The Amish Midwife

ELEVEN


I had three prenatal appointments in Marta’s office that morning and finished up at eleven. When I entered the cottage, Marta sat at the dining room table with a cordless phone in her hand and an open file in front of her. Without saying hello she said, “We need to check on Barbie and her baby on our way to a four o’clock appointment at the Kemp home.”

“First I want the information that’s coming to me, and then I’m going to sleep for a couple of hours,” I answered and then clenched my teeth. The woman was a slave driver, and I was complicit.

“How about some food?” Was that a glimpse of humanity Marta just displayed?

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes and wondering if our conversation should wait until later, when I wasn’t too exhausted to take in whatever she had decided to tell me about Amielbach.

“My word is good, Lexie,” she said evenly, as if reading my mind. “Take your nap now. We’ll talk later.”

Trusting her on that one, I used the last speck of energy I possessed to get myself up the stairs and into bed.

Later that afternoon Marta insisted on driving me to the appointments. I reminded her of what her attorney said, and she answered, “That’s ridiculous. My being on the property doesn’t constitute practicing.” She added that if she didn’t go with me, I’d never find the Kemps’ farm.

The visit to Barbie’s was quick and uneventful. Everything was going well. Her sisters were back for the day, the baby was nursing, and Barbie was resting as much as she could. The entire appointment took all of fifteen minutes, and then we were on our way to the next visit. Marta sped along the country roads, deftly navigating the twists and turns, slowing for buggies and scooters, and accelerating on the straight stretches when she could.

Finally she turned onto a narrow lane. The house was back from the road past a row of nine greenhouses. I counted each one. Outside of the last one, Amish men were loading flats of plants onto trucks.

“Who drives the trucks?” I asked.

“Englisch,” Marta answered. “The Gundys hire them.”

“Gundys? I thought we were going to the Kemps’.”

“Hannah Kemp used to be a Gundy.”

“Is she related to Sally Gundy?”

“They’re sisters-in-law.”

“So she’s Ezra’s sister?”

Marta nodded. I knew the whole county had to be related, and I also knew it was probably a hopeless cause to even keep the relationships between the few ladies I’d cared for so far straight.

Mennonites love to know whom you’re related to. At large gatherings, people will ask who your grandparents were—mine had lived in Kansas and were all deceased—what your mother’s maiden name was, all of that. I hated those questions. Sometimes I would hear people whisper, “She’s Paul and Clarissa Jaeger’s adopted daughter.” Adopted. It always sounded like a dirty word.

In high school I noticed that if an adopted person committed a crime, the article in the paper would often identify them as adopted, but I never saw people who did something good identified so. I began to wonder if maybe adoptees never did anything good until I came across an article on adoption that included famous people, such as Aristotle, Edgar Allen Poe, and Faith Hill.

“Do the Amish adopt much?” I asked Marta.

“Not particularly,” she answered, her eyes on the lane ahead of us. We were nearing two houses.

“How about the Mennonites?”

“It happens,” she answered. “But it’s not common.”

“Is Zed curious about his birth family?”

Her mouth twisted to the side. “Ella never should have revealed to you that Zed is adopted. That’s our family’s private matter.” She parked beside a carriage and opened her door quickly.

We walked past the newer house, which was quite large, toward the smaller house that looked as if it were a century or two old. A pink Big Wheel was parked on the sidewalk by the back door of the smaller house, and a purple ball had been abandoned in the flower bed. Marta knocked, but no one answered. A door to the house across the driveway banged and a woman appeared.

“Marta!” she called out. It was Alice from two days before. “Hannah’s over here.” Three little girls slipped past; the twins who had been with Alice before and a girl with auburn hair. She appeared to be about five years old. All three were dressed in maroon frocks with white aprons. None of them wore a cap, though their hair was neatly twisted into buns at the back. Their chubby feet were bare.

I followed Marta to the big house, climbing the stairs to the wraparound porch after her. The slats had been freshly painted and baskets of red germaniums hung from hooks spaced evenly along the ceiling. Flats of impatiens were spread on the lawn along the flower bed, waiting to be planted.

