by Leslie Gould
I’d watched the documentary with Dad back home and asked him if the kids he grew up with partied like that. “Pretty much, although I never had enough money to buy a car while I was on the farm.” He looked me in the eye. “I never had money to buy drugs either, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have.”
That was about as much as he ever said about his growing-up years, although the last summer I went to Indiana, he told me not to go to any Amish Youngie parties. “I’ll ground you when you get home if I find out you did” was all he said. I didn’t go to any parties. Then again, no one asked me to either.
“How old is Kenny?” I asked.
Lois answered, “A year younger than Tommy.”
So if Tommy was twenty-nine now, then Kenny would be twenty-eight. Way too old to be on his Rumschpringe. Perhaps selling drugs had become a way of life for him.
The subject changed to Arleta. Her first husband had died three years ago of complications from diabetes, and she married Vernon a year ago, moving from Newbury Township back to the Nappanee area where she’d grown up.
“Miriam’s been running around all year,” Lois said, “and Joshua just started.” She shook her head. “If only these kids knew how much heartache they could save themselves if they’d just join the church and quit living such foolishness.”
Jane smiled kindly. “But it’s only through free will that we can truly come to know the Lord,” she said. “Running around serves its purpose.”
It hadn’t for Tommy and Kenny, though, if neither had joined the church. It surprised me that Tommy hadn’t. I vividly remembered our conversations about him wanting to farm, get married, and have a bunch of kids, because the way he talked always made me sad. Because I knew I would never be the girl Tommy wanted to marry. I’d always be the Englisch girl who visited in the summer. The outsider. The one who didn’t belong.
But it sounded as if Tommy didn’t belong anymore either.
JANE WAS UP and down, helping customers as we quilted. After two hours, she insisted we take a break and get a snack. I was surprised at how healthy it was. Carrots and celery sticks, apple slices, hard cheese—that Jane had made—and slices of homemade whole wheat bread. There wasn’t a single sweet baked good, what the Amish were famous for, on the kitchen counter.
“I’m trying to eat healthier,” Jane said. “In the spring, I’ll plant a garden here on the property so the quilters will have produce to take home. Not all of them have access to a garden.”
“Some of your quilters aren’t Amish?” I was surprised by that.
“No,” Jane answered. “But even all the Amish ones don’t have gardens. Some live in town now.”
Mammi had told me that more and more Amish were taking jobs in manufacturing, as there wasn’t enough farmland for each subsequent generation. Nappanee was known for its RV factories, which took a hit during the recession, but most had recovered and were back in full swing now.
“I’m also hoping to include some circles on preserving food,” Jane said. “It’ll be much like the quilting circle, but we’ll be working together to promote canning, drying, and freezing food. I think those will be especially popular with some of my Englisch customers.”
I nodded. Of course Mammi canned, but so did my mother. Most of my friends, however, had never learned about food preservation and thought of it as something Pinterest had invented.
Ryan thought it quaint but sweet that I knew all of those basic things. “If the preppers are right and the apocalypse is around the corner,” he’d say, “we’ll be fine, thanks to you.” He’d grown up in Santa Monica and liked to say his family was middle class. They weren’t. They were wealthy. Not obscenely so, but enough that he was well traveled and didn’t have any student loans.
Because of that, there were all sorts of things Ryan did that I didn’t—until I met him. He’d rather order a ride than ask for one. He had lots of acquaintances but few friends. He would have found it amusing that I was quilting with a group of Amish women who were constrained by patterns and colors. He’d be dismayed to learn that the quilt we were working on was actually considered quite innovative, that in some districts using what was considered a fancy pattern would be entirely prohibited.
When he’d found out my grandmother was Amish, he’d said, “But you’re not that close to her, right?” I’d assured him that I was—that I loved her very much and she was one of my favorite people in the whole world, even though I hadn’t seen her for years.
