The Waiting Read online

Matthew nodded, not quite sure what to say, nor what a buzz meant. Just a few minutes later, he was educated.

  He paid for the haircut, mumbled a thank-you, and looked for a shop where he could buy a baseball cap to cover his conspicuously bare head.

  Dr. Lachman scheduled Mary Ann to start chemotherapy immediately – the side effects were so intense that she was nauseous, fought fever and chills, and was exhausted. Her sister, Sylvia, organized a steady stream of helpers from the church so that Mary Ann was never alone. She tried telling Sylvia that all she really wanted was to be alone, but Sylvia was not convinced. Her sister came every day, right after school, and brought eleven-year-old Esther to play with Maggie, which meant Ephraim disappeared into the woods and Maggie was in a bad mood for the rest of the evening. Mary Ann empathized. Esther bossed Maggie and Ephraim around just like Sylvia used to boss Mary Ann. As much as she loved her sister, Sylvia had an effect on others like a dark cloud on a beautiful day.

  Shortly after breakfast on Saturday, Marge King came to pay a visit at Beacon Hollow. Mary Ann was resting in her room when Marge burst in, Jorie trailing behind with an apologetic look on her face. Marge went right up to Mary Ann, took her pulse, and rested her palm against her forehead. Mary Ann knew that Marge was happiest when she was playing doctor, and she had a feeling she was about to get the full treatment.

  Marge peered into her eyes and said, “I’ve got just the thing for you. I’ll go downstairs and whip it up.”

  “She’s been itching to come,” Jorie whispered to Mary Ann after Marge went downstairs. “She’s been working on a curative since she heard your news. I recommend tossing it out the window when her back is turned.”

  Mary Ann smiled at her friend. Being around Jorie was like a breath of fresh air. She found she even felt a little more energetic. “Would you help me get dressed so I can go downstairs? I’m tired of being in this room.”

  Sylvia swept in as Jorie was brushing Mary Ann’s hair to pin it into a bun. She walked up to Jorie and snatched the brush from her hand. “You are not her sister.”

  Mary Ann blanched as Jorie backed away with a hurt look on her face. Sylvia meant well, but she only knew one way of helping others, and that meant total control. It had been that way since they were children. Their mother had passed when the sisters were young, and even though Sylvia wasn’t much older than Mary Ann, she assumed the role of mother and big sister, rolled into one. Mary Ann even thought Sylvia intimidated their father. He had tried courting a few women, but Sylvia found serious character flaws in each prospective bride. He didn’t take a second wife until Sylvia married Noah Swartzentruber. And as soon as Mary Ann married Cal, he sold his farm to Noah and Sylvia and moved with his new wife to Sarasota, Florida. When Noah died, unexpectedly, Mary Ann thought Sylvia and Esther might go live with their father, but Sylvia didn’t have any reason to leave Stoney Ridge. Though it wasn’t spoken of, everyone knew Noah Swartzentruber had been a wealthy man.

  “Not so hard, Sylvia,” Mary Ann said, wincing, as Sylvia pulled a brush through her long hair.

  But it was too late. Sylvia suddenly dropped the brush on the floor. The three women stood there, staring at it. Clumps of long hair were on the brush, fallen from Mary Ann’s head.

  It was too hot to sleep. Ephraim tried to dwell on thoughts of winter: sledding down Eagle Hill, ice-skating on Blue Lake Pond. But in the middle of September, cold weather was a distant dream.

  Lying in bed, listening to the crickets, Ephraim found himself swirling in worries. In just a week’s time, Mary Ann had gone from feeling a little poorly to barely able to get out of bed. Her sister, Sylvia, had taken over their home and dished out chores like she owned the place. Cal assured him that it was only for a short while, that Mary Ann would be as good as new soon. But what if Mary Ann didn’t get well?

  He let his thoughts drift to Vietnam, a place that seemed about as foreign as a place could be. What if Ben didn’t come home? It was a question he tortured himself with on nights like tonight, when he couldn’t sleep. The worrisome thoughts came too fast. He wanted Ben at Beacon Hollow, to throw softballs against the barn and to teach Maggie to swim at Blue Lake Pond. He’d tried to help her swim a couple of times this summer, but she sunk like a stone.

