The Amish Midwife

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Oh, Marta,” she said as if coming out of a daze. “It’s you.” She gestured for us to come into her office. There was no waiting room, just her desk and four folding chairs. Marta and I sat while the woman stood behind her desk. “What can I help you with?” she asked.

  “The order. You were going to see about having it waived,” Marta said.

  “Well.” Connie pawed through a stack of papers on her cluttered desk as she spoke. “I made a few phone calls.” She picked up a document. “The judge won’t lift it. I’m going to file a formal appeal, but don’t hold your breath.”

  “But I’ve done nothing wrong,” Marta said.

  “Yes, yes. And that’s what the grand jury will realize next week.” Connie slipped on a pair of reading glasses and looked at the paper in her hand. She hadn’t made eye contact with Marta since we’d arrived. “In the meantime, you absolutely cannot practice. If you do, you’ll be in contempt of court.”

  “What exactly does not practicing mean?” I asked, glancing at Marta.

  The attorney took off her reading glasses and looked at me and then at Marta. “Whom did you say this is?”

  “A colleague.”

  “Oh. Well, not practicing means not practicing. No exams. No deliveries. No postpartum care. Nada.”

  I glanced at Marta. She was rubbing her forehead with her fingertips.

  “I will call if I can get the judge to lift the order,” Connie said. “In the meantime, no practicing. Have your colleague do all of the care—and I mean all of it. This is a small community, and you know how people talk.”

  Marta slumped against her chair.

  “We should meet again soon. The DA is waiting for the autopsy report before the grand jury meets. By the way, you have the right to testify when they do.”

  “What would be the point?” Marta asked.

  Connie put on her reading glasses again and pulled out a notebook.

  “Exactly. I don’t think it would do any good. I think the testimony from Lydia’s husband will be far more convincing. Especially if the grand jury started asking you a lot of questions.” She opened a notebook. “Let’s see…Friday afternoon is open. Four o’clock. Come see me then.”

  Marta nodded and stood. I joined her. I said, “Nice to meet you,” to the attorney as I followed Marta out the door. She was silent as we descended the staircase. When we reached the sidewalk, I asked her how she found Connie Stanton. The woman hadn’t impressed me at all.

  “One of the men in my congregation arranged it. She’s representing me for free.”

  “Oh,” was all I could manage. Things didn’t look good for Marta. Not at all.

  As she pulled onto the street and then made a quick turn, I silently rehearsed ways to use this situation to my advantage, to force her to tell me what she knew about my birth family. I could threaten to tell the judge that, technically, she’d practiced both last night and this morning. I could go to the local newspaper about her case. I could report her to the state of Pennsylvania.

  When we stopped at a red light, I was distracted from such thoughts when, much to my surprise, a man on the street pointed at us and laughed. The woman with him lifted her camera to her face.

  “What’s up with them?” I asked.

  “They think I’m Amish and find it funny that I’m driving a car.”

  “Does this happen a lot?”

  “Often enough. Some tourists eventually figure out that there’s a difference between the ways Amish and Mennonites dress—like the shape of the head covering, the fabric of the dresses—but obviously not these two.”

  Soon we were passing the row houses again in downtown Lancaster, the clusters of men gathered in front of convenient stores, the old women sitting and smoking on their stoops.

  “Thank you for helping me this afternoon. I appreciate it.” Marta’s words hung in the air between us. When she glanced my way, I thought I could detect a small crack in her armor, a little hint of vulnerability in her expression. “Obviously, though,” she added, “I still need your help.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I know your job in Philadelphia will be starting soon.” When I didn’t reply, she added, “I’d like you to stay. If you won’t, can you at least do the prenatal appointments this afternoon while I make some phone calls to try to find someone else?”

  Avoiding her question for the moment, I asked why some of her prenatal visits were in homes and some in her office.

  “It all depends. I’ll go to the home if it’s a hardship for the mother to come to me. Or if it’s a family I’ve worked with for years. Otherwise, I encourage the women to come to the office.” She drove in silence for a few more minutes and then said, “I can’t pay much—not what you’re worth. And I can’t give you the information you think you want. You’ll understand someday—probably when you’re older—that some things in life are really better left alone.”

  “The people who say that are usually the ones who already have the information they need.”

  “Be that as it may…” she replied, her voice trailing off.

  And with that, we had reached an impasse. Though I was no longer concocting schemes in my head for forcing her hand, there was no way I would do this without the promise of something tangible in return.

  “How about an exchange? I’ll give you one day of help if you’ll answer one question, a new one,” I said. And before she could object, I added, “One that it is your place to say.”

  She waited, unwilling to make that deal until the question itself had been thrown out on the table. Fine. Turning in my seat, I studied her face for a long moment and then spoke.

  “Marta, have you ever seen me before? In person?”

  “What? Of course. Just yesterday—”

  “I’m talking about before. When I was a baby, a newborn. Before I was sent away from my birth family, clear to the other side of the country. Did you ever see me? Did you ever touch my curls or let me wrap my tiny fingers around one of yours or look deep into my eyes and wonder who I might grow up to be?”

