The Midwife

by Jolina Petersheim

  I cruised past the awakening estates called White Swan, where the Fitzpatricks lived and which hemmed in my storybook campus. My mind conjured forth images of Thom throughout the two years I’d known him: his cups of milk tea that he never finished, his messy notes that I could never decipher, his jewel-toned stacks of out-of-print books, his lazy British accent, his ruddy hair and smudged spectacles. . . . I had memorized everything about him as one does with a celebrity or role model. But I realized in that moment that I did not truly know him, nor did he know me. In fact, if I had not become his surrogate, I was certain that in time, Thom would have forgotten me. Instead, he had asked me to carry their child, and in leaving a mark on my life, I had been forced to leave a mark on his. Slowing my car, I looked out at the lake where I had met Thom the previous morning. The black water was still. Cherry blossoms clung to the limber willow branches trailing along the pebbled bank. The swans were clustered there, long necks tucked under magnificent white wings.

  “Good-bye, Thom,” I whispered, my tone heavy with all I had not said. But I had to leave him because of the child I’d been given that, this time, I refused to lose.

  One day had passed since I left Massachusetts, three hours since I’d exited the interstate that branched off onto a narrow two-lane and then a series of potholed country roads. I was prepared for the rugged terrain, but I was still surprised at how the geography shifted as I drew closer to the destination I’d circled on a gas station map. On one side of the road and across the fields, fencerows lined acres of lush grass where a colorful menagerie of cattle grazed. On the other side, grasshoppers sprang up from knee-high wheat with the whir of tiny machines. A dilapidated cabin with a tin roof eaten with rust perched on a hillside overlooking the valley.

  I wondered if this was part of the Dry Hollow Community, but I doubted it was. There was nothing to let me know that the Old Order Mennonite community even existed, except for the address that Deborah Brubaker had given me. I felt vulnerable, surrounded by such open terrain. If my car broke down, it appeared I would have to walk for miles before coming upon any form of life—discounting the cattle and a few soaring hawks that cast shadows upon the green.

  Sipping lukewarm Coke, I screwed on the lid and continued driving. In the distance, I saw what could only be members of the Dry Hollow Community toiling in the far end of the field, and suddenly it was as if I had driven back through time. A Clydesdale stallion towed some sort of antiquated farming implement down the center of the tilled strip of earth. A bearded rider sat aloft, holding tightly to the reins while a funnel of dust rose behind him. Along the road, several women—all with young children in tow—passed me, carrying baskets draped with cloths and what looked like large glass jars of sun tea.

  A few of the women turned to stare at my vehicle with an inquisitive expression made further uniform by their long dresses and netted white kapps. I touched the gas pedal and made my way to the top of the hill. I parked in front of an old-fashioned hitching post, where two horses encumbered with buggies were tied. As I stepped out, I locked the vehicle out of habit before closing the door. A sorrel gelding turned his head at the noise and twitched his silken tail to ward off the flies alighting on his back, but he could not see me for his blinders.

  Taking a deep breath, I walked toward the front door on trembling legs. The house was tall and rectangular except for a lath-and-plaster addition, which jutted off the log-and-chink structure like the bottom half of the letter L. The roof was patchworked with shiny and dull tin, marking the different repairs. From this, two brick chimneys jutted, their old gray mortar crumbling from age. Below the ten oblong windows, flower boxes spilled blue and pink morning glory blooms. A volley of hummingbirds darted and chirped. They were fighting over the glass feeders that hung from the three porch fascias skirting the house.

  I mounted the steps and knocked on the door. Twisting my hands, I wondered if I had made a mistake. I did not have a plan for being here. I certainly did not want to join the church or take up the Mennonites’ Plain lifestyle. I just knew that I needed a place to remain in safety and seclusion until my child could be born. Hopen Haus was the only option on such short notice. I was just about to knock again when the door opened. A thin, small-boned woman with a strapless white apron tacked to a dark dress stood in a square of light beaming in from a window beside the door. Her eyes infused with the same inner kindness as Deborah’s, she looked me over—pausing on my stomach that no baggy T-shirt could hide. She smiled.