Alice held open the door and herded the little girls back into the house. “They just got up from their naps,” she said. “I was getting them a snack.” I followed Marta into a big kitchen with a large, rustic table in the middle. The three girls climbed side by side onto the far bench. Each had a cookie in her hand. All three looked past Marta and at me with their big eyes.

“We always wear dresses,” the oldest one stated, pointing at my jeans.

Alice said, “Shhh.”

“Sometimes I wear a dress.” I stopped in front of the girls. “To church and things like that.”

“I know,” the older girl said. “You are Englisch. That is what you all do.”

“Never mind Rachael. She likes to practice her English.”

I must have looked puzzled.

Alice responded, “The children learn Pennsylvania Dutch at home. It isn’t until school, usually, that they learn English.”

“Ezra teaches me,” the little girl said and then laughed. She was obviously quite precocious. “Yesterday I learned that the word for kind is ‘child.’ And kinder means ‘children.’”

My heart swooned at the words, two that I remembered from my year of German. But they meant more to me now. They held the English words “kin” and “kind,” yet they meant “child” and “children.”

“That Ezra.” Alice shook her head. “He’s going to be the death of us all.”

A pregnant young woman with hair the same bright shade as Ezra’s, whom I presumed to be Hannah, stepped into the archway between the dining room and living room. She wore a maroon dress and stockings but no shoes. “Hello,” she said to Marta. “I’m glad you found me over here.”

Marta nodded. “How are you, Hannah?”

“Gut. It’s best for Rachael and me to spend most of our time here with the twins, Christy, and Mammi. For all of us.”

Marta nodded again and then introduced me. “Lexie will be working with you today while I stay in the kitchen with Alice and the girls.”

Hannah had a questioning look on her face but didn’t say anything. “I was resting in the spare bedroom,” she said. “Follow me.”

I went through the relationships of the Gundy/Kemp family, at least what I knew so far, as I followed Hannah down the hall. Alice was Nancy’s mother. Nancy’s husband was Benjamin. Their children were Will, Hannah, John, and Ezra. John was married to Sally. Hannah was married to—

“What’s your husband’s name?” I asked as she stopped and motioned me through a door.

“Jonas.”

I stepped into a bedroom. “And he works with your dad too?”

“More for my brother Will. In the greenhouses.”

The room had a single bed in it and a bureau, with no pictures on the wall. “Do you plan to deliver your baby in here?” I asked.

“Oh no,” Hannah said. “This is Will’s house. Our home is next door.”

I continued with the family tree as I pulled the measuring tape and blood pressure cuff from the bag. Rachael belonged to Hannah and Jonas. Christy and the twins to Will and… whom?

The little girls bumped against the door and then entered the room, giggling as they climbed up onto the bed.

“This is Melanie and Matty,” Hannah said.

“Mel and Mat,” Rachael interjected.

I explained to the children that I was going to measure Hannah to see how big the baby was, though I realized about halfway through that the twins couldn’t understand a word I was saying.

“Mel and Mat’s mamm had a boppli inside her,” Rachael said matter-of-factly. “But he died. Ya, Mamm?”

Hannah nodded solemnly.

“And so did their mamm.” Rachael’s eyes were downcast.

I looked at Hannah, hoping she would explain what the child was talking about, but her face was stone still.

Mulling that over, I ran the tape measure up her belly and recorded the number in her chart. Next I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her arm. The little girls watched closely as I squeezed the bulb.

“What’s boppli in English?” I asked Rachael.

She sat back on her heels. “Doll?” she asked her mother.

“Baby,” Hannah answered. Rachael nodded and smiled.

Baby. I took Hannah’s blood pressure and recorded it also in her chart. The twins’ mother had died and so had her baby. At first, I thought Rachael meant the baby was stillborn and then the mother died later. But maybe not.

Maybe… I looked at Hannah, an icy coldness washing over me as comprehension crept into my brain.

“Rachael, you three run along now,” Hannah said, sitting up. “We’ll be in shortly.”

