by Marta Perry
Out in the kitchen there was light and laughter and teasing voices. But this small space seemed filled with Aaron’s pain.
“You must stop thinking that way.” She caught his arm, hard as a metal bar. “I understand why you do. Anybody would.” Anybody who accepted the weight of responsibility the way Aaron did. “I have heard that alcoholism runs in families, too, but that doesn’t mean Benjamin will be affected. Think about it, Aaron. The rest of you are all right.”
“Even so . . .”
“Even so, you worry. I know. Have you talked to Benjamin about this?”
“No.” He looked appalled. “How could I say that to him?”
“He’s not a child anymore, Aaron.” She felt his warmth through her hand on his sleeve. She tightened her grip. “Talk to him. Tell him what worries you, one man to another. Don’t you think you owe him that?”
He studied her face, his eyes very dark. “I don’t know. Maybe you are right. I’ll think on it.” He put his hand over hers, clasping it firmly. “You are a gut friend, Sarah. You—”
“Molly wants to know where the napkins—” Nathan cut off his words, probably because he saw them standing so close, hands touching.
Sarah stepped back, knowing her cheeks were scarlet, bumping into the shelf behind her so that the jars clinked together.
“Maybe you’ll have better luck than we have.” Aaron’s voice sounded almost normal. Almost. “We’ll have to give everyone paper towels and be done with it.”
“Ach, here they are.” Nathan reached over Sarah’s head and came down with a plastic package of napkins. “I’ll give these to Molly. Don’t—” He seemed to decide better than to say anything else. Instead he hurried out.
“I’d better go and finish my cake, or Molly will think I don’t like it.” Sarah hurried away, wishing she could plunge her face into a bucket of cold water to remove any trace of the embarrassment she felt.
What must Nathan be thinking? Worse, what must Aaron think?
No one seemed to have noticed that she’d been missing. She slipped into her seat, too aware of the fact that Aaron had entered the room after her. He moved around the table to the coffeepot, taking a long time about pouring himself a cup.
Molly took the chair next to her. “My little bruder is sixteen. I can’t believe it. I remember the day he was born.” A shadow crossed her clear eyes.
“A time of mixed feelings, I know.”
Molly nodded. “I try not to think about that today. It’s not fair to Benjamin.” Her gaze rested fondly on her young brother.
“He’s a fine boy.”
“Ja.” She smiled. “I hope my boppli turns out so well.” She clasped Sarah’s hand. “And that is something I wanted to ask you, Sarah. I have made up my mind. Will you deliver my baby?”
Her words seemed to ring out. Sarah didn’t dare to look at Aaron for fear he had heard. But whether he had or not, there was only one answer she could give.
“Ja, Molly. I would be happy to.”
She didn’t want to look at Aaron, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. He had heard. No doubt about that. He stared at her, and his face was dark with anger.
Sarah had to struggle to stay alert while she sat in the hard plastic chair in Dr. Mitchell’s waiting room. She had promised Rosemary she’d talk to the doctor, and so she would, though she had no great hope of being successful.
It didn’t help that she was so tired. Alice Straus’s baby had decided to arrive in the middle of the night. The pounding on the front door had awakened her and Aunt Emma in the wee hours, and Sarah had rushed off, arriving just about in time to catch the baby. As Alice had said, she and William were old hands at this.
It was fortunate she had arranged for an Englisch driver to bring her to the doctor’s office in town today, rather than relying on the horse and buggy. She’d probably have fallen asleep holding the lines, and Dolly would have taken her right back home again.
She shifted, trying to find a comfortable way to sit in the chair, aware of the curious stares of the elderly Englisch couple who sat across from her. Keeping her gaze fixed on her hands, folded in her lap, she tried to ignore their gaping. Surely, living in Pleasant Valley, they’d seen Amish before.
The receptionist had called one person after another, ignoring her. Deliberately? Perhaps. The woman hadn’t even tried to hide her astonishment when Sarah called.
