The Amish Midwife

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Did your mom tell you I’m adopted?”

  “Of course not.” Ella held her hands up as if she’d just proved her point.

  “I’m from Oregon, but I was born in Pennsylvania.”

  “And you’ve come to find your birth family?” Ella’s eyes brightened.

  “Partly,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.

  “That’s what I would do. I’m always telling Zed I’ll help him find his birth family, but he’s not interested.” Ella tugged on the ribbons of her bonnet. “I could help you.”

  My heart lifted. “We’ll see.” I didn’t want to sound too enthusiastic about what I’d been fishing for all along.

  “Where would we start?”

  “The house on the carved box. Do you remember where you saw it before?”

  She clasped her hands together. “It was a long time ago.”

  “And?” I prompted her.

  “I’m not sure now. It may have been a picture that I saw.”

  “Oh.” I’d been thinking she’d seen the actual house. Maybe Marta was right about Ella being fanciful.

  She nodded. A pigeon flew down from the rafters of the bridge and I startled. Ella laughed.

  “Tell me more about your aunt and uncle,” I said, trying to keep her talking, hoping she would be more forthcoming than her mother had been.

  “Klara and Alexander?”

  My head jerked to attention. “Alexander?” I whispered.

  She nodded.

  His name was Alexander. My name was Alexandra. Could there be a connection between our names, between us?

  “I’d like to go see them,” I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. Suddenly, I felt cold inside.

  Ella shook her head. “My cousin and Mammi have been sick. Besides, if you think Mom is closed mouth, you should see my Aunt Klara. She hardly opens her lips to say hello, let alone talk about anything important.”

  “What about your Uncle Alexander. What is he like?”

  “Nice, but he pretty much defers to Aunt Klara. Everyone’s afraid of her.” Ella paused. “Except Mom’s not. And I guess I’m not really either.” She poked her head farther over the rail and then said, “We should head back. I still need to make dinner.”

  As we stepped off the bridge and back onto the pavement, Ella asked, “What do you know about your birth family?”

  “Nothing,” I answered. “The box is all I have. And a letter written in German.”

  “No birth certificate?”

  “Just my Oregon one.”

  “Your adoptive parents never gave you any more information?”

  I shook my head. “There’s just one more thing I’ve been told.” I paused. Did I have any right to bring Ella into this further?

  “Which is?”

  We were on the shoulder of the lane and a big pickup truck rounded the corner toward us. We both leaped to the side.

  “Lexie?” Ella looked straight at me.

  “A friend in Oregon thinks your mom knows my biological family.” I exhaled slowly. “In fact, this friend Sophie thinks your mom might even be related to me.”

  Ella grabbed my hand and squeezed it as we stepped back onto the lane. “Really?”

  I nodded.

  She put her hand to her mouth.

  “What?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just that—” She dropped my hand. “I think I know where to start.” She started running, her black shoes slapping against the asphalt.

  “Ella!” I called out, following her. “Wait!” I didn’t want her confronting her mother. I wanted to be the one to do that. But though I was in good shape, I was no match for this fifteen-year-old wearing a dress and bonnet, flying up the hill.

  TEN

  I muttered “Alexandra and Alexander” as I came through the door. Was Ella’s uncle my father? If so, and if he had sired me out of wedlock, that could explain Marta’s determination not to answer any of my questions.

  Not my place to talk about it indeed.

  I heard voices upstairs but couldn’t make out the words. Zed was still on the computer. “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Fine.” He met my gaze for half a second and then turned away.

  I sat down on the sofa in the living room, feeling that I should go pack my things—surely Marta had found someone else to help her—but I didn’t want to go upstairs. A few minutes later Marta called down the stairs. “Zed, go feed the chickens.”

  He bounded right up and hurried out the back door.

  Marta started down the stairs, followed by Ella. “You had no right,” she said, her hazel eyes piercing through me, “to share your desires to find your birth family with my daughter.”

