you’d like, we have a social worker here at the hospital that can meet with you and find temporary housing for you. We’ll also put you in contact with a liaison with the Daviess County Sheriff’s Office. Perhaps your family has reported you missing. It could be that they’re looking for you even now.”
“What do I do until they find me?”
“Be patient. Give your brain time to heal. Live your life.”
“I don’t have any money, though.”
“There are charities that provide funds for those in need. You don’t need to worry about money right now.”
“She doesn’t need to worry about where to live, either.” Ida stood and moved to the side of the bed. She was about Rachel’s height but looked a bit shorter, owing to her weight. She wasn’t big exactly, but rounded, like a grandmother should be. She was probably close to fifty with gray and brown strands of hair peeking out from under her prayer kapp. “Rachel, we would be happy to have you stay with us. We have an extra room. It’s only Caleb and John and myself, so it’s a fairly quiet environment. You can rest and heal.”
Rachel didn’t know if that was a good idea. Ida and John seemed like a nice couple, and Caleb had saved her, but she wasn’t sure they wanted a brain-injured person living with them. Then again, what choice did she have?
She didn’t want to go to a police station.
She didn’t want to wait on a social worker.
“Stay with us,” Ida repeated.
“Ya.” Rachel nodded, wiping away the tears that had begun to slide down her cheeks. “Okay. Danki.”
Dr. Gold was pleased with the arrangement, and Ida was grinning as if Christmas had come early, but when Rachel glanced at Caleb, she wasn’t sure if she saw relief or regret in his eyes.
They returned to Ida and John’s house. The snow had stopped, but it sat in heaps on the side of the road. The clouds had cleared, the sun was shining and Rachel suspected the snow would melt completely by the next day. The Englisch homes they passed already had Christmas decorations out on the lawn. Rachel wasn’t sure what Amish homes did to celebrate for the season. She wasn’t sure what her family had done in the past.
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
She met with the local bishop, Amos Hilty, a kind, elderly man as round as he was tall with tufts of white hair that reminded her of a cotton ball.
She learned that the local community was a blend of Swiss Amish and Pennsylvania Dutch Amish, but she couldn’t tell them which she had been. From the style and color of her dress, they guessed that she came from one of the more progressive districts. Amos assured her that he’d contact the local districts to see if anyone had reported a young woman missing.
“We’ll find your family, Rachel. Try not to worry. Trust that Gotte has a plan and a purpose for your life.”
She wasn’t sure how Gotte could use her accident, her loss of memory, for His good, but she smiled and thanked the bishop for helping her.
Several times that afternoon she had to excuse herself and lie down because of the vertigo and nausea, and bone-deep exhaustion. Ida’s cooking smelled wonderful—it was a meat loaf she’d thrown together and served with mashed potatoes, canned squash, gravy and fresh bread. Rachel thought she could eat three plates, but when she’d taken her first bite, the nausea had returned, and she’d fled to the bathroom.
Now it was ten thirty in the evening and everyone was asleep, but she was starving. Pulling on the robe Ida had loaned her, she padded down the hall to the kitchen. She pulled a pitcher of milk from the icebox and found a tin of cookies when Caleb walked in.
“If you’d eaten your dinner, you wouldn’t be so hungry late at night.” When she didn’t answer and just stood there frozen, as if she’d been caught stealing, he’d walked closer, bumped his shoulder against hers and said, “I’m kidding. Pour me a glass?”
So she did, and they sat down at the table together. She could just make out his outline from the light of the full moon slanting through the window. Oddly, the darkness comforted her, knowing he couldn’t see her well, either. She felt less exposed, less vulnerable.
“I can’t remember if I thanked you...for finding me in the snow. For bringing me here.”
“You didn’t.”
“Danki.”
“Gem Gschehne.”
The words slipped effortlessly between them and brought her a small measure of comfort. At least she remembered how to be polite. Surely that was something.
“You owe me, you know.”
Her head snapped up, and she peered at him through the darkness.
“You scared at least a year off my life when I saw you out there.”
“Lucky for me you did.”
“I’m not sure luck had anything to do with it. Gotte was watching over you, for sure and certain.”
“If He was watching over me, why did this happen? Why can’t I remember anything? What am I supposed to do next?”
“I’m not going to pretend I have the answers to any of those questions.”
“Might be a good time to lie to me and say you do.”
Caleb’s laugh was soft and low and genuine. “We both would regret that later.”
“I suppose.” She sipped the cold milk. At least her stomach didn’t reject it. Maybe she would feel better if she could keep some food down. She hesitantly reached for an oatmeal cranberry cookie.
“Your mamm’s a gut cook.”
“Ya, she is.”
“So it’s just you? You’re an only child?”
“Ya, though my mamm wanted to have more children.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“Something went wrong when she had me, and the doctors said she wouldn’t be able to conceive again.”
“Gotte’s wille.”
“She always wanted a girl, too, so I suppose you’re an answer to that prayer, even if you’re a temporary answer.”
“When you marry, she’ll have a daughter-in-law.”
“So they keep reminding me.” He laughed again, but there was something sad and bitter at the same time in it. His next words had a serious, let’s-get-down-to-business tone. “How are you feeling? I know you keep telling my parents that you’re fine, but it’s obvious you aren’t.”
“Lost. Confused. Sick to my stomach.”
“Food should help settle your stomach.”
She bit into the cookie, which was delicious but could use a little nutmeg. “I just remembered something.”
“You did?”
“Cookies need nutmeg.”
Caleb reached for another. “It’s a beginning.”
“Not much of one.”
“The doctor told you this could take a while.”
“I know...but can you imagine what it’s like for me? I don’t know who I am.”
“You know your name is Rachel.”
“Only because