Dr. Mitchell’s office was in a converted storefront down the main street of town from Bishop Mose’s harness shop. For just a moment she wished she’d consulted the bishop before taking this step. She’d value his advice on dealing with the Englisch doctor.
Or was she just hoping someone would give her a reason not to do this thing? If so, that would be cowardly. She had promised to devote herself to her mothers and babies. She couldn’t back down because it was difficult or because Dr. Mitchell had clearly shown his distaste at their first meeting.
She stifled a yawn. She’d had a busy day seeing clients. Whatever fears she’d had that they would go elsewhere when they heard Aunt Emma was retiring had come to naught. In fact, the practice had begun to boom again.
One patient she’d expected hadn’t turned up today. Had Aaron talked Molly out of coming to Sarah’s practice so quickly?
She couldn’t help but cringe away from the memory of those moments in Aaron’s house when he’d looked at her with such open dislike. Only a short time earlier his gaze had carried a very different message.
She understood his feelings, but that didn’t seem to ease the hurt. Coming as Molly’s decision did, on the anniversary of his mother’s death, it was no wonder he’d reacted badly when he’d heard Molly’s words.
Maybe, if Aaron had talked Molly out of using Sarah’s practice, that would be for the best. Whatever happened, she didn’t want to be the cause of a breach between brother and sister.
As for the breach between her and Aaron . . . well, that had only widened. Her hands clenched each other tightly. For a few short minutes, alone with him, she’d felt closer to him than she had to any man since she and Levi had been newlyweds.
But a relationship with Aaron wasn’t to be. She accepted that, didn’t she?
“Mrs. Mast?” The receptionist raised her eyebrows as she said the name. “Doctor will see you now.”
She rose, breathing a silent prayer for guidance, and followed the woman’s gesture through the heavy door and on into an office. The door clicked shut behind her.
Dr. Mitchell couldn’t have helped hearing her enter, but he didn’t look up from the papers he studied. Was he really that engrossed, or was this a not-so-subtle attempt to put her in her place?
If so, he truly didn’t understand the Amish. For them, humility was a way of life.
The breathing space gave her an opportunity to take in the room. The wall behind his desk was lined with sturdy oak bookshelves, but the desk itself was a metal and laminate affair that looked as if it had been put together in half an hour with a screwdriver. The end wall bore a line-up of framed certificates with various seals bearing witness to his accomplishments.
Dr. Mitchell looked up finally, pushing a pair of round glasses into place. She was struck again by how young he was. Usually it was the older doctors, used to hospital deliveries, who opposed midwives and home births.
“Mrs. Mast. The midwife.” He said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. She had to remind herself that he undoubtedly wanted what he thought was best for his patients.
She nodded. “We met at the clinic.”
Ignoring the reminder, he waved a hand toward the chair across the desk from his seat. “Sit down.”
She took the chair he indicated, tension rising. He would, she thought, not make this easy. “You may know that my aunt, Emma Stoltzfus, has been midwife to the Amish of Pleasant Valley for many years. I have recently come to join her.”
“I’ve heard.” His lips tightened. “What brings you to see me?”
She took a breath, organ
izing her thoughts. “Before I came here, I was in a group practice in Ohio. We were fortunate enough to work with a local doctor who was sympathetic to home births—”
He cut her off with an abrupt gesture. “I don’t know what you were used to there, but here in Pennsylvania, only registered nurse-midwives are recognized. Obviously you’re not that, and even if you were, I would still say that the proper place for a woman to give birth is in a hospital with qualified medical personnel in attendance.” His face had reddened as he spoke, and he clutched the pen in his hand so tightly she thought it might snap.
“I understand your position,” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “I wouldn’t ask, but Rosemary Welch has requested that I speak with you. She would like to have a midwife-attended birth, and she hoped we might work together to make that happen.”
The pen snapped, pieces flying across the desk. Dr. Mitchell shoved his chair back, shooting to his feet.
