Читать книгу An Amish Christmas - Patricia Davids - Страница 10
ОглавлениеJohn wiped the last trace of shaving lather from his neck with one of the hospital’s coarse white towels. The face staring back at him remained as unfamiliar today as the new shoes on his feet.
How could a man forget what he looked like? How could he forget who he was, his own name?
Turning on the water, he rinsed the blue disposable blade. He knew how to use a razor but not where he’d purchased his last one or what brand he preferred. Things every man knew. It seemed only the personal parts of his memory were missing. It was the most frustrating part of his condition.
Traumatic amnesia his doctors called it. Those two words seemed woefully inadequate to describe the entity that had swallowed his life the way a black hole swallowed a star without letting a single ray of light escape.
He almost laughed at the absurdity of his thought. He could remember that weird trivial fact but not his own name. How ridiculous was that?
His doctors said his memory would return in time. They told him not to force it. Yet after eight days his past remained a blank slate. He was sick of hearing their reassurances.
“I’d like to put them in my shoes and see if they could take their own advice,” he muttered as he put away his razor. Chances were good they’d be doing the same thing he was. Relentlessly trying to make himself remember.
Looking up, he stretched his hand toward the likeness in the mirror and forced a smile to his stiff lips. “Hello, my name is…”
Nothing.
Nothing came to mind this morning just as nothing had come to mind for the past week. The only identity he had was the one the hospital had given him. John Doe.
Staring at the mirror, he said, “Hi, I’m Andy. Hello, I’m Bill. I’m Carl. I’m David. My name is Edward.”
If he did happen on the right name would he even know it? Rage and frustration ripped through him, bringing on a crushing headache that nearly took him to his knees.
“Who am I?” he shouted. His fingers ached where they gripped the porcelain lip of the sink.
His whole life was gone. He couldn’t pull a single relevant detail out of the darkness in his mind.
He touched the bandage on the side of his scalp. According to the local law enforcement, he had been beaten, dumped in a ditch and left with no wallet or identification. Every effort to identify him was under way, but with no success thus far. His fingerprints and DNA weren’t in the system. No one was looking for a man fitting his description. Even TV reports and newspaper articles had failed to bring in one solid lead.
Somewhere he must have a mother, a father, maybe even a wife, but the man in the mirror had no faces or names for anyone he’d known before waking up in the hospital.
“Too bad I wasn’t microchipped like—”
Like who? Like what? The thought slipped away before he could fully grasp it. His head began pounding again. The pain worsened each time he tried to concentrate.
Forced to leave the past alone, he buttoned the last button on the gray flannel shirt the hospital social worker had purchased for him. The shirt was new. The one he’d been wearing couldn’t be salvaged but the jeans were the ones he’d been found in. They fit well enough, although he’d lost some weight. Eating seemed so unimportant.
A knock sounded at the door to his room. He moved to sit on the edge of his bed and winced at the pain in his bruised ribs. Someone had planted a kick on two in his side after they’d split his skull. He said, “Come in.”
The door swung open, revealing a tall, blond man in a sheriff’s uniform. John had been expecting Nick Bradley, the officer in charge of his case.
Sheriff Bradley said, “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I can be. Thanks for giving me a lift.”
John was being discharged. After a week and a day of testing and probing he’d been declared fit. Physically, he was in good shape so the hospital had no reason to keep him.
Mentally? That was a different story. Leaving this room suddenly seemed more daunting than anything he could imagine. How did he start over when he had no point to start over from?
No, that wasn’t exactly true. He had one point of reference. His life started a week ago in a ditch outside the town of Hope Springs, Ohio. That was where he had to go.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” The sheriff clearly wasn’t in favor of John’s plan.
“I must have been in Hope Springs for a reason. Seeing the place might trigger something. Besides, it’s all I have.”
“I still think you’d be better off staying here in Millersburg, but I can see you aren’t going to change your mind.”
