The Amish Midwife

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “I’m parked over here.”

  As the three of us made our way toward my car, several of the girls I’d seen earlier called out Ezra’s name. “Come on,” one of them said. “We’re not drunk like your little friend. You can still have some fun tonight.” Several of them giggled.

  Ezra didn’t respond but kept his arm tightly around Ella’s shoulder. When we reached my car, he opened the door and helped Ella inside. “I’ll follow behind you,” he said.

  “No,” I said, annoyed. “Wait until you’re okay to drive.”

  “I only had one beer,” he said. “Hours ago.”

  I tilted my head. “Well, you can’t come in the house.”

  He nodded. “I just want to make sure you get her safely home.”

  As I left the field and bumped back onto the main road, Ella muttered that she was sorry. “I don’t know what happened.” Her words were slurred.

  I didn’t answer. In a minute a single headlight was behind me as we jolted up the rutted road. By the time I reached the highway, Ella was saying she didn’t feel well. I pulled over to the side of the road and Ezra stopped behind me.

  As Ella staggered to the bushes with his help, I debated taking her into the ER. I had no idea if Marta had medical insurance. Probably not, but alcohol poisoning was nothing to mess with. It was a good thing she was throwing up, but she still might need her stomach pumped.

  I looked off to the houses to my left. One of them was Sean’s. He’d worked late tonight. He was still at the hospital at eleven when he’d last texted me. I pulled out my phone and flipped it open to my keyboard. Are you home? Awake?

  He answered immediately. Yes & Yes. What’s up?

  I explained the situation.

  Bring her by, he wrote back. An OB doc and nurse-midwife should be able to figure this out, right?

  Thx. Her Amish boyfriend’s coming too. I winced at my words.

  For the first time since I’d met Ezra, he seemed hesitant as he and I, practically holding our noses, dragged Ella up to Sean’s porch. He had the door wide open before we arrived and guided us down the hall to the bathroom. He looked awfully alert for having worked twenty hours straight. “I’ve actually had more experience with this than I should admit,” he said. “Undergrad school. But like any good doctor, I decided not to just rely on personal experience, so I googled it. How much do you think she had to drink?” he asked Ezra.

  “I’ve seen a lot worse,” he said. “It wasn’t that much, not really. But it hit her fast and hard.”

  We got her to the bathroom, and she sat down on the toilet lid.

  Sean took a look at her eyes and asked her if she’d rather go to the hospital. She shook her head adamantly and then began to cry. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “Why don’t I get her cleaned up?” I said. “Do you have an old pair of sweatpants she could borrow? And a T-shirt. Then we can decide.”

  Helping a drunk undress was never fun, but taking care of Ella was much more bearable than my previous experience when I volunteered at a detox center for community service hours in college. Regardless, I loved her. The emotion didn’t totally surprise me, but pulling her socks off her sweaty feet at one in the morning as I held my breath confirmed my feelings of endearment for her. I had never felt the part of the big sister—as much as I had longed to—but tonight I did.

  As I helped Ella into the warm tub, there was a knock on the door and I opened it a crack. Sean passed through a small stack of clothes without speaking: a pair of sweats, a T-shirt, and sweatshirt, all neatly folded, all smelling freshly laundered with a hint of his cologne. I thanked him and then held them to my nose for just a moment.

  By the time Ella was out of the bath, her long hair combed out, she was feeling better, though completely embarrassed. “I can’t face them,” she said. “Can’t we just run to your car and go home?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ezra must think I’m awful.”

  I found a box of small garbage bags under the sink. “He’s the one who took you to the party.” I dumped her smelly clothes into the bag and knotted the top.

  Her voice trailed off. “But it was my idea…”

  I opened the door to the scent of coffee and Ezra sitting on the floor of the hall, his back against the wall. “How is she?” he asked me.

  “Stupid,” Ella answered before I could, following me into the hall.

  Ezra scrambled to his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” Ella whispered, leaning her head against his chest.