  She didn’t answer at first, but the agony that began to contort her features told me what I wanted to know. I had already guessed her age and done the math, realizing that she had been a preteen when I was born—old enough to fall in love with the infant of a sibling or a cousin or a neighbor. Old enough to remember, all these years later, when that infant had been whisked away, never to return.

  “Right now I’m not asking you the name of my mother or father,” I persisted. “I’m not asking you to spill someone else’s deep, dark secrets. All I’m asking is for you to tell me about you. When you were a little girl. Did you ever see me in person?”

  Though we were nearly back to the house by that point, Marta surprised me by putting on her blinker and pulling over to the side of the road. After the car bumped to a halt she put it in park, buried her face in her hands, and quietly wept. Between her problems with work and my persistence in my quest, I realized the poor thing was practically at the breaking point. As tough as she seemed, I had to wonder if she was in danger of being pushed too far, if in fact my presence here had already put more on her than she was capable of handling right now.

  A part of me wanted to reach out to her, to pat her on the shoulder, to tell her never mind, that it was okay, that I would stay and help regardless. But instead I sat perfectly still and waited to see what would happen next. Finally, she dug a tissue from her pocket, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. When she had managed to pull herself together, she sat back against the seat and looked off into the distance, sorrow radiating from her red, swollen eyes.

  “The first time I held you, I counted your toes,” she whispered, which brought on a fresh round of sobs.

  The first time I held you, I counted your toes.

  As she sat next to me and cried, I blinked away tears of my own and tried to let her words sink in. She had known me. She remembered. It wasn’t much, but it was a piece of my story.

  Heart sudden
ly surging with joy, I waited for more, but after she pulled herself together again, she put the car in drive and eased back onto the road. Obviously, that was all she was going to give me for now. I decided that was okay. If nothing else was forthcoming from her right away, I could always try more deliberately later with Ella.

  “Thank you for telling me that,” I said, reaching out to give her arm a squeeze. “In exchange, I believe you just earned yourself one day’s worth of midwifery.”

  The next afternoon, after I finished the last prenatal appointment of the day, I filed the folder into the metal cabinet and then turned my attention to Marta’s desk. There were a couple of handouts on nutrition and exercise that clients hadn’t taken with them. I filed those too and then locked the cabinet, slipping the key into the pocket of my jeans.

  It had rained all afternoon, but as I closed the door to the little office the drops stopped, and a few rays of sunshine streamed down through the pine trees. Marta had instructed me to tell all of her clients that she was taking the day off; that was all I was to say—nothing more and nothing less. It was clear, both yesterday afternoon and today, from the responses of the women, that Marta had never taken a day off before.

  I turned the knob to the front door of the cottage, eased the door open slowly, and stepped inside.

  “Loser.” Ella stood in the archway to the dining room, her left hand making an “L” with her thumb and index finger, scowling at Zed, who sat at the desk, his hands on the keyboard of the computer. “You can’t do this to me. I have homework to do!”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” Zed didn’t look at her as he spoke but kept his gaze ahead on the screen and his hands on the keyboard.

  “I think you’re instant messaging.”

  He turned toward her, his face red. “Yeah, I am, about homework.” He flicked his bangs away from his forehead.

  “I wish mom had never brought you here!” Ella planted hands on her hips.

  I cleared my throat.

  She didn’t budge. “She should have left you in the middle of the road or wherever it was she found you.”

  “Young lady! We do not talk that way in this house!” The voice was Marta’s, shouting from the top of the staircase.

  “I was just kidding.” Ella sounded as though she were eight.

  “Come up here right now.”

  Zed watched Ella retreat and then his gaze fell on me. “I was adopted,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Really?” I never would have guessed. He and Ella looked as much alike as any siblings. She had auburn hair and his was blond, but they both had a slight build and wiry limbs.

  “Really.”

  “Me too,” I told him, nearly tripping over the words. “I was adopted too.”

  His eyes glued to the screen, he merely nodded in reply.

  “Does Ella talk like that often?”

  He shook his head. “She didn’t mean anything.”

  I stepped into the dining room. He was instant messaging. “I have a laptop,” I said. “Any chance I could get online here?”

  “We don’t have wireless. Sorry.”

  I shrugged. “Just thought I’d ask.” I’d be gone before long anyway.

  Ella clomped down the stairs and spun around into the archway, her forefinger and thumb at her forehead again. “I’m grounded from the computer, so now I can’t do my homework at all.” Zed ignored her, and she took a few steps back and grabbed her coat. “I’m going for a walk.”

  The front door banged and she was gone.

  I stepped back into the archway and looked toward the stairs. “What has your mom been doing all afternoon?” I should give her a report about the women.

  Zed still didn’t look up from the screen as he said, “Making phone calls in her room. She said not to disturb her.”

  “Oh.” I turned toward the window. Ella stood under the stand of pine trees. “I think I’ll go for a walk too,” I said, grabbing my jacket. I’d give Marta an update in a little while.

