The Amish Midwife

TWENTY-ONE


I gasped. Klara? I couldn’t imagine.

“Every cent of it,” Marta added.

“That’s great.” My voice was flat. I couldn’t fathom the Klara I’d met paying anyone’s bail. “But why?”

Marta didn’t answer, and this time I didn’t press her.

Once we reached the cottage, we fell back into our regular routines. I did the prenatal appointments and Marta handled the scheduling and the books. During a break between clients, I headed into the cottage for my sweatshirt. The office was colder than usual, even though I’d turned on the heater. I was surprised to hear Marta, who sat at the dining room table talking on her cell phone, taking on a new client. When she was off the phone, I asked her if that was a good idea.

“Why?” She placed her hand over her cell.

“What if…you know, you’re…”

“Convicted?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I’ll figure out what to do if that time comes.”

In the early afternoon, I headed out on a home prenatal visit. I hadn’t seen the woman yet. Her name was Susan Eicher, and she was twenty-seven and six months pregnant with her fourth baby. It was her second prenatal appointment. I was learning that Amish women typically waited until they were several months pregnant before seeking medical attention.

I finally found the house above Paradise, one of many Amish villages around here that I’d noticed had a memorable name. I drove up a steep hill, through a wooded area, and then came to a modest dwelling. As I walked toward the front door, it was obvious that the place needed some upkeep. Paint was peeling on the siding, and the concrete of the walkway was cracked and crumbling here and there. The steps to the porch were nearly bare of paint, and they creaked as I climbed them. I knocked and then knocked again. Finally the door swung open and a little girl, five at the most, peeked up at me.

I told her who I was and that I’d come to see her mother. But then I realized she might not understand English and said, “Your mamm?”

She nodded and motioned to me with her index finger. I followed. Three baskets of laundry were on the worn hardwood floor in the living room. I was getting used to the simply furnished and decorated homes of the Plain people I served—no wall-to-wall carpeting, no portraits on the walls, no overstuffed chairs or couches, but this home was especially sparse, with just a couch in the living room and a table and four straight-back chairs in the adjoining dining room.

I could hear a child crying down the hall.

“Mueter!” the little girl called. I assumed she was saying “mother.”

“I’ll be right there,” the mother answered in English.

The little girl pointed to the couch and I sat. The crying continued, and when Susan appeared she carried a little boy, who appeared to be about a year and a half, clinging to her neck. A second boy, maybe a year older, had his arms wrapped around her leg, forcing her to walk with a jerk. Both of the children wore pajamas. The woman’s cap covered most of her light brown hair, and there were dark circles under her big blue eyes.

I stood and introduced myself. Susan sat down on the other end of the couch and pulled the second boy up onto her lap too, bumping him against her belly. The little girl scurried up beside him.

“The children have been sick.” Susan’s voice was soft, and I could barely hear her. “With the flu.”

The youngest boy pushed his brother, and Susan took his hand and pulled him to the other side of her, wedging him into the corner of the couch.

“Sorry about the mess.” She nodded at the baskets of laundry. They were mostly filled with sheets and towels. She looked me in the eye and then quickly averted her gaze.

“How long have they been ill?”

“All week.” She sighed. “First my daughter. She’s better now.” She patted the little girl’s head. “Now the boys.”

“What are their symptoms?”

“Vomiting. Diarrhea.” She smiled, just a little. “Crankiness and crying.”

As if on cue, the younger boy began to fuss again. I glanced into the kitchen. Dirty dishes filled the sink.

“What is your name?” I asked the little girl.

The mother spoke in what I thought was Pennsylvania Dutch, and then the girl looked at me and whispered, “Louise.”

A few minutes later, Louise and I tackled the dishes while Susan put the boys down for a nap. I washed and Louise dried and then pointed to where the dishes went that she couldn’t reach.

During the prenatal exam, Susan said that she and her family had recently moved to Lancaster County from Indiana. Her husband was working in his uncle’s buggy-making business. The uncle owned the house they were living in, but it was quite a ways away from his shop. I asked if her husband’s aunt was available to help her, and she said no, the aunt had died a year ago. I asked what other support she had. “The women in our district.” Her eyes dimmed.

“What is it?” I asked.

Tears filled her eyes. “It’s nothing.”

I patted her hand.

“I miss my mother. I don’t have sisters, but I have cousins back home. Things are so different here for me—even the language.”

I had one of those “aha” moments. Susan and Louise weren’t speaking Pennsylvania Dutch. They were speaking the Swiss Amish dialect Mr. Miller had told me about when he translated the letter from Abraham Sommers.

I asked Susan about Indiana, and her eyes lit up as she spoke. She had grown up in a big brick house in Adams County on a dairy farm. She and her husband were from the same district, and they knew by the time they were fifteen they wanted to marry. And they had, at nineteen.

I asked why they had moved, and she said her husband had grown restless with living in the same place his entire life and wanted to see more of the country. They had come out to visit his aunt and uncle on their wedding trip, and last year his uncle had written, saying he was looking for someone to pass the buggy business on to as he didn’t have any children.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time…” she said, her voice trailing off.

“Does your husband like it here?”

