Amish Country Amnesia Page 8

  “How do you know about the internet?”

  “I have seen it here. Englisch vendors and customers with their little computers. It is not something I would ever want, even if the bishop did allow it. It seems rather intrusive. Too controlling of their time.” She led him through an aisle past a couple of vendors, and then turned right down another long aisle.

  “It looks like you could find anything you wanted in here. From this spot, I see sewing materials, big barrels of candy, clothing, furniture, knickknacks that look handmade, spices. There’s even a guy over there selling sandwiches.”

  “Jah, it can be overwhelming.”

  He stood for a moment, looking around, probably surveying for any threatening people but also trying to take it all in. Considering the quiet of the Amish life he had been living for the past few days, it perhaps seemed like a lot of noise all at once. Market days were interesting because they were different, but they were often also too much for Sarah, requiring a strong cup of chamomile tea and an oatmeal cookie in the quiet stillness of her home at the end of the day.

  “It’s so busy, I would think it would be difficult to find someone in here.”

  “Jah, I have had that problem before.” It was bolstering to have a man around again to be helpful and look after her, and this man was comforting enough that she gave voice to her worries. “So, you believe we would be hidden in here? Safe inside the crowd?”

  “Yes, but let’s find Mrs. Miller as quickly as possible. Okay?”

  “Jah, I would like that.” Balancing the pie in one hand, Sarah removed her winter bonnet and straightened her white organza kapp as they walked down the long aisle. She turned to find John staring at her.

  He cleared his throat, his cheeks brightening into a light shade of pink. “So, um, not all the vendors here are Amish?” He turned his gaze to the others as they passed by the booths.

  “A lot of us are Amish, but some are not. Some dress as Amish just to attract buyers.” She motioned a few tables down. “We’re almost there.”

  “That’s not right. Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “What gut would come of being bothered? I trust Gott to sell my goods when I’m here and to provide for me and Lyddie.”

  Sarah slowed as she approached a booth on the right filled with jar goods, loaves of bread and berry pies. A weight lifted from her shoulders as she spied the elderly woman in the lavender dress and starched white kapp organizing her jars. In the past, whatever had been wrong, Mammi Mary had been able to soothe with a kind word or a comforting touch or a hot drink. Sarah prayed that would be the case today, although her problem this time was quite a bit larger than any others she had had.

  * * *

  John’s heart ached within him at the notion of having such a peace with life’s events as Sarah seemed to have. He yearned for that, but how did one achieve it? Especially with an utter lack of memory? But the chatter and commotion of the market around him wouldn’t allow his thoughts to develop that idea any further.

  Sarah stopped at the edge of a booth where the elderly Amish woman was setting jars on a shelf with her side turned to them. “Mammi Mary,” Sarah called softly.

  The woman turned slowly and squinted in their direction for a moment. She then raised her hand in greeting, a large smile lighting her wrinkled face.

  “Wilkom. Come. Come.”

  John caught the pie as Sarah thrust it at him. He watched Mammi Mary open her arms to Sarah, and as Sarah returned the hug, a sudden pain struck his temples. He stared at the elderly woman’s face, visually tracing the wrinkles that lined her pale skin, startled at the blue of her eyes, and the instant headache lessened to a dull ache.

  Slowly, he approached, looking up and down the aisle. This visit was important to Sarah, and could, perhaps, be important to him. But he didn’t want to linger too long. It might increase the chance for their danger to be brought upon this woman.

  Sarah turned to retrieve the pie, a wide and beautiful smile lighting her face, and then handed it to Mrs. Miller. “Katie made this pie for you, Mammi. Dried apple.”

  “And you brought it. Danki to you both, liebchen.” She gestured to usher them farther into the booth and away from the crowds. “Lyddie is with Katie this morning?”

  “Jah. She is helpful with the twins.”

  “Gut.” But as John approached, Mary looked hard at his face, her sharp gaze piercing him. An odd expression lit her features. Curiosity, maybe? But surely she would have had many interactions with the Englisch, especially here at the market.

