SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (22 page)

But something else was happening. Levi was behaving as if I’d never forgotten who he was—or the affectionate ties we’d once had. Truly exciting.

Things were not as comfortable, though, between Jon Klein and me when he called a little later. “Merry Christmas, Merry, maiden of misery,” he said, then laughed apologetically. “It’s jovial Jon, or at least that’s what you used to call me.”

“Before I fell through thin ice?” I said, not sure he was joking.

He ignored my remark. “How was your holy holiday?”

“Okay, I guess.” I noticed his use of
h
’s but didn’t say anything. My mind was on something else—wondering if I should inquire about the surprise present from his parents.

Before I could get the words out, he brought it up. “You’ll never guess what my folks gave me for Christmas.”

I didn’t blurt out the answer in case he hadn’t received the camera equipment yet. “I really hate guessing games,” I said, still feeling strange talking to this guy who seemed to know me so well.

“I’ll give you a hint.” Unfortunately, the hint he was talking about had much more to do with his eagerness for me to remember the past. Specifically, for me to recall who
he
was…and that ridiculous word game he kept referring to.

I resented his style of prompting my defunct gray matter. Couldn’t he simply accept me as I was—the way Levi did?

Jon kept talking, though, now about my love of nature—the desire I’d expressed to capture God’s beauty in photographs. I had a feeling he was working up to telling me about the grand surprise he’d received from his parents, probably trying to spark memories along the way.

“Hey, do you remember the cool shot you took behind Chelsea’s house?” he asked.

“The one in the woods?”

“Right—the picture you entered in the annual school contest back in October.”

I laughed. “You mean the one that placed second?”

“That’s it.” He began to backtrack, discussing in detail the isolated shanty I’d selected as a subject.

“Look, Jon,” I said at last, “you don’t have to help me remember any of that. I haven’t blocked out
everything
—only certain events…and people.”

“So what’s causing it—your memory loss?” He seemed restless about my condition. Not worried, but almost impatient.

“My dad says amnesia can occur for several reasons. The trauma of my accident for one. Even a slight concussion, which I had a couple of weeks ago, can bring it on.”

“But it’s only your short-term memory, right?” he probed.

“And some scattered memories—random memory, I guess you’d say.”

“When will it all come back?” he asked.

His attitude frustrated me. “Do you have to be so antsy about this?”

“Aw, Merry, don’t go getting upset.”

“Well, since you put it that way, I
am
angry. I mean, all you’ve done since we got reacquainted or whatever is to try to force me to remember you.” I sighed. “You and that weird word game…well—”

“Hey, that’s good, Merry. Keep going!”

I had no idea what on earth he was saying, but at this point in the conversation, I wanted to bail out. “Thanks, Jon. It was nice of you to phone—but I’ve gotta get going.”

He was whooping it up. “Merry, did you just hear yourself? You’re doing it—you’re alliterating!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not intentional. Good-bye.“

I didn’t actually slam the phone down or hang up on him, but it was definitely an abrupt farewell. Funny thing was, I felt no guilt for my actions. After all, I didn’t really know him. Not anymore.

Clicking the Off button on the phone, I leaned back, taking in the dazzling decorations around me. Mom had outdone herself this year. Above each window dressing, white satin bows, crisscrossed with grapevines, served as folksy ornaments. Centered on the mantel, a spray of white long-stemmed tulips framed the broad fireplace. And an array of ivory candles—some round, others tall, all of differing heights—on both sides of the centerpiece created a truly ethereal effect.

Gazing at the flickering lights, I began again to recall fragments of the bonfire at the ice-skating party.

Levi had gone back to the house to get marshmallows, and we roasted them on the ends of coat hangers. It was one of those never-to-be-forgotten moments, full of nostalgia and wistful rememberings—something I’d want to tell my grandchildren about someday. Not so much because of the people involved. It had more to do with the setting, the tingly feeling of expectation in the air—the wintry delight that had pervaded the atmosphere around us.

