Amish Country Amnesia

by Meghan Carver

  Nothing except the warm embrace of a strong, protective man.

  Ach, she was as bad as a youth in her rumspringa. And the only running around she was doing now was to stay away from a couple of evil men who seemed to want John dead.

  She shook her head as if that could clear her thoughts and focused her attention on lighting the propane-powered stove. It wouldn’t take long to heat the soup, and she pulled a couple of bowls from the cupboard and turned to set the table.

  But John had returned from his room and stood so closely behind her that she bumped into his chest, her voice stuck in her throat. She wobbled, and he caught her by the upper arms, his face perilously close to hers. So close that she could see the various tints of green in his eyes.

  He stood for a moment, holding her arms. Could he hear the pounding of her heart or see the longing in her eyes? Having once experienced love, it was difficult to be alone again, especially in her care of her daughter. Here he stood, looking so Amish and handsome in his plain clothing...

  “Do you think it’s cold in here?”

  John’s deep voice broke the moment, and Sarah stepped back, the cold seeping in between them as he loosed his grip on her arms.

  “Jah, it is.” Sarah hugged herself and rubbed her upper arms where John’s warm hands had been but a moment ago, but the sensation of his touch would not leave her.

  John took a couple of steps toward the door, a look Sarah couldn’t quite identify on his face. Was he embarrassed? Or was he disappointed that he had interrupted their connection with his question? “I’ll light the heating stove I saw downstairs.” His voice was rough and felt like sandpaper over her. “There’s no telling if anyone will notice smoke out of the chimney, but there’s no reason for those men to think that we’re here, at the schoolhouse. Besides, I don’t think we have a choice. We have to stay warm.”

  “Danki, John. You probably saw the woodpile by the barn. There should be plenty. The parents of the students keep it supplied.” She forced herself to look away from his intense green eyes and hugged her arms around herself.

  He glanced out the window. “The clouds are heavy, but there’s still light to see. But it’s overcast enough I should be hidden in my black coat. Be back in a minute.”

  As she listened to his boots clunk down the stairs and through to the cloakroom, Sarah turned back to the stove. By the time he returned, she had the table set and the meal spread.

  As heat began to radiate through the floor, Sarah led them in bowing their heads for the silent prayer. The soup was as delicious as Sarah had predicted, matching the aroma of vegetables and spices that had filled the little kitchen as it heated. But with each spoonful, John ate more slowly. Soon, he laid down his spoon and began to rub his temples.

  “What is it? Are you getting another headache?”

  “Yes, and they seem to come when a memory surfaces.”

  “That is gut, jah? What is the memory?”

  “So far, it hasn’t been that good. My memories are so incomplete. All I can come up with right now is an image of a woman in a kitchen. I would guess she’s my mother, but it’s so elusive.” He took another sip of soup and held it in his mouth before swallowing. “I think the flavor of the soup is resurrecting it. I don’t remember what she looks like. Her face is too fuzzy. There’s a feeling of comfort. But...” His voice trailed off as if he was afraid to delve any deeper.

  “But what?”

  “I feel uneasy when that picture pops into my mind. If she is my mother, then what is there, in that relationship, that troubles me?”

  Sarah dabbed a napkin to her lips as she thought. A difficult relationship with one’s mother could cause all sorts of heartache. If these were going to be John’s memories, maybe he was better off not remembering.

  Ach, that could not be. His ability to remember was the only thing that would end this time of hiding and fright.

  “You were raised Amish for a few years, but then your parents left the faith. But you also have said that you think you are a believer. Perhaps your unease is because you love your mother, but she is not a believer any longer?”

  He rewarded her with a slight smile as he retrieved his spoon. “Maybe you should have been a psychologist.”

  Heat leaped up her neck and into her cheeks, but was it because of the smile or the compliment? “No. It is just common sense.”

  “Well, I’m disappointed that I can’t remember more.”

  She grabbed her bowl and glass to carry to the sink. As she turned her back to John, she blinked to hold back a sudden tear that threatened. Of course, she wanted the danger to end, and it seemed that that could only be accomplished by John’s memory returning. But then John would leave. He would go back to his home, wherever that was, and his life, whatever it had been.

  And whatever his life had been, it certainly didn’t include the Amish or her. Not anymore.

  TWELVE

  The sun was struggling to break free of the heavy, late-afternoon clouds as Sarah retrieved a quilt from the bedroom. An Amish doll, probably one belonging to a student, rested on the top of the bureau. Sarah choked back the tears that threatened, resolving, not for the first time in her life, to be content with the will of Gott. John had said a tender goodbye to Lyddie earlier, a look on his face Sarah couldn’t quite decipher. Whether or not Gott’s will included John in her life and in Lyddie’s life, or even whether it included life at all, she would accept it.

  Sarah’s breath hitched in her throat. Could they be a family? Lyddie had commented about other girls’ fathers and understood, as clearly as a six-year-old could, what had happened to her daddy. But what could Sarah do about it? Right now, Sarah was simply grateful that Lyddie was safe.

