The Midwife

by Jolina Petersheim

  “Beth?”

  My entire body bolted with shock. I pivoted and saw Dr. Thomas Fitzpatrick walking out of the garage toward me. Thom stopped two yards away and folded his arms. He looked different than I remembered. In yesterday’s panic, I had not noticed that everything about him had been manipulated by the nondiscriminatory seamstress of aging. His jaw and abs were loosened; his hairline taken in. Stitches of anxiety were sewn around his eyes and mouth. Perhaps he actually regretted his willingness to cast away the child he thought was defective. But looking at the determined set of his mouth, I knew that he was now making up for lost time.

  “Meredith doesn’t know you’re here,” he said. “So you have to make this quick.”

  I gripped my elbows, acid burning my throat. “Meredith’s not here?” I asked. “Is she at work? Are you telling me you took Hope yesterday, and Meredith’s already back to putting her job before my daughter’s life?”

  “She’s not your daughter,” Thom snapped, all mercy gone. “You need to get that straight. I let you come, but you are not welcome. You will never be welcome. And if you show up again . . .” Thom pinched his hands beneath his arms and looked up. The green flecks in his eyes blazed with wrath, revulsion. “If you come back here again, I swear . . . we’ll get a restraining order.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I’d thought Thomas Fitzpatrick was a docile man browbeaten by his wife. But he wasn’t. His charming, absent-minded professor persona was as much of a subterfuge as my alias and Plain clothes. Now he wanted to discard me when I had provided him with his final pawn and all the pieces of his chess game were back in one place. I looked down at the driveway piebald with my footsteps and comprehended that I would be retracing the pattern with my arms as empty as when I’d come. Perhaps I’d know this all along. Tears glittered in my periphery, but I was too defeated to cry. “Can I at least see her like you promised?”

  Thom didn’t say anything, and then acquiesced. “Just a second,” he said. “Wait here.”

  Snowflakes drifted up behind his shoes as he plodded up the front steps and entered through the doorway. How had I ended up like this, starved for any breadcrumbs Thom would throw my way? How had we ended up like this? In him, I saw no traces of the man whose kindness had garnered my affection. Or had motherhood changed me—my rebirth giving me new eyes in which to judge people’s character and understand their true forms?

  I looked up when someone rapped sharply on the window. Heart thudding, I inched closer to the glowing panels of sunroom glass until the light shifted and I could see inside. All the blinds were pulled down except for one. Thom was standing in its view with Hope bunched against his chest. Her knees were drawn up, thumb corked, diapered bottom jutting in the air. She didn’t even know I was gone. This revelation brought both relief and a frantic ache.

  With one hand, Thom awkwardly clicked the latches on top of the window and slid it up. Then he removed the screen. “I don’t want to take her out in the cold,” he explained. But I knew from the possessive way Thom held Hope that he could see the desperation in my eyes.

  I stepped up to the ledge and breached an invisible barrier to stroke my daughter’s hand for what could be the very last time. I had won the fight for Hope’s life. But the battle I wanted to wage for custody of her now was lost before it could even begin. How could I possibly let her go? How could a few months of memories sustain a lifetime otherwise spent in regret?

  My wind-chapped face burned as tears dripped and melted the snow beneath my feet. And even then, I knew the grains of this child’s ephemeral infant life were slipping through both mine and the Fitzpatricks’ hands. I closed my eyes as revelation struck: if no one had ever uncovered what I’d done and my life with Hope continued undisturbed, I would have still raised her, loved her, only to be forced to let her go and live her own life once she was grown.

  Oh, the exquisite ache of adoring someone you cannot fully have.

  I leaned forward and pressed Hope’s hand to my chest, trying to brand my heart with the weight and scent and warmth of her being. Closing my eyes, I tried memorizing her scent that would soon be replaced with theirs. Stifling a sob, I held my daughter. But then . . . gradually I opened my hands.

  “I know you won’t . . . tell her about me,” I said to Thom, though my words were halted with sobs. “But will you at least . . . tell her that she was wanted, always?”

  In the beat before his reply, I heard a dog bark somewhere in the neighborhood. Then Thom murmured, “I will.”

