The Amish Midwife

TWENTY-FIVE


Monday morning, after Ella left for school, her hair tucked behind her cap and her long-sleeved dress buttoned to her chin, I told Marta I needed to talk with her.

“Is this about Ella?” She stood at the kitchen sink, a dishtowel over her shoulder.

I nodded.

“And her night of drinking?”

I nodded again, my eyes wide.

“She told me last night,” Marta said. “I’m going to catch up on some paperwork in the office.” That was it. I asked Marta, before she dashed out the door, if she could reschedule Wednesday morning’s appointments to Thursday, which was a light day. She nodded but didn’t ask me why.

Ella and Marta seemed to get along fine both Monday and Tuesday. They were polite and cordial. Marta was a little bit more affectionate than normal, patting Ella’s shoulder a couple of times. I saw Ella texting someone, but there was no indication whom she was in contact with. On Tuesday evening Marta took a meal to Esther and David, and Ella and Zed went with her. I declined to go. They weren’t gone long, and when they returned home, Marta said that little Caroline had a cold and had been fussy. She said Esther was exhausted and Simon was out of sorts.

I kept expecting Ella to slip out of the house, kept listening for the roar of Ezra’s motorcycle to interrupt the night, but neither happened.

Zed kept giving me updates, telling me he hadn’t heard back from the man in Switzerland. He seemed to be as anxious about the whole thing as I was.

It took forever for Wednesday morning to arrive, but finally it did and I was out of the cottage before Zed and Ella had left for school, going by the Morning Mug first to spend some time on my laptop. There still weren’t any responses to my posting. I considered joining an online support group so I could lament with other adoptees, but I decided it would be pointless right now because I didn’t have much time to post or comment anyway, not to mention my Internet access at Marta’s was minimal. I caught up on the news, bouncing between CNN and the BBC. I jumped over to the Oregonian website for the news in Oregon. It had been raining every day, which was no surprise. I imagined how green the trees and hillsides would be. The rhododendrons would be blossoming. Soon the roses in Washington Park, within walking distance of my apartment, would be budding too. I logged off with a sigh, feeling homeless, and took my coffee with me. It was eight forty-five. Klara should have left by now.

A buggy turned away from me as I neared Ada’s house. Two figures were in it—I hoped both Klara and Alexander. They were running late. I pulled to the side of the road so they wouldn’t see me and watched them proceed down the road, assuming if they had spotted me they would have come back to investigate.

When the buggy was out of sight, I turned down the lane. Ada was waiting for me on the front porch. She waved as I parked and stepped out to meet me. “I talked with Mamm and Daed about you. Mamm thinks you’re ‘questionable’ and a little ‘unstable.’” Ada smiled. “That’s what she said anyway. Daed didn’t say a thing. But Mamm didn’t forbid you from coming here. She just told me not to believe everything you say.”

I rolled my eyes. Klara was awfully clever, proposing I was a psych case.

“Do you want to see Mammi?” Ada asked. Clearly she wasn’t taking her mother’s opinions too seriously.

“Yes,” I responded, closing the door to the car. “But I was hoping to look in the family Bible too.”

Ada wrinkled her nose. “We don’t have one.”

“Ella said you did.”

“Really?” Ada shrugged. “Ella would probably know. Did she say where it is?”

“On the bookcase in the living room, behind the puzzles.”

A minute later I had it in my hands, leafing through the first few pages and stopping at the list of births. I skimmed down the names quickly, zeroing in on Giselle, Klara, and Marta. According to the birth date listed here, Giselle would have been nineteen when I was born.

The space for listing her spouse had been left blank, as had—contrary to what Ella had said—the space for her offspring. Looking more closely, I realized that wasn’t exactly true. Something had been written in the offspring section but had since been whited-out. My frustration mounting, I shifted my attention to her sisters. Beside Klara was her husband, Alexander, and under them their daughter, Ada; beside Marta was Frederick, and under them Ella and Zed. Taking it in, the whole list looked like one big happy family—well, one big happy family and one tiny swipe of White-Out, obliterating an entire person.

Fighting back tears, I held up the page against the light from the window and was relieved to see my name there, under the correction fluid, clear as day. I told myself they could try to hide my name all they wanted, but they would never be able to hide the truth. I showed my discovery to Ada, hoping it was proof enough that I wasn’t the unstable one in this bunch, not by a long shot.

Ada stepped closer. “Who is Giselle?” she asked.

“Your aunt. My birth mother.”

“What happened to her?”

I closed the Bible. “I have no idea. I’m hoping Mammi can tell us.”

Ada took the Bible from me and slipped it into place and then stacked the puzzles in front of it again.


As we opened the door to Mammi’s and stepped inside, she turned her attention toward us immediately. The same quilt was spread across her lap, and she wore a white gown and a cap on her head. Her faded blue eyes lit up and she smiled. “Ada,” she said, her voice soft.