  I asked, “Are you Fannie?”

  “Jah, child,” she said.

  If she had greeted me in any other way, I would not have responded with the heaving sobs that startled the midwife and stole my breath. Fannie stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door behind her. Without a word, she held me—her starched apron crackling like parchment against my chest—and patted my back. I leaned my lanky body on Fannie’s short frame. I am sure our embrace looked awkward to anyone watching. But I did not care. Six years had passed since I’d been anyone’s child, and it had been even longer since I had actually felt taken care of; after my mother left when I was twelve, I had tried to fill her grown-up shoes.

  “Ach, now,” Fannie said. She reached out that small hand with its clipped nails and calloused creases and rested it on my womb. “You need somewhere to stay?”

  I nodded and sank back into her arms. She patted my back again and didn’t say another word, just let me cry.

  8

  Rhoda, 2014

  Star is asleep by the time I return with the requested cup of tea and extra feather pillow that I’ve pulled from beneath the covers on my own bed. Setting the pillow on the cane-backed chair, I balance the saucer in my hand and look around the mudroom. Charlotte had the forethought to revamp it into Star’s living quarters, so she would be able to recuperate from the D and C without having to go up and down the stairs.

  Washtubs of laundry have been removed, and on a small, round table an oil lamp glows, filling the dingy space with cheerful light. The warped wooden floor—the worst in the house due to a century’s worth of damp shoes and dirt—is softened with one of Charlotte’s bright hook rugs. When a girl is laboring, I often come into the birthing room to find Charlotte rocking in the chair beside the four-poster bed. Her peaceful presence and rhythmic movements allow the girl to relax. Charlotte possesses a keen maternal instinct that lets her know exactly what these girls need before I can even guess that their needs haven’t been met. Preparing Star’s room is a perfect example of Charlotte’s unique gifting that I have never possessed, and today—as always—it is a gifting I wish I had.

  Looking at Star asleep on the birthing bed, I imagine her mother staring down at her as I am staring now—seeing the shadows rimming her closed eyes and veins branching across her forehead. Only through those eyes am I able to let go of my anger and discern the tender girl lurking underneath Star’s bristling hairstyle and piercings.

  I cross the floor, set the teacup on the table beside her bed, and place a hand across Star’s forehead the same way Deborah Brubaker did for me—the same way Charlotte would surely do if she were here. At my touch, Star’s eyes flicker open. She flinches as if anticipating the stinging lash of judgment I filleted her with last night, although my mouth never said a word. I retract the hand that I have placed and the words of compassion I have readied on my tongue. It is too much for her at this time. And honestly, it would be too much for me to say the things that need to be said, but which I am not yet sure I mean.

  Clouded by pain medication and grief, Star will not remember opening her eyes and seeing the midwife whom everyone fears crouching over her while burdened with the yoke of sorrow she’s been silently carrying these past eighteen years. Lifting Star’s head, with hair that has transformed from spikes into strange purple fuzz, I slide my feather pillow beneath it. I bring her new slippers over and set them beside her bed in case she needs them in the night.

  The next morning, it is bittersweet, watching unnoti
ced from the kitchen doorway as Terese and Desiree open cardboard boxes and hold up bags of bagels and trays of sweet rolls swirled with cream cheese. Knocking their hips together, they let out whoops and grin. Relief floods my eyes as I stare at these Hopen Haus girls whose stomachs will be not only filled this morning, but satisfied. I know Terese and Desiree could not be celebrating such delicacies if the Lord had heeded my supplication and kept the Channel 2 News story from being aired.

