The Amish Midwife

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “How is Christy?”

  “Quiet.” He was standing opposite of me on the walkway now.

  “Is she depressed?”

  “Maybe. But mostly she just seems worn out. Like it’s an effort for her to walk across the room, let alone do her chores.”

  “Is she going to school?” I put my medical bag on the concrete at my feet.

  “Some.”

  “Have you taken her to the doctor?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I was thinking I should.”

  “That’s a good idea. Make sure you explain how Lydia died. Tell them that a cause hasn’t been determined, even though an autopsy was done.”

  He bent down and picked up my bag, but before he turned back to the house, I asked if he would mind answering a few questions about Lydia.

  He sighed. “Sure.”

  “Did she go to the doctor about her high blood pressure after Marta told her she should?”

  He shook his head. “And she never told me Marta said she should.” He placed both hands on the handle of the bag. “She hated doctors, hospitals, all of that. Her mother died young despite being under a doctor’s care. Then Lydia had a bad experience herself before we got married.” He paused. “We had to force her to go to the hospital when she was ready to have the twins. But when Marta told her she needed to go to the hospital during labor this last time, she refused. By the time Marta called the ambulance, it was too late.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Ya. I know. So am I.” His brown eyes were kind. “And I’m really sorry for the mess Marta is in because of this.”

  I took a deep breath. “Can I ask you one more question?”

  He nodded.

  “Can you tell me about Lydia’s first baby?”

  “Christy?”

  “No.” I hesitated. “The one before.”

  “Who told you about him? Marta?” His voice was confused.

  “No, I was doing some filing and ran across some old notations in her office.” I didn’t want to admit that I’d intentionally read through Lydia’s chart. Because I was part of the practice, I hadn’t exactly broken the law, but that still didn’t justify what I had done. If Will wanted to, he could file a grievance against me. But because he was Amish, I knew he wouldn’t, and I was taking advantage of that.

  He glanced off toward the greenhouses and then back at me, his head tipped downward. “Ask Marta about it if you want to,” he said. “But just know this. I had no part in that first baby.”

  My conversation with Will weighed heavily on me as I examined Hannah. When I was finished, I noted in her chart that she was fifty percent effaced, two centimeters dilated, and the baby was in a breech position. I showed her exercises to do to turn the baby and told her that if it didn’t, she would need to deliver at the hospital.

  “Marta does breech home births,” she said, pushing herself up to a sitting position and then clumsily swinging her bare feet to the floor.

  “I know, but I don’t,” I said, looking her straight in the eye. “Rest as much as you can. It will be best if the baby waits another week or two. And do the exercises faithfully.”

  Hannah said she had slept better the night before and that her mother and grossmammi had the girls over at her parents’ house for the day. “There’s always so much activity over there, so many hands to help. It tires all of them out.”

  I thought of Ezra, and of Sally and John, and of Sally’s sister, Ruth. The girls were lucky to have so much going on. I had an appointment with Sally the next day. I couldn’t believe I’d been in Lancaster County a couple of days short of a month.

  “How about Christy?”

  “She went to school today. The first time this week.”

  I asked Hannah if she was okay being alone, and she assured me she was. Her husband and Will would be in for lunch, and her mother would bring the girls back after their naps.

  I left the house thinking about Lydia. Marta told me that the home had been built by Will, his father, and his brothers after Will and Lydia had married. She must have felt like a queen, albeit a queen with a secret. It looked like the Lantzes weren’t the only family in Lancaster County hiding the past.

  But it seemed Marta was a common denominator in both.

  The next afternoon, I finished up a delivery—baby number 262, seventh for me in Lancaster County, and the second child of a twenty-eight year old mother, living in Strasburg proper. The husband kept his carriage in the garage and the horse grazed the double lot next door. As I said goodbye, I focused on the image of the mother, two-year-old brother, and baby girl in my mind, all on the bed with the father lovingly standing watch, committing the scene to my memory. As I pulled out of the driveway though, I took a photo of the house with the open garage and horse nearby, getting a kick out of the townie Amish family.