“Mammi.” Ada took two quick steps to her side. “This is Lexie,” she said. “She’s my cousin.”

“Your cousin? How nice.” Mammi gave me a warm smile and a nod. “Lexie, you say? Let’s see, I don’t think I remember anyone in the family by that name. You must be from another settlement. Who is your father, dear?”

That’s what I’d like you to tell me.

“Um…” I faltered, shaking my head, realizing that she didn’t understand, not at all. “You might remember me better by my full name,” I said finally. “Alexandra.”

It took a moment, but then the old woman’s eyes grew wide and her mouth moved. No words came out. She reached for my hand and I extended it, transfixed by the paper-thin skin. For the first time in my life, I looked at someone else’s body part—a hand—and wondered if mine would look like that some day. When she turned toward me, I could see that the left side of her face drooped a little. She squeezed my fingers and struggled to sit up more in her chair. “Alexandra?” she whispered.

A lump wedged in my throat. I couldn’t speak but nodded, hoping she could see me.

“Alexandra?” This time her voice was louder.

“Yes,” I managed to say.

“You came back.” Her grip was surprisingly strong.

“To find you,” I said. “And the rest of my birth family.”

“Oh, dear.” She let go of my hand and tried to push herself up further into a sitting position in the chair. “Ada?”

“I’ll help.” I pushed the lever for the recliner down and then stepped in front of her, put my hands under her arms, and lifted her straight. Ada went behind her to take the pillow out from under her head, and then I put the chair back into a reclining position but not as far.

“Ada,” she said again. “Make us some tea, please.” She was in much better shape than I had feared based on Klara’s comments.

I pulled up a chair while Ada busied herself in the kitchen. There wasn’t much time for small talk, but I couldn’t just jump in with all of my questions. I started by saying that Mama and Dad had told me a little about her through the years, that according to them my birth grandmother was tall and kind and that she loved me. Listening to my words, Mammi’s eyes welled with tears, and one after another they spilled over and trickled down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them away.

“I have come here now because I have questions,” I said softly, pulling a tissue from the box on the table and handing it to her.

Mammi nodded, dabbing at her wet cheeks, obviously trying to pull herself together.

“It seems Giselle is my birth mother?”

Startled, Mammi glanced toward the kitchen before answering.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Where does she live?”

Mammi shook her head.

“You don’t want to tell me?”

She nodded.

Feeling crushed, I asked, “How about my birth father?” She didn’t respond, so I added in an even softer voice, “I’ve been wondering if it’s Alexander.”

Though she didn’t seem surprised by the question, she shook her head emphatically, saying no, it was definitely not Alexander.

“Who, then?”

Mammi touched her lips with her fingertips, glancing again toward the kitchen. I sat back in the chair, my eyes still on her, wondering how badly she’d been affected by the stroke. Her mind seemed clear.

“What does it matter now anyway?” she added. Before I could answer, she continued, finding her voice. “All that really matters is that you came back. I always knew you would, or at least I hoped you would. Someday.” She lifted up a hand as if to touch my face.

I hesitated, knowing I had come here for words, not actions. Still, there was something about her expression, about the way she was reaching toward me, that pushed all other thoughts from my mind, at least for the moment. Swallowing hard, I leaned forward, allowing her fingertips to move lightly along my cheek. Though her touch was tentative, my heart pounded as if she were sending an electric jolt through my skin. I closed my eyes, all of the babies, mothers, and grandmothers I had ever worked with suddenly filling my mind. They were family to each other, connected by blood and tissue and sinew, just as this woman was connected to me. Time froze as I reveled in that knowledge.

When her feathery touch ceased, I took a deep breath and opened my eyes, feeling suddenly cut adrift. I was relieved to see that though the old woman had returned her hand to her lap, she continued to study my face, to take it in hungrily.

“Meine Enkelin,” she whispered tenderly, the words striking some memory deep inside of me and causing hot tears to spring to my eyes. “So beautiful. All grown up now.” Even as she smiled with her lips, her eyes filled again with tears as well.

She accepted my offer of another tissue, and though I managed to recover quickly, she was still crying when Ada stepped into the room a few moments later, rattling a pillbox in her hands.

“Looks like Mamm forgot to give you your medication,” Ada said, giving the box another shake before coming to a stop, her smile fading when she saw her grandmother’s tears. “What’s the matter, Mammi?” She asked, bending down beside the chair.

“Just the past,” the old woman said, sniffling.

“Well, that’s why you take these pills. Right?”

A small sob caught in Mammi’s throat.

Not wanting to cry again myself, I offered to retrieve a glass of water. I stood and headed to the kitchen, taking deep breaths as I went. When my emotions were once again under control, I returned with glass in hand and told Ada to go ahead and finish making the tea, that I could handle things in here.

