The Amish Midwife

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Where’s David?” Zed asked.

  “Downtown,” Esther answered, her eyes a little downcast. Zed left it at that.

  In the car, though, Ella said, “I know where David is.”

  I wasn’t really interested, but Zed asked where as I started the engine.

  “The courthouse.”

  Now I was interested.

  “He and a bunch of other people from church are there in support of Mom.”

  “Can we drive by?” Zed asked from the backseat.

  “But not get out?” I didn’t think Marta would want her children involved in any protests, and I certainly didn’t want to be.

  Ella nodded. “No one will recognize your car if we just pass by.”

  “Duck if you see your mom. If she’s at her lawyer’s office, it’s just across the street.”

  I eased out of the alleyway and turned onto Queen Street. A few minutes later I cut over to Duke. Ahead a group of people stood perfectly still on the sidewalk. There were no signs. No one was marching. I drove by slowly. There were people in regular clothes, women in Mennonite dresses and caps, and a group of Amish women and men. There were a handful of African women wearing colorful skirts and blouses and one African man, whom I assumed was David. There was a woman in a sari, and I wondered if she was Marta’s patient from Pakistan. We didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing us. Every head was bowed.

  I shivered. They weren’t protesting. They were praying.

  Zed’s voice was nearly a whisper in the back seat. “Cool.”

  I glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

  He was looking out the back window. But then he ducked. “There’s Mom!” His voice was louder now.

  “What’s she doing?” Ella spun around.

  “Getting in her car. On the other side of the street.”

  “She’s not going over to the group?”

  “Nope.” Zed turned back around and slumped down.

  “She’s such a case.” Ella turned back around.

  “Maybe she did earlier,” I said, surprised I was defending Marta.

  Ella shook her head. “We just learned about social misfits in school.” She groaned. “I think Mom’s one.”

  “No, she’s not,” I countered. “She’s great with her clients.”

  “That’s it,” Ella said. “That’s the only time she’s normal. And now that’s all messed up too.”

  I tapped the steering wheel with my thumbs. I remember being embarrassed by Dad in high school. Not only of his old-fashioned clothes, but of what he said, even if it was perfectly normal, even if it was pithy and insightful. Being embarrassed by parents was part of growing up.

  I changed lanes and turned onto Walnut Street to head back out to the country. But Ella was right. Marta was a misfit. If I were James, I would be sympathetic and wonder what had made her that way. But I wasn’t James.

  My cell, which rested in the cup holder of my rental, began to vibrate. Ella picked it up. “Ooh,” she said. “A text from—” she grinned at me. “Sean.”

  “Don’t open it.” I smiled back and held out my hand for the phone. I would read it while Zed and I waited.

  Fifteen minutes later I realized we were close to the Kemp and Gundy farm. “Are we almost there?”

  Ella nodded.

  “Is it down a lane?”

  “How did you know?”

  Most of the houses were within a few yards of the road. Very few were down a lane.

  “Does it have a balcony?”

  She nodded again and turned toward me.

  “I saw a house after your mom and I visited Hannah Kemp that—” That what? “Creeped me out,” I said.

  “It’s not creepy,” Ella said. “Not at all. I’ve always really liked it.”

  She was right. The house hadn’t been creepy. That was how I’d felt. “Won’t your Aunt Klara think it odd if you just show up?” I asked. “Won’t she ask how you got here?”

  Ella shook her head. “She’ll think Mom dropped me off. She used to do that sometimes so I could see Mammi while Mom visited a patient.”

  We drove in silence for a minute except for Zed tapping the window. Then Ella said, “Turn at the next right and then stop.”

  She didn’t give me enough warning, and I had to turn sharply into the lane. I slammed on the brakes when I saw the house again. A door, flanked by windows, in the middle of the second floor led to the balcony that spanned the front of the house. A wrought iron railing, covered with vines, surrounded the balcony. Some people claim to have infant memories, but I thought them ridiculous. Besides, I’d been born in Montgomery County. I’d most likely never been to Lancaster County before in my life until I arrived four days ago. Even if I had, no newborn would remember a house. Maybe a scent or being frightened, but a house was too big for an infant to even see.