For a moment I felt sorry for Ryan. I swallowed hard as I dished up carrots, celery, apple slices, cheese, and bread.
I glanced out the window. More snow was falling, and I figured we should go soon. We still needed to stop by the store for Uncle Seth. But I hated to leave. Mammi seemed the happiest that I’d seen her since I’d arrived.
I was enjoying myself too. There was comfort in being with the other women, and even though I found myself thinking about Ryan, I wasn’t obsessing about him the way I did when I was alone.
Lois brought up the topic of Miriam again. “I sure hope they find that missing girl.”
“I imagine with Miriam missing that Arleta needs some help,” Jane said. “I’d be happy to make a casserole, although I don’t know that I can run it over there.”
“I could do that,” I said.
“Denki.” Jane smiled at me. “Will you be coming to the quilting circle on Wednesday? I could give it to you then.”
I glanced at Mammi. She said, “I’d like to come that day, if it works for you.”
“All right.” I might as well come back for the quilting circle and to collect the casserole. Hopefully by then Miriam would be found and Tommy’s name cleared.
And I’d have a few job possibilities lined up.
CHAPTER 6
Mammi waited in the pickup while I delivered the soup and items from the grocery story to Uncle Seth. He met me at the front door, wearing pajamas, a heavy robe, and slippers. His eyes were dull and red. I guessed that he had the respiratory flu.
As a conservative Mennonite, he lived a pretty austere life. No TV or computer. Modest furniture. No carpet or rugs. But he had his pickup, plus electricity, and a telephone in the house.
After I’d said hello and put the soup in the fridge, I wrote down my cell phone number on a pad of paper on the counter so he wouldn’t have to look it up in his address book. My phone was up to twenty percent from charging it in the pickup.
He kept his distance from me as I said, “Your pickup stalled on my way to the birth. It’s been fine since then, but any ideas why it would do that?”
“Delores gassed it up last,” he said. “She probably put in the wrong kind of fuel.”
I tilted my head, trying to figure out the connection.
“It’s because the engine is old. It needs a richer fuel mixture, especially in the cold. Or maybe there’s a leak around the carburetor or a hose.” He shrugged. “Fill up the tank the rest of the way with premium, and buy an octane booster at the station and add that too.”
Mammi told me once, in a joking way, that she thought Seth had left the Amish because of his love of engines and all things mechanical. Perhaps she was right.
I drove straight to the nearest gas station, where I filled up the gas tank and added the booster, and then we headed back to the farm. For supper, Mammi and I ate more chicken noodle soup. Afterward, we sat in the living room, where Mammi picked up a farming magazine to read. Not wanting to use any more of my phone battery, I picked up an old copy of The Budget Newspaper, which served the “Amish-Mennonite Communities Throughout the Americas,” and thumbed through it. I’d read The Budget as a child, and I found it just as comforting now as I had back then. The columns, which made up most of the newspaper, were about visits from family members and friends, new births, the crisp weather, the full moon, and weddings. There was a familiar pattern about the columns no matter who’d written them, whether it was an Amish man from Florida or a Mennonite woman from Alaska. Some of the people mentione
d in the columns were only identified by their first names, as if the entire Anabaptist population of the US would know their last names.
I read column after column, aware of what a waste of time I would have thought this was two weeks ago, but time didn’t have the same value to me now. I turned the page and saw a column from Nappanee. I scanned to the bottom to see the author. Wanda Miller. That was Tommy’s mother.
I raised my head. “Wanda writes for The Budget?”
“Jah, she’s been doing it for years. Jane used to, but she was offered a monthly column for the local paper and started doing that instead.”
“Nice.” I loved what these older Amish women did. Quilting. Writing. Making soup and casseroles for their neighbors. They were an inspiration.
“Where are Tommy’s parents living now?”
“His father passed away a few years ago.”
I put my hand to my chest. Poor Wanda. Poor Tommy.