  Ben had taught Ephraim a few cuss words that he tried to practice when he was alone. He tried them out today, when he was hiding from Esther, but found he didn’t have the heart for cussing, and he didn’t know what the words meant, anyway. Ben said he would teach him the meanings of the insults when he came back home. So Ephraim quit trying, prayed for forgiveness, and went home for dinner.

  Early Sunday morning, Cal took a cup of tea upstairs to Mary Ann and was surprised to find her getting dressed. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  She pinned the top part of her dress together. “Going to meeting.”

  He set the teacup down on the nightstand. “You must be out of your mind. You’re not strong enough.”

  “Going to meeting gives me strength. There’s no place I’d rather be today than at church with my family, hearing you preach.”

  Cal sat on the bed. “You shouldn’t even be around so many people coughing and sneezing. You could get sick and . . .”

  “And what, Cal? Catch cold and die?”

  As soon as the words tumbled from her mouth, she wished them back. Cal’s shoulders drew back as if he’d been hit. She hadn’t meant to sound mean. Harsh words were not said in their home. But something needed to be said. They both needed to face the truth of how sick she really was.

  She saw Cal’s glance shift toward the door. Maggie was peeking around the open door, overhearing their conversation. Mary Ann reached out her arms for her daughter, who rushed into them.

  “I’m feeling fine, Maggie. Truly, I am.” Mary Ann smoothed her daughter’s soft cheek. Her heart ached in a sweet way as she watched the relief ease Maggie’s small face.

  Rehearsing for the Christmas program had gone so badly during Monday’s practice that Ephraim told Maggie to go home without him, and he darted past her before she could start up with any of her endless questions. He hurried through the pasture field, crossed the creek and several fences and fields, and reached his favorite place on earth: the Deep Woods. The Deep Woods belonged to Bud Schultz, their English neighbor to the north. Bud didn’t mind people traipsing through the woods, as long as they left it unspoiled. Ephraim knew there were folks – both English and Plain – who borrowed Bud’s woods without a care. Sometimes, Ephraim would bring a sack to carry out empty bottles of beer and spirits he came across. He couldn’t let garbage remain in that beautiful place. The Deep Woods was a remnant of virgin woods, bordered by a stream and a marsh. It was impossible to log by horses, and somehow, over the last three centuries, those majestic trees had slipped by unnoticed and been spared the axe.

  His father had taught all of his sons from an early age to love the Deep Woods. He remembered his father saying, in a voice of reverence, that these woods were what the country looked like when the first settlers arrived from across the Appalachians.

  Ephraim knew these woods like he knew Beacon Hollow. Even in the deep shadows of the setting sun, the place was familiar to him, filled with landmarks of childhood memories: an enormous old oak where he had once taken refuge from a skunk passing by; a makeshift blind where he could watch white-tailed deer; a stream where he had been able to catch fat fish in no time. He found his favorite spot – a felled beech tree, covered with a cushion of moss. On the tree was carved his father’s initials: “SZ, 4/8/26, caught 3 cottontails.” He sat down and became utterly still. Soon, the woods came alive with creatures. Around Ephraim’s neck hung his binoculars. He slept with them nightly and polished them weekly, and nothing was as dear to his soul.

  High above Ephraim’s head came a peck-peck-peck sound. He slowly lifted the binoculars to his eyes and followed a branch until he saw a redheaded woodpecker drilling for insects in a nearby tree. Two squirrels raced through the treetops.
Then the woods became silent, like a curtain had been drawn. He heard the steps of someone approaching and jumped up.

  “Ephraim!” Jorie reached him, panting. “I was just about to give up looking!”

  “W-what’s w-wrong?” His first thought was of Mary Ann.

  She held up a hand to catch her breath, then plopped down on a fallen log. “I just wanted to give something to you, but you lit out of school so fast!” She handed him a sketch pad, along with a charcoal pencil. “It’s for you. To make observations of nature. When I graduated eighth grade, my teacher gave me a set of paints and a sketch pad, so that I would keep painting. I guess I had thought it would end, after school ended, but she was right. Learning never ends.”

