A Time to Heal

11



Hannah approached the library computer with some trepidation.

Her computer skills weren't the best. She'd learned what little she knew from Jenny. She supposed she could have asked Jenny for help in looking up more on the article. But what she was looking for was information on Chris and talking to Jenny about it felt like a violation of his privacy. And computers and such were just supposed to be used for work . . .

She shook her head at the thoughts, especially the privacy issue. The fact was, it felt like a violation of privacy for her to do it. It was a failing of hers that she wanted to know about him, wasn't it? If he wanted her to know this about him, he would tell her. She didn't know why she was so intrigued by him. When she'd seen him walking to town, she'd been upset, thinking he was leaving town. But he'd stayed longer than he'd probably intended to as it was.

And when he did leave, she wouldn't hear from him again.They weren't friends now. He wouldn't call. He wouldn't write.It was doubtful he'd ever come here again.

Nonetheless, she couldn't seem to stop herself from typing the website from the bottom of the printed page into the address bar and calling it up. She began reading the article— the part after the first page. Apparently there was a trial of U.S.serviceman Malcolm Kraft in Afghanistan. He'd been charged with a crime against a citizen of that country. Kraft said he wasn't guilty, that he'd never been anywhere near the crime scene even though there were witnesses. Kraft claimed Chris had it in it for him and that the witnesses were Afghans who hated the Americans who were there.

However, after evidence of something called DNA, Kraft admitted he'd been with her. He claimed he'd been drunk and had smoked pot, insisted the relations he'd had with the woman had been consensual. A military court found him guilty.

Hannah studied the photo of the man who appeared to be in his early thirties. He didn't look like a bad person to her, just like any other young Englisch man dressed in his military uniform and standing with his wife at his side. She looked closer at the little boy Kraft held. He appeared to be around three years old, and he sucked on his thumb as he stared, his expression confused, into the camera.

Another article followed, telling how a week later, there'd been a fire in the barracks. Everyone had gotten out but Chris, who was supposedly determined to make sure none of his men remained. A support beam fell on him and he sustained burns on his back, an injury that would have sent him stateside for treatment, but he'd refused. He insisted he would stay and complete his tour. Questions had been raised about whether the fire had been intentionally set—an investigation found no proof.

Then in a third article, a month later, just days before Chris was to finish his tour of duty and fly home, his armored truck was hit by a roadside bomb and he and another soldier were severely injured. He was sent home for treatment and to recover from injuries and related infections.

There the articles ended. Apparently Kraft was still in prison, serving ten years for his crime.

Poor Chris, Hannah thought as she printed out the remainder of the articles. He must have felt—maybe even still feels— like Job with his many trials and tribulations. It must have been devastating to feel compelled to pursue prosecution of one of his own men and then to have his superiors refuse to back him up. How awful it was to wake and find your sleeping quarters on fire, fear for the lives of others, then find out the blaze may have been deliberately set.

And how horrible to get so close to finally getting sent home only to get injured and have to spend so much time recovering in a hospital? No wonder he was taking some time now to travel, to do as he pleased.

Now she understood that brooding air about him sometimes . . . that look of vulnerability in his eyes when she'd asked him if she could give him a lift to town and when he'd seemed hurt that Josiah was being unfriendly.

She didn't want to assume too much from just these articles—Jenny had talked to her about how people in her old world were so influenced by newspapers and television—but she wondered how Chris had been affected by how others had turned a cold shoulder, had shunned him at the trial. Had it felt like that was continuing here, with Josiah?

And she herself had been unfriendly, suspicious of him when he'd first arrived. She felt shamed at the memory. While she'd since behaved differently and had thanked him for helping Matthew, she wondered if it was enough to make up for her earlier behavior.

A teenager came to sit in front of the computer next to her.He typed some keys on the keyboard and started playing with a video game. He leaned over and looked at her screen.

"I thought you people weren't interested in war," he said and popped his gum.

"We don't participate in it," she said, clicking the back button to look at other articles related to the case Chris had been involved in.

"Oh," he said, and he turned to play the video game on the computer.

Hannah knew that wasn't allowed on the library's public computer, but it wasn't her way or that of the Plain community to tell others how to behave.

She glanced through some of the articles and printed another and then, glancing at the clock, saw that she should be leaving to teach at the store. Logging off, she gathered up the printouts and left the library.

Hannah woke instantly when she heard the creaking of the stair step.

Slipping into her robe, she found her slippers—the nights were getting cooler—and walked to Phoebe's room. The door was ajar and the bed empty. Going downstairs, she made certain to make plenty of noise so she didn't startle the older woman.

"Did I wake you?" Phoebe asked, turning from the stove."Sorry, I tried to be quiet."

"It's that creaky fifth step."

Phoebe sighed and took the kettle to the sink to fill it. "I don't even hear it these days."

"Maybe we should take you into town for another hearing test."

"Doc says I don't need a hearing aid. At least, not yet. It's just certain sounds I don't hear."

Hannah sat at the table and propped her chin in her hand."So what's keeping you awake tonight?"

Shrugging, Phoebe sat down while the water heated up."Sleeping through the night just gets a little harder each year."