  I stood and held up both hands, wishing she would calm down and wondering how to make her understand that I was willing to do whatever it would take to get to the truth.

  “Ella says she has an uncle named Alexander,” I explained evenly. “My name is Alexandra.”

  Marta took the last step. “And you think the similarity between your name and his are more than coincidental?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re being fanciful and you are setting a bad example for my children.” She stood a foot from me now.

  Ella stepped out from behind her mother and said, “But Lexie has a right—”

  “Right?” Marta turned toward her daughter. “Is this what they teach you in public school? Rights instead of respect? Questioning instead of trusting?” Her intensity landed on me again. “Lexie, please tell me, did you have parents who loved you?”

  I nodded.

  “And cared for you?”

  I nodded again.

  “And raised you to know the Lord?”

  I nodded a third time.

  “And it seems as if they recognized your gifts and encouraged your education and dreams.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then why are you here?” she asked.

  “B-because,” I stammered, “I want my story.”

  Her eyes drilled me as she exhaled. Then she stepped past me, brushing my arm as she did.

  I stood in the middle of the living room, feeling both guilty and frustrated. Ella collapsed onto the bottom stair.

  Marta was in the kitchen now. I heard a pot bang against the stove and the water run. Then the phone rang once.

  I sank down onto the sofa and listened to the snippets of conversation I could make out.

  “How far apart are the contractions?” Then, “Oh, dear.” A minute later, she said, “I’m sending my assistant.”

  I groaned.

  In no time Marta was standing over me. “I have a mother in labor. And she’s a month early.”

  “And?”

  “And Ella will go with you to show you the way.” She turned toward her daughter, who was still sitting on the bottom step. “Sleep if the labor goes on, though, so you’ll be ready for school tomorrow.”

  Ella nodded.

  “They’ll feed you there,” Marta said to both of us. “I’ll get my bag for you out of the office.” I followed her out the door, heart pounding in sudden anger, wondering if the woman had always been a bully or if that was something she had grown into. Between working the rest of yesterday afternoon and all of today, we both knew that I had already given her the time she’d earned and then some.

  Zed stepped out of the chicken coop and watched as Ella, with her algebra book and notebook in her hand, opened the door of my rental and climbed into the car. Marta rushed out from the office and tried to hand me her bag. Instead of taking it, however, I simply folded my arms across my chest and leaned against the car.

  “Lexie?”

  “Sorry, Marta, but you know very well that the time you earned is up. The good news is that another answer will gain you another day.”

  The woman looked at me aghast, as if I had sprung a second head. I felt a brief flush of shame, disliking myself in this moment almost as much as I disliked her. Behind her, Zed se
emed thrilled, as though he might start snickering.

  “Here, I’ll make it easier for you,” I said. “You choose the question this time. Whatever you want—a name, an address, a memory. Your choice.”

  Our eyes met and held, a game of chicken I would not lose. Finally, slowly, Marta broke our gaze and looked downward, color flushing her cheeks.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  Suddenly I felt guilt well up within me, and I faltered. A mother had gone into labor. I had no right to make her suffer because of my problems. I was just about to give in and take the bag, get in the car, and head out on the call without another word when suddenly Marta again met my eyes and uttered a single word that sounded like “Amielbach.”

  She cleared her throat and tried again. “Fine. When you get back, I will tell you what I know about Amielbach.”

  I wanted to drive my victory home, to say something sharp, such as “See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” But I could see from the expression on her face that it was, indeed, quite hard.

  “Thank you,” I said softly instead, reaching for the bag and taking it from her, feeling humbled.

  Moments later Ella and I were crossing the covered bridge on our way to the Stoltz farm.

  Not only was Sharon Stoltz early, but she was also spotting. I was afraid she had placenta previa, which meant there was no way she should deliver at home. I called 911, and once the ambulance arrived I took a disappointed Ella back to her house and then plugged Lancaster General into my GPS and headed off to meet Sharon and her husband, Levi, at the hospital.

