A Simple Hope Read online

  That was what mattered to James—getting washed and dressed on his own. Although he lived in a supportive community, James was not one to wait around for a helping hand or lap up pity. In the orchard and in life, his father had taught him to do his part and do it well. Ya, there were many chores that he couldn’t do while he was healing from the back injury. But James wasn’t going to let his rehabilitation become an extra chore for family members like his mamm and his sister Verena.

  Having spent his youth climbing trees, James had good power in his arms. He was grateful for that. Since the accident his upper body had grown even stronger with the necessity of having to lift and lever his body from one chair to another. By the light of a single kerosene lamp, he washed up and brushed his teeth. He shaved off the stubble on his chin and jaw, checking his face in the small mirror. Not long ago, he had looked forward to the day when he would let his beard grow. Growing a beard was but one small joy of marriage, a rite of passage in the Amish community. He had planned to marry Rachel King next wedding season, in the fall. Their friends and family had expected it.

  Now he couldn’t count on marriage or even Rachel’s love. Now, when he tried to see ahead down the path to the future, his sights were set on walking—nothing else. When doctors had told him that his spinal cord had not been completely severed, that he had a chance of walking again, James had snatched at that hope as if it were the first ripe pear on a tree.

  At the hospital and rehab center, there had been many tests and continuing physical therapy. Dat had taken James to a local chiropractor who many believed had healing power, and Mamm had purchased a few healing elixirs advertised in The Budget, the Amish newspaper. A couple of pills or one spoonful a day promised to temper all ills, and Mamm was convinced that the bottle of thick brown liquid James had consumed was responsible for the sensations in his legs. There were two surgeries and medications and talk of medical trials. James did everything the doctors asked, holding so tightly to hope that the notion of walking was beginning to seem as sure and rock-solid as the ground beneath him. As long as they kept saying that it was possible, that he might regain the use of his legs, James would keep digging deep inside himself for more strength, pushing and dragging and pulling himself up until that glimmer of chance burst into a roaring fire.

  Back in his room, James glanced at the Bible on the edge of the bed. He almost stopped to read it over again, but he knew the section that was marked almost by heart. Mark 2:11 told about how Jesus met a man who couldn’t walk. And he told the man, “Arise, and take up thy bed, and go thy way into thine house.” And the man got up and picked up his mat, and all those who doubted Gott believed in the Almighty’s power.

  Ya, James knew that Bible story by heart. He had mentioned it to his dat, wanting to remind Jimmy that miracles could happen, but his father had told him not to brag about his Bible knowledge. Hochmut, or pride, was a sin. Most Amish didn’t spend a lot of time reading from the Bible, but every man wanted to have a few Bible stories in his toolbox.

  James carefully strapped each foot into black shoes with Velcro straps—shoes designed for wheelchair patients. He frowned, thinking of his dat’s crisp remarks when the shoes had arrived a few weeks ago.

  “I don’t know why you’re bothering with shoes at all.” Dat had made his disapproval plain when one of the nurses, Haley Donovan, had held up the shoes that she’d ordered for James.

  “These are lightweight, and easy to get on and off,” Haley had said. “And besides that, they’ll keep your feet warm and dry when you’re out on the farm, taking care of the trees.”

  “But James isn’t going to go out in the orchard in a wheelchair,” Jimmy had told the therapist. “His brothers and I will tend to those chores.” Dat had become a naysayer lately. Whenever James talked about the future, of getting better and walking again, his father grew agitated, as if James were breaking the Ordnung, going against the ways of the Amish.

  “They go on a lot faster than my boots,” James had said, pressing the Velcro tab into place.

  “Seems like a waste,” Dat had said, shaking his head. “For the amount of time you’re going to be outside, a pair of thick socks would do just fine.”

  Despite Dat’s displeasure, when Haley had looked to James for a decision, he had told her the shoes would serve him well outside, and they had. With the spring showers they’d had in the last two weeks, the shoes had proven their worth—especially when James had no choice but to direct his all-terrain wheelchair through mud and puddles of water. A few times his pants had gotten splattered and soaked, but his feet had stayed dry.

