The Midwife

by Jolina Petersheim

  Clearing my throat, I say mostly just to fill up the quiet, “I had this project in preschool. We . . . we were supposed to bring in something from when we were babies: hair from our first cut, the outfit I wore home from the hospital, a picture of my mom pregnant. But she had none of this. Not a thing. My mom seemed really mad when I asked her too. Like it was my fault or something that she didn’t have this stuff around.”

  Lydie whispers, staring out the window, “I don’t have any pictures from when I was a bobbel, either.”

  “But you all don’t believe in taking pictures,” I say. “It’s different with the Englisch. If I was, like, the fifth kid or something, it would’ve been different—it would’ve made sense that my mom was too busy to keep up with such things. But I was their first kid. Their only kid. I guess my mom just didn’t care enough to record anything. Or maybe she just didn’t care, period.”

  “Ach, Amelia,” Lydie says. “I’m sure she does.”

  I shrug with the same I-don’t-care attitude that drove my parents nuts when I lived at home, which is only a cover-up for the fact that I take everything really hard. All of a sudden, I want to put my head on Lydie’s knees and bawl my head off over this feeling of abandonment I’ve struggled with for as long as I can remember. Then the hair on my neck stands up, and I blink away tears and look up into the rearview mirror, aware that Lydie’s not the only one listening. Wilbur’s doughy hands are still throttling the steering wheel. His diesel passenger van is still zooming along ten over the speed limit. But under the curled brim of his red cap, his flat eyes are watching me. And I know he’s seen everything, heard every word I said.

  Wilbur Byler breaks eye contact and flicks his right blinker before turning down a road that is as flat as a Fruit by the Foot and goes for miles. Right when I’m thinking we’re never going to get there, the van’s headlights reflect off a large white sign jammed in the ground. It reads, Welcome to Split Rock Mennonite Community.

  Lydie claps one hand over her mouth, struggling out of her seat.

  I scream, “Stop the van!”

  Wilbur slams the brakes. An empty soda can rolls to the front.

  Lydie claws her way out of the seat and yanks the latch. Doubling over, she spews all over the road. My own stomach shudders, watching her barf with her hands on her knees. But I don’t know if Lydie needs space or comfort. I realize that my mom would give her space, so I do the opposite. I get out of the vehicle and gather Lydie’s braids. Holding them to the side, I rub her back in small circles until Lydie straightens and wipes her mouth. I am comforting her the same way Grandma Sarah used to comfort me when I was sick. I am comforting her the way my mom has never done.

  “I’m fine,” Lydie whispers, but her face is pinched. “I’m fine.”

  I wrap my arm around my little friend’s waist and lead her back to the van. Again, Wilbur Byler doesn’t say anything. The two of us just climb inside, and he shifts into drive, crackling over the gravel lane. Wilbur takes another right and continues driving until the van lights sweep across a tall, clapboard-sided house. He wrenches the steering wheel and parks. No one speaks. The engine ticks. Black pants and floral cape dresses flap on the line strung between the house and the matching gray barn. A tiger tomcat cleans his paws next to a rosebush blooming in the mulch-lined flowerbeds leading to the house.

  “It’s . . .” I pause, continuing to take it all in while comparing it to my parents’ brick-and-mortar McMansion and ruler-perfect hedges. “It’s magical,” I say.

  “I know,” Lydie replies. “It’s home.”

  After Wilbur Byler unloads our overnight bags and drives off, Lydie and I stand in the yard for some time, catching our breath and listening to the windmill creak in the breeze. Then Lydie touches my hand and we walk down the pathway to her parents’ house. Stepping inside, my eyes adjust to the light of the kerosene lamp hanging in the kitchen, dispelling the outer darkness. By its glow, I see the hardwood floor that is shiny with what smells like lemon polish and the windows that sparkle even against the backdrop of night. I look over at the couch draped in a knitted throw that somehow appears even prettier because everything else is so plain.

  A number of bare feet patter halfway down the staircase. I glance up. Lydie’s four siblings are peering over the railing at me. Sandy bangs hang over the little boys’ curious blue eyes. The preteen girl’s braids, and her younger sister’s, dangle over the tiger wood; their long patterned dresses can be seen through the slats.