  I stopped by the old Gundy place and examined Sally on my way home. As I did, I realized that her baby and Hannah’s would be just a couple of months apart, cousins much closer in age than even Rachael and the twins.

  Sally was doing fine and had lots of questions for me. Ruth stayed outside. The weather was warm, and it seemed she was gardening, but I think mostly she was on the lookout for Ezra.

  A few minutes later, as I headed back to Marta’s, Chuck called and I flipped my phone open to speakerphone. “The tests are back,” he said.

  “What’s the verdict?” I so wanted to be Ada’s half sister, more than I’d ever wanted anything.

  Chuck cleared his throat. “You think you’re the Amish girl’s cousin, right?”

  “Well, I suspect we may be half sisters.”

  “Oh.”

  “Am I right?”

  “Maybe you two should come in. We could talk in person, and the two of you can tell me about your family tree.”

  I grimaced. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” I slowed as I approached a school, careful to keep my eyes on the road, not the phone in my lap.

  “I can talk to you this afternoon,” Chuck said. “I’m here till four.”

  I thanked him and told him I would get back to him with a time as soon as I could. I closed the phone, an odd apprehension gripping at the pit of my stomach. Turning off the road into the parking lot of a toyshop, I dialed Ada’s cell. She picked up on the third ring, her voice quiet.

  I explained what was going on and asked if she could sneak up to the end of the lane and go to the hospital with me.

  “I think so,” she said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’ll text you if I can’t make it.”

  I waited for five minutes, afraid she couldn’t get away, but then there she was and out of breath, even though she’d only been walking.

  “Are you okay?” I asked as she climbed into the car.

  She nodded, but it took her a couple of moments until she was settled enough to speak. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  Before pulling out onto the road, I called Chuck to let him know we were on our way. We met at his office, all three of us crowding into the cramped room. His desk was stacked with papers, and his bookcases were overflowing with books double-shelved and wedged in haphazardly. I hoped he had been more organized with our results. He sat down in his chair and reached for a small white board, propping it on his desk.

  “Okay, so you thought you were cousins, right?”

  I nodded. “Our mothers are sisters.”

  He asked each of us the names of our moms and then started a family tree, working from the bottom up.

  “And your fathers are?”

  “Mine is Alexander,” Ada said.

  Chuck drew a circle and wrote an A in the middle and then connected it to Klara’s name.

  “And I’m not sure who mine is,” I said. “But the name Burke Bauer has been mentioned.” I didn’t want to just spring on Ada my hope that Alexander was my father. If he was, Chuck would soon tell us. If he wasn’t, there was no reason to mention it at all.

  He drew a circle, added a B, and connec
ted it to Giselle’s name. Then he turned his attention back to us.

  “What can you tell me about prior generations?” Chuck asked. “Do you know if your family traces back to the original Amish settlers of Lancaster County?”

  “Our mothers came here from Indiana about thirty-five years ago,” I said. “I don’t know a lot before that, but I think our maternal great-grandmother emigrated to the U.S. from Switzerland in the mid-1870s.”

  “Okay.” Chuck looked back at the board. “What was her name?”

  “Elsbeth,” I answered.

  “And our grandmother is Frannie,” Ada said.

  He added both names slowly. I couldn’t help but think he was stalling.

  “So what’s up?” I asked as he finished.

  He turned back toward us, gripping the marker tightly.

  “This is a little awkward, but I’m sure it’s true.” He let go of the marker and it rolled across his desk, landing on the floor. He didn’t seem to notice. He clicked on the mouse in front of him, opening a document on his computer. “Cousins share an eighth of the same DNA, although it’s higher among families that intermarry. From analyzing the strands of hair—and by the way, the one you gave me wasn’t yours.” He was looking straight at me. “It’s hers.” He nodded toward Ada.