  After he took it from her, she looked all around her. “Isn’t this a wonderful place? It’s like a primeval forest! These trees must be hundreds of years old.” She looked almost dazzled. “Imagine how much these old trees have seen and heard over the years.” She ran her hand along the giant beech, gave a satisfied sigh, and turned back to Ephraim. “So. Rehearsal didn’t go too well.”

  Ephraim shook his head. “I c-can’t.” He had a gut-wrenching fear of speaking in front of class. In the Deep Woods he had no such fears – the trees and flowers and birds and squirrels that thronged the forest never laughed at him like the other kids would. Like Esther Swartzentruber did on a daily basis.

  “Sure you can, Ephraim,” Jorie said. She nudged him with her elbow. “You’re a Zook.”

  “I’m n-not. I’ll n-never b-be like them.”

  Jorie’s sky blue eyes looked intently at him. As if he was worth something. “Why wouldn’t you want to be like your brothers? I don’t know another family who is as well respected as the Zooks. It’s been that way as long as I can remember.”

  Ephraim glanced away. She didn’t understand. His brothers – each one so different from the other – were smart as a whip. He couldn’t even talk fast. When he tried, the words piled up in his throat like sticks in a beaver’s dam.

  “And the Zook stubbornness is legendary. I can see right now that you’ve got that trait.”

  Ephraim tried not to smile.

  Softly, she added, “Ephraim, don’t you know you’re more like Cal than Ben or Matthew?”

  He felt tears prickle his eyes and looked away. “I c-can’t m-memorize the whole thing. I t-tried.”

  “Memory is such a mystery. You don’t have to have the whole thing in your head, like reading from a book. Your mind will lead you from one thing to the next, the same way a flashlight can light a step ahead of you. In time, you’ll learn to trust your memory.”

  They sat there quietly, listening to the songbirds, while he took in what she said. Then she rose to her feet. “If you want some help memorizing your lines, I’d be happy to help you after school.”

  A stain of flush brushed his cheeks. “Since M-Matthew’s away and M-Mary Ann is ailing, C-Cal n-needs me at h-home right after school t-to help chore.”

  “Saturdays, then. You can usually find me at the schoolhouse on Saturday mornings.” She pointed to the sketch pad she had brought him. “I’ve noticed you have a knack for sketching. I thought it might be helpful if you had a real pad to draw your observations. About birds and trees and all kinds of wild creatures.” She looked up at the sun beaming through the treetops. “Nature like this, it’s a sanctuary, isn’t it? A solace. To me, the God who created all this beauty must be a wonderful and loving Being. A realm of limitless love.” She sighed happily. “I’d better get back. Don’t stay too late. You know how Mary Ann gets to fretting.” She turned to leave, then spun around to add, “Everything’s going to be fine, Ephraim.” She headed out the way she came.

  Ephraim watched her for a while, then opened the sketch pad and scribbled his name on the inside corner.

  As often as she could, Jorie stopped by to visit Mary Ann at Beacon Hollow, but this time the sight of her dear friend had her close to tears.

  “I brought some books for Ephraim,” she said, putting the books on the side table where Mary Ann sat in a porch rocker. She tried to keep her voice sounding lighthearted and carefree, but the truth was, she was shocked by how quickly Mary Ann’s appearance was deteriorating. When she arrived, Mary Ann had been folding laundry, but she had to stop and rest after each garment, as if it was too heavy to lift. Her skin was milk pale, nearly translucent, and there was a bruise on the hollow of her throat.

  Mary Ann’s eyes swept over the titles on the books’ spines. “Did Cal ever tell you why he was so determined to have you be the schoolteacher?”

  “No. He just kept telling me I needed to do this, for the good of the community.”

  “That sounds just like Cal, doesn’t it?” she said with a fragile smile. “It has been good for the community, but the real reason was because he knew you would be good for our Ephraim.” She looked out to the pasture where Ephraim and Maggie were tossing hay to the horses, carted from pasture to pasture in a little red wagon. The horses nickered and rumbled and stretched out their necks, snatching mouthfuls of hay before it even hit the ground. “Ever since Ben left, he’s grown quieter. And his stuttering seems to be getting worse. We’ve all tried to encourage him to talk. But still, he’s just getting quieter. The sight of him fighting to form words never fails to pierce my heart.”

  “He’s a fine boy, Mary Ann. He’s just at that age where he’s very bashful.”

