The Amish Midwife

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, opening the door. “Let’s try it again. I’ll fix a real meal. And perhaps you’ll be able to stay for the whole thing.” He smiled, but I could tell he was tired. I nodded and hurried to my car. The light rain had turned cold.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The labor turned out to be false, and I was back at Marta’s and in my little bed by two a.m., updating Sean with a quick text. The next morning Marta told me that the one appointment I had that day had been canceled, so I decided finally to go to Harrisburg to see what I could find as far as a copy of my birth certificate. It was a Friday and my best chance at making some more progress on that end.

  I now had two weeks until I needed to report to work in Philadelphia. I was tempted to call and say I needed another month. That way I would leave Lancaster County at the same time Sean did. My mind started racing as I packed my computer and grabbed my purse.

  Once I was in the car, I tapped in the address to the vital records department in Harrisburg in my GPS and was on my way, heading northwest and then zipping through the city of Lancaster and back out into farmland, up Highway 23 through Mount Joy and Elizabethtown, Middletown and Steelton. Finally, I was making my way through the outskirts of Harrisburg, a bustling city built along the Susquehanna River. The capitol grounds were well laid out, and as I circled around, looking for the Health and Welfare Building on Forster Street, I eyed the capitol dome, which looked like something out of Rome when it came into view. Eventually I found a parking place, and in no time I was inside the vital records department on the first floor and stating why I was there to the receptionist.

  “So it’s an adoption search,” she said, peering at me over her reading glasses. She looked as if she had only a minute or two left until she retired.

  “A birth mother search,” I replied. I didn’t need to search to know I was adopted.

  “We don’t handle the birth certificates in those cases,” she said. “They’re sealed.”

  “I know.” I leaned against her desk. “But I know the name of my birth mother. I just want a copy of the original birth certificate.”

  “You’ll have to go to the county where you were born for that,” she said. “Although they won’t give it to you either, most likely.”

  “The county?” All the advice I’d read online had said to go the state vital records department in person. “What about the letter I sent, asking that I be notified if my birth mother tries to find information about me?”

  “It’s filed here.” Her phone rang and she put up one finger. In no time she transferred the call.

  “Is there a vital records department in Montgomery County?” I asked as she hung up.

  “Go to the courthouse in Norristown. But, like I said, they’ll most likely tell you they can’t help you either.”

  It was only a piece of paper, and a copy at that, but it meant so much to me. It meant I existed from the beginning. That there was a reason for my sadness and my grief. That I didn’t just start to live once I was slipped into Mama’s arms. It meant there was proof that the truth was being kept from me.

  “Should I call first?” I asked.

  She peered at me over the rim of her glasses again and then, quietly, said, “If you just show up, you might catch someone off guard. If you call, you’re going to give them time to think about it. Maybe someone who’s not in-the-know will help you.”

  She told me it was about a hundred miles, so I figured it would take me an hour and a half, unless there was traffic.

  She glanced around the lobby and then said, “My kids are adopted. Two boys. One had no desire to find his birth family, but the second one did. I helped him search and search, but we never found a thing. Anyway,” she took off her glasses, “good luck.”

  For a second I had the urge to share my story with her, but then the phone rang again. I mouthed a sincere “Thank you,” and turned toward the heavy glass doors.

  In no time I was on the Turnpike and heading east, wondering why in the world Giselle had given birth to me in Montgomery County. Had she made arrangements with Mama and Dad already and decided to go closer to Philadelphia to have the baby, closer to where I would be given away soon after? Or, if Alexander was my birth father, perhaps Mammi wanted Giselle to be far away from Klara when it was time for me to be born. Maybe Klara didn’t even know Alexander was my father—although it was hard to imagine Klara not being in the know of anything. There was the fact that Mammi took me to the airport to relinquish me to Mama and Dad. She would have hired a driver. Maybe Giselle waited in the car while Mammi and I went on inside.

  A semi whizzed past me and I realized I was going too slow, driving as if I were still in Lancaster County. I sped up. The morning grayness had burned off and the sun shone brightly. I drove past patches of forest, rolling hills, farms, and subdivisions. A tractor with an enclosed cab pulled a wide seeder through a plowed field. Next to it was an orchard. A melancholy feeling overtook me as I thought of my own orchard, and I wondered if maybe I should try to sell the house and keep the orchard, although I didn’t know how would I continue to manage it through the years, especially if I didn’t end up staying in Oregon.

  Sean’s offer was tempting. I wasn’t too old to go to medical school, and with my work experience it wouldn’t be nearly as difficult as if I were starting from scratch. In the long run I’d certainly make more money, though I’d also have more student loans to pay off. But I could do obstetrical surgery instead of assisting. I could supervise physician’s assistants and nurse-midwives. I sighed. I had no idea what I should do.

  The miles zoomed by, and soon I reached Valley Forge, thinking again of George Washington and the history that surrounded me as I exited the Turnpike there.