“He likes his work,” she replied, and then she began talking about the buggies in Indiana. They were topless and the seats didn’t have backs. “I like the buggies here much better,” she said. “And,” she pointed to her kitchen, “that the stove runs on propane, and we have indoor plumbing. Back home we had a woodstove and an outside pump and privy.” She was nearly animated as she spoke. She laughed a little and then said, “Those I don’t miss, but I do miss the yodeling back home, straight from the Alps.”

I smiled. That was a sight to imagine, an Amish yodeler. I thought of my ancestor, Elsbeth Sommers, who had left Switzerland in the 1800s and ended up in Indiana. For all I knew, there had been plenty of Amish yodelers back then. I asked how far she had lived from Goshen, Indiana, where the Mennonite school, Goshen College, was.

“Oh, that’s a long ways—on the other side of Fort Wayne. More than two hours by car.” She went on to tell me that she had a Mennonite friend who went to college there, but she had never visited the area.

After the exam I told Susan I wanted to stay a few minutes and fold her laundry.

“No, I can do that.”

I shook my head. “You need to get a nap too while your boys are still asleep. And have Louise lie down with you. All of you need to build up your strength.”

She started to protest but then simply said, “Thank you.” I would talk to Marta about Susan’s needs. She couldn’t take care of herself and sick children and a house all by herself. She needed help.

Twenty minutes later I left the house, wondering if Giselle had kept me and joined the Amish church, or if Mammi had chosen to raise me, would I be living the life Susan was? Except I would have cousins, aunts, and a grandmother nearby. I thought of Peggy and her oldest daughter. I had no reason to believe I wouldn’t have been accepted by the Amish community around me, nor that Giselle wouldn’t have found a husband, meaning I would have eventually had a father. I couldn’t fathom what had happened to change my destiny.

I didn’t have any more appointments for the day and decided to do some more sightseeing. As the sun broke through the gray clouds to the west, I drove north and stopped at the Bird-in-Hand bakery and picked up a loaf of homemade bread and a box of sugar cookies, thinking of Zed and his afternoon snack. As I left I didn’t turn toward Strasburg and then Marta’s, but instead went west toward the city of Lancaster. I drove aimlessly through residential streets, gawking at the houses and yards. Finally I turned south. It wasn’t long until I knew where I was headed.

I scanned the pasture as I turned down the lane. Cows grazed lazily in the field, picking up their heads at the sound of my borrowed car. The field beyond them was plowed and ready to be seeded. I wondered what Alexander would plant.

I didn’t see anyone. I parked in front of the house by a pine tree and then I stepped to the side of the yard. A new scarecrow wearing a man’s shirt, pants, and straw hat was up in the planted garden, most likely to keep the birds from pecking up the just-planted seeds. I stared at the door to Mammi’s daadi haus, wondering if Klara kept it locked all the time, and then past it toward the creek.

I heard a rustling around the corner of the house.

“Hello?” someone called.

I stepped forward. Ada was walking toward me with a hoe in her hand and the sleeves of her dress pushed up to her elbows. A line of clothes danced in the breeze behind her, and the afternoon sun cast their moving shadows on the lawn. Beyond that was a garden. A few more rows had been tilled, and it appeared that Ada was working on finishing the planting.

“Oh, it’s you.” She smiled, her body relaxed and easy. The loose ties of her bonnet fell against her chest. I stared at her, trying to take in each feature. “Have you lost your way again?” she asked.

I shook my head, my heart racing. “No. I was hoping to see you—and Mammi, if she’s awake.”

“You know my grandmother?”

“No.” I paused. “Well, sort of.”

“She’s not here. My parents took her to the doctor.”

I imagined them lifting, pushing, and pulling the old woman into their carriage.

“Does she go to the doctor very often?”

Ada nodded. “Some.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She had a stroke a few years ago.”

That made sense. I didn’t notice any evidence when I saw her the other night, but I only saw her profile. Or it could be that there wasn’t any physical evidence.

“Mamm said you’re working as a midwife here for a short time.”

I crossed my arms, surprised that Klara had offered her that much information.

“Did she say who I’m working with?”

“No.”

“Marta. I’m working with Marta and staying with her and her kids.”

“Oh.” Ada stepped toward me. She seemed so open. “How are they? I haven’t seen them in…” Her voice trailed off. “It’s been forever.” She smiled. “At least I think that’s how Ella would phrase it.”

“I’m their cousin,” I blurted out.

Her face lit up. “On their father’s side?”

I shook my head. “On Marta’s side. I was given up for adoption.”

“Then…you’re my cousin too.”

“It appears that way.”

“I thought we looked alike.” She stepped closer, touching her chin as she did.

I shivered. “Do you have a mirror inside?”

“Of course.”

She led the way into the house, propping the hoe up against the back porch and kicking off her shoes, and then into a bathroom just off the kitchen. We stood side by side. Me in my purple sweatshirt and jeans, her in her blue dress and black apron. I swept my hair up off my shoulders, holding it behind my head. She took off her bonnet.

We had the same tilt to our nose, the same blond hair, and the same chin. Her eyes, brown like mine, were wider, and my eyelashes thicker. Her face was thinner and much paler, and I was a half head taller. She undid her bun and shook out her hair. I let go of mine and it fell to my shoulders again.

“Oh, my,” she said, reaching for my hand. “I guess we are cousins.”

I nodded, but I was pretty sure we were more than that. I was pretty sure Alexander was my father after all.

Which would make Ada my half sister.