The Crossroad (4 page)

“I’ll do some bakin’ to take along, then.” Lavina made a slurping sound in her coffee. “It’ll be ever so nice, seein’ the dear English girl again.”

Dear English girl
. Rachel had to smile at the remark. Of course, the older woman would remember Adele Herr as the young Baptist who’d come to fill in at the oneroom school those many years ago. “Adele seemed like such a nice lady when I met her back in September. But I think it was right hard on her, tellin’ the saddest story of her life.”

They fell silent for a time, and Rachel relished the coffee bean aroma filling the kitchen.

It was Lavina who brought up Adele’s letter again.

“She’s been gettin’ letters—even postcards—from her friend in New York.”

“Would that be … the journalist who came last fall?” Rachel carefully kept her tone matter-of-fact.

“That’s who. Said Philip’s become almost like a son. And he’s goin’ to church again, readin’ his Bible, too.”

“Well, I’ll be….” Rachel licked the frosting from her fingers.

“Seems them two are becoming fast friends … since he’s the one who found Gabe’s postcard, ’n all.”

“I’m not surprised, really,” Rachel replied. And lest she give too much away, she hushed right up. Wasn’t anybody’s business how often her mind traveled back to the early autumn days, when Philip Bradley had been a guest at the B&B.

After they’d finished drinking a second cup of coffee and devoured more than their share of sticky buns, Rachel rose to wash her hands. She was more than grateful she’d come to Lavina’s today. Seemed to her the Lord was working in
both
their lives! Honestly, she thought it would be ever so nice if Philip Bradley would send
her
a letter. ’Course, the way Mam told him off on the phone that final day, the man would have to have nerves of steel to consider such a thing!

Three

Kari opened the door nearly the instant his finger pressed the doorbell. “Uncle Phil!” she squealed, as though she hadn’t seen him in years. She threw her arms around his neck, and he leaned down, hugging her.

“How’s my sunshine?”

She let go, stepping back, then twirled about to model her long floral skirt, blond hair fanning out around her shoulders. “What do you think? I made it without any help from Mom.”

“Wow, is
this
the sewing project you told me about?” He eyed the new skirt. “So … along with your
other
talents, you’re a seamstress, too.”

Kari beamed, still posing a few feet from the arched entrance to the dining room, where the table was set with Janice’s best dishes and tall white tapers, already lit for supper. Kari had chosen the perfect backdrop to show off her newly acquired domestic skill.

“Hey, wait a minute. I think I may be underdressed for this occasion.” He unbuttoned his overcoat, pulling it open slightly to gaze down comically at his own clothing—dress slacks and a sweater.

Kari giggled at his antics, her blue eyes twinkling.

“You’re just fine, Phil.” Janice breezed into the living room, reaching for his coat. “Let me take that for you.”

Philip exchanged a glance with Kari while his sister hurriedly hung up his coat in the entryway closet. “Hope you’re hungry,” she called over her shoulder as she sailed back to the kitchen.

Kenneth Milburn, his brother-in-law, emerged from the hall study. “Good to see you, Phil. How long has it been?” He thrust out his hand, and Philip returned the warm handshake.

“Weeks, I’m afraid,” replied Philip.

“Too long,” said Kari, still spinning. “It’s about time for the London trip, don’t you think, Uncle Phil?”

“London?” he teased, knowing she was definitely counting on him to follow through on an earlier promise.

Ken smiled. “Give your uncle a chance to catch his breath,” he admonished with a wink. Then, turning to Phil, “I’ve heard nothing but good reports about your Vermont vacation. Kari and Janice talked of it for days. And it was educational, which was a real plus.”

Kari followed her dad to the sofa and curled up on one end, while Philip took the wingback chair across from them. “Dad thinks most
everything
in life should be educational.” Kari grinned at her dad. “We toured Robert Todd Lincoln’s estate, where one of Abe Lincoln’s three remaining stovepipe hats just so happens to be on display. Can you believe it? Mom and I had Uncle Phil take our picture next to it. For posterity.”

Philip chuckled. “Don’t forget the Norman Rockwell exhibit in Arlington,” he prompted her. “That was also
educational
.”

She took the cue, describing the magazine cover illustrations for
The Saturday Evening Post
they had enjoyed. “We found lots of surprises in Vermont when we stayed at Great-Grandpap’s cabin.”