  “You should drive down the road a little. I’ll text you and then you can meet back here.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t used to being bossed around by a fifteen-year-old, but I wasn’t going to argue with anything she said. As I stared at the house, I felt isolated, rejected, damaged—and cold. I wanted to speed back to Marta’s, pack my things, and flee.

  I gripped the steering wheel as I watched Ella hurry up the lane in the late afternoon light. She wore a green print dress and a black sweater. She practically skipped along. She had a confidence I envied. Ahead, I noticed a smaller house, a daadi haus, behind the main one. Clothes were on the line. I was learning that Monday wasn’t the only wash day for the Amish. Just like for the rest of us, it could be a daily chore.

  In my long moment of angst I forgot Zed was with me, but then he scrambled out of the back and into the coveted shotgun seat. “There’s a turnout up the road a ways, by some willows.”

  I was happy to back out of the lane, away from the house. For now.

  In no time I parked under the trees, digging my camera out of my bag. I liked the way the light wafted through the budding branches, the switches all wispy with the tender shoots. “I’m going to take some pictures,” I said to Zed.

  In a moment he was out of the car too, and as I pointed the camera up into the golden-green heart of the tree, he settled in the crook of the trunk where it had split in two.

  “What kind of camera is it?” he asked.

  When I told him the make and model, he said he had seen some great reviews for it online.

  “What kind do you have?”

  When he didn’t answer, I lowered the camera and turned toward him. I asked again.

  He shrugged. “I don’t. But if I did, I think I’d go with an EVF rather than a pentaprism. No offense.”

  I stifled a smile, thinking it was hard to be offended when I didn’t even know what he was talking about.

  “Does your mom have a camera?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t get it. Mennonites take pictures.”

  “We don’t.”

  I snapped his photo. He smiled, his brown eyes barely showing under his bangs. He was a natural, putting his hands in his pockets and turning his head toward me with a slight hint of a smile. I took another photo.

  “Can I try it?” He hopped down.

  “Sure.” I handed it to him and looped the strap over his neck. He took a couple of shots of the underside of the tree canopy and then a couple of me. I hammed it up, leaning against the trunk as if posing for a portrait.

  “How do I look at what I’ve taken?” he asked, and I realized that for all of his big words, he possessed mere knowledge, not practical experience.

  I clicked the view button and showed him how to flip through the photos. He kept going past his and on to the ones I’d taken of Lancaster County. “Wow.”

  I looked over his shoulder. He’d landed on a photo of the back of an Amish man plowing his field, the hooves and backs of his four mules partially blurred with the movement. I’d taken it with my zoom a good hundred yards away.

  I couldn’t fathom living life without a cam
era. “How about when you went to Ethiopia? Didn’t you have a camera then?”

  He shook his head. “But I remember everything and I wrote it all down. All about the people, the little kids, the food, the cities, the countryside, the colors, the textures. I won’t ever forget it.”

  Was that why I took photos? Because I didn’t want to forget? Did I feel forgotten because there weren’t any photos of me as a baby?

  “What do you want to do when you grow up?”

  He shrugged and handed the camera back to me.

  “Come on, Zed.” I draped the strap around my neck. “I bet you’re the kind of kid who knows.”

  He smiled.

  “Out with it,” I teased.

  He looked down at his shoes. “Well, I kind of want to make movies.”

  “Movies?” I tried not to sound surprised, certain if cameras were on Marta’s list of “the forbidden” that movies would be too. “Have you ever seen a movie?”

  He blushed. “I’ve seen clips online. And I saw Shrek at a friend’s house when I was little.”

  I kept myself from smiling. “What kind of movies do you want to make?”

  “Movies about people. I have an idea for one set in Ethiopia, about a kid in a camp—”

  My cell began to vibrate in my pocket. I remembered I hadn’t read the one from Sean. I dug out my phone. The immediate one was from Ella: Come get me!