  He stepped in closer, behind Sarah. As Mrs. Miller took the pie, she continued to stare at John.

  “Ach, I am sorry for my slowness.” She gestured Sarah toward a door in between her booth and the neighboring stall. “You know where the vendors’ break room is. We can have our visit in there. Let me ask my neighbor to watch my tables, and then we will have introductions.”

  Sarah led the way into the small room and placed the apple pie on one of two tables. A kitchenette stood against the far wall. It was empty of other vendors and had no other entrances, but seemed secure. A small window was covered with a light calico curtain. He stepped to it quickly and lifted the curtain just enough to peek outside. It looked out onto the parking lot filled with horses and buggies, but not a single person was in sight. He allowed himself to breathe deeply, but the infusion of fresh oxygen did little to calm him.

  Following Sarah’s lead, John removed his coat and hat and draped them over an empty chair. The door opened, and Mammi Mary entered, motioning for them to sit at the table. John chose a chair that faced the door, the hairs on the back of his neck standing upright as Mrs. Miller appraised his Amish clothing and then fixed her stare on his chin, which sported only the shortest of whiskers.

  Sarah spoke first, although she seemed rather affected by Mary’s stare. “Mammi Mary, this is John. He was in a snowmobiling accident near my house, and Lyddie and I are caring for him until he is well.” She paused. “Until his memory returns.”

  John extended his hand but quickly withdrew it as Mary continued to stare at him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Call me Mary, as Sarah does.” It seemed to be difficult, but she tore her gaze from John and looked back to Sarah. “What do you mean, until his memory returns?”

  “We are not sure what happened. He had an injury on his head, but it could be the trauma of the accident. He cannot remember anything.”

  John absently touched the bandage that remained on his forehead and just nodded his agreement.

  “Nothing?”

  “No, nothing.”

  Sarah continued. “Both Dr. Jones and Katie said that he looked like you. We hoped you might have some information that could help John remember.”

  Mary shook her head in sympathy, then stepped toward the kitchenette. “Let me get us some cider.” But as she retrieved three mugs from the cupboard, poured cider from a thermos and carried the mugs to the table, she continued to stare at him. “Do you remember your name? Is it really John?”

  John sipped his cider. “I don’t know what my real name is. Sarah suggested she call me John.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I don’t know. I would guess somewhere in northern Indiana since that’s where I am now. But I suppose I could have traveled here from a great distance, also.” He shrugged and took another sip. “That’s not helpful, is it?”

  Sarah smiled at him, but Mary continued peppering him with questions. “What is your occupation?”

  “We found a badge from the Fort Wayne Police Department at the crash site, but I don’t know if it’s mine or not.” Should he tell her that he wasn’t sure who on the police force was trustworthy and who wasn’t? He looked to Sarah, but she didn’t give any sort of indication that he should tell more.

  Mary lifted her hand to her mouth, her eyes
wide and eyebrows raised. “Is there anything you know about yourself?”

  “The only thing I think I know is that I like to work with wood. Or at least I know something about woodworking. I discovered that in Sarah’s barn yesterday.”

  “So, you are not Amish even though you wear Amish clothes? You do not have a beard, and yet you are not shaved.”

  John looked down at his shirt and fingered one of the suspenders. “Sarah let me borrow these. I don’t think I’m Amish, and yet the Amish don’t seem completely foreign to me. I don’t know why.”

  Sarah leaned forward to rest her forearms on the edge of the table. “John got some blood on his clothes, so I let him wear my brother’s.” She caught his glance and then cut her eyes sideways. What she was saying wasn’t untruthful, but neither was it the entire story. She certainly had never indicated just how much danger they were in. But Sarah knew Mary, and he didn’t. He would trust her judgment. Perhaps she was protecting her elderly friend.

