desperation, but God knew, and
he prayed for His will to be done.
“Mrs. Easley, I urge you to reconsider your decision about the tests.” Dr. Clemens
looked up from his chart.
After nearly three weeks Cora had finally given in and kept her appointment. She wasn’t
used to being sick and hated all this poking and prodding. The only time in her life
she had ever spent a night in the hospital was when she had given birth to her daughter,
Kerry.
Maybe she should have hired a personal physician instead, one who would make house
calls. But a personal physician wasn’t the same as a specialist, and Dr. Clemens was
reputed to be one of the best neurologists in Manhattan.
Still, that didn’t give him the right to use her as a pincushion. She glared at him
from her chair in the corner of the exam room. She had refused to sit on the examination
table; she was here out of courtesy only, to make sure the doctor understood her position.
She fingered the diamond tennis bracelet dangling from her thin wrist. “I’m finished
being your guinea pig.”
“Mrs. Easley, these tests aren’t experimental. I just want to make sure we’ve covered
all the bases. I assumed you would want me to be as thorough as possible.”
“I believe you have been, Dr. Clemens. You’ve already given me a diagnosis. I need
to know how much time I have.”
The doctor paused for a moment. “I can’t tell you that. Parkinson’s is different in
every patient. Some, with the right medication and therapy, live for a long time.
For others the time is . . . shorter.” He sighed and whirled on his stool so he could
face her straight on. “All the information is in the pamphlets I gave you.”
“Oh yes. Scintillating reading. I can’t wait for my body to shut down completely.
What a glorious day that will be.”
Dr. Clemens didn’t say anything. He turned and wrote something down on her chart.
“This can be a difficult diagnosis to accept, Mrs. Easley. We have counseling services
available—”
“Are you saying I’m crazy too?”
He shook his head and stopped writing. “What I’m saying is that if you’re having a
difficult time emotionally, there are ways we can help you.”
Cora stood. “This conversation is over.”
“Mrs. Easley.” The doctor also stood. “If you would prefer another physician, I can
recommend a few of my colleagues. My goal is for you to receive the best care, and
if you feel you need a second opinion, I will respect that.”
His words stopped her from leaving. She looked up at him, stunned that this man, whom
she only knew on a professional basis,
cared enough to drop his ego and step aside. But she didn’t want a second opinion.
She didn’t want any of this.
“Dr. Clemens, your care has been . . . adequate. I do not want to switch doctors.”
“All right. I’ll continue to monitor your progress with diagnostic observation. No
more tests.”
She swallowed a sigh of relief.
“But I must encourage you to keep our monthly appointments. And also reconsider counseling.
Mrs. Easley, chronic disease isn’t easy to live with. Or to understand. It doesn’t
just take a physical toll, it also affects you emotionally.”
“I realize that. And I’m fine.”
He sat back down, pulled his prescription pad out of the pocket of his white lab coat,
and scribbled on it. “Some of my patients also find comfort through prayer, or through
their church family. I’ve seen faith have a drastic effect on their attitude, which
in turn affects the body’s healing properties.”
“Have any of them been cured?”
He paused. “Of Parkinson’s? No.” He tore off the small square sheet of paper and handed
it to her. “A refill for your current medication.”
She shoved the prescription into her purse. She didn’t have a church family and couldn’t
remember the last time she’d prayed. Prayers. What good would they do now? In Cora’s
opinion, praying was about as effective as swallowing snake oil.
As she waited for her driver in the office lobby, she thought about Sawyer. How angry
he’d been with her when he found out she’d tried to buy off Laura Stutzman. That had
to be part of the reason he hadn’t
returned to New York. No doubt he was so caught up in his relationship with Laura,
and with that backward Amish life where he’d spent his formative teen years, that
he’d forgotten all about her, his only blood relative.
