The Amish Midwife (10 page)

“I’d wait in the car.” I spoke quickly. “Or I could come back in a little while.”

“How about if you leave your number? She can call if she chooses.” The girl squared her shoulders.

I tried not to let my disappointment show. There was no way Marta would call me. I decided to stall. “Sure. Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”

The girl nudged the boy and he disappeared inside, leaving the two of us to stare at each other. He reappeared with the paper and pen, and I jotted down my cell number, writing beside it,
Pennsylvania Certified Nurse-Midwife
. I handed the girl the pen and paper. “Maybe you could put in a good word for me.” I hoped my voice sounded light but she frowned. “Thank you,” I said, wishing I were better at small talk.

They both said goodbye, grimly, as I climbed into the car. I waved as I started the engine. Slowly I shifted into reverse and then looked behind me. A black Toyota Camry pulled in to my right. A woman popped out of the car. She wore a cap and black cape and completely ignored me.

The girl said something to her and pointed toward my rental. The woman shook her head. I turned off the engine and climbed from the car. “Marta,” I said, stepping toward her. “I’m Lexie.”

Her eyes met mine, and in the space of a single moment I thought I could detect an entire parade of emotions rippling across her features: shock, joy, sorrow, fear. Blinking, she seemed to struggle for control. Then, slowly, all signs of emotion disappeared from her face, her eyes turning
cold and hard. Watching her, I realized it was almost as if somewhere inside she had slammed shut a solid steel door.

Taking a deep breath, Marta crossed her arms at her chest and spoke, her voice betraying nothing. “I told Sophie to tell you not to come.”

“But I need to talk with you. I have a few questions—”

“I can’t answer them.” She dropped her hands to the sides of her body. There, in the late afternoon light, I couldn’t help but search for some sign of a physical resemblance between us. I was tall and slender and blond, and she was short and round, the hair under the cap on her head a sandy gray.

“Sophie said—” I began, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand.

“I’m sorry. You have to go. Now.”

Turning around, she began moving toward a small outbuilding. As she went I heard a buzzing, and then she reached under her cape, pulled out a cell phone, and answered it.

“Yes?” she snapped, pressing the phone to her ear.

I remained where I was, completely still and totally stunned. The boy and girl stared. The sunny afternoon took on a chill, and it was then I realized I was standing in the shadow of a row of fir trees. The shadow extended to the cottage as well, though not as far as the nearby chicken coop or the small outbuilding that Marta was marching toward now. Taking a step forward, I focused on that outbuilding and read the sign on its door:
Marta Bayer, Midwife
. That must be her office.

Oddly, she didn’t go inside but instead paused at the doorway, still speaking into the phone. Her tone sounded shrill, but I couldn’t make out the words. Was she talking about me? Telling some long-lost relative of mine to sound the warning that I had come to town despite having been told to stay away?

“You should leave,” the girl whispered.

“I really need to talk to your mom.” I kept my eyes and ears focused on Marta.

“I’ve never seen her like this.” The girl’s voice was confidential now, and that caught me by surprise. A door banged to my left, and I looked over my shoulder to see that the boy had gone back into the cottage.

Still outside by the other building, Marta began pacing back and forth as she talked. I took another step forward, listening intently.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” She stopped and turned her head upward, toward the treetops. “But I have a mother in labor.”

Ah
. So she wasn’t talking about me, but about her suspension.

“Maybe I can help out,” I said softly to the girl.

“I doubt it.”

I looked again at the short, plump figure in the distance, her face still tilted upward. Was she praying? Cursing? Hoping? “How long will the suspension last?” She closed her eyes. “I see. Well, keep me posted.” At that, she took the phone from her ear, pressed a button, and continued the rest of the way into the building without so much as a backward glance.

“Please leave,” the girl pleaded again once the door had fallen shut behind her mother.

I shook my head. Moving slowly to give Marta time to cool off, I started toward the little building myself. When I reached the door, I gave it a single rap, twisted the knob, and opened it. As I stepped inside, I half expected to find Marta in the midst of some sort of tantrum, maybe tossing around some files, or upending a chair. Instead, she was sitting at a plain wooden desk, talking into the phone again, her eyes on a chart that was open in front of her. From her much gentler tones, I decided that this conversation was with someone different than the last.

“How far apart?” she asked. Whatever answer she got, it wasn’t one she wanted. “All right. Hold on a moment, please.” Grimly, Marta put a hand on the receiver, lowered the phone from her mouth, and looked up at me. I thought she was going to speak, but instead our eyes simply held for a long moment. Finally she raised the phone to her mouth again and spoke. “I’ll be right there,” she said. Then, still maintaining our gaze, she added, “Oh, and I’ll be bringing an assistant with me.”

M
arta 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.”