Reaching into his breast pocket, Sheriff Bradley with-drew a thick white envelope. He held it out. “My cousin Amber lives in Hope Springs. She’s a nurse-midwife there. She knows about your situation. She wanted me to give you this.”
“What is it?” John reached for the envelope.
“Her church took up a collection for you.”
John opened the package and found himself staring at nearly a thousand dollars. Overwhelmed by the generosity of people he didn’t know, he blinked hard. Tears stung the back of his eyes. He hadn’t cried since—
It was there, just at the back of his mind, a feeling of grief, a feeling of overwhelming sadness. But why or for whom he had no idea. The harder he tried to concentrate on the feeling the faster it slipped away.
He forced himself to focus on the present. “Please tell your cousin how grateful I am.”
“You can tell her yourself when you see Doc White to get your stitches out.”
After gathering his few belongings together, John bid the nursing staff farewell and slipped into the passenger’s seat of the squad car parked in front of the hospital. Within minutes they were outside the city and cruising along a narrow ribbon of black asphalt.
The highway rose and fell over gentle hills, past manicured farms and occasional stands of thick woodlands. Looking out the window he saw herds of dairy cattle near the fences. The cows barely glanced up at their passing. A half-dozen times they came upon black buggies pulled by briskly trotting horses. Each vehicle sported a bright orange triangle on the back warning motorists it was a slow-moving vehicle.
John waited for something, anything, to look familiar. He held tight to the hope that returning to where he had been found would jog his absent memory. As they finally rolled into the neat small town of Hope Springs he was once again doomed to disappointment. Nothing looked familiar.
Sheriff Bradley pulled up in front of a Swiss-chalet-styled inn and said, “This is the only inn in town. The place is run by an Amish woman named Emma Wadler. The rooms are clean but nothing fancy.”
Now that he was actually at his destination, John struggled to hide his growing fears. How would he go about searching for answers? Was he going to stand on the street corner and ask each person who walked by if he looked familiar? When the sheriff got out, John forced himself to follow.
A bell over the doorway sounded as the men walked into the building. The place was cozy, charming and decorated with beautifully carved wooden furniture. An intricately pieced, colorful quilt hung over the massive stone fireplace at one end of the lobby. A display of jams for sale sat near the front door.
Behind the counter stood a small woman in blue Amish garb. Her red-brown hair was neatly parted down the middle and pulled back under a white bonnet. She was talking to someone inside a room behind the desk. She glanced toward the men and said, “I will be with you in a minute, gentlemen.”
John watched her eyes closely for the slightest sign of recognition. There was none.
Turning her attention back to the person inside her office, she said, “I would gladly send overflow guests to your farm, cousin. It would be much better than telling them they must go to Millersburg or to Sugarcreek.”
A woman replied, “We have spare rooms and as long as they don’t mind living plain it will work. The extra money would be most welcome. If I can get Dat to agree to it, that is.”
There was something pleasing about the unseen woman’s voice. He enjoyed the singsong cadence. Her accent made will sound like vil and welcome sound like vell-com. It was familiar somehow.
The grandfather clock in the corner began to chime the hour. John reached into the front pocket of his jeans, but found it empty.
Confused, he looked down. Something belonged there. Something was missing.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
John turned around as the inn owner began a conversation with Nick. The hidden woman came out of the office and headed for the front door. She wore a dark blue dress beneath a heavy coat. An Amish cap covered her blond hair. Slender and tall, she moved with unhurried steps and innate grace. When she happened to glance in his direction, John’s breath froze in his chest. His heart began thudding wildly.
Rushing across the room, he grabbed her arm in a crushing grip. “I know you. What’s my name? Who am I?”
* * *
Karen recoiled in shock when a man grabbed her arm and began shouting at her. She threw up one hand to protect herself and tried to twist out of his grasp.
“Tell me who I am,” he shouted again, his face only inches from hers.
A second later, the sheriff was between her and her assailant. Pushing the man back, Sheriff Bradley said, “John, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I know her. I know her face. She knows who I am,” he insisted, pointing at Karen.