Philip remembered. They
had
discovered some fascinating treasures on their daily treks through the woods. Things like a rusty horseshoe, old pennies, red and yellow leaves, and aluminum cans imbedded along the trail, which they picked up and deposited into Kari’s backpack to be recycled later. But it was the chatter between him and his niece that he recalled as being the most rewarding aspect of the trip. For some unknown reason, she had been curious about the Amish and their plain attire—especially the women’s clothing—so he had attempted to describe the details he remembered: the length of Susanna’s and Rachel’s dresses, the colors—not mentioning Rachel’s choice of gray for mourning—the cape-style bodice and high-necked, full-length apron, and of course, the white head covering. “Not a sign of makeup,” he’d told her. “But it’s funny, you really don’t notice.”

“Is that because their cheeks are naturally rosy?” Kari had asked.

He thought about that. “Well, yes, I suppose they are.”

“Must be all the gardening they do.”

He let his niece think the latter, though he knew for a fact that Rachel Yoder had not been one to expose her face to the sun. Yet she was beautiful—pink-cheeked—nevertheless.

Kari had been so excited upon hearing his account that while they were still in New England, she decided to look for some fabric to sew a long skirt. He’d gone with Janice and Kari to a fabric store, following them around as Kari looked for the “perfect print.” The material instantly reminded Philip of another flower print dress he’d seen while in Bird-in-Hand. It was very similar to a dress he had seen on Emma, the Mennonite woman who owned Emma’s Antique Shop.

So here was Kari, presently modeling the finished project. “It’s as pretty as you said it would be,” he told her. “I’d say you could compete with any Plain woman I know!”

With that, she burst into laughter again, and he felt the heat creep into his face. “Oh, so you
do
know a lady in Lancaster County.” She turned away, calling for her mother. “Mom! Guess what—Uncle Phil has a secret love in Amish country.”

Secret love …

When no reply came from the kitchen, Philip was more than relieved. No sense exposing that part of his Pennsylvania sojourn. He preferred to keep his passing interest in Rachel Yoder under wraps. That way, there could be no misunderstanding.

“What sort of grade did your mom give you on your sewing project?” he asked, changing the subject rather naturally.

“B plus.” Kari shrugged. “Mom doesn’t believe in perfection, you know.”

Philip wondered how his sis was managing the home- schooling program she and Ken had chosen this year. “How’re you doing in language arts?” Dramatically, he pulled out a pen and tiny note pad from his shirt pocket.

“Oh, so you’re going to take notes?” Quickly, Kari fluffed her hair. “Is this an interview?”

“Just checking up, that’s all.”

Her face shone with delight. “Tell Uncle Phil how school’s going, Dad.”

Ken nodded, smiling. “Janice gives Kari plenty of writing assignments, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“Glad to hear it.” His niece had real writing talent, quite a surprising way of expressing herself. “Tell me about some of your essays.” He knew they existed because she’d dropped hints several times on their hiking trips.

“She’s written some excellent poetry, too,” Ken added.

“Oh, Daddy,
please
.”

“No, really, hon. I believe you may be following in your uncle’s literary footsteps.”

Philip had begun his early writing career by jotting down free verse during adolescence. He preferred to think of that youthful time as purely a phase, mainly because he had felt caught up in the tension of those turbulent years. But when he emerged safely into his early twenties, it was journalism that called to him. Not poetry.

He put his pen and note pad away. “So you’re going to be a girl after my own journalistic heart.”

“I’m not a girl, Uncle Phil. I’m almost a teenager!”

“Hang on to your youth, kiddo.” With that, he found himself pummeled with sofa pillows. Even Ken joined in the trouncing, picking up pillows and tossing them to Kari.

It was Janice’s dinner bell and “Time to wash up for supper” that brought their rambunctious play to an end.

“We’re having pork chops,” Kari announced after they’d taken turns washing hands.

“Really? Where’d you get the recipe?” Philip asked, nearly forgetting himself.

Janice’s brown eyes shot daggers across the table. “What do you mean,
where
? It’s
my
recipe…. I’ve been making it for fifteen years.”

He would not reveal his thoughts—that Kari’s innocent announcement and the tantalizing aroma of broiled pork chops had sent him drifting back to another supper, served with an astonishing array of colorful and tasty side dishes, freshly baked bread and real butter, various condiments, and sumptuous desserts.

