Page 66 of Outsider

I find Adam standing at the kitchen sink, a mixing bowl and an array of various bottles and containers on the counter next to him.

“How’s our patient?” I ask.

He looks at me over his shoulder and grins. “Hot-water bottle helped. I think he’s enjoying the attention.”

“Can’t blame him for that.” I move to the counter and stand beside him. A ripple of concern goes through me when I recognize the items he’s arranged on the counter. “Frostbite?”

“His heels look a little white.” The Amish man gives me a half smile. “Frostnip more than likely.”

“If I can get the Explorer out of the lane, I might be able to get him to the hospital,” I say. “Say the word if you want to try.”

“He’s going to be fine, Katie.”

I watch as he pours cooking oil into a medium-size bowl. Next comes the oil of turpentine and, lastly, a dash of ammonia. He stirs everything together with a soup spoon. “Smells familiar,” I say, remembering.

I was twelve years old when my brother, Jacob, fell victim to frostbite while ice fishing at a neighbor’s pond. Upon his arrival home, my mamm cooked up a mixture using the same ingredients and applied it to his frostbitten toes.

“It’s a rite of passage for a lot of Amish boys,” he says. “For Sammy, more than once.”

“My mamm used the same remedy,” I tell him.

Adam stirs the mixture, the pungent odors of the ammonia and turpentine filling the kitchen. “It’s been a while. I’m not sure if I remembered all the ingredients.”

“Smells right.” I can’t vouch for the effectiveness of the concoction, but I had it rubbed onto my fingers and toes a couple of times growing up, and I didn’t suffer any ill effects.

“He’s sleeping?” I ask.

“Talking more likely.” He slants me an amused look. “If Gina and the girls are with him, he will not be sleeping.”

“You did your fair share of talking when you were his age,” I say teasingly.

Smiling, he taps the spoon on the side of the bowl, then sets the spoon in the sink. “So I’ve heard.”

“He looks like you.”

“He’s got his mamm’s heart. Her faith.”

The lightness of the moment gives way to solemnity. I want to say something to bring the smile back to his face, but the words don’t come and the moment is lost.

Picking up the mixing bowl, Adam carries it through the doorway to the stairs. I refill the old-fashioned water bottle, snag a towel off the counter, and follow. At the top of the stairs I hear the boy talking animatedly, and I head toward the room at the end of the hall.

“The frost bit Datt on the heel when we went deer hunting last winter.” His voice floats down the hall, making me smile. “He didn’t even feel it because he’s so big and strong.”

I enter the room to find Lizzie and Annie sitting on the side of their older brother’s bed, fascinated by the tall tale they’re being told. Adam stands just inside the doorway, holding the bowl. Gina kneels next to the bed. She’s holding a stuffed animal—a faceless black-and-white cow—simulating that it’s walking on Sammy’s tummy. The boy is enjoying the game and giggles each time the cow decides to “buck” him with its little horns.

The sight of Gina—with her wild hair, snug blue jeans, and reckless smile—on the floor next to an indisposed Amish boy is so contradictory to everything I know about her, I pause in the doorway and take in the scene. I’m aware of Adam standing in front of me. He, too, has stopped. I don’t need to see his face to know his eyes are on Gina.

The boy’s face lights up at the sight of his father. “My feet aren’t cold anymore, Datt.”

Adam moves to the small table next to the bed and sets down the bowl. “Still have to put the greidah-ayl on your heels,” he says, using the Deitsch word for ointment.

Sammy eyes the bowl with suspicion, and his smile fades.

“Take off your socks and let’s have a look at those toes,” Adam tells him.

The boy pulls up the blankets, revealing feet covered with well-used socks.

I cross to the bed and pass the water bottle to him. “Set this against your tummy,” I tell him. “It’ll help warm you up.”