By this time, Emma had rounded the counter and reached Karen’s side, adding another body between Karen and the angry man. “Cousin, are you all right?”
Rubbing her forearm, Karen nodded. “I’m fine.”
Karen glanced at the man and recognition hit. This was her Englischer, the man she had discovered lying injured beside their lane. That recognition must have shown on her face.
His eyes widened with hope. “You know me, right? You know my name.”
She shook her head. “Nee. I do not.”
The sheriff spoke calmly but firmly. “John, this is Karen Imhoff. She’s the one who found you.”
His body went slack in the sheriff’s hold. The color drained from his face as the hope in his eyes died. His look of pain and disappointment twisted her heart into a knot.
She said, “It was my little sister who spotted you lying in the weeds.”
His eyes suddenly narrowed. “I was told I was unconscious when the paramedics arrived. How is it that I know your face?”
As her racing heart slowed and her fright abated, Karen took a step closer. He was alive and standing here before her. Joy gladdened her heart. He had been in her thoughts and prayers unceasingly. It took all her willpower not to reach out and touch his face.
She said, “You opened your eyes and spoke to me. You told me you were cold. I put my coat over you.”
The sheriff released his grip on John. “She doesn’t know anything about you. I’ve already questioned her and her family. There’s no connection between you.”
A look of resignation settled over John’s features. He raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed it as if trying to rub away pain. “I’m sorry if I hurt or frightened you, Miss Imhoff. Please forgive me.”
He did not remember her holding him close. Perhaps that was for the best. She had come to the aid of a stranger, nothing more. The rest, the closeness, the connection she felt with him, those things would remain in her secret daydreams.
“You are forgiven,” she said quietly. What she didn’t understand was why he had insisted that she tell him his own name.
The sheriff looked toward the innkeeper. “Sorry for the disturbance, Emma. This is John Doe, the man found injured near here a week ago. John has amnesia.”
“What does this mean?” Karen asked, unfamiliar with the English term.
John’s eyes locked with hers. Once again she felt a stirring bond with him deep in her bones. It was suddenly hard to breathe.
He said, “It means I can’t remember anything that happened before I was hurt. Not even my own name, but I remember your face and the sound of your voice.”
Compassion drenched Karen’s heart and brought the sting of tears to her eyes. His suffering had not ended when the ambulance took him away from her.
Sheriff Bradley said, “John needs a room for a little while, Emma. He doesn’t have any ID so I came to vouch for him in person.”
Emma said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything available for a week. I just rented my last room an hour ago. You know the quilt auction begins tomorrow. It runs for several days, and then there is the Sutter wedding. By next Friday I will have a room.”
Clearly upset with himself, Nick said, “I’m sorry, John. I should have called ahead. They aren’t normally booked up here. I know you had your heart set on staying in Hope Springs. I didn’t even think about the auction being this week. I’ll take you back to Millersburg. We can find a place for you there.”
“We have a room to let.” Karen’s desire to help John overrode her normally good sense. He was a stranger lost in a strange land. He needed her help today as much as he’d needed it the day she found him.
His eyes narrowed as he stared at her. Karen bit the corner of her lip. What had she done? She should have discussed this with her father first, but she had already made the offer and couldn’t withdraw it.
When she explained things her father would realize the benefits of this additional income. Especially after she had failed to get the teaching job.
Their family’s income had been severely limited following her father’s injury a month earlier. A farrier couldn’t shoe horses with his arm in a cast. There were still medical bills that needed to be paid in addition to their everyday expenses.
She would point out all those things, but she knew he would not be pleased if she brought this man and his English trouble into their house.
She fidgeted under John’s unwavering gaze. Finally, he said, “Your farm was the first place I had planned to visit when I arrived. Renting a room there makes sense.”
“For a week,” she stressed. “After that, Emma will have a place for you here.”