“Thanks,” she replied, handing me the pillbox and giving her grandmother’s arm a pat.

As she returned to the kitchen, I sat down, popping open the lid on the section of the pillbox that had been labeled for Wednesday mornings. Inside were five pills. I recognized a blood thinner and high blood pressure medicine. The other three were the same—all tranquilizers—and a dosage that was way too high. For a moment I considered palming two of the pills instead of giving them to her, but I decided it wasn’t my place to alter her meds even if I did have her best interests in mind. I gave her the pills and then the glass of water, thinking it was better that I have a talk with Ada and explain my concerns directly. She would just need to think of a way to convey that information to Klara without getting herself in trouble for having let me in here.

I could tell from the sounds coming from the kitchen that the tea was almost ready, so I called out to Ada, telling her not to bother with a cup for me because my time was almost up.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she called back. “But you’re probably right.”

While she was still out of the room I took Mammi’s hand in mine and told her I had to leave now but that I would come back again soon.

“Yes, please,” she replied, her eyelids already beginning to droop from the medication.

“Until then,” I whispered, giving her hand a squeeze as I stood, “I want you to think about my questions. I want answers. I need information.”

Despite her encroaching drug haze, Mammi held on to me tightly, even after I tried to let go. Then she surprised me by grabbing my wrist with her other hand and pulling me toward her, obviously wanting me to come closer, much closer. I leaned down, expecting a kiss to my cheek. Instead, she put her lips to my ear.

“Burke Bauer,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Burke Bauer,” she repeated, slurring this time.

Then her hands relaxed, releasing me. By the time I pulled back far enough to see her face, I realized that her eyes were closed, her jaw slack. As Ada stepped into the room carrying the teapot and two cups on a tray, Mammi let out a loud snore.

“So much for the tea,” Ada said, her steps faltering. “She will probably be conked out for hours.”

“That’s because she’s overmedicated,” I said, running a hand through my hair and trying to recover from the shock of the woman’s words. Had that been the drugs talking? Or had she just whispered in my ear the name I had been seeking, that of my birth father?

“What do you mean?” Ada asked, setting the tray down on a nearby table.

“I mean, she’s getting three times the amount of tranquilizers she should be getting,” I explained, hoping that Ada wouldn’t notice the array of emotions that were swirling around inside of me. “In fact, she really shouldn’t be on tranquilizers at all. There are better medications for stroke victims than that.” I went on to explain that besides being addictive, they weren’t long lasting.

“But she cries all the time if she doesn’t have it.”

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to focus on the matter at hand.

“Then she probably needs an antidepressant. The tranquilizers are just making her sleepy, not to mention affecting her balance. In my opinion, her doctor shouldn’t be prescribing it at all.”

“I’ll tell Mamm,” Ada said. “Perhaps I can say I read an article or overheard a conversation or something.”

I reached the door and hesitated, my hand on the knob, knowing there was one more matter she and I needed to discuss, one I could only approach head-on.

“I was thinking you and I should have a DNA test,” I said to Ada, glancing toward Mammi to make sure she was still asleep. Regardless of what the old woman had just told me, there was still a chance that Alexander was my father. If Ada and I got tested, I could find out for sure.

Ada took a step backward. “Why?”

“To see exactly how we’re related. It’s no big deal, just a swab of the inside of your cheek.” I was pretty sure I could find someone at the hospital to do it, or if not I could buy a test.

“DNA is the genetic code, right?”

I nodded.

“What do you think we would find out?”

I shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Or maybe we’ll learn exactly how we connect, why we look so much alike. Whatever it would or wouldn’t tell us, it would mean a lot to me.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I will think about it.” Glancing toward her sleeping grandmother, Ada motioned for me to step outside. Together, we moved onto the porch, and after pulling the door shut behind her, Ada produced a cell phone from her pocket, flashing me a sheepish grin. “I can text you later, once I decide. What is your number?”

I rattled it off and then smiled, surprised but not shocked that Ada had a cell phone. After all, she hadn’t joined the church yet. Though I didn’t totally understand the rules regarding Amish cell phone usage, it seemed to me that they had a sort of “don’t ask, don’t tell” cell policy, at least with their as-yet-unbaptized youth.

She gave me her number as well, and I quickly entered it in my contacts, thrilled to be able to communicate with her without having to come out to the house to do so.

“It might take me a while, though,” she said, “to make my decision.”

“How long?” I couldn’t contain my frustration.

She shrugged and a pixielike smile crossed her face. “I need to think on it.”

My prenatal appointments ended at the same time Zed and Ella trudged up the drive, coming from the bus stop a quarter mile up the road. Ella was texting away as she walked through the door, and she kept on going straight up to her room. In a few minutes, when I stood halfway up the stairs, I could hear her talking on the phone.

