Chapter Text
Dennis Whitaker grew up on a farm in Broken Bow, Nebraska, inside a large old-order Amish community. Population 200.
His earliest memories consisted of measured fences and the steady thumps of horse hooves against the dirt of the earth. He begins mornings before the sun wakes and continues past the time that the sun lies to rest. The youngest Whitaker brother learned early that his hands and his feet were worth more than his words. His hands milk cows; Sandy, Betsy, and Bell. His hands mend tack, they stack hay in the stocks, spreading it evenly on the floor for a cushioned animal friend. He chops wood with a sharp, well-taken care of Ax and cleans up the muck for the chickens and goats.
Dennis’ trembling, aching arms are a sign of a good day's work. Just as God intended.
Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28
If his body aches enough, he’s earned his rest.
The community around him moved to an older clock, an ancient lifestyle that’s made a home here in these long stretches of days—for over five generations. No engines, no electric hum, no modern pride to deter their duties—or scare away the geese that live in their clean, unpolluted pond. The only distraction from a hard day's work is the wind through cornfields and the creak of wagon wheels. Torn and mended wheels that always fall apart every winter, but they refuse to toss them away.
His mother, Anna Whitaker, the oldest daughter of seven children, was frugal and refused to throw something away unless it reached its maximum capacity. Even after the wheel no longer turns or makes itself useful—she’ll use the extra wood for fires or small wooden decorations. Nothing was ever useless here. She’ll always find use for what others deem worthless.
The working days on their farm are long and grueling but fulfilling. You don’t have time to think about much of anything when there’s so much to do. So much to help with.
Sundays were the calmest days in the community. Families gathered in plain dress, voices raised in slow hymns that seemed to stretch time itself. They’d host services in each other's homes or barns —relying on each other to provide a place to worship. Dennis liked the voices mingling together–even if some members of the community were a bit tone deaf. Thomas liked to see how much he could get away with during the time of worship, uttering silly, slanderous things under his breath that only Dennis would hear.
Their father always gives them a good knock to the ear and a harsh scolding in front of the congregation whenever they get too boisterous. It usually was enough to sober Dennis away from such childishness for the rest of the holy day. Thomas on the other hand was the harder twin to hold down.
“Im so bored.” Thomas was eight, and he had a bruised eye from speaking during prayer. The boys look so different when one has blue and purple staining their skin. Dennis doesn’t like it but who is he to tell his father how to reprimand his children under the eyes of the lord.
“I can find you a book from Hansel's Library.” Hansel was an elder who had all sorts of books from all sorts of places-–decades-old—books of worship and farming manuals, medical herb guides, and old practical texts. He has very, very, few modern books that Dennis only allows himself to look at instead of read. Although those are usually out of reach from them regardless. Hansel’s Wife Ruth had helped bring the twins into this world and had assisted in many births since then—although she passed several summers ago. Hansel is now the closest thing to a doctor that the community has—despite missing two left fingers and left foot. His eldest daughter Laura has taken up the mantle of midwife.
“Hansel has boring books.” Thomas sighs. “I want to read something written in this century.”
“Laura has medical books.” Dennis recalls the tall stack of literature locked away in her mother's bookcase. Her father Hansel had inherited them as the head of the family but Laura had taken claim on them far before her mother passed.
Hansel and Laura live alone in a small cottage near the border of the community. They help when they can but Hansel is old and brittle and Laura is still training. She is good with herbs and natural earthly remedies. Dennis knows that one of those books is hollowed out and hiding a flask of something strong and debilitating. He saw Laura give some to his Uncle Edward Whitaker to soothe his aching joints. Uncle Edward Whitaker is ill and always has been. The beverage makes him hurt less, but he’s mean when he drinks it.
Laura gives it to him anyway. Indulging his dependence on it. Dennis’ father, Julian Whitaker, has forbidden their family from seeing the healers because of it. The Amish don’t avoid hospitals or doctors, but they prefer to use natural remedies first. Most of the Amish families in their community have a large fund stored away in case an ailment strikes the family. The Whitaker family uses their fund to mend farms and provide food—not to use on physical health. His father believes any ailment his family falls to was God's plan all along, and we should not diverge from it.
He never thought it was unusual that they lived this way. It was a good and humble life. Thomas questioned enough for both of them.
Even as young boys, Thomas carried a restlessness in his eyes—a deep chaos that their mother used to say was the devil whispering in his ear—tempting him like he does all his sheep. Thomas was a black sheep—straying further and further away as the moons passed.