  Dashing tears from my eyes, I stared at Hope’s sleeping form once more and then turned, stumbling down the icy drive. When I looked back, the window was shut, the blind already closed tight against me. Though my daughter was only a few yards away in proximity, in my heart I knew that she was truly gone. Taking all hope of redemption with her.

  Amelia, 2014

  My stomach queasy, I rest my forehead on the table and listen to the two youngest Risser kids, Mary and Benjamin, slurp cheese sandwiches they first made soggy by soaking them in beef rice soup and covering them with apple sauce sprinkled with cinnamon. I haven’t touched one bite. I dare to look up only after everything’s quiet except for in the bedroom, where Alvin’s death rattle has slowed to one nerve-racking gasp. The older Risser kids—Lydie, Henry, and Ruth—remain at the table with their backs straight and light supper not eaten. Henry and Ruth stare at their hands; Lydie stares at the farming calendar on the opposite wall.

  Then Rebecca Risser comes out of the bedroom and stands before her family. She smiles, but her hazel eyes are wet with tears. “Kumm, kinner,” she murmurs. “It’s time.” Mary scrambles off the bench seat and buries her face in the skirt of her mom’s dress, clinging to the gathers without even crying. “You come too,” Rebecca says to me, like she knows I’m not sure what I should do. “This is no time to be alone.”

  So from oldest to youngest, Alvin’s kids quietly circle their dad’s sickbed. Even five-year-old Benjamin doesn’t flinch. Having never seen even Grandma Sarah’s death, I remain near the door, knowing that I am out of place but not wanting to seem rude by turning away. Somehow, the news about Alvin must spread because the whole first floor begins filling up with members of Split Rock Old Order Mennonite Community. Moms carry babies, whose chubby legs are pretzeled around their mothers’ hips. Toddlers nod off while sitting on top of their dads’ shoulders. Two sulky teenage boys stand near a corner, making it obvious that they don’t like this reminder of death when their lives are just starting. They remind me of the selfish girl I was just two months ago and who I hope to leave behind when I leave here. After everyone’s settled, the families stand in groups and begin to harmonize lyrics that touch my heart, though they are sung in a language I can’t understand.

  I glance across the mattress and see Lydie Risser, haloed by an oil lamp burning on a nightstand beside the bed. My sixteen-year-old friend sits on the edge of the quilt, an old Bible perched on her low, round belly. The book’s titled spine glints in the darkness, and I see that it’s written in German. Lydie catches me looking at it. Her smile cuts through the darkness, revealing a strength I don’t think I could have if I were in her shoes. Lydie wipes tears as she looks down at her dad, who is swollen and yellow with jaundice. Seconds pass without the breath everyone strains to hear. Lydie’s uncle Titus takes out a pocket watch and cracks the dull gold case, tracking time with a device his brother-in-law will soon no longer need.

  And then Alvin inhales again, the rattle jolting us as much as the silence.

  Lydie takes her dad’s hand. “Go, Dawdy,” she says, kissing his knuckles. “Go with Gott.” Alvin’s spirit seems to listen, though his body has long shut down. The breath shudders through his body and then stops as effortlessly as I imagine it began.

  The Risser girls’ bedroom door opens. I sit up on the mattress and see Lydie’s outline stretching across the floor, lit up by the oil lamp she carries. From where I sit, you would never guess that she’s about to give birth.


  “You okay?” I ask.

  Lydie draws the lamp up to her chest, the globe tucked beneath her chin. The flame haunts her glance at Mary and Ruth, asleep in a double bed right next to mine. But Lydie’s young sisters are curled together like those Russian dolls—their long blonde and brunette hair covering the decorated pillowcase, their bodies adjusting to each other’s movements even in sleep. Lydie turns the lamp’s wick down and walks over to the dresser along the left-hand wall. I can smell her homemade verbena shampoo. Her wet feet leave prints in the lamplight.

  Careful, Lydie pulls out a drawer and pleats the fabric of another dress before smoothing it again. “Mamm and I just finished preparing my vadder,” she whispers. “I took a bath to help me sleep . . . , but I don’t think I can.” Closing the drawer, Lydie holds the knob. Her lips grow thin. She closes her eyes, and then breathes out. “Will you come outside with me?” she asks, and reaches out a hand.