  As the front door closed behind me, Ella turned and scowled. She had a cell phone in her hand and was texting. “Mind if I join you?” I asked.

  She shrugged, flipping the phone shut and putting it in her apron pocket.

  “Are you really going on a walk?” I asked.

  She shrugged again.

  “I’d love a closer look at the covered bridge.”

  She took off, the ties of her bonnet blowing over her shoulder, and her open wool coat flapping with each step. I hurried to catch up with her, trying to come up with a couple of questions to get her talking.

  I wasn’t successful with a conversation starter and defaulted to asking her about school. “What grade are you in?”

  “Tenth.”

  “Is the school close by?”

  She shook her head. I was matching her stride for stride now, thanks to my long legs, along the shoulder of the roadway.

  “It’s about a fifteen-minute bus ride.”

  “And it’s public, right?” I asked as we dashed across the highway.

  She nodded.

  “Are there other Mennonites there?”

  “Some,” she answered.

  I wondered if she felt as conspicuous in her Mennonite garb as I had when I was her age. Today she wore a blue print dress with a pointy collar and cuffs at the end of the sleeves. It was modest and obviously homemade.

  “Do you like to sew?” I asked.

  She shrugged again. “It’s not my favorite thing.”

  “Your clothes—your mom and Zed’s too. Are they hand sewn?” I couldn’t tell if Marta’s dresses were manufactured or not. They had buttons, and her cape was definitely store bought or else made by a good tailor.

  Ella laughed. “No. We buy ready-made when we can. I sewed this for my 4-H class.” She tugged on the skirt of her dress. “Some of the women in our church sew, but we don’t have time. Not with Mom’s work and school and keeping up the place. It’s not like there are a lot of rules or anything. Not at the church we go to.”

  An Amish buggy passed by on the other side of the road. The man driving it gave a little wave and Ella acknowledged him, but I couldn’t tell whether she actually knew him or not. We walked in silence for a few minutes, and then I asked, softly, “How old was Zed when he was adopted?”

  “I shouldn’t have said that.” Ella pursed her lips together. She was practically marching now.

  I kept my mouth shut. The road dipped down a little, and I could see the covered bridge in the distance. I took my camera from my pocket and zoomed in, snapping a photo.

  “He was a baby. I was almost three. I remember when Mom brought him home. He was so tiny. I used to hold his bottle for him.” She paused. “That’s all I know. Everything’s hush-hush around here. You wouldn’t believe what my mom won’t talk about.”

  Yes, Ella, actually I would.

  “Such as?”

  Ella grimaced. “Well, that’s the thing when someone won’t talk. You really have no idea what they’re keeping from you.” She continued. “Everyone thought Mom was crazy for adopting Zed, her being a single mom and all. I think maybe that made her hesitate to talk about things.”

  A sheepish look flashed across her features.

  “What?”

  She laughed. “I guess the less I knew, the less everyone else knew. I was kind of a gabby little girl.”

  I smiled. That wasn’t hard to imagine. “When did your mom become a single mother?” I hoped it was okay for me to ask that.

  “My dad left sometime after she brought Zed home.”

  My heart fell a little. “Oh, Ella. I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  For a fifteen-year-old it was a long time ago. But not for Marta.

  “My mother died when I was eight. I still think about her every day.”

  “That’s just it,” Ella said. “I don’t even remember my dad. For some reason I can remember Zed as a baby, but I have no memories of my father.”

>   I inhaled. That would be so hard. “So he was Mennonite?” I ventured, assuming Marta had married into the faith.

  “Originally, he was Lutheran—something like that. Protestant, anyway. Both Mom and he became Mennonite when they married.”

  “Do you know why he left?” I knew I was pushing, that I probably shouldn’t be asking a teenager such a personal question.

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Oh, you know, Mom said, ‘Life just got to be too much for him.’ Things like that, but I really have no idea.”

  We reached the bridge and walked to the middle over the creaking weathered boards and stopped. The rafters of the bridge were bare too, unlike the whitewashed sides.

  The creek was high and the water flowed around the rocks. Downstream at the bend, on a rise, was an Amish farmhouse.

  Ella kept talking. “I don’t even know my dad’s parents. I’m guessing they’re dead.”

  “How about your mom’s family?” I hoped my voice was steady.

  “I have an aunt and uncle. And a cousin.” She stole a glance at me. “And there’s Mammi.”

  “Mammi?”

  “My grandma. She’s Amish, so we use their word for it.”

  “She’s Amish?” I repeated dumbly. “Your grandmother is Amish?” Was it possible that I had been born into an Amish family?

  “Yeah, Mom grew up Amish too, though she never joined the church. Why? What’s the big deal?”

  “Nothing,” I said, trying not to look so stunned. “It’s just funny that your mom didn’t tell me when we were at the Amish houses.”

  “Well, now you know how little Mom actually says to anyone. She lives in baby land. Nothing else matters.”