When she started to rise, Hannah motioned her to remain seated and went to fix the tea herself, a soothing chamomile should help Phoebe sleep.

They sat, drinking the tea, talking quietly.

Phoebe glanced at the kitchen window. "A harvest moon," she said, tilting her head to study it. "My favorite. It's my favorite time of the year, really."

Hannah stirred her tea. "Did you used to go for hay rides with your husband, John?"

Smiling, Phoebe nodded. "He was such a sweet mann. And, may I say, a romantic one. He wrote me a poem on each anniversary."

Hannah's eyes widened. "I didn't know that."

"I'll show them to you sometime."

"I'd like that."

She watched Phoebe's smile fade and reached out to grasp her hand. It felt frail, like bird bones.

"What's wrong? What's made you look so sad?"

"Sometimes I think all people remember is how stern he was with our sohn, Luke. They were two hard-headed men."

"Jenny's daed was hard-headed too?"

Nodding, Phoebe sipped her tea. "They disagreed about most everything but especially about Luke being baptized.I kept telling John that Luke needed to find his own way and the Plain life might not be for him. In the end, Luke left and—and—"

"You felt like part of your heart went with him?"

Tears welled up in Phoebe's eyes. Some things still hurt even though much time has passed, Hannah thought as she hugged Phoebe.

"You're a sweet kind," Phoebe told her after a moment. "I missed him, but when he came to visit a little while later, he was so happy. I couldn't feel sorry for myself any longer. And when he brought Jenny . . . oh, my, what a gift he gave me each time he left her to visit for the summer."

"I remember the last time she was here, when she and Matthew had a crush on each other," Hannah said, resuming her seat.

She tasted her tea and found it had cooled, but she didn't care. "It was so wonderful to see her come back again and find out that she and Matthew had never forgotten each other, that they were still in love."

"I know. And now they're married and living right next door."

Hannah found her thoughts traveling next door, but not to Matthew and Jenny. She got up and put her cup in the sink and saw that a light shone from the bedroom in the dawdi haus. As she watched, the back door opened and Chris came out and sat down in the chair on the back porch.

So, he couldn't sleep, either.

"Phoebe?" She turned and sat again at the table. "What would you do if you knew something about somebody, but you were afraid to tell because it made someone look bad?"

Was it her imagination that the older woman turned pale? She grasped her hand and found it trembling. "Are you allrecht?"

"Ya, of course. What do you mean?"

"You'll think badly of me."

"No, I wouldn't," Phoebe said.

"See, you're already looking at me like I've done a bad thing."

Phoebe took her cup to the sink and stood looking out at the night. Hannah wondered if she saw Chris. Phoebe's eyesight wasn't the best these days and she'd left her wire-rimmed glasses upstairs.

"I was at the library the other day and I looked up something about Chris."

"Oh." She turned and faced Hannah.

Was that relief on her face? Hannah told herself she was being fanciful. "It's nothing bad. It's just that he hasn't told anyone—"

"So you wonder if he'd want you to say anything to him or anyone else."

"Yes."

"Chris is a proud man." Phoebe paused and smiled slightly."Most men are." She sat again at the table. "He's strong but he's carrying a lot of pain in him."

"You think he's injured more than he wants to show? Should he be helping with the harvest?"

"I'm talking about pain in here," Phoebe said, pointing to her temple. "I'm talking about here," she said, gesturing at her heart.

She sighed and stood. "And speaking of pain. I think I'll take these old bones back to bed and give them a rest. My knees have been a little arthritic lately."

"Maybe we should think about moving you to the downstairs bedroom."

Phoebe gave her a look.

Hannah threw up her hands. "Never mind! Forget I suggested it! Me? Did I say something?"

"Say goodnight, Hannah."

"'Goodnight, Hannah.'"

Laughing and shaking her head, Phoebe started for the stairs. "See you in the morning."

Hannah put the cream in the refrigerator, made certain the propane stove had been turned off, and extinguished the kerosene lamp.

Just as she was about to turn away, she saw that Chris was no longer sitting in the chair but was pacing back and forth, back and forth, on the porch next door.

Was no one sleeping tonight?

Her gaze traveled upstairs, to the window that was Matthew and Jenny's room, and saw that it was dark. So, too, were the rooms where the kinner slept.

Chris's movement on the back porch drew her gaze again.There was something agitated about his form. She wondered if he were in pain or distressed for some reason. It was none of her business, but she worried about him. What if he was having one of his spells, his PSDT—no, that wasn't it. His PDST . . . whatever. The stress thing he had.

She gathered her robe more closely around her and slipped out the back door.

It felt a little like his days in the barracks to be lying in a bed, reading by the light of a battery-powered lantern, but Chris had to admit the glow was a pleasant one at the end of the day.

Reaching for the book Hannah had checked out for him at the library, he opened it to the place he'd marked with the due date slip. He fingered the slip and found himself remembering how he hadn't been able to check out the book himself. The librarian hadn't been able to give him his own card because he wasn't a local resident.