  A noise thumped from downstairs. Her heart raced momentarily until her mind caught up. John had gone down to the first floor to check on the wood supply for the heating stove. He must be stockpiling logs nearby to get them through the night and the next day. As the wind howled around the outside of the structure, a strong gust slammed into the outer wall, and the entire building seemed to shiver.

  Sarah pulled the quilt over her shoulders, as much for comfort as for warmth, and returned to the main room to sit at a wooden secretary that stood in the corner. The drawer held ample paper and envelopes as well as her choice of writing utensils. She selected a single piece of paper and her favorite style of pen and settled in to compose a letter that demanded to be written. That did not make it any more appealing or acceptable, though.

  The pen scratched across the paper, and Sarah was glad, again, not to have a telephone. Jah, there were times the device was helpful. But in the Englisch world, she would pick up the telephone and talk to her mother. And right now, she simply did not need to hear her mamm babble on about the virtues of the Amish man back in Lancaster County she had chosen for Sarah. The only man in her thoughts was the man downstairs, caring for her by providing warmth.

  She forced herself back to the letter and continued.

  Dear Mamm,

  Lyddie and I are well, and I pray that you and Daed are, as well.

  I have prayed over your last letter and your suggestion, and Lyddie and I will return to Lancaster County as soon as I can finalize the travel plans.

  She had no idea what this Amish man in Pennsylvania looked like now or what he would do to provide for a family, but her mother would surely fill in all the details if Sarah asked.

  But she didn’t want to ask. She wanted John, the man she couldn’t have. To join the Amish church, John would have to give up electricity, telephones and technology. Could he? Or did he not even remember those things? Could he also give up his weapons? Surely, he had many as a law-enforcement officer. Once his full memory returned, would he not want to return to his former life? Doubt flurried over Sarah like a blizzard.

  A step sounded behind her, and a floorboard creaked. She turned
suddenly, knocking the paper off the desk.

  It was John. She had been so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not hear him climb the stairs. The paper rested on the floor, her writing face up. The last thing she needed was to explain that letter to John. She leaned to scoop it up.

  “Everything all right?” He rested a hand on the back of her chair.

  “Jah. Just startled.” She folded the letter and tucked it in her apron pocket. “Would you like a cup of tea? To warm up?”

  “Sure.”

  As soon as the tea steeped, they sat at the table, stirring honey into the chamomile-and-black-tea blend.

  “I was looking around downstairs, and I counted twenty desks. Do you have that many students?”

  “It varies each year, of course. But at the last term, jah. Every desk was filled.” Sarah swallowed a sip of her tea.

  “And what sort of a teacher are you? Are you one of those stern, pinch-faced kinds?” He crossed his arms over his chest and seemed to pull his eyes and mouth together until he was mimicking a harsh frown.

  “No. Definitely not.” Sarah couldn’t help but smile.

  “You’re a good teacher, then. One who is understanding and helpful. Fun, even, who reads aloud and does crafts and even plays baseball with the boys at recess.” He stood and pantomimed swinging a bat and then lifting his skirts and running the bases around the kitchen.

  At the sight of him, Sarah laughed out loud, but immediately placed her hand over her mouth. Too much noise might alert someone to their presence. But John’s antics brought a lightness to her heart that she hadn’t felt since Lyddie had come running out of the woods to tell her a man was hurt. No, even before that. It was a lightness she had not had since news had reached her of her husband’s buggy accident.

  John returned to his seat and hooked a thumb in his suspenders. His smile slowly faded as he studied her. “How long will you teach? Until a strong and handsome Amish man comes along and sweeps you off your feet?”

  The filmy bubble of her happiness popped. It was all a charade, him in the Amish clothing and learning to drive the buggy and taking care of her, just as much as his running the imaginary bases was a charade.

  She must have had a sad or upset look on her face, for John seemed to realize what he had said just a split second after Sarah did. She shifted in her chair, and the letter, through the apron, poked her in the leg, a sharp reminder of the plans for her future that did not include John.

  Her last two sips were gulped down. She collected the tea cups, not looking to see if John had even finished his, and washed them quickly, setting them on a towel to air dry.

  “Would it be all right if I lay down for a few minutes? For a quick nap?” Her voice felt like a mere whisper, but she beat a hasty retreat toward the bedroom. Just before she closed the door, she spied John staring at his hands and what seemed to be profound sadness etched on his face.

  * * *

  A gray gloominess penetrated his eyelids. Images came and went, and a chill felt seeped through to his bones. Grogginess lay heavy over him like an Amish quilt, but John forced his eyes open. He was sitting in a wooden chair, his chin touching his chest, his arms crossed over his middle. But, where was he? He cut his eyes to the walls, but they were plain and white. He rubbed his arms and inhaled the lingering scent of vegetable soup.

  Now he remembered, a prickling sensation that poked about in his mind. He had come to the Amish schoolhouse with the pretty Amish schoolteacher just that afternoon.

