Amish Christmas Memories (Indiana Amish Brides Book 2)

by Vannetta Chapman

  “And when I’m being lazy, you could tell me.”

  “Sounds like a plan, as long as you don’t storm off mad, and I don’t grow moody.”

  She ducked her chin, leaned forward and gave him a look that caused him to squirm. Out of the blue, she said, “I wonder if I had a boyfriend before. I can’t even remember that.”

  “I imagine you did.”

  “You can’t know for sure, though. You barely know me.”

  “I know you better than...better than you think.”

  “Maybe so.” She flopped back against the seat. “I feel so torn. It’s hard to move forward when you’re trying to recover your past. The doctor in the hospital said my memories would probably return.”

  “But they’re not.”

  “So I need to take the next step. I need to go and see the doctor, especially since both the doctor at the emergency room and Bishop Amos recommended that I do so.”

  “But it’s an Englisch doctor.”

  “Yup.” She smiled at him, but it wavered and slipped into a frown. “That’s the only kind we have around here—no Amish docs that I’m aware of.”

  “It seems so drastic.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you’re not in danger of dying. What will people think?”

  “I don’t care what people think.”

  “Maybe you should.” How could she not consider their community before making a decision of this magnitude? Their Ordnung plainly said they should remain separate, that they shouldn’t take up Englisch ways. It seemed to him that running to a doctor when you wanted to talk was doing just that. Unfortunately, from the expression on Rachel’s face he could tell that he’d offended her again. “Maybe you should give it a little more time.”

  Her chin came up, and her eyes widened as if she couldn’t quite believe he’d criticized her—again.

  “This recovery isn’t happening on its own, so it’s time that I did something proactive. If I don’t, this could take years, and I don’t want to wait that long.” Her defensiveness dissolved as suddenly as it had appeared. She reached across and patted his arm. “I’m glad you happened by.”

  “You are?”

  “Ya. Talking to you helps, Caleb.”

  “Helps how?”

  “Helps to clear my thinking. Saying it out loud stops the loop of thoughts going on in my mind.” She opened the door, hopped out of the buggy and then leaned back inside. “I enjoyed beating you at checkers last night.”

  “I’d rather win now and then.”

  “See you around.”

  “I guess you will.” He’d meant it as a joke, something to lighten her mood, but Rachel cocked her head as if it was one more puzzle she had to figure out.

  Finally, she smiled, waved and strode off to the front door of the doctor’s office.

  The Englisch doctor.

  The one that was going to help her recover her memories.

  * * *

  Rachel walked into the doctor’s office. It was pleasantly decorated—the walls were painted a soft warm yellow and decorated with pictures of pastures, fields and sunrises. She gave her name to the receptionist and explained that she didn’t have an appointment.

  “Should I come back? I don’t know what I was thinking just stopping by.”

  “Let me check with Dr. Michie first.”

  She turned back toward the waiting area and sat in one of the comfy chairs. The table in front of her had a few magazines, and to the right of her was a built-in cabinet with a coffee machine and all sorts of coffee and tea. Soft music played in the background. A small Christmas tree sat in a corner on the far side of the room. It was decorated with ornaments made by children—that was obvious from the overabundance of glue used on them and the fact that glitter had fallen onto the tree skirt.

  Overall, not a bad place to wait.

  She made herself a cup of herbal tea and picked up a magazine. Five minutes later, Dr. Michie poked her head through the door into the waiting room.

  “Rachel? Would you like to come on back? You can bring your drink with you.”

  “Danki.”

  She followed the doctor back to her office. She’d met her only once, in the hospital. Jan Michie was slightly taller than her, not thin but not overweight, either, and had brown hair cut in a short shag. She wore glasses from a chain and was dressed as she had been before—neutral-covered slacks and a knit top. The most calming feature about her was her demeanor. She always seemed relaxed and unhurried.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Michie.”

  “Call me Jan, please. I was hoping I’d hear from you. How are you doing?”

  “Okay, but not great. Obviously. If I was great, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “Are you sure you have time?”

  “Yes. I had a few open hours, and I was catching up on paperwork.”

  “But if you need to...”

  Jan shook her head and sat back in her chair, sipping from a blue coffee mug. When she saw Rachel staring at the mug, she turned it so she could read the logo better. It said, I’m a Psychiatrist. What’s Your Superpower?

  “Cute,” Rachel said.

  “From my nephew.”

  The doctor didn’t rush her or ask more questions, which was exactly what Rachel needed. She glanced around the office, which was also nicely decorated, and then stared out the window. Someone had filled up a bird feeder, and a variety of winter birds she couldn’t name were hopping around enjoying the buffet.

  Had she enjoyed bird-watching before?

  What kind of person had she been?

  Was her family looking for her?

  Instead of asking any of those questions, Rachel blurted out, “Caleb doesn’t think I should be here.”

  “Is that why you came to see me? To talk about Caleb?”

  “Yes and no. I’m tired of not remembering. I want my life back. I want me back.”

  “We talked about this in the hospital. Do you remember that conversation?”

