The Amish Midwife

SEVEN


Marta drove. I didn’t speak. I barely breathed. I was ecstatic that she’d asked me to help her and still afraid she’d change her mind. It was the foot-in-the-door that I needed. She sped over the covered bridge and up the lane. At the main highway she turned left, away from Strasburg. I took my camera from my pocket. The highway dipped and ahead, in a valley that looked as if it had been scooped out of the landscape, were lush fields and an occasional stand of trees. White houses and barns and outbuildings peppered the scene. I snapped a couple of photos and then kept my nose to the window. Finally, I asked the status of the mother in labor.

“Thirty-six years old and it’s her seventh child,” Marta said. “Barbara’s been in labor for a couple of hours.”

Five minutes later, Marta pulled into the driveway of a farmhouse and stopped behind a carriage parked in front of a garage.

“Mamm’s in the kitchen,” an Amish girl called out to Marta, swinging a basket of eggs. She wore a black apron over a magenta dress. A younger boy, maybe eight, ran past her, toward the barn. “Go help Daed. The milking can’t wait!” she called after him. The boy made a face and zigzagged on his way.

Marta grabbed a black bag from her trunk and strode toward the back door after the girl. I followed, suddenly feeling as if it were my first birth, not baby number 256.

A refrigerator stood just inside the kitchen door. I did a double take. So much for what I’d heard about the Amish not having electricity. The mother, who didn’t look much older than I, stood at the counter next to a stove. “I was just hoping to get dinner in the oven,” she said. She had on a white nightgown and a cap and smiled as Marta introduced me, but then she held up her hand and leaned against the counter. Marta stepped behind her and rubbed her back. I decided now wasn’t the time to ask about the kitchen appliances.

“That,” Barbara said after a minute, “was a hard one.” She turned toward her daughter. “Start the potatoes. But first go tell your daed it’s time.” A toddler, a little boy with a bowl-shaped haircut, slid into the kitchen in his stocking feet and wrapped his arms around his mother’s legs. She said something to him that I couldn’t understand, in Pennsylvania Dutch I assumed. One of the words sounded like wunderbar, which was on the very short list of the German words I remembered. It meant “wonderful,” “fantastic.” Maybe she was telling the toddler he was wonderful or that the baby would be. Then she turned to the girl. “Take Samuel with you out to the barn.”

“Ya, Mamm.” The girl exhaled—the sigh of exasperated big sisters heard round the world—and then took her little brother’s hand.

“Danke.”

I followed Marta and Barbara down the hall until Marta pointed toward the bathroom and I stepped in, taking off my jacket and pushing up the sleeves of my shirt. The bathroom had granite countertops. Add that to the stove and refrigerator in the kitchen. There were no outlets or switches and no light fixture above my head. I scrubbed at the sink, using handmade soap.

By the time I reached the bedroom, my hands held high, ready for a pair of gloves, Marta was praying silently with Barbara, who was on the bed. I stopped in the doorway until Marta whispered, “Amen.” Then she told Barbara I would actually catch the baby.

“Oh, Marta, what is going on?”

“It’s just a requirement for a short time. That’s all.”

Barbara would have done fine with neither Marta nor me there. In fact, baby number 256, or baby number one in Pennsylvania, came so quickly that Barbara’s husband didn’t arrive in time for the birth, only to cut the cord. “Well, Barbie,” he sighed, bending to kiss her after he was done. “That’s what happens when the baby decides to come at milking time.” He was a big man with a scraggly beard and square fingernails.

Two hours later we had completely cleaned up, including starting a cold soak of sheets, towels, and baby blankets in the utility sink. Marta and I left just as two of Barbara’s sisters arrived. They said they would start the laundry in the pneumatic washing machine and hang it out to dry before they went home. I didn’t ask anyone to email me a photo, nor did I ask if I could take one. I took one last, long look at the baby, committing the image of his perfectly round face and dark hair to my memory.

Sleep deprivation and culture shock—including an Amish woman with the nickname Barbie, a bathroom nicer than mine, and appliances—caught up with me, and I dozed on the way back to Marta’s cottage. When she pulled into the driveway I opened my eyes, feeling woozy.

“You can stay here tonight,” she said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

I pulled my suitcase from my trunk as she marched to her office, her black cape flapping behind her.

I knocked softly on the cottage door and then louder. No one answered. Maybe the kids had gone somewhere or were already in bed. I grasped the knob just as the door flew open, yanking me inside. The girl stood in front of me, a wooden spoon in one hand. She had an apron on now, and her head covering had come unpinned on one side and was a little askew.

“Your mom said I could spend the night,” I said.

She stepped aside and motioned me in, but instead of saying anything to me she yelled, “Zed, get off the computer and tidy up your room.”

I stood in a small living room with a woodstove, a sofa, and a single wingback chair.

A groan came from off to my right—the dining area. “Can’t she sleep in your room?” Zed sat at a desk, his eyes fixed on a screen.

“No!”

“How about the alcove?” Clearly Zed was trying to come up with a workable solution that didn’t involve him having to get up from the computer.

The girl looked me up and down. “How tired are you?”

“Exhausted,” I answered.

“Follow me.”

She led the way up a narrow open staircase, and I followed, lugging my suitcase, which housed my small travel collection of worldly possessions, up each step. My Coach bag kept falling off my shoulder and down my arm, banging against my knee. When the girl reached the top of the landing, she pointed to the right. “That’s Mom’s room.” The door was closed. “Here’s the bathroom.” She pointed across the hall and then to the left. “And my room.” Her door was closed too. “You can sleep here.” She turned and behind her was a little alcove with a single bed.

“Thank you.” I stepped around her and wedged my suitcase into the little space next to the wall, wondering if it would be better if I found a hotel. Or a bed-and-breakfast in Strasburg. But then I’d have even fewer opportunities to get information out of Marta.

“Do you have anything else in your car that you need?” the girl asked.

I started to shake my head but stopped. “Well, there is a carry-on bag in the trunk. Maybe I shouldn’t leave it out there.” I doubted if crime was much of a problem in the area, but I didn’t want to risk it.

The girl held out her hand. “I’ll go get it for you.”

I handed her my keys and collapsed on the bed. When she returned she cleared her throat, and I forced my eyes open.

“I’m Ella.” She stood over me, the box in her hand.

I smiled. She looked like an Ella. “I’m Lexie,” I answered.

“I know. You said that when you first got here.”

“You’re right,” I answered, propping myself up on my elbow.

“It fell out of the bag.” She held the wooden box out to me. “I’ve seen this house before.”

“Where?” I asked, sitting up all the way and taking the box.

She placed the bag on the end of the bed and tilted her head. “I’m trying to remember.” She wrinkled her cute little nose. “It’s not coming to me, but it will.” She turned to go and then said over her shoulder, “We’ll eat in fifteen minutes.”

“Wait. I have a question.”

She stopped.

“At the Amish birth tonight, the family had a stove and a fridge.”

“So?”

“I thought the Amish didn’t use electricity.”

“They use other kinds of power,” she said. “Those were probably propane.”

“Oh.” I vaguely recalled that the Mennonites in Kansas related to Mama didn’t use electricity. I’d been thankful growing up that we weren’t part of that group. But I didn’t remember that they used other sources of power. I reclined back on the bed, my arm draped over the box.

When I awoke the next morning, I still had my jacket on and my baby quilt was tucked under my chin. The box was gone.