  He started to go on, but I leaned forward in my chair and told him to wait a second. I was puzzled at how Ada’s hair could have ended up in my box, considering that my parents had whisked me away to Oregon when I was still an infant and Ada hadn’t even been born yet. In fact, she wouldn’t come along for another two years.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, thinking that the only way that the lock of hair could have been Ada’s was if it had been sent to us later. I had always been under the impression that our families had had no further contact once my adoption was final, but now I realized that wasn’t correct, that someone here must have been in touch with my parents and mailed a lock of Ada’s hair to Oregon after she was born.

  “Positive.” He stared at the screen again. “Anyway, you share much more DNA than cousins.”

  “Half siblings, right?” I was sure my voice was as elated as I felt, even though I was trying to be sensitive to Ada.

  Chuck shook his head.

  I sighed.

  “Full siblings,” he said.

  I lurched forward. “You’re kidding.”

  Ada grabbed my hand.

  “I’m not kidding. It’s not a fluke you look so much alike. You’re sisters.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Ada and I sat in the parking garage, the motor running, me incapable of putting the car into reverse.

  “Mamm must be your mother too,” she said.

  “Klara? If so, then why would she give me up? Why list Giselle as my mother in the family Bible?”

  Ada turned toward me, tucking her feet up on the seat. “You were conceived before my parents were married, right?”

  “That’s what the dates in the Bible spell out.”

  “So, you know.” She grinned sheepishly. “They were embarrassed.”

  Embarrassed, perhaps, but enough to get rid of a baby? It seemed to me that just wasn’t done in the Amish community. I thought of Peggy keeping her oldest daughter and then marrying someone else. I thought of the handful of Marta’s patients I had seen in the last month who were several months further into their pregnancies than they were into their marriages. They weren’t proud of it, of course, but they didn’t seem all that ashamed of it either. Overall, I had received the impression that the Amish didn’t make a big deal out of it as long as the couple confessed and repented and, in most cases, went ahead and got married.

  But maybe I was different. Maybe I cried a lot and was a pain to take care of. Was that why Klara had given me up?

  I shook my head. I was back in fantasyland. No one gave a baby up because she cried too much. No, I had a strong feeling the truth was the opposite of the conclusion Ada had drawn. She thought this meant my mother was Klara, but I felt sure it meant that her mother was Giselle. I tried suggesting that to her, as tactfully as possible.

  “That’s ridiculous. My parents were married for two years before I was even born.” She just wasn’t getting it.

  I sighed. Did I have to spell it out to her? “What if your dad had a thing for Giselle?”

  Ada shook her head. “He adores Mamm. He always has.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying it seemed to me that, more than anything, he was afraid of Klara. But Ada was entitled to see things as she wanted. With an effort I managed to back out of my parking place and circle down to the street. “Whatever the real truth is, someone is lying to us.”

  Ada nodded. “But I’m sure there’s a good reason.”

  I didn’t respond. Maybe Sean had been right all along about Amish women being brainwashed. Ada seemed to curl up into herself as I silently drove. Finally, as I turned off the main highway onto the country road, she said, “I’ve always felt that Mamm and Daed were keeping something from me, but I thought it was about my illness, that it was more serious than they said.” She paused a moment and then kept talking. “And there’s been a lot of tension between them since, actually since before you came around the first time. Marta stopped by a few weeks before you did. They argued that night.”

  I slowed as I drove, not wanting to reach the farm. Ada began to shiver and I turned up the heat.

  “I always wanted a sister,” she said. “I used to pray for one every night.”

  “Me too,” I whispered.

  She touched my fingers on the steering wheel and then her hand fell back into her lap as I turned down the lane. I wasn’t going to make her walk. She wasn’t strong enough. And I needed to face my fears.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  “Confront Klara,” I answered.

  “No,” Ada said. “I’ll talk to her. She’ll tell me, I promise.”