  I can’t say no.

  Downstairs, Uncle Titus sits in a kitchen chair beside the simple pine casket, like a guard. He greets us with a stiff tip of his chin but keeps his arms crossed over his coarse black beard that trails down his shirtfront. His booted feet are like tree roots planted in the seams of the hardwood floor. The casket lid is off, and I can see the careful fold of Alvin Risser’s large, lifeless hands that are the same size as his brother Titus’s. Lydie touches my elbow. Holding back a shiver, I follow her outside. Lydie pulls her damp hair over one shoulder and sinks onto the concrete slab of the porch. She draws her knees up as far as her stomach will allow. I sit beside her. A damp summer breeze sweeps over the lawn. A bird cries in the distance.

  “A loon?” I ask.

  But Lydie doesn’t answer. She instead lifts her face to the night sky clouded with stars and says, “When my vadder was first ill, he would go to a clinic in Knoxville. My mudder would go with him, but sometimes she couldn’t if one of the kinner was sick. So I was sent in her place. I had already finished eighth grade, and I was expected to help the familye. I did not mind. I liked getting away and seeing the city. While Dawdy went through dialysis, I would sit and read to him. Or we’d play Dutch Blitz. I really enjoyed that time.

  “I did not go often, but whenever I did, I began looking forward to the jokes the driver would tell during the trip, the way he would always bring crossword puzzles to keep me occupied. I was young.” Lydie sighs, as if sixteen is old. “I was so young. I smiled at the driver, and I laughed. I guess I shouldn’t have, but I just didn’t know better. . . .”

  Lydie pauses, swallows hard before continuing. “The first time he touched me, he just took my hand. We were crossing the street to McDonald’s while my vadder was finishing dialysis. I didn’t even flinch. His hand in mine felt like the most natural thing in the world. I remember the chill in the air, how my fingers felt so small compared to his; a helicopter hovering overhead that was getting ready to land on the hospital roof.

  “I felt so guilty afterward—even for just letting him hold my hand. But I still looked forward to those outings to Knoxville because secretly I hoped that something like that would happen again. And it did. Somehow it always did. He would give me a hug, or tug on my braids, or smile in a way that made me scared and excited all at the same time. He began to come to Split Rock more often. He would always pick up produce or jams or baked goods or quilts and peddle everything around to the Nashville and Knoxville farmer’s markets. But no matter what, he would always stop and see me. Only me. My heart thrilled whenever he would come around. So you see . . . you see, he was not the only one in the wrong.”

  My mind scrambles to slide the puzzle pieces of Lydie’s life into place. Then she looks at me and continues speaking, and I know that I can’t use this time to uncover the mystery, but just listen to the pain behind her words.

  “Around this time, the driver told my mudder that he could no longer take my vadder to dialysis. That she had to hire this woman in Blackbrier to do it, and so my mudder did. She called the number that the driver provided and told the woman the situation. And so, while my parents were in Knoxville trying to keep my dawdy alive, the driver would park behind the bakery and walk through the cornfield over to our house. It happened slowly, gradually. He still brought me gifts; he still complimented me and told me I . . . I was beautiful. I was only fifteen, Amelia,” Lydie murmurs, her voice thick. “Nobody had ever really seen me before. Nobody had ever told me I was beautiful. The words were like magic, making me forget everything but the hunger to hear them again.”

  “And so, when Henry, Ruth, and Mary were off at school and Benjamin was down for a nap, the driver would come to our house and for a handful of compliments or a beaded bracelet, I would let him do with me whatever he wanted.”

  For a second, Lydie cradles her cheeks, but then drops her hands and straightens her spine. She again lifts her face up to the stars, like she’s seeking wisdom or forgiveness. “I did not understand, Amelia. I didn’t. I was naive, trusting. I had been around a farm all my life but . . . but didn’t know the ways between a woman and a man. I found out I was pregnant because my monthly flow stopped. I didn’t understand what was happening, but the driver suspected. He told me he knew of a place where I could go and stay until after the bobbel’s birth. He said that if my parents found out what had happened, they would be so—” she looks down—“ashamed.”

