The Amish Midwife (14 page)

“I wish mom had never brought you here!” Ella planted hands on her hips.

I cleared my throat.

She didn’t budge. “She should have left you in the middle of the road or wherever it was she found you.”

“Young lady! We do
not
talk that way in this house!” The voice was Marta’s, shouting from the top of the staircase.

“I was just kidding.” Ella sounded as though she were eight.

“Come up here
right now
.”

Zed watched Ella retreat and then his gaze fell on me. “I was adopted,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Really?” I never would have guessed. He and Ella looked as much alike as any siblings. She had auburn hair and his was blond, but they both had a slight build and wiry limbs.

“Really.”

“Me too,” I told him, nearly tripping over the words. “I was adopted too.”

His eyes glued to the screen, he merely nodded in reply.

“Does Ella talk like that often?”

He shook his head. “She didn’t mean anything.”

I stepped into the dining room. He
was
instant messaging. “I have a laptop,” I said. “Any chance I could get online here?”

“We don’t have wireless. Sorry.”

I shrugged. “Just thought I’d ask.” I’d be gone before long anyway.

Ella clomped down the stairs and spun around into the archway, her forefinger and thumb at her forehead again. “I’m grounded from the
computer, so now I can’t do my homework at all.” Zed ignored her, and she took a few steps back and grabbed her coat. “I’m going for a walk.”

The front door banged and she was gone.

I stepped back into the archway and looked toward the stairs. “What has your mom been doing all afternoon?” I should give her a report about the women.

Zed still didn’t look up from the screen as he said, “Making phone calls in her room. She said not to disturb her.”

“Oh.” I turned toward the window. Ella stood under the stand of pine trees. “I think I’ll go for a walk too,” I said, grabbing my jacket. I’d give Marta an update in a little while.

As the front door closed behind me, Ella turned and scowled. She had a cell phone in her hand and was texting. “Mind if I join you?” I asked.

She shrugged, flipping the phone shut and putting it in her apron pocket.

“Are you really going on a walk?” I asked.

She shrugged again.

“I’d love a closer look at the covered bridge.”

She took off, the ties of her bonnet blowing over her shoulder, and her open wool coat flapping with each step. I hurried to catch up with her, trying to come up with a couple of questions to get her talking.

I wasn’t successful with a conversation starter and defaulted to asking her about school. “What grade are you in?”

“Tenth.”

“Is the school close by?”

She shook her head. I was matching her stride for stride now, thanks to my long legs, along the shoulder of the roadway.

“It’s about a fifteen-minute bus ride.”

“And it’s public, right?” I asked as we dashed across the highway.

She nodded.

“Are there other Mennonites there?”

“Some,” she answered.

I wondered if she felt as conspicuous in her Mennonite garb as I had when I was her age. Today she wore a blue print dress with a pointy collar and cuffs at the end of the sleeves. It was modest and obviously homemade.

“Do you like to sew?” I asked.

She shrugged again. “It’s not my favorite thing.”

“Your clothes—your mom and Zed’s too. Are they hand sewn?” I couldn’t tell if Marta’s dresses were manufactured or not. They had buttons, and her cape was definitely store bought or else made by a good tailor.

Ella laughed. “No. We buy ready-made when we can. I sewed this for my 4-H class.” She tugged on the skirt of her dress. “Some of the women in our church sew, but we don’t have time. Not with Mom’s work and school and keeping up the place. It’s not like there are a lot of rules or anything. Not at the church we go to.”

An Amish buggy passed by on the other side of the road. The man driving it gave a little wave and Ella acknowledged him, but I couldn’t tell whether she actually knew him or not. We walked in silence for a few minutes, and then I asked, softly, “How old was Zed when he was adopted?”

“I shouldn’t have said that.” Ella pursed her lips together. She was practically marching now.

I kept my mouth shut. The road dipped down a little, and I could see the covered bridge in the distance. I took my camera from my pocket and zoomed in, snapping a photo.

“He was a baby. I was almost three. I remember when Mom brought him home. He was so tiny. I used to hold his bottle for him.” She paused. “That’s all I know. Everything’s hush-hush around here. You wouldn’t believe what my mom won’t talk about.”

Yes, Ella, actually I would
.

“Such as?”

Ella grimaced. “Well, that’s the thing when someone won’t talk. You really have no idea what they’re keeping from you.” She continued. “Everyone thought Mom was crazy for adopting Zed, her being a single mom and all. I think maybe that made her hesitate to talk about things.”

A sheepish look flashed across her features.

“What?”

She laughed. “I guess the less I knew, the less everyone else knew. I was kind of a gabby little girl.”

I smiled. That wasn’t hard to imagine. “When did your mom become a single mother?” I hoped it was okay for me to ask that.

“My dad left sometime after she brought Zed home.”

My heart fell a little. “Oh, Ella. I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

For a fifteen-year-old it was a long time ago. But not for Marta.

“My mother died when I was eight. I still think about her every day.”

“That’s just it,” Ella said. “I don’t even remember my dad. For some reason I can remember Zed as a baby, but I have no memories of my father.”

I inhaled. That would be so hard. “So he was Mennonite?” I ventured, assuming Marta had married into the faith.

“Originally, he was Lutheran—something like that. Protestant, anyway. Both Mom and he became Mennonite when they married.”

“Do you know why he left?” I knew I was pushing, that I probably shouldn’t be asking a teenager such a personal question.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Oh, you know, Mom said, ‘Life just got to be too much for him.’ Things like that, but I really have no idea.”

We reached the bridge and walked to the middle over the creaking weathered boards and stopped. The rafters of the bridge were bare too, unlike the whitewashed sides.