  As I parked the car, Alexander hurried across the field toward us and Ada opened the passenger door. “I’ll call you tonight and let you know how things go,” she said. She took a step away but then she started to fall, in a gentle swoon. For a moment I wasn’t sure what was happening, but then her head thudded against the open car door.

  “Ada!”

  I was aware of Alexander running toward us as I tore around the side of the car, rolling Ada onto her side. She was unconscious. My hands flew to her carotid. She was breathing.

  “Ada!” Blood oozed from the side of her head. “Ada,” I said again.

  She still didn’t respond. I dug my cell from my pocket and called 911 as I rolled her to her back. She could have a head injury or a neck injury. And her blood count could be dangerously low. That could be why she’d fainted in the first place.

  Before I hung up the phone, Alexander was on his knees beside her, wanting to carry her inside. “No,” I instructed. “Get a pile of blankets. And tell Klara what happened.”

  “I’ll stay with Mammi,” I said as Klara crawled into the back of the ambulance.

  “You should go. You know what questions to ask,” Alexander replied.

  I shook my head and told him to use Ada’s cell phone. “Call me. I’ll talk to the doctors if you need me to. I’m in her contacts under L.”

  From inside the back of the ambulance, Klara fished out Ada’s cell phone from her pocket and handed it to her husband. Alexander took it from her, still looking ambivalent.

  “You’re her father. You need to be with her,” I insisted, a lump rising in my throat.

  He nodded, sliding the phone into his own pocket as one of the EMTs directed him to sit up front.

  “Thank you.” I wasn’t sure if Alexander was talking to the EMT or me.

  I watched as the ambulance pulled away and then hurried to the daadi haus. As I walked in, Mammi said, “Ada, what’s going on? I heard sirens.”

  “It’s me. Lex—Alexandra,” I said, stepping in front of her.

  “Alexandra? What’s happened?” She was m
uch more lucid than when I’d seen her before.

  I explained that Ada had fallen and Klara and Alexander were going with her to the hospital.

  Mammi began to cry and said, “Oh, dear, oh dear,” over and over again.

  “She’ll be all right,” I said, hoping I was telling the truth.

  “Why were you here when Ada fell?” Mammi asked, dabbing at her eyes with the tissue I handed her.

  I hesitated but then decided I had nothing to lose. “I took Ada to the hospital. We had a test done… to see how we’re related.”

  Mammi’s eyes overflowed with tears.

  “There’s no reason to cry,” I said, patting her arm.

  “I’m afraid there is.”

  I sat down in the chair beside her.

  “Alexandra,” she said. Something in her tone made me want to cry too. So much sorrow. So much regret. She looked at me with large, damp eyes.

  Now I wanted to curl up on the floor and sob. Instead I smiled at her, hoping to encourage her to keep talking.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “It wasn’t my idea. It was Klara’s. Well, Giselle’s, since Klara wouldn’t take you too.” She began to cry again.

  “Mammi.” I hoped my voice was gentle even though I felt anything but. What was she telling me?

  “I felt guilty from the start. That’s why I wanted you to have the box and the letter. I wanted you to know where you came from. I wanted you to come back some day.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I have the box. Where is Giselle now?”

  “She wanted to go to Amielbach, but I had to sell it.”

  “Did she go to Switzerland anyway?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t heard from her for years. She may not even be there anymore.”

  Mammi began to moan about how much she missed her little girl, despite the fact that Giselle would be forty-five by now, no longer a little girl by anyone’s definition.

  Afraid that Mammi might need some of her medication, I got up and searched for the pillbox, which I found in the kitchen on the windowsill. There was only one tranquilizer for each day for the rest of the week, and something new as well: an antidepressant. I was pleased, as it looked as though Ada had passed on my advice. She probably hadn’t been on them long enough to experience the full effect yet, but she was already more coherent. Soon the depression would begin to lift as well. I could understand that Klara wouldn’t want to listen to Mammi’s laments all day long, but maybe in time a balance could be found between keeping the hysteria and grief at bay and being able to enjoy the world around her.