  James pulled his jacket on, then wheeled down the hall. The kitchen sat cold but expectant. In a few minutes, the gas flame would be lit for coffee and the house would begin to stir. James would have liked a cup of coffee to ease into the day, but this was his time in the orchard—his chance before everyone else began their day.

  From the simple porch at the front of the house, James breathed in the chill morning air, and then efficiently transferred himself to the all-terrain wheelchair. Between this chair and the ramp his father had built with his brothers, James was now able to come and go through the orchard on his own. He rolled down the ramp and steered toward the uneven path. As golden light sifted through the green crowns, shadow and light brought a sense of movement to the patterned rows of trees, punctuated by the rising chatter of birdsong.

  Morning had broken.

  In the past few weeks, this had been James’s spot every morning at sunrise. There was something warm and good about the sunrise, the sharp light glowing through the leaves as the sky was washed pale with morning. Ya, there was hope in the first light of day. Even if the day held rain and a soupy sky, Gott brought enough light to find your way. The sureness that Gott brought a sunrise each and every day, that was a foundation a man could build on; the hope that this would be the day when Gott breathed life back into James’s legs and blessed him with the strength to begin walking again, that was his morning prayer.

  In his mind, he made a list of the things to be done this month. His grandfather had taught him that managing an orchard was a year-round task.

  If you want to make cider in October, best to start checking your apple trees for leaf rollers in May.

  He moved past apricot trees, already in bud. They would be the first to bloom, toward the beginning of May. Down on the ground, James was glad to see the specks of fertilizer his brother had scattered in a wide circle around each trunk. April was the month to fertilize everything except the peach trees. He had told Peter and Luke that over and again, but those two were caught up in girls and buggies—spring fever, Luke called it. “It must be a strong fever,” James had teased his younger brother, “because it hits you in summer, fall, and winter, too.”

  For now, Luke and Peter were stepping up to get the work done. As long as James gave them specific chores to do each day, they had been able to tend to the fruit trees. But James didn’t want to think of what would happen to the acres of trees—their whole family business—if he wasn’t there to oversee things. Who would maintain the trees if James stepped away?

  James had learned the orchard from his grandfather Elmo Lapp, who had shared his way of nurturing trees to bear healthy fruit. Doddy had taught James all the basics. When to prune, and how to clip so that the remaining branches would grow in the sun and within reach for picking season. James had learned about fertilizing and watering and mulching. How to fend off fruit moths and borers, and what to do about diseases.

  You spray to ward off apple scab, Doddy told him, but if you find a canker on a tree? Don’t waste your time with sprays. Cut off the diseased limb and burn it. That’s the only way to take care of that.

  Doddy had tips and solutions and rules for every season of the year, and James had soaked them all up, trailing the older man through the orchard from the time he was a small boy through his teen years.

  Steering off the path, James moved close to an apple tree and ran one hand o
ver the bark. Now was the time to apply a dormant oil spray, an organic way to prevent infestations of apple scab, the most common disease to damage apple trees.

  An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, Doddy used to say when he told James about measures to ward off damaging insects, fungi, or diseases.

  Rolling his chair back to the path, James looked up at the bare branches of apple trees reaching to the sky.

  “I still hear your voice, Doddy. Gone two years, and you’re still telling me what to do.” He laughed at himself, talking to the heavens, and then looked around to be sure he was alone. Anyone else in the orchard would think he was verhuddelt, talking to the sky. Maybe he was a little crazy in the head. Dylan had talked to James many times about shock and post-traumatic stress. Talking with the counselor had gotten James out of the mud pit, where his heart and mind had been stuck for the first few months after the accident. Now the only thing holding James back was these legs, still and dormant, like the orchard in the winter.