The child whispered to Mel and Mat in Pennsylvania Dutch, and they left the room.

“Was the woman Rachael was just talking about Marta’s patient?” I whispered as soon as they were out of hearing range.

She nodded. “You didn’t know?”

“The patient who died recently?”

She nodded again. Afraid my knees would give out, I lowered myself to the edge of the bed, wanting to put my hands to my face.

The woman Rachael was talking about was the patient Marta was charged with killing. I never would have guessed by how all of them acted. What other secrets could these people keep?

“Are you okay?” Hannah’s voice was full of compassion.

I held up my head. “I’m fine. Just caught off guard, that’s all.” I gathered up my things and followed Hannah into the kitchen.

“How about a cookie?” Alice asked.

I sat down beside Rachael at the table. Soon a plate with a cookie on it for me and glasses of milk for the girls appeared. The three little girls all exclaimed, “Danke, Grossmammi!” in unison.

My thoughts returned to the Gundy family. Even as they were all still mourning the death of a mother and infant son, there would be two new babies in the family soon: first Hannah’s and then Sally’s. I imagined upcoming holiday dinners around the very table where I sat. The laughter. The teasing. The good food. The devotion to one another. The extended family all together, from the great-grandmother to the smallest little one. In a word, I was jealous.

Marta, Hannah, and Alice moved away from the table. “How is Will?” Marta asked quietly.

I couldn’t hear Hannah and Alice’s response because Rachael chattered away, mostly in words I couldn’t understand, and the twins responded over and over with, “Ya, ya.”

But then the girls quieted for a moment.

“He wants to see you,” Hannah said. That I heard quite clearly. “But the district attorney told him not to. It’s forbidden.”

Marta nodded. “So I’ve heard.” She walked to the back door and lifted her coat off a peg. “Well, Hannah, you’ll have another appointment in two weeks and then after that every week until the baby arrives.”

She smiled. “I will be ready. So will Rachael.”

The girl turned toward her mother and smiled at the sound of her name.

I told the little ones goodbye and thanked Alice for the cookie. Rachael climbed down from the bench and scurried across the tile floor, taking my hand. “Come again?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” I said.

Hannah stood beside her grandmother, looking the picture of perfect contentment. Yet I knew she must still be full of grief. Her sister-in-law had died just before Dad did, less than two months before. But her grief was unexpected, doubly so. I envied her contentment, her acceptance. And envied her grossmammi standing so stoically beside her, helping her with her daughter and nieces.

I imagined all of them planting the impatiens after we left. I had the urge to ask if I could stay and help, but it was interrupted by the back door flying open. A tall man with the Gundy red hair and a full beard stood in front of Marta. He looked more like Ezra than John, but he was much larger than both of the younger men.

He took off his straw hat and looked down on Marta. “I hoped I’d see you.”

“Will,” Marta said. “How are you?”

“My soul is well. My heart…well, you know.”

She nodded and reached for his hand. “I know the DA told you not to talk with me—”

“And I won’t. Not about the case.” He clucked his tongue. “Although I do not understand this. I asked the detective to leave well enough alone, including burying her in peace without an autopsy, but he said it’s the state that is bringing charges, not me. I told him you told us to go to the hospital and that I listened to Lydia when she refused. It was my fault as much as hers, but certainly not yours.”

“Don’t talk that way,” Marta said. “Just tell the grand jury what happened.”

“That’s just it,” Will answered. “Some things in life happen, they can’t be changed.”

I couldn’t help but question Will’s philosophy. If people acted in responsible ways, most tragedies could be averted. Not all, of course, but most.

Rachael stood to the side watching her uncle, while the twins had turned around on the bench and were balancing on their knees.

When Will exclaimed, “Where are my girls?” all three came running as if they had been waiting for his cue, giggling as they did. He swept them into his arms and then asked, “Where’s Christy?”

“Resting,” Rachael answered. “Grossmammi said for us not to bother her.”

He peered over the three blond heads at his grandmother.

Alice shrugged. “She’s having another hard day, that’s all.”

