An Amish Christmas. Patricia Davids

the freak with a damaged mind.

      “I imagine you’re tired of hearing that.” The doctor washed his hands and pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

      “Good guess.”

      Harold began removing the bandage from John’s head. “We medical people live for cases like yours. The odd thing, the unusual diagnoses. It’s like catnip to us. We want to define it, study it, understand it, cure it.”

      John winced as the tape pulled his hair. “I’m in favor of a cure. Tell me which pill to take.”

      “Amnesia following a trauma isn’t unusual, but normally it involves losing a short period of time just prior to the injury. A prolonged and complete amnesia such as you have is exceedingly rare.”

      “Lucky me.” This time John didn’t disguise his sarcasm.

      “Your scalp is healed nicely. How are your ribs?”

      “Not bad if I take it slow.”

      “Good. I’m going to have Amber take out the stitches. Any headaches?”

      “Sometimes.”

      “Bad ones?”

      “They can be. I think they’re getting better. Maybe I’m just getting used to them.”

      “Is there any particular thing that triggers them?” The doctor pulled off his gloves and picked up John’s chart.

      “I get these flashes, like images from a movie. I think they are memories, but I can’t be sure. When that happens the pain gets intense.”

      “You say you think they’re memories. Anything specific?”

      John felt stupid sharing the few instances that he’d had. “Frying trout. A woman laughing. A sick or starving horse. A woman using an Amish word. Nothing with any context of time or place.”

      “The same woman?” Amber asked.

      “I’m not sure. I don’t see her face.”

      “Are these flashes becoming more frequent?” The doctor made a note on the chart.

      John held still as Amber began removing his stitches. “Not that I can tell. Some days I’ll have one or two, some days I won’t have any.”

      He winced but didn’t yelp as she worked on one stubborn stitch. Finally, she said, “All done. You’ll just need to keep it clean and dry, but otherwise you’re good to go. I understand you’re staying at Eli Imhoff’s place.”

      “Yes. That’s where I was found. I’ve been interviewing the Amish in the area for the past several days hoping to find someone who recognizes me. I mean, I must have been in the area for a reason.”

      Closing the chart, Dr. White asked, “You’ve been going door-to-door?”

      “I started with the farms closest to where I was found but I’m not having much luck. Don’t get me wrong. The Amish have been forthcoming, maybe because I’ve had Karen Imhoff with me, but no one knows anything.”

      Amber and Dr. White exchanged glances. Amber said, “There might be an easier way to meet people than going to every house in the area.”

      John looked at her with interest. “How?”

      Dr. White said, “November is the month for Amish weddings. Sometimes as many as four hundred people show up for them. Elam Sutter’s wedding is this coming Thursday.”

      “Nettie Sutter did invite me to the supper.”

      “Great,” Amber said, looking at Harold. “Phillip and I will be there, too.”

      “Oh, and I’m chopped liver now?” Harold asked, a teasing edge in his tone.

      Amber smiled at John. “Dr. Harold White will also be attending the event, and he knows every soul in this county.”

      Harold met John’s gaze and said, “Chances are almost everyone there will have already heard your story.”

      “How?” John asked. “They don’t have radio or TV.”

      Amber laughed. “You would be surprised how fast news travels in a small community like this.”

      Harold rubbed his chin. “I’m sure the Imhoff family will be going for the entire day. Why don’t you ride along with me, young man? I’ll introduce you around and see if we can come up with someone who knows you.”

      John realized it could be his best chance to meet many of the reclusive Amish in the area. He inclined his head. “Sir, I would be delighted to accompany you.”

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      True to his word, Nick stuck around to give John a lift from the clinic back to the farm. As the sheriff drove away, John stood in the yard staring at the farmhouse. Once again he was struck by how tidy the farmstead was. The fences were all in good repair, the barn and outbuildings had been recently painted. Everything spoke of order and neatness. Eli Imhoff was a good steward of his land.

      Shoving his hands in his pockets, John wondered what kind of steward he was. Did he have lands and a home to care for? Or did he live in an apartment in a crowded city? If he could wish for a home—it would be one like this.

      Instead of going into the grandfather house, John made his way to the barn and to the stalls where the horses stood dozing or munching grain. He was surprised by how comfortable he felt among them. Sometime in his life he must’ve worked on a ranch or farm. If only he could remember where or when.

      He was petting the nose of the big draft horse when he heard a door open. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Karen coming from another part of the barn. In her hands she carried a pail brimming full of apples.

      Her face brightened when she caught sight of him. “You are back. What did the doctor say?”

      John moved to take the pail from her. “He said I’m doing good. Except for not remembering anything, of course.”

      “You will remember when God wills it.”

      “I wish He’d hurry up, I’m tired of living in the dark.”

      “I know it is a terrible burden for you.”

      “You must be tired of hearing me complain. What are the apples for?”

      “I’m putting up applesauce.”

      “Need some help?”

      She slanted a grin at him. “Can you pare an apple?”

      Giving an exaggerated shrug, he said, “Only one way to find out.”

      Inside the house, John sat at the kitchen table and quickly discovered he could use a paring knife. As he cored and chopped the contents of the bucket into a large bowl he had a chance to observe Karen at work.

      Every move she made was efficient. She seemed to know exactly what she needed to do when she needed to do it. The canning jars were washed and placed in a large kettle and boiled. Setting them aside after ten minutes, she put his chopped apples into a second kettle. Before long the mouthwatering aroma of cooking apples and cinnamon filled the air.

      “I hope you’re not going to can all of it,” he said as he started cutting the last pile of apples. His stomach rumbled loudly.

      She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. The steam had given her face a rosy glow. “I am saving plenty for supper.”

      He tipped his head. “I think I should have a taste now in case the apples were bad. You don’t want to give bad applesauce to your family.”

      She fisted her hands on her hips. “Of all the pieces you sampled while you were chopping, how many were sour?”

      “Okay,