“Jah.” Mammi looked up from her book. “He was only sixty-nine. They had moved to the Dawdi Haus on Ervin’s farm—he’s the oldest boy.”
“What about Tommy?” I asked. “Where is he living?”
“In town.” She moved her bookmark to the page she was on.
“Whom does he live with?”
“With Kenny, I think. And a little boy,” Mammi answered.
“A little boy? Whose little boy?”
Mammi shrugged. “I haven’t asked.”
“Tommy’s a dad?”
She shrugged again and glanced back down at her magazine. No doubt she didn’t want to gossip. “What about a wife?”
Mammi shook her head. “Just the boy.”
“What happened?”
Mammi shrugged. “He came back from Nevada with the little boy. He’s just a toddler. Wanda keeps him while Tommy works.”
“What happened to his wife?” I asked a second time.
Mammi answered, “I’m not certain there was a wife.”
My phone started to buzz in the pocket of my sweatshirt. It was the florist again. I’d forgotten to listen to her voicemail. I ducked into the bathroom and said a quiet, “Hello.”
“Savannah,” she said. “Listen, Ryan hasn’t returned my call. I need to go ahead and charge your card.”
“Can you wait? I’ll try him.” I didn’t want to try to collect all of the money from Ryan to pay off my card. “Just until tomorrow,” I added.
“Well . . .”
My phone buzzed again. It was the photographer. “I have to go. I have another call. . . .”
“Give me an update tomorrow,” the florist said. “As soon as you can.”
After I thanked her, I accepted the other call. “Hey, Savannah, sorry to bother you . . .”
Same story. Ryan’s card didn’t go through for him either. What was going on?
The photographer agreed to wait a day too. When I came back to the living room, my phone battery was back down to ten percent. Mammi glanced up again. “Everything all right?”
“I think so,” I answered. “Just a few wrinkles to iron out about the wedding.”
She nodded as if it were all something she was familiar with and went back to her reading.
THE NEXT MORNING, as I dressed, my phone rang again, which seemed way too early for any calls from West Coast vendors. I’d left Ryan a voicemail and then sent him a text the night before, so I hoped it was him.
Of course it wasn’t him. What was I thinking?
It was Delores. I groaned and then composed myself and answered the call.
“My fever’s back,” she said. “Could you go check on Arleta and the baby?”
“Was she all right yesterday?”
Delores coughed. “I never got out there. Listen, I wouldn’t ask but one of my backup midwives is out of town and the other has strep throat. I just need to know everything’s all right.”
I thought of the casserole Jane wanted to send to Arleta. I wished I had some sort of food I could take now and decided to ask Mammi if she had some extra soup she could spare.
“I’ll go,” I said. “What time?”
“After eight. I’ll leave a message, which they probably won’t get.” Delores paused a moment to cough. “But they won’t be surprised to see you, or at least I don’t think they will be.”
“What about your other clients?” I asked.
“I’ve rescheduled all of my appointments for next week. Thankfully, I don’t have another birth until the middle of the month. This will be the last favor I ask, I promise.”
Once I’d ended the call with Delores, I realized I had a voicemail from the previous night. It was from the caterer. Same story. Ryan’s credit card had been declined.
I called him again. Of course he didn’t answer, so I left him a testy message. “Call all of the vendors and make this right,” I hissed. “You can’t dump me and then expect me to cover for you.” I ended the message without saying good-bye. As if he’d care.
I tried to log in to my bank through the app on my phone to check my credit card, but the app wasn’t working and wouldn’t reload. I’d have to do it once I had Wi-Fi at the coffee shop.
Mammi had more than a gallon jar of soup for me to take to Arleta and her family. She also had a loaf of bread and a cherry pie too. “Tell Arleta I’m praying for her,” Mammi said as she handed me the box of food. “And that new baby.”
I told her I would. Once I’d put the box on the floor of the pickup and the midwife bag on the passenger seat, I called Uncle Seth to see if he needed anything. He answered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m doing all right,” he said. “I’ll call this afternoon if I can think of anything.”