The older twin would somehow manage to convince Dennis to walk past the edge of the property where the dirt road met the paved highway. They’d watch the rare automobiles flash past like shooting stars. Thomas used to say that if the car drove fast enough and they made a wish just as it passed them then it would surely be granted. Thomas was always making silly stories up in his head and Dennis always believed him.
They’d make a game of counting how many cars would drive by in the hour before supper.
Once, when Dennis Whitaker was twelve years old, a delivery truck broke down near their lane. A woman had been stranded for some time and Dennis had lingered under the pretense of offering water. A kind and holy gesture masking the fact that he was all too curious about her vehicle. He studied the dashboard, the radio that crackled to life, and the map splayed out on her seat, scattered with colored routes Dennis will never get to see. That he’ll never get to travel. He soaks it all in—trying to memorize everything so that he can retell it to Thomas after. He'd hate that he wasn't there himself to see it.
This different world—this different person.
The Twins rarely get to step foot out of the community. The elders leave when absolutely necessary, for a short period of time and rarely with the children of the community. They have most of the things they need here and rarely visit the modern town just a few miles away from them. The Twins had only visited the large boisterous area once before when they were very young and they received many stares. Dennis didn’t like the stares but admittedly he was staring as well. The English people dressed funny. They spoke funny too. It was kinda scary but Thomas had spoken to everyone he came across—slipping between the bodies of women's skirts and shoes—an excitable four year old eager to see new things. He was happy to see so many new people—new colors.
Thomas had gotten lost and Dennis was the one that got in trouble for it. His father twisted his ear hard enough that Dennis tasted iron. That was the last time either twin had left the community with the elders. Grounded until Rumspringa, his father told them.
The English woman on the side of the road was the first person out of his community that he’s seen since he was four years old. She was a lady, but she had short styled hair—short like a boy—she wore immodest clothes that revealed smudges of ink on her arms. Neat writing marking her arms.
“This is a tattoo of my twin boys' birthday.” The woman had seen his imploring eyes and explained the markings on her arms with a gentle smile that made Dennis feel a bit embarrassed for staring so intently. She smiled like his mother—maybe all women have this kindness behind their eyes. Even English women.
“What’s a tattoo?” Dennis knows he probably shouldn’t have asked—he shouldn’t even be speaking to her. If his father saw him he’d never hear the end of it.
She explains it in simple terms and Dennis hears his fathers words in the back of his mind quoting scripture.
Ye, shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you: I am the Lord. Leviticus 19:28
He sees the numbers on her arm, and he tries to see the bad in it—but he sees his twin brother—skin as pale as always—unable to carry his weight in labor. Twins are born into the modern world—twins have their births stitched into their mother's skin. It's an act of love. How could that be damning?
“And this is the date they died.” she gestures lower down her arm. The writing looks sharper— cleaner— fresher. Dennis feels his eyes sting–something tight in his throat. It is not just an act of love, it is an act of remembrance.
“They are still together.” She says with a soft voice. “Thank you for the water. Here.”
The woman reaches inside her pocket and pulls out a small wrapped item. Crinkling and gold. “I'm not sure if…youre allowed to have this. It's just a caramel sweet. A candy.”
Dennis hesitates—looking around him like God or his father might strike him down with a bolt of lightning for accepting the sweet treat. “Thank you.” he waves goodbye at the English lady—her engine booming to life. He can feel the heat of the car even after it's gone—and he can feel the weight of the candy in his pocket.
“How big was the car?” Thomas was asking a million and one questions. Dennis knew he would. He assumed as much when he explained where he got his candy. He gave the sweet to his brother, who had been sick that whole morning with a fever. It hadn't made him feel better, but it made him smile, and he saved the wrapper as if it might actually be worth something.
“It was big and red and full of wood all the way to the roof. I would’ve mistaken it for a carriage.”
“I’m sorry I missed it.” Thomas wipes his running nose with his cloth and when he pulls it away from his face it’s covered in blood.
The conversation dies.
That night, lying beneath his quilt, he stared at the ceiling beams and his brother's lantern lit half the room in orange. Thomas is writing in his journal, as he does every night, and Dennis does not chide him as he should—he does not wish to upset him. He’s already so ill. It’s the only reason why his father allows him to stay inside with their mother instead of hunching over in the hay with the boys—cleaning the horses stables.