  “Let’s go.” I clicked to the text I’d missed from Sean as I hurried to the car. Dinner tonight? My heart jumped. I’d have to deal with that one later.

  I thanked Zed for coming along as we waited for Ella. He smiled but didn’t say anything. She was coming up the lane, practically running. Behind her a woman operated the pulley that the wash line was attached to. Dresses and pants lurched forward and then back, like puppets in a show. I wondered if the woman could see us because we could see her, but she appeared to be focused exclusively on the laundry in front of her and didn’t turn her face in our direction.

  Ella did run the last hundred feet to the car, glancing over her shoulder one last time as she opened the door.

  She was barely out of breath. I backed out of the lane.

  “It’s the same mansion as the one on the box,” she said. “It’s an illustration with the date 1873 in the corner.”

  “What about the Bible?” I asked, turning onto the highway.

  “I found it in the same place, behind the puzzles. Aunt Klara went out to check on Mammi to see if I could visit.” She paused.

  “And?” I didn’t mean to sound impatient.

  “In front were all sorts of names and the dates for births and deaths.” She turned toward the backseat. “Our names are in there, Zed, and our births.” She giggled. “And Ada’s.”

  “And?” Now I did mean to sound impatient.

  “A girl named Alexandra.”

  “When was she born?” I felt as if I were underwater again and my voice was garbled, the words coming out as bubbles, bobbing to the surface.

  I could barely hear Ella as she gave the birth date, the very same as mine.

  THIRTEEN

  We rode in silence. I slowed for a buggy. A car behind me honked. I ignored them. After a while Ella said, “I think you can pass.”

  I realized the car behind me was long gone and we were on a straight stretch. I sped around the buggy.

  “Are there parents listed for Alexandra?” I was practically whispering. “In the Bible?”

  “No father, just a mother.” Ella looked straight ahead. “Giselle.”

  “Do you know who she is?” I tried to concentrate on my driving.

  “I’ve never heard of her before, but—” she stopped.

  “Ella?” I tried to catch her eye.

  “She’s listed as a sister to Klara and Mom. Their maiden name is Lantz.”

  “We have another aunt?” Zed asked from the backseat.

  Ella ignored him. By his lack of protest, I gathered he was used to it.

  I locked my eyes on the road. Giselle. My birth mother’s name was Giselle. She was a sister to Marta and to Klara. A fifteen-year-old had accomplished in a few minutes what I wouldn’t have been able to do in weeks or months—maybe even years. “Was there a birth date for her?” I was choking on my heart.

  Ella exhaled and then spoke quietly. “Klara was coming in through the back door, so I had to stuff the Bible back behind the puzzles.”

  “Did you see Mammi?” Zed leaned forward.

  She shook her head. “Klara said she was sleeping. She said I should ask Mom anyway about the family history—she knows as much as anyone. She says Mammi isn’t very talkative now.”

  I shivered. Was she dying?

  Even without seeing her grandmother, Ella had done great. “Thank you,” I said, patting her leg. “Have you thought of a career as a detective? Because you’re amazing.”

  Ella smiled, clearly pleased with my praise.

  The sun was setting now, streaking the fading blue sky with lemon yellow, pale lavender, and creamsicle orange. Ahead, a windmill was silhouetted against the scene. My heart lurched. This information challenged everything I’d ever fantasized about my birth family. I glanced down at the Coach purse on the console. My birth mother wasn’t a professional woman living in Philadelphia or Manhattan. She was, most likely, a shunned Amish woman living who knew where. It was as if both she and I, together, had been scrubbed clean from her family. Our family. I shivered.

  I had a friend in middle school who used to say, “God gives us our relatives; we choose our friends.” She came from a big Irish Catholic family and was related to half the county.

  I thought of her saying that now. Never, in my wildest dreams, would I have chosen an Amish family from Lancaster County. But why would an Amish family in Lancaster County not choose me? If my mother couldn’t keep me, why wouldn’t my grandmother? I’d seen how much the Amish loved their children. I couldn’t imagine Alice, and she was a great-grandmother, ever giving up Rachael, Melanie, or Matty when they were babies. I think she would die first.