  I kept walking down the hall toward the kitchen, their quiet voices behind me.

  Sean sat at the nook table, his hands wrapped around a cup. He stood and stepped toward the counter, pouring me a cup. “How is she?”

  “Mortified.”

  He smiled. “I remember nights like that.”

  “But you were homeschooled,” I teased.

  He shrugged. “Well, I was pretty wild by college, and then my younger siblings figured things out a whole lot younger.” He hushed as Ella and Ezra came into the room and poured them each a cup.

  We all crowded around the table and stared at each other for a moment. Finally, Ella said to me, “Are you going to tell Mom?”

  “No. You are.”

  She groaned. Sean’s blue eyes lit up over the rim of his cup. I liked that we were a team in this—and I liked it that we made a good one.

  All Ella had for breakfast the next morning was coffee, and I could tell that the sunshine coming through the window hurt her eyes, but besides that it wasn’t obvious she’d been drunk the night before. Marta declined going to church again, saying she didn’t want to be a distraction. I found this odd but didn’t say so.

  As soon as we pulled onto the main highway on our way into town, Ella groaned and closed her eyes. “Never again,” she whispered.

  “Never again what?” Zed asked from the backseat.

  Neither of us answered.

  “What’s going on?” Zed’s face filled the rearview mirror.

  “Nothing,” Ella barked, too loudly.

  I smiled and caught his eye in the mirror. “Later,” I said.

  Esther and David weren’t at church, which didn’t surprise me. Between David’s schoolwork and having a new baby, it was much better for the young family to take it easy than to be pushing themselves. Afterward, Ella didn’t want to stay around and chat, and I didn’t want to answer questions about Marta, answers I wasn’t sure of myself, so we hurried out of the foyer and headed home.

  I’d told Ella that if she hadn’t said anything to her mother about getting drunk by Monday morning, I would. I listened closely Sunday afternoon to their interactions, and from what I could tell, Ella hadn’t uttered a word.

  Sunday evening I sat on the bed in my alcove contemplating my immediate future, including how to tell Marta the next morning about Ella’s drinking. But there were other things I needed to sort out too. How long would I stay in Lancaster? What had happened to my desire to live in Philly? Had all that changed with the discovery that my birth family didn’t live in Montgomery County, that I had merely been born there?

  My ties to Ella and Zed were growing tighter. Both had offered me their rooms, individually, when we’d arrived back home after church. I was touched, but I’d declined. For some reason I liked the alcove. You would think, considering I was an only child, that I wouldn’t be able to tolerate a life without privacy, but I liked being part of a family, being in the middle, hearing everyone’s coming and goings, knowing when Marta got up in the morning and when Ella went to bed at night. The alcove was an in-between place and that’s where I was—in between Portland and Philly, in between Ella and Marta, in between Ada and Klara, and in between Giselle and the truth.

  My cell rang. It was James. Yes, I was in between him and Sean too. I leaned against the wall. After we chatted for a moment, I told him about my trip to Harrisburg and then Norristown, and how I’d felt like a disgruntled adoptee as I searched. “It’s not that
I’m ungrateful toward Mama and Dad.”

  “I know.”

  I told him the rest of the story, and then he asked about Marta, Ella, and Zed. I didn’t tell him about Ella’s escapade the night before, but I did say that I was growing to love my cousins. Then I told him about seeing Ada last Thursday and about how alike we looked, how I was thinking again that Alexander might be my birth father.

  “Wow, Lex. How does that make you feel?”

  “It’s really amazing how much we look alike—”

  James interrupted me. “But how did you feel?”

  I sat up straight on the bed, rolling my eyes for no one but myself. “How was your retreat?” I asked.

  He sighed. “Good, thanks. I’m not sure I want to make troubled youths my future, but I’m learning a lot.” We chatted about his schoolwork for a while longer. He told me he was working on a project for his Issues in Counseling Class. “I’m doing it on adoption,” he said.

  “Oh, how’s the orchard?” I asked, desperate to change the subject, once again. “Sophie said you’d done some work out there. Isn’t the caretaker keeping up with things?”