  “So I did what he told me to do. I . . . I packed up a small cloth bag with everything I could take, and one afternoon the driver picked me up and brought me to Hopen Haus. I don’t know how my parents found out where I was; I don’t know how they knew enough to send me that letter. But somehow they did, and now it is too late to tell my vadder what happened. Too late to explain that I was as trusting as a child, and so I had become pregnant with a child myself.”

  Far off, the strange bird continues its cry. Lydie presses a hand over her mouth and jackknifes her body to keep from making noise. I reach out and pause, my fingers flexed with uncertainty, and then place that hand on Lydie’s back. Turning, she puts her head on my lap—just as I had wished to rest on hers—and sobs. I look up at the overturned bowl of sky. Tears stream down my cheeks as I pray for my friend. And though the communion is as new to me as the hymns the congregation sang while Alvin Risser’s soul passed from the earth, I can sense that somewhere a Father sees our orphan state—and is listening.

  I plod up the church steps in my sandals and enter the left side of the two side-by-side doors—trying to stoop slightly so the cape dress Lydie let me borrow hits below my knees. If the church members are shocked by an Englischer attending an Old Order Mennonite funeral, they don’t show it by turning around to look. Or maybe they’re too focused on pregnant Lydie, who’s sitting up front with the rest of the Risser family. I take a seat in the back and look at the pine casket displayed on the scarred pine floor next to the podium. The family’s already finished viewing Alvin, so the coffin lid is nailed closed. Morning light pours in through the four windows, bleaching the community’s dreary wardrobe of black, off-white, and gray.

  As kids from another family file into the pew next to me, Uncle Titus rises and takes out a shiny little flute. The congregation, in perfect unison, frees books from the back slats of pews and stands. I grab one just for show, since I can’t read the hymnal’s words, but remain seated. Thousands of musty pages flutter as dust fills the warm, sunlit air. Uncle Titus selects the key on the flute, and the harmony begins. The song sounds similar to one sung at Alvin’s deathbed last night.

  While they sing, I peer across the aisle toward the men. In the second-to-last pew, I spot Wilbur Byler, who’s also sitting but whose brick-red work coat stands out like a kinged checker piece against the backdrop of plain black suits. Wilbur’s hair is combed, and his unhealthy jowls glisten with aftershave. I have a hard time dragging my eyes away, even after Wilbur meets my gaze. Nervousness shoots down my spine. I face the casket again, my cheeks burning and my pulse slamming in my ears. I remember the depression that assault
ed Lydie after Wilbur visited Hopen Haus. I remember the argument that Uriah and Wilbur had out in the springhouse. Was Wilbur so mad because Uriah had told him that he knew the truth? Do I know the truth as well? I want to shriek out my accusation over the community’s harmony. And yet I can’t. This is the Rissers’ time of mourning, and I must respect that. But now that I suspect who fathered Lydie’s child, it’s time to make things right. I am not some naive country girl Wilbur Byler can also take advantage of. He is going to confess to me what he’s done and then pay the consequences for his actions.

  18

  Rhoda, 2014

  One day before Terese Cullum’s pregnancy is declared full-term, and her blood pressure’s nearly perfect. Her swelling has abated to the point she can wear her chunky turquoise rings and braided ankle bracelets without the threat of them cutting off her circulation. The pH strip in the urine sample she left after today’s prenatal appointment shows only a trace amount of protein. If these positive signs continue, Terese should be able to give birth at Hopen Haus without us midwives having to worry about the preeclampsia symptoms she had less than a month ago.

  I fill out Terese’s OB record card, so giddy with relief that I have to battle the inclination to doodle a heart over the three letter i’s: Visit date 8/1; WT 138; BP 124/82; Urine PG tr/-; FH 36; FH 156; EGA 36 wks, 6 days.

  I tuck the small pink card into Terese’s folder and pull open the middle drawer of the cabinet. Filing it in the back next to Marie Warren’s folder, whose Hopen Haus daughter must be in kindergarten by now, I hear a knock. I roll the drawer closed and cross the examining room. Uriah Rippentoe is standing on the other side of the door with his battered straw hat in his hands, pulling out loose strands and dropping them mindlessly at his feet.