“It seems you’ve come to my rescue once again.” He held out his hand to seal the deal and gave her a crooked grin. It deepened the lines that bracketed his mouth, lending him a boyish charm.
With only a brief hesitation, she accepted his hand. Her pulse skipped a beat then pounded erratically as her small hand was swallowed by his large, warm one. It wasn’t soft, it was calloused and rough like the hand of a man who worked outdoors for a living. A blush heated her cheeks, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of him.
She remembered him so clearly. The shape of his brow and the stone-gray color of his eyes, even the way the stubble of his beard had felt beneath her fingers. She remembered, too, the husky sound of his voice when he had told her she was beautiful.
Something light and sweet slipped through her veins. An echo of a time when she’d been a giddy teenager smitten with a local boy. A time before she’d had to become a surrogate mother to her younger siblings and put her girlhood dreams away.
Thoughts of the children brought her back to earth with a thud. She pulled her hand away from John. This man was an outsider and thus forbidden to her. She had offered him a room to rent for a week and nothing more. Her strange fascination with him had to stop, and quickly.
Gesturing toward the door, she said, “I must get home.”
He said, “I don’t have any sort of transportation. May I hitch a ride with you?”
Oh, Dat really wasn’t going to like this, but what could she do? She gave a stiff smile. “Of course.”
Emma asked quietly, “Karen, are you sure about this?”
Pretending a bravery she didn’t feel, Karen answered, “Yes. Goodbye, cousin, I will see you at Katie’s wedding next Thursday.”
Emma didn’t look happy, but she nodded. “Give Onkel Eli my best.”
John shook hands with the sheriff, who promised to check up on him soon, and then followed Karen out the door. Her nervousness increased tenfold as he fell into step beside her.
He was taller than she thought he would be. She had been called a beanpole all her life, but he stood half a head taller than she did. She felt delicate next to his big frame. It was a strange feeling. Spending the next half hour in this man’s company in the close confines of her buggy might prove to be awkward.
After unlatching Molly’s lead from the hitching rail, Karen was surprised when John took her elbow to help her climb in the buggy. She was used to taking care of herself and everyone else. It had been a long time since someone had wanted to take care of her.
John walked slowly around the front of the horse. Raising a hand, he patted the mare’s neck and made a soothing sound as he cast a critical eye over the animal. “She’s got good conformation. She’s a Standardbred, right?”
“Ja. You know about horses?”
“I think I do.” He scratched Molly under the earpiece of her headstall. The mare tipped her head and rubbed against his hand in horsy bliss.
It seemed he could charm horses as well as foolish Amish maids. She said, “We must be going.”
He nodded and climbed into the buggy beside her. Karen turned the horse and sent her trotting briskly down the street. The fast clatter of Molly’s hooves matched almost exactly the rapid pounding of Karen’s heart. It was going to be a long ride home.
Clucking her tongue, she slapped the reins against Molly’s rump, making the mare go faster. The sooner they reached the farm, the better.
Karen’s skin prickled at John’s nearness. He had been in her thoughts and prayers constantly since that day. The special connection she’d felt between them had not diminished. She had wondered who he was and if he had gotten better. She’d wondered, too, if he had a wife to care for him. She had prayed he wasn’t alone.
Now, he had come back to her.
He had been helpless as a babe that day, a man in need of tender care. The vibrant man beside her now was anything but helpless. What had she been thinking to invite him into her home?
He remained silent beside her as they drove out of town. Covertly, Karen glanced his way often, but he was scanning the countryside and paying her no mind. The cold, rainy weather of last week had give way to sunny days of Indian summer. The countryside was aglow with the vibrant hues of autumn. It should have been a pleasant ride. Instead, Karen felt ready to jump out of her skin.
After twenty minutes of listening only to the clip-clop of Molly’s hooves and the creaking of the buggy, John spoke at last. “This isn’t the way I came into Hope Springs with Sheriff Bradley. What road is this?”
She glanced at him. “It’s called Pleasant View Road. Does that mean something to you?”
