The Amish Midwife

FOURTEEN


After a restless night’s sleep, I sat in my car and dialed the phone number of Lantz, Giselle. A man with a shaky voice answered. I asked to speak to Giselle.

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “You didn’t hear? She passed on a few months ago.”

“Passed on?” I gasped.

“That’s right, sweetie.”

The man sounded ancient. Thinking about that for a moment, hope fluttered in my chest, and I asked how old she had been when she died, if he didn’t mind me asking.

“She was ninety-two. Why?”

Ninety-two. It wasn’t her! Though I felt bad for this poor old man, I was deeply relieved for my own sake. I told him I had the wrong Giselle Lantz, offered him my condolences, and then hung up, crumpling the piece of paper in my hand.

I pulled out of Marta’s driveway a minute later and drove through Lancaster County, wishing someone else was at the wheel, wishing I could snap photos indiscriminately of the farms I passed. Maybe Sean would join me sometime soon for a day in the country.

I’d asked Ella and Zed to come with me, but Marta said they had chores and then homework. It turned out the family was doing spring cleaning—scrubbing the little cottage from top to bottom. I had offered to help, but Marta said I would just be in the way and should have a day to myself.

There were a few other tourists’ cars parked at the quilt shop where I stopped, across the road from a country school. I was hoping the place sold maps. I had my GPS, but I couldn’t get a handle on the geography, where the city was in regards to the farms I’d been visited, where Klara’s place was in regards to where the quilt shop was. The young woman standing behind the counter directed me to a rack of maps. I chose one and then headed to the back room where the quilts were on display. They were gorgeous. I recognized many of the patterns from my childhood when Mama used to be part of the quilting circle at church: spinning star, country love, log cabin, autumn splendor. The poetry of the shapes and stitching matched the names. If Dad were still alive, I’d buy him one, even at over a thousand dollars. There was a baby quilt with Noah’s Ark on it, and in the far corner was a quilt that resembled mine with large blocks of mauve, blue, green, and black. It was priced at three hundred dollars.

If Dad were still alive, I’d ask him why they kept the name Alexandra. If he were still alive, I’d ask him to fly out here and talk some sense into Marta.

I headed back to the main room and looked at the trinkets. For living a simple lifestyle, the Amish sold a lot of knickknacks—refrigerator magnets, Christmas ornaments, and other souvenirs. I moved on to a table of handmade soap. The goat’s milk smelled the best. I picked up a couple of bars.

As I paid for the soap and map, I realized the young woman was pregnant. I asked when she was due. “Three months,” she answered, quietly. She didn’t seem shy—just hesitant.

“Who is your midwife?”

She said she hadn’t chosen one yet.

I told her I was working with Marta.

“Ya,” she said. “My cousin told me about you. Marta is her midwife.”

It turned out I’d seen her cousin the day before for a prenatal visit.

“How many midwives are there for the Amish?” I asked.

She said she had no idea.

“But more than two?” I was half joking.

She laughed. “There are more than fifty thousand Amish in Pennsylvania,” she said.

I had no idea. That was as many people as in the city of Lancaster.

“And,” she said, giggling a little, “we keep multiplying.”

I nodded. I’d read somewhere that the Amish population had doubled in the last sixteen years. As other groups of people had fewer and fewer children, the Amish kept their average of seven per family steady. That was a lot of babies. I’d also read that fewer Amish kids today than ever before in their history left the church. I thought of Ezra Gundy and wondered if he was on track to join the Amish church as well. If so, judging by his non-Amish haircut and flirtatious behavior, I had a feeling it wouldn’t happen anytime soon, that he was more concerned with sowing some wild oats right now.

The young woman handed me my bag, and I thanked her.

“Best wishes,” I said as I headed to the door.

“Ya,” she answered. “And to you.”

From there I turned onto the highway toward Strasburg, thinking I would take the route I was most familiar with back to Marta’s, but when I realized I’d missed my turn, I kept on driving, heading toward Klara’s. I stopped alongside the road, hoping the blackberry bushes along the fence line would hide my car, even though they were just brambles at this time of year. I scooted over to the passenger seat and aimed my camera out the window and through a hole in the vines. I snapped a series of the house, first wide-angle shots, and then close-ups of the balcony, the molding along the roofline, and the porch. I took photos of the section of the daadi haus that I could see, and then I zoomed in on the rounded shape of the bare branches of an oak tree in the front yard.