  “I do. You said sometimes it takes weeks or months or even years.”

  “How’s your memory of more recent events?”

  “Gut.”

  “And you’ve kept your follow-up doctor appointments?”

  “The first is later this week, but I feel as fit as a horse.” She tapped her head. “The thing is that I don’t want to wait any longer—not months and certainly not years. I want to do whatever I need to do to regain my memories.”

  Jan sat back, folded her arms and studied her for a moment. Then she opened a file that had been sitting on her desk and read through a few pages of notes—probably from when they’d visited in the hospital. Finally, she shut the file and said, “Okay. Then let’s talk about what you can do to hurry this process along.”

  “Wunderbaar.”

  “I’m not guaranteeing anything.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But at this point, I’m pretty sure anything we do won’t hurt your recovery.”

  “And it might help.”

  “Exactly.” Jan paused, steepled her fingers and finally asked, “And you’re sure that you want to remember? Because sometimes when we delve into our past, we find things weren’t as rosy as we’d have liked them to be.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sometimes not remembering is a way of protecting yourself. Perhaps you had an incident that was painful physically or emotionally, and so your mind doesn’t want to remember because it’s traumatic to do so. Sometimes what we uncover isn’t what we would have hoped to find.”

  “I hadn’t really thought of that. I guess it’s possible, though unlikely.”

  “Abuse happens in all types of families. I’m sure you realize the Amish aren’t exempt.”
/>   “But I don’t feel abused.”

  Jan waited.

  “I appreciate you warning me, but I think not knowing is worse than anything we might discover—gut or bad makes no difference. I just want to know. I want to know who I was before.”

  They spent a few minutes talking about what might help her recover her memories—spending thirty minutes each morning and each evening just sitting, resting, allowing her mind to relax.

  “Pretend you’re floating in the ocean.”

  “Don’t know if I’ve ever done that.”

  “What I mean is just relax. Don’t try to remember. Don’t do anything. Some people have trouble being still and quiet, but it can be a very healing thing. Find a special place where you can go and do this.”

  “Will a stall in a barn do?”

  “Perfectly, as long as there are no distractions.”

  “Okay.”

  “And remember to write in a journal. Would you like me to give you one or can you purchase one?”

  “I have one that I’ve been writing in.” Rachel shared with her the short list of things she’d remembered thus far—her name, that she had a brother named Ethan, wearing sunglasses, knowing about alpaca wool and that she was twenty-five.

  “Great. Be sure and continue adding to that list. Nothing is too small to include. In fact, it would be good to make daily entries, and bring it with you for your next appointment.”

  “What do I write about...if I don’t have anything to add to my memory list?”

  “Absolutely anything. Don’t try to force your thoughts in any one direction. If it comes into your mind during your journaling time, jot it down.”

  “Sounds easy enough.”

  “You had a poetry book with you when Caleb found you, correct?”

  “Ya.”

  “Read through it, not forcefully, not intent on making yourself remember. Putting more pressure on your mind will only cause it to skitter in another direction.”

  “Like when you’re trying to remember the words to a hymn and just can’t.”

  “Exactly, but when you quit thinking about it...”

  “Usually when I’m doing laundry.”

  “Then the words come.” Jan tapped her pen against her desk. “The poetry book is one of the only physical clues we have to your past, and I think it’s an important one. I’d like you to spend a few minutes each day reading it, but do so as if it were a letter from an old friend—something you enjoy revisiting again.”

  Rachel began to feel optimistic. Dr. Michie made her sound less like a freak and more like a person with a treatable condition.

  “If you have time and a buggy, drive around a little. Just pick a direction and drive. We can’t really guess what will stir your memories.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Be sure and make a note in the journal if anything looks familiar or causes you to experience a strong reaction.”

  “I will.”

  “Also if you have any dreams that leave you with intense feelings, jot those down, too.”

  Rachel nodded and stood when Jan glanced at her watch.

  The doctor plucked a business card from her desk drawer and handed it to her. “If you need to talk, call me.” Then she stood and walked her into the reception area. She asked her receptionist to make Rachel an appointment for the next week.

  “One more thing.” She put a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “If there’s anything that you find you enjoy doing—then do that thing. If you like it, then your mind is signaling to you that it’s a safe activity, and the opposite is true, too. If something seems terribly hard—”

  “Like cutting fabric.” She’d shared her attempt at working across the street.

  “Yes, like cutting fabric—if it seems hard, if it brings on the headaches, simply stop. Don’t push. If it seems like something you’d enjoy, though, allow yourself to do it without understanding why.”

  “I can’t imagine what that will be.”

  “You’ll know when you see it.”

  Rachel walked back out into the weak afternoon sun. The day was as dreary as it had been before. The shop that she wouldn’t be working at still sat across the street, its parking lot now half-full of customers. Nothing had really changed, but for a reason she couldn’t put her thumb on, and for the first time since she’d woken in Montgomery, Indiana, Rachel felt hopeful.