Both Levi and Jon had offered to help me with the simple chore of poking my marshmallows through with a hanger wire, even though I was entirely capable of cooking up my own treat. That much of the significant day I
did
remember. I was surprised how easily it wafted back to my present consciousness.

Now if only I could get a grasp on my relationships with Levi and Jon. Especially Jon. It was the one thing that truly bugged me this Christmas.

Miss Spindler, also known as Old Hawk Eyes—the neighbor lady who lived in the nearest house behind ours—breezed in for a visit late Christmas afternoon.

I was still hacking away, trying not to cough all over everyone, even though the doctors said I wasn’t contagious. Mom, bless her heart, gently massaged my lungs at various intervals—doctor’s orders. But I was up and about for short periods and had even sat at the table for Christmas dinner. According to my medical genius father, I was making solid progress.

Being cooped up in the house, no matter how beautifully decorated, was a pain for some people. I, being one of those prone to cabin fever, had to resort to other things for my entertainment. I’d never been much of a television watcher and was limited in other activities, so I was actually delighted when I heard Miss Spindler’s old voice crackle in our kitchen.

I sprang from my solitary post on the living room couch—surrounded by the new poetry and photography books Mom and Dad had given me for Christmas—and tiptoed toward the kitchen.

Miss Spindler had come bearing gifts: two pumpkin pies and three-dozen snickerdoodle cookies. “How’s every little thing?” she asked when I peeked around the corner. Her blue-gray hair was done up in a bouffant style; it looked as if she’d swept much of it from the lower section of her head to cover the meager patches at the crown.

Quickly, Mom spoke up on my behalf. “Merry’s recovering quite nicely.” She didn’t go on to mention my memory lapses, thank goodness.

Miss Spindler smiled at me, nodding her head. “I can see the dear girl’s improving. Her smeller’s a-workin’, ain’t it?”

I had to chuckle. Leave it to Old Hawk Eyes to make an on-the-spot assessment of my physical condition based on my response to a couple of spicy pumpkin pies.

Being careful not to go near our drafty back door, I pulled out a kitchen chair close to the radiator and sat down, enjoying the warmth as it drifted around me.

“Talk has it that our little darlin’s suffering from amnesia these days,” Miss Spindler continued.

I wondered how Mom would go about explaining things.

She began by setting down mugs of hot apple cider on the table for the three of us. “Merry doesn’t have full-blown amnesia. Her type of traumatic memory loss can last anywhere from a few hours to several weeks.”

Our nosy neighbor kept sending persistent glances my way, but I remained quiet.

Mom gave me a reassuring smile. “We’re doing everything the doctors said to do for our girl.”

The way my mother put things sometimes gave me reason to smile. She was quite the lady, my mom, even when making semi-small talk with SummerHill’s biggest gossip.

“Well, what on earth is causin’ Merry’s brain to fuzz up?” Miss Spindler asked, looking for all the world as though she was genuinely interested in my present mental state.

Mom took her time sipping the cider, looking at me with a twinkle in her eye. “You may have heard about Merry’s mishap on the ice Saturday?”

“Oh, dear me, yes indeedy, I did!” There was no telling what sort of spin on the actual facts she’d heard and possibly reconcocted by now!

“Well, sometimes trauma can trigger a short-term memory loss,” Mom replied. “But we’re not worried about it, so please, Miss Spindler, don’t you be, either.”

The woman sighed and held her bony hand up to her chest. I could see her breathing heavily, like she was near ready for a fit or stroke or who knows what. Anyway, after a few moments, Miss Spindler settled down and moved on to other topics.

But the most interesting aspect of the discussion came as Old Hawk Eyes was about to say good-bye. “You do know, Merry, that your Amish friend Levi Zook is responsible for yer bein’ alive this very minute.”

I was surprised to hear this from her lips.

“Yes, indeedy,” she said. “That there Levi done pulled ya out, Merry—that other fella tried to, too.”