It was well after supper when Philip brought up the subject he had been researching on the Internet—the treatment for various hysterical disorders. Especially blindness. He hadn’t fully understood Susanna Zook’s comments on the phone the day he’d called Rachel to say good-bye. But after mulling it over, pieces of the full picture were beginning to come together. He was especially curious about any information Ken might have, as he was a nurse and rubbed shoulders with doctors on a daily basis.

“Tell me what you know about conversion disorder,” Philip said later as Kari helped Janice clear the table.

Ken scratched his chin, leaning back in his chair. “It’s rare, but we see it on occasion at the hospital. Why do you ask?”

Philip hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. How much should he reveal? How much of Rachel’s situation did he really know? “I think I may have come across a case of hysterical blindness … in Lancaster County.”

Ken frowned, apparently concerned. “Do you know what caused it?”

“Not all the particulars, but the person
did
witness the death of two family members and her unborn child.”

Janice emerged from the kitchen with dessert plates. “Was this
someone
Amish?” she asked.

Nodding, Philip hoped he wouldn’t have to say much more. He wouldn’t feel comfortable discussing Rachel Yoder—even with his family.

“There really isn’t any treatment other than psychiatric care,” Ken said, shrugging. “It would depend on the cause of the conversion disorder and the extent of denial and repression.”

This sort of terminology had been used on the various Web sites Philip had located when he did his investigating late at night on forms of hysteria—the term Rachel’s mother had mentioned. At the time, though, he’d just assumed she was merely flinging angry words. But the more he thought about it, the more he believed that Susanna had not misrepresented the situation to him at all.

“I don’t know about the denial angle.” He didn’t want Ken or Janice to guess just how much time he had already spent on his net-search. Fact was, the pace with which he had kept at it—feverish at times—had cost him more than a few nights of sleep.

Yet something urged him to find a way to help Rachel Yoder. She was missing out on her daughter’s life, her precocious little Annie. And as much as he loved children, he was dismayed by that fact alone. So he had worked diligently over the past months, reading accounts of patients who’d received various kinds of intervention, though he assumed Rachel would be resistant to anything involving hypnosis or other forms of New Age therapy.

So he would continue to seek out medical opinions, talk to Ken and Janice—in a vague sort of way—and most of all, to pray. At some point he would decide how he should go about contacting the Amish widow. That is,
if
he chose to reach out to her directly. He’d thought of sending information her way, though with Rachel unable to see, the data might very well fall into her parents’ hands, serving no purpose whatsoever.

Recent correspondence with Adele Herr had shed some light on the fact that Adele and Lavina Troyer, Adele’s longtime Amish friend, still kept in touch through letters. He had actually considered Lavina the better choice for getting the information to the Bird-in-Hand area but had yet to do anything.

Ken’s comment brought him back to the conversation at hand. “I’d recommend your friend getting some group grief counseling, for starters.”

Grief counseling …

It was almost impossible to imagine Rachel seated in a circle of chairs, surrounded by non-Amish folk, pouring out her heart amid strangers, both because of their cultural differences and because she seemed quite shy. No, he couldn’t imagine her attempting such a thing. Too, the way he perceived the Amishwomen’s interconnectedness in the community, no doubt there was a close bond of candor and affection among the womenfolk. More than likely, Rachel had already talked out her memories, her sorrow, and her ongoing emotional feelings of loss.

“I’ve read that grief counseling can help a person know they aren’t going crazy—that they are experiencing the same sort of symptoms as other members in the group,” Ken added.

“That, along with a feeling of camaraderie,” Janice spoke up, pulling her hair back away from her face, only to let it fall down over her shoulders again. “No one should face a grief situation entirely alone.”

“Just so the person doesn’t become too dependent on the group,” Ken interjected, “so much so that he or she gets ‘stuck,’ continuing to focus on the grief event rather than growing beyond it.”

“Guess I’ll have to go to work with you sometime … so you can introduce me to your shrink friends,” Philip quipped.

Ken responded to Philip’s jest with a hearty laugh. “The only so-called shrinks I know are brain surgeons.”

That got all three of them laughing, just in time for Kari to serve up Janice’s surprise dessert of the evening—apple pie à la mode, warm from the oven. The cinnamonrich smell tickled his memory again, buttering the Lancaster County scenes in his mind’s eye with vivid sensory recollections.