  “Think he’ll ever outgrow his stuttering?”

  “Absolutely. As his confidence grows.”

  “He reads all of the books you loan to him. Sometimes in the same day.” Mary Ann sighed. “I always wished I was more of a scholar. Like Cal. So that I had more things to talk about with him. I just never liked to read much.”

  Jorie patted her on the knee. “I don’t think your marriage to Cal is lacking in any way.”

  “Jorie, why didn’t you marry Ben before he left?”

  Jorie grew still. As close as they were, she hadn’t expected such a personal question from Mary Ann.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” she hurried to add. “I just have always wondered, that’s all, and this sickness has given me boldness. Why would you wait for him but not marry him? You might have had a child by now. Maybe two.”

  Jorie took a towel from the laundry basket and folded it. “Ben never asked me.”

  Mary Ann’s eyes went wide. “What?! Then . . . what have you been waiting for?”

  Jorie shrugged and picked up another towel to fold. “I guess I’ve been waiting for Ben to grow up.” She put the towel on top of the stack and picked up a sheet.

  “There are other men to consider. They’ve certainly given you a lot of consideration.”

  Jorie anchored the corner of a sheet under her chin to fold and rolled her eyes to the heavens.

  “Jacob Schwartz? Daniel Riehl?” Mary Ann spread out her fingers and started counting. “Levi Lapp. Zach Glick. His cousin Sam Glick. Then there’s – ”

  Jorie put up a hand to stop her. “It’s always been Ben for me. You know that.” She put the folded sheet in the basket, on top of the towels.

  Mary Ann leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, as if spent. “Oh Jorie. What if you’re waiting and waiting for Ben to be something he’s not?”

  Jorie had nothing she could say to that. It was not a new thought to her. She stood. “Well, there just aren’t enough Caleb Zooks to go around. The rest of us have to make do.” She reached down to lift the basket. “I’ll take this laundry in. Shall I bring you a lemonade?”

  Mary Ann’s eyes flew open, as if something just occurred to her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Yes. Lemonade would be fine.”

  Jorie hoisted the basket on her hip and took a few steps, then turned back for a moment. “Sure you’re all right?”

  Mary Ann nodded, a serious look on her face. “I’m just fine.”

  By the time Jorie was leaving to go home, the sky was lit with color as the sun started its
descent into the horizon. Cal was outside harnessing a buggy horse as she passed by him on her way down the driveway.

  “Cal, stop for a moment and look up! It’s a spectacular sunset,” Jorie said. “I’ve always thought of a sunset as God’s last painting of the day. It’s the last gift he gives to us before he gives us the gift of a sunrise.”

  Cal looked in the direction she was pointing. “ ‘His name shall endure for ever: his name shall be continued as long as the sun: and men shall be blessed in him: all nations shall call him blessed.’ ” He glanced over at her and read the question on her face. “Psalm 72:17.” He turned back to the setting sun. “Thank you, Jorie. I needed a spectacular sunset today.”

  The horse nudged Cal with his long nose, as if to remind him that he was waiting. Absentmindedly, Cal reached out a hand and stroked his forelocks. “I appreciate you stopping by when you can. The two of you had your heads bent together, whispering like schoolgirls.”

  “I was telling her stories about our scholars. How are you holding up, Cal?”

  “God will not lead us where his grace cannot take us.” He spoke the words and he knew them to be true, and the thought behind them was true, but still, they didn’t quench the fear in his heart of what was coming.

  “That doesn’t mean this isn’t a hard thing to endure.” Her gaze met his over the horse’s head. “So how are you holding up, really? You look . . . positively wrung out.”

  He fit the bit into the horse’s mouth, slipped the bridle over its head, and buckled its chinstrap. “Truth be told, I’m a little stunned. Like I’m going to wake up any day now and realize it’s all just been a bad dream.” He hooked his hands on his hips. “It’s all happening so fast. It’s like time has turned into a fast-running river. And all I want is for the river to run backward.”

  Jorie’s eyes filled with tears. “She’s like a sister to me.”

  He gave her a gentle smile. “She feels the same way about you.” His attention turned toward the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves on the driveway. “Speaking of sisters. Here comes Sylvia.”