He nodded and then squeezed the girls until they squealed. “I still have my joy,” he said to Marta. “God is still gut.”

“Ya,” she answered, but I thought I detected a hint of bitterness in her voice.

“Speaking of, how is Klara and Alexander’s only joy? I heard she was ill again.”

“I hadn’t heard,” Marta said. “I’ll have to ask Klara.” Marta started toward the back door, but Will kept talking.

“Who is this?” He was looking at me now.

“My assistant,” Marta answered, her hand on the doorknob.

I stepped forward and extended my hand. “Lexie Jaeger.”

“I’m pleased to meet you.” His shake was firm. “So you’re a relative of Marta’s?”

My eyes popped wide. Why would he assume that?

Marta answered quickly. “She’s from Oregon.”

“W-why do you say that?” I stammered at the same time.

He shifted the girls higher in his arms and they squealed again. “Well, for being Englisch you look like—”

Marta interrupted him. “We need to go.”

“Like who?” My voice was loud.

Will glanced at Marta and then at me. He opened his mouth, but then Alice swooped into our half circle and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Marta needs to get home,” she said. The next moment we were out the door.

In the car, I tried to get Marta to talk. “Whom do I look like?” I asked.

“Will was just making conversation.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Ella mistook me for someone else the first time she saw me.”

“Well, I’ve said this before. She’s a fanciful girl.” She backed the car around and started toward the highway.

“What is Klara and Alexander’s child’s name?” I asked.

She didn’t answer me.

“Marta?”

“Ada,” she finally said. “Her name is Ada.”

I asked why Will referred to her as Klara and Alexander’s only joy.

“She’s their only child,” Marta said.

“Klara couldn’t have any more?”

“Something like that,” she answered. She turned onto the highway in the opposite direction of her home and said she needed to stop by the store. She seemed distracted, more than usual. I had my nose to the window, taking in the countryside. We passed a farmhouse that was just a few feet from the road and then a stucco schoolhouse with a bell in the tower. The children had all gone home. “Did you see Christy?” I asked, still looking out the window.

Marta shook her head. “Alice said she’s having a hard time, but she needs to accept that her mother is gone and move on.”

My back stiffened. What did Marta know about losing a mother? Hers was still alive and well, while Christy’s and mine had been taken from us far too soon. In many ways, I knew the child would never get over such a fundamental loss. Certainly, I hadn’t.

“What’s wrong with Ada?” I asked, trying to keep the anger from my voice.

“She has hereditary spherocytosis.”

“Pardon?”

“Abnormally shaped blood cells. It causes hemolytic anemia.”

That I had heard of. Not great, but at least it wasn’t life threatening. “So she has transfusions? For treatment, right? And she has to be careful not to rupture her spleen?”

Marta nodded.

“Did they catch it when she was little?”

“Not until she was twenty. She’d always been sickly, but it took them a while to figure out what it was.”

“Does anyone else in the family have it?” I asked.

“Not that we know of.”

We rode in silence for a few minutes, me thinking about what all might be in my genes that I had no idea about and then about the past that I had no idea about, either. I wanted Marta to bring up Amielbach without being asked, but I knew the chances of that were thin. Finally I said, “It’s time to pay the piper.”

“Later, when we are home.”

“Might be better to talk here in the car, where the kids can’t eavesdrop.”

She didn’t respond to that as she slowed for a carriage just ahead. Two little boys, preschool age, peeked over the back end of it. Both wore black hats, and one held a baseball in his hand. I turned my attention to the fields. A lane appeared, then a silo, and then a barn. For some reason, my pulse quickened. Then I saw the house, off to the side in a stand of pine trees.

“Stop,” I said, rolling down the window and reaching for my camera in the pocket of my jacket.

The house wasn’t anything spectacular. It certainly wasn’t Amielbach. It was white, like so many other Old Order Amish houses, but it had a balcony on the second floor. A balcony that somehow seemed familiar.

Marta appeared not to have heard me.

“Please stop!” I said, this time louder.

Instead she pulled around the horse and carriage and sped away.