Thomas enjoys writing and reading all sorts of books. Not that he has much variety. His brother reads the Bible only as a last resort—Dennis is the one who is proficient in scripture.
Proficient enough to make up for his twin's lack of interest. His father would grow frustrated at him—at both of them. They are not individuals—they are a unit. A pair. The twins. If one fails, they both fail. If one lacks conviction, they both are straying. If one is ill, they both are ill.
Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up. Ecclesiastes 4:9-10
Dennis was a good son. He was a good brother. He did not stray. He kept his hat low and memorized Scripture as expected. He helped on the farm and carried the load that Thomas couldn’t. He was another pair of hands—another pair of feet.
“I don't want a beard.” Thomas Whitaker was the spitting image of Dennis, just thinner, paler, a monochromatic version of the broader twin. He didn’t like helping on the farm, he preferred staying indoors and helping their mother, so he did not get much sun.
His father says that’s why he’s sick—because he does not allow the sun to heal him. Their mother coddles him; that’s what their father says. Their father says a lot of things.
There are five Whittaker sons—Dennis is certain they can spare Thomas the woodworking. No harm can be done with Thomas helping their mother instead. There were no Whitaker daughters—only sons—her mother had no one else to help her with her duties. She could use an extra pair of hands and extra pair of feet. Dennis thinks it’s alright because Thomas is the happiest when he’s wearing moms apron and peeling potatoes with all the girls in the community. He looks like he belongs there—with the girls.
“I doubt you’ll be able to grow one. Even after you get married.” Dennis doesn't even think he can grow a beard. It’s customary to grow a beard after one has wed—all the men in the community have long well trimmed beards and short, cropped hair. His oldest brother James got married last spring and his beard is already growing to an untamable length. Dennis growing his own beard one day is the least of his worries. The crops this season have been falling due to the dry weather of the last month and they are down another pair of hands since Arthur, the second oldest Whitaker brother, broke his wrist last week.
“I don’t want one ever. It looks gross, and I don't want to get married.” Thomas sighs.
“Dad has a beard.” Dennis reminds him. He doesnt ask him why he doesnt want to get married.
“I’m not Dad.” Thomas scoffs and he brushes his long hair away from his face. He had begged their mother not to cut it—claiming it would keep him warmer in the winter. Dennis thinks he’s just trying to look as different from him as possible.
If Dennis didn’t know any better he’d assume Thomas was a girl.
“We look like him.” Dennis says.
“You look like him.” Thomas, his twin brother, corrects stubbornly.
“We are twins.” Dennis watches as his brothers face crumbles a bit— he did not mean to upset him. They are twins. They have the same face. They have the same body.
“I think I look like mom.” Thomas says and puts on a smile like hes posing for a portrait. They don’t own a camera or take pictures, but Barbara Dawnquill is a very talented painter and commissioned a painting of the whole Whitaker family last summer. Dennis had stood in the picture for both Thomas and himself because his twin brother was bedridden. Thomas was very upset—he had practiced his smile. He’d made it distinct—different then the way Dennis smiles.
For a moment, Dennis sees the crinkle in his cheek, and he thinks—he has her smile.
The twins have their mother's smile.
“With the long hair, yeah, a little.” Dennis has a short bowl cut that his mother snips at with a pair of sheer scissors. If he wants to imagine his brother with the same style of hair all he would have to do is look at his reflection. “I don’t wanna get married either.” Dennis says suddenly, feeling bold and brazen for just a moment.
“Why don't you want to get married?” Thomas asks—not nearly as anxious as Dennis was confessing the words.
Many in the Amish community are married—paired off at a young age and then producing their own young before they turn 20. Their parents had gotten married at 24 which was unusually old among the Amish. Dennis can’t imagine pairing off with any of the girls here. Debating between Orange ginger hair and silky blonde isn’t something he ever sees himself caring about. He’s waiting for the pull all his siblings claim to happen when one comes of age—the need to hold a girls hand—the wanting of something more.
“I don’t know. I just don’t like girls.” Yet. He doesn’t like girls yet. He’s sure he will at some point. He has to. For some reason Dennis doesn’t add that last part into his sentence though. He doesn’t feel compelled to clarify.
Thomas is smiling at Dennis, nodding at his words. Something soft and gentle that none of their brothers carry.
“Why don’t you want to get married?” Dennis asks him—eyes darting away from his brother like his answer might change if he’s not looking at him.
“The boys here are so boring–and ugly too. I wouldn't want to be stuck with any of them.” Thomas says suddenly.