  There was a small general store on the way back to the Wittmer farm. She stopped and went inside, unsure what she was looking for or why she was bothering to shop when she had such a small amount of money to her name. Then she remembered what Jan had said, about doing something she enjoyed. She’d been surprised to find thirty dollars in the envelope from the quilt shop. She didn’t think she’d earned that much, but apparently she had. While she could give the money to Ida to help pay for her food, she had a feeling Ida would rather she follow the doctor’s directions.

  So she walked up and down the aisles, pausing in front of the paperback novels, the cookbooks, even the coloring books. None looked particularly interesting to her. She turned down the next aisle and saw a large display of yarn. Beside that was a variety of crochet needles, books and knitting needles. She reached forward, ran her fingers down a pair of 5.5 mm knitting needles and almost laughed. She picked the package up, turned it over and over, and finally slipped it into her basket. Next she chose a package of variegated yarn—beautiful blues melding into one another, from sky blue to navy. It would make a lovely scarf for Ida, and she knew just the pattern to use. She could almost see the directions in her mind—a stockinette stitch that produced a nice woven look.

  She checked the items in her basket to be sure she had what she needed, added another skein of the yarn and then walked to the register to pay for everything. She couldn’t have said if she really knew how to knit, but it felt like she knew, and after all...the doctor had told her to follow her instincts. For now, her instincts were leading her toward a hot mug of tea and a knitting session.

  Chapter Eight

  Caleb had been studying Rachel all through dinner and even afterward as she set to work with her new knitting needles and yarn. She’d apparently begun the project earlier in the afternoon—after losing her job, visiting the doctor and going by the general store. She’d been busy. Whatever she was knitting already stretched across her lap. How much of the yarn had she bought? It was a medley of blues—quite appropriate. He couldn’t fault her there, not that he was looking for a reason to find fault. He just didn’t understand her moods, and he was worried about this doctor situation.

  He’d tried to catch her eye a few times, but she’d been completely focused on counting her stitches. Twice now she’d shushed him.

  His mamm had laughed and said, “That’s why I was never very good at knitting—you have to count.”

  Rachel had nodded in agreement as she continued mumbling, “Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine...”

  He waited for her to reach the end of a row and tug again on the ball of yarn, and then he jumped in with the first thing that came to mind. “I could use some help in the barn brushing down the horses.”

  She stopped, midstitch, and stared at him. “Now?”

  “Sure. Now’s a gut time.”

  She bent forward to peer out the window at the pitch-black night. The cloud cover was so heavy that no stars or moonlight shone through, but she shrugged and said, “Ya. I could help with that, I guess.”

  Caleb noticed his parents exchange a glance, but he chose to ignore that. The year before, his mamm had spent many an hour trying her best at matchmaking and dropping none-too-subtle hints about grandkinner. She’d finally given up sometime in the last six months, but he knew that sparkle in her eye meant she was considering meddling. He shook his head once, definitively. She only smiled and raised her eyebrows as if to say “I have no idea what yo
u mean.”

  “Gut to see you youngies taking responsibility for our animals.” His dat peered at them over the top of The Budget. “Those alpacas—I’m not exactly sure what to do with them.”

  “Mostly they enjoy attention,” Rachel said, as if she’d been raising alpacas all of her life.

  For all Caleb knew, she had been.

  “I’ll put a kettle of water on to boil, and we can have tea and some of those leftover cinnamon rolls when you all are done.” His mamm added, with a distinctive twinkle in her eye, “But don’t hurry on our account.”

  Caleb rubbed at the muscle just over his left shoulder and waited for Rachel to shrug into her coat.

  They walked out to the barn in silence, the wind at their back causing them to walk closer together—shoulder to shoulder—as a barricade against the cold.

  When they stepped into the barn, the smells of hay and animals and wood surrounded him. He watched Rachel as she walked around the main room, studying the tools and projects and sacks of feed. Finally, she turned to him and said, “You and your dat keep a clean barn.”

  “Of course.”

  “Not all Amish do.”

  “You remember that?”

  She shrugged, unprovoked by his intrusiveness. She’d been quieter, calmer, since going to the Englisch doctor...or maybe it was the knitting that had settled her nerves. “I’m not sure what I remember, but I do know this is especially clean. Can’t say I’m surprised, since you’re so...”

  “So what?” He didn’t want to care what Rachel thought about him, but he braced himself for her criticism as if it was a dart she was about to hurl his way.

  “Industrious. That’s the word I’m looking for.”

  “Never been called that before. Thick-headed, stubborn—”

  “Old-fashioned. Ya, I know. But what I mean is that you seem to like what you do out here, and it shows. It’s not about doing things the old way...though plainly you do.” She picked up a handheld seed broadcaster, studied it a minute and placed it back in its cubby. “People can be old-fashioned and messy. This place looks as clean as a veterinarian’s hospital.”

  Had she worked for a veterinarian?

  Everything she said, he wondered if it was a piece of the puzzle of Rachel, but maybe he was reading too much into things. Maybe he was afraid it was all going to come together at once, and she’d be whisked away. That was what he wanted, for her to be returned home, but he hoped it would happen slowly so that he could get used to the idea. He should already be used to it, since he spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about it—about her.