“What about your pickup?” I asked. “Do you need it back?”
“No. You keep it for another couple of days, as long as it’s running all right. Any more problems?”
I assured him there hadn’t been.
The temperature had risen to twenty-eight degrees, a virtual heat wave, and the pickup started on the first try. I immediately plugged in my phone and then turned around in Mammi’s snow-rutted driveway and headed for the lane and then the highway. No more snow had fallen, so the roads were fine. I arrived at Arleta’s house just after eight to find a sheriff’s car in their driveway. I debated whether to leave and return later or go up to the door, but I decided not to waste the trip.
I gathered my bags and the food and knocked on the door. Finally, an older Amish man I didn’t recognize opened it.
“I’m Savannah Mast,” I said. “I’m here to see Arleta.”
He tugged on his long gray beard. “Can you come back later?”
“No.” Three minutes ago I might have said yes, before I’d ventured up the back steps.
“All right, then,” he said. “Come on in. But you’ll have to wait your turn.”
As he stepped through the door, he added, “I’m David Deiner, the bishop. A deputy is here about Miriam.”
I hoped it wasn’t with bad news.
Vernon, Arleta, Joshua, and the deputy all sat around the kitchen table. Everyone but the baby. And Miriam.
The deputy stood, and I extended my hand. “Savannah Mast,” I said. “I’m here to check on Arleta and the baby.”
He gripped my hand. “I’m Deputy Bradley Rogers, with the Elkhart County Sheriff’s Office.” He appeared to be in his early fifties. He was medium height and big boned. He wore his gray hair short, not quite buzzed, and his brown eyes were stern.
As he finally let go of my hand, he said speculatively, “So you’re the midwife.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Would he arrest me for malpractice? I hadn’t thought of that when I decided to come in now instead of coming back later. “I was helping my cousin out,” I said. “She has the flu.”
“You were here the night Miriam disappeared?”
“I’d just arrived.”
He sat back down. “You should go ahead and do what you need to do with Arleta and the baby, and then I’ll have some questions for
you.”
It was a statement, not a request. “All right.” I turned toward Arleta. “I’ll follow you.” I left my coat on because I guessed she’d be most comfortable in the bedroom.
On the way through the living room, she lifted the baby from the bassinet and shuffled down the hall. I stopped in the bathroom to wash my hands and then braced myself for the cold of the bedroom, but the door was open, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been on Saturday night.
“How have you been feeling?” I asked as I rubbed my hands together.
“All right.” Arleta put the baby, who was now awake, on the bed and sat down beside her.
“How is the nursing going?” I pulled out the scales from the bag as I spoke and then slipped on a pair of gloves.
“My milk hasn’t come in.”
“Right.” I unwrapped the baby. “It should come in tomorrow or the next day. Is she nursing regularly? Getting the colostrum?”
Arleta nodded.
The baby had lost a few ounces, which was expected. Her reflexes were all good, and she responded to my voice. Her posture and muscle tone were appropriate. She had a bruise on the crown of her head, which wasn’t unusual, especially considering how fast she flew out of the birth canal. Her lungs were clear and her respiration good.
“Have you decided on a name?” I asked.
Arleta shook her head. She had dark circles under her eyes. With Miriam missing, it must be difficult for her to think about other things.
“Any word from Miriam?”
Arleta shook her head and then sighed. I wanted to take her hand, but I didn’t think she’d be comfortable with that.
I rewrapped the baby, held her close for a long moment, and soaked in her sweet essence. There was nothing in life as incredible as newborns. Mom used to say they were the closest we had to angels on earth. Newborn babies definitely had an ethereal quality, a holy presence, that perhaps only a death from old age came close to. No wonder Mom had loved being a midwife. No wonder I’d wanted to be one. Had I made a mistake not pursuing it?