Off to the side were a few fruit trees, probably apple. As I photographed those, I was startled when a man appeared in my viewfinder. He was middle aged, most likely Alexander.

If he wasn’t my father, why else would Giselle have named me after him? Maybe he had been helpful to her before I was born. Maybe he and Klara had even taken her in and that was why she’d named me Alexandra, as a thanks to them, and then it was Mammi who insisted on giving me up. I shivered.

If he was my father, I realized that with this recent information he would also be my uncle. I nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. My speculations sounded like a country western song. Clearly Giselle had become pregnant outside of marriage, and that was no doubt frowned upon by the Amish, but there was no indication of any scandal. She’d probably had a wild rumschpringe, that period of life when Amish teens were given more freedom and allowed to explore the outside world prior to joining the church. Though pregnancy wasn’t the norm during rumschpringe, it certainly couldn’t be unheard of, either.

The man turned his face toward me as I snapped another photo. I hadn’t meant to get his front but I had. He was still in my viewfinder and looking straight at me. Maybe he could see the car, but there was no way he could see my face. I clicked the view button, enlarged the image, and looked at the photo I’d just taken. He had a dark, full beard with streaks of gray. I couldn’t tell the color of his eyes. He wore a straw hat, black pants with suspenders, and a blue shirt. He looked similar to every other Amish man I’d seen. I raised the camera again, gasping when I realized he was walking across the field toward me.

I panicked. Suddenly, I felt like a little kid in trouble. Shamed, I climbed back to the driver’s side, started the car, and pulled onto the highway, glancing behind me a moment later. The man was jogging toward the fence line, watching me go with a questioning look on his face.

I spent the rest of the morning in downtown Lancaster, taking photos of old buildings.

Sunday morning, Ella asked if I would give her and Zed a ride to church. I rolled toward her in my little bed. “What about your mom?” I asked sleepily.

“She’s fasting and praying today in her office.”

I yawned. “Are you sure you want to go?”

Ella’s voice sounded hurt. “Yes.”

“Zed too?” I focused on her. She was already dressed.

“Yes.” She stepped back onto the landing. “We need to leave in half an hour.”

I propped my head up on my elbow. “Can I wear jeans?”

“Wear whatever you want.” For a split second she sounded like Marta.

Their church was in Lancaster, a few blocks from Esther and David’s house. The parking lot was full, so I drove around the block and squeezed into a space in front of a row house.

“Hurry,” Ella said, scrambling out of the car. “We’re going to be late.” I followed her and Zed followed me, lagging behind. The church was made of bricks with a white steeple and was fairly small. We entered through a basement side door into a fellowship hall, where a few people lingered, drinking coffee and chatting.

“This way.” Ella hurried up a staircase that came out into a foyer. Esther was across the way, and Simon rode on her hip. When he saw Ella, he reached for her. Music was playing in the sanctuary, and soon we were inside. It took me a moment to realize that the men sat on one side and the women on the other. I settled into a pew in the middle of the room with Esther, Ella, and Simon. Zed found a seat closer to the front with some friends.

“David leads the singing,” Ella whispered. Sure enough, the man we had seen in front of the courthouse two days before stood up front. There was a screen behind him with an image of a waterfall.

Many of the women wore head coverings, but not all. Several other Africans were in the congregation, plus quite a few Hispanics. A group of teenage girls sat in the row in front of us wearing short skirts. A few, even in the cool spring weather, wore tank tops. One of the girls turned and said hello to Ella.

David’s voice was deep and loud. I didn’t recognize most of the songs until a few hymns at the end, including “How Great Thou Art.” Simon couldn’t settle on sitting with his mom or Ella. Finally he scurried across Ella’s lap to me, and I gave him my cell phone to play with. He liked that and leaned against me, his compact little body melting against mine.

A woman who worked for six months in an orphanage in Honduras spoke about her work, using a PowerPoint presentation of the facility and the children. Many had lived on the streets and were tough and wily, but their hearts softened when shown care and kindness. She also had photos of a merry-go-round and swing set the church had paid for. She said the children had to be taught how to play and use their imaginations. They hadn’t been encouraged to do that before.

The next image was of a group of little boys playing soccer.

“Futball!” Simon said, dropping my phone and clapping his hands together.

Ella giggled as she retrieved my cell from under the pew in front of us. By the time the presentation was over, Simon was fussy and Esther took him back, holding him securely against her big belly. He rested his head on her shoulder. After a few minutes his eyes grew drowsy and he slept. It wasn’t until the pastor started his sermon and Ella nudged me that I realized I’d had my attention fixed on Simon.