He shook his head. “Nothing more than it’s well named. Where does it lead?”
“It makes a wide loop and goes back to Highway 39 about ten miles south of here. From there, you can go to the town of Sugarcreek or over to Millersburg.”
“Why would someone like me be on this road?”
Shrugging her shoulders, Karen said, “Because you were lost?”
He barely smiled. “If I wasn’t then, I am now.”
Her curiosity about him couldn’t be contained any longer. “The sheriff called you John Doe, but that is not your name?”
“No. John Doe is a name they give to any man who is unidentified. It’s usually given to a dead body, but fortunately for me I’m still alive.”
“This amnesia—will it go away?”
He stared into the distance for a long time before answering. Finally, he said, “The doctors tell me my memory may come back on its own or it may not come back at all.”
“It must be awful.” Her heart went out to him.
His attention swung back to her. “What can you tell me about the day you found me?”
“I was driving my younger brothers and sister to school. Normally they walk, but I had an appointment that day. I thought it would be easier just to drop them on my way.”
“Did you notice anything unusual that morning?”
Giving him a look of disbelief, she asked, “You mean other than finding an unconscious man by the side of the road?”
That brought a small, lopsided grin to his face, easing the tension between them. “Yes, other than finding me in a ditch, did you notice anything that was unusual or out of place?”
“Nothing.” She wanted to help him, but she couldn’t. “The sheriff has already asked us these questions.”
Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together in front of him. “I just thought you might have remembered something new since that day. Maybe you heard the sound of a car or voices. Do you have a dog?”
“We do not.”
“Do you remember hearing anything during the night?”
“Nee, I heard nothing unusual. I’m sorry.”
He pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded in resignation. “That’s okay. Are we close to your farm?”
“It’s not far now. You will see the sign.”
“Tell me about yourself, Karen Imhoff.” He fixed her with an intense stare that brought the blood rushing to her face.
“There is not much to tell. As you can see I am Amish. My mother passed away some years ago so I am in charge of my father’s house.”
“What did you mean when you told the innkeeper that your lodgers would have to live plain?”
He really didn’t know? Grinning, she said, “You will be wanting your money back when you find out.”
“Do you give refunds?”
“Nee, when money goes into my pocket it does not come out easily.”
“Okay, then tell me gently.”
“Plain living means many things. No electricity and all that comes with it. No television, no computers, no radio.”
“Wow. What did I get myself into?”
She glanced at him, but he was smiling and didn’t look upset. Feeling oddly happy, she said, “We go to bed early and we get up early. My father farms and is the local farrier, but we will not put you to work shoeing horses.”
“Thanks for the small favor.”
“I have two brothers, Jacob is fourteen and Noah is ten. I also have a sister. Anna is eight.”
His mood dimmed. “I wonder if I have brothers or sisters.”
“You are welcome to some of mine,” she offered, hoping to make him smile again. It worked.
“Don’t you find it hard to live without electricity?”
“Why would I? People lived happily without electricity for many centuries.”
“Good point. Why don’t the Amish use it?”
“We are commanded by the Bible to live separate from the world. Having electricity joins us to the world in a way that is bad for us. We do not shun all modern things. Only those things that do not work to keep our families and our communities strong and close together.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“That is because you are an Englischer.”
“I’m a what?” He frowned.
“English. An outsider. Our word for those who are not of our faith. This is our lane.”
Karen slowed the horse and turned onto the narrow road where a large white sign with a black anvil painted on it said, Horse Shoeing. Closed Wednesdays. The word Wednesdays was currently covered by a smaller plaque that said Until Further Notice.
John sat up straighter. “Where did you find me?”
“A little ways yet.”
When they approached the spot, Karen drew the horse to a stop. John jumped down and walked into the knee-high winter-brown grass and shrubs along the verge of the road. The sheriff had combed the area for clues but found nothing.
Karen kept silent and waited as John made his own search. One look at his face made her realize John Doe was still a wounded man, but he was in need of more than physical care.