Marta had left a note on the table saying that she’d gone into town. I assumed to talk to her lawyer.

I could take my laptop into town or recruit Zed into helping me again. He seemed to have better luck with online searches than I did and wasn’t likely to share those searches with anyone else, one of the perks of recruiting an adolescent boy who hardly spoke.

I gave him the name Burke Bauer and said that the man probably lived in Lancaster County during the 1980s, maybe near where his Aunt Klara lived now. I was pretty sure there could be a slew of men with the same name and knew the chances of finding the right Burke Bauer were pretty low. And Mammi hadn’t said that he was my father, but I didn’t know why else she would have told me his name. Maybe, just maybe, it was true that my grandmother loved me. I clasped my right hand with my left, remembering her tender touch, and ducked out of the dining room, fighting back tears. Yes, I thought she loved me. Even still.

I collapsed onto the sofa in the living room and closed my eyes, blinking tears away. Ella’s door opened and closed. She started down the stairs, but her cell rang again and she turned around. A moment later her door opened and closed again.

Zed spoke from his perch at the computer across the room. “Lexie, I have something.”

I jumped to my feet. The kid was amazing.

“How about this?”

I looked over his shoulder. It was an obituary for a Burke F. Bauer II, who died at age forty-eight more than ten years ago. A prominent businessman in Lancaster County, he had run his family’s nursery stock business for many years. Bauer was survived by his wife Lavonne and one son, B.F Bauer III.

I did the math. If the guy in the obituary was my father, he would have been more than thirty when I was born, which was too old to have been fooling around with a nineteen-year-old girl. The more likely culprit was his son, apparently also named Burke Bauer. I told Zed to see what he could come up with for that one, but after a good ten minutes of clicking around, Zed had managed to find only one thing, a brief newspaper article in a local paper about him winning the science fair in the spring of his senior year in high school. At least that information gave us his age relative to that date, so again I did the math but realized he would have been only eleven years old when I was born. That made him an even less likely paternity suspect than his father.

“What about the widow?” I asked. “Can you find anything at all on Lavonne Bauer? Is she still alive?”

In less than a minute, Zed came up with an address for a Lavonne Bauer near Paradise in Lancaster County. He also tried to find an address for the son, but nothing came up.

“Who are these people?” Zed asked after he printed out Lavonne’s address and handed it to me.

“I’m hoping she’s wrong,” I replied, “but according to Mammi, my biological father’s name is Burke Bauer. At least that’s what I think she was telling me. So either she was talking about a different Burke Bauer altogether, or back when my mother was nineteen she had an affair with a thirty-two-year-old married man who got her pregnant. That’s…shocking.” I stopped, realizing this subject material wasn’t the best for a conversation with a twelve-year-old.

“An older guy with a younger babe?” Zed replied. “That’s not shocking. That’s not even all that unusual, at least not on TV.”

I sighed.

“Seriously,” Zed protested. “I mean, isn’t that one of the signs of a midlife crisis?”

I looked at his earnest face and couldn’t help but laugh.

“What are you watching, Zed? Oprah? The View?” If he was, it was online or at a friend’s house because Marta didn’t have a TV.

He blushed as he replied, “Well, come on. You know. Older man, younger woman, midlife crisis. End of story.”

Though thirty-two wasn’t exactly midlife, Zed had a point. Older man, younger woman, end of story. But was it my story? Had I really been the product of an extramarital affair? If so, I had to wonder how it could have happened, how a young Amish girl and a mature married man could have even met, much less ended up in a clandestine relationship. However it had begun, I couldn’t imagine its progression either, especially regarding the pregnancy. Had Giselle been foolish, perhaps even gotten pregnant on purpose in the hope that Burke would leave his wife for her? Maybe once he learned of Giselle’s pregnancy, he had rejected her, even tried to pay her off and send her on her way. Whatever the details, if I had the correct Burke Bauer, as I suspected I did, somehow I knew there was much more to the story than I would ever be able to learn from a simple Internet search.

At least this new evidence might help answer my most important question, which was why I had been given up for adoption at all. Obviously, a married man who already had a legitimate child of his own wouldn’t have wanted me—or even been willing to acknowledge me. Perhaps Giselle’s heartache was so great from his rejection that she decided that she hadn’t wanted me either. But if that was the case, then surely one of her sisters could have taken me in, or even Mammi herself, and raised me. So why hadn’t they? Before today I couldn’t begin to fathom the answer to that question. But now I realized the truth, that this Amish family may have been turned against me before I was even born because I was conceived through an adulterous relationship. After all, my mother bore a scarlet letter, so to speak.

Perhaps, to their minds, that letter simply extended to me as well.