  They were still in the ER when I arrived, and a young doctor was with them. I introduced myself, emphasizing that I was a nurse-midwife, not a lay-midwife as he had probably assumed.

  “And you practice around here?” he asked. He had dark hair, striking blue eyes, and a square chin. He was also tall, much taller than I was.

  I explained I was from Oregon and had been helping Marta Bayer out yesterday and today.

  “Marta Bayer. Isn’t she—”

  “Yes,” I answered before he could finish.

  He reached out his hand and shook mine. “I’m Sean Benson, baby doc,” he said. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Lexie Jaeger, nurse-midwife from Oregon.” His eyes twinkled, and then he turned his attention back to Sharon but still spoke to me. “The EMTs said you thought she had placenta previa, and you were right,” he said. “We’ll transfer her up to maternity. You’re welcome to stay, though in an unofficial capacity, of course. It’s up to you.”

  I searched Sharon’s face. She was twenty-nine and this was her fourth baby, but her first in a hospital. “I’m happy to stay,” I offered.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’d like that.”

  Ten minutes later, all of us, including Sharon in a wheelchair, were in an elevator making its way up to the fourth floor.

  “What brought you to Lancaster County?” Sean asked.

  I explained about the traveling nurse position in Philadelphia, and then I added that Marta and I had a mutual friend who encouraged me to come out and help.

  “So you don’t usually do home births?”

  “No. I work in a level-one trauma hospital in Portland. Emanuel Hospital.” I was actually aware of wanting to impress him. “We get a lot of high-risk deliveries.”

  “Sounds like what we do here.” Sean’s eyes were kind. “Lots of complicated pregnancies and births—but good old-fashioned births too.” He looked at Sharon. “Which is exactly what we’re hoping for you.”

  I knew it wasn’t unheard of for someone with placenta previa to deliver naturally, but I also knew it was unlikely. I helped Sharon get settled, with the help of her nurse, and then started snooping around. The delivery rooms hadn’t been redecorated as recently as Emanuel’s, but they were more than adequate. There were two surgery rooms at the end of the hall, and the nurses’ station was located in the middle. I asked Sharon’s nurse about their stats, and she said that more than thirty-five hundred babies a year were usually delivered at the hospital. She added that the population of the city of Lancaster was fifty thousand. That surprised me. I had thought it was bigger—probably because of the urban feel downtown. Though there were several hospitals in the area, she said that Lancaster General was the biggest.

  “Do many Amish deliver here?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Mostly just emergency cases, like this one.”

  “And what do you think of cases like this—ones that start at home and then end up in the hospital?”

  She looked uncomfortable.

  I smiled. “It’s okay. I really want to know.”

  “Well, I’ve seen too much of what can go wrong to ever have a home birth, I can tell you that.”

  I nodded. I had too. But I’d only seen one home birth client come into Emanuel in all the time I had been working there. The midwife, who was new in her practice, had brought in the mother while she was still in early labor because the baby was breech. I knew that Sophie had delivered plenty of breech babies at home before, but I told the young and far less experienced midwife that she had done the right thing by coming in. A couple of the doctors who were working that night made snide comments about lay-midwives and home births, and I wished I could have protected her from the criticism by handling the patient’s care myself. But unfortunately the mother needed a C-section, and that was the one thing on the OB floor I couldn’t do, although I sometimes assisted.

  Now, I told the nurse I would hang out with Sharon and for her to go ahead and attend to her other patients. I would let her know if we needed her.

  Levi must have just told a joke because as I entered, Sharon was laughing.

  “Where can we get a bed like this?” Levi asked, pushing the switch to make it go up.

  “Not too high,” Sharon commanded.

  He lowered it quickly, grinning from ear to ear.

  Sharon was already hooked up to an IV. She also had a fetal monitor connected by bands to her belly.

  “Will you deliver the baby?” she asked.