Not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, he supposed.But while he had a physical address back in Kansas, it hadn't felt like home. And here, in Paradise, a place that increasingly felt like home, well, he didn't have roots here. He was staying in a part of someone else's home, their dawdi haus, a place that was designed to shelter family when they could no longer take care of themselves.

He remembered the counseling session he had to endure before he left the hospital. It was a rough transition for some veterans to move back into civilian life, the counselor had said.Sometimes they found it hard to reconnect with family, deal with the reality of the lasting effects of an injury, or find a job.

The counselor said about a quarter of the people sleeping on the streets in America had once worn a military uniform— and they weren't all from the Vietnam era. Many of those in attendance at the counseling session had been sobered by that fact, but only for a few minutes. It couldn't—wouldn't—happen to them.

Technically, Chris supposed, he could be labeled as not having a home right now. The librarian had implied that, and he didn't fault her for that.

But it had made him think.

He read a page of his book and the due date slip fell from his fingers and landed on the quilt covering him. Without taking his eyes from the page he was reading, he felt around on the quilt for the slip. His fingers traced the pattern of the sunburst on the quilt and he took his eyes from the page and studied it.He wondered how much time Hannah had spent on the quilt and whether she had sewn it alone or with the quilting circle ladies he'd seen visit her.

There was such closeness here. It wasn't just that so many people were related to each other—there were large families here and they stayed in the same area. They didn't spread out all over the country the way those he knew did—he hadn't even met some of his cousins. Families had church together in their homes, helped each other harvest crops, raised barns, and funded medical care and prayed during times of illness and death.

Lives were stitched together here, like the fabric pieces on the quilt. Family was bigger, community-sized. Paradise had been in existence for generations and generations. Maybe the phrase "It takes a village to raise a child" had originated because of places like this.

He'd had the same closeness with his men. A band of brothers was what he'd had in the military; it wasn't just the title of a PBS television series. They shared good times and bad—talked about births, deaths, and loves back home; loaned each other money; drunk the occasional beer together; and covered each other's backs. Well, until the end, they'd covered each other's backs. At the end, Chris felt they'd deserted him.

Troubled by the direction his thoughts had taken, he closed the book he'd started reading and reached for the Bible he kept beside his bed.

He was tempted to read Job again. When he'd first read through it he'd felt a kinship to the poor man. But then he'd felt he had to move on, that he had to see he couldn't go around feeling like he was walking around with a big cloud over his head.

He still had his moments—but hopefully they were getting fewer. What had the chaplain advised? Let go and let God? It was a snappy phrase, he said, and he admitted that he often said he would let go and let God. However, the chaplain's wife had told him he'd then try to take back a small part of it and tell God he could handle it—to no good result!

On a whim, Chris let the Bible fall open and give him direction.It was something he'd seen his late buddy Vince do with this same Bible. The pages parted and he saw Psalms 28:7: "The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped."

With a deep sigh, he closed the book and placed it with the other one on the nightstand. He clicked off the batteryoperated lantern, turned on his side, and lay in the dark watching moonlight filter in through the window.

His hand stroked the quilt again, and he thought about Hannah and then felt himself dosing off . . .

Her cheek was like the petals of a rose. He couldn't stop stroking it. Her eyes were dark, dreamy, half-closed with pleasure from his hand touching hers as she stood with the moonlight behind her.

Standing close to her, he inhaled her clean scent, part of it the mild soap Phoebe made for the family, part of it the light scent of lavender.

Her hair was down, a rich, dark mass that waved and flowed down over her shoulders. His hands stroked it and it felt like silk.

"Chris?"

"Hmm?" He'd never thought he'd get this close to her, be able to touch her.

"Chris! Are you all right?"

"More than all right," he said, smiling, and he bent to kiss her.

Her lips were so soft, so warm, moving against his in a way that took his breath away.

Then she was pulling away from him, taking the sweetness, the hope, the promise—

Her voice became sharper, not at all dreamy and romantic the way it was. "Chris! Are you all right?"

He blinked and found that she was standing there in front of him, looking concerned.

"What—what happened?" He realized he'd just awoken from a very delicious dream.

"You were pacing around. I saw you from the kitchen window.Then you were standing here, looking odd, your hands moving like—like—" she stopped. "I got worried that you were having one of those stress episodes so I ran over. Then you were—you were—"

His face burned. "Kissing you," he said hoarsely. He watched her pull her robe closer, push her hair behind her back.

"Were you sleepwalking?"

Chris glanced around him. He didn't remember coming outside but he must have. "I guess so. It happened a couple of times when I was in the hospital."

She reached out to touch his arm. "Are you okay now?"

He shook his head. "I wish you hadn't woken me up," he said softly and he reached out to stroke a lock of her hair that the wind caressed in a way he wanted to do. "Some things you only get to do in your dreams."

He could tell he'd shocked her and he withdrew his hand and straightened. "Go home."

"But—"

"Go home before I show you how I'd like to touch you."

Her mouth fell open at his words and then she spun around and ran from him, her steps soundless on the ground between the houses. He waited until she disappeared into Phoebe's house.

He let himself back into the house, threw himself down on the bed, and prayed he'd dream that dream again.