  James slapped his thighs, checking the sensations that hovered there, the dull thunk and slight buzz. Sometimes it was as if his legs were wrapped in thick quilts. They were not blind to sensation, but all feeling was dull and muddled.

  “There’s still something there, Doddy. And I’m not giving up. I’m going to walk again. Walk and run and climb these trees.”

  This time, he didn’t hear Doddy’s voice.

  Well, that was no surprise. Doddy knew his trees, but he had not spent much time telling James how to run the rest of his life. For Doddy, the trees were the source of all lessons and advice.

  Unlike Dat. Ever since the accident, Jimmy had been scowling down at his son for one reason or another. First it was the cost of medical treatment and rehabilitation. Tens of thousands of dollars. It used to make James sick to think about it, but the Amish community had come together to raise money to pay those bills. An auction had raised two thirds of the expenses. Some doctors had made big donations, while others had cut their fees. Their church district had an emergency medical fund that had paid for James’s first surgery. Dr. Dylan’s services were paid for by the county, and Haley provided free physical therapy to get credit for her nursing degree.

  As James picked up speed along the main path, heading toward the sugar shack at the very back of the orchard, he wished his father would take a step away right now. He knew Dat didn’t trust Englishers—many Amish felt that way—but Amish folk didn’t have their own doctors, and English were the only source of reliable medical assistance. If James wanted help getting back on his feet, he would have to rely on Dr. Trueherz and the other medical workers. Besides, Dat seemed to be ignoring the generosity of folks like Haley and Dr. Monroe, Englishers who were being Good Samaritans. It was one thing to live separate from the world, as Gott told His people. James would always live simple and keep the ways of the Amish. But he didn’t understand Dat’s insistence that they push away Englisher folk who wanted to help.

  In the distance, the sugar shack seemed to be tucked into the hill. The land on the north end gave way to a low gully, where a stone-lined creek zigzagged along one side of the small structure. The maple woods were a natural border behind the shack, stretching all the way to the Lapp property line, which was marked somewhere behind those woods by a fence meant to keep cows on the dairy farm. Although the wide stovepipe chimney jabbed into the sky and the stack of wood under the lean-to was plentiful, the shack hadn’t been used this year. Since Doddy died, James had been the one to get his brothers going when it was time to tap the trees. Doddy had taught him that the sap began to flow when daytime temperatures rose above freezing, and since he was a child, James had dutifully watched the outdoor thermometer in the late winter. But this year, with the accident, there would be no maple sugaring.

  The last time he had been inside the shack, snow had covered the land. Every detail of that afternoon was etched into his mind, like a very good story told over and again. The blustery cold outside had made the fire inside seem warm and welcoming. The back of Rachel’s black coat had been soaked from when she’d flopped down on the ground to make snow angels, and he had hung it to dry near the potbellied stove while she had sketched a quiet scene of a single tree leaning into a fence dusted in snow.

  He used to like watching her sketch. The whisper of pencil on paper. The shapes that grew into flowers and trees and buildings. The smooth contentment on Rachel’s face as a picture flowed from the lead of her pencil. She always hummed as she drew, often the same song, “I Need Thee Every Hour.” James had begun to think of it as their song.

  This had been their hideaway, their quiet place to be alone together. That was one of the drawbacks and blessings about living Plain: You were almost never alone. But here he and Rachel had found a place with privacy. In cold weather they huddled inside by the fire. The rest of the year, they sat in the grass that had overgrown the lane. Sometimes they stretched out and found shapes in the passing clouds. Sometimes they kissed. And he had spent hours holding her, her softness pressed against him as he breathed in her scent and dreamed of the life they would have together. A big Amish family with a dozen boys to man the orchard.

  He wanted to think they would huddle inside there again, Rachel in his arms. That van accident on a cold winter’s evening was not going to change him for the rest of his life. James would not give up. He was counting on walking again, because without these legs under him, he would be useless to this orchard.

  Useless to Rachel.