  “No, Dr. Benson will. I’m not a provider here. I’m just lending support.”

  The ultrasound technician arrived, and in no time he was waving his magic wand over Sharon’s belly. I peered at the screen. The placenta previa was partial, not full. It would be a close call as to whether she could deliver naturally. I’d probably opt for the C-section.

  Sean stepped into the room just as the technician was finishing. “What do we have?” he asked.

  “Partial,” I answered.

  He looked at the screen. “I think we can proceed,” he said.

  I kept my mouth shut.

  “I’ll be back.” Sean hurried out of the room.

  Sharon had a long contraction after the ultrasound technician wheeled his cart from the room. “It’s hard to be on the bed,” she said when it was over.

  “You can get down. Just stay close to the IV pole and the monitor.”

  After a few more contractions, Levi said he thought he’d go take a “look see” around the hospital if that was all right with Sharon. She nodded her approval. Clearly, neither one of them understood the dire situation. After he left she smiled. “He’s always so curious about how things work. How a building is built. How others do things differently.”

  “Is Levi a farmer?” I sat on the end of the bed and Sharon stood beside it.

  “Ya, he farms and also has a horse shoeing business.”

  “And you?”

  She blushed. “The usual. After all, I’m a wife and a mamm.”

  “Do you sew? Quilt? Can?”

  “Oh, ya,” she said. “I do all of that. And help the children with their schoolwork. And Levi with the branding and shots, and I keep the books for the farm and business.” Another contraction came over her, and she quieted.

  Levi came back a half hour later and then Sean checked on Sharon soon after that. He said that all was going well, and he seemed to be right. The spotting had stopped.
She was still several hours away from delivering. I dozed for a while in the recliner and then after I awoke, Levi took a turn. Sharon had been back on the bed for a couple of hours and was able to doze between contractions.

  At four a.m. she was ten centimeters dilated and had the urge to push. Sean came in right away.

  “It’s your fourth baby, right?” he asked as he scrubbed down.

  “Yes.” Sharon grimaced.

  “Well, chances are you’re almost done.” He scooted the rolling stool to the end of the bed. “Go ahead and push with the next contraction.”

  I didn’t count the baby as number 257 because I didn’t catch him—Sean did. And, again, I didn’t ask to take his photo because I didn’t want to offend Sharon and Levi. But I felt all the emotions of having delivered him as I stood by Sharon’s side and Sean held up the little boy.

  “He’s perfect,” he cooed. His eyes glistened as he suctioned the newborn and then put him on Sharon’s chest as he showed Levi where to cut the cord.

  I covered Sharon and the baby with a warm blanket. Sharon didn’t need any instruction to get the baby nursing as Sean finished up. I wondered if Marta would have called 911. It didn’t matter. I was thankful I hadn’t taken a chance.

  Levi asked if he could use the phone in the room. His younger brother had a cell and could let the extended family, including his parents who were staying with his and Sharon’s older children, know about the new baby.

  An hour and half later, before I left, Sharon said she’d prefer being at home but was going to enjoy every minute of the peace and quiet that she could. Levi said he would have preferred the bill of being home but would concentrate on the healthy baby. He bent down and kissed the little one, who was tucked into the crook of his mother’s arm.

  “How does the hospital bill work for you?” I asked.

  “Oh, it won’t be too bad. We pay into a co-op that will cover most of it—after we pay the first five thousand or so.”

  I wanted to whistle. Five thousand dollars was a lot of money. But without the co-op the cost could ruin a family financially. No wonder the Amish preferred home births. Thankfully, Sharon hadn’t had to have a C-section, which would have been even more expensive. Before I left I took a mental photo of the image of Sharon, Levi, and their baby boy curled up on the bed together. I took in the love between them. Sharon’s trust. Levi’s contentment. The baby’s sweet lips and nearly translucent eyelids. They were almost asleep, which was exactly what I wanted to be doing—until I just about knocked Sean over in the hall.