Amish Christmas Memories. Vannetta Chapman

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      “What happened? Where am I?”

      “You don’t know?” Caleb glanced at his parents, who seemed content to let him carry the conversation. “You were walking down the road, and then you collapsed.”

      “Why would I do such a thing?”

      Caleb shrugged. “What’s your name?”

      The woman’s eyes widened and her hand shook so that she could barely hold the mug of tea without spilling it. She set it carefully on the coffee table. “I don’t—I don’t know my name.”

      “My name is John Wittmer,” Caleb’s father said. “This my fraa, Ida, and you’ve met Caleb.”

      “How can you not know your own name?” Caleb asked. “Do you know where you live?”

       “Nein.”

      “What were you doing out there?”

      “Out where?”

      “Where’s your coat and your kapp?”

      “Caleb, now’s not the time to interrogate the poor girl.” Ida stood and moved beside her on the couch. She picked up the small book of poetry. “You were carrying this, when Caleb found you. Do you remember it?”

      “I don’t. This was mine?”

      “Found it in the snow,” Caleb said. “Right beside where you collapsed.”

      “So it must be mine.”

      “Perhaps there’s something written on the inside.” Ida tapped the cover. “Maybe you should look.”

      Caleb noticed that the woman’s hands trembled as she opened the cover and stared down at the first page. With one finger, she traced the handwriting there.

      “Rachel. I think my name is Rachel.”

      * * *

      Rachel let her fingers brush over the word again and again. Rachel. Yes, that was her name. She was sure of it. She remembered writing it in the front of the book—she’d used a pen that her mamm had given her. She could almost picture herself, somewhere else. She could almost see her mother.

      “My mamm gave me the pen and the book...for my birthday, I think. I wrote my name—wrote it right here.”

      “Your mamm. So you remember her?”

      “Praise be to Gotte,” John said, a smile spreading across his face.

      “Is there someone we can call? If you remember the name of your bishop...” Caleb had sat down in the rocker his mother had vacated and was staring at her intensely.

      They all were.

      She closed her eyes, hoping to feel the memory again. She tried to see the room or the house or the people, but the image had receded as quickly as it had come, leaving her with a pulsing headache.

      She struggled to keep the feelings of panic at bay. Her heart was hammering, and her hands were shaking, and she could barely make sense of the questions they were pelting at her.

      Who were these people?

      Where was she?

      Who was she?

      She needed to remember what had happened.

      She needed to go home.

      Instead she dropped the book into Ida’s lap and covered her face with her hands. “I think—I think I’m going to be sick.”

      She bounded off the couch and dashed to the kitchen, making it to the sink just in time to lose whatever she’d eaten. Unfortunately, the sink had been full of breakfast dishes. She turned on the tap and attempted to rinse off a plate, but her hands were shaking so badly that she kept knocking it against the side of the sink.

      “I’ll take care of that.” Ida’s hands slid over hers, taking the plate and setting it back into the sink. She pulled a clean dish towel from a drawer and handed it to her. “Come and sit down.”

      She sank into a chair at the table and pressed her fingertips to her forehead. If only the pounding would stop, she could think.

      “We best take her to town,” John said.

      “I’ll get the buggy.” Caleb brushed past her.

      She remembered being in his arms, the way he’d pulled her close to his body, the way he’d petitioned Gotte to help them. Or had she dreamed that? But then he turned, and his blue eyes met hers, and she knew she hadn’t imagined it. She could smell the snow on his coat, remember the rough texture of the fabric, hear the concern in his voice.

      “We best wrap her in a blanket,” Ida said. “And bring the book. There might be other clues in it.”

      And then they were bundling her up and helping her into the buggy. The ride passed in a blur of unrecognizable farms and stores and hillsides. The only thing familiar was the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the feel of the small heater blowing from the front of the buggy.

      Had she been in a buggy just like it before?

      Caleb directed the horse under a covered drop-off area, next to a door marked Emergency.

      “I don’t think—”

      “That it’s an emergency? Ya, it is.” He helped her from the buggy. Ida had rushed in ahead of them, and John said he’d park the buggy and meet them inside.

      The next few hours passed in a flurry of hospital forms and medical personnel and tests. Finally, the doctor who had first examined her walked into the room, computer tablet in hand. She was a young woman, probably in her thirties, with dark black hair, glasses and a quick smile. Something about her manner put Rachel at ease, though another part of her dreaded hearing what the woman was about to say.

      John had left to find them coffee and a snack, but Ida and Caleb both stood when the doctor walked into the room.

      “Thank you all for your patience.” She motioned for them to sit back down. “I know the barrage of tests we put a patient through can be trying, but trust me when I say that it’s important for us to collect as much information as we can.”

      She turned toward Rachel.

      “Hi, Rachel. Do you remember me?”

      “Ya. You’re Dr. Gold.”

      “Great. Can you tell me what day it is?”

      Her eyes darted to the whiteboard that listed the name of her nurse and orderly. “December third.”

      “Very good.” Dr. Gold laughed. “We know you can read.”

      The doctor placed her tablet on the table next to Rachel’s СКАЧАТЬ