“Well, it's a good thing you're ugly too, at least it’s fair.”
“You idiot—we have the same face!”
“I'm glad you finally realized that.” Dennis laughs, and he doesn't even notice that Thomas was talking about marrying another boy. It didn't even register. It was just them talking. Thomas says silly things like that all the time.
His twin brother got worse when they turned thirteen. He was sick more days than not. His father prayed for him—his mother made him herbal teas, and their girl cousins wove him warm blankets. The community prayed for his health–they mentioned him in moments of somber and Dennis got him as many blank journals as his arms could carry. Nobody ever mentioned taking him to see a doctor.
Dennis didn’t understand why Thomas would continue to light a lantern in their room to write for so long when his bones hurt so much. His bones ached. He cried at night, and he couldn’t help peel the potatoes anymore. Thomas is sick, and it’s not a sickness God can heal. Not enough sun could darken or heal his pale, fragile skin.
If he could get better all on his own then he would have already. Dennis has prayed. He’s been praying. Crying–begging for grace. His knees ache, and his fingers hurt from being clasped together.
Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path. Psalm 119:105
He prays. He prays for his brother's health. He prays, and he prays, and when he sees cars cross the highway line and spots an automobile drive by like a shooting star, he makes a wish that his brother would feel better.
“Dennis, when I die—please don’t cut my hair.” Thomas Whitaker says brashly.
“You’re not gonna die.” Dennis stated quickly, his heart pounding. Their uncle Edward had passed in the springtime—the spring flowers rose as he drank himself to death. His father's brother—a twin of his own.
Twins are born together, but they do not leave this earth together. That path is walked alone, and Dennis is afraid that Thomas has already started his sprint towards death without him.
“Please don’t let them cut my hair. Please. It’s the only thing that’s truly mine, please don’t let them take it.”
“Okay, okay.” He doesn’t understand why it’s important to him—he doesn’t understand why Thomas is so concerned about his appearance when he can barely stand on his own two legs. It’s vain in a way they aren’t allowed to be.
Thomas writes like he's writing to God himself. Thomas bleeds through his nose like he might be giving a sacrifice to him.
“I think it’s Cancer.” Thomas tells him bluntly one day.
“What?” Dennis had only heard the word in passing—between the older families. Cancer was something the elders got—it wasn’t meant to touch the children.
The Drummond boys lost both their elderly parents at 95 and 87 because of the disease.
“I read it in a medical journal that I got from an Englishman.” Thomas pulls a leather-clasped book from under his pillow—taking it out of its hiding place.
“Y-you can’t just take books from the English, Thomas. Mom and Dad will be furious.” Dennis eyes the contraband with anxious eyes. This is forbidden. Dennis hands shake when he touches the book—hiding it under Thomas’ pillow again like if he can’t see it then it’s not there.
“It’s curable. If I weren’t here. If I weren’t stuck here in this place.” Thomas coughs, and it crackles in Dennis’s ears. Broken and painful.
“Stuck? This is home. This is our community. The outside world is—“
“—beautiful. And I won’t be alive during our Rumspringa to see it.”
“Stop saying stuff like that. You will get better. It is God's will.” Dennis glares at his brother—no real anger behind his eyes—sadness, just sadness.
“God cannot help me.” Thomas is straying from God. “He gave me a sick body. I hate this body.” Thomas says, tears in his eyes. “I always have and now it’s killing me.”
They aren’t allowed to go to a hospital. They aren’t allowed to rely on the government to fund any treatments or services and the Whitakers are a family that relies on God's healing.
God's healing is how little Jane Miller from across the street got over her sickness—her fever broke and she’s been laughing so much louder the last few weeks. God's healing is how Mrs. Yoder got better after she gave birth to her boy—she’d been bedridden with sadness, but she hosted godly services in her home with a smile just this last month, already looking healthier.
God's healing will help Thomas, too. It has to. Dennis does wonder if maybe there would be someone else besides God who could help his brother. Thomas' fingernails are brittle, and he’s coughing up blood, and each day he’s less of himself. If God could help, he would’ve by now. What is taking him so long?
Thomas is sick, and Dennis has prayed, and maybe this is God's answer. Maybe taking him to a hospital is the answer God has provided.
Is it more holy to watch a brother die in God's name, or to stray a little far to save his life? God works in mysterious ways, and Dennis knows this to be true. Thomas might not believe, but Dennis has enough faith for the both of them.