  His jaw clenched at the thought of her, blue eyes calm as a river, smile as bright as a candle in the night. He’d been in a foul mood since the accident, but Rachel had stayed by him, encouraging and cheerful.

  Somehow, someday when he was walking again, he would make it all up to her.

  As she turned a slice of scrapple on the griddle, Rachel hummed a song about the hourly need for Gott. Since the accident, she’d found comfort in calling on Gott in silent prayer throughout the day. As a child, she had thought worship was reserved for every other Sunday, when the community gathered at a barn or house for church. But turning to Gott was one of the things suggested by Dylan. The notion was seconded by Bishop Samuel, who agreed that it was good to remember that the Almighty was behind every part of nature and life.

  Emerging from the pantry, Mamm placed two jars of peaches on the counter and began to sing the words to the tune Rachel had been humming.

  “I need Thee, oh, I need Thee; Every hour I need Thee …”

  Smiling, Rachel sang with her. “Oh, bless me now, my Savior, I come to Thee.”

  “That’s got to be your favorite song,” Mamm said, “since I hear you singing it nearly every day.”

  “Singing makes work into play.” Rachel moved a brown piece of meat toward the edge of the cast-iron griddle.

  “If that’s so, why don’t I hear you singing when you’re mucking the stalls?” Betsy King asked.

  “No amount of singing will turn that into a game.” Rachel grinned, knowing her mother was only half teasing. Her parents were well aware of the way she tried to wake before her siblings so that she could dig into household chores and breakfast preparation, leaving them the barn chores.

  “Thank Gott in heaven, most everyone favors something different. Jacob and Amos don’t mind tending to the cows. Abe is the farmer of the family. And whenever I need to run an errand, Rose is quick to head out and harness a horse for me.”

  “Rose understands the horses,” Rachel said. “If one of ’em is limping, she’ll figure out what’s wrong. She’s good in the stables. Just keep her out of the kitchen when you’re baking cookies.” Last week, when Rose had been helping with a batch of peanut butter cookies, she had accidentally added a cup of salt instead of sugar.

  Betsy chuckled softly as she spooned raisins into a serving dish. “When will you children let Rose off the hook? It was an honest mistake. Sugar and salt look alike.”

  “But they sure don’t taste alike,” Rachel said.

&nb
sp; There was a simple peace on Betsy’s face as she stirred the large pot of oatmeal. Mamm had always seemed so content at home with her family of eleven. Rachel wanted that peace in her own heart. Sometimes she wondered if her desire to sketch and paint was the thing that made her discontented with doing the work of an Amish woman.

  “Here’s the last of the peaches from James,” Mamm said, twisting the lid of one jar. “How are the Lapps faring without him to manage the orchard?”

  Rachel shrugged. “His brothers are picking up the slack. But James goes out in the orchard every day. Sometimes for hours. He’s still managing. Not climbing ladders or pruning. But James is the one who really knows the trees.”

  “Well, I’m sure the family will let us know if they need help.”

  “I’m hoping to go over and visit with James on Saturday,” Rachel said. Saturday night was the traditional courtship night. Usually an Amish young man came calling for his girl, but since it was so difficult for James to travel, Rachel had taken to visiting him.

  “You give him my best.” Betsy removed the lid and stirred the oatmeal. “Breakfast is ready. I’ll send Molly out to fetch the others.” She turned toward the arch, then paused. “Let’s not forget Ben. He’s going to need a lunch pail for the market in the city.”

  “Is it his turn again already?”

  Mamm nodded. “The van will pick him up shortly after breakfast. They’re a little shorthanded at the cheese stand, with Lizzy keeping close to home now.”

  Usually, the King family cheese stand at the Reading Terminal was run by Market Joe King and his wife, Lizzy, but with cousin Lizzy expecting her first baby, the family was considering who might replace her at the market.

  “I’ll make a lunch for Ben.” Rachel shut off the burner under the last batch of scrapple and turned to the cutting board to slice bread. “A cheese sandwich?”