The creek was high and the water flowed around the rocks. Downstream at the bend, on a rise, was an Amish farmhouse.

Ella kept talking. “I don’t even know my dad’s parents. I’m guessing they’re dead.”

“How about your mom’s family?” I hoped my voice was steady.

“I have an aunt and uncle. And a cousin.” She stole a glance at me. “And there’s
Mammi
.”

“
Mammi
?”

“My grandma. She’s Amish, so we use their word for it.”

“She’s Amish?” I repeated dumbly. “Your grandmother is Amish?” Was it possible that I had been born into an Amish family?

“Yeah, Mom grew up Amish too, though she never joined the church. Why? What’s the big deal?”

“Nothing,” I said, trying not to look so stunned. “It’s just funny that your mom didn’t tell me when we were at the Amish houses.”

“Well, now you know how little Mom actually says to anyone. She lives in baby land. Nothing else matters.”

“Did your mom tell you I’m adopted?”

“Of course not.” Ella held her hands up as if she’d just proved her point.

“I’m from Oregon, but I was born in Pennsylvania.”

“And you’ve come to find your birth family?” Ella’s eyes brightened.

“Partly,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.

“That’s what I would do. I’m always telling Zed I’ll help him find his birth family, but he’s not interested.” Ella tugged on the ribbons of her bonnet. “I could help you.”

My heart lifted. “We’ll see.” I didn’t want to sound too enthusiastic about what I’d been fishing for all along.

“Where would we start?”

“The house on the carved box. Do you remember where you saw it before?”

She clasped her hands together. “It was a long time ago.”

“And?” I prompted her.

“I’m not sure now. It may have been a picture that I saw.”

“Oh.” I’d been thinking she’d seen the actual house. Maybe Marta was right about Ella being fanciful.

She nodded. A pigeon flew down from the rafters of the bridge and I startled. Ella laughed.

“Tell me more about your aunt and uncle,” I said, trying to keep her talking, hoping she would be more forthcoming than her mother had been.

“Klara and Alexander?”

My head jerked to attention. “Alexander?” I whispered.

She nodded.

His name was Alexander. My name was Alexandra. Could there be a connection between our names, between us?

“I’d like to go see them,” I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. Suddenly, I felt cold inside.

Ella shook her head. “My cousin and
Mammi
have been sick. Besides, if you think Mom is closed mouth, you should see my Aunt Klara. She hardly opens her lips to say hello, let alone talk about anything important.”

“What about your Uncle Alexander. What is he like?”

“Nice, but he pretty much defers to Aunt Klara. Everyone’s afraid of her.” Ella paused. “Except Mom’s not. And I guess I’m not really either.” She poked her head farther over the rail and then said, “We should head back. I still need to make dinner.”

As we stepped off the bridge and back onto the pavement, Ella asked, “What do you know about your birth family?”

“Nothing,” I answered. “The box is all I have. And a letter written in German.”

“No birth certificate?”

“Just my Oregon one.”

“Your adoptive parents never gave you any more information?”

I shook my head. “There’s just one more thing I’ve been told.” I paused. Did I have any right to bring Ella into this further?

“Which is?”

We were on the shoulder of the lane and a big pickup truck rounded the corner toward us. We both leaped to the side.

“Lexie?” Ella looked straight at me.

“A friend in Oregon thinks your mom knows my biological family.” I exhaled slowly. “In fact, this friend Sophie thinks your mom might even be related to me.”

Ella grabbed my hand and squeezed it as we stepped back onto the lane. “Really?”

I nodded.

She put her hand to her mouth.

“What?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just that—” She dropped my hand. “I think I know where to start.” She started running, her black shoes slapping against the asphalt.

“Ella!” I called out, following her. “Wait!” I didn’t want her confronting her mother. I wanted to be the one to do that. But though I was in good shape, I was no match for this fifteen-year-old wearing a dress and bonnet, flying up the hill.

I
muttered “Alexandra and Alexander” as I came through the door. Was Ella’s uncle my father? If so, and if he had sired me out of wedlock, that could explain Marta’s determination not to answer any of my questions.

Not my place to talk about it
indeed.

I heard voices upstairs but couldn’t make out the words. Zed was still on the computer. “How’s it going?” I asked.

“Fine.” He met my gaze for half a second and then turned away.

I sat down on the sofa in the living room, feeling that I should go pack my things—surely Marta had found someone else to help her—but I didn’t want to go upstairs. A few minutes later Marta called down the stairs. “Zed, go feed the chickens.”

He bounded right up and hurried out the back door.

Marta started down the stairs, followed by Ella. “You had no right,” she said, her hazel eyes piercing through me, “to share your desires to find your birth family with my daughter.”

I stood and held up both hands, wishing she would calm down and wondering how to make her understand that I was willing to do whatever it would take to get to the truth.

“Ella says she has an uncle named Alexander,” I explained evenly. “My name is Alexandra.”

Marta took the last step. “And you think the similarity between your name and his are more than coincidental?”

I nodded.

“You’re being
fanciful
and you are setting a bad example for my children.” She stood a foot from me now.

Ella stepped out from behind her mother and said, “But Lexie has a right—”

“Right?” Marta turned toward her daughter. “Is this what they teach you in public school? Rights instead of respect? Questioning instead of trusting?” Her intensity landed on me again. “Lexie, please tell me, did you have parents who loved you?”

I nodded.

“And cared for you?”

I nodded again.

“And raised you to know the Lord?”

I nodded a third time.

“And it seems as if they recognized your gifts and encouraged your education and dreams.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then why are you here?” she asked.

“B-because,” I stammered, “I want my story.”