  Lydie’s mom, who Lydie told me is named Rebecca Risser, comes out of the door closest to the woodstove. She closes it behind her and looks up. Lydie walks toward her mother. Rebecca does not speak. She just moves her eldest daughter over toward the kitchen table so she can see her better by the light. Holding Lydie out by the shoulders, she stares down at her daughter’s stomach swelled beneath her apron. Rebecca then cups Lydie’s cheeks and whispers something only Lydie can hear. The two hug, looking more like sisters than mom and daughter, with their petite builds and blonde hair. Rebecca takes Lydie’s hand and leads her over to the door she just exited. She turns the knob and pushes the door open. Choking down a sob, Lydie lowers her head and follows. Inside, I guess, is where Rebecca’s husband—Lydie’s dad—lies dying of kidney failure at forty-two years old. He is younger than my own dad was when I was born. Understanding my parents aren’t going to be around forever makes tears come to my eyes. For the first time since I left Boston, I would give anything just to hug them both.

  “What is your surname?” someone asks. I look away from the door and back at the staircase. The older boy comes down the steps with his arms crossed.

  “Walker,” I say, wondering who’s called it a surname in the last century. “Amelia Walker.” I’ve said it so many times, the lie no longer sounds so strange.

  “My first name is Henry,” he says.

  “Nice to meet you, Henry.”

  “You as well,” he replies, like we’re having high tea.

  With an encouraging lift of Henry’s chin, the three other Risser kids come down the steps, one by one, and introduce themselves. There’s Ruth at twelve, Mary at ten, and Benjamin, five. Benjamin clatters down the staircase and looks at me. With one hand, he flattens the cowlick on the back of his head.

  “My dat sterbt,” he says.

  “What did he say?” I ask Ruth.

  The kids look at each other, and then they look down at the floor.

  “Our vadder is dying,” Henry finally says.

  “I’m sorry.” I pull on the hem of my shorts—because I feel so indecent and because I have no idea what to do with my hands.

  The bedroom door opens. Rebecca and Lydie come out. Lydie takes a hand away from her stomach to wipe her tears. She walks over to her brothers and sisters, who are still standing in front of me like a receiving line at a wedding. Lydie carefully kneels around the bulk of her unborn baby and opens her arms. The Risser kids hug her without hesitating. Benjamin even rests his head on her belly. Lydie glances up and meets my eyes, her own spilling over. The Rissers are holding each other up, even as they lean on each other for support through the pain that is ahead. I know, as I stare at this show of unconditional love, that I would never have been able to leave such a priceless support system behind.

  Beth, 1997

  Wilbur asked, “How’d it go?” but kept looking through his truck windshield at the Williams, Attorney at Law sign.

  I swallowed. “He said I have no case. I’m lucky the Fitzpatricks didn’t throw me in jail.”

  Wilbur stayed quiet, and then he turned the ignition. The cab rattled as the V-8 flared to life. I pressed back against the seat as he shifted into reverse, orbiting the square with the mammoth courthouse as its keystone. The state and national flags cracked in the stiff winter gust, and I knew I would never willfully darken the courthouse doors. The law would never give me back my child, so I would not do anything according to the law.

  My thoughts began to reel with absurd possibilities.
Adrenaline slipped through my veins, the heady concoction blurring the lines of my perception, making me wonder if anything was truly black and white, or merely transmutations of gray. Was it possible that I could go up to Boston and kidnap my child a second time—not because I was trying to preserve her life, but because, this time, I was trying to preserve mine?

  I hedged, though my mind was already made up. “Maybe . . . ,” I said, “if you talked to the Fitzpatricks, they’d let me come up to Boston and hold Hope one more time.”

  Wilbur did not take his eyes off the road. “Maybe,” he said. I heard the dry click of his throat snapping open and shut. “I could drive you,” he added.

  Fifteen minutes later, Wilbur gunned up the washout lane toward Hopen Haus. The pressure between us was as potent as the silence. Each of us stared straight ahead. I had written the Fitzpatricks’ home number on a paper napkin and slid it across the bench seat toward him. If the Fitzpatricks agreed to let me come, Wilbur would drive me to Boston. There I would hold my child again, and then try to run with her, though I knew an escape was senseless. But I was at a dangerous crossroads. I had already lost everyone I loved; therefore, I had nothing left to lose.