“Understand this. I would never allow a patient of mine to be treated by an ignorant, untrained woman whose only claim to know anything comes from an apprenticeship to someone who knows as little as she does.”
“Dr. Mitchell, lay midwives are accepted—”
He pointed to the door. “I don’t have anything more to say. If you ever go near one of my patients again, I’ll have the law on you. Now get out of my office.”
Aaron stayed on after he sent Nathan and Benjamin home, tinkering with the latch on a cabinet door. He had to talk to Sarah. According to Emma, Sarah had an errand in town but would be back soon. He’d wait.
He checked the latch again, opening and closing the door several times, as if his world depended upon it working smoothly. The new rooms were nearly done. Sarah could start moving furniture into them in a day or two. Then it just remained to put up the telephone shanty, and there’d be no reason for him to see much of Sarah.
Good. It was past time to put some distance between them, especially after what had happened last night.
He took a cloth and began wiping down the door that Benj had sanded. It wasn’t, he supposed, really fair to blame Sarah for Molly’s decision to have a midwife. Molly had decided, and Molly was as stubborn—well, as stubborn as he was.
After everyone had gone home he’d tried to talk some sense into his sister. Molly had listened patiently to all he’d had to say, but that didn’t change anything. She wanted Sarah to deliver her baby.
He realized he was rubbing the door hard enough to take another layer of wood off it. Molly wanted him to forget about Mammi. She expected that he’d go through that again . . .
He steered his thoughts carefully away from that direction. He couldn’t give Molly orders anymore. And he couldn’t persuade her. The only other choice was to get Sarah to back out.
How likely was that? Probably not very likely. Sarah gave an impression of quiet, of gentleness, but on some subjects she could be steel. He had a feeling this was one of them.
He heard the sound of a car in the lane, and his fingers tightened on the soft rag he held. Sarah must be home.
The car stopped; the car door closed. He heard her light voice thanking Ben, the Englischer who drove folks to places they couldn’t go easily by buggy.
In a moment the back door to the house shut. He could hear a murmur of voices in the kitchen, probably Emma telling her that he wanted a word. The door opened, and she came in.
The careful speech he’d been rehearsing vanished from his mind at the sight of her. Most people might not notice, but he’d seen enough of Sarah in recent weeks to recognize the strain that pressed lines around her eyes and tightened her lips.
“Was ist letz?”
Her startled gaze met his. “What makes you think something is wrong?”
“I know,” he said simply. Right or wrong, he couldn’t deny that he knew. And he cared.
She put one hand up to rub her temple, as if her head ached. “I had to go and see the new doctor in town. It didn’t go well.”
“The doctor . . .” Concern clutched his heart. “Are you ill?”
“Ach, no, nothing like that. An Englisch friend of Anna’s wanted me to ask Dr. Mitchell if he would be willing to cooperate with me in giving her a home birth. He was not open to the idea.”
“I’ve heard that he doesn’t approve of midwives.” And when he’d heard it, he’d agreed with the doctor, sight unseen.
“ ‘Doesn’t approve’ is a mild way of putting it. He wouldn’t even listen to what I’ve done before.”
Sarah paced to the window and back again, and Aaron suspected that she’d forgotten who she was talking to. She just needed to release her frustration.
“Our practice in Ohio often worked with a physician in just such circumstances, but Dr. Mitchell wouldn’t listen to me. He practically threw me out of his office.”
Aaron couldn’t repress a spasm of anger at the man for his rudeness. “Sarah, you must be careful. You can’t make an enemy of someone like him.”
She focused on him then, and her chin came up slightly. “I must do what is best for my clients.”
That touched a match to his worry for Molly. “I suppose that’s what you are telling yourself about my sister.”
She blinked at the change of subject. “Molly asked me to deliver her baby. I didn’t go to her. Besides, she didn’t come today. I thought that meant you’d talked her out of it.”