  “Are you sure you’ve never heard of Giselle?” My voice broke the silence.

  “Never,” she said. “And I’ve never heard of a cousin Alexandra—of you, right?”

  “I think so,” I whispered.

  “How old is your mom?” I asked.

  “Thirty-eight,” Zed answered from the backseat.

  “And your Aunt Klara?” I glanced into the rearview mirror.

  Ella shrugged. “I don’t know. But older, that’s for sure.” She sat up straighter. “I’ll go back and look at the Bible again.” She reached over and touched my hand on the steering wheel. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “Thanks,” I said, choking.

  “So we’re cousins then, right?” Zed’s head was between the seats.

  “Somebody’s slow.” Ella took her hand away from mine, reaching behind her to tousle her brother’s hair.

  “But Mom doesn’t know?” Zed’s voice was full of confusion.

  Neither Ella nor I answered him. Of course Marta knew, but I didn’t want to be the one to confirm Zed’s suspicion about his mother.

  By the time we reached the covered bridge, dusk was falling. I eased onto the wooden slats carefully, releasing my anxiety with a sigh when the car rolled back onto the pavement on the other side. By the time we reached the cottage, though, my angst was gathering steam again, but Marta was nowhere to be found. I marched out to her office, ready to confront the woman whom I now knew was my aunt.

  “You’re right,” she said, calmly, after my rant. “I am your biological aunt. We share some of the same DNA. That’s all.” She sat at her desk. “I am very sorry that you came out here to find this out. I did my best to stop you once I suspected who you were.” She looked up at me. “I was told, all those years ago, that your adoptive parents had renamed you. Clearly they didn’t, and that caught me off guard.”

  “Please tell me what you know,” I begged.

  “There
’s nothing to tell. I haven’t seen Giselle in over two decades. I haven’t had a letter. Not even a postcard.”

  “And no one else has heard from her?”

  She shrugged. “That’s not really my business to tell.”

  I stared at her.

  “Alexandra,” she said. I shivered. It was the first time she’d called me by my full name, and the way she said it sounded as if she’d said it before. “Some things are better left alone,” she added.

  I crossed my arms. “I would like to meet my—” I stopped, about to say “grandmother,” but instead I used the more familiar term, mostly to see how it would feel on my tongue, but perhaps also to get a rise out of Marta. “Mammi. I want to meet Mammi.”

  Marta winced. Bull’s-eye.

  “And Klara,” I said, feeling emboldened. “And Ada. And even Alexander.”

  She looked as if I were throwing darts at her, aiming at her narrow eyes. “That’s not a good idea,” she finally said. She stood. “We were raised to forgive and forget. It’s offensive to us for you to come rushing in here, asking questions and stirring up the past.”

  I felt as if I’d been slapped.

  She continued. “I don’t know how they do things in Oregon, but this isn’t how we do things here.” Her hands were flat on her desk, and she leaned forward. “I appreciate your help with my practice, but I do not appreciate you involving my children in your schemes.”

  My phone beeped.

  “As far as tomorrow,” Marta said, sinking back down into her chair, “you have four prenatal appointments here in the office in the afternoon. You’ll have the morning off.”

  I didn’t respond. How could she expect me to keep helping her?

  “I have more work to do now,” she said. “Please go.” She folded her arms atop her bare desk.

  As I left, she lowered her head to her arms on the desk. I closed the door and stood for a moment in the darkness. The evening breeze whispered through the pine trees. A car whizzed by on the road. I thought I could hear the sound of the creek down the hill where it rushed under the bridge. Was the last sound, the one I couldn’t quite identify, Marta’s muffled crying behind the door?

  The new text was from Sean, asking about dinner again. I walked over to the pine trees and stopped at the base of the largest in the small grove. I couldn’t handle Sean and dinner, not tonight.