  Fannie Graber entered my bedroom without the formality of rapping on the half-open door. She crossed the floor faster than I would have thought her able. Clutching my upper arm, she forced me to drop Hope’s clothes and meet her gaze. My eyes were stark reflections of the anger I felt. I broke her hold and placed the infant sweater set in the suitcase, belligerent about my lie and not caring if—looking at the items I was packing—she understood the truth: I was not going up to Boston to say good-bye; I was going up to Boston to take my daughter back.

  I straightened the only regular clothing I hadn’t given to the other boarders who, in the process of keeping their children, had lost almost as much as I. Shaking out a gray Simms University sweatshirt that had seen better years, I doubled it against my chest and tucked it back in the suitcase. Fannie didn’t say anything, but I felt her eyes tracing my disheveled hair and salt-stained face, which I hadn’t bothered wiping the last few times I cried.

  “Wilbur drove up to the diner and called the Fitzpatricks,” she said. “And they . . . they said they will let you come say good-bye.” Fannie reached around my extended arms and touched my bound chest that was as hard and knotted as my heart. “I want you to have that closure, Rhoda,” she said, holding my gaze. “I want you to stare into Hope’s face and remember all the things you did together. And then you can leave. But as long as you have breath left in your body, you’ll not really have to let Hope go.”

  “But she’s not dead, Fannie,” I spat, anger oiling my tongue. “And I’m not going up there just to let her go.” My voice grew with fury until it felt too large for the cramped room. I didn’t care whom I destroyed or used in the process of getting Hope back. Even if that meant hurting the midwife who had become more like a mother to me, even if that meant temporarily hurting the daughter I was trying to reclaim.

  The midwife’s face fell. She clasped her ancient hands in front of her and bowed her head. “All right,” she said. Her thin voice wavered, and I knew she was afraid for me. “Just know I’ll be here, waiting for you, if you need to come back.”

  Restraining my own tears, I focused on checking the accessory compartment where I’d stowed Thomas Fitzpatrick’s bundled hundred-dollar bills that I hadn’t touched in all this time. They were all there—every last one a paper promise I hoped to make tangible. I snapped the suitcase closed and looked at Fannie. Heartbreak trickled from her crystal blue eyes.

  “Why do you love me after I’ve been so cruel?” I asked.

  The old midwife looked up and smiled sadly, cupping my cheek. “Because, Liebe, that’s what a mother does.”

  17

  I could not sleep on the drive to Boston. Part of it was due to the pain surrounding my departure from Hopen Haus and the anxiety regarding my destination. Part of it was because of the milk that kept surging in my chest, a relentless reminder that I had no baby to swill the sustenance her birth had taught me to make. I stared at the flakes that swept back toward the windshield and then were immediately replaced with another batch, like cotton pieces shaken free from a continuous factory loom. Wilbur kept driving until the gas meter again sunk into red. Then he pulled over and refilled the tank as I went inside to express milk while leaning over the toilet, and then reapply Fannie’s parting gift of comfrey salve.

  At the gas station, I looked into a mirror for the first time since I had left Boston—as Hopen Haus was devoid of such vanity—and was startled to see the reflection of a woman far older than her twenty-four years. A few stray hairs at my temples were coarsened with silver. How had they gone unnoticed? I rubbed the fogged glass with my elbow and recalled that severe pain can drain pigment from hair follicles. I wondered if my own accelerated aging had happened in the past twenty-four hours. It seemed improbable, but if I had been put under the knife without an anesthetic, my body could not be under any more stress.

  Outside, Wilbur was in the driver’s seat of his truck, unwrapping a piece of tinfoil that glinted in the lights of the gas station pavilion. I climbed in the passenger’s side, and Wilbur passed me an identical foil-wrapped sandwich.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The intimacy of the cab increased with the outside snowfall spattered across the ink-black night. I shivered and heard the engine fan kick on as Wilbur turned up the heat. Though he spoke not a word, I knew he was attuned to my every movement, my every breath, as if this observance could also attune him to my thoughts. This unsettled me, but I tried not to act like it did. Regardless of my misgivings, I needed him to think he was taking me up to Boston to say good-bye and not to take my daughter back.

