Disappearances (26 page)

“No. I just have a sincere feeling about … I don’t know, I guess taking care of my soul.”

“Good way to say it,” Anna said, nodding.

Then, “Well, if you’re going to become serious, then I guess I need to pray for help if I’m going to lean on God to help me overcome my … What did you call it?”

“Bulimia.”

“No, the other word.”

“Anorexia.”

“Yeah, that. You said I can’t blame Neil. Why not?’

“Because he was not the one rebelling. You were.”

“He was, too.”

“You were.”

She became very quiet then. So quiet, in fact, that he watched her face, afraid he had upset her.

Then, “I want to be like Sadie.” It was only a whisper, but he caught it.

She stood up to get away before he saw the tears. He heard the sob that rose in her throat and stood up awkwardly, his arms hanging loosely by his side, watching intently as a tear balanced on her dark lashes, then slid quickly down her pearl-hued cheek, leaving a small wet trail, the most exquisite sight he had ever encountered.

He wasn’t going to put his arms around her. He wasn’t even going to touch her sleeve. Not even put a finger on the black wool coat. He just wanted to let her know it was all right to want to be like Sadie. It was okay.

What he did say thickly was, “Anna, I … ”

When she looked up, another tear shivered on her lower lashes, made another irresistible trail down her shadowed cheek, and he only wanted to feel the beauty of it. He reached out, one large fingertip tracing the wetness on the pearl cheek. He stopped tracing it, his fingers slid to her chin, and without knowing what he would do, lifted her face. Her eyes became dark and wide, her breath quickened. His eyes told her everything. They told her he was attracted to her, she was lovely, he wanted to be with her, protect her, love her to the end of his days.

Had she ever been kissed? Neil? Ah, but the Amish were strict about purity. Some of them. His hand fell away, the spell was broken. The strict rules had spoken. Still, they stood. Suddenly afraid she would go, he could not bear to part with her now or ever. He moved, pulled her close, held her shoulders, lowered his hands, and crushed the too-thin body to his, murmuring things he didn’t know he said.

He remembered saying, “Stay with me, Anna, don’t go. Please stay with me, here, now.”

He wanted to say “forever.” Her frail, thin fingers stayed on his coat sleeve, then, like a hovering butterfly and just as lightly, went up his sleeve to clasp his shoulders with a surprising strength.

Tim never understood the meaning of true love until he held Anna in his arms. He was shaken to the core of his being, the huge difference in what he had always thought was love and this tender caring, this passion to be a better person for her sake. He saw with new eyes the scepter of her love being held by the strength with which her arms encircled him.

Who let go first? It wasn’t him. When they did, they smiled silly, crooked smiles, and both started talking at once, saying what they had wanted to say weeks ago. How good he looked with his dental work. How beautiful she was. How she couldn’t help being attracted to him the first time she saw him. Even if she told him to go brush his teeth? When she became flustered, apologizing, he laughed, a sound so genuine she wasn’t sure she had ever heard it before.

They talked most of the night. The kerosene steadily lowered by the small rectangular flame burning steadily inside the chimney, but still they talked. They decided people like Aunt Hannah and Sadie went on with their lives and never really knew the huge influence they had on other people. They were genuine individuals who were not perfect but had a kindness, a sort of goodness about them, like an aura of peace and calm that made you want to be like them. They cared absolutely.

They talked about Paris. They couldn’t bear to think of Sadie parting with her beloved horse.

“Couldn’t we drench her with some home remedy?” Anna asked, in a desperate voice.

Tim held very still, not even blinking.

Drench?

What was it about that odd word? He remembered it from somewhere? Was it Aunt Hannah? What was “drench”?

When the lantern sputtered, sending sparks up the glass chimney and creating a sort of film around the glass, they knew the kerosene had been used up. The night was over. They walked to the house in the bitter night, the sky black with another approaching storm, the earth still and sharp with the aching cold.