  “I like it down there, that’s all.”

  “Even though you have so many other things going on…”

  “Even though—Hey, there was a Realtor snooping around.”

  “Darci?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” He paused. “Yep, she gave me her card. Who told her she could—”

  “I did. I talked with her before I left.” I inched across the bed until my feet were on the floor.

  “You’re thinking about selling?”

  “Maybe,” I answered. Honestly, I was thinking about it more and more.

  “Well, she sounded like she might have someone who is interested in looking at the place.”

  “Really? She hasn’t called me.”

  “They’re from California—and coming up this week.”

  “Oh.” I stood, stepping to the window and bending down to look out into the darkness, imagining my orchard.

  “What are you going to do about Ada? And Alexander?”

  I had been thinking about asking Ada to take a DNA test, but I wasn’t going to tell James that. “I don’t know.”

  “Does it make you feel—”

  “Hey, I’ve got to go,” I said.

  “Lex.”

  “I’ll call soon.”

  His voice sounded raw as he said goodbye.

  That night I dreamed about the orchard. People were hiding behind the trees. Dad. Ada. Mama. James. Ella. I knew they were there but I couldn’t see their faces. Others too, but I had no idea who they were. Just nameless figures partially attached to the brim of a hat, the hem of a dress, the tie of a cap blown out from behind a trunk. Sean was there too, leaning against a tree. I could see his face, and then he turned around and started walking off, toward Baltimore.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Monday morning, after Ella left for school, her hair tucked behind her cap and her long-sleeved dress buttoned to her chin, I told Marta I needed to talk with her.

  “Is this about Ella?” She stood at the kitchen sink, a dishtowel over her shoulder.

  I nodded.

  “And her night of drinking?”

  I nodded again, my eyes wide.

  “She told me last night,” Marta said. “I’m going to catch up on some paperwork in the office.” That was it. I asked Marta, before she dashed out the door, if she could reschedule Wednesday morning’s appointments to Thursday, which was a light day. She nodded but didn’t ask me why.

  Ella and Marta seemed to get along fine both Monday and Tuesday. They were polite and cordial. Marta was a little bit more affectionate than normal, patting Ella’s shoulder a couple of times. I saw Ella texting someone, but there was no indication whom she was in contact with. On Tuesday evening Marta took a meal to Esther and David, and Ella and Zed went with her. I declined to go. They weren’t gone long, and when they returned home, Marta said that little Caroline had a cold and had been fussy. She said Esther was exhausted and Simon was out of sorts.

  I kept expecting Ella to slip out of the house, kept listening for the roar of Ezra’s motorcycle to interrupt the night, but neither happened.

  Zed kept giving me updates, telling me he hadn’t heard back from the man in Switzerland. He seemed to be as anxious about the whole thing as I was.

  It took forever for Wednesday morning to arrive, but finally it did and I was out of the cottage before Zed and Ella had left for school, going by the Morning Mug first to spend some time on my laptop. There still weren’t any responses to my posting. I considered joining an online support group so I could lament with other adoptees, but I decided it would be pointless right now because I didn’t have much time to post or comment anyway, not to mention my Internet access at Marta’s was minimal. I caught up on the news, bouncing between CNN and the BBC. I jumped over to the Oregonian website for the news in Oregon. It had been raining every day, which was no surprise. I imagined how green the trees and hillsides would be. The rhododendrons would be blossoming. Soon the roses in Washington Park, within walking distance of my apartment, would be budding too. I logged off with a sigh, feeling homeless, and took my coffee with me. It was eight forty-five. Klara should have left by now.

  A buggy turned away from me as I neared Ada’s house. Two figures were in it—I hoped both Klara and Alexander. They were running late. I pulled to the side of the road so they wouldn’t see me and watched them proceed down the road, assuming if they had spotted me they would have come back to investigate.