  I don’t know how to thank him or the bakery for this bounty. Hopen Haus is used to receiving donations, though they are often just as ill-kept and broken as the girls who seek lodging beneath our roof. The “day-old” baked goods the Split Rock Bakery just sent with Wilbur Byler, however, are still so fresh that the plastic bags sheathing the bagels are filmed with moisture. The cream cheese on the sweet rolls is soft and smeared from trapped vestiges of the oven’s heat.

  It is almost impossible to recall the time when such treats were commonplace. Or how, after every meal, we’d pass down the table three or four deep-dish abbel crumb or shoofly pies topped with homemade whipped cream from the spoiled Guernsey, Mirabelle. But even if we had money to purchase the ingredients—and Mirabelle hadn’t been sold at the Dry Hollow auction—we would never use our limited time for such a frivolous thing as baking desserts.

  Someone taps my shoulder. Turning, I see Lydie Risser, who is also from Split Rock Community, where the baked goods just came from. Lydie’s petite frame nearly topples with the weight of her womb. “A girl’s outside needing to speak with you,” she says, lacing arms over her middle, out of protection or still out of shame; I cannot tell which. “Says it’s about some story she read?”

  I haven’t completely recuperated from the night Star miscarried, as her loss brought back the full magnitude of my own. The last thing I want is to share my story with a stranger who yearns to see my heartache in print. “Whoever it is,” I intone, “please inform her that I do not wish to speak with any more reporters.”

  Lydie looks down. “She says she isn’t a reporter.”

  I push on the door my back was leaning against and stride down the side of the house. A slender young woman stands below the east porch steps, bending at the waist to stretch out her back, the languid movements turning her hip-length hair into an auburn flame. She spots me coming around the corner and smiles. I do not smile in return. I’ve seen enough over the years.

  “Are you Rhoda, the head midwife?” she asks.

  “Yes. And your name is . . . ?”

  “Amelia. I read your article.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t write it, so it’s not my article.”

  I make no apology for my abruptness. I still wonder if Amelia’s a reporter, flashing her million-dollar smile while trying to get the true story behind my reason to stay in a community that is close to abandoned. I point over her right shoulder to a BMW whose windshield is splattered with bugs and dust. “That yours?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “I’m not from around here.”

  “I can hear that.”

  Amelia looks down. “I was wondering . . .” She toes a sandal through the grass the goats have nibbled almost bald. Then she splays a hand across her stomach that’s as flat as a piece of notebook paper. “Would your place have room for me?” She pauses, keeps her eyes on the ground. “I’m . . . pregnant.”

  It takes considerable effort to conceal my surprise. I’ve never had a girl of Amelia’s economic level request to stay here. “Yes, we’ve got some bunks open,” I say. “Room and board’s free, but we expect every girl to pull her load. Health permitting, of course.”

  Amelia’s eyes widen. She sinks both fists deep into her pockets, as if hiding hands never marred by one hard day’s work. “How soon you want me to start?”

  I scan her white jeans and silk camisole. “Soon as you can get changed.” I about-face and march up the porch steps, already speculating about the story behind our new arrival.

  “Sounds like a plan,” she calls.

  The slight tremor underscoring Amelia’s confident voice stops me in my tracks. Turning from the screen door, I squint against the sun, trying to decipher whether the insecurity lurking behind her hazel eyes is authentic, or if this is just an audition and she is already playing her part.

  Amelia, 2014

  One of the pregnant girls named Lydie Risser pinches the skirt of her prairie dress and lets me step past her into the house.

  She follows me, her weird black boots tapping. “This is where we eat,” Lydie says, her eyes darting around the dining room like they’re chasing a fly.

  I stare up at the high ceiling’s splatters of mold and then down at the wood floor covered with footprints. I touch the top of the table scarred with two sets of initials a bored boarder probably carved with a butter knife. I wonder if vandalism’s the only proof of the love some boy claimed would never die. Whoever she is, I know how she feels.

  “They have good food here?” I ask Lydie.

  Probably paid to keep her mouth shut, the prairie girl doesn’t answer, but instead leads me through the dining room and into the kitchen. Two boarders, introduced as Desiree Jones and Terese Cullum, share the butcher block, dicing onions and peppers for supper.