Mom’s mouth actually dropped open. “How do you know all this?” she asked.

A curious expression snuck up on Miss Spindler’s face, and suddenly she clammed up. It was as if she’d been caught telling on herself. “Oh, bless my soul, I guess I best be headin’ home now.” She glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen window. “Well, I’ll be, lookee there. It’s a-comin’ down mighty good again. I tell ya, this is the most snow we’s seen around here for many a winter.”

Miss Spindler was right about that. The snows had come hard and lay good and heavy for most of December. Thing was, she wasn’t about to fess up to any spying tactics or reveal whatever made it possible for her to see all the way to Zooks’ pond and beyond.

Still, I couldn’t help but push for some answers. From what she’d already said, I figured she’d secretly observed what had happened on the ice from her attic window or somewhere else.

“Any idea how Levi went about saving me, Miss Spindler?” I asked.

A smile passed over her face, and for an instant, she honestly looked like one of the angels on our Christmas tree. “Ever heard tell of a human rope?” she said softly.

“Are you saying Levi had some help?” I said.

Unexpectedly, Miss Spindler eagerly spilled out her information, though not the method by which she’d acquired it. “Three other young people were there. They all got themselves right down on the ice—down close to the thinnest part—and I tell ya, they held on to one another and pulled for dear life.”

From the sound of this, it seemed that Old Hawk Eyes had witnessed my rescue—Jon’s, too!

“Thanks for telling me,” I found myself saying. “You don’t know how much it means to me, knowing this, Miss Spindler.”

The old woman got up and walked to the back door with Mom accompanying her. “Happy New Year, Mrs. Hanson, Missy Merry,” Ruby Spindler said with a crooked smile.

“Oh, do be careful on the snow,” Mom cautioned.

In the still of dusk, the crackly voice came back, “Oh, don’tcha be worryin’ none.”

Two of my cats, Shadrach and Meshach, raised their eyelids as a gust of cold wind blew through the kitchen.

“Can you imagine?” Mom said, shaking her head. “She saw it all happen…your accident. Somehow Miss Spindler saw you fall through the ice.”

“It’s truly amazing” was all I could say.

Mom’s eyes were on the ceiling as if reliving the frightful day. “Well
that
explains how the paramedics arrived so quickly.” She seemed dazed. “Do you realize that Ruby Spindler may have played a role in saving your life, Merry?”

I appreciated Mom’s sentiments toward Old Hawk Eyes. But my mind was twirling. What device had our elderly neighbor used to spy on us? How did she manage to survey the SummerHill area?

Mom’s voice disrupted my thoughts. “Isn’t it something? In spite of herself, our nosy neighbor probably had a big part in coming to your aid, Merry.” She began to clear the table, carrying teaspoons and Christmasy mugs to the sink.

“Who knows,” I said. “Maybe Miss Spindler could help me solve some of the mysteries that keep cropping up around here.”

Mom eyed me more seriously. “Better wait till you’re completely back to normal before you try cracking another case.”

I had to chuckle. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’m not physically ready for sleuthing just yet.” But in the heart and soul of me, I was. Plenty of forgotten parts of my own life awaited discovery.

“Good, because I, for one, have had more than my share of excitement. Enough to last a lifetime.”

I agreed and went back to the living room, where Abednego and Lily White—my oldest and youngest cats—joined me a few minutes later. In their own unique way, the felines kept watch over me with an occasional shift of an eyelid at half-mast. It was the cutest thing I’d seen either of them do in a long time.

“Hey, what’s with the wily watch guard?” I teased them, not realizing Mom had followed me into the room.

“There you go again, Merry. You’re talking that way again—alliteration style.”

I thought back to what I’d just said. “Hey, you’re right. I wonder why.”

Her eyebrows flew up at the additional
w
’s. This weird way of conversing reminded me of Jon Klein. For some strange reason, he kept trying to get me to speak like him, too. It had something to do with a word game, he’d said.