“I tried.” He plunged on, not wanting to see the pain in her eyes. “You must know why I tried. But Molly is stubborn as the day is long. She kept saying it’s her decision.”
“Isn’t it?” She gazed directly at him, a challenge in those green eyes.
He shook his head, trying to shake off his suspicion that she was right. He turned away, because this would be easier if he didn’t have to look at her.
“Sixteen years ago my mother died because she wanted a midwife.” He turned back to her. “Your aunt. Do you think I have forgotten that? Could ever forget that?”
“Aaron, you can’t know—”
He spun and grabbed her hands, willing her to stop. “That morning she was laughing, joking about how soon the baby would come and whether it would be a boy or a girl.” The memory came back, as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. “She put her hand on my face. She said she knew I’d be the best big brother, whether it was a boy or a girl.” His voice broke, and he thought his heart was breaking, too. “By the next morning she was gone.”
“I’m so sorry.” Sarah put her hands on his arms, and he could feel the care flowing from her, through her hands into his very skin, it seemed.
Into his heart.
He looked at her, feeling as if he were sinking into the softness of her eyes. So much caring. So much gentleness.
He lifted his hand, almost before the thought formed. Touched her cheek, finding the skin just as soft as he’d imagined. Her gaze was startled, aware, her eyes darkening as she gazed at him. Her lips parted on a breath. He bent toward her, drawn irresistibly closer. He wanted, he needed . . .
No. He couldn’t. He took a step back, shaken at what he’d almost done, and saw the same reaction in her face.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .”
She shook her head. “Don’t blame yourself. It was my fault, too.”
“I have feelings for you, Sarah.” He took another step back. “That does not change anything. Molly is still—” He hesitated.
“What about Molly?” Her voice was strained.
The sound hurt him. But he couldn’t let it hold him back.
“Molly won’t change her mind. But you can refuse to accept her.”
Sarah grew pale, her eyes wide in a strained face. “I can’t do that.”
He stood for a moment. Waiting. Hoping. But she didn’t speak.
“Then we don’t have anything to talk about.” He grabbed his coat and strode out, away from her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The work frolic and grocery shower at the home of Eli and Dora Schmidt was in f
ull swing by the time Sarah arrived on Saturday. She’d hoped to convince Aunt Emma to come, feeling the outing would do her good, but without success.
Handing the buggy over to one of the young boys who was responsible for taking care of them, Sarah carried her heavy grocery bags into the kitchen.
The room was filled with an assortment of women and children, the women talking as they scrubbed down cabinets, the children either clinging to their skirts or playing with a box of blocks in the corner.
Sarah felt instantly at home. The grocery shower was an institution, held whenever one of the Leit suffered from financial problems. Each new arrival would bring bags filled with groceries, until the family had enough to carry them through the crisis.
Eli had broken his arm while trying to repair his barn roof right after Dora had given birth, so a work frolic was a fine way to clean Dora’s house, finish the repairs Eli had been making to his barn, and enjoy being together, all at the same time.
Ruth, Dora’s oldest daughter, relieved Sarah of the bags, greeting her with a warm smile. “Denke, Sarah. It is so gut of you.”
“This is from my aunt, also. Two loaves of her applesauce bread are on the top.”
“That is so kind of her. And of you.” Dora slipped away from the knot of women to embrace Sarah. “How is she? I have been praying for her.”
Was it her imagination, or did the chatter quiet now, as if everyone wanted to hear her answer?
“She is doing a little better now. I’ll tell her you asked about her. Now tell me how that beautiful baby is doing.”
It wasn’t that she wanted to hide the truth, but given the way talk went around the Amish community, she didn’t want to say anything that might be blown out of proportion by busy tongues.
“Ach, she’s a gut baby, chust like all the rest. She eats, she sleeps, she wets.” Dora beamed. “She is sleeping now, but she’ll be up for a feeding before long, so you can see her then. You’re staying, aren’t you?”