  He jerked upright. How could he have fallen asleep with danger all around? It hadn’t been that long since their escape from the market that morning, and although, in theory, they were hiding someplace no one should be able to find them, he didn’t know what resources their pursuers had to be able to locate people. He stood hastily, grabbing the back of the chair before it could fall backward. A hurried glance through all the upstairs windows revealed only the snow-covered countryside. Judging by the late-afternoon light, he couldn’t have been asleep more than a half hour. At the door to Sarah’s bedroom, he knocked softly. He hated to wake her, but he felt an irrepressible need to know she was still in there, safe.

  Quiet footsteps sounded to the door. It opened slightly to reveal Sarah without her kapp, her hair slightly mussed.

  Sarah was beautiful. That much was for sure and for certain. And she was having a most positive effect on him. She embodied gracefulness and delicacy even as she sipped a cup of coffee, straightened her prayer kapp or dabbed at her daughter’s mouth with a napkin.

  “Is everything all right?” Sarah’s eyes were wide with concern.

  John shook himself out of his few memories. He needed to concentrate on the here and now. “Just wanted to make sure everything was okay in there.”

  “Jah. I will be out in a minute.” She closed the door, and John spun to lean heavily against the doorjamb.

  Was he falling in love with her? With Lyddie? Both were valid questions and ones he wasn’t sure he could answer. What did love feel like? With nearly all his memories gone and his own given name, Jedediah Miller, sounding so foreign on his tongue, how could he know what true love was? The image of her laughing and smiling at his antics earlier filled his mind’s eye. That was a memory he would hold on to for the rest of his life. He wanted to stay with her, to continue to get to know her, to soak up her zest for life and love. Yet, could he give up the modern world and join the Amish? Could he be a proper daed to Lyddie? If so, it would have to be for the love of Sarah, Lyddie and Gott.

  As Sarah emerged from the bedroom, hair in place and smoothing her skirt, the hum of a car sounded outside. John immediately locked gazes with Sarah as she tossed him a worried look. From the closest window, concealed by the light blue curtain, John spied a four-door sedan approaching the lane for the schoolhouse. It was traveling too fast and slipping in the snow. As he counted the number of people in the car—two—a flash of memory struck him. His knees began to buckle, but he gripped the window ledge to watch until the car passed their lane and drove out of sight.

  Sarah grasped his arm and led him to a chair. “You have another headache. Another memory returning.” It was a statement, not a question.

  How quickly she had come to know him.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it? I know that you are eager to know more about your life.”

  “Assuming it’s good.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to summon something out of the darkness. “I remember driving in a car and following a man, I think that man from the market, as he drove to an old warehouse. He was driving that same style of car as we just saw outside.”

  Sarah brought a glass of water and placed it on the table in front of him, her free hand resting briefly on his shoulder. Whether or not she meant it as a calming comfort, it served that purpose. John felt the muscles in his neck relax as Sarah sat down across from him.

  “Remember the doctor said your memory could return in bits and pieces. He also said it was a form of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “I do remember that. I just wish I could remember what is so important that’s coming soon. That could end all of this hiding.” John’s fingers flew, without his conscious thought, to his temples. It had become nearly a habit in the past few days, the rubbing of his forehead when he was trying to remember. Another vision flashed in his mind, and he closed his eyes as it flashed like lightning in the darkest night.

  A courtroom. He’d been in one before. Many times, in fact. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? I do, so help me, God. A trial was coming. A couple of weeks, and he would need to take the stand. His testimony was crucial evidence.

  But about what would he testify?

  Another image flashed, the man from the market. Without opening his eyes, he asked Sarah, “The man at the market said his name was Simon Carlyle? He’s the dirty cop.” But were
there more? He delved deeper, trying to see more of the image. Who was he with? John couldn’t remember anyone else.

  The snowmobile accident and the man who had returned. The one who had pointed his gun at them. The one who would have killed them all, given the opportunity. The vision in John’s mind was as clear as if he was standing there in the snow. The man was called Jimmy the Bruise, and he ran a counterfeiting ring. The odor of the money at the market hit him like a punch in the face, and he felt his hands fist on the table as if prepared to fight back.

  But then everything faded.

  As suddenly as the images had flashed, they disappeared.

  All was black.

  He slowly opened his eyes, letting the light in bit by bit, forcing his hands to unclench and rest on the table. Sarah was watching him, but kindness and warmth and understanding radiated from her beautiful brown eyes.

  Not yet had every single memory returned. But it was a lot. “It’s time to get the right law enforcement involved. Men I can trust.” He now knew who to call. But first, he had to get to a telephone, and keep them both safe along the way.

  THIRTEEN

  As much as she tried to emanate encouragement to John, Sarah struggled to keep her hands from shaking. “The police? You have remembered more, jah?”

  John had a wild look about his eyes. “Yes. We need to get to a telephone. Where is the closest one?”

  “But there is a snowstorm coming.” The closest window revealed dark gray clouds hovering near the horizon. “I can tell by the clouds. If we were to get caught out in it...” She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t need to. He knew exactly what could happen if they were stranded in a blizzard.