They all were.
She closed her eyes, hoping to feel the memory again. She tried to see the room or the house or the people, but the image had receded as quickly as it had come, leaving her with a pulsing headache.
She struggled to keep the feelings of panic at bay. Her heart was hammering, and her hands were shaking, and she could barely make sense of the questions they were pelting at her.
Who were these people?
Where was she?
Who was she?
She needed to remember what had happened.
She needed to go home.
Instead she dropped the book into Ida’s lap and covered her face with her hands. “I think—I think I’m going to be sick.”
She bounded off the couch and dashed to the kitchen, making it to the sink just in time to lose whatever she’d eaten. Unfortunately, the sink had been full of breakfast dishes. She turned on the tap and attempted to rinse off a plate, but her hands were shaking so badly that she kept knocking it against the side of the sink.
“I’ll take care of that.” Ida’s hands slid over hers, taking the plate and setting it back into the sink. She pulled a clean dish towel from a drawer and handed it to her. “Come and sit down.”
She sank into a chair at the table and pressed her fingertips to her forehead. If only the pounding would stop, she could think.
“We best take her to town,” John said.
“I’ll get the buggy.” Caleb brushed past her.
She remembered being in his arms, the way he’d pulled her close to his body, the way he’d petitioned Gotte to help them. Or had she dreamed that? But then he turned, and his blue eyes met hers, and she knew she hadn’t imagined it. She could smell the snow on his coat, remember the rough texture of the fabric, hear the concern in his voice.
“We best wrap her in a blanket,” Ida said. “And bring the book. There might be other clues in it.”
And then they were bundling her up and helping her into the buggy. The ride passed in a blur of unrecognizable farms and stores and hillsides. The only thing familiar was the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the feel of the small heater blowing from the front of the buggy.
Had she been in a buggy just like it before?
Caleb directed the horse under a covered drop-off area, next to a door marked Emergency.
“I don’t think—”
“That it’s an emergency? Ya, it is.” He helped her from the buggy. Ida had rushed in ahead of them, and John said he’d park the buggy and meet them inside.
The next few hours passed in a flurry of hospital forms and medical personnel and tests. Finally, the doctor who had first examined her walked into the room, computer tablet in hand. She was a young woman, probably in her thirties, with dark black hair, glasses and a quick smile. Something about her manner put Rachel at ease, though another part of her dreaded hearing what the woman was about to say.
John had left to find them coffee and a snack, but Ida and Caleb both stood when the doctor walked into the room.
“Thank you all for your patience.” She motioned for them to sit back down. “I know the barrage of tests we put a patient through can be trying, but trust me when I say that it’s important for us to collect as much information as we can.”
She turned toward Rachel.
“Hi, Rachel. Do you remember me?”
“Ya. You’re Dr. Gold.”
“Great. Can you tell me what day it is?”
Her eyes darted to the whiteboard that listed the name of her nurse and orderly. “December third.”
“Very good.” Dr. Gold laughed. “We know you can read.”
The doctor placed her tablet on the table next to Rachel’s bed. “Mind if I check that bump on your head one more time?”
Rachel leaned forward and jerked only slightly when the doctor gently probed the back of her head.
“Still tender.”
“Ya.”
“Still no memory of what happened before Caleb found you?”
“Nein.”
“And you can’t remember how you got this bump?”
“The first thing I remember is...is Caleb carrying me to his house.”
The doctor plumped the pillows behind her, waited until Rachel had sat back and then shone the penlight in her eyes again.
“I’m sorry. I know this is uncomfortable.”
“It’s just the headache...”
Dr. Gold nodded in sympathy and then clicked off the light. “Rachel, you have a slight concussion, which is why you’re experiencing a sensitivity to light, a blinding headache and nausea.”
She remembered vomiting in Ida’s sink and grimaced.
“How long will that last?”
“In most cases, symptoms improve in seven to ten days.”
“That’s gut.”
“But the actual healing of your brain could take months.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Most often a concussion occurs when you’ve sustained a blow to the head. In this case, you have a sizable knot at the back of your head and toward the top. Can you remember anything at all that led up to your accident?”
Rachel shook her head and spikes of pain brought tears to her eyes.
“I’m not surprised. You have what we call retrograde amnesia caused by a concussion. Often in such a situation, patients have problems remembering events leading up to an accident.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Retrograde amnesia or a concussion?”
“Both.”
Dr. Gold smiled and patted her hand. “Concussions happen all too often. The brain itself is rather like Jell-O. When a concussion occurs, your brain slides back and forth and bumps up against the walls of your skull. Basically the brain is bruised, and like all bruises it takes time to heal.”
“What would cause such a thing?” Caleb asked. His expression had turned rather fierce. “Does it mean that someone hit her?”
“Not necessarily.” Dr. Gold cocked her head, studying both Ida and Caleb for a few seconds. Then she turned her attention back to Rachel. “You could have been in a car accident, or fallen off a bicycle or simply tripped, and hit your head against the ground.”
“And that would cause a concussion?” Ida asked. “Just falling?”
Caleb sank back into the chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced. “Did it happen when she fell in the snow?”
“Not likely,” Dr. Gold said. “I suspect that Rachel sustained her injury before you ever saw her. It’s why she was meandering back and forth across the road. Concussions often result in vertigo.”
“Can you tell how long it’s been?” Ida asked.
“I can’t. There was no bleeding from the wound, so I rather doubt that someone hit her. More likely it was a simple accident.”
“What about my memory?” Rachel asked. “When will it return?”
“Memories are tricky things. You remembered my name, and you