  When the buggy was out of sight, I turned down the lane. Ada was waiting for me on the front porch. She waved as I parked and stepped out to meet me. “I talked with Mamm and Daed about you. Mamm thinks you’re ‘questionable’ and a little ‘unstable.’” Ada smiled. “That’s what she said anyway. Daed didn’t say a thing. But Mamm didn’t forbid you from coming here. She just told me not to believe everything you say.”

  I rolled my eyes. Klara was awfully clever, proposing I was a psych case.

  “Do you want to see Mammi?” Ada asked. Clearly she wasn’t taking her mother’s opinions too seriously.

  “Yes,” I responded, closing the door to the car. “But I was hoping to look in the family Bible too.”

  Ada wrinkled her nose. “We don’t have one.”

  “Ella said you did.”

  “Really?” Ada shrugged. “Ella would probably know. Did she say where it is?”

  “On the bookcase in the living room, behind the puzzles.”

  A minute later I had it in my hands, leafing through the first few pages and stopping at the list of births. I skimmed down the names quickly, zeroing in on Giselle, Klara, and Marta. According to the birth date listed here, Giselle would have been nineteen when I was born.

  The space for listing her spouse had been left blank, as had—contrary to what Ella had said—the space for her offspring. Looking more closely, I realized that wasn’t exactly true. Something had been written in the offspring section but had since been whited-out. My frustration mounting, I shifted my attention to her sisters. Beside Klara was her husband, Alexander, and under them their daughter, Ada; beside Marta was Frederick, and under them Ella and Zed. Taking it in, the whole list looked like one big happy family—well, one big happy family and one tiny swipe of White-Out, obliterating an entire person.

  Fighting back tears, I held up the page against the light from the window and was relieved to see my name there, under the correction fluid, clear as day. I told myself they could try to hide my name all they wanted, but they would never be able to hide the truth. I showed my discovery to Ada, hoping it was proof enough that I wasn’t the unstable one in this bunch, not by a long shot.

  Ada stepped closer. “Who is Giselle?” she asked.

  “Your aunt. My birth mother.”

  “What happened to her?”

  I closed the Bible. “I have no idea. I’m hoping Mammi can tell us.”

 
Ada took the Bible from me and slipped it into place and then stacked the puzzles in front of it again.

  As we opened the door to Mammi’s and stepped inside, she turned her attention toward us immediately. The same quilt was spread across her lap, and she wore a white gown and a cap on her head. Her faded blue eyes lit up and she smiled. “Ada,” she said, her voice soft.

  “Mammi.” Ada took two quick steps to her side. “This is Lexie,” she said. “She’s my cousin.”

  “Your cousin? How nice.” Mammi gave me a warm smile and a nod. “Lexie, you say? Let’s see, I don’t think I remember anyone in the family by that name. You must be from another settlement. Who is your father, dear?”

  That’s what I’d like you to tell me.

  “Um…” I faltered, shaking my head, realizing that she didn’t understand, not at all. “You might remember me better by my full name,” I said finally. “Alexandra.”

  It took a moment, but then the old woman’s eyes grew wide and her mouth moved. No words came out. She reached for my hand and I extended it, transfixed by the paper-thin skin. For the first time in my life, I looked at someone else’s body part—a hand—and wondered if mine would look like that some day. When she turned toward me, I could see that the left side of her face drooped a little. She squeezed my fingers and struggled to sit up more in her chair. “Alexandra?” she whispered.

  A lump wedged in my throat. I couldn’t speak but nodded, hoping she could see me.

  “Alexandra?” This time her voice was louder.

  “Yes,” I managed to say.

  “You came back.” Her grip was surprisingly strong.

  “To find you,” I said. “And the rest of my birth family.”

  “Oh, dear.” She let go of my hand and tried to push herself up further into a sitting position in the chair. “Ada?”

  “I’ll help.” I pushed the lever for the recliner down and then stepped in front of her, put my hands under her arms, and lifted her straight. Ada went behind her to take the pillow out from under her head, and then I put the chair back into a reclining position but not as far.