  Continuing on toward Norristown, the county seat, I soon crossed a bridge over the Schuylkill River. Below, two men maneuvered a small boat across the water toward a small island. In another minute I was in Norristown, following the signs to the county courthouse. The downtown area featured some gorgeous old architecture, though many of the buildings seemed to be in various states of disrepair. It all felt very multicultural, with a Mexican market on one corner and a Caribbean grocery on another. After circling the block twice, I finally found a parking spot in front of a bail bondsman shop. Walking along the busy sidewalk toward the courthouse, I thought of my teenage fantasy of elegant, wealthy grandparents living here in this chic, genteel suburb.

  Though Norristown seemed to have an energetic and friendly sort of vibe, I doubted anyone would call it either “chic” or “genteel.”

  The receptionist told me to come back at one thirty because the records department was closed for lunch. I decided to stop by Montgomery Hospital, which was listed on my birth certificate. I found it on my GPS, and in less than five minutes I pulled into the parking garage. The hospital was good sized, although not as big as Lancaster General or Emanuel back home. I spoke with the receptionist and told her I wanted to inquire about my records. She sent me down the administrative hall, past Human Resources, to the Health Information Department. When I told the receptionist I’d been a patient there as an infant and wanted my records, she said she would need to send someone down to the archive in the basement to search because those records hadn’t been digitized. She handed me a release form, which I quickly filled out and handed back to her. She scanned it and then looked up at me.

  “You were born here?”

  I nodded.

  “Then your records will be with your mother’s. She’ll need to sign the release.”

  “I’m not in contact with her.”

  The woman’s face twisted, and then she asked, “Were you adopted?”

  “Does it matter?” I was trying as hard as I could to sound naive.

  She nodded. “Of course it matters.”

  “But I have the name of my mother. Why shouldn’t I be able to look at the record of my birth?”

  “Because the request has to come from the patient.”

&n
bsp; I decided to take a softer approach. “I don’t know that she’s not dead.” I didn’t have any reason to believe that she was deceased, but as no one had confirmed she was alive, I couldn’t be sure.

  “The answer is still no.” She was starting to look a little angry.

  “Please,” I said, suddenly feeling as if the woman viewed me as a disgruntled adoptee.

  “Absolutely not,” she answered. “When you find your birth mother, bring her in, and once I have her signature, in person, then I’ll release the information.”

  “What if she’s infirm or out of the area?” I knew I was being difficult, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Then she can call, and with a notarized signature I can send her the records and then she can give them to you.”

  I’d read on adoption lists about the rudeness of those charged with keeping secrets safe from adoptees, but I’d never experienced it in person.

  “But they’re my records too.”

  “Take it up with the state legislature.” She stared me down.

  I backed out of the room, losing my grip on the knob as I stepped into the hall. The door banged, and I was on my way, feeling like a felon.

  Back at the courthouse, I got the same runaround. The man in vital records first told me to call Harrisburg. I said that the office in Harrisburg had told me to come to Norristown. When I explained that I was adopted, he said that was another story and went on to tell me I could hire a lawyer and submit a petition for non-identifying information. I told him I’d already done that, without a lawyer, but that I wanted a copy of my birth certificate. “It will be quite simple,” I said. “I have my birth date, original name, and birth mother’s name.”

  He shook his head. “Simple, maybe, but it’s against the law.”

  “But it’s my information!” I was surprised at my frustration, even though I’d known all along the chances of me getting what I wanted were slim.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sympathetic. I get quite a few adoptees through here. But you’re going to have to wait and see if your birth family responds to your petition and hope it’s for more than non-identifying information. Or maybe, because you have your birth mother’s name, she’ll release the birth certificate. That’s your best bet.” He pushed up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, which were already rolled.

  “Just because I have her name doesn’t mean I can find her.”

  “Your chances are a lot better with the name,” he said.

  The door to the office swung open, and a middle-aged couple stepped into the office.

  I thanked the man, and as I left the woman said they needed a copy of their son’s death certificate. I stopped a minute in the hall and took a deep breath, wondering what that couple’s story was, aware of the precariousness of life. Children and parents could be lost in more ways than one.

  It was two o’clock by the time I left the courthouse, and three o’clock by the time I’d driven around downtown Norristown a little more and then stopped for a sandwich at a deli. By the time I got back on the Turnpike, the Friday afternoon traffic was bumper to bumper. Because I was so close to Philadelphia, I contemplated turning around and exploring. But the traffic was at a near stop going into the city too, and surprisingly I had no desire to turn around. I felt like a homing pigeon, eager to fly home. I decided to continue west, back to Lancaster. For the first time I contemplated not taking the traveling nurse job at all.

  The slow traffic gave me lots of time to think about why Giselle would have given birth to me in Norristown rather than Lancaster, but I couldn’t come up with one good, solid reason. To keep my birth a secret? To be closer to the Philadelphia airport, where I would be surrendered to my parents soon after?

  Whatever the reason, Mammi would know why. And probably Klara too. Both would also know, I felt sure, where Giselle was now. That was what I needed to focus on—finding my mother. Not chasing around Pennsylvania after paperwork I didn’t have permission to access. I would visit Ada next Wednesday while Klara was at her quilting group. Maybe Mammi would remember more about the past than she reportedly knew about the present.