Suddenly shy, they thought of Mark and Sadie lying side by side in their big, cozy bed, creating an intimacy they knew was not theirs to have. They separated quietly, a whispered good-night their only parting.

In the morning the snow was already falling, thinly, but with the same drive that makes real storms start with a vengeance. Sadie was down at the barn trying to lead Paris out into the snow, thinking the soft coldness might reduce the swelling of the
laminae
, that soft tissue so painfully red and swollen, protruding down into the base of the hoof, causing severe pain. Sadie knew Paris was simply buying time. Some horses would already have stopped breathing. She was convinced it was Paris’s will, that strong spirit, that kept her alive.

Whoever had stolen her, wherever they had taken her, had not been good, leaving her in poor health. Likely she had had a diet of corn, too much protein, or black walnut shavings as bedding. She may have had access to too much grain, which would have foundered her, then because of exposure and a poor diet had fallen into the dire case of laminitis.

Paris lowered her head, sniffing at the cement floor of the forebay as if to determine whether she had the strength to place her painful feet on top of it. Courageously now, she stuck a foot out, then another, the pain forcing her to place her feet quickly, lightly, as if she was literally walking on eggshells. Her back was bent, her haunches tucked in, as if to touch only the front of the hoof on the unforgiving concrete.

“Good girl,” Sadie coaxed.

When they hobbled out to the snowy whiteness, Paris extended her neck, kept going bravely as Sadie led her in circles, something the last veterinarian had told her to try. But when her breathing came in short, shuddering gasps, Sadie could not bear to listen to the sounds of her intense pain.

Circling once more, she slid open the barn door. A lump built steadily in her swollen throat as she struggled to resign herself to Paris’s fate. She could no longer dismiss the grim reaper on the horizon who would come to claim Paris. She looked up as the door opened and Tim emerged, poking his arms into his coat sleeves, pulling on his beanie sloppily, as if he had to be somewhere in a great hurry. She was puzzled, this being Saturday.

“Sadie! Sadie!”

It was Anna, racing after Tim. Incredibly, Mark emerged, pulling on his clothes with every bit as much haste.

“Sadie!”

“What is going on?” she asked.

“
Drench
! I remember that word! Aunt Hannah’s neighbor—he drenched his horse with mineral oil! He said it purges the bad bacteria that causes laminitis. Cleans the stomach! Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. He cured Harry, his draft horse. He got laminitis from being too fat!”

Tim was shouting, the veins standing out on his neck.

“What?”

“Mineral oil! Do you have any?” Tim was still shouting.

“No. Oh, my! No, I don’t have any. Please, Mark, somebody! Go get some somewhere.”

“Call a driver?”

“Fred Ketty’s store?”

“Go to town?”

They quickly decided town was the most trustworthy. The driver was called, Anna riding to town to procure it while Sadie rubbed Paris down with clean cloths. Mark paced, unable to watch Sadie as she crooned over her beloved Paris, promising help. It seemed to take forever, but finally the four-wheel drive pickup came through the whirling whiteness, and with a glad cry, Sadie straightened and came toward them.

Together they worked, pouring the oily liquid into a long-necked drenching bottle, deciding Sadie would be the one to open Paris’s jaws wide enough to allow the intrusion of the bottle to the back of her throat. Would Paris allow it? Some horses fought violently.

It was heartbreaking to watch Sadie, the intensity with which she massaged the neck, speaking to Paris as if she were human, explaining every step, telling her to be good and let this mineral oil do its work. Her white scarf circled her face, and she had never been more beautiful in the light of the gray, white storm outside. She had eyes only for Paris, unaware of those around her. Paris stood, thin, breathing hard, yet her coat shone from the constant brushing. Slowly Sadie cupped her chin, put gentle pressure on it, enough to lift the face. It would be easier to get the bottle down farther if she lifted her face.

“I need a stool. Or a bale of hay,” she said tightly, the only way they could tell she was under stress.

Tim hurried to comply.

“Just hold the bottle, and when I say, ‘Okay,’ put it in,” she said quietly.