  Of the three mugs of cider, only Mary’s remained untouched, yet she stood and excused herself, going to stand at the small sink. John shifted in his chair to see her better from the side. She had raised a wrinkled hand and pressed it to her cheek as she stared at the wall.

  “Mammi?” Sarah cast a worried glance at John, then pushed her chair back.

  Before she could stand, Mary seemed to wipe an eye, then returned to the table, lowering herself heavily into the chair.

  John rubbed his forehead, being careful of the bandage. What was his role here? Should he say something? Comfort in some manner? Perhaps he should just excuse himself to check outside and leave the women alone.

  He started to push his chair out, but Sarah grabbed his hand. Apparently, she wanted him to stay.

  He settled in his chair again, and she withdrew her hand from his and instead pulled Mary’s hands together into both of hers. “Mammi, are you feeling all right today? You look as if you are seeing a vision.”

  Mary sighed. “I am, Sarah. The gut doctor and Katie were right to send you to me.”

  She drew away from Sarah and lifted John’s smooth, strong hand in her wrinkled and spotted ones. “I think you are my grandson, Jedidiah.”

  NINE

  “I’m what?”

  “You’re my grandson. And your name is Jedediah. Jedediah Miller.”

  John shoved back his chair with a loud scraping sound and ran a hand through his hair. The shocking news propelled him to pace the room. It was ten steps from the table to the edge of the kitchenette. Ten steps back.

  A pulsing began in his head, not exactly the pound of a headache, but the tight feeling across his forehead he had come to associate with trying to summon a memory.

  His shoe squeaked on the linoleum floor as he spun back to the women who sat at the table, both now staring with wide eyes at him. “Jedediah? That’s my name?” It did not feel familiar on his tongue or sound right in his ears. The old woman must be desperate for connection with a family member or seeking attention or...or ferhoodled, as Sarah would say. Confused.

  “Are you sure, Mammi Mary?” Sarah’s sweet voice that lilted with the accent of her Pennsylvania German seemed to approach him as if through a tunnel.

  “For sure and for certain, Sarah. As sure as I am sitting here.”

  John stopped midstride, his attention and his thoughts no longer under his control but focused on this woman who said she was his grandmother. “Why do you think so?” It must just be speculation.

  “You look exactly like my son. The spitting image, I believe the Englisch would say. The last time I saw you in the flesh, you were five years old and in the back seat of the Amish taxi, waving goodbye as your daed and mamm drove away from their family and their faith.” A stray tear wandered down the older woman’s cheek.

  His feet continued him on the path between the kitchenette and the table. Shouldn’t he be glad, thrilled even, to have some answers, finally? In a way, he was. But there were no memories associated with this information. He couldn’t remember a father or mother, an Amish upbringing or leaving in a taxi. Maybe if there was some connection to a memory, it would be easier to believe.

  “Mammi, what else can you tell us about John? About Jedediah?”

  One thing did seem sure—he liked the sound of his name, whatever it was, on Sarah’s lips.

  Another thought pierced him, a thought that ricocheted around his aching skull. Did the man who was after them know his real name? He listened at the door, but all he could hear were the common sounds of a marketplace. He crossed to the window to peer outside, but all was calm there, as well.

  Mary finally lifted her mug and sipped her cider. Whether or not John was finding any answers in her revelation, apparently she was discovering some satisfaction.

  “Your parents’ names are David and Miriam Miller.” Mary’s voice was calm and soothing. “They left years ago, and I have not seen them since. However—” Mary leaned forward and lowered her voice “—when my daughter-in-law, your mother, Jedediah, mails me notes about my grandson, I keep them in a special place.”

  “You have letters from my mother?”

  Mary sipped again, slowly. “This is my family. I love my son, my daughter-in-law, my grandson. My life has not been the same since they left.”

  John bent himself into a chair across from the woman who claimed to be his grandmother. “So, I’m Jedediah? And I grew up here?”

  “Jah.” She spread her arms as if to encompass the countryside. “Indiana. Since you were five years old.”