  I must have nodded off, for when I awoke, the sun was a bauble suspended above the purpling horizon. I rested the back of my throbbing skull against the seat. Bobby pins, embedded in my kapp, speared my scalp. It seemed ridiculous to keep up such a facade, but I found that the mantle of Plain life gave me strength to face the weight of this uncertain world. And I did not want to make Wilbur suspect my impending need to blend in by changing into Englischer clothes.

  Wilbur asked, “You nervous?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. He had no idea how much.

  The truck entered the track-lit tunnel that was a vein leading to the fisted heart of the city. A vehicle behind us topped with the strapped luggage of tourists honked, the high-pitched sound clanging off the stone dome. Exiting the portal, we were only miles from Simms University and the Fitzpatricks’ elite neighborhood, White Swan Estates. The closer we drew, the harder it became to breathe. Wilbur did not ask me any more questions. He simply folded the map, stowed it in the glove box, and pulled up to the tollbooth, refusing my paltry offering of change. The tollbooth bar lifted. Unaccustomed to city driving, Wilbur white-knuckled the steering wheel as traffic zipped past us on all sides. Sweat stained the temples of his shaggy brown hair. He exhaled through his nose, but hardly sped up.

  Somehow we made it to the fringes of Boston, where the elite Simms University was set like a multifaceted jewel. As we passed the campus, I stared out the rear window at the foot-tall letters glinting on the brick entrance accented by its curlicued wrought-iron arch. Less than a year since I’d fled those university gates. Yet already, I felt so fully removed from that person who’d climbed behind the steering wheel and let her roommate’s trilling flute serenade her reckless departure from all her long-cultivated dreams but the one nurtured inside her womb.

  I took a deep breath and pointed through the spiderweb crack branching across the windshield. “Park there, Wilbur,” I intoned. “Their house is just over that rise.”

  He nodded and circled the wheel, parallel parking his rust bucket between a Jaguar and a Mercedes Benz whose sleek, low-slung roofs were capped with snow. I creaked open the passenger door to cycle in some fresh air. I closed my eyes and tried to pray for direction, but I was sti
ll too angry to converse. Just as I knew I would not relinquish my daughter to the courts, I knew I would never again place her life in God’s incapable hands.

  “Want me to go with you?” Wilbur asked.

  I shook my head and took the satchel containing my money, but left my suitcase under the seat so Wilbur wouldn’t guess that I was about to run with my daughter. Binding the woolen shawl around my shoulders, I clambered out of the cab and wondered if I was making the right decision. But I was out of realistic options, so I had to follow my gut instincts. I looked up. Extinguished streetlights stretched their nimble, dinosaurian necks over either side of the cobbled road. Ice crunched beneath my pilgrim shoes as I crossed the salted curb and minced down the sidewalk. I felt self-conscious as I looked down, as I touched the pleated back of my black bonnet hooked over my netted kapp. It was too early to be ogled by passersby, but the garments that had once made me feel protected now made me feel vulnerable, exposed.

  From the street, the Fitzpatrick dwelling resembled more of a citadel than a home. Brick, cantilevered stories trimmed in enameled molding rose to a central point that was crowned with a cupola similar to those adorning the buildings on Simms University’s campus. Numerous windows gleamed with the dawn, moisture beading down the thawing glass. In the yard, a marble statue of a woman sensuously draped in a toga looked as if she should be balancing the scales of justice. Instead, her extended hands cupped decaying autumn leaves.

  Looking at her, I had to resist the urge to flee and instead keep moving forward, up the paved path toward the front door. I don’t know what kind of security I’d been expecting around the Fitzpatrick residence—police surveillance, perhaps—but there was nothing. Or at least nothing that I could see. My shoes slid on the ice; I held on to the gate’s wrought-iron spires for support. Lifting the latch, I slipped inside. I continued walking past the yard’s entire, frozen splendor and stepped closer and closer to the front door.