I tried to listen to the teaching, which was on forgiving seventy times seventy, but my mind kept wandering. Could I forgive Marta for being so cold and stingy? She was spending the day fasting and praying, but she was totally without empathy for me. The best thing I could do was get out of her home and her life. I had no business letting myself be mistreated by her. She had the ability to give me all the information I needed in ten minutes, information I was sure she had. The fact that she didn’t was just more evidence that I needed to take care of myself, that I couldn’t trust anyone else to take care of me.

“We forgive because God forgave us,” the pastor said.

I wanted to raise my hand to say that in order to accept God’s forgiveness, we had to admit that we had done something wrong. He didn’t just give forgiveness freely. I wasn’t so sure God expected us to forgive people who didn’t admit they had done anything wrong—people who went on their merry ways, living in denial and oblivious to what had been done to us. People like Marta and whoever else was keeping secrets from me.

At the end of the service, David led the benediction and then dismissed the congregants. Simon stirred on Esther’s shoulder, and Ella tried to take him so his mother could stand, but the little boy began to cry.

“’Tis fine,” Esther said. “David will get him in a minute.”

Soon Zed and David were beside us, and Esther introduced her husband to me.

“Will you deliver our child?” he asked as he took his son into his arms.

I shook my head. “Not unless Esther has the baby in the next couple of days, which we don’t want.” I smiled. “I’m headed to Harrisburg on Tuesday and then on to Philadelphia.” That was my new plan.

Ella crossed her arms. “Who’s going to help Mom?”

“I’m sure she has some ideas,” I answered.

David shook my hand. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope our paths will cross again someday.”

I nodded, but I knew they wouldn’t be in the States much longer and I didn’t foresee myself ever going to Ethiopia. I hugged Esther and patted Simon’s back. He gave me a half smile and then hid his face against his father’s neck.

As I drove home, Ella asked me what I thought of the sermon.

Zed groaned. “You sound like Mom.”

Ella ignored him.

I told her I’d heard many variations of that same sermon and not one of the preachers addressed what we should do when the person we needed to forgive wouldn’t acknowledge they had done anything wrong.

“Forgive.” Ella spoke with force. “Matthew 6:14 and 15 says, ‘If you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.’ It doesn’t say anything about the offender acknowledging their sins.”

I blew air up my forehead.

Ella didn’t seem to notice. “That’s what demut is all about.”

“De…what?”

“Demut. It means to let things be, to not try to control everything and everyone.” She had that know-it-all way of a teenager. Or maybe of a firstborn who was so used to being right that she could make anything sound like fact. “It means, with humility, to trust God and leave justice to Him.” Ella sighed. “I’m really trying to do that with this case against Mom right now.”

I didn’t answer.

“I mean, I wish I could control this, but I can’t. I know she’s innocent. She would never do anything to harm a mother or a baby, but I don’t have any control over what happens with the court system. I have to let it be. To trust God. To forgive those who are trying to bring harm to us.”

We rode in silence for a few minutes as we left the city limits. I mulled over the concept of Marta as a victim. I was so used to thinking of her as someone who was harming me.

“I don’t get demut,” Zed finally said. “I mean, I know the Amish are really into it, right? That’s where Mom got it. But how about that one Amish family that lives on the other side of the bridge? Remember when they had a whole bunch of tools stolen and they knew who did it, but they never pressed charges?”

Ella looked at me. “It was their Englisch neighbor’s nephew who did it.”

“And then he broke into some other houses and hurt an old lady,” Zed continued. “If the Amish would have pressed charges in the first place, it would have been a whole lot better for everyone involved. Even the criminal.”

I nodded in agreement. “That’s how justice works,” I said. “It brings closure for the victim and protects others.”

Ella stared straight ahead, not speaking. I decided not to push it and asked Zed if I could get on his computer for a few minutes when we got home.

“Sure,” he said, but he didn’t sound very convincing.

“How are you at Internet searches?” I asked.

He perked up a little. “I’m good.”

“I’m trying to locate information on an Abraham Sommers who lived in Switzerland in the 1870s that would link him to Amielbach. And I tried to get information on Giselle, but none of the leads panned out.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “My German is pretty good. Maybe that will help me with the Switzerland connection.”

“Cool,” I said and meant it.

Ella was still staring out the window. I liked how loyal she was to her mother, even though the woman didn’t deserve it. I liked both of my cousins. A lot.