  A thought pinged in his brain. “So, is that why bits and pieces of the Amish life seem familiar to me despite the amnesia?”

  “Jah, I ’spect so.”

  “Jedediah, huh?” He tried it a couple more times to see how it felt on his tongue. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t familiar either. “Isn’t that an Amish name? Or at least a Biblical name?”

  Sarah clasped her hands, a grin reaching across her beautiful face. “Jah. That is a good, strong, Biblical name. It is a popular Amish name. It means beloved of the Lord.”

  John pressed the heels of his hands to his temples, a vain attempt to suppress the dull ache and revive more memories. “There’s a memory in there somewhere. It’s a struggle.” He exhaled slowly. “I think I may have been called Jed.”

  “That is short for Jedediah, jah? That would be the shorter, Englisch-sounding nickname.”

  Mary ran a finger over the handle of her mug. “Perhaps your parents gave you that name when they left the Amish church.”

  “Didn’t you say my mother sent you letters? Do you still have them?”

  Bolting upright, Mary gasped. “Ach, I did. Where is my mind?” As she stood, she paused with a stricken expression and ran a gnarled hand over John’s. “I am sorry. It is hard to imagine what you must be struggling with in your loss of memory. Let me get the letters. I hide them in a compartment of my money box since no one gets in there except me. It is my most secret place.”

  John could barely sip his apple cider before she was back, a small stack of envelopes in her grasp.

  The paper of the oldest envelope had yellowed slightly, and the faded postmark reflected a date nearly twenty years earlier. The letter was brief and conveyed the simple message that they had settled and all were well. John held it with the tips of his fingers, but as he studied the meticulous handwriting, it was the same as it had been for the past few days. No memories emerged. Not a single one.

  Apparently, he had played baseball, second base, and done well in school. A twelfth birthday party had been a particular delight filled with friends and pizza and bowling. His mother had sent a total of five letters over the years, and he sorted through them, noting the growth and development of a person who Mary had said was him. The tone of each letter was stiff and formal, as if written to a stranger.

  The last letter was dat
ed just a few months prior. He stood to pace the room again, reading it carefully. “So, I have no brothers or sisters, and I’m not married? It’s just my parents and me?”

  “Jah. That is what the letters seem to say. Something as momentous as another child or a wedding would have been mentioned, I am sure.”

  A memory flung itself into his mind, and he staggered backward with the force of it.

  He was a police officer. Was that his badge that they had found at the crash site? Fuzziness surrounded the memory, but he was sure he was law enforcement. Was he from Fort Wayne, the city on the badge? The memory receded, and he was left without any idea. The letters didn’t contain a return address, and the city and state of the postmark were too faint to read, so that didn’t help either.

  Another memory, this one stronger, pushed him to drop into a chair. A prickling sensation crawled up his arms and seized his chest. He was in danger. They had found him out, and the only end that would satisfy was his elimination. But who were they?

  John forced himself to take several deep, cleansing breaths. Panic wouldn’t serve any of them right now. He closed his eyes to try to bring the memory closer to his consciousness. They were criminals. But not all. One, at least, was someone who masqueraded as being on the side of good and right.

  But who?

  He opened his eyes to find Sarah and Mary watching him. Mary’s lips moved silently. Could she be praying for him, even then?

  “It’s just too fuzzy.” He shrugged an apology. “I know I’m a police officer, just as we suspected, but I can’t remember where or what my last activities were, right before the crash.”

  Sarah reached a comforting hand to him. “Anything you can remember is helpful.”

  “It also seems that there is something important coming up soon, but I have no idea what.” He swallowed, hesitant to give the next bit of information. But after what they had been through, Sarah was not unaware. “The danger is great.”

  “Jah, we knew that already.”

  “I just can’t remember any more than that. So much is still missing.” He squinched his eyes shut again to try to summon up images. Who were the criminals? What was their criminal behavior? And what did it have to do with him?