  Desiree’s watering brown eyes shrink to slits. Clenching her hip with one hand, she waves the knife at me like a pointer. “Where you from?”

  “Connecticut.”

  “That’s a long ways off.”

  Tell me about it.

  I peer around the kitchen just to keep away from Desiree’s eyes. The plain white walls are decorated with nail pegs above pencil tracings of different-sized frying pans. The wooden counters are scarred but clean. Huge old jars are labeled: sugar, rice, flour, oatmeal, coffee grounds, and raspberry leaf tea. An old-fashioned stove—trimmed in, like, chrome or something—crouches against the back wall. The stove’s black legs make it look like an insect.

  “There’s no electricity?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  Terese and Lydie shake their heads. Desiree smirks.

  “Oh, my gosh,” I breathe. “Why’d you all come?”

  Using her forearm to brush dreadlocked bangs out of her eyes, Terese squishes hamburger, eggs, and crackers into a mash and smiles. “Same as you, I’m guessing, sweetheart. We had no other choice.”

  Caught off guard by her words, I have to look away until I’m sure I’m not going to cry. What Terese and the rest of these girls don’t know is that I do have choices. Too many of them, in fact. I had to come the whole way down here to the middle of nowhere just to find out who I am and, without my parents’ pressure, what my choice would really be.

  I’ve been slaving in the garden for hours, and Terese’s five-year-old son, Luca, is still squatting barefoot in the dirt beside me—all of his sweaty blond hair making him smell a little like a wet dog. Weaving stubby fingers through the carrot tassels, he plucks out weeds that are taking over this garden as much as the insects buzzing around my head. But every other second, Luca has to look over and stare. He seems to find my annoyance with farm life as entertaining as most city kids would find reality TV.

  Slapping a mosquito, I flick it off my leg and snap, “What?”

  “Nothin’,” Luca says, dropping eyes and knees to the ground. He begins to weed like his sixth year depends on it. Smart kid.

  We weed a row in silence—well, except for my grumbling. Then I slap another mosquito and ask, “Your mom just lets you run around like this?”

  “Yeah’um.” Luca smears his forehead with dirt, which doesn’t stand out since he’s already so covered with dust and grime. “She be on kitchen duty.” He shrugs a bony shoulder at the back of the house, covered by a straggly line of cedars. “And she can’t catch me nohow. My brother or sister’s making her toes all swelled up.”

  “Well—” I rock back on my sandaled heels and try to think of something smart to tell him—“You should be careful.”

  Taking a carrot from his pocket, Luca crunches it in half
.

  “What’re you doing!” I scold. “That’s not washed!”

  Luca’s sweaty hair swishes like a fringe. His jaws snap shut.

  “Spit. It. Out,” I command.

  This time, Luca doesn’t even bother shaking his head.

  “Whatever, kid. It’s your stomach.” But leaning across the row, I brush carrot pieces off his chest anyway.

  “What’re you doing?”

  Luca and I both jump at the sound of the deep voice. We step back from each other and turn toward the garden’s gate.

  This tall guy, in bare feet and black pants folded up to muscly shins, steps forward. The shadow cast by the brim of his straw hat hides most of his face, but I can see his lips are turned into a frown. “Luca,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Kumm esse.”

  I brush my dirty hands off on my shorts. “He’s okay. Really.”

  “No.” The hat brim’s shadow shifts, revealing his features, and I watch his dark gaze bounce off my legs and refocus on his feet. “You’ll come now, Luca.”

  I’ve not been, like, patient with the kid myself, but his tone gets to me. “What’s it to you?”

  The guy lifts his eyes and stares like he’s looking right through me. Then he snaps his fingers again. Five-year-old Luca throws me a grin before running after the arrogant stranger, who doesn’t even look over his shoulder to see if the boy is following.

  Rhoda, 2014