Mark nodded, gripped the bottle till his knuckles turned white. Anna looked at Tim. He raised his eyebrows. Up came Paris’s head. The horse barely resisted. It was as if she knew Sadie would make everything better. That, or she was so weak, she had no strength to fight against anything.

“Okay,” Sadie said, evenly.

Mark held the bottle as Sadie’s thumbs remained imbedded in the socket behind the jaw bone, enabling him to slide it into the well-opened mouth. They all watched, holding their breaths as the clear, oily liquid gurgled down the dying horse’s throat. They heard the swallows, saw the neck muscles contract, then broke out in triumphant cheers of accomplishment when Mark extracted the empty bottle.

“She did it!” Anna cried, beside herself now.

“We’ll try another bottleful if this one doesn’t work,” Sadie said. Mark looked at her, hiding the doubt he felt.

They all leaned on the stable wall watching Paris. When she groaned, then heaved, her legs folding under her, and she settled down hard, they rushed into her stall. Mark stood helpless.

Tim watched Sadie as she got on her knees beside Paris, stroking her neck, talking to her. Anna hid her eyes in her hands, peeping between her fingers. Sadie decided Paris would relax if they all left her alone for awhile, saying mares would foul best when left alone, so why wouldn’t this be the same? That mineral oil could churn around in there by itself. They would go to the house and make waffles for breakfast.

When Mark put a protective arm around Sadie’s shoulders on the way to the house, Tim jammed both hands into his coat pockets to keep them from going around Anna to protect her from the cold and snow and to keep her by his side as long as the world revolved on its axis.

T
HE WAFFLES TURNED OUT
light, perfectly caramel-colored. They’d be slathered with soft butter and soaked in maple syrup. Anna fried small patties of sausage, swallowing her hunger, dreading the act of pulling up a chair to Sadie’s table, inserting a fork into that lard-laden sausage and putting it to her mouth. Couldn’t she just have a poached egg? Eliminate the yolk the way she did at home? Mam allowed it.

Mark manned the orange juice pitcher. Tim sat on the recliner, put up his feet, and said there was no use four people tried to make breakfast, three were enough. Mark set down the pitcher of orange juice, made a mad dash for the recliner, grabbed Tim’s ankles, and pulled with all his strength. Tim yelled but was pulled across the glossy oak floor at an alarming speed, until they both crashed into the dining room table, dangerously rocking the orange juice pitcher, which brought a resounding “Hey!” from Sadie.

After “patties down,” Anna took a small sip of juice, then shifted her fingers between the knife and fork, nervously trying to portray some semblance of normalcy. Sadie helped herself to a large waffle, topped it with an outrageous amount of butter, and called across the table for Tim to please pass the maple syrup.

Anna slanted her eyes in the direction of Sadie, who was swallowing as she lifted a huge forkful of waffle to her mouth, leaning over her plate to avoid the dripping syrup. Anna took a deep breath. Sadie stopped eating, reached over, and calmly picked up Anna’s plate. She placed half a waffle on it, then dabbed on a small amount of butter and a drizzle of syrup. She cut a sausage patty in half, added a small amount of scrambled eggs, and plopped the plate back in front of Anna.

“Eat.”

Anna looked to Tim for help.

“Go ahead, Anna. I would love to see you put on 20 or 30 pounds.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course.”

Slowly she inserted the fork and pulled away with a sizable chunk of waffle attached. Anna’s hand trembled as she lifted it to her mouth, but she put it in, chewed, swallowed, and closed her eyes as she savored the taste. Tim smiled at her, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling exactly the way Mark’s did. She never thought she would be able to do it, but she ate everything on her plate and wanted more. She sipped juice, then pushed back to go to the bathroom and get rid of all the lard-and-calorie-laden waffle. Then she remembered.

Paris was in her stable, struggling to stay alive, the mineral oil slowly churning in her intestines. Without its help, she would die. Without calories, so would she. She needed to talk to someone.