  The next afternoon I had prenatal appointments in Marta’s office, and by the time I ventured back to the cottage, Marta had a roast in the oven, which had been dropped off the day before by a family from her church. A cake was cooling on racks on the counter, and Marta was stirring frosting in a metal mixing bowl. “We’ll eat at six sharp,” she said.

  “Who else is coming?”

  She didn’t look up from the bowl. “Just us.”

  I’d bought Ella a blank book and a fancy pen for her birthday, not knowing what else to get her. Clothes, jewelry, cosmetics, lotions, music—anything you would buy a normal teenage girl—would all be unacceptable, I was sure.

  Dinner was quiet with just the four of us. Ella glanced at her cell phone several times. After Marta had placed the all-vanilla cake on the table with absolutely no decoration, she looked at Ella and said how thankful she was to have her as her daughter. Then Zed cleared his throat and said, “And I’m thankful to have you as my sister…” His voice trailed off.

  Marta looked at me.

  I clasped my hands together on the tabletop. “Well, I’m thrilled to have gotten to know you. And I am blessed to have you as my cousin.”

  Ella nodded at me, her capped head bobbing a little.

  Marta cut and served the cake, and we ate in silence, except for me saying how delicious it was. As Ella finished the last bite of hers, she glanced at her phone again.

  “Are you going out?” Marta asked.

  The girl nodded.

  “With?”

  Ella blushed as she stood and picked up her plate. “Ezra.”

  Marta pursed her lips together.

  “Thank you for the dinner and the cake,” she said. “May I be excused?”

  “What about her gifts?” I asked.

  “We don’t do gifts,” Zed said, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

  “Oh.” I glanced at mine, sitting on the edge of the sideboard. I’d put it in her room for her to open after she returned.

  A few minutes later I cleared the table as Marta started the dishes. If she heard the sound of Ezra’s motorcycle, she didn’t acknowledge it. A second later, Ella stood in the living room wearing jeans, a sweater, and boots. Her hair was down loose on her shoulders. She motioned to me. “Can you take a picture of us?” she asked quietly.

  I wasn’t happy about it, but I nodded and headed upstairs for my camera. Ella wasn’t in the living room when I came back down, so I opened the front door. She was sitting on the back of Ezra’s bike, one arm around his middle and the other holding a helmet. The sun had set and the evening was growing chilly. I snapped the photo, using my flash, capturing Ella’s vibrant smile. Ezra looked a bit like a slacker with his goofy grin. I took another photo and then Ezra revved the motor. I wanted to say something stupid, like “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” but instead I said, “Be careful.”

  Ella was putting on her helmet, and I didn’t think she heard me. She waved, though, as they took off down the highway, a wave that sent a current of loneliness through me as I watched them go.

  I pulled my cell out of the pocket of my sweatshirt and checked the screen. Nothing. Sean was at work. James was on the retreat.

  Turning around, I looked up at the cottage before mounting the steps. Marta stood in the window, watching me. My face grew warm as I slipped my camera into my other pocket and went inside.

  That night, long after I fell asleep, my phone beeped. Because I’d been thinking of Sean earlier, I was sure it must be him, saying he’d just gotten off work. It wasn’t. The text was from Ella’s phone, but not from her. This is Ezra. Ella’s drunk. I need your help.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I held the phone to my ear, peering into the darkness. The other hand was on the steering wheel, and my lights were on high beam, but still I couldn’t see the road Ezra was telling me to turn on.
r />   “It’s right past the shed, the white one.”

  I wanted to scream. How many white sheds were there in Lancaster County?

  I could hear Ella crying in the background.

  “Past the trees,” Ezra said. They were on the northeast side of town, past Sean’s house, along a canal. Or at least that was the landmark Ezra had given me. He couldn’t believe I’d never heard of it before. It sounded as though they were at a regular old kegger, the kind I’d avoided, but James had thrived on, during high school.

  I saw a grouping of trees and then a shed. I made a sharp right turn onto a dirt road, nearly dropping the phone. “Found it,” I said.

  “Okay, we’re about a half mile down the road.”

  I wouldn’t have had a hard time finding the group from a helicopter. The field was lit up like a sporting event by the headlights of cars circled around. Music was blaring, and a group of kids were dancing in the middle. Closer, a couple of boys were throwing a football back and forth. To my left a group of girls—two wearing dresses, aprons, and caps, and the rest dressed in jeans—were crowded around the open door of a pickup, all with cans of beer in their hands. I parked my borrowed car where no one could block me in and called Ella’s phone again. After a few rings, Ezra picked up. In a moment I spotted him, the phone to his ear, his hand on Ella’s back, his motorcycle parked nearby. She was bent over. I made my way toward them, stepping around piles of trash and clumps of weeds and brush.

  “I told her to stop drinking hours ago.”

  I gave him a mean look. He never should have brought her out here.

  “I didn’t want to put her on my bike. I was afraid she’d fall off.” He took a deep breath. “And I didn’t really trust anyone here to see her home.”

  “Good thinking,” I said to him, my heart softening a little. “Ella,” I said her name softly. “We need to get you back to your house.”

  “Don’t tell Mom.” She reeked. Of course Marta needed to know, but there was no reason to tell Ella that now.